#Sandor Clegane fic

[catsteeth]

The Caged Bird & The Leashed Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

+:✿ Chapter - 13 ✿:+ What is Loyalty?

Chapter Index | next chapter

Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it. 

CW: MDNI, SMUT, NSFW themes, Sandor “my wife” Clegane, Unprotected P in V sex, Oral sex (Fem rec), multiple reader orgasms, insecure reader, misogyny, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of death, blood, threats of violence, mentions of arranged marriage, 

A/N: We're back at it again. A longer chapter for the come back lol

Word Count: 8.2K 

Sandor was part of Jon Snow’s party as they traveled through the lands beyond the wall on their mission to capture a wight. The party walked many many miles. Sandor contemplated what he was doing, he hated the extreme cold, but he reminded himself he was doing it for you. 

As he stopped to retie his boot, a tall, but much shorter than Sandor, red haired man approached him.

“You’re the one they call the dog!” The man shouted as he approached Sandor.

Sandor finished tying his boot, “Fuck off.” He huffed casually as he continued on.

The attitude did not deter the man as he followed Sandor, “They told me you were mean. Were you born mean or you just hate Wildlings?” 

“Don’t give two shits about Wildlings. Gingers I hate.” He said scowling at the red haired man.

The man amused by his words continued to talk despite Sandors obvious wishes for the conversation to end, “Gingers are beautiful, we’re kissed by fire. Just like you-“ The man said pointing a finger at Sandor's burned face.

Sandor hit the mans hand down and away from him, “Don’t point your fucking finger at me.” He barked at him.

Sandor walked away and yet somehow the man was not put off. He smiled and continued to walk alongside Sandor.

“Did you trip into the fire when you were a baby?” The man pried into Sandor's past.

“I didn’t trip, I was pushed.” Sandor huffed as he kept walking, not looking at the man.

“And ever since you’ve been mean.” The man surmised. 

“Will you fuck off?” Sandor annoyingly barked at him.

“I don’t think you’re truly mean. You have sad eyes.” The man tried to understand him, it struck a chord somewhere deep within him. He remembered how you once said something like that to him a long long time ago, whispered in the night as you held onto him. It was his final straw. 

Sandor stopped and scowled down at the red haired man, “You want to suck my dick is that it?”

“Dick?” The man asked, unfamiliar with the term.

“Cock.” Sandor translated. 

“Oh, dick... I like it.” The man shrugged, amused by the new word he had learned. 

Sandor scrunched up his face, now just confused by the entire interaction, “Bet you do.” He mocked, as he continued to walk.

The man still followed him, “No, it’s pussy for me. I have a beauty waiting for me back in Winterfell, if I ever get back there. (Y/H/C) hair…(Y/E/C) eyes…About this tall,” He gestured to your height. Sandor thought for a moment how similar his description was of you. But he was convinced it was a coincidence. “The perfect height for me. .” The man continued on, “Sharp tongued, bravest woman you’d ever seen. A high bred southern bird from a castle in the sky they say.” He said as if the memory of you was a breath of fresh air. However the description of you ran cold through Sandors body. 

Sandor stopped, and turned to the man, “(Y/N) Arryn?” 

“You know her?” He asked, happy to hear your name.

“You are with (Y/N) fucking Arryn?!” Sandor stepped closer, his words dripping with violent anger. 

The man almost shrunk as he explained, “Well not with her yet… but I’ve seen the way she looks at me.” 

Sandor scoffed, “How does she look at you?” He stepped closer to him, his words were dark and heavy, “Like she wants to carve you up and eat your liver?” His eyes narrowed onto the man.

“You do know her.” He said, narrowing his eyes back.

“Aye, I know her.” He scoffed as he kept walking, angry and jealous.

“You seen her fight?” He asked, following along with still.

“Fight?” Sandor practically spit his words at him.

“She’s a killer. I saw her take an arrow to her leg, while she bit a man's finger off, then she took that arrow, snapped it in half and stabbed that man in his eye with it.” He spoke of the violent act you committed, as if it were romantic.

Sandor shook his head and scoffed, “You’re a mad fucker you know that?” He knew now for certain you had too much good sense to be with a man like him, too much good sense to even entertain the idea.

The man continued, “It’s true. Cut through four men. Rode an entire army into battle. And fed a man to dogs.” Sandor thought of it, the last he saw of you you were a girl alone with no money, no army, no family, and the iron throne as an enemy against you. How could you have done so much, accomplished “I want to make babies with her. Think of them, they’d conquer the world!” 

Sandor snapped, turning to the man and grabbing him by his fur coat, “If you say the word babies again I'll strangle you with your own guts.” He barked loudly at him.

“There will be no fighting on account of my cousin. Not while she’s resting and not while we are on this mission.” Jon said, making Sandor huff and let go of the man.

“She’s your cousin now?” The man with red hair asked. Remembering when he told you you were not his cousin when you first met.

Jon looked down, somewhat regretful of his words, “She showed great loyalty to my blood, her blood. Cousin is close enough.” He said as he continued to walk, “And I will not have any of you fight over her favor when we’ve a matter of great importance to see to.” 

Sandor reluctantly continued on, angry and jealous. But now he knew where you were, and knew you were alive. That was enough for him to continue.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You lost so much in the war. Lika was your horse sense you were but a child. She was the first horse you’d learned to ride. You lost the last man who was eternally loyal to you, the last man who loved you in the way only a father could. As if that weren’t enough, your body was now littered with healing scars. A constant reminder of the price you paid.  

You sat by the fire in your chamber. You wore a white chemise and wrapped yourself in a fur as you examined the scar on your thigh. Running your finger over it, going over the memory of the pain. 

As you did, your chamber door opened suddenly. Making you pull your chemise down and covering your bare legs. 

Sansa walked in, closing the door behind her. “You’ve not left your chambers in some time.” She said, gently.

You let your guard down, relaxing. You looked into the fire, “Resting. Rest is needed to heal.” 

“You're healed.” She said bluntly, you looked at her, “Well, your leg is healed.” She replied plainly. 

You sighed, you knew she was right. You had used your injury as an excuse long enough. “Time they say.” you said dispassionately, “It heals all, though I am not sure of that.” You said gloomily. 

Sansa approached you, sitting beside you, “You never told me.” You looked at her confused. “The man you said you loved, that Baelish took from you.” She clarified. 

You took a deep breath, looking into the fire, “Sandor Clegane.” A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth at the sound of his name.

“The Hound.” She spoke calmly. 

You shook your head slowly as you thought back to it, “I just called him Sandor.” You looked into the fire again. Sansa’s silence made you feel uneasy. You didn’t dare look at her, fearful of her reaction. You knew she and he were in Kings Landing at the same time, maybe she’d only seen the cruelty that was demanded of him. “I know many think he was cruel-”

She interrupted your words, “He clothed me once. When Joffrey ordered his men to strip me while they beat me in the throne room. He didn’t.” You looked at her, you listened to her story as warm tears began to rise in your eyes, and your nose and cheeks began to flush with heat, “He gave me his white cloak.” She placed a hand on yours, “He was kind.” She smiled softly as she spoke kindly of your beloved rather than pass any judgment. You were grateful for that. 

You smiled, and sniffed your now runny nose, “Thank you.” You said as she wiped a tear from your cheek, forcing you to realize your tears had begun to fall. You breathed a laugh as you wiped them with the back of your hand. You looked down at the of yours hand that Sansa held, “I miss him.” You nodded, your smile falling, replaced with a frown, “His pain has ended, but… I am in agony.” You covered your face with your hands as you sobbed. 

Sansa held you. It reminded you of when you both were in Kings Landing and the roles were reversed. You always held her when she cried, you tried your best to comfort her but it never worked. Now you understand. 

You pulled away and swallowed your sobs, wiping away the rest of your tears with it. You took a deep breath. 

Sansa tucked your hair behind your ear as she spoke softly, “You hide it well enough to the others.” 

You huffed, tired of your emotion. “I have to have my moments of misery. If not I would throw myself from the highest tower I could find.” You let out one deep breath “You’re the only one I’d ever tell that to.” 

“I understand the feeling.” She nodded, 

You looked at her and focused on her experiences, “You’ve grown so much, you know. Not that you'd have any choice. Girls are beaten into women. But all the same, you’ve grown.” You forced a smile.

“In King's Landing I watched you closely. Every Time I was scared I thought of what you would have done. I learned how to carry myself from the strongest woman I know.” She smiled at you, and you smiled back, gripping tighter onto her hand. “Speaking of, I received this,” She looked down at the letters she received earlier that day. 

You opened it, your brows furrowed, “An invitation to King's Landing?” You scoffed at such a ridiculous idea. 

Sansa rolled her eyes in agreement, “For the both of us. For the Ladies of the North and East.” She sighed, “I know it is a part of Jon’s plan. But I can’t go back there.” She said defeatedly.

“I won’t leave you.” You said throwing the invitation into the fire you sat beside. “Send Brienne as your representative of the North. I will send Ser Leon in representation of myself.” You said confidently. 

She nodded, looked down then back to you, “There is more than this. Bran and Arya have returned to Winterfell.” 

You smiled, genuinely. You felt happiness for once in a very long while. Knowing Arya was safe gave you great happiness. You looked at Sansa, grinning from ear to ear. You grabbed ahold of both her hands, “I am happy for you.” You spoke earnestly.

Sansa however looked conflicted “He says he is something called the three eyed raven.” 

“He sees visions?” You asked, you’d heard tales of such a thing but did not know if it were real. 

“Of the past and the present, it would seem.” She explained, she looked at you with sympathetic eyes, “You should talk to him. Relieve yourself of some of those uncertainties.” You nodded. 

You stood and looked out the window, you saw your men stationed in Winterfell. You felt once more the sting of responsibility. Then once more, I felt the weight of your sorrow. Conflicted with what others must have been saying. The maddened lady of grief. 

“What are they saying?” You asked, you looked behind you towards Sansa, “About me?” You clarified. 

“Stories of your bravery and loyalty towards your men and people have traveled far. They are calling you the relentless lady of the mountain and vale.” She smiled as she stepped towards you. 

“A generous lie.” You said, still convinced otherwise. 

She shook her head, “I’d not lie to you.” She said as she stepped closer, placing her hands on your shoulders, “Let’s dress you. I believe it is time you continued with your journey.”

You smiled, and nodded. You knew your duty. You knew your oath. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You walked along around the high walls of Winterfell. You looked down upon your men who had camped out front of the walls. Helping Northern houses with the preparations of the coming war. You smiled upon the Knights, you felt pride in them. You were not a northerner and yet still, you could feel the North's appreciation of your mens labors. 

“You’re a woman now.” You heard from behind you. As you turned around you saw Arya. She stood taller than the last time you'd seen her. Dressed in black leather and fur. 

You smiled, as you approached her, “I could say the same to you. Though you look more like a knight. It suits you.” You placed her hands on her shoulders, then ran them down to her hands. 

“Thank you.” She smiled and nodded. 

“I often wondered on you. How you were and what you were doing.” You spoke softly as your eyes took her in. Still surprised by how much she’d grown since you’d last seen her.

“If I was dead?” She asked bluntly, 

You stifled a laugh, “No. No, I knew you and your needle would survive. You’ve a brave heart.” You said as you looked at her sword.

“As do you.” She said as she removed her sword, handing it to you. You took it in hand and examined it. “Only a brave heart could love a Hound.” She said as you looked at it. Your eyes darted from the blade back to her,  

“Did Sansa tell you this?” You questioned her with narrow eyes.

She grinned as she shook her head, “No. He did.” You looked at her with interest as you handed her sword back to her. She put her sword back in its sheath “He took from the brotherhood. To sell me off to my mother and brother, then to aunt Lyssa. Though I suspect it was simply a ploy to get to you… I see it now.” She said as though she were proud of her observation. 

You looked down, “What did he say?” You asked, almost embarrassed to ask it. 

“He didn’t go on about it. Only that he failed you, and he cared for you.” 

“Were you there when he died?”

Her ever present grin faded, “I left him there.” 

You looked down, “It has taken a lot within me to hold my own bias aside. I understand he could be… abrasive. Hard for others to understand.” 

Arya felt herself feel a slight tinge of guilt, “He fought for me harder than I’d ever seen anyone fight.” She said, attempting to comfort you, “I didn’t like him. But I can respect that.” She nodded, you smiled softly. 

“You cannot tell anyone.” You commanded but it was practically a plea as you held onto her hand. 

“I won’t.” She shook her head. 

“I am so happy to see you.” You said with a smile, finally taking in the fact she was here. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Later in the courtyard you found Bran under the tree. You remembered what Sansa had said to you. You decided to see for yourself.

“Bran,” You announced your presence as you walked closer to him.

Bran looked over to you, “Cousin.” he stated stoically. 

You smiled at him, “How you’ve grown. You’re a man now.” 

“Almost.” He stated, again without emotion. 

You sighed uncomfortably. Unsure of how or if you could comfort him. So you decided not to. “Sansa tells me you called yourself the three eyed raven.”

“I am.” He stated confidently. 

You sat beside him, you smiled as you recounted a memory “I’d only heard stories of it, when I was a child. The ladies would tell me of it. Threaten that the three eyed raven would know if I were lying.” You looked at Bran, 

“I would.” He stated plainly. 

Your eyes narrowed in curiosity “Prove it.” you nearly whispered, 

You looked upon you for a moment, “You were with child. Once.” Your blood ran cold. You stared at him with shocked and horrified eyes. “Forced to drink a tea to end it. You wore a blue velvet robe, it had silver flowers embroidered on the sleeves.” He spoke emotionlessly.

“I was?” You asked, your voice wavered as you ignored the rest of his statement. You need not hear anything more. 

He nodded slowly “You were.”

You swallowed any emotion that rose. “Thank you.” You nodded. Now fully convinced in his ability, you knew what you had to ask him. “I need to know of my father.”

He looked at you, as if he was surprised you asked. “Littlefinger conspired with your aunt Lyssa to poison and kill your father. But you already knew that.”

You let out a huff, fighting tears, “I did.” you said softly.

“I’m sorry for what's happened to you.” He said earnestly,

“As I am for you.” You said mournfully.

He shook his head, “Don’t be. Or I’d not be what I am now.” You looked at him with concern, and confusion. But you soon understood what he meant. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Sandor and Jon’s mission was a success. However it did have its losses. Daenerys Had lost a dragon and Sandor had lost Thoros. It was hard but they captured the Wright as intended. 

Sandor traveled with Jon to be sure his mission was completed and your cousin arrived safely. Soon enough he would be returning to Winterfell. 

At the front of the ship Jon and Tyrion stood as they looked upon Kings Landing approaching in the distance. 

“How many people live there?” Jon Asked,

“A million give or take.” Tyrion stated coldly.

“That’s more people than the entire North, crammed into that. Who would want to live that way?” Jon asked in disbelief.

“There's more work in the city. And the brothels are far superior.” Tyrion said as he scanned the other ships that had arrived for the meeting. He saw an Arryn ship in the distance. “I see Littlefinger has arrived.”

Jon shook his head, “That ship sails for Lady Arryn.” Tyrion's uncaring demeanor dropped, “The colors are inverted, it’s her claims support.” Jon stated.

“So the stories were true?” Tyrion takes a step closer to the edge of the ship to get a better look.

“Aye.” Jon said, he looked at Tyrion looking off at your ship longingly “You were betrothed to each other?” He asked, uncomfortably.

“We were.” Tyrion stated stoically, 

“You loved her?” Jon questioned.

“Might have.” Tyrion said, though he knew he did.

Jon huffed, “You and the rest of the men on this ship it would seem.” 

Tyrion, not knowing what he meant, looked behind him at Tormund and Sandor who looked off at your ship longing just as he was. Though all three would be equally disappointed to find out you sent a Knight to represent you rather than appear yourself. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

When in KingsLanding Sandor was in charge of transporting the Wright.

A Lannister Guard approached Sandor,

“What's in there?” The Guard questioned,

Sandor looked back at the man, surprised someone was questioning him, “Fuck off.” He said annoyingly. 

Sandor then saw a tall blonde woman, the very one that almost killed him. 

Brienne approached him as they walked, 

“Thought you were dead.” She stated bluntly,

“Not yet. You came pretty close.” He acknowledged her ability.

“I was only trying to protect her.” Brienne tried to defend herself.

“You and me both.” Sandor sighed, 

“She’s alive.” Brienne said, Sandor looking at her in surprise, “Arya.”

“Where?” He asked looking ahead, pretending not to care.

“Winterfell.”

“Who’s protecting her if you're here?” He questioned, 

“The only one who needs protecting is the one that gets in her way.” She said with a smirk, shared by Sandor at the thought. Brienne then looked at Sandor once again, “As the same goes with Lady (Y/N).” He looked at her with surprise, “She’s scowled at me ever since she heard I killed you. I assumed it meant something, but I was right.” She sighed.

Sandor looked away trying to remain composed, “She alright?” He questioned, 

“No. Though you don’t get names like (Y/N), the brave, the unrelenting, the unconquerable, or the Inured without suffering a great deal.” Brienne said, Sandor felt guilt wash over him again,

“What happened?” Sandor asked, still looking ahead. 

“You’ll have to ask her.” Breinne said, knowing that soon he and you would meet again. 

Sandor looked at her once more and smiled.

That was until the Lannister guards approached Sandor and the Box the Wright remained in.

“Anyone touches it, I’ll kill you first.”

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You looked out of your chamber window to see Jon Snow and his armies returning. You tried to look for Ser Leon through a voice behind you interrupted your attempt to do so.

“My Lady,” You turned around to see another knight of the Vale, you smiled and nodded for him to continue, “I am to announce the arrival of Jon Snow and Daenerys Stormborn.” He said, 

“Where is Lady Sansa?” You asked, knowing she’d not be happy with the arrival of an outsider. 

“Already waiting at the gates, my Lady.” He said,

“We shall join her.” You said as you continued on through the door, on your way to join your cousin.

The Knight nodded, “Yes, my Lady.” He said as he followed you.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・

You saw Sansa alongside Bran waiting at the Gates. You approached her, 

“You don’t look happy.” You said as you locked your arm around hers. 

She smiled slightly at you, “Neither do you.” 

You shrugged, “I am hard to please, I suppose.” You looked out at the crowds of men entering Winterfell, “But your brother has returned with a large army for your people. That should please you.” You said as you rubbed her arm with your hand. 

She sighed, “He returned with a new Queen, one I don’t know and do not trust. One who wishes to rule this very Kingdom.” She scoffed. 

You shrugged again, “Yes, well I suppose that is problematic.” You said as two large dragons flew overhead. 

You’d never seen anything so large and magnificent take to the sky. You smiled as you watched the three dragons fly with one another through the sky. 

“Hard to please?” Sansa said looking at how taken you were by the sight. 

“I’ve never seen one before, much less two. You must admit it is extraordinary.” You said without looking at her, still looking at the dragons in the sky. You finally looked at her, “A little.” you shrugged, 

“A clear presentation of her power.” She said irritated. 

“Well… If you got it…” You attempted to reason but she gave you a scowl that made you stop. “Apologies.” You said. As you saw your cousin ride into Winterfell, you felt it was not your place to welcome an outsider into Winterfell. Especially since you yourself were outside. “I’ll leave you to make a proper introduction.” You smiled at her, trying to get her to lighten up. 

As you walked back into the castle you heard a familiar voice speak, 

“(Y/N)?” Tyrion spoke, “Or, do you prefer Lady of the Vale, now?” He breathed a chuckle but he was fighting back heartbreaking emotion.  

You felt the guilt you felt long ago surge again, “Tyrion. Or do you prefer Hand of the Queen?” You jested in return. 

He took a step towards you, “It would seem you are acting as hand to the Queen of the north said by some.”

You shook your head, “We are kin… we are close. But that is all.” 

“Two women betrothed to me who ran away.” He jested, self deprecatingly. 

“Don’t feel too bad about it. We both suffered for it.” You said earnestly.

He shook his head, “I did not want you to suffer. I never did.” 

“I know. I did suffer though. I still am.” You said quietly. 

“You don’t have to. You don’t have to stay here.” He said walking closer to you.

“Where would I go?” You asked, as if his idea were ridiculous. His eyes however told a different story. You could see the emotion, the longing, “No.” You said recoiling from him. 

He followed you, “I have loved you since I first saw you.” He pleaded

“Please don’t.” You winced at the word ‘love’.

He grabbed your hand, “I have to know where you went, and why.” 

You huffed, not wanting to do this. Not wanting to have this conversation. But knowing that the truth would hurt him, it would also set him free. “I left with Sandor Clegane. He took me with the intention of delivering me to my aunt Catelyn Stark.” You said bluntly.

“Why would he take you?” 

“You know why.” You said with furrowed brows, he then looked down, you could see the pain that he felt wash over his face. You sighed “I’m sorry. I am, I tried to love you in the way you wanted, the way that was demanded of me by duty and I couldn’t. I have no doubt that you would have been a doubting and loyal husband. And maybe if we were married I would have found peace. But when he asked me to leave with him I couldn’t help it, I loved him. I never felt that way for anyone.” You walked towards him once more, “You were a dear friend to me.” You held his hand, “Very dear, you gave me consideration no else did.” 

“I would have given you everything- anything.” You couldn’t tell if he was angry or sad. Perhaps both. 

“I can get it myself.” You said. Never willing to ever use your hand as a bargaining chip for land or armies again. 

“That is your way, I suppose. The reason I-“ 

You interrupted him before he could say he loved you once more, “You wouldn’t want me. You wouldn’t, not really. I am pigheaded and my ambitions are large. We would argue all the time, every time we spoke in Kings Landing it was a debate. Neither of us would be happy.” You blurted out. Just wishing he would see it your way.  

“Anything more?” He asked pained, 

“No.” You said. He began to walk away, “Except that-” You called out, making him turn around towards you. He nodded wanting to hear what you had to say. You took a breath, “With him gone, Tyrion… I do not believe I will ever wed. Ever find love truly. I don’t believe I will ever carry a child in me, and I don’t believe I will ever be happy.” You shook your head. 

He smiled, though clearly upset. “I think you are very wrong about that. I think you will see that very soon. And I will watch.” His smile faded and he walked away. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Later that day Podrick walked with you on the high walls of Winterfell. You and he were tasked by Lady Sansa to take further inventory of the new armies for the coming war. As you walked along the wall you heard a loud Caw! Of a Falcon. You looked to the sky and saw Lenaera. You grabbed an armored glove that laid against other supplies by the wall. She landed on your gloved hand. She fluttered her wings happily and you smiled as you pet her feathers on her head. 

By chance you peered down at the courtyard to see a tall and large man staring at you. A man who thought was dead. 

“Podrick?” You said, your eyes wide.

“Yes, my Lady?” Podrick asked,

“Am I dead?” You asked sincerely, 

“N-no, My Lady.” Podrick responded concernedly 

“Dreaming?” You asked again, bluntly. 

“No, My Lady.” Podrick again responded with concern, 

“You told me the Hound was dead.” You said, Podrick looked down to where you looked and saw the man standing there. Soon his eyes went wide as well. 

“I thought he was.” He said shocked. 

“Take Laenera.” You said placing her on his arm.

“Yes, my Lady-” He said before Lenaera’s talons dug into his leather sleeves, “Ah!” He hissed as you dropped the glove and ran into the castle. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

You gathered your skirts up as you made hast down the stairs within the castle. As you were running down the hall, you saw a tall and large man running down the same hall from the opposite end. You both stopped at the same time, as if the sight of the other paralyzed the other. You felt like you were looking at a ghost of the man you loved. Your hands released your skirts as you let out a sharp and painful breath. 

He stared at you, his eyes filled with emotion, “That fucking birds yours?” 

You didn’t respond, still in shock by the man before you. Sandors demeanor calmed, became more earnest, “I heard you were here. Didn’t want to let myself believe it. ‘Case it were horse shit.” He said taking some steps towards you, though he stopped when he saw the tears in your eyes well.

You let out another curt breathe as you held in your tears, a wave of emotion crashed against your form as you heard his voice for the first time in so long. “I heard you were dead.” You said walking closer to him, “I thought you were dead.” A tear fell from your eye, stepping closer “I believed you were dead.” You stopped, your emotion taking hold of you, “You were dead, I-I-” You shook your head unable to understand. 

Sandor stepped towards you, closing the space that remained, “I’m not.” He held your face in his hands, you noticed they were rougher than before. “I’m here.” He said gentler than you were used to. You placed your hands on top of his that held your face. “I’m not leaving.” He continued to comfort you. 

It took you a moment to realize you were somewhat out in the open. Any Lady or Lord could walk down the hall the two of you stood there. You weren’t used to that. Being in the open with your affection. He would sneak into your chambers in the early hours of the morn or the late hours of the night. Never this. But, there were no more Lannisters, no more Littlefinger, no more Bolton, there was no other person or house that would threaten your status or standing. No one to hold your virtue over your head. So, you did not care.

“You needed me.” He said assertively as if he were angry with himself.

He wiped the tear from your cheek with his thumb, You blinked hard. Swallowing your emotions and taking a breath. Grounding yourself. You nodded, “I did. But I had myself.” You placed a hand on his cheek, “But, I still need you.” You nearly whispered, You looked around for a moment, the hall was still empty but for how long? You looked to your side and noticed you and he were coincidently standing beside the door to your chambers. You held onto his wrist with one of your hands, you pulled him along. “Come inside and be alone with me.” You said in a quiet voice what some might think of a seductive voice. 

As you entered your chambers, he closed your door, “Lock it.” You said not realizing how bold it seemed, “Many forget to knock on my door.” You explained as you took a pitcher of water from a table by your door, walking over to the fireplace and extinguishing the fire, to make him more comfortable. 

“I can make sure they don’t forget.” He said with a possessive and protective tone. 

You missed it, you hadn’t heard it in so long. You walked with haste towards him, throwing your arms around his broad shoulders. He in return, wrapped his thick arms around you. He lifted you up as your lips met. 

They met for the first time in so long. Your lips, as well as his, were cold from the northern air. But the heat from his tongue warmed you. 

“Are you staying?” You asked breathlessly as you pulled away from his kiss. You searched his eyes, with your own. You missed his gaze dearly.

He nodded, breathless, “With you.” He said, putting you down, “I’ll go where you go.” He vowed.

“I’ve never seen you without armor.” You smiled looking over him as your hands ran over the leather top he wore. 

“You have.” He said candidly

Your gazes blinked up to his, “I mean… real clothing.” You said holding back a laugh, “You look handsome.” You said earnestly.

“Fuck off.” He said dismissively, looking away from you, assuming you were lying. 

You placed a hand on his scarred cheek. Redirecting his gaze back towards you. His eyes looked into yours seeing that you were honest “I missed you.” You said almost dreamily with an absent minded smile as you gazed upon the face you thought you’d never see again. Your smile faded a bit, you shook your head, “I can’t begin to… explain how terrible it was.” 

He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked down. “I know.” He was disappointed in himself, “I thought of you.” He said looking back into your eyes, “A lot.” He admitted.

As you gazed into his soft eyes, you knew he should know. He should know about the babe. He should know the things LittleFinger did. The kiss he forced on you. He should know of Ramsay, he should know of your journey. “There’s things I should tell you.” You said almost shamefully.

Sandors eyes hardened, “You fuck that ginger?” He questioned, 

“Gods no!” You said with disgust, you answered quickly, surprised by the question. “His attempts at wooing me have grown constant and boring.” You rolled your eyes, then settled your gaze on him once again “I’d only ever thought of one man.” Your tone is softer.

“He said he wants make fucking babies with you.” He sneered, not angry at you but at the man. He loved you like he loved no one, and he knew he was not the only one.

“You sound jealous.” You said teasingly.

