#Sandor Clegane imagines

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UNCONDITIONAL | SANDOR X READER

Part 2: Take the Black

Sandor X Reader

Mature Content Warning

Requested: YES

Requested: OPEN

WARNINGS: Please check your triggers; SMUT!!! (Always use protection) Mentions of Miscarriages, Homemade Abortions, and Slight mentions of depression. Word Count: 7k plus Slight Proofread :(

You gasped, taking his head in your hands. Pushing him further into your pussy, your hips slowly grinding against his flattened tongue and the bridge of his nose, which flicked against your aching clit. You mouthed oh’ed as you felt the euphoria blissfully wash over you, your heads, grabbing at the grass, digging your nails into the dirt as you quickly closed your legs. Pushing him away from you, you pleaded with him to stop as you felt overstimulated from his still kissing and softly licking at your clit. You moaned out in desperation, “Theon, please stop.” with weakened strength, you pushed him off you, yanking your body closer to yourself, as you moved to your bottom. Your eyes washed over the glistening boy as a smirk played on his lips. 

“I can’t help myself,” he moans lowly, moving on all fours before crawling closer to you, his eyes taking you in from the disheveled state of your hair as it was muddled with leaves, twigs, and bits of grass. From your redding face, your cheeks warm and full of color, your eyes wide and sporadic. Your mouth opened slightly, as you tried to suck in as much air as possible. His finger crawled on top of your hands, waiting to feel your warmth, and despite the crisp coldness of the air, you radiated furnacing warmth. Theon enjoyed these little moments with you, holding you in his arms, letting his hands run down your breast and throbbing pussy. Kissing you on your neck as you moaned out for him. He craved you, simply intoxicating. You spoke again, this time more certain of yourself, “Father will be looking for you soon; I know you have a ceremony to attend.” 

Finally, you started to notice how close Theon was and how the condensation of your breath mingled with the stillness of the cold air. You closed your eyes, sucking in the harsh atmosphere, and you felt his lips peck on yours. Something that he didn’t do often, you quickly cuffed his face, preventing him from turning away from you. Icy fingers caressed his skin for a moment; you dropped your gaze, removing your hand from his face. “Go,” you spoke in the stillness of the air, moving to feet and gathering your gloves. 

It didn’t take long to voyage back to the Winterfell, your eyes taking hold of Jon and Bran, his hair falling against his pale skin. Nervously, he petted at his pony, tugging on his lips as his eyes flickered to Jon, taking hold of every word that came tumbling out of his mouth, yet he still didn’t remember much of what was said. Jon's grey eyes finally captured hold of you as he waved you over, his smile rising on his lips. His dark hair, moving in the chilled wind, he was taller than he was before. Excitedly, you waved to him. He often enjoyed speaking with you; you were kinder than your twin brother, Robb, Theon, and Caitlyn, who put up with him out of respect for Ned. Robb barely talked to him. The conversation only culminated when needed; for Theon he wishes to avoid him at any cost. He thought everything was funny, and it always came off as insensitive and crude. The Stark girls offered him the kindness and a love he craved, but you were different. When thinking of family and thinking of love, he saw you.

Jon’s first core memory of you was when he was 11; you were skin and bones then. Your eyes were as dark as iron as you protectively stood before Jon. You bore no front teeth, yet your words were certain and robust. Caitlyn was scolding him for something trivial. She was harsh to Jon, her finger jamming into his shoulder before waving back in front of his face. It was the only time that you have seen Caitlyn interact with Jon when she was lashing out for punishments or projecting anger to Jon. You grabbed Jon’s hand, stomping past Caitlyn, offering him a toothless smile. “Don’t worry, Jon, I’ll always protect you!”

He drifted back to you, watching you make your way down to them. You smiled upon arrival, pressing your cheek against Bran; he cringed away, swatting at you with embarrassment and giggles. You returned to Jon, bringing him in for a tight hug, taking the smell of his natural aroma; he always smelled of pine and the outdoors. “Are you ready?” you asked in curiosity. You always wanted to go, but Ned forbade it, scolding you for wanting to partake in such boyish pastimes. His fingers danced to Sansa, explaining that you needed to mirror her likeness. Gentle and soft, like her mother. You glanced at Sansa with a faint smile, taking in her stern Tully features. The auburn color of her hair is lighter than our mother’s, paired with high-cheek bones and deep oceanic eyes. She was soft-smelling. You glanced back at your father, his hands cuffing your cheeks, mushing them together before chuckling. In sadness, he spoke, “You remind me so much of her.” 

Your thoughts were interrupted by Theon; you hadn’t realized you drifted off. You straighten your posture as he moves behind you. You never realized how lean and tall he was. 

“I best be going.” You finally uttered a soft farewell to Bran, taking hold of him once more before passing one to Jon. You could see Theon’s gaze on you; you passed a glance over your shoulder, seeing the dark expression on his face. Quickly, you turn around, returning to your attention ahead of you. 

You hadn’t realized how much time had passed; you heard their voices first—muddled with each other, arguing over silly names. Bran's voice you heard first, dismissing the statements as he entered the kitchen. Sansa, Arya, and yourself had turned to meet them, eyes wide with wonder and exhilaration, watching Robb, Bran, Jon, and Theon bring pups into the kitchen. Your eyes snapped to the albino pup, nuzzled in Jon’s arms. With a smile, you gently ran your fingers through his ghostly white fur, his wet nose sniffing at your fingers as he yelped out a yawn. 

“Where on earth did you find these Direwolfs? They do not travel this far up North,” You finally announced. Theon moved to you, a singular wolf in his arms, the color of a flaxen silver color, almost white blonde color. You gently ran your fingers through his dirty fur; you plunked out the crumbled soil, blood, and leaves. Slowly, your eyes moved to Theon, whose fingers had danced along yours, aiding you in removing the dirt and leaves. Jon hummed in dismay as Theon gawked over you, his teeth gritted in irritation. The color on your cheeks rose as you mumbled soft phrases to the pup in his arms. Unamused, he finally turned his full attention to the pair. He watched Theon brush his hand against yours, mumbling something that briefly caused you to look away. Jon’s eyes flickered to Robb, who seemed to have an unamused expression laced on his face. They knew Theon’s admiration for you has grown, significantly since you have grown into womanhood. 

Intensely, he voiced, “You seem to have taken a liking to Direwolfs now, huh, Greyjoy.” Theon laughed loudly, and his chest shook as he threw his head back. His eyes fell on the bastard. Rolling his eyes, he watched him. Theon grew tired of Jon; he always felt that he wanted to  fuck want belonged to him. You weren’t really blood anyway; what was stopping him from fucking you. He always finds his way into sacred moments, checking in on you before bed. You always calmed him, explaining that he was your brother, born from the same blood. Theon would scoff, shifting away from you in your bed. His back was facing you as he decided it was time to depart, leaving you alone. 

Your eyes flickered between the two, along with everyone else. “Jon…” you hissed in frustration; his eyes glanced at you just briefly to catch the expression drawn on your face. Nothing else needed to be said; he could read everything about you; you were his best friend…his sister. The way your mouth twitched when you wanted him to shut up, your eyebrows would raise when you were confused or curious, and your eyes deadlocked on him when you grew angry with him. Jon mumbles an apology before turning his attention back to his albino pup. You couldn’t help but notice the similarities in your pups, their vermilion-brown eyes, and their fur color similarities. You huffed, taking hold of the trembling pup, the chilliness of his fur burning your skin as you cooed gently at the monster. 

“Jon’s right; Theon seems quite interested in many new things lately,” Robb spoke out, eyes still trained on his wolf. Your cheeks burned as you continued to pike through the debris riddled through your pup’s coat. 

***

In preparation for the King, your handmaidens tug at your hair. You grimaced, swatting them away, cursing them for their roughness and prudence. They were appointed by your mother, Caitlynn, whom you were not so fond of at the moment; in a slight urge of deviance, you snatched your head away from them. Your eyes burn into her, your lips tight as you hissed them out. Hesitant, the older crow had stepped in front, her eyes pale brown, her skin riddled with wrinkles and crevices. She opened her mouth and tried to find the right words to say, but much to her expectation, she did not. “Lady-”

“You are dismissed! Bring in the lanky girl; I love her hair! She has a head full of dark curls, maiden of Sansa; she’s gentle and easier to withstand on the eyes!” Your voice was strong, commanding the room just as your father’s. You stood tall, watching the woman cower in obedience, and with a nod, they rushed out. You wiggled out the attire, a dull and lifeless color your mother had decided was appropriate for the King. You knew she wasn’t too fond of him nor the Lannisters. Hundreds would soon gather in Winterfell and make it their home, muddling our paths and haven with their people. The door's opening captures your attention; the girl slowly walks in, her eyes filled with fear as she watches your nude form shyly. 

She bows, longer than needed. “M’lady,” her drawl was different from the rest; she didn’t speak properly, nor did she try. She was burdened with discoloration and freckles, her arms extended and irregular at her side. Her teeth were askew and stained a yellowish color. Yet, there was something pure about her; she screamed, her body jolting to the door, as Luan slowly shifted to her, his nose hung low and his eyes stalking her. Your eyes shifted to the Direwolf, who lurked in the shadows. “Luan,” you hissed out. You turned my attention to her, slightly laughing as you waved my hand towards Luan. 

“He’s harmless, tries to act Ghost, and slightly like Greywind.” You laughed, moving to the girl as you grabbed her hand; she stumbled behind you, and a soft smile played on her lips. You plopped down, hair flying about as you looked up at her. You began to speak, slow and calculated, “Please, may you do my hair. The wolf is no harm to you.” the maiden’s eyes widened at your request, her cheeks dusting slightly pink. 

The maiden picked at her hair; insecurities flushed through her stomach as she tugged on the deep skin of her bottom lip. She was never complimented before by boys in her village and certainly not by the men or women in Winterfell. Her mother always complained of boyish looks, the irregularity of her nose and the harshness of her skin, the scabs, sunburn, and the bug bites that did not go away. Her hair was always hanging on her shoulders and in wild curls, which she tamed with a mixture her grandmother taught her. Her eyes returned to the Eldest Stark girl; she nodded excitedly. 

A small, drawn on your face, “Then it is settled, you shall be my new lady in wait! I grow tired of the old hags my mother tries to force on me.” Your voice boomed as you stood up, your hands clasping her shoulders, tugging at her. Her cheeks burned as she watched the pup and the surroundings of her chambers, hands glued to her side as you were still nude. Time had slowly passed, her hand taking each strand and coating it with a strange concoction she brought into the room; it smelled sweet, and a soft aroma of honeydew filled the air. Staring at your reflection in the copper mirror, you finally felt beautiful; your hair framed the fullness of your face, contrasting against your grey eyes. You often were referred to as Jon’s twin despite being Robb’s; Caitlyn curses quietly to herself as she watches you and the bastard play. She would believe you were Jon's sibling if she hadn’t birthed and watched you milk her teat. Your grey eyes, which people often confuse with a dark obsidian, were that of Father’s and Jon’s. Your dark hairs framed your faces. Jon’s face was strong like Ned’s, while your look was subtle and kind. Yet, as she watched you two grow together, she saw no trace of Tully in you. 

You arrived slightly late to the arrival of the King and Queen; you squeezed beside Robb and Sansa, out of breath and irritated from the festivities already. Robb stood tall next to Father and still mirrored Mother, his crystal blue eyes washing over the gathering visitors before landing on you; he was stocky. His hair was a soft auburn color, much like his mother’s. He smirked momentarily, his body leaning closer as he pushed his words against the winter’s air, “Mother is going to have your head.” Your eyes flickered to the visitors flooding through the gate’s castle, drawing us in their sparkling gold, illuminating silvers, and polished steel. Their banners and knight galloped on their steads, heads held high as they looked down on us.  

Ser Jamie was the first to stand out, his blonde locks falling against his shoulder, bouncing occasionally. Father would often refer to it as “beaten gold.” Despite being on his stead, you could see that he towered over everyone, his cat-green eyes scanning through the ground, laying hold on Winterfell in disdain. Shifting through the knights, your eyes fell on a huskily built man, his nose long and hooked. His long, ravenous hair covered his scar that took hold of half of his face, his flesh black and pocketed with craters colored a deep red. You noticed that much of his face was gone; he had a stump for where his ear was meant to be and a protrusion of his jawbone. You saw the scars running down to his throat. 

“Ah, Ned, seeing your frozen face again is great!” Robert proclaimed, his voice beating through the silence, echoing from the walls and settling in the nothingness. He grabbed him by the face, laughing intensely as he looked at Caitlyn, wrapping her in a tight embrace. Robert stopped when approaching you, his face sunken as he glanced at you; you examined him, taking in the redness of his face and nose and the darkness under his eyes. You recalled the tales your Father told you in your youth, the ones of a handsomely Robert Baratheon, “a handmaiden’s fantasy”; you would giggle feverishly at the thought. Now, beholding him, his thick black hair falling against his burly shoulders, you now see that it was all just a fantasy. If you were to ever ponder deeply on what a King would look like, Robert Baratheon fit the criteria. 

Robert's heart burned in his chest, and his fingers danced with anxiety as he closed his hands. He reframed from reaching out to you, grasping your hair and chin, and wanting to kiss your lips gently– wanting you. He hadn’t seen you in ages, and you were but a child when he did. Lanky with a boyish smile much like Ned, and now you were wildly beautiful, much like Lyanna in her youth. The fullness of your lips, the cheekiness in your smile. He fondly grabbed your hand, nodding gently as he pressed a subtle kiss against the clothed glove. He spoke with a gentleness Ned hadn’t heard in years, “You remind me so much of her, Lyanna; you’re growing to be such a beautiful young lady.” Once completing his introduction to all the Stark children, Robert inquired about her grave sight, eyes flickering to Ned, wasting no more time on other formalities. His heart yearned for her touch and yearned for her kiss. He needed to see her, and Ned admired that of his old friend. 

***

You found yourself isolated with Luan, and his head nuzzled against your leg, your eyes watching the river flow and the grass dance in the chilled wind that kissed over Winterfell. Night soon fell upon Winterfell, and your mother would soon search for you. To scold you for arriving late to the arrival of the King and Queen and for having my hair in such a wildling state. You wanted her to cool down as much as possible, praying to the old Gods and the new that she would only give you a chastising look. Without moving your head, your eyes cut to the left as you heard the soft rustle of the overgrowth and crunch of leaves. Luan’s ears perked, his eyes shifting about. You thought it’d be Theon, and he always finds you no matter where you hid. He stalked you, slowly walking behind you, towering over you. But the footsteps were heavier; the sound of steel filled your ears. Finally, you found your voice, lowly you said, “Whose there?”

His voice was firm as he spoke, “You should be out here alone, M’lady.” You didn’t turn to face him right away; your heart slammed against your chest as you tried to recognize the voice. You looked over your shoulder and saw the scarred soldier, his face tight with irritation as he moved through the brush. You offered a meek smile, taking his appearance in more. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he began to speak, “It’s not safe,” was all he managed to voice out. 

You chuckled, returning your attention to the rushing water; the puddles formed as the fish rushed to the surface, causing ripples to spread until they touched land. You could feel him; his presence was looming and dark, and his eyes ran across your body, wondering how a petite girl could survive the harsh weather. Once again, you peeked at the unfamiliar knight, “Sit.” It sounded more like a question than a command. You waited for a moment, and he didn’t move from his spot. Sighing, you lay back against the icy grass, letting the sun slightly warm you. “My name is-”

“I know your name,” The knight roughly hisses; he watched you in curiosity, taking in the fullness of your lips, the way your hair fell wildly around the fur that covered your shoulders. Your laugh kisses the air; he never a simple sound could hold much beauty. 

“Well, Ser, you have me at a disadvantage,” he watched how your mouth moved when you spoke; he watched you lick your lips, your tongue quickly out to coat your bottom lip. He suddenly felt nervous, an odd trait; his fingers tingled as he clenched them against his side. He was self-conscious, and when you finally opened your eyes to look at him, you would surely be in disgust, like every woman does, like the whores do, just like everyone does. 

“The Hound,” he finally pronounces; your eyes open slowly, body twisting to stand up, Luan following in her footsteps. You look at him with a softness he has yet to experience. Finally, a smile captures your lips, filling up your entire face. 

“Sandor Clegane, my father has taught me some things.” He watched you, not understanding your disposition; he was a monster and has always been treated as such. Now, this girl is treating him as if they are equals. “Come, why don’t you walk me back to Winterfell? We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” You spoke through your boisterous laugh that shocked Sandor; it was solid and full of life. His mouth twitched into a smile as he followed behind you. You talk about simple things, nothing that holds any particular interest to Sandor. Still, he listens, soaking in your words, the way you speak so furiously when passionate about something, the pauses in your speech to ensure that he wasn’t growing tired of your rambles. Every time you looked back to catch his eyes, they were focused on you. All you did was smile in contentment, turning back to the path. Silence soon fell over you both; it was tense, yet it was calm; the only sound that could be heard was your footsteps crunching on the earth and the sound of his sword slightly clanging against his armor. 

“Tell me about yourself,” Sandor pauses, halting in his footsteps, noticing you stopped before him. Your head is slightly positioned up to look up at him. You noticed that he was extremely tall, possibly taller than Ser Jamie but definitely taller than Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark. 

His voice was harsh and raspy when he spoke, “Let’s get you back to Winterfell, Little Wolf.” You let out a laugh, pressing your hand against his armor to prevent him from moving forward. Sandor quickly grabbed your wrist; you winced at his aggressiveness, slightly tugging away from him. Sandor loosened his hold on you but still held your hand against his chest. He repeated his statement, his hand letting go of her wrist as you nodded slowly. You watched him before turning around and returning to your trek back to Winterfell. 

You arrived a few moments later, thanking him for his company. You bid him farewell before parting to your chambers. 

Caitlyn's voice oozed with frustration; she thudded through the halls, grabbing your upper arm. “Where were you? Are you okay?” her face churning into one of concern; you nodded gently, tugging your arm away from her. She swallowed thickly. You noticed her eyes were a deep red, her face drained of color. Something was wrong. You could see the anxiety moving through her, her hand's shakiness and her lips tremble. Luan whined at your side, brushing himself against your thigh. His whine increased as they churned into a soft growl. 

“Mom?” you managed, “What happened?” She turned away from you, shutting her eyes as their tears flew down her collarbone. She choked back a sob. 

“I told him to stop climbing, I told him-” 

“Mom! Is it Bran? What the hell happened!” You screamed; you pushed passed her, rushing through the handmaidens, screaming out your brother’s name. You stumbled upon Jon and Robb; you frantically searched their eyes. You heard the howls of his unnamed pup, Luan, stir with anxiety as he began to howl. Jon stalked towards you. You shook your head, punching at his arms as they reached for you. “He’s dead? Is he dead!” 

“No” was all Jon managed to let out, his eyes fluttering to Caitlyn as she watched him comfort you. She hated him. You hugged him, and you cried in his chest as your legs abruptly gave out. Robb rushed to your side, gently placing his hand on your back and whispering comforting words to you. “Let’s go see him,” your words were getting caught in your throat, burning as they tried rising to the surface. All you could do was nod at his command.

***

The crisp morning burned your lungs, and the unnamed Pup howled all night. You were irritated with him; you tried silencing him and even tried to pry him away from Bran, but he wouldn’t leave his side, rightfully so. Now, you walked through the Winterfell with Luan in search of quietness and stillness. You hissed in frustration as Luan rammed his head against your leg, his whines falling from him. He grew more irritable and anxious as the days passed. The constant whine of the unnamed pup sent him on edge. He sat, looking at you through his vermillion eyes. He huffed in disobedience before lying down in the middle of the street. “Luan,” you hissed, pushing at his body. He huffed once more, shutting his eyes and letting out soft yelps and whines. “Luan, get up!” 

Outside, Tyrion stood, letting the cold morning air fill his lungs as he descended the library's stairs. Sandor Clegane’s voice, raspy in nature, kissed his ears –he spoke, “The boy is taking a long time to die. I wish he would be quicker about it.”

“At least he dies quietly,” the prince replied. “It’s the wolf that makes the noise. I could scarce sleep last night.”

“I could silence the creature if it pleased you,” he spoke; his eyes shifted to you, and he instantly regretted his words. He watched you move to your knees, hands tugging him to his feet as he fell limp against you. His squire placed a longsword in his hand, and he sliced through the morning air, testing the weight of it. He returned it to the boy, shaking his head gently. His eyes fell back to you, hearing you beg the pup to get up. “Luan, please stop acting like a brat!” Luan, that was his name, an odd name for a Pup. Luan bared his teeth at you, growling loudly as he captured everyone’s attention; it was a deep guttural sound. As he followed you, you rose to your feet in anger, his head tilted low. Yet, you stood firm, watching the pup testing his dominance against you. 

“Luan!” you shouted. Sandor hated to admit the heaviness and authority in your voice sent chills down him, prickling at his skin; it was harsher than the frigid winds. Your voice reminded him of your father’s, stern and full of strength; it was so different from Sansa's and similar to Arya’s. Sandor watched you sigh, kneeling back down as you cuffed his cheeks. Joffrey flinched as his eyes turned to you; they all watched you in bewilderment. 

“Winterfell is so infested with wolves, and the Starks would never miss one… maybe two.” Joffrey snorted as his gaze fell to his Imp Uncle, who was hopping off the last steps in the yard.

“The Starks can count past six. Unlike some princes I might name,” Joffrey scoffed as blush dusted across his cheeks, and he became irritated with the drabble of his Uncle. His eyes flickered to his dog, who seemed infatuated with the Stark girl. You watched the expression change in the dog’s face. He admitted that the Stark held more beauty than the younger one. 

Joffrey let out a cackle, “Go speak to her!” his voice whined in a command; Sandor looked at him, face burning with frustration and embarrassment. “Go on, dog; maybe your presence might calm the mutt.” They watched as he approached you, nervously tapping his fingertips. You could feel his presence behind you, his long shadow casting over you and Luan. His presence was looming and heavy; you didn’t tear your graze away from Luan. 

“Sandor, what a pleasure,” you finally spoke; you turned to look up at him, a soft smile playing on your lips as you moved to your feet. The rush of air sucked into his nose, and you smelt soft and warm. His head rolled toward Luan, his words failing him as he stood there aloof. “Everyone’s going through a rough time, even the Pups. Luan took it a bit harder. He enjoyed Bran's company. Probably more than Jon’s and Ghost.” You stop, looking away as the mention of his name sends a frenzy of emotions through you. 