“I am.” He said with a snarl. 

“You needn’t be.” You said in a whisper into his lips as you kissed him again. “Let me look at you.” You said running your hands from his face, down to his chest, “you’ve let your beard go.” You said in a melancholy tone. 

All the time that had passed truly had gotten away from Sandor. It was then that the emotion hit him. Sandor dropped to his knees. Placed his hands against the small of you back, pushing you forward as he rested his head against your belly. 

he was desperate, 

you’d never seen him like this. You held his head in your hands, running your fingers through his hair. 

“It’s alright.” You whispered, you understood how he was feeling. Feeling that he failed you.

“It’s not.” he whispered back. 

“We can start again.” You said as you petted his hair,  “We could be together, truly, never hiding.” You said like you were dreaming of it right then and there. 

He hummed against your stomach, “I’m not a man of honor.” He said as though he were shameful of himself.

“Men of honor die all the same, I’d rather be with you.” You spoke softly as your hands sweetly ran through his hair, and your other rubbed circles against his back, “Do you not wish for me to be your wife?” You asked, scared for the answer, but needing it all the same.

He shook his head, “I wish it for me, not for you.”

You shook your head and huffed, “Look at us. this isn’t wrong. how could something that feels so good be wrong? You are no longer a piece on a board in Kings Landing. Nor am I. I don’t know about you but I refuse to be one again. Let me be yours and be mine.” You felt silly for  opening yourself up like this, in a way you’d never had before. But it was something you had to do. You couldn’t allow for the same cycle you and he fell into King's Landing to continue. “When you were gone, I went to war and felt no fear. No fear because if I died I would see you. I’d be with you again. I cannot go back to wishing for moments with you. I wish for a life with you because I love you and I need you. If you love me then don’t leave me again.” You pleaded softly.

He was silenced for a moment, but then, his hands traveled tighter around your back. He looked up at you, “Be my wife.” He pleaded, his love seeping through his gruff tone.

“Yes.” You said, sweetly. You let out a small gasp as you felt his rough, large hand trail up your leg, “Yes,” you whispered to him, his eyes remaining connected to yours, his hand trailed up to your inner thigh, “Yes… yes” You continued to whispered against his movements, his fingers sneaking their way under your small clothes and toying with your sex “Yes…yes…yes-“ your whispers becoming louder, more breathless and closer to a whine. You ran fingers from his hair to his scarred cheek, you carassed it as you moaned, “My husband-Ah!” you were cut off as his finger slid inside of you, forcing a moan out of you. You grasped his scarred face harder as he did so, 

“Say it again.” He rasped as he pumped his fingers in and out of your cunt.

You caught your breath as he hiked your skirts up and over his head, You could feel his beard scratching at your inner thighs, “My husban-nnnd” your voice hitched and drawn out into a moan as you felt his breathe graze across your cunt, soon feeling the heat of his tongue as it lapped up your sweetness. He sucked on your clit as his fingers found your sweet spot, pushing against your velvet walls. It had been so long since you felt someone know your body so well, and he didn't forget a thing about it. You felt the tightness in your belly finally release. As you reached your peak you cried out. Sandor drank you in groaning and fucking his fingers even deeper into you. “Sandor,” you whined, “I need, I need more.” You said with furrowed brows as you gripped onto his head beneath your skirts.

As he stood, his mouth crashed into yours. You could taste your own release on his lips.  His kiss was desperate, and passionate. Making up for all the times he wished he could have done it. His hands roamed your body erratically and roughly. 

He began to kiss down your jaw and neck, “I’ve missed your tongue.” you said breathlessly with a smirk and heavy eyes. 

He licked up from your neck to your ear, making you moan. “Let me see you.” He spoke in your ear as he untied the back of your dress, though his large hands could hardly figure out the fragile ties.

You felt a sting of insecurity. 

You looked down, as your hands aided Sandor in untying your gown. He continued to kiss and lick at your body slowly as more and more of your skin was revealed. Until you were left in your small clothes. Your scars showed, the one on your thigh, the one on your forearm, and even others that had come with time and war. Sandors eyes trailed over you, longingly. 

“You don’t have to look.” You said as you looked down, somewhat ashamed of the scars you had earned valiantly. “I know I hurt to look at.” 

Sandor stepped towards you, his eyes confused and bewildered. “Fuck are you on about? Feel me.” He said with furrowed brows. You looked confused for a moment until your hand trailed down from his stomach to his mounting bulge, he let out a groan. He hadn’t felt your touch in so long, and you hadn’t felt a man's body in so long, or wanted to. Your eyes snapped from his hardening, hot, and throbbing bulge that your hand caressed, to his gaze. Deeply lustful and full of longing. “Does that feel like you hurt to look at.” He asked as his hand grasped your jaw. His lips connected to your own, his facial hair tickled in a familiar and delightful way. As your mouths danced together you felt his tongue aching for the warmth of yours. To which you happily complied. You could taste yourself on his tongue, it made you all the more wet. As you did he pulled off your small clothes, practically ripping them off. 

He stood there looking at your naked body, he let out a groan and you rubbed his hardened cock through his pants again.

“You’re not a woman, take your own clothes off.” You said assertively as you brushed past him laying down on your bed. He let out a dry chuckle as he obeyed your command. 

You laid on the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows as you watched him. You bent one of your legs bringing your knee close to your chest as you pressed your slick thighs together.  

He climbed on top of you. Kissing you once more. Passionately, slowly. Taking in the pleasure of your soft and plush lips, relishing in the taste that he missed so deeply.  His tongue met yours in tandem as his hands ran over your body erratically. As if he couldn’t believe you were underneath him again, he didn’t know where to start with you but he knew how much he wanted all of it. His attention was soon directed to your breasts. He’d missed them dearly. Thought of them as he worked himself in the late hours of the night. 

He slid down and took them in his mouth. Sucking at your breasts, biting them in just the way you liked. As he did you wrapped your legs around his hard back, and rocked your hips against his hard stomach, attempting to soothe the growing ache in your core. 

The sounds of your moans created made him even harder than could bare “I can’t wait anymore, I want my woman. My wife.” His voice was dark and deep.

You nodded as he kissed your lips, 

You kissed passionately, your lips swollen and wanting. As your lips met, and your tongues found one another again. You felt the head of his cock, already leaking, begin to press against your entrance. As he pushed in you felt the burn of the stretch. You  almost forgot how large he was. You gasped and winced, Sandor stopped himself from moving for a moment, looking at you to see if you were alright.

You gripped onto his shoulder digging your nails into him, “It’s been a long time.” You explained. 

He nodded as he brushed your hair out of your face, “Too fucking long.” He said, holding back a moan from the pure euphoria of your cunt.

“You haven't taken another?” You asked breathlessly, possibly not the best time. 

He shook his head, and in return you held his face and kissed him deeply. “I want all of it.” You whispered into his ear. 

He complied, happily. Pushing his cock into your until he was completely inside of you. 

You muffled your moans into his neck as you clung onto his shoulders and wrapped your legs around his back. “Fuck!” He barked, “Gods you’re tight, does it hurt?” He asked. 

It did, it burned, and you were almost overwhelmed. But Gods, it was perfect. You needed it, badly. 

“Husband,” You pleaded into his lips, the words made his cock twitch inside of you, “fuck me.” You whined as you kissed him deeply. 

As he thrusted in and out of you with the built up lust and longing he had inside of him. You bit down on his lip as he moaned out. You threw your head back, unable to hold in your moans any longer. 

He took pleasure in thrusting in you harder to hear you cry out even louder. “Fuck! I missed your cunt, your sweet fucking cunt!” He grunted, he felt you clench around him harder and harder, “Give it to me!” He groaned, “I want my wife to cum.” He grunted through gritted teeth. 

“Yes!” You pleaded as his pace only became more and more furious and erratic, “Ah!” You shouted as you felt yourself release a second time,

“That’s it-” He groaned as he felt your release cover his cock, making it only easier for his cock to slip in and out with ease. It made your cunt even more euphoric, he could hold himself in any longer, 

“I want it inside of me,” You begged breathlessly, 

“Good.” He groaned against your skin, “Cause I want to fill my wife with my seed.” He said through gritted teeth. 

You kissed him deeply as he did just that. He moaned into your mouth as he spilled his hot seed inside of you deeply. Driving you towards another release you didn’t know was there.

After... You laid there, breathing. Trying to catch your breath. Sandor laid there with his head resting against your chest. Listening to your heartbeat. You ran your fingers through his hair. 

You laid there in each other's arms for what felt like a lifetime. But you didn’t want it to end.

Soon Sandor spoke again, “That ginger cunt says you killed a man.” His voice was so gruff and deep it almost startled you after basking in the silence for so long.

“I did.” You said stoically.

“That makes two men you’ve killed.” He said as if he were proud.

“Five.” You corrected, he looked up at you from your chest, “Six if you’re counting the one from the riot.” You said petting his cheek,

“I am.” He said, he looked surprised by you.

“Six then.” You nodded, “Killed four men in the battle. Then I killed Ramsay.” 

“How’d you do it?” He asked, genuinely interested. 

“Ramsay? Hounds.” You smirked, noting the irony. 

Sandor chuckled at it as well, “You’re different now.”

“Is that bad?” You asked, running your fingers down his back comfortingly.

“No.” He shook his head, “None of it would have happened if I was there.” He said as though he were disappointed in himself.

“I know.” You were confident it wouldn’t have. But it did, and it was no one's fault but those who committed the acts against you. 

Sandor took your forearm, looked at the scar, Lyssa left you with. 

“What happened?” He asked protectively, wanting to know who he’d have to kill.

You sighed, “It’ll be a hard thing to hear.” You said sitting up. You wrapped yourself in fur as you laid beside him once more, “You’ll be angry. Furious even. I know because I feel the same way. But this once, just feel the sorrow with me.” You asked him, he nodded. 

And so you did. You told him your story. How you were attacked by Lyssa. How Baelish forced you to end your pregnancy. How he attempted to force himself on you. How he killed your aunt. How Ramsay tormented you. You told him of the Battle, you told him of Ser Cole. You told him everything. 

Sandor was silent for just a moment. Until he sat up “I’ll kill hi-” 

You interrupted his anger as you sat up with him. “No anger. Not here. Not our first night.” You pleaded as you held his face in your hand. Calming him. 

He held onto your wrist, “I will take care of you.” He said earnestly, “I’ll protect you.” He vowed.

“You can’t. No one can.” You shook your head. 

He looked at you. Saddened that you’d no longer believe in that promise. “I will.” He vowed.

You, still, unbelieving, nodded. You leaned towards him, and rested your forehead against his own.  

You didn’t want to love him this much. And he didn’t want to love you this much. And yet here you both were. Your love was formidable, unrelenting, and merciless. There was not a thing in the known world you’d not do for him. And not a thing in this known world that he’d not do for you. 

You had an army and now, you had your man. Now that all left to do was to go and get what you were owed.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

NOTE: It's no use (Y/N) we gotta have it out.  Also you cannot tellll me that mf wouldn’t pull out the “My Wife” card every chance he got like…. That's all. Also got I feel like I am finally free and can write smut again thank god. We are about to have our own version of the royal wedding lmao K love you, xoxo

Bambi

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[just-some-random-blogger]

Safe Keeping | 1

Part 2

"What say you, lady? Don't you think the Hound would make a fine husband? He would protect you, yes, and you would bear him many babes." I curtsy again but this time, my voice falters when I speak, "I- I think he would," I turn to my left, "Lord Sandor would make a fine husband... a fine father."

Sandor Clegane x Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, forced marriage, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut (wedding night, loss of virginity, mild dub con, PIV, biting, praise kink), emotional unavailability, The Hound being abrasive, baby fever, typos, etc.

A/N: what do we say to big scary murderers? all together now: i can fix him. the smut is at the end so just keep scrolling to the bottom if you wanna pass (: originally posted on ao3 but felt like posting it on here

Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx

A collective gasp resonates in the hall upon the utterance of the proclamation. The blonde boy basks in the reaction. I release a breath, hand on my churning belly, as I stand there in front of the Iron Throne. The agitation that filled me threatened to spill from my lips when I curtsied to the king. But by the gods, I manage to mutter, "you have honored me with such a decision, your grace."

King Joffrey smirks, "yes," he shifts in his seat, "I have." He stands from the throne and raises a beckoning hand, "dog!"

All eyes turn to one corner.

The rustle of fabric and the clink of steel fill the hall. I watch as he walks towards me. I watch the large man, clad in darkness from head to toe, hand on his hilt, face adorned with a large burn, come to my side but pay me no mind. He turns to his king, "your grace."

"My king," queen Cersei mutters to her son, "he is a member of the Kingsguard, he cannot--"

"My word is law, is it not?" the boy says.

His mother looks at him then us, and says no word.

Joffrey grins, "I present your new ward," he raises his arms, "orphaned at war, parents and brothers dead, house left with no heirs. She turned to me for counsel," he points to his chest, "for she would die on her own. And now I give her you," he clasps his hands, "to have and to hold in holy matrimony."

The room is dead silent.

"Consider it a gift for your loyal service," he turns to me, "a rather generous one, given your infliction," he turns back to him.

The man on my side nods once.

"What say you, lady? Don't you think the Hound would make a fine husband? He would protect you, yes, and you would bear him many babes."

I curtsy again but this time, my voice falters when I speak, "I- I think he would," I turn to my left, "Lord Sandor would make a fine father."

A loud and shrill laugh echoes in the chamber, demanding everyone's attention. Joffrey wheezes until he's red and tumbles back into his metal chair. He catches his breath and nods, "he- mmm, he would," he chuckles.

The king settles himself and waves us off, "go forth and make arrangements then, my lady. Your protector awaits."

I flinch at the way the wooden door is opened. Sandor stands before me, in a dress shirt and a scowl, leaning against the opening of his chamber door. I look away and curtsy, "good morrow, Lord Sandor," I steal a quick glance at Lucy by my left, "I've had my handmaiden prepare f-"

"Hound." 

I lift my eyes to his face. The sour expression he held is amplified by the scar on his side. His eyes burn into me. "They call me the Hound," he grunts, "y'know that?"

I clasp my hands in front of me and open my mouth before muttering, "yes. Yes, I do."

"Then save me of this lord business," he straightens up and walks off inside his chambers. I watch him as much as I can from where I stood outside his room. I pipe up when he is no longer in eye's view, "may I come in?"

"Door's open, isn't it?"

I look at Lucy hesitantly, motioning she stay outside. I push the door wider and walk in, seeing Sandor was now getting dressed.

I stare at him for a moment, pressing my hands closer together, "would you like for me to he-"

"I'm not the king who has a bitch for every task."

I clench my jaw at his icy words.

Sandor begins to do his clasps, "why are you here, girl?"

He does not look at me after asking. I purse my lips before replying, "I am heading to the tailor to pick fabrics and-"

"Why isn't the tailor coming here?" he asks, still focused on dressing himself.

Sandor finally turns to me after fixing his top. I look up at him, feeling a dread build in my belly, "I wanted to go outside."

He narrows his eyes and tilts his head. He takes steps closer.

My lips part. I blurt, "the palace is too stuffy."

"Stuffy?" he retorts, "I wonder how large your house is if you find it stuffy here."

I shake my head, "I did not mean it like that."

"Then how did you mean it?" Sandor says, tilting down to look upon me once he is close enough. I am unable to withhold myself from stepping back. I mutter, "there are many... looming presences. It's overwhelming."

"Looming, she says," he grumbles. "Well, little lady, you're going to be shackled to me, and I'm shackled here. You'll have to get used to these looming presences."

I turn away from him and take a breath. Must he speak to me like I'm a child?  "I understand that."

"No, I don't think you do," he says.

I look back at him. His gaze is as hard as ever.

"The moment a thing like you is outside the castle walls, thieves and rapists will fight to getcha," he walks off, "get your footman to escort you right in front of the shop and back."

I furrow my brows as he heads to the door, "wait, what about you?"

He stops right in front of Lucy and turns back, "what about me?"

"I'm going to the tailor to be fitted a dress for our wedding," I explain, "I came here to bring you along with me," I point to the woman at his side, "Lucy has made food for you to-"

"Why would I go with you to a tailor?"

Will he ever let me finish speaking? I hold back my annoyed expression, "you need to be fitted for your wedding at-"

"I'm not your dress up dolly," he grumbles, face pinched in disgust, "I'll be wearing my armor and that's that."

We stare at each other for a moment. I watch as Lucy glares at Sandor from behind. I clench my jaw tightly before curtsying, "as you wish, my lord-"

"Hound," he barks.

I look at him in shock, "you wish me to call you hound?"

He narrows his eyes and scoffs, "it's what I am-- what you're marrying, isn't it?"

I debate his words, unsure if he meant it or if it was a trick, a reason for him to be angry at me, "may I call you by name?"

He feels disdain burn up from his belly to his throat, "what? Too good to admit that-"

"That is not what I said!" I quip hotly.

The hulking man is rendered silent. He did not expect that. Still, he decides not to respond and walks away.

I scoff when he does so.

Lucy makes a face at him before coming up to me, offering a remorseful look, "he's a brute, milady! Rugged and ugly and mean!"

"Lucy," I warn as she takes my arm and escorts me out. She closes the door on our way and makes a face, "he's a thickheaded oaf!" she glares behind her to no one, "he's lucky-- blessed by all gods to be promised to a lady like you, and he treats you as though you were the degene-"

"Lucy!" I quip, yanking her by the arm.

She is finally silenced because of this. We both halt in our spot.

I hiss, "if someone were to hear you, if he were to hear you..." I shake my head, "he is my lord now. He is your lord."

Lucy grumbles.

"If it could be, I would not marry anyone," I tell her under a hushed voice, "but you know that cannot be."

We begin to walk down the hall. I continue, "I had thought I'd end with an old lord, eager to inherit my estate and esteem," I shake my head, "shocking as it was to be thrown like a bone to him..." I look out the open windows, "at least... the Hound... can protect me," I look back to Lucy, "protect us."

Lucy's face falls solemn. We hold each other's gaze for a moment. She then offers, "you're right. Them forest monsters will cower in fear at the mere sight of the 'ound."

We head to the castle gates, "do you think the guards will let us-"

"We'll walk, Lucy," I reply.

"What?! But the Hound said-"

"He expected me to have footmen and you know well that I don't. I do not think it would be appropriate to instruct the servants here to go out of their way for us. Besides, the shop is not far, you know this."

"But, Lady, I- I can drive the carriage again!"

I shake my head, "don't be ridiculous, Lucy. Do you know how silly we'd look galloping in a carriage for just a few streets down the city?"

Lucy is unable to talk me into any of her ideas. We ask the guards let us through the gate then walk to the tailor.

Once there, I am greeted by the tailor and immediately attended to.

Lucy and I go through the fabrics together. I laugh at her sentiment that all the fabrics would look good on me.

"Here," the tailor says, placing a strip of fabric on my shoulder, "I think this would suit you well, lady."

I look at myself in the mirror just as Lucy says, "that's it! That's the one!"

"Lucy," I chuckle, "you've said that about all the fabrics thus far."

"And I meant it every time!" she retorts, "but this one, this one is truly better than all the rest."

I look at myself in the mirror, "this one is actually quite pretty," I agree, "it's a very pale shade of red, but I quite enjoy it."

"It is all the rage with the ladies at court," the tailor says.

I smile, "very well. I should like to have this for my wedding dress."

Lucy squeals and applauds.

"A fine choice, my lady," the tailor nods and finishes measuring me.

The moment Lucy and I exit the tailor shop, we are scared by a loud holler. We turn to our side and see the mighty Hound, leaned against the wall. He straightens up and marches towards me.

"My Lord Sand-"

"What did I tell you about going outside the castle?" he barks, glaring down at me. His nostrils flare. His jaw clenches. My stomach rolls.

I give him a look and push Lucy behind me, "there was no dange-

"That's what you think. But tell me, what do little girls know but to play dress up?"

I whimper when he grabs my arm and drags me like an unruly child all the way back to the palace. I do not try to fight him. I know I will only hurt and tire myself if I do.

"Maybe I should let the peasants have at you," he mutters, side-eyeing me hotly, "teach you a lesson."

"Let her go!" Lucy shrieks.

He threatens to strike her when she tires to pull me away. I shout in protest. Sandor huffs and decides to simply continue dragging me.

The moment we are past the gates, he releases me roughly, making me yelp. Lucy grabs my arm and checks if I am injured.

Sandor eyes every one of the men present, "I'll make a jump rope out of the entrails of whoever fucking lets her out again."

The Hound storms off, leaving me and my handmaiden reeling and everyone else uneasy.

Sandor walks down the halls across the keep. He notices a guard looking down from the window. He wonders if he should push him for no other reason than the fact that he can.

He doesn't. He goes downstairs. He furrows his brows at the sight of men huddled together, looking at something in the gardens. He realizes it's most likely the same thing the man upstairs was looking at.

He walks their way, because he has to anyway, but is, frankly, uninterested in whatever the fuck has these men gawking.

On his way to his insufferable master, he passes Baelish, who is seemingly chipper to see him. The man smiles, "greetings, Hound."

The Hound ignores him.

"Pretty little thing in the garden. A darling flower, ready to be plucked," Baelish smirks as he watches the large man pass, "our king truly blessed you with such a match."

His expression does not change but his ears do ring at that as he walks down the hall.

He wills himself not to think of it, Littlefinger is a leech, but by the end of the day, his words are still ringing in mind. How irritating it was, suddenly, that he did not look at whatever the fuck it was those men were gawking at.

He's fuming at the sight of more men flocked by the garden when he reaches that hall again.

"OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY!" he growls, thrashing past anyone who was slow and stupid enough not to get out of his path in time.

Sandor's eye twitches as when he sees what the commotion is all about.

"So, the princess said to him, 'away with you. I would rather never feel your kiss than yearn for something I will never feel again.' " I read the last section of the page. I flip to the next part and offer a smile to the children leaned on my lap listening to my story.

"Why would she tell him to go away?" Benji asked me from my right.

Lucy, beside him, chuckles and brushes his hair back,

I offer, "well, the prince had to go away. I suppose the princess just wanted it to be done with."

To my left, Ophelia, the boy's younger sister, pushes the book in my hand down so that she can see the picture. I show it to her just as Benji says, "she should have kissed him."

I chuckle, "well, maybe she will. There are a few more pages le-"

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

I gasp and look up. A protective form of ire burns through me at the sound of Sandor's words. The two siblings in my arm squeal at the sight of him and cower into my breast. I glare at him, "there are children here!"

"I can bloody see that," he looks down with contempt, "what? Are they your bastards?"

Lucy takes hold of the children.

"They are not bastards!" I rebut, "they are my childhood friend, Lady Deena's children, who, mind you, travelled far to King's Landing for our wedding!"

"I don't give a fuck about Lady Deenas or Lady Danas. Couldn't you have read to the rats in your damn chambers, girl?"

I give my handmaiden one look and, immediately, Lucy takes Benji and Ophelia along with their fairytale book. They scurry away to their chambers as the children clamor.

I stand from the stone fence we had been sat on, "we wanted fresh air."

"You wanted attention," the Hound quips.

I am wholly offended by his accusation. Now that I was standing alone in front of him, my confidence from having something to protect dwindles. I don't get to ask from whom he thought I wanted attention because he's soon berating me all over again. He quips, "does it please you to know all the guards in King's Landing want to fuck a baby into you?"

I am appalled by his venom.

He grabs me by the arm and begins hauling me off. A squeak spills from my lips at his brute force. Part of me wishes to fight back this time; I do not want him to humiliate me by dragging me around again. And yet I find myself unable to do anything more than latch my fingers into his iron grip, trying to at least loosen it.

Sandor, of course, does not budge.

"Is it a crime to read to children?!" I whine out in frustration, finding it immensely difficult to keep up to with his wide strides.

He does not make a sound, save the sound of his boots on the stone floors. I pant as we hike up the steps, yet still, I find myself explaining, "I would have done the same to our children!"

I do not see that Sandor reacts to this because I am too busy trying to match his pace.

I thank the gods when he finally releases me. When I catch my breath, I realize I am in front of the door to my chambers.

"Do not stroll around as if you actually live here," Sandor quips, raising a finger at me.

"But I do-"

"Last time I checked, you're not marrying into royalty," he cuts me off.

I watch the large man walk off right after speaking this. I rub my arm as I feel my eyes water. More than his heavy grip, I was once again hurt by his jagged treatment. My voice breaks as I shout out, "wou-ld you at least tell me what exactly I've done to have angered you so?!"

He does not slow, nor does he look over his shoulder when he barks back, "I don't want to see you fucking reading to those children again."

Needless to say, I crumble into a fit of tears the moment I get into my chambers.

When Lucy comes to my side on my bed, he curses the Hound and does her best to console me. She rubs my back as I weep my woes out into my pillow, "oh, Lucy, he doesn't just despise me, he despises children!"

Lucy scoffs, "why am I not surprised."

She regrets saying this when I turn to her with wet cheeks and bloodshot eyes. She gives a guilty expression, "milady, I-"

"That's all I ever wanted," I sniffle, "all I ever dreamed of-" my lips quiver, "being a mother. Having children. You know this."

Lucy bites her lips tightly as I continue to sob. She mutters, "pardon my foolish words, lady."

"Oh, what does it matter-" I rub my philtrum, "you're right. This is not a surprising development."

"You can still get him to give you his babes! Men like making babies, not really taking care of them. And of course, I would never leave your side. I would help you raise your darlings, protect them from him," she speaks sincerely. I knew her words meant to comfort me but in truth, I don't think they do.

It seems she can tell that, which is why she's apologizing all over again.

I shake my head and place my hand on her cheek, "it's alright, Lucy... you needn't worry... it's all... going to be alright.

Sandor and I look starkly contrasting at the altar. He is dark and brooding, clad in hard armor and a perpetual frown. I am bright and jittery, wrapped in pale reds and nervous smiles.

The septon binds our hands together in fabric. We turn to each other as we speak our vows.

My heart races when we are told to kiss. I suck in a breath and get on my tiptoes to reach his lips. I crane my neck up; he makes no effort to lean down in return. Still, our lips meet and in that moment, I am his.

The audience applauds us, the sound of King Joffrey's laugh is apparent even through it. Our wedding was not a grand event; the king wanted it to happen in haste, and I could not afford to make it a grand anyway. There were also not so many people in attendance, and yet it felt like the whole world was watching me in this moment.

The celebration feast that came after was terribly tedious and severely unenjoyable for me, and for Sandor. Everyone else seemed to enjoy the merrymaking though, namely the king, and I suppose that was enough.

I did nothing but smile and thank my guest from my seat next to Sandor. He did not speak to me, let alone anyone who came up to us with congratulations on their lips. All he did was eat. I suppose it could be worse. At least one of us could stomach eating at this moment.

The only life I felt was when I was introduced to a babe of one of the ladies. The sweetling had only seen 4 moons and she was as sweet as can be. She was so precious. I just had to hold her. I was inspired to even stand and frolic a bit with her in my arms.

Her mother and I conversed much about babies and child rearing. My stomach rolled in a mix of excitement, dread, anticipation, and worry all at once, knowing this was to be the next part of my life now.

I enjoyed all the stories she told me. I was flattered when she said I would be a great mother, for her child in my arms did not fuss one bit and she was known to be quite fussy. I giggled at all the wonderful memories she had with her other children who, she said, were even fussier than her daughter. I nodded solemnly at her advice in child birth and breastfeeding, making sure not to let a single word go unheard.

Unbeknownst to anyone, Sandor was watching this all from his spot with the cup of wine before him. He did not avert his eyes once; he watched each and every move.

Well, it was unbeknownst to everyone excluding Lord Baelish, who was rather amused by it all, which was why he decided to act.