“Everything will be alright, Little Wolf,” he huffed as he felt you wrap your arms around him. His freezing armor pierced your skin to the touch, numbing you as you dug deeper into his rigidness. His hands gripped at your shoulders in shock, unable to do anything but hold them there. His eyes moved to her overgrown Pup; he stalked around them, his head brushing against the back of his leg affectionately. Pulling away, he noticed the red mark forming on her, her eyes swelling with emotions, and her lip trembled. His gloved finger brushed against her face in slight desperation and wonder; quickly, she grabbed his wrist, pulling it closer to her face, and soon his hand was cuffing her cold skin. She nuzzled into his touch as a dog would, tears soaking her skin and his glove. 

Softly, you mumbled a thank you. Sandor was cold again, the air chilling around him as he watched you walk away with Luan. He forced the emotions down as he hissed to himself; he knew this was one of Joffrey’s games; a woman as delicate and beautiful as yourself would never want him. His teeth gritted as he turned back around, seeing that Joffrey held onto his cheeks and the tiny Lord scolded him. In a hurry, Joffrey rushed off, leaving Tyrion and himself for just a moment. 

You headed to your chambers, allowing Luan to lay by Bran’s side with his unnamed Pup; you thought the gesture was sweet. Moving into your chambers, you began to undress, asking one of the maidens preparing your bed to get Lilly for you. They nodded, bowing before scurrying to fetch your Lady. 

Confused, you slowly watched the tall figure move into your chambers. You began to recognize the presence of Sandor; he towered over every object that cluttered your chambers. You were expecting your handmaiden. Gasping, you pulled the robe tighter against your body as you watched him in surprise. “Sandor,” you breathlessly called out, “What are you doing in here?” 

He shook his head, “You’re tricking me!” his voice bellowed; in a hurry, you rushed to him, shushing him gently. You noticed his attire was different, a dull red-colored tunic with a hound emblem stitched to his right breast. You could smell the stale wine; it radiated off him. 

“I know not what you speak of; please keep your voice down. My mother and father would kill me if they saw a man in my chambers.” Your hand reached up their face, wanting to calm him. You gasped as you felt him yank at your arm. “Sandor, what is the matter?”

“Is this one of insipid Prince’s jokes? Or what, you mocking me girl?” his voice low as he brought his face closer to yours; you could feel the warmth of his skin, his breath flushed against his face. Hesitantly, you let your other hand move to his face; he flinched at your touch, never feeling a warmth like this. You parted lips softly, trying to find some words to say. Your thumb traced against his scarred face, feeling the grooves and imperfections. “Don’t,” his voice laced with desperation as he shut his eyes. Anger washed over him, as he continued to glare at you.

Your lips parted again, as you tried searching for the right words, but how could you even explain it? Explain your fast-growing feelings for him. “I–I” your voice shaking as Sandor brought his eyes to you. You gasped as you felt his lips clashing with yours, his hands wrapping around your lower back, tugging you closer to him and bringing you to the tips of your toes. You gasped as you felt, grabbing his hand, gripping your thighs, hoisting you up, letting your hands rest against your ass. You gasped, as he tugged at your bottom lip. You yelp as you feel yourself connect to the bed; he towers over you; lust fills his eyes as he tugs at your leg, pulling you closer to him. He climbs on top of you, his lips pressing against your neck and chest. You could see him fumbling with his trousers, as he pauses. 

“Can I?” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze momentarily. In awe, you nodded, fumbling to remove your sleeping garment. Hastily, he grabs your breasts, allowing them to fill up in his hands before letting them go. You sucked in a deep breath as he flipped over, placing you on his stomach. His hand reaches your hips, forcing you to push your ass out, revealing your wet and dripping cunt. Rubbing his hand on his aching cock, he shoves it inside you without warning. Your hand clutches your blankets as you grit your teeth, squeezing your eyes shut as you adjust to his size. He wiggled you slightly, letting your wetting spread through his cock. His hand grips your thighs as he begins to grind deeper inside you slowly, your body twisting in pleasure. You stifle a moan as you slap your hand against your lips. You struggled to breathe as he pounded himself inside you, the aggressive slaps filling the silence of the air. His free hand snakes around your waist, yanking you closer with each thrust into your tight pussy. Sandor groans in bliss, as he feels you clenching around his cock, the feeling of your hand clawing at his hands for some sort of release. 

Your whole body at his disposal, twitching from euphoria as he continued to pound his cock into your pussy. Your face contorts in pleasure, as his fingers move to your clit. You feel the heat building up to your face, gasping; you moan silently, stuffing your face in the pillows that decorated your bed. Pathetically, you moaned out his name, “Sandor,” a shudder traveled down his spine at the sound of his name being released from your lips. He finally opened his eyes, taking hold of the perfect ass bouncing against his cock and how you tried to contain yourself from being too loud. He never had a whore moan his name, nor did he like hearing it. But, it was something about the neediness in your voice, The way your hands tangled in his. He didn’t mind all too much; he didn’t mind your index finger and thumb tried wrapping itself around the palm of his hand. He didn’t mind the soft coos of his name falling from your lips. 

All mine, He thought.

Sandor snapped back from his thoughts as he felt a burning sensation rise in the pit of his stomach, his cock twitching as he felt himself becoming sloppy and desperate to cum. His breaths are heavy and shaky. His body twitches as he spills his seed into you, spewing against his cock and your pussy. He pulls you up, your back pressed against his chest as he continues to fuck you, his grunts filling your ear, as his hand travels to your nipple. Sandor didn’t want the bliss to end; he didn’t want to be outside you—outside this room. You lay your arms on him, feeling the heat radiating from his dewy skin. Your breast bounced harshly, slapping against each other as he mercilessly fucks you. Your pussy clenched against him, your head falling into the crock of his neck, as you moaned out his name once more. Desperately, trying to find more words. Your head moved to his face, gently stroking his cheek in admiration and passion. He shrugs you off, moving his head back to avoid your touch. 

He felt himself climaxing; he couldn’t contain his moans, as they fell through the room's silence. He filled you up, jutting as he thrusted weakly into you. You fell to the bed, your arms weak as you pushed yourself to watch Sandor. He was fixing himself, avoiding your gaze. In a daze, you called out his name. He continued to dress himself, his back facing you. Now confused, you moved off your bed, stumbling towards and touching his back. He left the room; the cold air breezed against your naked body as you stood in the middle of the floor. You open to mouth to call his name, but nothing comes of it. 

“M’lady!” Your handmaiden spoke, slamming the door as she wrapped you in your robe. “Everything alright?”

Still in a daze, you nod. The emotions were building in your throat as you choked them down. “You reek of sex, M’Lady… let’s clean you up before people notice!” Lilly whispers, her hand gently pressing against your back as she tugs you further into your chambers.

It has been months since you last felt his touch; you knew he was avoiding you. His eyes never met yours when you were trapped in some isolated corner in Winterfell. His voice was harsh when he spoke to you, and his eyes were dull and emotionless. You tried grabbing his hand, but he pulled it away, huffing in annoyance before moving around you. You couldn’t breathe, your eyes swelling with tears as you sucked in a slow breath. Theon noticed the sudden change in your behavior, how you curled away from his touch and avoided his kiss and sexual advances. 

You watched as Lilly packed your chest. “It’s gonna be lovely! You’ll certainly find a suitor in Kings Landing!” 

“I’m not searching for any suitors.” You responded shortly; she nodded, understanding that she might have upset you. Shaking your head, you mumbled out an apology. “I instead want to stay here with Bran, not travel with my father and sisters to watch my sister marry that little boy,” Lilly laughs, rolling her eyes at your stubbornness. You two had become close, and she would often teach the ways of the “wild,” as she would like to put it simply. The burning of herbs masked the smell of sex and other odors—the concoctions she made when you felt ill. Lilly first noticed when you became increasingly irate at the same things, screaming and fussing at her as the months passed. She would hurry and remove the sheet, swapping them with that of her own. She then noticed that you weren’t bleeding, the sheets stained with a slight pinkish hue but nothing deep enough to be considered. She undressed you one night, letting the smoke engulf you as you lazily let her. Your mind was gone, and your happiness drained. She knew you weren’t the same after your night with Sandor…much less any of the following nights with Theon.

Lilly bathed you, your head against the tub as she watched you. She knew; she sensed it. She scrubbed your leg, sighing as she pleaded you wouldn’t think less of her. “I can help you, M’Lady, but you must trust me.” You nodded, closing your eyes and opening yourself to her. You hissed as you felt her insert something into you. It was hard, and you felt as you clenched and adjusted yourself. Lilly let you lay there, unmoving in the bath, as she gently combed your hair. The following days, you gruesomely bleed.

Lilly whispers a response as she is brought back to reality. “Mm, maybe it’ll do’ya some good to get away from ‘ere” 

It did not; you traveled with your sisters and father back to Kings Landing, the carriage jolting at any little divet in the road. Ayra’s head rested on your lap as she tried to lull herself to sleep for the majority of the voyage, but she always failed in her efforts. “We need to stop!” You finally shouted, your voice carrying throughout, your eyes shut in irritation. “I need to breathe; I am suffocated!” Ned laughed, his head waving to the coachman, signaling us to stop. Arya rose gently, her dark grey eyes watching you intently; she was always suspicious after confiding in Jon that you would cut off your and join the black. Jon laughed, tossing his hand against your shoulder, saying that you were too beautiful ever to be considered a man. 

You tugged on the inside of your cheek. “I need a moment’s peace.” Hurriedly you removed yourself from the carriage, sucking in the fresh air- you coughed slightly. It was nothing like the frigid crisp air in the North; it burned at your throat and nose, leaving you numb. You moved deeper into the surrounding forest, stumbling over stumps and shallow holes. You pressed your head against a tree, shutting your eyes tightly. No matter how far you ventured, you could still feel the carriage walls surrounding you, beating closer and closer. You licked your dry lips, gasping as you felt a hand wrap around your shoulders. With wide eyes, you were now facing Sandor. 

“What?” You grumbled out, snatching your body away from him and finally getting a good look at him after weeks. You wanted to hold him… no, slice his throat open and beat him until he lay bloody on the ground. He used you.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” Rolling your eyes, you snatch your dress into your face, moving deeper into the forest, your exposed skin snatching on thorn-ridden branches. You could hear the branches cracking under his weight, and he called out your name low and needy. He hated seeing you upset, the way your round eyes scanned his face, searching for something. He was behind you in one stride, grabbing at your arm and tugging you against him. You kept your gaze ahead, watching the leaves swirl in the wind, the branches dancing briefly. It was eerily quiet, and you loved it. It was filled with silence and not with Sansa mentioning for the hundredth time her plans for the future, Arya not needlessly picking at your dress, and Father not snoring. It was peaceful. Sandor dipped his head down, taking in your scent, his lips nipped at your escaped next. 

“Don’t,” you whispered, unmoving. You squeezed your thighs together, hoping to create some friction. Your breaths are uneven and heavy, your fingers twitching to hold his unto his. His other hand shifted slightly, fiddling with his armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, taking a deep breath before pulling away. “No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to fuck me when you’re feeling needy” Your back still faces him. 

Sandor never knew the right words, so he didn’t speak much. “Mm,” The silence of the forest grew; it engulfed you and burned your ears. You spun around. 

“Leave me. Tell my father I will return soon.” Your voice barely above a whisper, Sandor reached out for you, his hand wrapping around your upper arm, snatching you closer to him. You felt his lips against yours, and he kissed you harshly. Lips molded against each other as your arms snaked around his neck, pushing yourself closer. He ran his fingers over your waist as gently as he tried to be, dancing back to your ass. 

Your lips unexpectedly separated with a smack, “If I wanted to be in some cunt, I would get some.” You stood there, flustered and confused. The words did not yet make sense to you as he watched him through a daze. He pulled away slowly, letting your hands fall against his armored chest before smacking to your side. 

Getting to Kings Landing took a few more weeks; you were not excited about it. You hated how the people dressed and looked at you, gawking at the Starks. On the other hand, Sansa was rather excited; with wide eyes, she took hold of Kingslanding and marveled at the tall structures and beautiful castles. Arya stuck by your side, her hand wrapped around yours as you both moved through hesitantly. Your eyes caught hold of Sandor’s; quickly, you looked away, following the progression into the Red Keep. You felt a hand gently touch your back; you flinched casting your gaze to your left as you saw an older woman gazing at you. “Why don’t I show you to your chambers, Lady Stark,” Your eyes flickered to your father, who gave a quick nod of approval. You tugged on your bottom lip, praying that he would take him with you to indulge in his political affairs. Ned could see that you were hesitant, and he pressed a sympathetic smile on his lips. His rough hands fell against your shoulder, bringing you closer. You smell him; you inhale powerfully, taking in the familiarity. He smelled of the walls of Winterfell, the crisp and coolness of the North’s air. 

“Go, I will check on you soon,” He spoke lowly, his thumb quickly brushed against your cheek before shooing you with one of the handmaidens. 

Just like that, he was gone, leaving you alone.

[justanoasisimagines]

Lazy days with Sandor Clegane

Hey my lovelies, back with another headcanon. My requests are open and my request guidelines are pinned to the top of the page! Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the divider!

❀Lazy days with Sandor don't happen often. The two of you are always fulfilling your duties.

❀Lazy days would mean resting in bed until high noon. Talking and cuddling, while you're resting your aching bodies. The two of you would make plans. Catching each other up with what's going on.

❀Eventually, the two of you would get out of bed and break your fasts together. There would be no need to get properly dressed as no one is in any rush.

❀From then the two of you would do whatever you want. If there was something that needed to be done around the house Sandor would get on with it. While you went off and did your own thing or perhaps you would sit with him. Keeping him company or reading while he works.

❀Or perhaps the two of you could relax in the garden. Admiring the weather, observing the world go by.

❀Dinner that night would be relaxed, something you didn't have to prep and cook.

❀Later that night you return to bed, and both of you are well rested and ready to go back to everyday life.

[minsyal]

The Great Stone Knight, Pt. IX

Sandor Clegane x Reader

Warnings will remain vague and be for the work as a whole as opposed to each part individually: violence, death, assault, my shitty characterizations, explicit language, sexual content (will be noted), and having too good of a time reading this.

Masterlist

“How did you end up with the Hound?” The boy you had come to know as Gendry asked. He had been stuck at Arya’s side since you first met, though he was more open to the notion of the Brotherhood. You had on occasion overheard him telling Arya that he wished to join them, much to her dismay. 

It had been only a single day since you last saw Sandor, and about the same amount of time since you had been outside. Beric had informed you that he intended on selling you to your father as his reward would be far greater than the Lannisters, but only after taking the road north west toward Riverrun where they would ransom Arya to her family. 

“He helped me escape King's Landing.” You replied as Arya tightened her jaw and shook her head trying to dismiss the words that spilled from your lip. “He was my shield while I was captive in the Red Keep.”

“Do you love him?” Arya blurted out with a full mouth, the warmed bread in her hand was squishing beneath the force of her fingers that dug into its sides. “He’s a killer. I’m surprised he didn’t kill you.” 

“Arya.” Gendry scolded, swatting in the air in front of her chest as if to blow away her attitude. 

“What?” The contents of her mouth were on full display as her jaw fell slack. “He is.” 

You sighed, not due to irritation. “I liked him.” The pop of your shoulders relaxed your tensed muscles as you craned your head from side to side. “Arya, I knew your sister.” 

“Doubt it.” She was quick to deny your claim. 

Her battle with you was rather one-sided. While she wanted to remain vehemently against every stance you took. she did find that you weren’t as insufferable as she initially judged. The minute she had seen you at Sandor’s side, and especially when she saw the way you tended to him, she decided that you were just as evil as he. She made a vow to herself that anything that you said was false and quelling your attempts to talk to her were the best option. 

“No,” you disagreed, “I did know her. I was friends with her back in King’s Landing. She made me promise that I’d marry your brother, Robb.” 

“Marry Robb?” The ridicule in her hiss was palpable. “He wouldn’t like you. You’re not his type.” Gendry shook his head, attempting to brush her words off with the gusty sigh that pushed past his lips. 

The small canteen the Brotherhood had afforded you sloshed with water. It was full of dirt and sand that dragged down your throat in an unappealing and harsh manner each time you swallowed. From what you could tell, the Brotherhood lived fairly savagely. They were men of the shadows, consistently avoiding capture as part of their vow to protect the Riverlands. At the very least, they knew how to keep clean. Each man, while wearing stolen or old gear, kept some form of cleanliness whether it be in their teeth or nail beds. But it seemed that no man properly cared for every part of their body. 

“I suppose that’s a good thing, then.” You swirled the water around, hoping to get the grit to settle to the bottom. “I don’t wish to marry.” 

“But you were promised to the Mountain.” She retorted. “He talked about you when we were at Harrenhal.” Her frame was surprisingly haunting in the way she carried herself. The intimidation tactic was different, more imposing even with the lack of a proper weapon or height. Approaching you, she kept her brown eyes trained on your face, unblinking and distressing. “He talked about all the things he was going to do to you and he left no detail out.” Gendry tried to stamp out the fire she was starting with her words, but she paid him no mind. “He said he was going to bring an army into this world with you, and then once you’d given him that, he was going to kill you.” She ground her teeth. “He’d pop your head under his hands after he took your eyes out.” Arya was a well of knowledge. You couldn’t blame her for clearly not having a filter, but hearing Gregor’s plans for you weren’t any less chilling even with you miles away.

“Arya.” The boy grabbed at her sleeve and tugged her backward. Your shoulders slumped at her revelation. “Stop.” 

“What? I’m just telling her the truth. Better to know how you’re going to die before it happens.” 

She stomped off, wandering elsewhere in the Brotherhood’s caverns.  

“She’ll come around.” 

~~~*~~~

“You’ll regret that.” You watched as the woman in red disappeared through the lush greenery of the forest, riding away with a gaggle of men and Gendry in tow. Beric stood at your side, tall and towering above but not as tall as Sandor. “The girl has lost her father and now her sister. He was her family.” 

“We do what must be done.” Beric turned his focus from their retreating figures toward you, the laser of his gaze burnt into your cheek. “We serve the Lord of Light, and the Lord of Light needs him.” 

“So, if the Lord of Light needed one of you? Would you fall on your swords?” 

Arya sauntered off, away from the group. Thoros moved to keep an eye on her along with a few others leaving you and Beric at each other’s sides. “Conceivably.” His hand landed on your shoulder, applying a firm grip as he shook you slightly. “She will move on.” 

“She won’t.” You replied, finally losing all sight of the cart. “She will never forgive you.”

“Forgiving and forgetting are different things.”

“Same way you’ll forget us once you’re on a ship home.” The sound of crunching leaves and rustling branches announced Thoros’s entrance. He wore his usual bemused smile, lips pulled together tightly. 

As Thoros moved to place his hand on your other shoulder, you shrugged both of them away and stepped out of the line the three of you had created. “How do you know that my father will give you anything? Did your silly god tell you that too?” 

“We have to trust in one’s ambitions.” Beric noted, eyes trained on you as you swiveled your body to face their fronts. “Any father would be pleased to have the safe return of his child.” 

“That’s a lot of faith in a man who is currently a year’s travel away.” 

“I’m lucky that I am a man of faith, then.” 

~~~*~~~

“Arya?” 

The young girl was disturbed. Her sadness was blocked out by the hatred that blazed behind the irises of her gaze. Arya had screamed and slew threats to Beric, pushed at Thoros as he tried to calm her, and landed a kick to the groin to another man of the Brotherhood. She was on a rampage and nobody but herself could put an end to it. She sat with her knees to her chest, head buried beneath her arms. Tribulation wept from her distanced eyes. 

“Are you alright?” 

Her head jerked upward, hair flying in front of her face. “Do you think I’m alright?” 

“No.” Hesitantly, you lowered yourself to her side. She tensed at the motion, retracting herself much like you did the day prior when Beric had done something similar. “I think you’re upset.” 

She scoffed at the conclusion you drew, acting as though you were the dumbest person ever to have even needed to point it out. It was amazing how incredibly guarded she was for her age. It was apparent she had been through hell and back in the time she had been traveling from King’s Landing. 

“Gendry seemed like a nice boy.” You hummed. Extending your hand, you offered her a piece of dried jerky given to you by one of the men. The salt from the meat flaked off onto your fingers, coating them in a chalky consistency. 

She stared at the meat for a moment. “Why are you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

“Being nice.” She cringed. “Noble ladies are only nice when they want something.” 

Her dark outlook on the world eclipsed the brightness you wanted to bring her. 

“Aren’t you a noble lady?” The narrowing of your gaze was playful and light. 

She quickly retorted, “I’m not being nice, am I?” 

“Do you have anything I could want?” 

“No.” 

“Then perhaps I’m just here to keep you company…Do you like stories? Sansa loved hearing my tales. I’m quite the story teller.” Your jaunt was made to enliven her spirits, but was shot down by the arrows she let fly. 

“You’re going to tell me anyway.” 

“You seem to already know me quite well.” Behind you, your arms outstretched to rest on the cooling dirt. Forearms supported the weight of your body as you extended your legs out in front of you. “In Antonia, we tell the story of the Great Stone Knight.” 

“Is this a love story?” Having heard enough love stories to last her a lifetime, she was at her wits end when it came to the fictional tales. It was all Sansa wanted to discuss with her, and everything she never wanted. 

“Of course not.” You responded, relaxing more until your head was against the ground. Arya was amused by the way you carelessly laid on the ground, pleased that you weren’t bothered by the dirt that covered your clothing. “The Great Stone Knight was the most valiant of the knights. Brave and gallant, they served our royals for years, though not as a guardsman. The knight was born into nobility, but they never wanted it. Their house was in the wintery mountain tops of the vast range that extends around our capital. She was our first female knight.” 

“She?” Arya had eased the stiffening ends of her fingertips, loosening her posture as she decided the story was worth listening to. 

“Yes, she. The Stone Knight wasn’t a fair beauty, she hated all your traditionally feminine virtues. Her father had named her younger brother the heir of their household instead of her. Which she did not argue. She didn’t want to deal with all the dull droll of running a town.” You thrumed your fingers against the thick leather of your overshirt, given to you by the men who had extras. “So, she left. She ventured south to our capital and stood before the king, swearing fealty as she requested a knighthood. The king laughed in her face and demanded she leave his presence. He wanted her as a kitchen maid. Angered and appalled at his behavior, she swore that one day she would cast this king down from his holiness. She would show him what she could do.” 