"Lady Clegane," Lord Baelish comes up to me and raises a hand, "might you spare me a dance?"

I turn form the babe in my arms to him. I smile a small one, "I'm afraid my darling friend here makes me unwilling to do anything but coddle her."

The child's mother on my left laughs, as does Baelish. He links his hands together, "well, judging from your darling friend's temperament, I'd say you would be a fine mother."

"I agree," the lady says.

I grin from ear to ear, heart soaring at the sentiment, "I would like to be nothing more."

Baelish presses his lips into a smirk, "may the gods bless you with many children then," he raises his hands "and may they all take after your sweetness, grace, and beauty."

The way Baelish speaks those words were intentional, as was everything was with him. The comment leaves an air of tension between us. The man basks in it and decides his work is done here.

"I-It is kind of the king to assign a larger room," I muster up as I walk into my new chambers-- our new chambers.

Sandor follows after me, locking the door behind him. He hums, "I doubt it was the king that thought of it. It was probably the queen."

I stand by the end of the bed. I brush the sheets with my hand. I mutter a correction, "kind of her to think of us."

When I turn, my breath hitches at the sight of Sandor standing right behind me. I suck in a sharp breath as I take in his expression. His face is barely visible in the dark. I can only see as much as the moon allowed. Still, I can tell he is stoic, hard, and predatory. This was it.

My hands tremble. I fiddle with my fingers, "shall I-" I bring my palms to his chest plate, "help you out of your armor?"

Sandor does not respond to me.

"H-husband?"

He takes my hand, taking a shaky breath from my lips along with him. He leads me to his claps and shows me how to undo them before releasing my hand to do it myself. I continue to undo all the claps until his armor is off him. When he is left in his shirt and trousers, he snatches my wrists before I can undress him any further. I freeze in my spot.

My belly churns at his touch. It is reminiscent of the times he has dragged me by the arm, and yet the firm grip is a notch gentler. The way is brows furrow is barely visible because of his burns, but I see it. He leans down and his dark hair spills over his scar, "do you know what's going to happen now, little girl?"

My breath hitches. I take a moment to even my breathing before responding, "yes."

He hums and lifts his nose, "what's going to happen?"

"You're going to fuck me."

Sandor laughs lowly. I am shocked when he swipes his thumb on my lips, "filthy mouth."

I look up at him with wide eyes as his own rake me up and down. I feel incredibly self-conscious under his scrutiny. I want to push him away and hide under the sheets. Yet still, I am rendered frozen in my spot.

"Tell me honest, have you ever done this before?" he speaks rather softly.

I feel my body burn. I shake my head, unable to speak.

Sandor allows me a second. He believes it yet finds it hard to believe. "I would not judge you if you did," he adds.

I shake my head faster.

He draws out a deep breath, "no, of course you haven't--" he grabs my ribs and spins me around. The action makes my heart hammer. He pushes my hair to the side, over my shoulder. I squeak softly when he begins to undo the back of my dress. He completes his thought, "-- you're a good girl."

Though he was loosening my ties, I was finding it harder to breathe. He very soon slips my dress off my shoulders, leaving me in my shift. After doing so, he begins to remove the pins in my hair. It takes a while for him to accomplish it. I count the clinks that come from him dropping the clips onto the floor.

When he is done, he gently combs through my locks and lets my hair run loose. It was then he nudges me, "on the bed. On your back."

I shudder and crawl on the bed. I watch him take his shirt off the moment I lie on my back. I immediately turn away and close my eyes when I notice his bulge. His hands undo the string of his trousers.

I press my thighs together. I feel my heart pound. It pounds intensely between my legs.

"Aren't you curious to see what it looks like?"

I curl my legs up at his words.

I gasp and flinch when he grabs my ankles, my eyes ripping open to see what he was doing. He straightens my legs out and pulls me down; I gasp once more when he does so.

I catch sight of his opened trousers. I see the way the hair on his wide, battle-scarred chest trails down to the thick, dark hair beneath his navel. I see the imprint on his pants clearer. I shut my eyes again.

I hear him pull his trousers down. I feel the bed dip as he crawls over.

My hands dig into the sheets as he knocks my legs apart. I am passive and obedient; I make room for him. I can hear my pulse from my screwed eyes.

Goosebumps form on my skin when Sandor's hot, calloused fingers brush up my thighs. He lightly kneads my flesh. The action almost makes me moan. He stops and pushes my skirt up when he feels something by my hips, "where did you get this?"

I feel him ghost over the deep scar on my left hip. I cover my face in the crook of my elbows, "I was attacked."

He does not respond.

"That was the day my family died."

Sandor feels bad for asking. He feels a bit more when the thought does not prevent his cock from hardening. He adjusts his grip, hiking my shift up higher. His hands claw on my hips but only one remains. His mouth waters.

I gasp and slap my thighs close, or at least try to, when I feel him brush something firm and damp against my pulsing core. He uses the sheer size of him to prevent me from actually pressing my thighs together.

"Shh, shh, shh, shh-" he tuts, "this is for your own good. Believe me."

My toes curl and my hands dig into my pillow as he fondles with me. The sensation makes my body twitch and the wet squelching sound that pierces my ears fill me up with an unnamable sensation. Soon enough though, I feel myself become undeniably aroused.

My hips begin to roll and my back begins to arch.

Sandor grunts and licks his lips, loving every moment of his private show, "good girl."

His words strike up my belly like lightning.

Lewd sounds begin to dribble past my lips. I feel my body begin to tingle. The sopping sounds intensify.

"Feel good?" he asks, "you like it?"

I find no room to deny it. I instantly respond, "yes."

"Good," he trails off.

My grip on the pillows loosen when he begins to slow. I bring my hands to the side when he falls to a stop. Just as I am about to look down to see what was wrong, my heart races all over again when he hooks his fingers behind my knees and nestles between my thighs. He positions against me. I feel him guide his hardened length into my folds.

I let out a loud groan when he slips into my wetness. He grunts and cusses as he sinks down, balls deep. My nails claw at his shoulders. He pushes my knees back to the mattress. Surprisingly, the weight of him is not suffocating, in fact, it was welcomed... it was delicious.

I whine viscerally when he begins to buck his hips slowly.

"Mmm, fuck," he pants, "so fucking tight. So pretty and wet and warm, my sweet virgin."

My jaw drops at his words.

"My sweet lady wife," he growls, "all," he drags out, "mine."

My breath strains and escapes my throat hotly. My sounds match each of his thrusts; they are deep and lewd. Sandor's male ego is through the roof because it if. He slowly picks up the pace.

I am a mess of whines at the feel his manhood stretching and prodding into me. My body shivers every time he collides with the tender spot in me. It feels so good; it's nothing I've felt before.

Sandor grunts and shifts on his knees. He adjusts me beneath him like I weighed nothing, and maybe I didn't to him. I slip out a scream when he batters into me with such delicious force.

"Shhhhh," he hushes shakily, hands forcing my hips down in place so I didn't shoot off as he snapped his hips into me. With every hit of flesh, his stones knocking into me, his wet skin, slapping into my dripping folds, I feel my body burn and tighten more.

"Don't be too loud," he scolds emptily, for in truth, he would love it if he got something even louder. He leans lower, "wouldn't want you to wake all of King's Landing." But please do.

His words momentarily push sense into my mind. It doesn't last. I can barely mask my loud cries and he fucks into me. My nails dig into his scalp. He lets out a sound because of it.

Sandor shifts again. This time, his buries his face next to mine. He presses against me, chest to chest, grabs the bed frame with one hand, my knee with the other, and rams into me so hard, the bed creaks and knocks into the wall.

My eyes roll back and my open mouth latches onto his shoulder. I naturally then sink my teeth in is taut flesh. It does wonders to muffle my sounds but it pulls out some from Sandor.

"Gods, girl. Yeah," he heaves, "sink your," he gives two particularly rough thrusts, "fucking teeth into me."

My breathing grows erratic after this. An intense pressure begins to build in my belly.

"S-Sandor- Sandor-"

He hums and maintains his intense pace, "come girl. Just a bit more. Come around my cock like a good, dirty girl."

His words push me on the edge. I crumble and convulse beneath him exactly like it, a good, dirty girl. My voice is just as shaky as my thighs are. My body bursts into an intense, burning pleasure. 

My body drips in sweat and slick and spit and tears, all purely out of bliss. All the air is pulled out of my lungs as I fall into this feeling.

Sandor curses. His thrusts grow erratic. I would scream if I wasn't so winded and exhausted. He stabs so roughly into me, I flinch because it feels like he's hitting the very depths of my mind. Then, he breaks into a growl and I feel him throb so strongly until his movements come to a halt.

Once he is still, I am obliterated. I cannot move. I can only feel heat and pulsing. I feel terribly sticky and so full. I love every inch of it.

I sigh and lean into him. I can imagine now why many paid for this pleasure, why people had so many children. My fingers scratch into his nape. I rub my face against his cheek; I feel the texture of his burn. Sandor stiffens.

The next moment, he pulls away, and it was then I realized doing that, nuzzling into him, was obviously a mistake. I gasp at the sudden lost of contact, the emptiness. I watch him jump out of the bed, as if I was fire and I had burned him. I press my thighs together and push my skirt down, feeling shame wash over me as I watched him tuck himself into his trousers like he was eager to leave me.

And he looked exactly like he meant to leave me at this moment.

"Where are you going?" I ask him, but my voice is so small and unsure that he doesn't hear it.

He grabs his shirt and puts it on. He heads to the door, unlocks it quickly, and insults me by saying, "good night."

[fandom-puff]

hello, congrats on 10k! i just read your answer about sander’s first kiss and now my heart hurts :( could we get a baby blurb of sandor and a reader who really, really wants to kiss him for the first time!!

Sandor deserves so many kisses ready mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah

You frowned up at Sandor despite the gentle kiss he pressed to the top of your head. “What was that for?” You demanded.

“What?” Sandor grunted, straightening to his full height and staring down at you.

“You pulled away…” you mumbled, suddenly embarrassed at causing a fuss. But Sandor had always been your protector, and now there was something more there… or was there?

But Sandor was not one to reject your advances, your hugs, your gentle touches.

Only your kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to offend you… didn’t want to… I thought…”

“You wanted to kiss me?” Sandor asked, his voice a mixture of astonishment and incredulity, a frown etched on his scarred face. When you nodded he cocked his brow. “And why the fuck would you want to do that?” He said, his thumb subconsciously rubbing at the scarred half of his lips.

You covered his hand with yours, moving it slowly. When you cupped his face-the burnt side- he almost jolted back like a jumpy horse, but soon melded to your touch. Slowly, he lowered down to your level, and when your lips brushed against his, he did not recoil.

Instead he pulled you closer.

[houndofsevenhells]

“Of Septons and Hounds” (Sandor Clegane x Original Female Character)

SUMMARY — A recently widowed impoverished spinster, who now finds herself at the Lannisters’ mercy, develops a strange relationship with the fearsome Hound. As the ten year long summer comes to an end, she tries to fight for the man she really wants, while dodging her good-brother's schemes to see her wed yet another elderly lord.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — This is my first ever work in this fandom, I hope I did my favourite fearsome Hound justice. English is not my first language so if you spot any mistakes that is my fault alone. Oh, and there’s also smut.

WORD COUNT — 3,391

Masterlist

The ten year long summer was coming to an end. I could feel it in my bones. Casterly Rock still stood tall and strong, as I suspected it would for another eight thousand years, but everything else around me was changing.

I was savouring a rare moment of peace and hid from the world in the alcove of the rose gardens. The round-petalled, sunset-coloured variety that grew here were my favourite, though of course the crimson ones planted at the very centre were the most magnificent. My good-brother Ser Damion once told me they were the pride and joy of Lady Joanna, and knowing his cousin Tywin I could certainly see why the gardeners worked so hard to keep these blooming all summer long.

As the recently widowed impoverished spinster, who now found herself at the Lannisters’ mercy, I hid in these gardens quite often–mostly to escape my good-brother’s schemes. One should hope his duties as the castellan of the Rock would have kept him busier…

I breathed deeply and felt my head swimming from the sweet scent of the roses. Somehow I knew the crimson ones smelled stronger as of late. I was sure they spoke of impending autumn winds. They had developed a startling, imposing scent that permeated almost the entirety of the gardens and it almost seemed like the flowers wanted to shine just one last time before they would inevitably wilt. Like the one last feast one would throw just before the first snowstorms.

“Well, then.” Suddenly, strong hands grasped my shoulders and I shot up from the bench I was resting on.

I was met with the half-burned face of Sandor Clegane; his ruined lips twisted in a mockery of a smile and his imposing frame blocking the sun from my view completely. 

“Oh. It’s you.” I was clearly relieved.

No less confused than before, Sandor took a step closer.

“Who did you think it was?” he asked. His voice was broken glass, crunching under infantry iron boots. 

“My brother,” I confessed easily. “He is getting fatter on his castellan purse, but is almost as tall as you, Ser Clegane.”

Immediately, Sandor snarled at the title, his grey eyes full of hate. But I stood there proudly, daring him to scold a high-born lady in public. I was riling him up and he knew it, but he let me all the same. 

“Come.” His command was short; an order a captain of the guard would throw at a fellow soldier.

“Is that any way to talk to a lady, Clegane?”

He said nothing to that, just sent me another angry look over his shoulder and then kept walking. I stifled a laugh.

Unlike all those other guards prancing around the Rock in their gold shiny armours, Sandor’s black ring mail and boiled leather seemed to be quelling the sunshine around him.

Unable to help myself, I followed him inside the castle.

His long legs carried him quite a distance further and soon enough I found myself trotting behind him like an ungraceful pony.

“Is that any way for a lady to walk?” he grumbled, though there was mirth in those angry eyes and I grinned as soon as I saw it.

“Is that a jape I hear, Clegane? By the gods, it–” But the rest of that remark died in my throat as he pulled me into a dark corridor that ended with a spiral staircase. He went down and again, I followed.

“Where are we?” I inquired.

“Underneath the barracks.” His rasping voice drifted up to me. Once more, he was leading.

“Lovely,” I sighed and then simply kept following.

At the end of the staircase, there was an old door with an even older-looking lock, to which Sandor for some inexplicable reason produced a rust-covered key. He unlocked the door and it soon became apparent he must have been the first one to do it in quite a while. It took a formidable power to open it at all. I looked at how his muscles bulged under the dark sleeves of his tunic and against my better judgement I did not stop looking until he caught me in the act. 

Without any niceties, Sandor took my hand and led me through the narrow passage, then firmly shut the door behind us; the rusty hinges straining under the task.

“I do appreciate the effort, Clegane, but if I should have to perish, I’d rather not do it under some aimless old stone that decides to drop on my head with–”

“You talk too much, woman.”

He grabbed me and soon my back was pressed against the cold stone wall. I did not necessarily mind. This was what I came there for; it was what I wanted and what Sandor kept giving me for the past year and a half.

I reached out blindly and when my hands found his face I pulled him closer for a kiss. He wouldn’t reciprocate at first, this much I knew, because such was our game. He would let me sense his humours and somehow through a simple touch and kiss I would read him like a book. I realised he would need it rough today and my body shivered with anticipation. I deepened the kiss and finally Sandor moved closer and started to unlace his breeches.

There was scarcely any light source in the old dungeon and I could barely see a thing. Regretful, giving my particular weakness for the sight of the man. Because Sandor was everything I could ever want from a man, even though he would never let me say it out loud. 

But the noose around my neck was tightening. With the summer ending and Her Grace slowly packing to move back to King’s Landing with the children, I knew the proper mourning period after my late husband’s passing was over. As I had no remaining male relatives, Ser Damion Lannister was in charge of any dowry my puny cousin Crakehall branch could offer. Soon, the evil beast that married my sister would force me to wed once more–undoubtedly to another evil beast of his choosing.

“You are shaking, my lady.” The familiar raspy voice brought me back. I sighed because I enjoyed him calling me a lady quite as much as he liked to be called “ser”.

“It���s cold in here.”

“Aye.” He reached under my skirts and I gasped once he pulled down my smallclothes. “So let me make you warmer.”

Another sigh turned into a moan when he put two fingers inside me and curled them. He was not being rough to be cruel, but because he knew I could not stand a slow and tedious prelude.

“So wet,” he rasped into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “Were you thinking of me all day?”

I could not smell the wine on him this time and I enjoyed the thought that he wanted to experience me sober. I always liked it better when he was not drinking and I thought the incentive for him was that our time together would last longer.

“Actually no, I–” I exhaled and let out a surprised chuckle as he grabbed my thigh firmly to lift up my leg. I rested it against his hip and he added another finger inside me–this time more smoothly.

“Cease your prattling, woman,” he grunted. “Does the dark frighten you so much? Or the creature you find yourself in the dark with?”

I let out another moan as his teeth nibbled at my neck. 

The sensations were overwhelming. The stone wall was cold against my back, and the dank dungeon was not something I would call remotely romantic–it smelled of damp earth and rot, and to be truthful after a day of training in the yard, Sandor smelled no better.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see him sneering at me.

“Where in the seven hells are you?” He leaned in closer and as he replaced his fingers with his cock, I steadied myself by clutching his arms. “Because you sure ain’t here with me.”

“I am… thinking,” I whispered and it gave him a pretence to claim another kiss from my lips. 

He knew me too well; such was the consequence of two souls connecting the way we have been doing. At first our dalliance was just a mutual understanding–but now it expanded and grew like a root, and despite our better judgement, we started to get to know one another.

“Stop thinking so much, woman,” he grumbled, his voice surely hoarse from yelling at incompetent recruits through all of the morrow. “Look at me. Look at me.”

I finally looked up and saw the faint outline of his face. His eyes no longer resentful, now they glinted with lust. I smiled as I understood the object of that lust was me. 

“Go on then,” I mustered my best commanding tone and moaned as he squeezed my thigh harder in return.

The rough wall behind me, the strong arms I was clutching and Sandor’s hardness inside me all brought me back from whatever hell my mind had wandered to and I set my heart on the now. That is why we worked so well, I supposed. His roughness and my need for it paired together beautifully.

We were both close, I could feel it. Sandor let out a groan and I made myself tighten around him in response. I wished the moment could last longer, but I knew deep down all things that exist in darkness and privacy must one day come out to light.

I reached my peak first and nearly cried out–but Sandor was faster. He captured my lips in another harsh kiss, spilling inside me. I felt how his body tensed, pressed up against me. Still seeing stars, I let him release my leg back down, though I appreciated him still holding me close. I swore under my breath at how unsteady I felt and I heard Sandor chuckle. An oddly comforting thing, that disembodied rough chuckle in the dark. 

I pulled up my smallclothes and straightened my skirts, wincing at the mess that spilled from me. I did not care if his seed quickened, though. Thankfully I was no longer a maiden and knew my sums better than I used to. My monthly blood was still far away and I had more time to take precautions.

My release did make everything better, but I still was not finished with my game of teasing the bull.

“When was the last time you took a bath, Sandor?”

I could not really see it, but I knew his brows were tightly pinched together.

“Last week, I think. Why? Does this dog’s stink offend your ladyship?”

“No,” I chuckle. “Have no fear. I know who you are and I still enjoy your company.”

That, I gathered, stunned him more than a blow to the head could. I heard his clothes rustle. He was putting himself back in order, too.

“The smell of blood and sweat,” he grunted. “Some twisted tastes you have, woman.”

I put my hands in front of me and grabbed at his tunic to pull him closer. This time, he obeyed. I pressed myself against him and I could feel his breath quickening.

“Some twisted tastes, indeed,” I hummed and moved to rest my cheek against his chest. “But I wish we could go somewhere else. Somewhere far away from Casterly Rock.”

Somewhere far away from my sister’s husband, is what I truly wished to say and Sandor knew it well. I could feel him stirring uncomfortably, undoubtedly unsure what to say to that. I knew then that I let myself say too much.

“Well, we’ve got that. The two of us here, nice and private, as the lady commands.”

“Very amusing.”

“I do try.”

His hands moved from my backside then and I felt his fingers in my hair. True to the word he had once given, he was doing his best not to make too much of a mess of my braid. But I knew he liked my hair. He remarked on it often.

We were quiet then, just the two of us in that small dungeon under the barracks of Castle Casterly, and it was as close to peaceful as I have ever felt. I knew I was trying to hold on to this moment just a little bit longer, to somehow keep it from ending. 

To my surprise, it was Sandor that broke our silence this time:

“I do not want to let you go yet.”

I knew what it meant, for him to speak his mind like that. I was fast to answer so as not to keep him in suspension:

“Nor I you.”

I wanted to say more; to say I wished he were mine and mine alone. But that would be foolish. I knew it could never be. I started to trace soothing circles on his back instead; something I knew he enjoyed very much.

After a moment, he spoke again, though his voice was less hoarse now:

“And if I said… I am yours as you are mine?”

The pang of emotion in my chest was as pleasant as it was scary.

“I would say that is all I want.” I placed my palm against his scarred cheek and felt him lean into the touch. “I want you,” I assure him. “I do not wish to be away from you. I do not wish to be married to a lord or a hedge knight or the first drunk who wins against Damion at cards. I want…”

But then the moment faded away and Sandor brought us back to reality:

“What we want doesn’t matter.”

We have been here before, I realised. This was not the first time when both of us wanted the same, but neither believed we could truly take it.

“You know I am no knight. No lord. I’m just their creature, I’m the Hound.”

“Do not say that.”

“But that’s the truth,” he replied, his voice harsh and grating like knives on stone. “I have killed more men than I could even remember. I’m scarred and ugly and hard to look at. You would not be getting a man, you would be getting a beast.”

I knew what he was doing, what he was trying to do. But this time, somehow, I did not want to cower before my better judgement. Winter was coming and I was growing tired.

“Well, fortunately I am good with wild creatures,” I declared in my best lady-like tone. “If I could make your Stranger eat my apple offerings, I am certain you are no more work than that.”

He went silent and even in the dim lighting of the dungeon I could see the conflict in his face.

“Never had a woman like you, with manners and all. I was never meant for any court. If we give in, you’d be wed to a brute.”

I exhaled and decided then that if after a decade the seasons were changing, I deserved a change as well. I have decided then to break the spell of misfortune with a jape and took a step closer to sniff at his neck.

“Well, as your lady wife I could at least make you bathe more often. If that is not a credit to my taming skills, I do not know what would be.”

He laughed at that and even though his laughter would always be short-lived, I still took that as a victory.

“Fuck the court then, eh?” he said and gently held my face in his rough, calloused hands. 

“Fuck the court,” I said sternly, and I knew my swearing always took him by surprise, “and fuck their dances, and fuck their hedge knights. May they all dance themselves off the cliffs of Casterly Rock! And may Ser Damion die of a bloody flux. I hope it is painful.”

“Aye,” Sandor chuckled again and kissed the top of my head. “It is. But do not let them hear you cast your spells. I will do much, but I will not save you from a burning pyre.”

It would not matter if they burned me to ash tomorrow for true. Today I finally had hope.

“I want to be your wife,” I declared. “I want them all to know who protects me. I know you will protect me. They are all afraid of you and–”

“Look at me,” he ordered and I did so at once. “You say this… And you say this knowing what I am? Knowing why they are all afraid?”

“I do not care,” I replied, now close to tears from thinking he would not agree after all. “My good-brother is in charge of my money and in charge of me. I have nothing of my own, no reputation, no lands or keep. Truth be told, you are marrying down, Sandor.”

He laughed at that and I cherished the sound. I adored making the mask fall.

“You are taking advantage of me, woman, is that it?” he rasped, though now his voice lacked all that anger. He seemed almost happy.

“Yes, Sandor Clegane,” I grinned. “I have cast my spells and ensnared you in my power. All of our combined riches of one dragon and two stags shall get us as far as… The Trident, most likely. After that we shall both be whores, but we shall be very happy, indeed.”

“Careful, woman,” he snarled, though his eyes showed no anger.

“Pardon me, my lord.” I gave him my best curtsy.

That earned me a hard squeeze of my backside, but I had no regrets.

“Do you have no fears, then?” he rasped, his hand playing with my hair again. “None at all?”

“Well, I do not particularly care for spiders…”

“By the gods, woman! About me, I meant.”

“Then, no.” My grin grew wider. “You are many things, but you are not a monster, Sandor. I know I can believe your words if you say you would not hurt me.”

“Never.” He rushed to answer this and his hands immediately tightened around my waist. “But I will hurt anyone around you if I need to keep you safe. I will keep you safe, the rest of them can fucking burn.”

“Then I shall dance on the ashes,” I japed again, though my heart threatened to burst out of my chest from happiness. “Come then. Let us find some drunk Septon, I hear your Lord Tyrion knows a few.”

Sandor chuckled and took me by the hand to lead us out of the dungeon.

“He is your cousin.”

“Only by marriage. Remember, I am a Crakehall. Wild boars and lions are not exactly friendly.”

“And hounds are? You are mad.”

“You better wed me fast, then. Such a grand prospect shall not wait forever. But after that, I never want to see or hear the name ‘Lannister’ ever again. ”

We stopped on our way up the stairs and to my astonishment Sandor kissed me right then and there. He looked me in the eye, solemn as always, no doubt waiting for me to change my mind. But I would not. Not when he had shown me what happiness tasted like.

“What is it?” I asked. 

“This may be the most foolish thing I have ever done,” he grumbled. “And that’s saying something.”

I took his hands in mine and shook my head, smiling in a way I hoped was encouraging and not entirely deranged from joy. 

“I am the unreasonable one, Sandor. You shall be my reasonable husband that tames my wicked nature, remember?”

“Am I now?” He smirked. “So you do take me for a husband? I ain’t even civilised enough to know the… vows.”

“Neither does the Septon, if we get one drunk enough to agree to wed us.”

“Nothing will change your mind, then?”

“Nothing shall save you now from this predicament. The hounds are out, the boars are slain, the… I do seem to have run out of house sigils for my japes, but you do know my meaning, I hope?”

“Aye,” he said and this time he seemed to have believed me. “That I do, woman. Now, let us get you that Septon so that I can bed you long and proper.”

[summervale]

「The Hound and The Vulture 」

Part 5 (and a half)

Third person reader-insert! After weeks—or had it been months now?— on the road north, the Hound and the vulture can finally withstand the cold rain no longer and turn to an inn for a single night of reprieve. And, of course, there is only one bed.

Contains: Reluctant pining, teasing, mature situations

Words:  4,871

Tags: @lunnybunny12 @supervalcsi

Notes:  The overused, cliché, worn-out trope of “and there was only one bed.” Let’s have it one more time, then, once more from the top. 

This is half of Part 5. Parts of the second half are already written, but I wanted to go ahead and get this finished, edited half out for everyone who has been so supportive and so patient! Thank you all for your kind words.❤️

The town was dismal at best. But still, there was an inn. Any respectable person from any respectable keep would have spat on both the inn and the town, but neither the Hound nor the vulture were in any position to turn away a warm bed. Even the thought of a damp straw mattress and a bowl of dubious brown stew warmed the vulture inside—just a little.

They plodded their way down what they could only assume was the main road of the town, though it was currently little more than a bog. The mud sucked at their horses’ hooves as they went; gods forbid the northern reaches of Westeros go more than a day or two without getting rained, snowed, or sleeted on, or any miserable, abysmal combination of the three. Sometimes they were met with all three in one day–those were the worst days, soaked to the core and chilled to the bone–but still, Sandor would not let them rest.

The rain had let up to a cold, ever-present mist when they reached the village. Everyone is staring again, thought the vulture. They’re always staring. She had half a mind to run the staring people down from time to time. Everywhere they went, the Hound drew stares. Children often fled, sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they asked questions. The adults were no better, and often the vulture found herself wondering how many times the Hound had been recognized. She half expected to be seized by the white cloaks themselves in the middle of the night. Sandor could fight them off, no doubt. She’d seen him do some serious damage in their time together.

And though he could defend himself blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back (of this the vulture had not a doubt), it was the people who stared who bothered her the most. The brute of a man was somehow too nice to send the staring children away with a “fuck off,” easy as it may have been. The vulture was less nice in this regard.

Wait. She turned in her saddle to look at him. He raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing—an expected interaction by this point. When did I start caring if they laugh at him? Why would I want to defend him? She’d had her moments of weakness, it was true. But she was not one to chase love unrequited. Especially not from a mongrel like Sandor Clegane. It had been the cold and the dark and the rain that had gotten to her before, or so she could tell herself. She would have wanted any man. And he saved her, too. No matter who he was, he had saved her and he had not forced himself onto her. It was a noble act. Of course she’d wanted him, it was almost instinct.

And yet…

“Boy, get over here.”

She was wrenched from her thoughts by Sandor’s voice. There was a boy a few strides away from the stables of the inn, shirtless and shoeless even in the cold, and dirty, too. Had he not had such a nasty look of revulsion on his face at the sight of the Hound, the vulture might have pitied him. But she didn’t.

“You the stableboy?”

The little cretin’s face twisted further. “No, I’m here for fun,” he japed.

Sandor paid the comment little mind. “Take these horses. See that they’re brushed and watered. And that they have oats.” Sandor began to dismount as he spoke, and the girl followed suit.

The ground was miserably soft and wet below, mud from the rain and muck from the stables. Her nose wrinkled as she swung one leg over the saddle to dismount, bracing herself for the ankle-deep plunge into the filth. Please hold, please don’t come apart, she prayed silently to her boots. If there was any place for her only pair of boots to be ripped apart by the mud, it would be this hole of a town, though, and the vulture was anything but optimistic.

“Easy there.” The Hound was aside her, suddenly, and before she knew what he was doing, the mountain of a man had lifted her from her horse. He took her with the ease an average man would use to lift a child.

The sudden act of kindness caught her off guard so badly that all she could think to say was, “What are you doing?” He held her, navigating the muck of the stables with the small woman in his arms. Without thinking, she draped one arm over his shoulder and held fast to his chest with her other hand, holding onto him as if for dear life.

“No point in both of us getting fuckin’ muddy,” he grumbled. It was, it seemed, to be the most begrudging act of kindness ever. But still, it was an act of kindness nonetheless, and the vulture found herself oddly fond of the Hound in that moment.

Said moment was cut short when the Hound unceremoniously all but dropped her back onto drier ground. The well-packed earth beneath the overhang of the inn rose up to meet her boots, and when she was no longer entwined in his arms (his big, strong, protective arms…) the young woman snapped back to reality.

“Thank you,” she said, still dazed. All she received in response was a grunt of acknowledgement—not that she’d expected anything more.

The inside of the inn was significantly better than the outside of the inn. Hells—it was better than the whole town. Or maybe it had just been that long since they’d lived like civilized people, sleeping in barns that had been put to the torch with only their cloaks for comfort, hiding out beneath crevasses in hillsides. The inn smelled of rabbit stew and hot spiced wine, and within moments of standing in the doorway it was undoubtedly the warmest the pair had been in weeks.

The woman behind the bar eyed them suspiciously. “What do you want?” she asked.

Before the Hound could answer, it was the vulture who stepped forward. “Two rooms, please. And two meals, and some wine.” She thought for a moment. “And two baths as well.” They had the coin to spare, after all, having sold their third horse to the farmer and selling the bits of armor the vulture was so good at scavenging from the many dead soldiers they encountered. Stark, Lannister, Frey…it was funny how the houses they died for didn’t matter anymore when they laid dead in the dirt with a woman ripping the armor from their bodies for whatever coin it might bring. A futile fight with a fitting end. Often it sold for a few coppers at best, but the stew and ale it would buy was worth a hundred gold dragons to the pair.

The innkeep eyed the Hound. “It’ll be double the cost of the bath for him,” she said. “I’ll have to heat and haul twice as much water.”

“Done,” the vulture answered for the Hound. She could feel the scowl he was boring into her head behind her.

“I’ll get you your food, have a seat. But there’s one problem,” said the woman, who was already shuffling off to the kitchens.

“Seven hells. What’s the problem?” The Hound finally found his voice, it seemed, and joined the conversation.

“There’s only one room. Big bed, though, even for the likes of you,” the woman never looked over her shoulder. “I’m sure you can share.”

Beside the vulture, the Hound huffed. “I’m sure we can share,” said the small woman, half-mocking the innkeep, half-teasing Sandor.

Her traveling companion, ever silent, said nothing. He strode off for the dining area, no doubt in anticipation of the promised wine. The vulture scowled. They’d shared a bed once at the farmhouse. Something inside of her fluttered at the memory. It hadn’t gone anywhere, though, and she’d be a fool to expect he’d feel any differently about her at an inn than he would in a farmhouse or a cave or a barn or anywhere else they had been or ever would be.  It was cliché, to be sure, having arrived at an inn with only one bed vacant in the whole damn place. But it made no difference. The vulture could strip herself of her clothes and present herself before him bare; she could climb on top of him, she could do and say whatever she wanted. The Hound would not have her.

The small talk they made over their dinner was as bland as the stew. The Hound wasn’t one for conversation, much less when other prying eyes and open ears were nearby. The stew was thin and watery and the cook had skimped on the rabbit. But the radishes and potatoes were cooked well, at least, and though the wine was more brown than red, it washed the stew down all the same and warmed them to their core. They mopped at their trenchers with bread that was not quite stale but would be soon. Yet, they cleared their plates. By the time they’d finished, a serving girl appeared at their table’s side.

“A bath for the lady?” asked the girl. She seemed nervous, her eyes darting back and forth from the Hound to the vulture to the floor, then back again. “It’s ready. The bath. For the lady.”

“A bath for the lady.” The vulture nodded in agreement. She drank down what was left of her wine in one swallow and replaced the cup to its original spot on the table. “Hear that? I’m a lady,” she said to Sandor.

He grunted. “Could have fooled me.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead she stood and followed the girl, who led the way up the flight of stairs and to a store room where a copper tub had been half-way filled. The water was tepid, as mediocre as the meal they’d been served and the wine they had drank, but just like the meal and the wine it served its purpose, and for that the vulture was grateful. The girl helped the traveler out of her clothes and into the tub. The vulture allowed herself to relax the slightest bit; the serving girl dutifully and silently washed her hair (a pity, as the vulture would have appreciated a good conversation) while the vulture set to scrubbing her body.

When all was said and done, the serving girl provided the vulture with a shift made from plain, undyed wool and promised that her clothes would be washed and dried before the night’s end—a service the woman had gladly allowed herself to be upsold on for two extra coppers. Warm and clean for the first time in an undetermined amount of time (even the vulture had since lost track of how long they’d been traveling) she retired to the room they were given. The last room at the end of the hall was where they’d been situated. It was a small room with a large bed that took up the majority of the space. The bed was large and sturdy enough to sleep four, there was a small square table with a single chair, and an iron brazier in which the innkeep had so kindly started a small fire. The innkeep had been right: they could share without problem.

After a moment’s time warming her hands at the brazier, the vulture settled into the bed, choosing the side closest to the wall. It was heaven. The Seven themselves surely had a hand in crafting this wonderful, glorious room in this wonderful, glorious inn. Never before had the vulture been so relieved and comfortable as she was here.

That was an exaggeration. It was a dank inn in a shithole of a town. The vulture knew this. But she knew that she was warm and comfortable, too, and she knew that she’d spent months sleeping in caves and barns and open fields even, and that this was better than anything. She closed her eyes. She was safe and warm. She was comfortable. And soon Sandor would be at her side.

Sandor…

Beneath the covers, her body was warm. Her mind was fuzzy. Sleep was taking her. He’ll have a bath, and then he’ll join me. Soon, so soon. She, in the moments before sleep when the mind is both the most absurd and the most honest, anticipated the feeling of the mattress sinking beneath his weight as he climbed into bed beside her. She wanted the heat of his body beside hers. She wanted him to settle in and pull the blankets around them, to feel his chest rise and fall against her back with every breath he took. She wanted him. She wanted him. She wanted him...

The door closed quietly, but loud enough to wake her nonetheless. The world was dark. Outside the small window the whole sky was black and starless, so the only light came from the single brazier on the opposite side of the small room. It was raining. The rainfall made a quiet patter on the roof, in the same peaceful way the wind whipped against the wooden siding of the inn in the night.

Sandor stood near the door he’d shut. “Were you sleeping?”

“Yes,” she said, though for how long she’d been sleeping she could not say. Long enough for the sun to go down, at least. She was comfortable, and though she couldn’t remember it now, she’d been having some sort of wonderful dream.

The Hound said nothing. He was just standing there almost awkwardly. The vulture sat up, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and in the dim light of the room she could see he was squinting back at her. She realized at once that it must have been a foreign sight to him to see her look so…not feral. On the best of days she could easily be taken for a wildling, like some creature who’d come raiding from north of the wall or an escapee from a hill tribe. He’d never known her as the maid who loved to sing and dance, who baked bread and had once wreathed her hair with summer daisies. He knew her as what she had become. He knew her as the vulture. In their time together she’d huddled beneath a mourning cloak of black with her hood drawn, changing between the two skirts she had (both of which were also black and worse for the wear) with her hair unkempt and her skin hidden from the cold beneath her many layers.

The woman staring back at him must have been a stranger. Her hair was soft and clean and dry, as was her skin, and she smelled of soap instead of horses. Her black cloak was replaced with a thin wool shift. And for the first time, her guard was down.

Sandor was still Sandor, though, just a little cleaner than usual. This is probably what he looked like when he was one of the white cloaks, she thought, studying him.

After a long moment of silence, he said, “Throw me a pillow.”

That struck her as odd. “What for?” she asked, and though she gathered one in her arms, she hesitated on passing it to him. 

Even in the darkness he was looking at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which he punctuated with an impatient huff. “If I’m going to give you the fucking bed, you’re going to give me a fucking pillow.”

“Give me the bed?”

“Though I have my doubts about it, you’re a woman. I’m not making a woman sleep on the floor.”

She stared at him. He stared back. “Why would I sleep on the floor?” she asked. “Why would you sleep on the floor?” The question only resulted in more staring.

“So you can have the fuckin’ bed,” Sandor told her at last though it clarified nothing and was circular reasoning at best. “Now give me the pillow.”

“You’re being ridiculous. We’ve shared a bed before.” She clutched the pillow more tightly to her chest. “There’s no need for you to sleep on the floor when this is the first time either of us have had a good bed in—”

“Seven hells, give me the pillow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

With a signature annoyed grunt, Sandor stomped the few short strides to the bed. “You’re a lady, you get your own fuckin’ bed. Give me that.”

“No!” She pulled back as he reached for it. “No, you beast!” He grabbed for the pillow, but she was faster, lurching backwards onto her haunches. Her win was momentary, though, as for the first time in their time together, he outsmarted her. He reached past her and around her, grabbing the pillow she’d previously been sleeping on.

He pulled away successful in his endeavor and tossed the pillow onto the floor. Sandor knelt, pushing the pillow against the wall and going to his knees to get comfortable.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she reiterated. “We’re paying good coin for this bed. There’s no reason for you to lay down there and catch a chill from the draft.”

He propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. “Do I have to tell you to go the fuck to sleep every time we go the fuck to sleep?”

If he wants to be ridiculous, we will be ridiculous. The vulture swung her legs from the bed so suddenly that even Sandor looked surprised. No sooner did her feet hit the floor than she pulled the other pillow from the bed. She dropped it on the floor with a muffled thump.

“What in the gods’ name are you doing?”

“If we’re wasting money on the bed, we’re wasting money on the bed.” She let herself fall back against the pillow. It really is cold down here, she realized, suddenly unsure whether she had the constitution to win this game or not. She didn’t want to be cold. She wanted to be warm in bed, but she wanted to be warm in bed with Sandor.

And seven hells did she hate admitting that.

“Get up there.” Each word the Hound said came out punctuated with evident frustration.

“No.”

“And you think I’m ridiculous?”

“Yes.” She was looking over at him, at his hulking form in the dark. The room was small save for the bed, so they were left with only two or three feet between them. Even with those two or three feet she could feel him thinking, scathing, fuming. If she was good at nothing else in this life, she was good at frustrating Sandor Clegane.

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if he’d care enough to join her in the bed. He might just let her lay there and be cold. Even on the floor with no blankets, this was the warmest they’d been in a long time. They were in no danger of freezing, and if she wanted to make herself miserable, no doubt Sandor would let her.

That’s why it came as such a surprise when Sandor first pushed himself back onto his knees, then stood.

She watched him wordlessly. He closed the gap between them until he was standing over her. And then he descended on her.

“What are you—oh!” The vulture’s objections were cut short when the great beast of a man stooped and lifted her for the second time that day. Though helping her from the horse had been almost graceful, this was unceremonious but equally effortless.

The bed rose up to meet her when he dropped her. “Get in the fucking bed and go to sleep.” 

“You get in the fucking bed,” she told him. And quick as that, she was out of the bed again.

A game was afoot. He grabbed her, catching her in the ribs with his forearm. Her feet left the floor as she found herself tossed like a doll back onto the bed. In the brief pause that ensued, the faintest, most brief smirk played at Sandor’s lips. The vulture silently admired it. But the game was not so easily won, not for him at least, and in a blink she was up again. This time she anticipated his movement and ducked beneath his arm, dancing away from him. He whirled and grabbed for her, catching her by the elbows before she could take her spot on the floor again.

It was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous, she’d called it right from the start. The vulture didn’t even attempt to suppress the laugh that escaped her lips when he caught her. Though at first it seemed he was going to yell at her, her laugh changed everything. They stood there, Sandor holding her by her shoulders inches from him as she laughed and laughed in the darkness. How long had it been since she’d laughed like this? Had he ever seen her laugh? Had he ever seen her have fun?

Frustrated though he may be, he said nothing, instead lifting her again. He turned, and once more made to drop her onto the bed. This time she didn’t let go. She tightened her arms around his shoulders, a move he was not expecting, and he halfway toppled down with her when he dropped her weight. His knee buckled into the side of the bed and he caught himself with his arms, pinning one on either side of the small woman whose arms were still tangled around his neck.

She was laughing again.

“Fuck you, woman.”

And in the dark, with her face inches from his, with her arms around his neck and her chest pressed to his, she could hear her own voice ask, “Is that what you want? To fuck me?”

Why did I say that? A thousand thoughts rushed to her mind in an instant’s time. Why did she say that? Was it the wine? She could easily blame the wine. But the blame didn’t matter. He was him and she was her, and her attempts to sway him in the past had failed, and now she’d fucked up and he was going to pull away, and she’d ruined a perfectly nice moment, and—

And…?

He wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t moving at all, actually. He was still there, still so close to her. He stayed that way, too, studying her in the dark. Without thinking, she silently and gently—so gently—brought one hand to the unburnt side of his face. With her thumb she brushed his hair from his eyes. His hair was surprisingly soft, if not a little damp still from the bath, and so close together he smelled of soap and spiced wine. He didn’t stir, and she didn’t breathe. For a moment she thought he might kiss her.

“I’ll get in the fucking bed if you go to sleep,” he told her. He didn’t back away, though, and she watched his lips when he spoke.

You didn’t answer my question.

“Okay.” She’d been subdued. Don’t let me go, please don’t let me go, she thought as he let her go. He gathered their pillows from the floor and tossed them to her one at a time. She settled back into her spot nearest the wall, watching him move through the dark as he made his way back to the bed. Outside, the rain was falling harder as if to hush them.

Sandor’s movements were awkward but still somehow brusque as he found his way beneath the covers. The vulture remained still as he settled in, pulling the blankets this way and that to accommodate his size. When at last her companion was still too, she allowed her head to rest against her pillow. There were few ways to bother him now; the game was over and she had won. At this realization, she let her eyes close for a moment.

He didn’t pull away, she thought. He didn’t answer my question.

She kept her eyes closed, replaying their fight, however brief it may have been, in her head again and again and again. The way she’d laughed and spun as if dancing, the way he’d smiled, too. If her winning had meant the game was over, she’d rather have never won at all. When at last her fantasies were over and she could replay the scene no more, she opened her eyes again. Minutes had passed, but not too great of a time.

Even in the fading light of the brazier, she could tell he was watching her. Sandor was laid on his side facing her, which in itself was rare as he usually chose to sleep with his back to her when they huddled together beneath a cloak at night. She couldn’t see his eyes, as he was just a shapeless black silhouette in the night, but she knew nonetheless. She could feel it. She stared back.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

She was silent for a long time. You didn’t pull away. Try as she might, she did not have the courage to ask again.

It was Sandor who spoke. “If I want to fuck you?”

Her heart skipped a beat—or two or three or four—and she realized she was holding her breath, scarcely breathing at all. Had she not been laying down, the world may have gone sideways. “Yes.” Her face was hot, suddenly. Her whole body was hot.

“You think I look at you like some common whore?” That was not an answer to her question, though. He was avoiding it. Was that a yes? A no? What did that even mean? The answer frustrated her. She was not a whore, no, but she was no maid, either, and he knew that. She’d been married, however brief it may have been, so what did it matter now if it was a farmer or a hound whose bed she shared? She was no maid, no high lady, and no whore. She was nothing. She was a vulture, and he was a hound. And she wanted him, try as she might to suppress it.

This was not the time for anger; this was the time to get what she wanted. What she wanted, and what she knew he wanted, too. It was time to stop denying themselves.

“I wish you would,” she said. “Then you might give us what we both want.”

“Is that what you want? To be treated like a whore?” Through his aggression, the vulture couldn’t help but wonder if Sandor truly thought it was that unbelievable for a woman to actually want him.

“You’re making this awfully hard on yourself for someone with a woman trying to sleep with him.”

There was a pause. It was his turn to be at a loss for words, and she let him. After a moment, he asked, “Is that what you want?”

The question had been turned on her. “To fuck you?”

“Yes.”

Unlike him, she could answer. “Yes.”

He was still for a long time. Silent, too, saying nothing. He was silent so long, in fact, that the vulture thought he may have made the decision to ignore her. But still the tension festered, growing stronger and stronger as that one single word, “yes,” hung between the two of them. 

Sandor’s movement was so quick and hard that it was over by the time she’d processed what was happening. He brought one arm up and around her, pulling her body to his with fierce strength. Her chest to his, her head craned up to look at him. Instinctively, she parted her thighs and draped one leg over his as their bodies were pressed so tightly together, their legs entwining, one of his hands in her hair. She shuddered when his lips grazed hers, and again when she felt his thigh press hard and deliberately between her legs. 

His hand tightened in her hair when he finally kissed her–really kissed her, hard and rough, passionate; he kissed her with the fervency of a man who had been meaning to kiss her for quite some time now, who had been looking at her and thinking of kissing her, with all the passion of a man who laid awake at night at her side and wondered what it might be like to hold her this exact way and kiss her this exact way in the darkness. She kissed him back, too, and with her arms pinned to his chest, she grabbed helplessly at his tunic, as if she could somehow pull him closer than he already was, or never let him go at all.

When he finally pulled away, she tried to force herself closer, never wanting the moment to end. Sandor was unpredictable, and the possibility that he’d never kiss her again was real. But she wanted him, she wanted him so badly. At least he wanted her too, if nothing else. 

With his lips brushing hers, he murmured, “Yes.” 

“Yes,” she repeated dreamily. She would have said or done whatever he wanted in that moment; her Hound, her knight. 

“I want to fuck you.” 

She did not hesitate. “Then do so.” 

He was on top of her before she finished her sentence.

[vdragoncatgirl]

Winter’s Dragonfire

chapter 3 - blackwater

the hound/sandor clegane x targaryen female oc

roughly follows canon timeline (tv)

From a dinasty once defeated, a child with unmistakable silver hair was born in the frosted lands of the North. Her journey east awaits with a kiss of fire.

words: 4080

notes: +18 content! a very interesting chapter that i’m really proud of 🤭 these first three chapters are my beloved, and the next to come also have doozies for you all. also posted in AO3 (link below)

Inside of Rhaenys’ new chambers, she sat in the sunlight and contemplated the beautiful view from the big window of the room she had been put in. It was not at all the same kind of space reserved for lords, ladies or royalty, but certainly the fanciest bedchamber the girl had ever been in. Though the days were just as empty and dull as before, she had more resources to entertain herself there, like staring out the window and listening to gossip in the corridor by sitting next to the door. Now she realised she was probably eating at least the same as the servants rather than the scraps of their meals, and it was good enough for her. She had a bath every few days and wasn’t in any place to complain except for an overwhelming sense of solitude. She longed to see another person, anybody, to walk somewhere again and talk to those whose voices she could hear in the dead of night. Whenever she heard heavy footsteps in the halls, she liked to imagine it was the Clegane man walking through the corridor. But no one ever summoned her again.

It wasn’t until one fateful night that the girl would finally push herself out of that room as she heard a loud commotion going on all around the castle. People were running through the halls and talking loudly, some were screaming and every voice was hasty and afraid. It wasn’t long until Rhaenys was afraid, too. She glued her ear to the door and tried to make out at least something that could indicate what was going on as people ran by.

— … blackwater — she heard.

— … Stannis..

— … women to the basement..

Rhaenys was nothing if not quick witted, at least enough to conclude: Stannis Baratheon. He’s invading Blackwater Bay.

The girl had done enough research and read enough messages from her father’s ravens to know that that invasion had only been a matter of time. It seemed that now the time was over. Her heart started to race. The Baratheons were the head behind the usurping of the Targaryen dynasty, and their hatred towards them was well known. Even though Robert Baratheon was dead, Rhaenys feared getting in Stannis’ hands could be just as bad, maybe worse than any plan the Lannisters had for her. This is the time to flee, she thought. No one would bother guarding her or making sure she couldn’t escape during an invasion. She looked around trying to figure something out, but the door was always locked and the window was well above any sort of ground.

She picked up a metal chair that stood near a little table on the opposite side to the bed with some effort. Physical strength was definitely not something she had been blessed with, but it was still worth trying. She grabbed it hard and slammed the chair’s legs into the wooden door with a loud bang. It didn’t even bulge, of course, and so the girl repeated the effort several times. After her arms ached and she could barely hold the chair anymore, she let go of it and analysed the door to see that some of the metal parts had been slightly damaged. Rhaenys kicked it several times until her legs were painful and itchy, but nothing happened.

The girl sat on the floor in front of the door and growled in frustration. Tears formed in her eyes and she sobbed angrily, grabbing on her face and hair tightly until she accidentally touched one of her burns. It hurt like hell, but the scream she let out was one of anguish and anger rather than pain. Rhaenys got up and paced around the room, often times looking through the window and briefly considering taking the risk of climbing down of even jumping. But she considered that even she managed to the ground without getting hurt, outdoors on the Red Keep it would be much more likely she would bump into soldiers. And that was not something she could risk. It would be better to remain imprisoned. She paced slowly to the bed and laid facing away from the door and sobbed, grabbing the sheets in her fists.

After a long time, enough for the tears to have passed and a slight sleepiness to come creeping to her head, the girl heard two loud bangs on her door that jolted her awake and made her roll out of the bed to the opposite side. She covered her ears and closed her eyes tightly in fear. Now it’s the time. Now it’s over, she thought.

— Dragon girl.

Rhaenys jumped at the sound of a deep voice coming from the door. She looked over from behind the bed and saw the Hound standing in the doorway, staring at her. He had, somehow, broken the door and it was almost falling off the wall. Her eyes widened looking at the door, then at him, and she got up. That was the last person she was expecting to see. His face was covered in blood and sweat, and for a moment Rhaenys wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or frightened. The man stepped into the room and she stood still as a rock.

— I’m leaving this fucking city. I can take you and the Stark girl back to the north. — he growled after a moment of silence that felt much longer than it had actually been.

— Oh gods — she let out a gasp, relief choking her as she realised what he had said. — Thank you sir, of course I will come.

— You wait here. — he turned her back to her — Don’t call me sir.

Rhaenys waited nervously by the bed, her mind racing as she struggled to gather the few belongings she still had. Contrary to the man’s orders, she left the chamber and crept around the nearby rooms and took every small item of value she laid her eyes upon. She was not thrilled to go on another journey without supplies and no money.

After a while the girl heard heavy steps coming in her direction, so she scurried back to her door. She had concocted a small bag with her old clothes and rags in which she placed the valuables, and was holding it in her arms when the Hound appeared before her again.

— Where’s the girl? — she said confused, looking out to see if Sansa was anywhere near.

— She wouldn’t come. Let her. — he said, and started walking away. Rhaenys followed.

At first the girl was doing her best to make as little noise as possible, but soon realised that was not the case for the Hound. He had a wineskin in his hand and walked fast with his usual heavy steps Rhaenys had to almost run to keep up with. They walked a long time through halls she had never seen, but that he knew quite well, up until the stable where horses stood restless and loud. She observed Clegane going up to a huge black horse that she saw him stroke for a second before pulling himself up to the saddle.

— Get up here. — he growled.

— I should get one for my own. — she said without hesitation and looked around to pick one. She didn’t want to ride the same horse as him just in case things got sour in their endeavour.

— Fuck off, girl. These are bloody war horses.

She didn’t answer and simply glared up at him in disapproval.

— Go on then. I won’t fucking wait for ya.

Rhaenys hastily looked around for some horse that wasn’t as overwhelmingly big as most of them. Thankfully, due to the battle they were already saddled, though they were not being used and the stable was empty and silent. She finally picked a shorter one with pretty white pelt, and filled the saddlebag with the valuables she had stolen. She looked to the side to see Sandor riding away already. The girl rolled her eyes and put her horse to motion while still climbing up the stirrup.

— What now? — she put herself next to him.

— Now I’ll get far away from this fucking castle full of cunts.

Rhaenys and the Hound rode north for a good two hours before stopping at a big grassy field with a few sparse trees. Riding a war horse was no joke, and quite difficult to handle, but she tried to seem steady and stayed behind him so he wouldn’t see her struggling. The moon was up high in the sky when the both of them got off their horses. She saw him take his saddlebag and place it on the ground and did the same. The girl sat next to it on the grass, with her chin on her knees.

— So what of the battle? — Rhaenys was interested in why he had fled in the first place and wanted to make a bit of conversation.

— Fuck the battle. — he rasped. But she didn’t want silence, not anymore. She had had enough of it.

— I understand why Stannis Baratheon wants the throne, since he’s the older brother and it seems that Joffrey’s a bastard and all. — she pondered out loud — But they’re all usurpers, be it Baratheon or Lannister, so in the end it doesn’t matter.

— What the fuck do you even know about these people? — Clegane had taken the wineskin again.

— I know who everyone is. I studied the houses before coming down south.

— All clever, aren’t you? Bet ya didn’t fucking know who I was.

— I think father forgot to mention Joffrey's big dog. — she smirked — I do now, though. I asked lord Tyrion about you.

Sandor scoffed.

— And what did the Imp have to say?

— I learned your name. — she said shyly.

None of them talked for a while. Rhaenys played with a strand of hair while he drank from his wineskin. She wanted some, too.

— Is that wine?

— Aye. — he handed it over to her begrudgingly.

— Thank you. — they were facing one another, a few steps apart. She knelt and crawled a bit in his direction to grab it from his hand. — Don’t like it really, but I’m dying for a drink.

— Bet you like some sweet dogpiss like rum — he snarled.

— I don’t. — she gave him a side eye — I like ale best. Sweet drinks taste like vomit.

— That’s a sight to see, a girl like you drinking ale.