“How old was she?” Arya had reclined at your side now. Her arm brushed against yours as she got closer so as to not miss a word of your tale. 

“She was six and ten when this happened, but she had been training with a sword since she was ten.” With a deep sigh, you continued. “Anyway, she was mad and rightfully so. He hadn’t even let her show him her abilities. He and his council mocked her and told her to return home. Outside the city gates she plotted. At every tourney we had, she would show up in a suit of armor of silver and black. She won every time, defeating even the best of the best. At the victor's ceremony, she would never take her helm from her head… I believe that is where she got her name. Stone Knight. She never talked at these tourneys, and the color of her gear resembled that of a stone wall.” 

“Why wouldn’t she show them who she was?” She was growing frustrated with the story. “Wouldn’t winning show the king she was worthy?”

“She always felt it wasn’t worth it. She had won a tourney, but the victor's ceremony was afterward. If she had taken her helm from her head then, they would claim her to be a false knight. So she continued on. She lived in the city in the poorest district. She would spend her evenings training the young boys and girls alike, happy to teach anyone who wanted to learn.” You opened your eyes, focusing on the fading blue sky as the sun began its descent. “When the Battle of Valverme happened, it is said that monstrous creatures flooded the country. The king led his armada east to quell the danger, but even he was no match for the beasts that invaded. He regrouped and formed a new army. This one was larger and greater than the one before. Once again, he lost. As he gathered a third army, the Great Stone Knight showed up. She walked, fully armored, past their camps and straight for the darkness that lurked in Valverme. The king warned the knight, insisting that they wait. It was too dangerous! Surely the knight would perish as so many others had.” 

“What were the beasts?” 

“Well.” You racked your mind, bringing up any tales of fabled creatures you had heard of when you were a child. “Some were human-like, but blood thirsty and cannibals. Their hair was so grown that it grew into the skin of their arms and legs. Some were like bears with five sets of sharpened teeth. There were birds as big as,” you pointed at a tree that soared into the sky, “that tree with claws that acted like cages. They could spit an acid that melted flesh. Nonetheless, they were horrible disgusting monsters. I would be afraid of them, but the knight was not. She entered the cloud of darkness, strolling fearlessly into the face of danger. In her hand, she wielded a sword that entered as a color of silver. Suddenly, the curtain of darkness cracked. Large lines extended from end to end as her battle cry echoed throughout Antonia. It shattered like glass, the dark, and crumbled to the ground. When the debris and smoke cleared, there she stood. Her helm had broken in two, but her sword suddenly glowed in a white magnificence.” 

“They all knew she was a woman then.” 

“Aye, they did. The king was at a loss for words. He looked like a fish as he opened and closed his mouth. Words could not come to him. She smiled at him and he recognized her as the girl who swore fealty and knelt before him years before. For the first time, the king knelt to someone else. He immediately offered to knight her, but she didn’t want it anymore. She had proven her point.”

“But you said she was the first woman knight.” 

“Oh.” You smiled. “She was. He knighted her anyway and offered her anything she could ever want as repayment.”

“What did she ask for?” 

“Freedom. She asked for a stocked ship and a crew. The next day, she set off to travel the world and rid it of darkness. Some say she still sails the seas of Antonia, protecting the waters and training anyone who wants to learn. She never returned home, but I think that home isn’t where we were born, but rather where we make it.”

The Brotherhood continued on their forward march in their efforts to keep the riverlands Lannister free. Their travels toward Riverrun were being planned and the men paid no mind to the brooding Arya who sequestered herself at the edge of the group, sitting at your side. She was still mad. She had told you how they sold Hot Pie off, and now Gendry. At least she would be sold to her family, but the more she thought about it, it did bother her that your fate would likely lie on the same page as Gendry’s. 

“You said you knew Sansa.” Arya broke the silence between you as the sounds of men speaking were muffled with your own voices. “Prove it to me.” 

It was dark out now, the light worshipers had engulfed themselves in fire as each man held a torch of their own. The heat was almost unbearable, but none of them seemed to notice. “She loves to play games and hear stories.” You recounted one she particularly liked having to do with the ships that sailed in the harbor. “She’s quite tall, taller than I am at least… She told me a lot about you. You’re good with a bow, you had a direwolf named Nymeria, hers was Lady, and you had dancing lessons every morning while in Kings Landing. Though, I don’t take you for the dancer.”

“I was water dancing.” She perked up at the mention of the activity, her proclivity for distancing herself subsided as she recalled happier times. “It’s sword-fighting. My teacher was the best swordsman to ever live.” The apples of her cheeks rounded in the flickering of firelight as a smile pulled at her lips. 

“What was his name?”

“Syrio Forel. My father arranged the lessons… they’re both dead now. Killed by Meryn Trant and Illyn Payne.”

“Meryn Trant killed a friend of mine as well.” You hesitantly reached out to place your hand over hers, giving her enough time to react. “I’m sorry they’re gone… You know, my father would never let me train. He said training was for boys.” Swatting your hand dismissively into the air, trying to push away the sadness that loomed overhead. You shrugged your shoulders and shook your head. “Would you show me how to water dance sometime?” 

Lighting up, she nodded and picked up a stick from the ground. “I can show you now.” She found another and handed it to you. A hand was pressed stiffly against her lower back as she readied the other arm with the stick. “Hold it like this.” 

You followed, much to her amusement as you held it in a way she disapproved of. The first genuine smile you had seen from her was radiant, glowing brightly in the darkness of the night. “No.” She dropped her arms and grabbed your hand, opening your palm. “Like this.” 

She readied herself again and nodded. The stick swung across your front, blocked by your own as she made to attack from another angle. It hit your leg, stinging as it whipped against your skin. “You’re not very good at this.” 

“It’s my first try! Maybe you’re just not the best teacher.” 

A small laugh escaped her lips as she held her stick back up but instead of another round, she was interrupted by Thoros who had riled up the men. “Come on, Lannister men were spotted south of here.” 

“Lannister? You said I was to be sent home.” She threw her arms down and dropped the stick. 

He tilted his head. “Plan’s change.” 

“What about Riverrun? It’s not south, it’s west of here.” 

Berric joined the party, added his two cents as Arya began to fume. “It will still be west of here two days from now.” 

“You swore.”

“To take you home, and I will. But we need to do this first.” 

“You said you would send me to my father.” You argued, joining her at her side discarding the stick.

“We have to seize each opportunity we have. Unfortunately, this is just how the world is.” 

“How the world is?” Arya’s voice raised as her hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into the skin of her palms. “You’ll send her to her death! They’ll kill her!” 

“I swear to you-” 

“I don’t care what you swear because you’re a liar. You lied to Gendry, you lied to me, and you lied to (Y/n). You’ll lie to anyone. I hope the Lannisters kill you all.” 

“One day you’ll understand, but now-” 

In a flash, Arya grabbed your hand and pulled you away from their camp. Her grip was deathly and she refused to let go as your touch was the only thing telling her that you still followed behind. The ground was uneven, and in many places you had to plant your foot firmly into mud to keep your balance. Vines and weeds hung from the trees, acting as arms that continually thrashed you backward in their efforts to slow your pace. The Brotherhood marched behind, calling out continually and loudly as their torches gave away their positions. 

Water trickled from the stream that moved iridescently from a spring that bubbled from the ground below. She tugged you into the water, soaking your boots through and your pants to your knees. Arya’s huffed and gasped for air as she desperately ran, dragging you in tow. Pulling you down to crouch behind a tree, she peered around its trunk and caught her breath. “You’ve got to run faster.” She scolded in a whisper before bolting again, this time avoiding the muddy ground in favor of hopping across the hardened roots of a cluster of trees. 

It was only when you made it to a small clearing did she finally decide that you had lost the Brotherhood. Her chest heaved as her shoulders moved up and down, her hand covered her mouth in an attempt to keep her huffing quiet. 

The moonlight eerily crept through the vines that tangled within the tree branches, casting twisted shadows upon the forest floor. A light fog had rolled in hanging just above eye level, obscuring your distance vision. Arya’s eyes were wide and wild. Her pupils had dilated, the brown almost entirely turned to black. 

“Over there!” A man’s voice hollered as the burning torches came back into view. 

She gathered your arms in hers once more, powering furiously as she wove her way through the trees. You dodged each branch, holding tightly to her hand so as to not lose her in the foliage. The yelling could be heard behind you still, though it was muddled in the static of the night. Rustling in front of you stilled her in her tracks. The tree branches moved unnaturally as a darkened figure approached from the darkness. 

“No!” Arya yelled, turning to run backward, only to slam flat into your chest. You retained your grip on her hand, holding it tightly against her struggles as she tried to pry her fingers from yours. “Come on, we can’t go with him!” She slapped at your stomach with her freed limb, refusing to look at Sandor as he came fully into the clearing. “We can go to Winterfell! You can marry Robb!” 

“Arya!” You reared her forward into you, wrapping your other arm around her shoulders as you forced her to look you in the eye. “He is our safest bet right now. They’re coming for us. We must move.” 

She pressed her lips together and looked behind you. Still, though, she continued to fight. Dismissing her fit, Sandor approached fully and slipped his hands under her shoulders. Her hand fell from yours as she redirected her fight, kicking her legs and tearing her fingers at his forearms. “Kick all you want, wolf girl. Won’t do you no good.” 

He turned, still carrying her, and nodded his head for you to follow. “Best get moving. Beric won’t stop looking til’ he finds you both.”

An hour of walking put some space between yourselves and the Brotherhood. With Stranger secured to a tree and Arya calmed from her initial upset, you were finally granted a moment of rest. Laying on his back, fully dressed in his armor still, Sandor kicked his leg over the other. Arya rested a few feet away, curled into a ball with her knees tucked up to her chin. 

“You left me.” You picked at the dirt that had maneuvered  its way beneath your nails with the edge of a knife that Sandor had kept in his saddlebag. 

“Had to.” He said without opening his eyes. “Could have stayed at the inn. Would have found you there.” 

Dirt smeared against the leg of your pants as you wiped the tip of the knife off. “You told me they were going to kill you. How could you have found me if you died?”

“Didn’t die though.” A breathy titter passed though his lips. “Big fucker, hard to kill. Told you that once. I came back, didn’t I?” 

“You did.” You chided. “Why?”

“Not theirs to sell.” He said resolutely, as if it were something so clearly painted in the sky. 

“Of course.” He could taste the bitterness of your tone the second the words scoffed past your lips. The knife was dropped at your side as you reclined onto your back at his side. “You almost had me thinking you cared.”

Though dissuaded at the idea of traveling with the Hound, her sworn enemy as far as she was concerned, she was subdued when she considered that you would be traveling with them. Sandor had taken a place on the ground, walking with Stranger’s closest rein in his hand, steering the steed. Arya was sitting atop the horse in front of you, uncomfortable but happier than if it were Sandor behind her. It was the better part of a morning now that you had been back with Sandor, and only a few days that you had been separated. She was quiet as you rode, unsure of what to say as she no longer felt at odds with you. 

“You said you liked him.” She looked to Sandor who kept his focus straightforward. “Then are you together?” 

Arya shifted to throw her legs over one side of Stranger, using your outstretched arm as a backrest to keep her from falling backward. She looked, and acted, nothing like her elder sister. Sansa was so proud of her refined grace and womanly attributes. Arya was crass and blunt. Her features were strong, her face framed by short-cut dark brown hair. She was smaller in height and stature, but had broader shoulders and a well built frame. 