— I’m not a highborn, you know. But maybe you’re starting to believe me. Also, I’m 19. Not really a girl anymore. — Rhaenys took a big gulp of wine.

— Not a proper woman either. Old enough to drink properly but not to know yer way around.

— I’ve seen a lot of ugly things. — she said, a little annoyed. — Blood, corpses, disease. I’m not a bloody coward.

— For such a brave woman, ya sure do a lot of fucking crying.

— And even still I always get what I’m after. I can do both just fine. — she took a sip and didn’t say anything else, but also didn’t look away.

The Hound was sitting on a tree root looking at the field around them. He had his armour on from the battle, which made him seem even bigger than he was. His face had smears of blood all over it, and with the haze of the wine getting to her brain, Rhaenys didn’t even try and pretend she wasn’t staring. Her eyes wandered through his broad shoulders, the detail of his armour and his boots, how he seemed almost serene in the moonlight, and she couldn’t help but get a little flustered about the things she began to think next.

Clegane noticed her with the corner of his eye. He was used to being stared at, but even with custom, it still annoyed him. He turned his head to curse at her, but saw the stare was not the kind he had imagined. Rhaenys’ head was tilted slightly to the side, exposing her neck a little, and she was stroking her hair delicately. She had her mouth slightly open, with an expression such as if she was dreaming. Without saying anything, he stared back at her until she finally noticed.

— Here. — she said timidly to break the tension — I saved you the last bit.

The girl got on her hands and knees to give him the wineskin back. She crawled closer, and stopped in between his legs, with her hand next to his foot. She looked up at Sandor, and he was staring right back still. He picked up the wineskin from her hand and drank the rest of it in silence. Rhaenys had sat down again and looked at her legs. They were a little shaky as she felt a pulsing force propelling her and her cheeks flushing from the alcohol and timid excitement. She was sitting on her knees right in front of him, and thought about getting a little closer.. but that thought was suddenly interrupted by Sandor getting up.

— Wineskin’s empty. Go to sleep.

— …right. I’ll go gather some firewood. — the girl got up too, a little disappointed.

—You won’t light no bloody fire. — he rasped sharply.

Rhaenys lifted her head and looked at him with furrowed brows.

— Why?

— I don’t wanna look at any fucking fire right now. — he growled and turned his back to her.

The girl felt a slight annoyance at his behaviour. He had a full armour, but she only had a feeble wool dress on to last the cold night. She opened her mouth to complain, however deep down she thought probably he wasn’t doing that to mean any harm. He must have seen something he didn’t like tonight. He smelled like smoke, anyway. Also, she had another fire going already inside her body, and it was enough to keep herself warm. But still, only herself.

— Won’t you be cold? — she said quietly.

— Shut up, dragon girl. I said no fire.

— No need for fire. — she said, and the Hound heard the light thud of clothes falling behind him.

He was facing back to her, then turned around to see Rhaenys taking off her last piece of clothing, leaving her only in her underdress. She was standing in the cold grass, looking up at him with a straight face and wide eyes. Sandor stared at her, genuinely surprised, and Rhaenys could see that in his face. She had no idea how he would react from that point on, thus hadn’t finished undressing. Neither of them moved a muscle; a long moment passed of dead silence, in which the girl could hear every chirp and buzz in those woods. She wasn’t ashamed, but was struggling to sustain the glare they were sharing.

Suddenly and without a word, the Hound lunged at her, making her squirm just enough for him to notice it and stop. She had shut her eyes and when she opened them, his were just as wide. Rhaenys didn’t mean to frighten him, but he was so hard to read she wasn’t ever sure what his intentions were, and was taken by surprise when he came close. He stood still hesitantly, so she took a step towards him and touched his armoured chest so lightly she could barely feel the cold metal against her fingers.

She could see how wide his nostrils were, how fast he was breathing. She thought maybe he wasn’t sure if he should play along. Had it been long since the Hound had laid with a woman if not a whore? A woman who willingly wanted him? She stroked the studs on his armour and looked up at him with doe eyes. She wanted him, she really did, but if he didn’t respond to that, there was still time to take it all back.

Sandor was also unsure. The look in her eyes was much different from a whore’s who was trying to fuck around for money, a look he knew quite well. Rhaenys’ stare was of an almost innocent lust he had a difficult time not responding to. That girl wasn’t worth anything to him, no ransom money was in sight for this common woman who had nothing but silver hair. It could be a bad idea to fuck her, as there was no telling what she would make of it all after the wine had worn off. But she was making her way into his body just through her big eyes and humble hints of lust, and if his mind could resist, the strain in his breeches was saying otherwise.

In a split second, he grabbed Rhaenys by the scruff of her neck and pushed their faces close together. He looked into her eyes very intently to again make sure that wouldn’t be a mistake, that she wasn’t just doing that to earn his favour. She had the same expression in her watery eyes, an inviting one that was not easy to refuse. Rhaenys looked away from Sandor’s eyes and to his mouth, his beard still wet with wine. Their breaths were a haze of alcohol and the Hound's face smelled of blood and smoke. She didn’t want to wait a second longer, the fire in her hips had grown into wildfire. She grabbed the metal plate on his chest and pulled him to herself in a kiss. It wasn’t a soft one; their lips pressed on one another harshly and she forced her tongue into his mouth, biting his lips. He reciprocated just as roughly, pulling her hair and holding onto it tightly. She held his face in her hands firmly, feeling his scarred leathery skin and pushing him into herself when he tried to pull away. When she had let go slightly from her tight grip, the Hound also let go of her and pushed her to the ground on her back. He knelt before her breathing heavily, grabbed her underdress by the collar and ripped it apart with no effort at all. Now the girl laid bare on the ground, her silver hair all over the grass and her face.

The Hound stared at her for a long time, Rhaenys staring back at him and seeing his eyes go through all the parts of her body. She didn’t have the body of a lady, and neither that of a whore, just ghostly white skin burned and scarred flushing with excitement. Her legs were trembling, so she was holding them together, but he grabbed her knees and spread them widely. Rhaenys whined and the man contained a smirk of satisfaction. She thought she had been winning that game, but it was much on the contrary. She had gotten what she wanted, but they were going to play by his rules. She watched as Clegane put his hands on her thighs and made his way from her hips to her chest. He grabbed her breasts and pulled her nipples hard, sucking and biting them, making her let out loud gasps. He paid no mind as to what could hurt her. The Hound then pushed her further back and grabbed her legs, so hard the skin turned red. He lowered his head in between her thighs and touched his lips on hers. The girl was not expecting that and covered her eyes for a moment from coyness. Her legs shivered when he started properly sliding his tongue all over her, and she felt she couldn’t do anything about it other than cover her mouth while she whimpered. She started breathing faster and making high pitched sounds she couldn’t control, until she let out a big gasp and her legs began to shake. The girl contorted into herself and opened her eyes to see Clegane lifting his head and standing on his knees. Without saying a word, he undid his belt and slid himself into her slowly all the way through.

The Hound grabbed her hips and pulled them up to his, and she squirmed when he started moving, his hands pressing on her skin tightly, even pressing down on one of the burn wounds in her arm. She squealed in pain and her eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t let go right away, and rather pressed tighter for a second before letting go. He lowered his head into her and bit the skin above her breast hard, making Rhaenys scream. She gave him an angry stare, but didn’t back down and rather forced her hips against his more at each stroke. He grabbed one of the girl’s legs and lifted it from under her knee, bit her again, at her inner thigh, and started to thrust harder into her. Rhaenys whined and twisted from the pain and pleasure from her insides that were still tight and sensitive. Sandor hadn’t taken any clothes or garments off, so his huge armour was clanging with each movement, dripping blood on the girl’s white skin. She looked at the red drops and then at him. She noticed his eyes wandering through the droplets and slowly reached her belly with one of her arms to smear them all over her body, mixing enemy’s blood with her sweat. The Hound saw that and this time couldn’t conceal his reaction. He grunted and grabbed her face by the cheeks with one of his hands, annoyed at how she could have pulled such a lustful move that could get to his core like that. He felt like a mad dog. He pulled himself from her and flipped her to her back, holding her still in all fours.

Clegane grabbed the girl’s silver hair and pulled it tightly, making her arch her neck. He spread the lips on her parts aside and went inside her once more. This time his thrusts were even harder and reaching deeper, which made Rhaenys whimper and gasp at every movement. The girl took one look behind at him, and was surprised to see how vicious his expression was, with bloody sweat dripping down his forehead. He now looked as if he was in a fight and was so enticed by it he couldn’t keep a straight face anymore. That was how he felt, too. Soldiers tend to agree that a good fight asks for a good fuck, so maybe the two things aren’t all that different. He grabbed her hips and dug his fingers into her skin, leaving marks that would soon turn into bruises. His movements started getting more erratic and Rhaenys felt him lowering his body towards her, until his cheek was touching her head and his mouth was right above her ear. She heard his breath getting faster and he grabbed her shoulder with one of his hands, biting down on it harder than he had before, while he pushed himself deep into her for a few final times. Rhaenys leaned her head into his face and heard a deep growl from him when he eventually stopped moving. The Hound let go of the tight grip on her shoulder, slowly pulled himself from her and then buckled his belt in silence. The girl laid on her side on the underdress below her with a deep sigh of exhaustion. Sandor looked at her for just a moment before standing up; she was panting and flushed, with blood and fluids and his bite marks all over herself. Seeing the dragon silver haired girl lying there after having his way with her like that made him feel slightly that she had been more worth rescuing then he had thought at first. He stood up at last, and Rhaenys watched as he got up and fetched her clothes.

The girl picked them up from his hand and saw him go over to his saddlebag and lay his head on it on the ground. He clutched his hands together in his belly and closed his eyes without another word. Rhaenys got up and put on her clothes, then crawled to her own bag, a safe distance apart from where he was sleeping. She bundled her torn underdress and held it in her arms for comfort on the cold ground. She could feel the soreness from her legs, the wet and sticky feeling of her thighs rubbing together and the lingering feeling of where he had touched her. She thought she was having her way with him, but the opposite seemed to also be true. She stared at him sleeping, at his scarred face, only closing her eyes once she couldn’t keep them open anymore.

[pinkykats-place]

Sandor Clegane x Reader Insert Fics

Tumblr Recommendations

Disclaimers!

Stories and Gif are NOT mine.

Some contain mature content.

Readers are mostly female.

Note: if you read and enjoy any of these stories - please like, leave a comment and/or reblog original post!

In the North

Summary: they had a relationship before they had to part ways and so they get reunited when reader is sent with Jorah by Daenarys to get a white walker, Beric and Thoros is in disbelief that Sandor can be able of loving someone

Love?

Sandor Clegane x Stark!Reader

Opposites Attract

Sandor Clegane x fem!reader

Dogs are Best

Sandor x female!Reader

The Kennel Master’s Daughter

Sandor x female!Reader

Sandor Clegane x fem!nurse!reader

Warnings: none it's fluffy

Summary: Back at the time when Joffrey was king, the king's guard got into a fight with the people of flea bottom ending up with many of them injured including Sandor Clegane himself. What will happen when out of all the nurses only Y/N is brave enough to help him?

A Hound Will Die For You But Never Lie To You 

Trigger warnings: NSFW, swearing, all the usual Game Of Thrones warnings.

Rating: M (It jumps right in there so if that’s triggering for you I’d suggest skipping it)

Summary: Imagine being the one to gentle the rage inside Sandor Clegane.

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader (gender neutral).

Everything

Summary: A little drabble about Sandor’s feelings for the reader.

Scarred

Summary: Request from anon: I have a request! Sandor/Reader where the reader is being really lovey with Sandor and kissing him everywhere and she kisses his scarred side and he pushes her away but eventually gives in because she’s persistent that she will kiss him there and that he doesn’t have to worry because she loves his face.

An unexpected scene

NSFW Fic

Angered Beasts

Request: Hi can I request a drabble where the reader is one of joffreys playthings, like sansa is, and she runs into the hound after a beating? Something a little fluffy, please x

Warning: Mentions of violence and slight blood, female reader

Bathing in a tub with Sandor - drabble

Last Night

Fem!Stark!Reader

Request: Are requests still open? If so, please could I request a Hound x Stark reader where they confess their feelings for each other before they fight the Night King?

Good Dog

Warnings: Spoiler!,Fluff, swearing

Summary: Reader is found in the snow 

Hounds and Gingers

Summary: a short, fluffy imagine

An Urgent Confession

(female reader)

Summary: A little story about the reader reminiscing of a moment between her and Sandor 

A Hound’s Jealousy

Just a short little jealous!Hound request

Warnings: jealous Sandor, handsy guy

A Good Punishment

Summary: a handmaid is given to the King’s dog

Another Drink

Summary: rough smut with Sandor after he’s sees you with Bronn

Meeting at Winterfell

Summary: Imagine being a Stark and meeting Sandor Clegane at Winterfell

Imagine Sandor realizing that Tormund has a crush on you

Jealous Sandor…

Sharing a Bed with the Hound

Awkward Fluff!

To Break the Spell

Summary: Beauty & the Beast au

Imagine it’s you who Sandor takes away from Kings Landing during the Battle of Blackwater Bay

Series: More Than Our Servitude

Sandor Clegane x Fem!Reader

Summary: You lived your life as one of the washerwomen of the Red Keep, only seeing the Hound in passing. Still, when the madness of the Battle of Blackwater erupted, he came for you. The Hound is weary from battle, but you try and soothe what little you can.

Our Family

Sandor x wife!Reader

Summary: Sandor enjoys spending the day with his wife and son

His Queen

Sandor x female Reader

Sandor is soft with joffery’s wife

Sandor’s Secret

Sandor x fem!Reader

Summary: Sandor has a secret hidden away from everyone.

Series: Fox and the Hound

Sandor x Reader

Summary: Joffrey wants to send a message to your family after your brother embarrasses him, so he marries you off to his most unwanted man in his court, the hound. But will this marriage truly be a statement for an eyesore, or will it grow into something more. 

Howling At The Moon!

Werewolf!Sandor Clegane x Female Reader

Summary: Sandor unexpectdly finds his mate, as expected she is human...  

Rose

Hound x Reader

Protecting You

Hound x fem!Reader

Imagine Sandor vowing to protect you after you help him with his recovery

Sandor x fem!Reader

Secret Wife (female reader)

Based on this request:  Can you do something with Sandor secretly having a wife. Maybe they met when he was serving king Robert and they met when she was hunting and eloped after a few years. She left before the battle of Blackwater because Sandor didn’t want her getting wrapped up in that so They meet again in Winterfell and no one can actually believe it.  

WITH THIS ADDED: Sandor and reader in a somewhat secret relationship. Tormund keeps hitting on reader in front of Sandor and finally his jealousy gets the better of him and he makes a loud declaration of their love. 

[itskenickie]

i need all of this in a fic or in a movie

[anya-draws-stuff]

Here's no. 3 of 4 drawings for @tm-writes SanSan fanfic "Power Play"

Sorry for being m.i.a. the last two weeks. I caught a cold that knocked me right out. But I'm good now and I'm back with some new art. :)

Anyway, I will never tire of praising this fanfic, so go check it out if you haven't already.

[first-edition]

Fox and the Hound

Chapter 8

Previous chapter here

Sum-Joffrey wants to send a message to your family after your brother embarrasses him, so he marries you off to his most unwanted man in his court, the hound. But will this marriage truly be a statement for an eyesore, or will it grow into something more. 

Cw for this chapter- mention of smut, mention of 18+ themes. Cussing, bathing together, mention of war, description of scarring, child abuse, sandors past, Joffrey being a little bitch, merryn trant.

Sandor stands next to joffrey in between him and cersi as a messenger has arrived. 

“Your g-grace.” the man said out of breath hurrying into the great hall as he ran most of the way. 

“Speak man!” jeoffry barks already annoyed. 

“HIs late grace, the king's brother stannis barathion is planning to invade king's landing…and t-take the throne for himself as it is his birthright.” he says panting but talking as fast he can for the annoyed new child king. 

“Where did you hear this?” cersi speaks. The man approaches cautiously, side -eyed sandor afraid of him. He hands her a piece of paper while bowing. She takes it from his hands. He backs up from the royals and waits as she reads the letter. 

“Fuck..” she says under her breath. 

“Mother?” Joffrey asks, looking up at her as she now stands. 

“Ser merryn gathers as many men as you can to begin fortifying the walls. Tell the iron mages and blacksmiths to begin preparation for incoming weapons.” she says handing the letter to her handmaiden before ser merryn bows and begins to walk off. 

“Go with him dog.” jeoffry speaks  looking up at the hound as he grumbles and then follows ser merryn reluctantly. He'd much rather have his dick buried inside of you right now back in your shared chambers. Your soft body on his as your whimpers and moans echo off the stone walls of the room as you whine out his name telling him how good he feels, but no.

Hes following merryn fucking trant out to the kings gaurd and outside the castle walls to inform all of the soon to be burning kingdom. 

“Don't be so silent now clegane. I know you're just jumping under that hard exterior.'' Merryn says. 

“Shut the fuck up. Do you want me to beat you into the mud again? " Sandor speaks immediately, shutting the other knight up. Passing through the halls you and Sansa walk down a guard and two other ladies are waiting following behind you both. Your arms are linked and you both laugh.

You wear a light gray dress, with an off the shoulder bodice that's lined with fur, the golden and jeweled accents scattering the bodice no doubt a choice from the queen. Your skirt is held in place yet is flowy. Sansa wears something similar but in a light blue. 

Sansa gives your arm a light squeeze signaling for you to look ahead and you are seeing sandor with ser merryn. You both meet at the hall as ser merryn and sandor both stop giving a quick bow before speaking. 

“Princess, my lady.” ser merryn says. 

“Where are you both off too you're never assigned together?” you speak. 

“None of your concern my lady.” Merryn speaks you raise your eyebrows at his sudden rudeness

“Well..then I hope my beloved husband will enlighten me?”you say turning your head to sandor fixing your eyes on his. 

“No. he will not.” Sandor speaks coldly before looking up at the other guard behind you both. 

“You. Go with trant to the amory.” he gruffly speaks. The knight nod and bows to you before ser merryn and him walk onward to the journey they were set on. 

“Sandor?” you ask. 

“Stannis Baratheon is going to invade kings landing and take the throne in 3 days.” he speaks once ser merryn is gone from ear shot. 

“What?” Sansa speaks. Before letting go of you. 

“Excuse me.” she hurries off her maid following her and you and sandor and your hand maiden are left in the halls.

“Are you certain?” you ask. 

“Yes. one of varys messengers sent the note.” he says 

“I'll arrange for you and I to take a ship to Volantis then.” you say. 

“Don't bother, I won't be on it with you.” he says, looking down at you. 

“W-what? Why not?” you ask, stepping closer to him. 

“I'm staying here, I have to fight on the king's orders,” he says. You scoff a sarcastic smile forming on your face. 

“And since when have you carried what the boy king has to order?” you roll your eyes and cross your arms at his stupid notion. 

“Since he married you to me.” he speaks plainly now, finding his notion no longer stupid as you drop your arms to your sides. You slightly bite your lip, a sheen of blush flowing to your cheeks as your eyes revert down quickly before looking back up at him. 

“O-oh..” you stutter out. 

“I'll have more guards posted outside your doors.” he says before moving around you and heading off down the hall to assign guards to be posted. You stand there watching as he walks away before he disappears past the corner. 

“If it's not too much to mention my lady, but, I think the lord clegane may love you.” your maiden says. A small smile forms on your lips. 

“I think you're right.” you say smiling at her before you both turn to continue your walk down the hall. 

—---

You didn't see Sandor for the rest of the day after he informed you. He was outside the wall and in the knightstand training area. Watched out to the court yard as more troops of knights marched in but sandor was nowhere to be seen. You missed him. 

You missed him until the night fell and you were in your room. He wasn't lying about having more guards posted outside the room, instead of the usual two three were now eight. Two on either side of the door and two across from your door posted on either side. Your handmaids scurried past them as they entered and exited.

“Will you draw a bath please?” you ask one of them. She nodded and left along with another to collect the contents for bathing. You sighed and undid the lacing of the back of the dress you wear. The stretch of reaching behind you a much needed one as the ache of your muscles from your night with sandor last was still lingering. 

The doors open once again making you turn your head in confusion as to why your hand maidens were back so fast. But you were met happily with the sight of your husband. He sets down his sword on the side of the door against the wall. He groans annoyingly as he does. 

“I haven't seen you all day. Are you alright?” you ask, walking up. You meet him and place your hands on  his cheeks; he slightly leans into your soft touch. Your palm resting on the scarred part of his face. 

“Bunch of cunts.” he grumbles. 

“I have the maids drawing a bath ... .would you ... .would you like to join me?” you ask. Sandor goes quiet bringing his hand up to yours keeping it placed on your cheek. 

“Okay.” he simply says. Your heart jumps at his answer. 

“I'll need something from you first.” you say. 

“Mm.” he answers. 

“Can you unlace my dress?” you ask. He lets out a soft chuckle and nods. You take your hand from his face only to catch his hand in yours and lead him to the bed. 

“When you ask me to unlace your dress, little fox…” he trails off as you sit him on the bed. 

“I mean unlace my dress.” you say turning around standing in the space between his legs. You move your hair to the side as he had come up feeling the fabric on your waist making you shiver before he truly moves to the back of your dress and begins to unlace the dress.

You feel it becoming looser and looser with each segment of lacing until it's loose enough to slip off your body. You step out of it as you bend down, picking it up and laying it on the space next to him on the bed. Left in your underclothes sandors hands find your waist again, turning you around to face him. 

He pulls you closer to him leaning his head up but not too much as even as sitting he's still comfortably level with you. His lips catch yours in a kiss feeling the softness he was deprived of all day. You moan into his mouth as his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips and your arms around his neck. The kiss is only broken when the doors open once again your hand maids arrive with bathing materials and begin to fill the tub in the corner but not before apologizing for intruding on the two of you. 

You admire the features of your husband, his scruff already growing back from shaving it thank goodness on your behalf. You sit on his lap, the hot water warming you both. His arms rest on either side of the bathtub as his eyes search you. No matter how many times he will view your body nothing will ever compare to its beauty. The moment calms him but the focus is to keep the blood rushing to his cock while your breasts are virtually centered in front of his face. His knuckle tightens the side of the tub as he closes his eyes. 

“S-sorry.” you speak, causing his eyes to open again and his grip to cease. He looks up at you in confusion. Your hands are now resting on his collar bones. 

“It's not that..” he says realizing you pulled away thinking he closed his eyes due to you touching his scars. He takes your hand bringing it back to his face somehow finding a sort of comfort in you tracing his marks. 

“Does it still hurt?” You ask him as you move his hair out of his face, your fingers brushing against his scar. 

“No.” He says 

“Good…what happened?” You ask

“I’m sure some servant has told you the gruesome story.” He says slowly.

“Yes…but..I’m asking you. What happend?” You ask again.

“Like you’ve heard little fox, I was pressed into the fire like a nice juicy mutton chop by my brother.” He says gesturing to his scar. 

“Why.” You ask. 

“Though I stole one of his toys, I didn't steal it, I was just borrowing it…playing with it. I was 6 or so.” He says you tilt your head slightly brushing your thumb over his cheek. 

“The pain was bad, the smell was worse…but…” he sighs before continuing. 

“The worst thing was that it was my brother who did it. My older brother. My father who protected him..told everyone my bedding caught fire. And my mother…wouldn’t even look at me said i was too ugly to love.” He says eyes averting from yours. It's quiet, the only noise is the crackling of the fire and the light swishing of the water. 

“I can look at you...” You say moving closer to him. His eyes make contact with yours like before. 

“...And I love you, Sandor.” You say he lets out a relieved sort of sigh before pulling you to him placing a much need kiss on your forehead.

chapter 9 here

Tag list- @stephyshadows @germansarechill

[promptthebear]

Kissmas Day 9

Prompt: Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader

CW: Female reader, lots and lots of swearing (It's Sandor c'mon now), reader is pregnant, some mentions of canon typical violence. If i forget anything please let me know!

A/N: Hello! This is a little different from the last few fics I wrote. I was going for like something cozy? So the pacing is a little slower and it's sort of a "not much happens but there's vibes" kind of fic. Hopefully you all enjoy it. I just really wanted to give my boy a story where he's safe, well fed, well rested, and doesn't have shit trying to kill him for like five minutes.

It was still dark when Sandor awoke, and colder than a wight’s arse. He could see the earliest light of dawn, though, through a nearby window. Pale yellow rays were starting to kiss the tops of the large, gloomy pines that encircled your cottage, and he knew it would be several hours yet before the sun would provide any proper warmth.

Grumbling and cursing under his breath, Sandor pushed back the furred hide that served as a blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He hissed when his feet touched the floor, the chill so fierce it bit at his soles, even through the two layers of woolen socks he wore. Everyone, from great Kings to common fools, knew that Winters in the North were bitterly cold. But it was one thing to hear the tavern stories and another thing all together when you were trying to live through it.

He wondered, as he tugged on his boots, why he didn’t make for the Free Cities and Dorne like the few remaining knights did when the whole world finally fell apart in flame and ruin. Yes, the stories of the fine wines and glimmering cities where even beggars could be Kings might have been exaggerated, but it couldn’t be any worse than here. At the very least, it might be nice to live somewhere your piss didn’t freeze midstream and your cock didn’t stick to your hand each time you used the privy.

Sandor turned the idea over in his mind, finding that its appeal grew with each passing moment. However, any thoughts of leaving vanished the instant he glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of your face peeking out from under the edge of the blankets. Your expression was peaceful, almost serene.

He leaned over you, his hair falling around his cheeks like a curtain, and placed a quick kiss against your temple. You stirred slightly in response, your eyelashes fluttering as a soft moan escaped your lips.

“Whassamatter?”

Sandor chuckled and reached out to deliver a gentle pat to your side before answering.

“Nothing. Gonna go cut some firewood. I’ll be back before you’re up.”

You mumbled something in reply, too faint for him to make out, before sleep’s embrace claimed you once more. He chuckled again and fondly shook his head.

At one point, nobody wanted to spend a night in his bed, not even when he'd gone to a brothel. Those girls had been too frightened of his face to give him more than a few hours at most, leaving him to wake to a cold bed and empty purse the next morning.

You, on the other hand, were comforted enough by his presence to stay through the night. You even claimed you slept more soundly when he was with you. It had taken a while before Sandor believed you, but after over a year of waking with you warm and content beside him, he was starting to see that you’d been telling the truth.

The bedroom door squeaked as it opened, which made the large, shaggy dog the two of you kept leap to its feet and growl deep in its throat. Sandor shushed the animal, which immediately bounded over from its spot by the fireplace, tongue out and tail wagging at the sight of its master.

“Stupid mutt.” Sandor said, as he began to rumple and massage the dog’s ears. “Good thing you’re loyal, or else what use would you be?”

The dog, which you’d so cleverly called Nameless because Sandor had refused to give it one, eagerly leaned into his touch and gazed up at him in squinty eyed delight. You’d found the poor beast roughly around the same time Sandor had been able to walk again, where he’d been left to die in some abandoned crofter’s hut.

At first, Sandor had wanted nothing to do with the animal. As far as he was concerned, you didn’t need another mouth to feed, what with him still half crippled and you were only able to set the most basic of rabbit snares. There had barely been enough food for the two of you, let alone a walking gut disguised as a dog.

He’s a big, black dog you’d insisted on just like your crest. If that’s not a sign from the gods, I don’t know what is.

Bugger the gods had been Sandor’s reply, but in the end, he’d yielded, if only to have some peace from your griping. Since then, Nameless had followed Sandor around like a second shadow. He’d cursed the beast and the bitch that whelped him each time he got underfoot, but eventually this gave way to begrudging acceptance and finally a quiet sort of affection.