“No. We aren’t.” 

“But you like him.” Arya insisted, enjoying the way she got beneath your skin. “He doesn’t like you, though. Does he? Why do you stay with him then?

“Where else am I to go?” 

“Home, maybe.” She swiveled around again and looked outward. In the distance was a vista view of a branching river. Its white water rushed quickly, bringing with it a healthy breeze of refreshing crisp air. “Where are you taking me? Is that the Blackwater?”  

“The Blackwater?” He scoffed. “Where do you think I’m taking you?” 

“Back to King’s Landing to Joffrey and the queen.” 

“Fuck Joffrey. Fuck the queen. That’s the Red Fork. I’m taking you to the Twins.”

“But why?”

“Because your mother and brother will be there and they’ll pay me for you.”

“Why would they be at the Twins?”

“Those outlaws you love so much never told you? The whole countryside is yapping about it. Your uncle is marrying one of the Frey girls. So quit trying to bash my skull in and we might just make it there in time for the wedding.”

Writer's Note: It's gonna ramp up from here. Sorry to the vegetarians/ vegans because we're about to get into the MEAT of the writing in the next few parts ✌🏼

Tag List (HMU if you want to be tagged):

@madameasbjorn @yaskna @xakilicious @waifu4lifeu @peaked-in-third-grade @underatreedrinkingtea @bra1nr0t-for-lasquadra@dreamgirljere @fortunatelyfadingkingdom @bennysimps @supervalcsi@darylssluttt @grcnseer @strawberryoverkill

[hjori-kunoichi]

Super sweet 🩷

The Second Valentines

Summary: based on one of my previous posts talking about how you and Sandor would spend valentines.

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x reader

A/N: I'm trying to get a feel for writing character x reader fic in third person

----------

Sandor gently placed the pink and white bouquet in the vase, making sure the length of each stem was at a perfect height. He looked at the candles next to the vase. They were honey scented with their wicks standing tall and pristine. They’re lit in the movies, he thought, but couldn’t bring himself to light them. He turned away and walked to the sink.

The thawed filets were bright red, and Sandor stuck his thumb in the center. The plastic bag and steak squished under his finger, indicating that it was no longer frozen and ready to be cooked. He promised to wait for her to arrive before cooking so that they could talk and drink wine while he prepared dinner. It was the second Valentine’s Day the they would be spending together, and he wanted it to be special. 

Sandor was usually alone on this romantic holiday. She had broken his lonesome streak last year, but they hadn’t been together long. Sandor settled on taking her to a restaurant, which was wonderful, but he couldn’t do it again. She had stayed with him this long, so she deserved more than that.

Sandor heard a knock over the soft music playing, and knew it was her before he opened the door. She was stunning. Sandor stared for a moment, the only words he could offer were a hello and you look beautiful. She smiled and stepped in, placing two bottles of red wine on the counter and a container of chocolate strawberries that she had brought.

The chemistry was instant. They chatted as Sandor prepared the steaks and she poured two hefty glasses of wine. Smoke went up as the steaks simmered in the pan, hissing when they were flipped. She offered to chop the salad while Sandor seared the steaks. He declined at first, insisting that she should sit and continue talking about her day, but she wasn’t really asking. Sandor added wine to the steaks, watching as it bubbled with  sharp chops interrupting the music periodically. 

Once the steaks were done, Sandor took two plates out of the cabinet, placing them gently on the counter. He insisted that she fix her plate first. She did, complimenting how savory the filets smelled. She went to take the seat across from Sandors; she felt that it was slowly becoming hers, but Sandor told her it was the third time she came over. They sat together in comfortable silence for just a moment. 

She picked up a candle, turning to the label to read its scent.

“I hope you don’t mind—” He started.

“I don’t,” She replied with a soft smile, setting the candle down to take his large hand in hers and rub circles on his knuckles. He smiled back.

[charliedawn]

"Marry me."

How I think marriage proposals would go for those characters.

Sandor Clegane:

"…Wanna get married ?" You asked as both you and Sandor were sleeping side by side in the forest. Sandor blinked—half asleep. He had back pain and a headache. He had hoped that the wine would help him to fall asleep quicker, as to not have to hear you say any other crazy thing or request for the day. But, of course. He was mistaken.

"Huh ?" When the information seemed to eventually settle in his brain, his whole face seemed a perfect depiction of confusion. He finally turned around and you could see in his eyes that he wasn’t exactly sober either. You decided this was the perfect moment to ask—since he would probably not even remember you asked the next morning. It gave you courage to ask again.

"Wanna get married ?" You repeated with a little more determination and this time, he answered.

"No."

"Ah."

"…"

"…"

"…You. Wanna get married ?" He asked this time—more because he was curious than awaiting an actual answer. But, you took your chance and answered truthfully.

"Sure."

He was momentarily surprised by your confidence before he huffed a laugh and wrapped an arm around you.

"…Fine. We’ll get married in the morning. Now, hush."

There was then a moment of silence before you both bursted out laughing. Just two drunks having the most normal conversation ever. You knew that by tomorrow, he would have surely forgotten all about tonight. But for now, you were satisfied with the knowledge that his subconscience hadn’t said no.

Oberyn Martell:

"Would you like to marry me ?" You asked Oberyn while he wad writing and whose lips curved slightly into a small smirk at the request. He was used to your rather straightforward nature. He liked it even. It made him laugh and enjoy your presence at parties. You were curious and completely unashamed or afraid of any consequences your requests or demands would bring. This is why he always caved. But, he could also be playful and this is why he answered with a small grin:

"No."

He was curious to see your reaction, but his smile slightly faltered when he saw the hurt in your eyes at his rejection. It was the first time he had seen you so upset and he immediately regretted his words.

"Oh. Okay then." You were embarrassed and turned around quickly to get back to your own private quarters. But he was by your side in an instant and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

"I was only kidding. I would LOVE to marry you, sweet peach."

He then kissed the back of your neck lovingly. You let out a sigh of relief as you leaned back against him.

"…Really ?"

He chuckled.

"Yes. Really."

He then kissed your temple and you stayed in his arms for a while before he started nuzzling the back of your neck.

"But what brought the subject, sweet peach ?"

You sighed before closing your eyes.

"…You’re the only one who truly enjoys my presence. You laugh and smile at me, even when my words are nonsense. So I thought…why not ask ?"

Oberyn seemed taken aback for a moment before his smile widened and he pressed your back further against him to kiss your shoulder and whisper in your ear.

"Let me tell you a little secret. I would marry you for your nonsense, my dear. Because your nonsense makes more sense to me than this whole world does…"

Tyrion Lannister:

"Do you want to marry me ?" You asked Tyrion one night and the man was so stunned that he spilled his cup of wine.

"What ?"

Tyrion was the most decent between all the Lannisters. He had helped you more than once and there was no doubt in your proposal. You would never find better husband.

"You heard me."

He stayed silent again and made you nervous. Would he refuse ? Would he tell you that he has already found someone ? Would he tell you that he has no interest in you ? But, he didn’t. He simply sighed.

"…Why ?"

Why ? You could tell him a thousand reasons why. Because he was one of the few good men you knew. Because you had no intention of marrying any other. Because you knew he could be gentle. Because he was funny. Because he could be brave. Because he had the heart of a true lion…but no. You wouldn’t tell him like that. Because even if you did, he wouldn’t believe you.

"Because I want to." You settled for instead and his eyes widened slightly in surprise before he smiled a little and shook his head.

"Why would you want to marry an imp ?"

"It is not an imp that I am marrying, but a prince." You retorted. You both stared at each other and his gaze softened as he started actually considering it for a moment.

"You would be miserable." You frowned in incomprehension at his words.

"Why ?" He glanced away for a second.

"Because I am not a good man."

You huffed a bitter laugh at his words.

"Haven’t you heard ? There are no good man left, my prince."

Tyrion seemed taken aback, but he couldn’t deny the truth behind your words and drank a little of his wine.

"Tell me, Tyrion. If I was to become your wife/husband. Would you hit me ? Would you abuse me ? Would you lie to me ?"

He shook his head with a small smile. No. He wouldn’t. You smiled back and Tyrion finally nodded understandingly. It wasn’t about love. It wasn’t about finding a good man. It was always about finding the one who wouldn’t hurt you…And hence, he understood and maybe…maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a wife/husband ?

Jaime Lannister:

"Jaime…" You sat down next to him at the feast prepared for the Lannisters and even though you could feel Cersei glaring daggers at you—you grabbed his hand. He didn’t react, but you could feel his fingers slightly curving to hold yours.

"Hello, buttercup." He finally greeted you in a whisper and you couldn’t help but smile weakly. You knew of his heart and his loyalty to his sister. It wasn’t really your business to interfere, but you didn’t like how Cersei was treating him. And, you also knew that his heart could maybe be won over.

So, you did the most nonsense ever and challenged him. You stood up and faced him—catching the attention of everyone in the room as you declared loudly.

"Jaime Lannister. I challenge you to an arm wrestling competition !"

That ought to have gained his attention as his eyes finally met yours and what he found in there made his eyes widen in surprise. You were determined and even though he was a knight—you didn’t seem scared of losing. He tried to laugh and wave it off as a mere joke—but you didn’t back down and even provoked him.

"Are you perhaps not a lion ? But a scared chicken ?"

That oughta do it. He was up before you could even pronounce another word and the fury in his eyes made you smile. He had taken the bait.

"If I win, you must agree to one single demand of my choice without knowing what it is !"

"And if I win ?" He quickly shot back and you bit back a laugh.

"Then I will give you whatever you want."

In a matter of minutes, everything was settled and you were both in position. Everyone assumed you were mad or had consumed too much wine to challenge Jaime Lannister—but it couldn’t be further from the truth. You had planned it carefully. You had trained and trained your body and your mind. You had worn big sleeves to hide the muscles hidden underneath. This could be the most important challenge of your life and you wanted to win. More than anything.

The moment Jaime gripped your hand, his eyes stared straight at you as he realised what you had done. This was not the strength of the Y/N he was accustomed to…but it was too late to stop and in a matter of seconds—Jaime Lannister was on the floor.

Everyone was stunned.

But, you only gracefully stood up from your seat and looked down at him before smirking.

"…I will be waiting for that marriage proposal." And with that, you were out of the room—leaving a very confused Jaime and a very angry Cersei behind. But, you knew that a lion never backed down from his word. And Jaime would be yours.

Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger) :

"Marry me." Littlefinger didn’t even seem surprised by you sudden demand. Everyone knew that your father wished to marry you off to Ramsay Bolton. And even though Littlefinger wasn’t sure why you would come to him with such a request, he didn’t show it.

He didn’t even look up as he simply asked.

"Why ?"

You huffed a bitter laugh. The man would sell mother and father for a throne. And he dared to ask why ?

"Does it matter ?"

He licked his thumb to turn the page of the book he was reading nonchalantly, even though you knew that he was secretly weighing the pros and cons of such an alliance.

"Depends. What will it bring me ?"

You looked away.

"Don’t pretend not to realise how advantageous it would be for you to be a part of the Lannister family. You’d have an easy access to the iron throne."