Whoever left Nameless behind had, whether they knew it or not, forfeited a skilled hunting dog. Despite his sweet nature with people, he could catch rabbits and squirrels as skillfully as any wolf, which kept you and Sandor well stocked with meat despite the North’s unforgiving climate.

Once again, Sandor found himself questioning why he’d chosen to live in the frozen arse end of the world as he tried to open the front door. A thick layer of ice had settled over the tiny cottage you called home, a parting gift from last night’s storm.

Despite ample shoving and force, the door was refusing to cooperate. With each attempt, the aged wood groaned and creaked as though in protest, but wouldn’t budge. Though he couldn’t see it, Sandor had a feeling the damn thing had frozen shut in its frame, which was a much more common occurrence than he would’ve liked it to be. With a muttered oath, he threw his shoulder against the wood, swearing louder at the shock of pain that came after.

A thin sweat had broken out on Sandor’s brow when he finally gave himself a moment to breathe, half slumped against the bastard door and wishing agonies upon whichever fool god made ice to begin with. He stole a glance over his shoulder, hoping the racket hadn’t woken you, and was greeted with the sight of Nameless. The dog was sitting a few feet behind him and watching the entire process as though it was a Mummer’s show Sandor was putting on especially for him.

“Are you just going to look? Or are you going to be helpful for once in your sorry life?”

By way of response, Nameless rose to his feet, stood for a moment, squinted at Sandor, and then let out a quick, loud sneeze that sent forth a spray of drool and dust motes into the chilled air. Satisfied, the dog sat down again with a bump, and stared at his master. He cocked his head to one side, and spread his mouth wide in a lolling, doggy grin, as if two of them were sharing some sort of secret joke.

Sandor couldn’t help but grin back, albeit a little lopsidedly, before returning to the problem of the door. Once upon a time, he could’ve split the bloody thing in two with the heel of his boot and a well-aimed kick, but he had been a different man then. The Hound, with all his strength and rage, had died with Gregor the day they both went over the falls. Now, all that remained was Sandor, who had to huff and puff and struggle with frozen doors just like anyone else.

When the door finally gave way, it did so with a mighty crack, which shattered the morning air in a flurry of loose snow that tumbled off the roof and bits of ice that shimmered like diamond shards as they fell.

Sandor stumbled outside, shoulder first since he was mid shove when the door decided to open. Instantly, he was blinded by the sheer, sterile whiteness of fresh snow and sunbeams that cut like yellow knives after the dimness of the cottage. For a moment, he had little choice but to wait and lean against the door frame while his vision cleared.

Despite the early hour, the woods were already awake and teeming with life. Around him, Sandor could hear all manner of birdsong, as well as the chattering of squirrels and the far off call of a solitary deer.

From behind the cottage came the sounds of the sheep, small, squat, shaggy creatures with more wool than brains between their ears. They bleated mournfully from inside their little shed, hoping it would get them fed all the sooner, but their cries stirred no pity in Sandor’s heart. He could hardly stand the sight of the fool things, with their empty eyes and the way they ran in panicked, useless circles every time they were frightened.

When you’d first asked Sandor why he hated the sheep so much, he told you it was because he had no patience for anything, man or beast, that was too stupid to know how stupid it actually was. You’d laughed at that, a bright, musical sound that made warmth bloom in Sandor’s chest, but you hadn’t left the matter alone like he’d hoped.

As far as you were concerned, there was no point in wasting time hating something so pathetic and harmless and so you persisted. If Sandor was stubborn, you were twice as much, pestering him with that unfaltering cheerfulness each time you went you to feed the damn things. Eventually, he relented, the name and reason tumbling from his lips like rain after a drought.

Mycha.

From the ashes of Sandor’s rage, shame had blossomed, and with it a thin, choking vine that clenched a little tighter around his heart each time he’d thought of the boy. He’d lived what felt like a thousand different lifetimes since that fateful day by the river, and no matter how much he’d drunk, fought or fucked, he couldn’t seem to shake that one particular ghost. It was as though a small part of Mycha had always been there, slowly poisoning what little shreds of goodness Sandor had managed to grasp hold of, and for a while, he supposed that was what he deserved. Until you came along.

You, who had dragged Sandor out from the water when he was little more than a half drowned corpse. You, who had set every broken bone, stitched every wound and fed him spoonfuls of broth even when he’d cursed you after each one. With your constant, stubborn, infuriating cheerfulness, you had talked Sandor into talking, smiled him into smiling, and somehow loved him into loving you back. You had become the sun that rose and set on each day of Sandor’s life. You were what got him up in the mornings and kept him working until dusk. The thought of losing you, or worse, having you cast him aside, scared him more than dragons, others, and his cunt brother ever had.

That was why, in the end, Sandor had chosen to tell you the truth. At least then you’d hear it from him, instead of whatever exaggerated horseshit the village gossips would invent. Ugly as it was, Sandor knew honesty would be his friend in this matter, and he’d had more than his fill of liars after spending so much time in service to the Lannisters.

And so you came to know the whole sordid tale, one dreary morning in the sheep shed. He spared no detail, no matter how gruesome it was or how poorly it reflected on his character. If you were going to keep loving him, it was best you knew the sort of man you’d chosen, lest the truth curdle what little affection he’d earned.

At first, Sandor wasn’t sure how you were going to take things. He half expected you to try to brain him with the bucket of sheep’s feed, then drive him off in a hail of shrieking and chunks of dung. Tears were also a likely possibility, though you didn’t really seem the type. But learning that the man who you’d let into your home and bed had the blood of an innocent child on his hands could make anyone behave strangely.

When he’d finally got up the courage to stop staring at his boots and look into your face, you, as always, surprised him. You were smiling at him, that same warm, gentle smile that Sandor remembered from the moment he’d woken up in your arms.

I know is what you’d said. I’ve always known, and I love you anyway.

You’d reached for him after, setting aside your bucket so you could bring your hand up and caress his scarred cheek. Sandor had leaned into your touch, like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart into a million pieces. Of course you’d known, who in all the Seven Kingdoms hadn’t heard the stories about King Joffery’s rabid dog and the things he’d done? He should’ve given you more credit.

From there, it had been easy enough to tell you why he hated those sheep. Their cries, the sheer terror in their eyes each time he approached? They reminded him too much of that boy, and regardless of how you felt about it, he was not entirely certain he’d ever be able to forget. It was one thing to have your forgiveness and another thing entirely to be able to forgive himself.

Give it time is what you’d told him And let me worry about the sheep. You’ve got enough to do around here, anyway.

The sound of Nameless’ barking is what suddenly tugged Sandor from his memories and back into the here and now. Somehow, the dog had managed to squeeze past him without Sandor noticing, and he was now diving face first through the fresh snow, on the hunt for grouse tracks and anything else that would provide a decent chase.

Sandor watched for a moment, unable to hide the smile playing about his lips. The sight of the big dog, now sporting a healthy dusting of snow across his shoulders and muzzle, was enough to brighten anyone’s mood. He supposed, after almost starving to death on his own, the idiot creature was simply happy to be alive long enough to see another day.

The two of them would go and check Sandor’s traps later. With any luck, they’d snag a rabbit or two that you could roast for supper and have plenty of bones left for Nameless to enjoy. But, in the meantime, you wouldn’t be cooking anything if there wasn’t any wood for the fire.

It hadn’t warmed up any by the time Sandor walked to the woodshed. The snows frozen crust crunched under his feet as he walked, while his breath floated away in thick, white clouds that dampened his beard. His axe, stuck blade down in the stump a few feet away from the woodshed, was a welcome sight.

It was by no means half the weapon his greatsword had been, but Sandor found comfort in the way its worn, wooden handle fit snugly into his grasp and in its blade that thirsted for pine sap instead of blood.

Before long, the sound of logs splitting filled the air, mingling with the soft creak of trees in the wind and an occasional bark from Nameless. Sandor quickly found his rhythm, letting the weight of the axe guide his arm on the downstroke and pushing aside each long with his other hand to be stacked in the shed later.

He went on like that for a while, cut, push, another log, and do it again. The repetition of the work was soothing, almost meditative. It brought a sense of peace to Sandor the way only busy hands could.

Cut, push, new log, do it again.

It was like the axe was an extension of his arm, with the beat of his heart matching each thud of the blade and his breath moving in time as the axe swung through the air. There was most likely going to be a fresh tree fall after last night’s winds, no doubt with plenty of new wood for Sandor to haul home. It probably wouldn’t hurt to bring a length of rope and the sledge when he went hunting with Nameless later. If they didn’t catch anything, at least they wouldn’t be coming home empty-handed.

The young pine he was currently working on was halfway gone by the time you’d made an appearance. Sandor hadn’t heard you at first, too absorbed in what he was doing. It was only after you’d said his name for the third time that he’d finally stopped and turned to look at you over his shoulder, squinting at you as though he wasn’t quite sure who you were or where he was.

“What are you doing out here?”

His tone, like everything about him, was gruff. You smiled at him all the same, knowing that for Sandor, gruffness and worry were often interchangeable.

“Came to check on you. You’ve been out here for hours.”

Sandor glanced upwards and was surprised to find the sun sitting squarely above his head. A sheen of sweat had also broken out over his arms and forehead, and he could feel where it was pooling in the hollows of his back. With a sigh, he set aside his axe and removed his heavy woolen cloak, before turning back towards you.

“Have you been asleep this whole time?”

The slight tilt of his chin in your direction indicated your odd choice of garments. Born to a wilding father and shepherd’s daughter, you always swore the North in your blood kept you from ever truly feeling cold. Still, a sleeping shift, boots, and knit shawl tossed hastily about your shoulders was a questionable choice in midwinter, even for a Northern girl.

You shook your head and gestured back towards the cottage where steam had fogged up the windows.

“I started the laundry, wanted to make use of the sunlight while we still have it. I figured it didn’t make much sense to change until my other clothes were dry, and then I could wash these next.”

Sandor listened to your explanation, his face unchanging save for an arched brow. When you finished, he raised his arm and pointed back at the cottage with a thick finger.

“You should be inside, you fool, woman. You’ll freeze your tits off out here.”

You laughed before wrapping your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders and closing the space between you and Sandor with a few steps.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. I’m a Northerner. I don’t get cold. We’re not as pampered as you Southern city types.”

Sandor grumbled softly and shook his head, something about “tongue lashing harpy bitch.” There was no venom behind his words, however, only affectionate resignation. Instinctively, he brought his hand to rest on the curve of your stomach, a protective gesture towards the child you’d been carrying for the last five months. You reached up for Sandor’s face, cupping the scarred side as you usually did against the palm of your hand.

Sandor’s eyes fluttered shut in response to the touch, and for a moment, years seemed to fall away from his expression. He turned his head slightly to the side and pressed a kiss against the skin of your wrist. You loved seeing him like this, vulnerable and content. It was like a glimpse into the past, when he was young and full of hope. However, his eyes opened all too quickly, and he was back to being the Sandor you knew. Older, grumpy, and entirely done with your nonsense.

“Inside. Or I’ll sling you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and bring you there myself”

You rolled your eyes, knowing he’d do no such thing, not while you were pregnant, anyway.

“Fine. But I want a kiss first.”

There was more grumbling, but Sandor did as you asked, catching your mouth against his while his hands snaked down to encircle your hips. You leaned into the kiss, pressing your body as close to his as you could get while still keeping your feet on the ground. His beard was coarse against your cheeks, and he smelled faintly of the woods and sweat. The heat of him seemed to envelope you, like a familiar blanket.

You stood like that for a while, the two of you bathed in morning sunshine and kissing as though you’d never get a chance to do it again. When Sandor tried to pull away, you chased him, closing the space between your mouths by wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him downwards. This kiss was a little messier and rougher than the first, most likely due to Sandor’s surprise, but you didn’t mind. It was only when you nibbled at his bottom lip that he broke the kiss off in earnest, catching your two hands in one of his and trapping them against his chest.

“None of that. I told you, go inside.”

You stared up at Sandor and pulled your mouth into an exaggerated pout.

“One more? Please? And then I’ll go, I promise.”

Sandor swore softly under his breath and used his free hand to adjust the front of his trousers before leaning down to claim your mouth again. For a moment, it seemed as though you were going to get your way. Sandor had brought his other hand up to twine in your hair, which only served to deepen the kiss. You welcomed it eagerly, opening your lips and running your tongue against the seam of his mouth. He let out a groan in response, the hand that still held yours squeezing tight. You squirmed against him eagerly, trying to wrap one of your legs around his and haul yourself upwards, your hips seeking the friction they so desperately craved.

This, however, didn’t have the desired effect. Sandor began to laugh, and then placed his hands on your shoulders, gently pushing you back so you could no longer reclaim his mouth.

“I’m not a tree, you little minx, so stop trying to climb me. You said one more, you’ve had one more, and now you’re going to go inside or else.”

One look at Sandor’s face, and you knew there was no use in pushing your luck. With a long, suffering sigh, you stepped away, already mourning the absence of his mouth and hands on your body.

“Fine. But I better see you again before it gets dark. I’ll need to wash those clothes you’re wearing, and I’m not warming up your dinner twice.”

Sandor grunted, the noise vaguely affirmative enough that you took it as agreement. You turned to head back towards the cottage, only to stop mid step when you felt the familiar sting of an open hand strike your ass. You spun back around, your shawl spinning about your shoulders, and stared at Sandor, who grinned wolfishly back.

“That’s not fair!” you sputtered, your already pink cheeks flushing deeper.

“Nothing ever is,” came the reply.

You shook your head, turning once again to leave. Sandor let you do so without further torment, watching the way the sunlight made your hair glisten and the subtle swing of your hips as you walked. Nothing was ever fair, but sometimes things got close, even for an old dog like himself.

[catsteeth]

Ovulating as we speak but anyway.

Sandor seeing y/n holding a baby and he can't stop imagining what it would be like if they had a baby together. 🤭

(mayhaps a little bit of smut)

Thicker Than Water🤍

Sandor x Reader  CW: NSFW, MDNI, Oral (Fem Rec), Breeding Kink (obvi), Afab reader, baby fever. A/N: Your Honor, My client was ovulating!☝️🧐 okey girl you said “a little bit of smut” and if it pleases the jury i did the whole damn thing.

After the war was fought and won, you and Sandor still lived within Winterfell. He had a new occupation working as a groundskeeper. He never thought he’d ever have let alone enjoy an occupation that did not center around violence. 

But once the war was over you made him swear he’d never put himself in harm's way for no good reason. 

While Sandor was off chopping wood, you were walking past the watering well when you saw a woman trying to pump her bucket full while holding onto her babe in her arms. 

You approached her, not knowing that around the corner your Husband was approaching you. 

“My Lady, would you like some help with that?” You said, offering to pump the water into the bucket for her. 

“That would be lovely!” She said, pushing the babe into your arms. 

Sandor watched the exchange from afar, he chuckled to himself as you looked overwhelmed by the babe in your arms. But something naturally maternal instinct took over you and he saw it.

the babe in your arms reached up in an attempt to grab your nose, however their attempt was futile as their arms were far too short.  You smiled and you took the babe's hand and kissed it sweetly as you rocked and bounced the babe.

Sandor found himself watching you in awe.

You traced your finger gently down the babes forehead down the bridge of their nose, all the way down until the tip of their nose. 

He felt a strange wave of emotion. One he’d not ever felt before. 

He’d thought in passing of having children. More so how awful he’d be as a father. But things had changed around him and within him, drastically changed. 

He wasn’t the Kings Dog anymore and he wasn’t in the South. And most importantly now he had you. And you had him. He was yours completely. 

He thought of your belly swollen with his babe. How plump your breasts would get, how everyone would know truly that you were his. But then he thought of how beautiful you’d look carrying his babe in your arms. How he’d watch that babe grow, how they’d carry your features, and his own. He wondered what they’d look like, would they have your hair? Or would they have his? Would they have your eyes? Your nose? Your- 

His day dreaming was interrupted when he heard you ask, “Worst pain I’ve heard. Worse than any pain in the world I’ve heard.” You said. You’d heard the awful awful stories of women who’d even died in childbirth. But with the babe in your arms you couldn’t help but feel a sense of possibility. 

The woman laughed a little, “Aye, it’s not nearly as pleasurable to produce it as it is to make it. But you are left with the most splendid thing.” The woman said. 

You smiled, “He is quite splendid isn't he?” You ran your fingers along the babe's sparse hair, “Aren’t you?” The Babe cooed back and you snuggled them a little closer, unable to help yourself.

Maybe you wanted this too. 

The woman finished filling her bucket, she looked over at you and the Babe, “You should have one.” Your eyes went wide and your mouth went dry. Sandor did too even though he had heard it from afar. The woman laughed, ”I felt the same, but once you’ve got one you’ll never know how you ever could have lived without them.” The woman smiled at you warmly, 

That was when Sandor finally came to you, 

“(Y/N), we better be off.” He said, trying to ignore the babe in your arms as it cooled at him. If he dared look it might have stopped his heart.

You nodded, “Right,” You smiled at the woman “I’d better return this to you,” You said as you gave her back her child.

As you took Sandors arm and walked home you and he didn’t talk about it, but you both thought about it. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Later that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the babe, or more accurately, the prospect of you having one of your own. 

It’s not that the thought never occurred, it had, but it was war.

When you were coupled he always spilled his seed on your belly, on your thighs, on your arse, or in your pretty mouth. And the very few times that he couldn’t pull himself out in time you were lucky enough to have access to Moon Tea herbs. 

As you finished the soup you were making for supper you poured a bowl for him and placed it in front of him while he sat at your table. As you stood beside him he snaked an arm around you and pulled you closer, he placed his large hand against your belly making you giggle and squirm but his arm around you kept you in place.

“What’re you doing?” You asked, smiling as you placed your hand on top of his that was on your stomach.

“Do you want one?” He asked you earnestly as he rubbed your belly slightly,

Your eyes went wide, and heat spread across your cheeks, “Want what?” You knew what.

“A babe.” His deep brown eyes met your own, his gaze was warm and so inviting. Like a fire on a cold night.

You felt your face go red completely, “What?” 

“In here,” He asking gripping onto the plushness of your belly making you squirm even more.

“Y-yes.” You whimpered, “Do you?” You asked, running your hand over his cheek.

“Aye,” He said, his voice low and hoarse. “I want no other woman,” He began as his hand that was holding you in place snaked up your back and began to pull at your dress ties. “To carry a babe of mine.” He finished as your dress came loose. 

He pulled the sleeve that covered your shoulder down, he pulled you closer onto his lap and kissed at your exposed skin. Soon, he pulled it even lower than that exposing your breast. He kissed, licked, and bit at your skin sending shock waves of pleasure through you. You caressed his head and ran your other hand over his back, digging your nails into the leathers of his top.

“Ah!” You moaned as his hand traveled over your ass, squeezing it pushing you closer to his body. He gave you one good spank before his hand moved lower and in between your legs. His middle finger teased your clothed entrance. His mouth abandoned your breast and moved to your mouth. You moaned and whimpered into his lips. 

Your hands left Sandor's face and roamed down over his neck, his chest, his stomach, and finally to his aching cock that was uncomfortably trapped in his breeches. You looked into his eyes intensely as you released him from his pants. His cock was eager as it sprung out and practically straight into your hands. You stroked him, letting him groan into your mouth as you gripped him harder, and harder, stroking harder and harder.  

He let go of you for a moment to swipe the table of the bowl of soup you’d placed there as he pushed you onto it. 

As you laid back onto the dining table panting with anticipation, Sandor ripped your small clothes off of you, to which you squealed “Sandor!”

“No more of these fucking things.” He huffed and got on his knees between your legs, “I don’t want you wearing any of those fucking things before I get you good and bred, aye?” He commanded you, You nodded, your eyes dazed and love struck looking at your husband between your legs. “Good,” He said as he spit on your cunt, then rubbed his spit into your clit with his thumb. 

As he rubbed your clit with his thumb he fucked you with his tongue. You threw your head back and arched your back at the wonderful sensation. However it didn’t last too long as he stood, “You’re good and ready now.” He said, making you feel slightly embarrassed but you couldn’t dwell on it for too long before he held out his palm to you, “Spit,” He commanded, and so you did. You spit into the palm of his hand and he stroked his length with it.

You propped yourself up by your elbows as you watched him line himself up with your entrance. He looked at you and you nodded in desperation. He began to push himself into you, “Seven-fucking-hells!” He hissed as you clenched down on him immediately. 

“Sandor!” You whined, his eyes blinked to yours, “Kiss me!” You desperately moaned out.

He leaned down over you as he grinded in and out of your weeping cunt. You wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding him close to you. He thrusted into you with a brutal pace, you thought for certain the table was going to give out. But his kisses were sensual and slow. They were a testament to his love and devotion for you, and only you. His wife, his woman, and he was determined to make you the mother of his child. “Look at me,” He said, trying to hold back his own moans of pleasure, “Look at me when I spill my seed into you.” He said, “Do you want that? You want my seed?” He asked you, teasing you slightly. 

“Yes! Please, Sandor!” You gasped, whimpering into his lips, “Please my love, I need your seed, only yours, no one else-” You said staring deep into his eyes, 

“No one else?” His thrusts began to be more erratic and his groans were more apparent. 

You shook your head, “No one, only you,” You closed your eyes for a moment as your face contorted to the peak that was approaching you,

“Look at me!” He desperately commanded you, 

You looked in his eyes as you reached your high, “Please, please my love-” You begged, and Gods it done him in, 

He growled and pressed his hips flush with yours, making sure he was as deep as he could be inside of your cunt. You could feel the heat of his seed spilling into you, “AH!” you cried out at the intense pleasure of it all. 

Sandor practically collapsed on top of you, he panted as he rested his head on your bosom. You ran your hands through his hair and down his back.   

He stood, and pulled himself out of you. However when he saw his seed begin to spill out of you he pushed his softened cock back into you making you gasp slightly, 

“Can’t have that go to waste, or I’ll have to fuck you harder next time, aye?”

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Safe Keeping | 2

Part 1 2 3

"What say you, lady? Don't you think the Hound would make a fine husband? He would protect you, yes, and you would bear him many babes." I curtsy again but this time, my voice falters when I speak, "I- I think he would," I turn to my left, "Lord Sandor would make a fine husband... a fine father."

Sandor Clegane x Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, forced marriage, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut (dub con, primal play, PIV, rough sex), emotional unavailability, The Hound being abrasive, canon typical casual misogyny, baby fever, typos, etc.

A/N: you guys, i dont want to edit the summary from p1 so i wont. also for future me here are the asks i got for this fic [x] [x] [x] which is like 🤯 cos i thought id get 5 notes on this tbh HAHAH originally posted on ao3 but felt like posting it on here

Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @otteropera @poisonsage808 @glitterandgoldfinds

I refused to leave my chambers when I woke.

Not only had I cried myself to sleep, but I had woken with puffy eyes and ended up crying all over again. I was glad that my doting handmaiden was so fiercely loyal to me. Lucy didn't think my weeping childish. She was understanding and eternally on my side. I am immensely grateful for it; I don't know what I would have done without her.

She helped me bathe and dress and eat, then entertained me with gossip from the servants. For a while that was enough.

As the day passed though, my thoughts muddled and left me restless. I could not do anything but obsess over the fact my husband left me after wifing me up.

"Do you think he will come back tonight?" I mutter as I stare blankly at my reflection on the mirror.

Lucy ceases combing my hair and takes my chin in her fingers. Paired with a hand on my shoulder, she silently urges me to straighten my back from my seat. I do just that. She smiles at me through the mirror, "my lady, if you wish it, I will look for him and make him come to you."

I release a breath, "don't be ridiculous."

"I am not being ridiculous," she sets the brush down, "I am being serious."

I feel my throat tighten. My lips quiver but I refuse to break down in tears again. I shake my head rapidly, unwilling to speak, for I knew I would crack if I did.

Lucy frowns in concern then kneels down on my side, grabbing my hand, "my lady, I would die for you."

I screw my eyes shut and break into a whine, "please-"

"I owe you my life," she clasps my hand with hers and brings it to her cheek, "you freed me from my chains. You clothed me, fed me, and showed me kindness none of my masters have ever shown me before," she looks up at me with a solemn expression then repeats, "I would die for you."

I shake my head and lean into her, "live for me, Lucy. I've forgotten what's it was like before you and I don't want to remember."

She kisses my hand and presses her forehead on mine before standing, "I shall do as you command."

She stands behind me and gathers my hair back. She strokes my locks and offers me a smile through the mirror once more. I smile back at her this time around.

The comfort she offers me finally seeps through me as she massages my shoulders.

"I pray the gods will swiftly bless me with a child so that I will have other things to do than await my husband so helplessly and forlorn."

"Well, you said that he pleasured you," Lucy tilts her head, "women who have not been pleasured still bea-

Lucy is cut off by the crashing open of the door. She and I both whip back, hearts in our mouths as we stare at our Lord Clegane, who was staring right back at us.

"What's wrong with you?" he demands. The metal of his armor clanks. I eye the one Lucy tidied to the side, the one I undid the night before, and turn back to him. His brown eyes look at me with such intense accusation.

I feel my hands tremble. I cannot for the life of me find the words to speak. 

What did he even mean? How could he ask me this?

"No one has seen you all day," he says, "have you not left this room once?'

"She 'asn't," Lucy snaps, "milady has been feeling-"

"I wasn't talking to you, wench," the Hound does not turn to her when he says this. His eyes are very much still fixed on me, "I'm talking to my wife."

My wife. I look away. That's right, all that I am now is forfeit to him.

I gasp and turn back when I hear him marching over. Lucy places a protective hand on my shoulder and I find myself cowering into her touch. I clench my jaw and gulp when he stops in front of me.

He gazes upon me for the longest second of my life. He furrows his brows, "what's wrong with your fa-"

I flinch when he reaches out to my cheek.

Instantaneously, Lucy tightens her grip on me and blocks him, and Sandor cuts himself off and recoils before he can even touch my skin. He steps a few paces back then clenches his hand as if he'd gotten burnt.

We both evade each other's gaze. Sandor's eyes finally land on Lucy, "has she been crying?"

Lucy's blood boils. She hisses, "yes," then harshly pronounces, "milord."

Sandor turns away and twitches. He rolls his shoulders back and stretches his hands. He knocks on his chest plate. He looks to no one when he asks, "are you hurt?"

Lucy takes no care in masking her scoff or sigh. I take her arm and she watches me shake my head disapprovingly.

I do not look at anyone when I reply either, "I cannot say I'm not... lord husband."

A thick silence builds in the room within a moment.

When I dare too look at the Hound, he is already looking at me and suddenly speaks, "leave us, wench."

I turn to Lucy. She does not move an inch.

I give her an urging shake, but she is steadfast in her spot. Our Lord Clegane turns to her and grinds his teeth, "you will find I do not make habit of repeating myself."

I shoot up from my seat when Lucy presses forward and quips, "and you will find that I will not allow you to treat milady like this."

"Lucy!" I admonish, yanking her back.

Lucy glares daggers at him as I attempt to pacify and persuade her to leave us. Her eyes do not leave him as I sweep her out the room. I instruct her to walk around the gardens for a while then close the door after.

I press my back against the wooden surface as I look back to the man I was now alone with.

Sandor watches me expectantly. I do not say a word, for I did not know what he wanted to hear.

He finally breaks the silence, "you walk well enough."

I am dumbfounded by his choice of words. I dare not respond when I feel my lips quiver; instead, I nod quickly.

Sandor deeply furrows his brows. He shifts on his spot and chances a step in my direction, "why didn't you come out your room then?"

I lick my lips and shake my head. I turn away from him and mutter, "do I appear like I am in the state to be walking around when I look like this?"

"Like what?" he draws nearer.

I whip my head, "THIS!"

Sandor stops in his tracks. He looks at me, expressionless, "this what?"

I scoff in disbelief, feeling tears immediately soak my face. I whisper, "look at me."

"I am, with both eyes."

"And you see nothing?" I mutter shakily, "feel nothing?'

"Should I feel something?"

My chest sinks; it feels like it's caving in. He might as well gut me and spit on my bones. I turn to my feet and wipe my cheeks, "no. I suppose not."

Sandor curses under his breath. He rips at his collar, suddenly feeling his armour weigh down on him. He feels unbelievably hot. He clears his throat, "it hurts."

I look up at him.

"It hurts the first time, usually," he clarifies, "or in times you're not wet enough." He nods, "you were wet enough."

My entire being burns at his words, at his nonchalance. My face is searing in embarrassment and shame.

I want to scream at him, want to hurtle into him and demand to know why he left me, why he was so removed, but then I find the answers in my head. It dawns on me that he acted carelessly because he didn't care. He didn't want this. He didn't want me. All of it was forced. And so I hold my tongue.

Instead, I calmly explain, "my hurt is not bodily, Sandor."

Sandor's stomach rolls at the sound of his name.

"I was," I turn to space between us, "hurt that you left me. And-" I shake my head as tears rush from my eyes, "I've realized now that it's wrong of me to be."

I put a brave face on in spite of my weeping and hold his stare. The man is as stoic and hard as ever. I scoff at myself for feeling this way.

"Worry no longer, Hound," I open the door, "I will not cause you trouble again."

I step back and make way for him to exit.

He looks at me for what feels like an eternity then marches out the door.

"And have you-"

Lucy and I gasp and turn at once.

"-named it yet, Lady Clegane?"

I chuckle guilty, "Lord Varys."

The man nods to me in regard, "good morrow to you."

I curtsy to him, as does my handmaiden. Lucy lifts her skirt as inconspicuously as possible in hopes to block what was behind her.

Varys catches this and waves his hands, "there be no need for that, my dear. The stray is an obedient one, isn't it?"

I share a look with Lucy before we step back and reveal the dog behind us. Daisy was panting and wagging her tail. She had her front paw bent, for it had been broken and healed that way. I had a maester examine it. In the end, he said it was pointless to put a split because it would not fix her leg and Daisy just kept chewing it anyway.

Daisy closes her mouth and sniffs the man.

"Ah," Varys smiles at the creature, "may I pet it?"

Lucy nods and eagerly explains, "she's Daisy; she is incredibly sweet, milord."

Varys cheerfully scratches the crown of the dog's head.

Though he laughs, my own face contorts into an opposite expression, "please make no note of it to my husband."

Varys looks at me exaggeratedly, as though he was offended.

I continue, "she makes me happy."

"One does not need to be told that to know," he presses his lips together. He links his hands, "I imagine you must be rather heavyhearted since the arrival of your womanly bleeding."

I drop my gaze upon hearing this. The master of whispers truly knew all. Lucy turns to me, then back to him, "milord, it's not proper to mention these things."

Varys measures my reaction before turning to Lucy, "yes. I suppose one such as myself has no business speaking of such things." He raises a finger, "still, if you should ever need assistance with that or your stray, know that my services are available to you, my lady."

I smile at him and nod, "I thank you for it, Lord Varys."

With that, he walks away.

"Do you think he will tell him?" Lucy asks as she grabs my arm.

I sigh and turn Daisy.

I've only had her for few days but she's given me purpose. I named her Daisy because she turned up from a bush of daisies while I read in the gardens. I was shocked, puzzled with how she got there, and a little scared she would bite me. When I noticed her injury, I figured she must be very weak and offered her food. She had my heart the moment she licked my fingers.

It was fate, I figured. I had not read in the gardens since the Hound berated me for it, and she came out of nowhere. When I imagine what would have happened to her if anyone else found her, I dread to think of the fact she could have been struck dead. The gods must have sent her to me, to remedy my sorrow and fill in for the absence of my Hound.

I was meant to save Daisy, and she was meant to save me.

I shake my head, "I'll have someone keep her tonight."

The Hound stops in his tracks when he witnesses what he does from afar. A blazing fury engulfs him as he watches two women walk away. The guard, who was spoken to, ogle their figures as they did.

Sandor laughs under his breath, but of course, nothing about this situation was funny to him.

He immediately charges when the guard is left alone, stupidly attending to an open crate-- he'll fucking bash it into his skull.

The guard goes back to his post and spots the approaching giant. At first, he is unfazed by the Hound but fear quickly finds him when he realizes he was heading straight for him.

He does not speak. The Hound simply grabs him by the chest plate, lifts him up and slams him on to the stone wall. He was angry-- worse, he was irrational.

"Why was she speaking to you?!" he snaps, "what business do you have with her?!"

The guard does not waste a second in spilling his guts, "Lady Clegane paid me to watch her dog!" He sounded like he was about to piss his pants.

"What?!" he seethes.

"The crate! The crate! There's a dog in the crate!" 

Sandor shoves him away and walks toward the crate. Lo and behold, the Hound sees the mutt, fur a light shade of brown, tongue out as it pant, right arm curled up.

He draws his sword.

Lucy and I head back to my chambers after eating supper. Our chattering is abruptly cut when he step in and see the Hound's hulking figure.

To say I am shocked is an understatement. I am terrified. He has not come to my chambers since the day after our wedding night, and now, here he was after Lord Varys confronted me. I struggle to swallow the lump in my throat, "my lord, I-"

"Don't you have one too many dogs now?" he growls.

Lucy is unable to hide the sound that leaves her mouth. My eyes begin to water as trepidation rips up my neck. I whisper, "Sandor."

Sandor flinches. He huffs, "what were you doing with it? You playing dolls with it, girl?"

"I saved her!" I explain with a shaky voice. "I fed her, gave her water-"

"Its leg is broken. You keep it in a crate. It's mercy for me to kill it."

Lucy gasps. My stomach drops and I run up to him, "no. Please. Please, tell me you didn't-"

I start when I see something move on the bed. I let out a shaky breath when a bark echoes in the room. I had never been more relieved to see Daisy than now.

Sandor growls, "OFF!" He marches to the bed and charges at the her. I shriek and grab his arm, holding him back. Of course, I nearly shoot forward for what was my strength against his? Still, he turns back to me and huffs. Daisy jumps down the bed and comes to my side.

Lucy grabs her and leads her to the corner of the room.

I continue to beg, "please, don't kill her. Please, I beg of you."

"You pay the guards to watch the mutt," Sandor yanks his arm away; the action hurts my hand. He seethes, "you're better off selling the bitch to a butcher as pig food."

I wail, "it was only this time! I have kept her with me since before." I drop to my knees, "please, I will ask nothing more of you," hot tears burn down all the way down to my chest. "I beg that you just let her live."

Sandor steps back and looks down at me. I can see how pathetic he thinks I am at this moment, and yet I find myself unable to care.

"You will ask me nothing more, aye?" he scoffs. His lips curl, "don't you want a child?"

My expression drops.

"You would rather save the bitch than have a babe?"

I am unable to speak. 

Why is he doing this to me?

"Well?!" he demands.

I screw my eyes shut when some of his spit sputters to my face. I turn to the floor, "she's been keeping me company in your absence. She's-"

"Ah, so that's why she feels so comfortable on the bed. You sleep with her."

I look up at him, about to explain that she sleeps on the floor and has never done that before. I do not have the chance.

"Well then keep your stray," he scoffs, "and have it fuck a babe into you."

The Hound storms off right after.

He grips his hand and his hilt as he marches away.

He should have killed it, he shouldn't have hesitated. The only reason he did was because it didn't flinch at his sword. The mutt was so dumb it had no fear. It even propped on the crate and tried sniffing the steel. Brainless.

His insides feel like they were boiling.

He knew the little girl would weep if he killed it, yet he didn't and there were tears anyway. He curses loudly. It reverberates in the hall.

He should have killed it.

Now it was too late.

"I see you make friends even with stray cats now, my lady."

I look over my shoulder after the cat I was petting runs off because of the voice. Lord Baelish comes up to me, sparing a quick glance to the orange feline that jumped down the wall. He turns back to me with a smile, "pardon me, Lady Clegane, I did not mean to frighten the kitty."

I shake my head, returning a soft smile. I wrap my arms around myself, still not entirely used to the light fabric and freeness of the dresses I've been wearing lately, "it's alright, my lord. The cats do not like people."

Baelish walks in front of me and smiles wider, "they must see you their goddess then."

I shake my head and give a soft chuckle.

"Where is your hound?" he asks.

I stiffen.

He clarifies, "I mean the one with the broken leg."

I release a breath and look out to the view, "I had my handmaiden bathe her."

"Mmm," Baelish looks out to the view with me, "thus why you sought the cats."

A breeze brushes past us.

I do not turn to him, but I know he turns to me. He speaks, "one such as you should not be left alone or unaccompanied."

"Why? Would you hurt me, Lord Baelish?"

He chuckles, "and risk getting mauled by the Hound? I would not."

I watch as a flock of birds fly overhead.

"Other things perhaps," he says.

I do not respond to him.

A moment passes with nothing but looking and silence.

I feel his hot breath when he sighs deeply, "I remember clearly the day I first met you."

Baelish speaks my first name and it's enough to finally make me to turn to him. In truth, my name sounds foreign to me. Who I was has been long overshadowed by Lady Clegane... or, more accurately, the Hound himself.

"You were a vibrant flower. Your fragrance wafted through the room the moment you stepped in," he says, taking one step closer. "Being around you was a privilege; conversing with you, a prize."

I blink at his words, taking in the lines of his face, "and now," I clasp my hands together, "I've withered away, have I?"

His Baelish-blue eyes appear to be solemn. My lips part when he takes my hands in his. He speaks under his breath, "you are more radiant than ever."

I do not move an inch.

"Take heart," he speaks my name again, "hounds are crushed under heels of goddesses."

I pull away from him and shake my head, "do not speak blasphemy with me."

He laughs, bringing his hands behind him, "ever devout and god-fearing." He raises an arm, "shall we part ways by the stables? I will be heading out of the keep."

I debate for a moment. Ultimately, I offer polite smile and decide to agree.

We walk with no sense of urgency. I never knew Petyr to be one for small talk, and so I am surprised that he asks me about my dresses. In truth, I really shouldn't have been.

"Your dresses are Dornish, are they not?" he raises a brow.

"Dornish-like," I clarify, "it was my usual tailor that made my new dresses. I feared if I asked a Dornish tailor for a modest silhouette, I'd be colder than I am now."

We share a soft laugh.

He shrugs, "the style suits you still," he smiles. "Undoubtedly, the Dornes would love to dress you in their more traditional clothing."

I purse my lips and raise my brows, "wouldn't you like that, Petyr?"

He chuckles, slightly in disbelief by the casual referral. He raises his hands, "I said the Dornes. I am not Dornish, my dear."

When we reach the stables, I stop in my tracks, not because we're about to depart, but because his words freeze me in my spot.

"Surely, our Lord Clegane finds it hard to keep his hands off you."

I do my best to stay neutral, to not give myself away. Baelish holds back a smirk.

"Wouldn't you like to know what me and Lord Clegane get up to?"

Baelish laughs, "if I'm being honest, I do."

I roll my eyes at him and nod dismissively, "farewell, my lord."

He nods back with a chuckles, "and you, my lady."

I promptly head to my chambers after this. As I walk on, however, I remember that another day has passed with me not seeing Lord Clegane. I am unsure if it was deliberate or coincidental, but it was the fact either way.

It had been a handful of days since my monthly bleeding passed. I was never a regular bleeder, and when it came this time around, it stayed longer than usual. I was glad with his absence then, in not needing to explain myself to my him. The moment it had finished, however, I expected I would at least see him once.

I did not.

This lead to my decision to be more... seductive.

And, well yes, or course, he yelled at me and told me to have my bitch fuck me instead-- truly, there was a large pit of dread in my stomach because of this, but people say a lot of things in anger, things they don't mean. He could not have meant that.

I rub my belly, willing the dread away.

I refuse to believe he meant that.

I suck in a breath and decide to head to the king's chambers.

Besides, I've been assured over and under that men really like making babies.

My breath hitches when I catch sight of the Hound, guarding the door. I see him do a double take when he spots me, and yet he gazes into space in the end.

"Good evening, my lord," I curtsy at him.

He grunts with exasperation, "what are you doing here?"

"I wanted," I measure my words carefully, "to request you not stay out late tonight."

The man turns his head fully to me, "what?"

I feel my throat itch. I clear my throat, "I was hoping that you come to my chambers before too late."

Sandor shifts in his spot. He eyes me up and down. I feel like I am being burned alive under his gaze.

He looks away and shifts back in place.

I open my mouth but I don't get to speak at all.

"Dog. Dog! Come inside, I-" King Joffrey calls but then ceases when he steps out of the room and sees me. 

I immediately curtsy, "my king. Good evening."

Joffrey raises a brow and demands to know why I'm here, referring to me by the house I was born into.

I offer him a smile, "I wanted to speak to my lord husband, your grace."

His face contorts in deep bewilderment. He opens his mouth and raises a finger, "why would you come h-" he turns to the Hound and stops himself. He breaks into a laugh. He laughs so hard that he clutches his stomach, "oh!" He wheezes, "oh, I've forgotten about that!"

King Joffrey calms down with a sigh. He from to his Kingsguard then to me, eyeing my attire. He chuckles under his breath as his eyes rake me down, "I see your wife has dressed to seduce you, dog." His looks up to my face, "or wouldn't that make you bitch?"

I do not respond for a moment, put on the spot by his malice, but then my wits finally meet me. I curtsy to the king, "I am what my king makes me to be."

Joffrey laughs airily. He shakes his head, "my, dog," he turns to his guard, "I've truly matched you well," he pats his shoulder plate, "too well, in fact."

He then retreats into his chambers, calling out as he did, "you're dismissed, dog. Breed your bitch as you like."

The door slams shut.

I release a breath once the king leaves, clutching my belly as I did so.

Sandor does not move an inch from his spot. He does not look at me.

I begin to get nervous all over again. I try, "husband?"

"You think I'll answer to your whistle just because you're dressed like a whore?"

My face hardens. I look away from him. I mean I expected as much.

I swallow the lump in my throat, "I only wanted to please you-"

He scoffs.

I look back at him, "I will dress more modestly if it is what you'd like."

"I'd like not to see you whoring around."

I am unable to withhold my scoff, "I am what my lord makes me out to be."

The Hound finally spares me a glance. I glare at him as I curtsy, "apologies for the impertinence." I turn on my heels and walk away. My anger and vexation gets the best of me. I cannot help but jeer, "if my dress angers you so, take it off me then."

Sandor shifts on his spot.

I continue down the hall.

His lips curl as he growls lowly, "run."

I do not hear anything but my own grumbling.

"Run, little girl!" he barks, making me jolt and turn back to him with a scowl. The irritation is apparent in my face as I stop at the end of the hall, "what?"

The Hound begins to march over. My heart races as I hear him warn, "run, if you know what's good for you"

I begin to shuffle back.

"I'll tear that shit off your body when I catch you."

I break into a sprint at the sound of his threat.

I don't look back. I heave heavily as I rush down the halls. I don't hear him chasing after me, though once I'm far, I see him treading fast as the times he's dragged me by the arm. My stomach flurries with anxiousness and regret.

When I reach my chambers, I mentally debate whether or not I should lock the door. I gulp at the idea of him breaking it down. I decide I do not want a memory such as that to be branded into my brain.

I gasp when he bursts into the room. I grip my skirts from the edge of the bed where where I sat.

The Hound locks the door before walking over to me. He grabs my shoulders and shoves me down on my belly.

I squeak when he grabs my skirts and rips it all the way up my ribs. He scoffs, "fucking parchment."

I hear him grab something by my vanity. I do not dare to look at him. I proceed to hear him undo his armor and his clothes.

I hear a pop. I yelp when he grabs my smallclothes and yanks them down. I groan into the cushions when I feel his fingers toy with my folds.

"Don' fink you nee' vis," he speaks like something was in his mouth. He pulls his hand away and suddenly the smell of my lavender oil assaults my senses. I hear a squelch. Something is thrown to my side; it's my vial.

I squeak when he grabs my hips. He sighs, "you're ready on your own." We both make noises when he begins to thrust into me. The Hound growls, "little girl likes to be chased."

I am shoved into the cushions. My entire body tenses.

"You want to dress like a whore," he taunts, "I'll fuck you like a whore."

His tempo is brutal and harsh. He does not relent or give me leeway. It's strange and shameful that my body even feels tingles of pleasure.

I cannot help the screams that rip out of my throat. Had I not been faced down on the cushion, I fear that I would have woken the dead.

I call out his name when he hoists my hips up. My toes could no longer touch the floor. He begins moving faster. My hands dig into the sheets. I feel my eyes water.

The Hound howls. He shoves me down and suddenly my feet are on the ground. He plunges deep, it makes my eyes roll back. His thrusts become increasingly irregular and after with a few more slaps, he stops.

I catch my breath, thanking the gods he's shown mercy.

I whine when I feel him pull away. I gulp and shift on my spot. I anticipate his next movements. I hear a rustle. I lift my head up and look back at him, confused by the sight of him tying himself up.

Was... was it done?

"Don't think to have that dress mended, girl," he pants as he grabs something from the floor. I roll on my back, feeling uneasy because of the wetness between my thighs. I watch him unlock the door and slam the door on his way out.

All hells were breaking loose. King's Landing was under attack, the castle was on fire, and Stannis Baratheon was winning.

All the women and children holed up in the queen's retreat chamber spilled out to gods know where.

My mind was racing, yet all I could think was: run, flee, Lucy, Daisy, Hound.

I was already running. I was already fleeing. I was doing both with Lucy in my grip. I had Lucy, but I did not have Daisy.

We were running up to my chambers. I left Daisy there, my poor Daisy. We were fleeing up the stairs in haste, sparing no time to catch a breath.

I had no idea what we were to do. We could bar the door, block it with our bed. Lucy and I could manage it, I think. Was it a good idea? Would it guarantee our safety? There was only one way we'd know.

I quickly open the door and lock it once Lucy and I are inside.

We take a moment to finally catch our breath. Lucy grabs my arms and I grab hers. I can feel her shaking. I rub her skin, "it will be alright. No harm will reach us here."

Lucy shakes her head, "milday, you and me both know that's not true."

My heart shatters when I catch the way her eyes water. "Shhh," I pull her into a hug, "have I ever failed you, Lucy?"

She seals her arms around me and whispers, "no."

"Nothing will happen to us," I rub her back, "I will protect you."

"And I, you," she pulls away, "as will Daisy," she wipes her tears before they fall, "and the 'ound."

We scream when we hear a voice in the room. We press our back against the wall and turn to the bed. A figure is sat on the floor by its side. What was said was, "your mutt is stupid."

Lucy and I clutch each other for dear life. I recognized that voice. I muster the courage to tiptoe towards the figure and breathe out shakily when I confirm the presence, "Sandor?"

The man turns to me as we walk up to him. Sandor had Daisy on his lap. She looked up and blinked at me before closing her eyes. She was being pet a bloody hand and did not mind at all.

"She was jumped on me when I walked in. She looked excited," he turns to Daisy, "stupid bitch. Anyone else would have chopped her up."

I find myself releasing a breath of relief. Here now was Daisy, and Hound. I had nothing left to think about.

I walk up to him, kneeling on his side. He turns to me. I examine his face, dirtied and bloodied, "are you hurt?"

He looks at me for a moment. I watch him slowly raise his hand. He cautiously touches my cheek. I clutch his wrist in my hands. He swipes his thumb on my skin, "save your tears." I didn't even know I shed them. "None of the fuckers got close enough to try."

He draws his hand back. He grunts as he gets to his feet. Daisy moves back, wobbling on her three legs; I move back too.

"Take your valuables," the Hound grunts, "we're fucking leaving."

I pull my head back. I watch the man survey the room.

Lucy runs up to my side and she wipes my cheek with her skirt. She watches the red collect on the fabric and wonders who it belonged to. She wagers it's not from her lord.

I shake my head in confusion as Sandor grabs a satchel and stuffs my jewelry in it, "I don't understand. Aren't you going to fight?"

"Fuck the fight," he quips as he shoves objects down and raids through the drawers and closets.

Lucy finishes wiping my face. I walk off and grab all my hidden pouches of gold. I hand it to Sandor, "what about the king?"

"Fuck the king," he takes the pouches and stuffs it into the bag, "fuck him especially."

Sandor then chucks the satchel to Lucy, who grunts when she catches it.

"The stupid fuck's done nothing but fuck around," he picks up Daisy, propping her front legs on his shoulder, "no good thing's come from that fuck." He takes me by the hand and mumbles, " 'cept for one."

He releases me only to unlock the door and hold me again. He does not let me go until we reach the outside of the keep.

The whole lot was in disarray; dead bodies, debris, and fire littered the scene. He hands me Daisy, and I struggle slightly to carry her, considering she was not a small breed. He walks not too far off and brings a wandering horse over.

It's a wonder we do not encounter anyone on this side of the castle, more so that we find a horse.

Sandor takes Daisy and puts her down before helping me mount the steed. My stomach rolls with how his touch lingered on my thigh once I was on.

Next, he took the satchel from Lucy and handed it to me. He then eyed her when she stepped forward, as if debating whether or not he wanted to bring her along. Before she or I could speak up about it, Sandor is already helping her climb up behind me. Lucy takes the satchel from me and eyes him after. He rolls his eyes.

He picked up Daisy and tried handing her to me. However, she struggled too much and could not fit in my arms, so he cursed and threw her back onto his shoulders. He grabbed the horse's reins and started walking.

"Fucking bitch, fucking wench, fucking horse, fucking war, fucking-"

[levithestripper]

thinking about sandor and his pretty, criminally young (legal age) boyfriend who looks at him like he hung the moon and stars. he's nearly half sandors height and holds his hand constantly bc he likes the way sandors hand feels against his and the size difference.

sandor pretends he doesn't gaf but he really likes the attention his unofficial boyfriend gives him, but it's very obvious that sandor gives a fuck bc he watches his bf with love struck goo goo eyes when he thinks he isn't paying attention. unfortunately for him, his bf is very much paying attention.

sandor isn't a tourney guy, he thinks they're dumb, but he'll participate in them bc his bf said off-handedly that sandor looks hot when he fights.

[houndofsevenhells]

“The Hound That Lies” (Sandor Clegane x Original Female Character)

SUMMARY — The hour of the wolf comes and a certain chambermaid still cannot fall asleep. She goes out for a walk to cure her insomnia and runs into none other than the Hound. Drunken confessions and deep introspection ensue.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — This is the "Upstairs, Downstairs" of the Red Keep that nobody asked for. Told from the perspective of another person, but very Sandor-centric. It's mostly written due to my deep adoration for him as a character. English is not my first language so if you spot any mistakes that is my fault alone.

WORD COUNT — 5,032

Masterlist

My days as a palace servant in King’s Landing started before dawn and stretched late into the night, sometimes well past the hour of the bat. The servants of the royal palace all had their place and duties and nobody stepped one toe out of line; not unless they wanted to be subject to strict punishments–or a fate even worse than that.

The royal household of king Robert Baratheon, first of his name, consisted of the usual army of servants. Aside from us, the household staff included the royal guard, the captains, the marshals, the grooms, the pages, and the Kingsguard. Those, however, stayed in the barracks and in their own palace quarters. Truth be told, we rarely saw them at all.

The army I belonged to was an army of another quality, though those in charge of it still drilled and ruled their subordinates in a way no lesser than the most sadistic of the captains. 

The first layer of those closest to the king, and therefore to gods themselves, were the seneschals, the chaplains, the stewards, the cupbearers, and the chamberlains. Then there were the wardrobe masters and the raiment mistresses, who ruled the realms of the royal garments. Under them was the head maid, who held her own regiment of nearly a hundred chambermaids that scrubbed floors, mended clothes, stripped the beds of the dirty sheets, delivered sheets and clothing to and from the laundresses, and did everything else under the sun expected of the servants of the highest quality and the lowest breeding.

The kitchen staff I knew very little of and they equally knew very little of us, the waiting staff, but we all uniformly hated the lady’s maids. They were the nobility of the servants and rarely deigned to acknowledge us, the chambermaids, for anything more than lowly serfs.

Ever since I came to King’s Landing, there was hardly any disturbance in my daily routine. As the servants we had very little money and very little spare time to spend it. Most of us lived in the servants’ quarters in the lowest parts of the keep–those that had their own families and lived in the city were considered lucky.

Most nights, if I could allow myself the luxury, I tried to fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. But that night, the night when I met Sandor Clegane, sleep just would not come to me. I tossed and turned until the hour of the wolf, when finally I was too fed up with myself and I went outside to the palace gardens to take a walk. 

Most of the time, even the foulest of guards would leave us serving girls well enough alone, but still I took a sharp dagger with me and hid it beneath my skirts. As I wandered the gardens alone, I tried to be as silent as possible. Taking in the air as a cure was one thing, but being an airhead would be another. And I have lived too long to allow myself to be stupid.

“Walkin’ around at night, girl? Are ya that reckless or that stupid?” A gruff voice startled me and when I turned around, a half-burned face of Sandor Clegane was right there before me, looking down on me with a sneer. 

I swallowed hard and my hand went straight to the hilt of my dagger. I felt it underneath the fingertips and it made me feel marginally safer. But the man in front of me was huge, at least two feet taller than me; his presence dark and frightful.

“Oh,” I said, trying to make my voice sound normal. “It’s just you.”

“Just me?” He scoffed and took one step closer. The smell of wine immediately hit my nose. He had a bottle with him and now paused to take a swig from it. “Now, I ain’t arguably the worst you can meet in those gardens at night, girl, but what in seven hells do ya mean by ‘just’?”

“I meant…”

“Hm?”

I took a deep breath and forced myself to look him right in the eye. The Hound and his menacing presence in the keep were just one of those things that one had to get used to while working for the royal family. The Baratheons and the Lannisters were united as one family now and all of us had to get used to the change of regime. 

Not that serving under the Targaryens and the Mad King had been such a privilege. 

But the fact of the matter was, I have served under the Mad King’s rule and survived. I was not about to let a Lannister dog push me around.

“Nothing. What are you doing here?” I asked.

Clegane scoffed again and for a second I thought he would try to hurt me, but then I noticed he was swaying a little and I exhaled. Most of the household staff knew that a drunk Sandor Clegane was much less menacing than a sober one. And because Clegane was never sober, usually he would release his anger in the training yard–not on the serving girls. Which was still more than what could be said about the noble Kingsguard.

“Same as you,” Clegane grumbled. “Can’t sleep. Too much to drink, too many voices, too many memories.” He looked away from me then and I thought that would be the end of our conversation, but it would seem we must have found each other on one of his chattier nights. “You get nightmares, girl?” he asked, his attention back to me.

“I do,” I replied before I could help myself. 

But that was why I was there, wasn’t it? I doubted he would remember that conversation the next day, let alone in an hour, so I decided to talk to him a little. Maybe we would bore each other to tears and then I would finally fall asleep.

“What kind?” he asked.

“What?”

“The nightmares.”

“Oh,” I sighed, “Most nights I just lay awake, full of fear, before the nightmares even happen. So most nights I just take a walk instead.”

“Does it help?”

“No.”

He laughed at that, if his particular kind of bark could even be called a laughter, and nodded as if he knew exactly what I was talking about.

“So you go out and you find me here.” He looked at me more closely and leaned forward. I did my best not to cower before him. It was not his face that frightened me. It was the height and the sheer bulk of the man that did it. Even dressed in a lighter dark surcoat instead of his usual heavy armour, Clegane could strike fear into the hearts of men with little effort.