He hummed and pretended to think about it. It was true marrying you would be a fast way to get access to all the nice advantages of being a part of the so-called prestigious Lannister family. But, it had its own set of disadvantages to consider. He would become more than just a little man in the shadows that no one would deem worthy of being a threat, he would become a lion. A black lion.

"…Tell me why you would lower yourself to such an alliance with me. Surely, there would be one handsome young man who would say yes to such a proposal without even blinking. Why go to me, princess/prince ?"

You hesitated before sighing in defeat.

"…Because if I am to marry a snake, better be one I know than one chosen by Tywin Lannister."

At that, Petyr finally dignified you with a glance. You held his gaze and after a few seconds, he smiled.

"Very well, my beauty. Lead the snake to the lion’s den then."

Sansa Stark:

You and Sansa had been longtime allies and friends. You were maybe the only friend she had ever had after the almost complete destruction of House Stark. You had developed feeling for her over time and knew that asking her for her hand wouldn’t be easy—but you were willing to try.

"Please, Sansa of House Stark." You knelt on one knee before her with a rose in your hand and the other hand on your heart. "Would you marry me ?"

Sansa was surprised by the proposal. She had married twice and both marriages weren’t a success. She had lived through nightmares and pain out of such a dream as marriage. She used to want to get married with someone she loved so badly, but not anymore.

"My heart is not so easily won by a rose and pretty words anymore." She replied instead—thinking that she would succeed in breaking your resolve. But, she was mistaken.

"I know. I know that I may never be worthy of even your eyes on me. But…I am a fool, and my heart beats for you. And if you want it ? Then it’s yours. And even if you don’t want it. Let me fight for you. And prove my loyalty to the most beautiful and strong lady the North has ever seen." You pleaded and Sansa was rendered speechless.

She looked into your eyes and saw only love and adoration. She then glanced down at the rose you offered her and after a moment of hesitation, she finally took it.

"…You may try to win my heart, Y/N. But, I cannot promise you success."

You smiled and shook your head.

"Just having you acknowledge my feelings is enough for hope to enter my heart."

Sansa smiled back.

Maybe…romance wasn’t utterly dead.

Jon Snow: (Before the tragedy 😭)

"Marry me." It was said with such confidence that Jon himself was stunned as he looked up at you with widened eyes.

"What ?"

"You heard me."

There was a moment of silence before Jon smiled and he suddenly pulled you into his arms. There was no yes or no. Just a moment of pure euphoria as he couldn’t stop laughing as he buried his face in your chest. He was so happy, he forgot to form words.

When he was finally calm once more, he kissed you passionately.

"Yes. Yes. Yes, I will."

You both started laughing together and Jon even fell back on the snow as you held him tightly.

Daenerys:

"Marry me." You demanded and Daenerys looked back at you. She didn’t seem surprised or even mildly confused by the demand. She knew of your feelings for her—and she was more than happy to reciprocate.

But, marriage ?

Marriage meant boundaries. Marriage meant attachment. Marriage meant she would have to think about you and a possible future where she wasn’t all powerful.

She sighed before stroking your cheek and offering you an apologetic smile.

"My dear Y/N…If only I could, do not believe for a second that I would say no. But, as the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms…I cannot."

You closed your eyes and a few tears rolled down your cheeks. You had expected such an answer of course, but still…your heart ached.

"I…understand." You forced yourself to say and Daenerys nodded. She was a queen. A khaleesi. And you were just…human.

Ser Jorah:

"Please. Marry me." Ser Jorah was stunned at the unexpected request and turned towards you with widened eyes. He was about to answer when you quickly added.

"Love me. Hate me. I want you and you want her. But, I am not asking for your love. But for your protection, kind ser Jorah." He closes his mouth and seemed to think about it for a moment. He knew that you were a young lady/man who had left her/his family to join Daenerys. He had no idea you held such feelings for him…

"You can have my protection, but why go to such lengths to have it ?" He finally asked and you sighed before taking his hand in yours.

"Because it is not only physical protection I seek." You then laid his hand flat upon your heart and Ser Jorah seemed taken aback once more. He looked at you and you didn’t shy away from his gaze.

You knew Ser Jorah was honourable and even if he would never return your feelings, he would make a far greater husband than anyone you ever knew. He would respect you and your heart. And that was more than you could ever wish for…

Ser Jorah accepted.

After all, it was only his name that you were going to bear and his sword that would protect you. You would call him husband, but only in name.

[axelsagewrites]

Main Masterlist Here

House of the Dragon Masterlist Here

Warnings/Guides

【P】Platonic【P】 🆇Smut 18+🆇

Request Line Up and Request Rules

♡ Jon Snow ♡

🆇What he's like in bed🆇

Blind date

🆇Milady🆇

🆇Home Alone🆇

🆇Price of My Secrecy 🆇

Relationship Moodboard

🆇Couldn't Resist🆇

♡ Robb Stark ♡

Best Friend

Marriage night

🆇Dream🆇 🆇part two🆇

Frey Girl 🆇part two🆇

🆇I miss you🆇

Cloak

Honey Cakes (cloak part two or standalone)

Comfort

Sweet Girl

🆇NSFW Alphabet🆇

🆇Good girl🆇

Yearbook

Don't Die For Me

🆇Little Secret🆇

🆇Can't Catch a Break🆇

Goodnight Dear Husband

♡ Sandor Clegane ♡

Most People Say Goodbye Part One - Part Two

🆇Brat🆇

♡ Beric Dondarrian ♡

Home

♡ Thoros of Myr ♡

Favourite Friend

♡ Brienne of Tarth ♡

【P】Queen in the North and South【P】

♡Ned Stark♡

🆇MiLord🆇

🆇Wife🆇

♡Ramsay Bolton♡

🆇My Father Would Kill Me🆇

🆇Catch You🆇

🆇How Far Would You Go🆇

🆇Appreciate You🆇

🆇Bath🆇

🆇Little Mouse🆇

♡Roose Bolton♡

Perhaps

Not Yet

♡Edmure Tully♡

【P】Who We Call Family【P】

My Queen My Love

♡Theon Greyjoy♡

Dream of Sweet Memories

🆇Give it back🆇

♡Sansa Stark♡

Roommates

🆇NSFW Alphabet🆇

🆇What's This?🆇

Surprise Visit

♡Podrick Payne♡

🆇Praise🆇

♡Daenereys Targaryen♡

🆇My Queen🆇

♡Jamie Lannister♡

🆇Extra Credit🆇

♡Oberyn Martell♡

🆇Duty🆇

♡Margaery Tyrell♡

🆇Ropes🆇

♡Cersei♡

🆇Morning🆇

♡Tormund♡

🆇Real Man🆇

🆇Use your words🆇

♡ Yara Greyjoy ♡

Flirting

Preferences/Multicharacter

🆇Company🆇 - Yara and Ellaria threesome

🆇What they're like in bed🆇 – Robb, Jon, Sandor, Podrick

How they react to teasing – all

🆇What They're Like in Bed🆇 – Margaery, Sansa, Danny, Yara

Share pt1 🆇Competition pt2🆇 🆇Wait p3🆇 - Robb and Jon

🆇Hook ups🆇 - Theon and Jon

Love Languages - Jon, Robb, Bran, Tormund, Podrick, Oberyn

Thanks for any support I appreciate it all xoxo Sage

Dividers from here and here from @saradika

Post topper made on Canva

[castieltrash1]

hiii since you're taking got requests and i saw sandor is one of your faves: there's this post that's like "submissive like a guard dog is submissive" (i hope this makes sense even if you don't know what i'm talking about) and it always makes me think of him bc he's. you know. the hound. so what i'm saying is anything sandor-related with a dom reader would be very appreciated since i've never really seen anyone write him like this before :] if that's not your thing, that's totally fine though !

oh dw anon u came to the right place <3

sandor clegane x gn!reader; smut, dom/sub dynamics, dog motif, the hound is ur beaten and battered guard dog <3 mentions of violence, strong language, etc.

it doesn’t matter how you meet. maybe he serves your family. maybe he’s kidnapped you. maybe you’re just some lowborn whore whose face he pushes into the mattress to avoid looking at when he’s fucking out his anger. at some point, regardless of the roots of your relationship, the hound begins to heel. it’s not always obvious -- especially if you’re not some little lady/lord he’d be beheaded for lifting a finger to -- but it’s there. he’s already spent most of his life like this, and being with you is no different. you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

once he (somewhat) lets you in, the dynamic shifts. you’re not just his liege, his captive, the prettiest face at littlefinger’s silk street brothel -- you’re his. and that makes him yours, he thinks. it means taking care of you, giving you as much comfort and safety that he can offer in this hellish life. it’s the least you deserve for picking him, since now he’ll never let you leave. you’ve resigned yourself to a cruel, cold, and crass beast; who cares if he has to behead a man or two to keep you fed or hold an entire inn hostage just so you can sleep on a featherbed for the night? he’ll never say please or thank you, but he’ll always stand in front of you. he’ll always lean against the door in case someone tries to break in.

he’s not gentle. he’ll growl when you tug his hair, a makeshift collar threaded between your fingers, urging him between your legs or bringing him back up to your mouth. he’ll bark about breaking you in, splitting you in half, vulgar words foaming at his mouth the longer it goes on. and when you lock eyes with him, he’ll always crumble under the weight of your gaze, lowering his head in some twisted form of obedience. he’ll eat out of your palm and you’ll know there are mutts in volantis better fed than him.

“sandor?”

you could hear the resulting sigh from a mile away, the sound of his armor clanking as he heeds your call. when your eyes lock on his figure, he rolls his shoulders back, masking the way he bows his head as if it were nothing more than loosening a crick in his neck. it’s hard to tell when he’s blushing, but you swear there’s a hint of flush blooming down his neck. you think if you asked him to kneel right now, he might even do it.

“i’m hungry,” you say instead, making your way toward him with a small, knowing smile. “let’s go eat.”

+ you’d be better off never mentioning it, but the similarities between sandor and your average dog aren’t too far off. he sleeps like one, always either curled into a ball or sprawled halfway out of bed; huffing and kicking with night terrors. he slurps out of bowls and licks his plates clean. he’s good at sniffing out enemies, even better at finding their scent on you, teeth bared as he asks where you’ve been and who with. he loves being pet and, if you catch him in a good mood, he'll sometimes nuzzle against your hand. and when he’s got you on all fours, clawing at the sheets or floor while you scream his name, it’s not hard to see he's always been more animal than man.

game of thrones weekend (reqs open!)

[author-morgan]

Title: A Dove and a Hound Rating: T Pairing: Sandor Clegane x fem!Reader Summary: A little dove with broken wings must save her wounded Hound. Or in which Sandor Clegane finds something sweeter than killing. Word count: ~3.7k Warnings: Injury/blood and typical Westerosi shenanigans.

ARYA STARK LOOKS at the bleak landscape around where they had made camp for the night in the northern Riverlands—almost in the Vale. It’s all craggy with sharp boulders and high patches of land, and hardly any trees. The names roll off her tongue as they do every night. The Mountain, The Hound, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant...she doesn’t make it to the next name after hearing the scraping of boots on rock nearby. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Syrio Forel’s words are burnt into her memory. 

"What’re you going on about now, girl?" The rasp of the Hound's voice makes her jump, and she curses him, looking up at the night sky, watching for shadows when she hears the soft noise again.

“We’re being watched,” she tells him, turning on her bedroll to face the Hound, her hand resting on the hilt of Needle.