“What do your nightmares tell you, girl?” Clegane asked and I frowned at the forwardness. 

“I do not wish to say,” I muttered. “I do not know you.”

What I meant was, I did not trust him at all. Just like the Grand Maester, Clegane was a Lannister creature. It was known. After what the palace household had lived through during the sack of King’s Landing, I would never trust a Lannister with anything.

“But that is my point, isn’t it?” Clegane took a long drink from his bottle. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. So. You can tell me anything. You have a secret,” he pointed to me, “I have a secret.” He touched his own chest, swaying a bit once more. “I won’t tell another soul, but I know you won’t, ‘cause I’ve seen you here before, girl. No one who’s lived in this bloody place half as long as you have could survive by spilling secrets.” His half-burned lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “Or am I wrong?”

I thought about what he said and then I thought about what I saw after the sack. I only survived because I was small enough to hide in the cupboard in the pantry where the head maid stored the cleaning supplies. “Mouse” is what some of the other chambermaids called me, because I would scutter from place to place, always quick and always silent. Being a mouse had saved me that day. Mostly it saved me from the Mountain That Rides and his men.

But Sandor Clegane was not his brother, this much I knew. Just like the current king was not his horrible son. Most household staff avoided both, if they could help it–the crown prince and his horrible shadow were always together, but if you looked closely, you learned quickly that they couldn’t be further apart. I have never seen the younger Clegane hurt or kill a girl, but I have scrubbed the floors in the royal apartments where the Mountain did the unspeakable to the poor Princess Elia.

“You are not wrong,” I admitted. “I think… It sounds about right.” 

I was grateful that the gardens were shrouded in darkness, because the memories of that day brought tears to my eyes that were now threatening to spill.

“So spit it out.” Somehow, Clegane’s voice made it easier to control myself. “Do ya want to sit?” 

He walked past me then, quickly and remarkably quietly for a man of his size. He sat down on the grass and I followed his lead. 

“The night is dark, girl. No one will see you, no one will see me, no one will hear us.”

My blood ran cold then and I scolded myself for being so foolish. Was he…?

My hand went back to my dagger. I looked at his neck, then to his armpit.

It must have shown in my face, what I was thinking of, because he sneered again and took another swig of his wine, before adding:

“I meant for a conversation, fuck’s sake. If I wanted to, I could’ve killed you ages ago. Why would I bother now?” He paused. “Oh. It ain’t the killin’ you’re thinkin’ of. No, I don’t do that either, girl. I’m no raper.”

‘Unlike my brother’ hung right there in the air above us, unsaid.

I sighed and I settled on the grass beside him. Clegane took another long drink from his bottle, then passed it to me.

“No, thank you. I must refuse.”

“You must?” He scoffed. “A proper little thing, ain’t ya…”

I pursed my lips in distaste at being called that. It felt too familiar for the chance acquaintances we were.

“I used to drink a lot,” I said, finally brave enough to make my tone as harsh as I really wanted it to sound. “But I do not, not anymore. I used to drink to hide my troubles. But the problem with drink is, your troubles remain just where you left them and they haunt you the next day.”

The Hound frowned and when he spoke next his voice was heavy with surprise, but devoid of judgement:

“You used to drink a lot?” He raised a dark brow. “I’d have never thought to picture that.”

“Why, because I’m not a soldier like you?” 

I knew better than to call that man a knight, but I was tempted just to show my lack of regard for the Lannister dog.

“Nah, I suppose that doesn’t matter.” He looked away then. “So what stupid things did you do to finally make you shake the habit?”

I was surprised by the question; by the suggestion of kinship between us. But I realised there was one, whether I liked it or not.

“My mother,” I hesitated, and the Hound’s dark eyes were on me again. “My mother was a mean drunk. But when she did not drink, she was even meaner.”

Clegane looked at me then and I saw a glint of recognition in those dark, angry eyes. But then, the hour of the wolf was the darkest part of the night. I might have been mistaken.

“‘D ya fuck any strangers?”

“Not enough wine in this keep to make me fuck you, if that’s what you’re after.”

He let out a laugh. The hoarse sound of it was grating like a crunch of broken glass.

“Yeah, that ain’t what I’m after, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Well, I am glad to hear we understand each other.”

“That what you were looking for when drinking, little one? Understanding?”

“Sometimes.” I sighed. “Sometimes I drank just to feel something. You know how it is. Everyone is drunk in a tavern, everyone pretends to be each other’s friend. But that isn’t so. Strangers are not your friends, they could not be farther from it.”

“Aye, they care about nothin’ and no one other than themselves.” The Hound nodded. “Drink and pleasure, little one. That’s what the world is to ya when you ain’t careful.” He took another swig from the bottle. The smell of wine hit me again and I turned my head away. 

“And you said awful things, too, did ya?” he asked.

“Hateful things,” I whispered. “That is why I stopped. It did me no good.”

“Hateful things…” The big man rolled the words on his tongue like he was curious. “Pretty little thing like you, eh?”

“Pretty things can still be poison.”

He smirked darkly at that.

“Yes, they can. You have the truth of it, girl.” 

He was silent for a while and I turned my head towards him to check if he was still there. He was. He was looking at the guard standing beside the closest entry to the garden. The guard looked young and utterly exhausted. He swayed from time to time and Clegane seemed very amused by that.

“Yeah, usually it’s knights and us soldiers drinkin’ to forget.” He pointed at the guard. “Like him there. The men that drink too much and go around lookin’ for fights. We drink our cheap wine and our ale and then we go around lookin’ for nothin’ but trouble. Sometimes fightin’ people we’re not supposed to. Sometimes… Other things.” He took another swig.

“Sometimes I would even lay with strangers to feel better. To feel something.” 

I did not know why I said that, but that got me his attention, so I decided to throw caution to the wind and say it all:

“To feel something other than my feelings. Other than dread and sadness. But that did not happen. In the morning, my nightmares were still present.”

“I understand,” he replied and it was my turn to be shocked. “Wantin’ to feel the warmth of someone’s touch.” He said that so bitterly that I almost felt the bile in my own throat. But there was sympathy in his voice, even though it was hard to read his face, half-covered with the burn scars.

“Aye, someone to take away your pain, even if for a night.”

“Yes,” I said, surprised. “That… That was it. How…?” But then I hesitated. Of course he would understand what that was like. He wore the worst thing that had happened to him right out there on his face. There was no hiding from it, no covering it. He had to wear it every day and live with others looking upon it always. 

I felt like a fool for even asking, but the question hung there in the open. Finally, Clegane spoke:

“I know it. You thought someone would care about you, keep you warm, but in the end they never did. Did they?”

“No.” This time my answer came easier. “They never did.”

“Aye, nobody cares about people like us, little one. We are the servants. We’re here to serve.” He chuckled darkly and pushed the empty bottle away. “People don’t care a lick for ya, only for what you can give them. And when you give it… Well, then you’re no better than those slaves in Essos.”

“Is that how it feels for you?”

He turned to me so quickly that I flinched and for a second I was afraid he would attack me. But all he did was look into my own eyes; long and intently. His eyes were ones that must have seen much, but mine own had turned hard over the years, too. They no longer belonged to the girl who came to King’s Landing with songs in her head.

“Yeah.” Finally, he leaned back. “What of your family? Do they care so little about you?”

I was not always a palace maid and I had not always worked in a household as grand as the royal palace. I was born as a Rivers, in a poor hovel in the Riverlands; a ghastly place north of another village that most likely no longer existed. My mother was a drunkard, a local busty tavern wench, and due to her reputation I also had two older half-sisters. They despised me as much as I despised them.

Scrubbing floors and mending clothes had been my daily bread since the moment I could walk and take care of my own needs–that was the day I finally became useful. That usefulness took me out of that gods’ forsaken village, until little by little I travelled from the Riverlands to the Crownlands, moved from house to house in search of my own destiny, and from dusk till dawn I scrubbed and cleaned the nobles’ messes. From a lowly laundry maid at the age of seven, I worked my way up on my hands and knees, until the skin of my hands perpetually blistered and cracked from soap and lye.

“No,” I replied, my tone harsher. “There is no one.”

The Hound still looked at me like he was trying to read my face for lies. But there were none. I had no reason to lie to him. I told myself once more that he would not remember we ever had this conversation come morning.

“I have no family either,” he said grimly. “No family to speak of.”

I knew the Mountain was not dead, otherwise we all at the palace would have heard of it long ago. To now hear the admission from Clegane’s own mouth that the brothers despised each other was striking. 

“So no one cares whether we live or die,” I concluded. “I imagine that is why we accept whatever people give us. It is either that, or…” I think on it. “That, or the emptiness.”

“Aye.” His voice was softer now. “But people do bad things all the time. It ain’t the end of the fuckin’ world. Not even the end of your life. So you’re still allowed to want things.”

I frowned, trying to piece together the confusing shreds of that thought. The wine must have finally run to his head.

“Are you saying even monsters deserve to be loved?”

He laughed darkly and there was little joy in that bitter sound.

“Aye, little one. Mayhaps you are a bad person, I don’t know ya. But all of us are, in a way.”

The truths he gave me struck something within me. 

“By the gods, you are honest.” I sigh. 

“I’m a lot of things, girl. Honest, for all my faults, is one of them.” He paused briefly. “A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face.”

We sat in silence a while, but then the big man had more questions for me:

“Don’t you ever have any desire to drink again? There must be a time when you think to yourself, just one, just to forget, just to numb the pain, just for tonight?”

I considered that. Then decided to remain truthful:

“Yes. I do sometimes, yes. But then I remember how miserable wine made me feel the next day and how much pain it caused me. And how much shame it brought me. The things I did… Remembering helped me not to drink again.”

I looked up and there was a strange, wistful look in Clegane’s eyes, as though he were remembering something.

“But it did feel good while it lasted, did it not? At least, for a time, you had no aches, no hurts, you did not feel. You could forget your pain for a while, did that not feel good?”

“Ah,” I smiled sadly. “But that is why the drink is so treacherous.”

“Aye,” he agreed with a smirk. “A cruel mistress.”

I nodded. 

“But it did make me forget,” I admitted. “Then I felt ashamed I forgot. And then it ruined me and I had let it, gladly. But in the moment, when you drink, yes, that is true. You forget the bad things. That does feel good. It is a perfect poison for those in pain and misery.”

I realised then that it was the sense of no judgement I was getting from conversing with the Hound that really drew me into this talk. He did not judge and he repaid me with honesty. That was so much more to offer than the monstrous kinds of misplaced affection I had found in King’s Landing over the years.

“Is it too much to ask that you tell me your name, girl?” 

The way he asked seemed like a taunt, but there was a strange tenderness in that scarred face that made me feel at ease, even as his dark eyes studied me so intently.

“Laina Rivers.”

“Laina Rivers.” He seemed amused by that, a faint smile playing on his scarred lips. “A pretty name for a bastard.”

I gave him a sharp look.

“There is a sad irony in that,” he said, obviously not afraid of my silent threats in the slightest.

He smiled and there was no humour in that half smile, but the anger in him had settled at least.

“So who was your father?” he asked. “What great lord fathered you and left you in the world to fend for yourself?”

“I do not know.” I stumbled through my words a little, because his bluntness struck me once more. “But I hate him sometimes. For doing so.”

The Hound nodded and then the anger resurfaced in the unburnt half of his face. The other still showed nothing. But there was another layer to his anger now; as though there was just a touch of sadness underneath it.

“You never sought after him? You don’t even know who he is?”

“No.” I shook my head. “My mother told me very little. And she was always angry when I asked. So I stopped asking. I was a skittish child, always desperate for her to love me. I wanted to please her, to be a good daughter. Especially since I had two sisters to compete with.”

“And did it work?” He sneered. “Did your mother love you?”

“Not the way I wanted her to,” I replied, my voice barely louder than a whisper. What was that strange power he possessed that made me want to confess to him so easily?

“She loved me in her own way, I believe. But she was not kind. I think she despised having bastard daughters, despised us for being bastards. Even though that was not our fault.”

“No, it is not your fault,” he agreed and hearing that almost brought the tears back to my eyes. 

There was sadness in his voice, I could hear it for true. The masks were starting to come off.

“It is never the fault of the child,” he continued. “Yet they have to suffer. That just shows how this fuckin’ world is, ain’t it?”

I remained silent, but he still expected me to say something. And I was too interested in the conversation to leave now.

“What about your own parents? Did they love you?”

For a long moment, Clegane remained silent, as though he wanted to give me a different answer; considered it, to avoid giving the real one. But it did not seem like his heart was in it. Finally, he spoke, with some hesitation:

“No, my father did not love me. And my mother, well – I do not know if she hated me, loved me, or just did not bother to see that I existed at all.”

It was so hard to hear that I could not speak for a long while. 

“When did you get these scars?” I asked carefully.

“I was seven.”

He knew I knew then, or at least that I suspected, and now had my suspicions confirmed. I straightened my back and he waited for me to say something, but I would not. I would not intentionally harm him with my words now, I refused. Even if he was a Lannister creature.

“But you are true-born, are you not?” I said instead, frowning, and tried to reconcile what he said with my own conviction. 

His laugh was like snarling dogs in a pit.

“That does not guarantee a parent’s love, little one. My father was a lord, you know. And a cruel, bitter man.”

That was not the moment to remark on his own bitterness and so I held my tongue.

“No, I suppose being a lord’s son does not guarantee it,” I muttered. “But for the longest time I thought… I thought that if only I had a real name, if I was true-born then maybe my mother would be kinder. Maybe she–”

“No, if she cared, she would have loved you no matter what.” The Hound sighed. My mouth nearly gaped at that answer. 

“There are many bastards who are not high-born and who still have good parents,” he said. “It is not about your name or birthright. It is about whether there is hatred in a person’s heart. And by your account, your mother did not have much love in hers.”

I sat there in shock at the profound truth that came from this man’s mouth. 

“I misjudged you,” I admitted and immediately felt my face grow hot with embarrassment.

“Aye.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I am used to it.”

“But,” I said, “that is also why I left the Riverlands. I went from place to place, finding work and getting good at being a maid. I was looking for something to replace that love. And when I came to King’s Landing… Well, now I work in the palace.” I laughed bitterly. “A lot of fucking good it got me.”

He laughed then with me, a deep and harsh guffaw.

“Aye, King’s Landing. The place where every man and woman goes when they think their talents would amount to something. So many people lie and die in this stinking hell, so many more become lordlings and queens and kings… Aye, they all think they’re something special. Something more.” He pauses and looks at me with a mixture of bitterness and amusement. “Did you fall for their lies, too?”

“I did.” I nodded. I felt ashamed for having been so naive.

“You are not alone,” he said, almost like he was mocking both of us. “This place chews people up and spits them out like they are nothing. It’s the worst of men, the biggest of fools, the lowest of scum that the Seven Kingdoms have to offer. All gathered here for the pleasure of the royals.”

I wondered then how come he was not afraid to say what he thought; why did he said it so openly. All my life I had obeyed every rule and strict guidance of my superiors. I received a lashing once and I still bore the scars of it on my back. I vowed never to let my tongue waggle ever again.

Any palace chambermaid found gossiping, or behaving in a way unbecoming of a decent lady, would be punished–or worse, thrown out and left without income, forced to leave His Grace’s employment with a stained reputation and no way to fend for herself. 

So I decided to ask:

“How is it that you are not afraid to just speak your mind? This place is crawling with whisperers. Don’t you have a lord or a master that would punish you for speaking so?”

The Hound smiled, almost as though he was amused at the thought.

“Why should I be afraid? They are all afraid of me.” He shrugged. “Who cares what these nobles think? The people who know me already know I speak my mind, and the ones who don’t have heard stories. And as for my master, I have none. I have no one to answer to besides the king, and he doesn’t care a lick about the likes of me.”

“I think I have heard the stories,” I admit.

“Aye. A famous man, me.” He leaned towards me, his voice hard again. “You know why they call me the Hound?”

I shook my head, though my eyes went to his chest where the sigil of his house was plain as day on his surcoat – three black snarling dogs on a yellow field.

“It is because I hunt down their prey for them. Anyone they ask me to, I ride them down. Criminals, traitors, even children… I have cut down many in my life and only some of them were monsters.”

We were silent then, until he spoke again:

“Many different names they call me, but I mislike that one the most.”

“I understand.”

“Do you now?”

“I do. Of course I do. A hound is a dog used for hunting and it is an animal, not a person. The man sitting here with me is just that, a man. Not a dog.” 

He is rendered speechless after that and we look at each other for the longest moment.

“How old are you, girl?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You speak with the knowledge of someone older, yet you are small and slight and so I wonder…” He reached towards me and I forced myself to stay in place. For some reason, I knew he would not harm me.

Clegane touched my shoulder and it was as if to check that I was real.

“I am old enough,” I said, slightly amused. “And I hope to talk to you again sometime. But it will dawn soon and I must go back to my duties.”

“Aye.” Clegane smiled at that and I smiled back. “Fare-thee-well, Laina Rivers.”

“Fare-you-well, Sandor Clegane.”

[summervale]

「Merriment」

Third-person reader insert! Y/N is the younger sister of King Robert Baratheon. Her house sigil is a stag, yes, but it seems she has a particular fondness for hounds.

Contains: Reluctant pining, kissing, mature situations Words:  2,311

UNFINISHED WORK: This was supposed to be a long, multi-part piece which is why it takes so long setting up! This was part one and is about halfway finished. Figured there's a lot of Sandor fans that might enjoy a small something cute <3

No husband and no responsibilities made for a very happy woman indeed. Small wonder she was all smiles and riddles and gayeties; she must, the commonfolk thought, be the happiest woman in all the seven kingdoms.

This was likely true.

She was forever laughing. There was a smile on her face always, it seemed, and everywhere she went she took merriment with her. Her ladyship took great pleasure in riddles and games and shows of mummers and fools, and King’s Landing had not hosted a tourney that did not have her there in the pavilions in many a year. She was a friend to all regardless of birth or station or reputation (within reason), and for this she was quite loved, but also quite resented. The resentment was paid little mind—turning a blind eye and smiling was much more fun, as it was often irksome to those who were loth to favor her.

Y/N Baratheon. Lady of Storm’s End, younger sister to Stannis and Robert, older sister to Renly. She possessed the same appetite for amity as Robert coupled with the mirth and grandeur of Renly. Of Stannis, it was said, they shared only a name. Still she insisted she adored all her brothers equally, “even the gloomy one.”

Much was afoot in King’s Landing.

King Robert had named Lord Eddard Stark new hand of the king, and Stark had arrived with a host of his own and his two daughters in tow. This was cause for celebration, and celebration was cause for a tourney, and where there was a tourney (or a celebration), Lady Y/N was to be found.

And she was found in King’s Landing quite a lot, of recent.

There was a rumor, often dubbed a vicious and untrue one, that though her house sigil may be the King's own stag, Y/N had a particular fondness for hounds.

The sun was two hours from setting when a host of black and yellow arrived at The King's Gate. In came banners that bore stags, and a spate of wagons bringing wines and cheeses and polished pears from Storm’s End. An impatient rider rode ahead of the rest, leaving behind a cry of protest as she thundered away, alone, up the streets of King’s Landing.

She arrived with a well-lathered horse and a swirl of her cloak. A party had time to gather in the yard of the Red Keep; a paltry welcoming committee with little time to prepare.

But the King was there—of course the King was there.

Had she not already been grinning, she would have grinned. “There’s my favorite brother,” said Y/N, dismounting and already forgetting her palfrey.

The look on Robert’s face was strange, though, and uncharacteristic of the Robert she knew and loved. The years had not been kind to him (as was made most evident by his growing waistline), and his face was stern, drawn into a scowl, his brow furrowed.

Is he not happy to see me? she thought even through her smiles and excitement. Gods, he looks as grim as Stannis, maybe twice as much. When she made to throw her arms about his neck, he took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length instead.

“That’s your grace to you, woman. I am the King, or have you forgotten?”

The King’s sister opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, which was done dumbly and not unlike a fish.

The ruse was short-lived.

Robert Baratheon—King Robert Baratheon—broke into a roar of laughter like that of a bear made human. Still holding his dearest sister by the shoulders, he gave her a hearty shake. “Your face!” he boomed. “You should have seen it!”

Her smile returned, then her laughter. “You’re a fool if ever there was one, Robert!”  She threw her arms around his neck even as he shook her, and the big king lifted his little sister in his arms and hugged her so tightly, so fiercely, that the now-arriving party feared the king may crush their lady.

Robert didn’t crush Y/N, though. No, they were both used to it. “You’re crushing me, Robert,” she huffed at last, prompting the king to drop her back down onto the ground.

He clapped her on the shoulder. “Right then, let’s get inside. We have much and more to catch up on, and there’s a flagon of wine calling my name.”

“Every flagon of wine calls your name, your grace.”

The King was laughing again, then, and the King’s sister was smiling.

That, as far as the two Baratheons were concerned, was the way it always had been, and the way it always would be, until one buried the other.

Meeting the King’s party was a grand ordeal, though Y/N had already met most of the partygoers in attendance on at least one occasion. Of course she knew the Lannisters, her brother’s family by law, and she’d met Lord Eddard Stark once before. Lord Eddard’s daughters were new to her, however, and a few of the faces at court as well. Having been taught well, she recognized most of the family names and colors, smiling and shaking hands and doing all the formalities a lady should do.

The occupants of the Red Keep’s great hall that night came from houses big and small, known and unknown, and saw the attendance of lords and ladies, knights, hedge knights, bards, poets and singers, fools in their motley and mummers with their painted faces. There were cards being shuffled and dice being thrown. Serving girls brought plate after plate of selections from the kitchens: stuffed capons, wine-glazed lamb, honeyed figs, dark breads with thick crusts, sweet lemon cakes still-warm from the ovens. The courses seemed never-ending and the wine never stopped flowing.

“Never was there such a party before, brother,” declared Y/N. She lifted a gilded goblet with a flourish, and rich, purple wine splashed over the rim and down her hand. She was the picture of effortless joy.

And she knew it, too.

If she hadn’t known it, the guests would have reminded her; the way they flocked to her in throngs and yammered on and on whenever she should happen to lend an ear—which was often. Round and round she circled the crowd as the evening wore on and the wine continued to flow, searching the room for a familiar face—a face that would stand out even in the most crowded of rooms.

Her gaze passed the lords and ladies, passed the knights in their polished armor, until at last she found her mark.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, stood near the far wall, obscured halfway in the shadows. His face was grim, as it usually was, pulled tightly into a scowl that had long since worn its lines permanently into his features. The burn scars that marred half his face were highlighted by the flickering torchlight, giving him an even more fearsome appearance.

She knew Sandor was not like the other knights, not like the men who fawned over ladies with flowery words and grand gestures. He was rough, blunt, and often downright rude.

He was the perfect change of pace.

Oft she sought him when at last she could take the rinse-and-repeat of perfumed nobility no longer. She wove through the crowd with ease, exchanging smiles and nods as she passed, until she finally stood before Sandor.

"Sandor," she greeted him plainly. “It’s been too long.”

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For an overly long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a grunt, he inclined his head slightly. "My lady," he replied, his voice as rough as the gravel on the King’s Road.

Y/N smiled up at him, unfazed by his gruffness. "Why do you stand here all alone?" she asked, her tone teasing. "Surely even hounds deserve a bit of merriment."

Sandor huffed, a sound that could have been a laugh if it had come from anyone else. "Merriment’s for fools," he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.

“Forgive me, then, for it seems I’ve forgotten my motley.”

“So it seems.”

She knew he was not a man of many words, especially when it came to matters of the heart. But she also knew that, for reasons she could not fully explain, she had become someone he tolerated more than most.

Perhaps it was a royal decree by Robert unbeknownst to her. And what a royal decree that would be! The thought made her laugh aloud, which only earned her a raised eyebrow in response.

He indicated the floor from which she’d just come. "Motely or not, you should jingle along with the other fools,” he said, though his tone was less stern than usual.

"And you should be out there with your fellow dogs," said she, “but here we are."

Sandor's lips twitched as if they might have remembered how to smile for half a moment. “Surprised you’re not dancing again. It went well for you last time.”

With one sentence he had broken the façade she wore so well. Her look of smug mirth disappeared from her face in an instant and was replaced instead by one of flustered surprise.

It had been a celebration much like this one and she was deep in her cups by the time the sun had set and the dancing had begun. Y/N had been at the heart of it, twirling and dancing with little care, passing hand from one lord to another, from knight to knight, breathless and flushed and shoes long forgotten.

The next thing she knew, she was stumbling, and a moment later, toppling entirely. The ground rose up to meet her with an unpleasant wack!, and the pain in her cheek was overshadowed only by a pain in her ankle. She’d gotten too carried away and twisted something, it seemed, and hadn’t even felt it until she was picking herself back up off the ground.

Or, well, trying to pick herself back up off the ground. The usual cloud of courtiers buzzed around her in an attempt to see her upright again, but the pain in her ankle swelled red hot and angry.

A shadow passed, then, and she had looked up, her vision slightly blurred from the wine, to see Sandor Clegane’s gruff face above her. There had been no mocking grin or cold stare, just a look that might have been concern on a more expressive man. “You’re alright.”

Without another word, he had scooped her up in his arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all.

Y/N had gasped, her hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders. "I can walk!" she had protested, though she hadn’t made any real effort to leave his arms.

 "Not on that ankle you can’t.”

And so she had let him carry her, through the bustling hall and up the winding stairs of the Red Keep, all the way to her chambers. It had been awkward, but it had also been…

More.

“You’re quite strong,” she said to him, which earned only a grunt of acknowledgement.

Something—something—fluttered inside of her when she saw him so close; the burned skin unevenly healed, the scruff that dusted his face, the muscle of his neck that disappeared beneath his armor where her prying eyes could not follow—but her imagination could. 

When they reached her chambers, he had set her down gently on the edge of her bed. She had looked up at him, her heart pounding in a way that had little to do with the wine. As he made to release her, she caught the back of his neck with her hand and held him there, inches from her face.

She’d expected him to break free, to pull away, to do anything else. But he stayed.

He stayed there like that, his lips inches from hers.

He had hesitated, his expression torn between wanting to leave and the pull of something deeper that they both felt there between them. They both smelled of wine and honeyed mead, lips sweet.

She didn’t know who kissed who, but in half a heartbeat they were entangled.

Sandor’s breath came ragged against her mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She bit his lip and he growled. It was fast, animal, raw want.

And a longtime coming.

When he pulled away, she pulled him back in again, and he didn’t fight her. Breathless, she’d pulled herself up by his shoulders and onto her knees, the pain in her ankle unfelt and forgotten. Her hands cupped his face and she pulled him in, in, in, until her chest was flush with his and she could feel every rise and fall of his on hers.

At last he’d taken her by the elbows and pushed her away, and it ended as suddenly as it had started.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he told her.

“But I haven’t had enough of you.”

“You’ve had your fill of that, too,” he said, turning cloak and leaving.

“I’m quite certain I haven’t had my fill of you.”

He paused mid-step and looked at her over his shoulder. “You don’t want that,” he assured her. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something sharp as steel and burning hot.

Y/N leaned back on the bed. “I know what I want,” she said, wishing she could stand and go to him, to pull him by his cloak and his armor and whatever else she could get her hands on—something lower than his beltline. “I’ve known for years and years.”

Slowly, deliberately, Sandor crossed the room again, silhouetted against the warm torchlight that poured in through the still-open door. “Trust me,” he said, towering over her, leaning in close. “You might want to get your fill of me, but you don’t want me to get my fill of you.”

Her breath left her body in a shuddering shiver.

Again he had turned, then, and didn’t stop to look back at her that time.