His laugh cuts through the air—a rough sound that hurts her ears in a strange way. A man like the Hound should never laugh. "Here, in the middle of fucking nowhere?" His scarred face looks all the more hideous with the light of the fire licking at his skin. "Finish your little list, girl, then go the fuck to sleep." Arya frowns and looks around again at the land but sees nothing but boulders and empty plains, but she knows someone is out there. 

Sandor Clegane won’t admit it, but the Stark girl’s warning is the reason he stays up for over half the night. Then, when he’s certain Arya is asleep, he rises from his bedroll and unsheathes his sword, setting off to search between boulders and in the shadows cast by their dwindling campfire. But there’s nothing there. The Hound moves to return to his bedroll, but that’s when he hears quiet cursing and soft crying. And then he finds a woman huddled between two rocks, trying to nurse an injured leg. 

You see the hulking shadow approach too late to muffle your grunts and groans of pain. “Come any closer and I’ll put a fucking arrow through your eye!” You shout. But Sandor Clegane can see the bow in your hand is broken, even if you try to hold the two wooden pieces together to make it seem whole. Then he sees the broken arrow shaft sticking out of your swollen calf, too—the reason for your caterwauling. 

“With a broken bow and the only arrow you got stuck in your leg?” The Hound asks, laughing. “Pay a couple of hundred silver stags to see that done.” Sandor drives his sword into the dirt and awkwardly kneels near you, looking over the wound. He can feel your eyes on him, gaze nigh burning. But the soft white light of the moon softens the sight of his half-burned face. He looks familiar. Like you’ve seen him in passing somewhere—or maybe on the parchments nailed outside taverns noting bounties and the enemies of the Crown. 

You swallow the knot in your throat and look up at him—you might not be able to place who he is, but you know he’s dangerous, a killer. “Well, go on,” you snap, tears stinging in your eyes. “Kill me and get it over with.”

The Hound recoils as though stung by the words—he knows he’s put a lot of people in the ground, but for some damn reason, he can’t stomach the thought of landing the mercy blow now. You close your eyes and wait—no longer fearing death or pain. But the cold bite of steel never comes. Instead, Sandor Clegane lifts you into his burly arms and heads back toward the dying campfire.

Arya’s surprised when the Hound returns and lets you down to rest against the boulder nearest the fire. The girl’s quick on her feet, bringing a half-filled skin of water, and you greedily drink. "Think I'll end up losing it?" You ask the girl—wiping your mouth with a torn sleeve—a glint of humor shining through as you pat your thigh, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shoots down to your calf and makes your toes curl. 

“If you’ve gone this long” —Sandor crouches down and looks closer at your injury— “it’ll take more than an arrow to kill you,” he says. It earns him a dry and humorless laugh with a surprising grimness. Given enough time, he thinks he could come to enjoy the company, but right now, he and Arya Stark are already pressed for time, luck, and coin. Neither of them needs the liability of an injured woman—another mouth to feed—on the path to the Eyrie. Be best to leave her come the morning, he thinks, but now that he’s brought you back here, he knows the Stark girl won’t let that happen.

“May I have your name, good ser?” You finally ask—it only seemed proper to know the name of your white knight.  

Sandor Clegane looks at you, and the firelight paints the tangled and twisted mass of scars on his face red—pocking the flesh with craters and cracks. “Not a fucking knight,” he bites back.

And then you can piece everything together—his brute size, the burned half of his face, the posters scattered around the Riverlands. The rumors people whispered are true then, you think. Joffrey’s dog tucked tail and ran while the Blackwater burned. “You’re The Hound.” He grunts. You glance at the girl staring down at you with wide ice-grey eyes. If he’s the Hound then... “You’re Arya Stark.” The girl nods.

The silence that grows between the three of you is heavy and tense. You shift and grimace again. Then your gaze flits back over to the Hound. “Well, are you going to help me get this arrow out my fucking leg or not?” You ask, not understanding why he hauled you back here if he didn’t mean to do something about your current state. “'Cause if you aren’t, I’d sooner you cut the damn thing off or put me out of my misery.”

Sandor moves to you after that and cuts away the fabric of your britches from the arrow, then calls Arya over to set his dagger in the flames—unwilling to go closer. She does as he says, pushing the blade into the hot coals, but then Arya Stark leaps to her feet when she sees Sandor’s hand grip the shaft of the arrow—like he means to tear it from flesh. She knocks his hand away then pushes back on his shoulder, almost hard enough to knock him off balance from where he sits on his haunches. 

“We can’t just pull it out!” She tells the Hound like it should be obvious. But he’s not the one who grew up with a maester in Winterfell or spent time reading any books.  

“Then how you gone get it out, girl?” He asks, gruff and impatient. You glance between the odd pair, wondering how they haven’t killed one another by now. Arya crouches down and prods the swollen and bloody flesh, then without warning, she grips the arrow shaft and breaks off the fletching. Seven hells, you think, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep a wail of pain at bay, I am going to lose my leg. 

“Push it through,” Arya says, remembering the time she watched Maester Luwin remove an arrow from a hunter's shoulder. The Hound grunts and draws a second, smaller dagger, starting to whittle away at the splintered end of the broken arrow shaft. 

Arya goes to fetch more water and brings back a cloth with her before settling down to watch with wide, curious eyes. Blood starts to seep down your calf around the entry and exit of the arrow shaft from being handled so roughly. Satisfied with his woodwork, the Hound steadies your leg against his trunk and starts to pull on the iron-forged arrowhead. 

You grit your teeth together, fingers digging into the soft earth below, as he begins to ease the wooden shaft through gently and quickly as he can. Arya watches your face twist in pain, but somehow, you don’t cry out. It feels like an eternity. Sandor sets the arrow aside and takes the waterskin from the Stark girl, dumping the cool water over your leg to wash away the blood—there’s a cool but welcome sting.

Sandor tosses the empty skin back to Arya. "More water, girl,” he rasps. 

“Bring wine too,” you insist, and the Hound howls with laughter.

“Seven hells,” Arya remarks. You’re just like him. The girl heads off, then comes back with more water and looks at the open wound on your leg with a scrunched-up nose. 

“Needs to be sealed with fire,” Sandor says, sitting back on his haunches, that’s why he already had Arya put a dagger into the flames. They don’t have salves and ointments and teas and brews to keep infection at bay, and despite his fear and hatred of the fire, he knows it’s the best way to clean and seal a wound like this.

“I’ll do it,” Arya offers. Her hands are steady, and the fire and heat don’t bother her like it does the Hound. He nods, and the girl goes to fetch the hot knife. They give you a strip of leather to bite down on, and then the Hound looks away when the girl presses the flat of the blade against your flesh—you do scream then. He knows that pain—that scream—and the putrid scent of burning flesh that jumps into the air. Black dots and white stars dance around in your vision. It hurts worse the second time. But you fight through it. 

Your gaze settles on Arya after a while, struggling to stay awake. “Where are you taking her?” You ask, eyes flitting to Sandor Clegane. The two are an odd traveling party that much is certain—a Hound and a wolf—made even stranger by your sudden arrival. 

“The Vale,” he tells you, “she has an aunt there.” You hadn’t expected a man with his reputation to do something so kind, not even if heavy coin purses were offered as rewards. A hush falls over you, but then the Hound rises and picks up a threadbare blanket from his bedroll. He drapes it over your shoulders, not ungently. “Best get some rest,” he says. “It’ll hurt worse tomorrow.”

THE DAYS ARE both quick and slow to pass, and soon, you’ve lost track of the time since meeting Arya Stark and the Hound—it could have been a few weeks or maybe months. But since that fateful night, your wounds have healed cleanly, and the only reminders of them are a fading scar and the limp in your stride after long days or over strenuous terrain. You remember the first time you insisted on walking instead of riding Stranger—a great black, unruly destrier. When you slowed, Sandor Clegane slung you over his shoulder like a sack of flour before depositing you back on the horse and complaining about the slow pace. Arya Stark was particularly amused by it all. 

Disappointment is all that awaits you all at the Bloody Gate of the Vale. Lysa Arryn is dead, and her young son and named protector, Petyr Baelish, will not accept visitors—not even one of Lysa’s own kin. So at the point of arrowheads and tips of steel blades, the Hound turns back, and you and Arya follow, trekking through the Vale and back to the Riverlands, unsure of what to do and where to go. Arya says they should go north, to the Wall—she has a brother in the Night’s Watch—or across the Narrow Sea.

There’s a small village not far, and you take a handful of silver stags and copper stars in hopes of replenishing your stock of ointments and bandages—especially with the now festering wound on Sandor’s neck, a nasty bite from a rogue—and maybe a decent bottle of wine or ale too. But by the time the sun is beginning to set and you return to Sandor and Arya, they’re not to be found. 

The campsite is empty. The fire still burning. The bedrolls laid out for the coming evening. You look around the craggy landscape, feeling panic seize your heart and stomach—mind racing. “Arya!” You shout, but there is no response from the girl. “Sandor!” And again, there is nothing but silence.

If not for the fading evening sun glinting off tarnished pieces of silver armor, you think you might not have found him. You stumble over to him, kneeling at his side, fearing the worst. But his chest still rises and falls, and he starts when you touch his cheek, hand wrapping around your wrist, leaving a thick smearing of blood. 

There’s something in your eyes, not pity, but he’s not seen that look before —almost doesn’t want to think of what it could be, could mean. Sandor’s grip goes slack, and he grimaces, each breath a ragged rasp. You look over his mangled shoulder, the bruises and scrapes on his face, the muscle-deep cuts on his palm, and his lame leg. These wounds are beyond your skills, and there are not like to be any travelers on this path for days.

The Hound tugs free a dagger from his belt and places it in your hand. "Go on,” he rasps, nodding toward the knife, resigned to his new fate. “Get on with it." The Stark girl wouldn’t put him out of his misery for the hatred she still bore toward him, but maybe you would. 

Your fingers curl around the hilt of the blade, grip tightening, but frozen in place—unwilling and unable to move. "I can't," you breathe, fervidly shaking your head. I won’t. He curses you when you drive the blade into the hard earth and not his heart. Sandor Clegane saved you from certain death, and now you’ve a chance to return the favor.

You wet a strip of cloth and dab it over his bloodied face until he turns his head to look at you. "If you think I'm some wounded pup you can redeem, you're stupider than I thought, woman,” he snarls like an aggrieved dog. 

But you don’t pay any mind to his hateful words. “Be still,” you chide, gently, going to collect the pack of supplies from Stranger’s saddle. The Dornish strongwine eases the pain, and he lets you clean the rest of the cuts and bruises to the best of your abilities —his broken leg, though. You aren’t sure what to do, but you know if something isn’t done soon, Sandor Clegane won’t be using that leg again in this lifetime. You lose track of how many times you have to wander down to the nearby stream. All you know is the limp in your step has come back. By nightfall, the wine and pain claim him, and you’ve said your prayers to the Seven, asking them to spare your poor wounded Hound.

There’s a dim lantern on the dark horizon, steadily drawing nearer and brighter, and then you can hear the rattling of a cart and the braying of a mule. You rise from your post and go to intercept the rickety cart thumping along the winding trail. The mule comes to a halt—the path forward blocked. 

The driver has a kind face, rounded from smiles and wrinkled with wisdom, and eyes that are deep and thoughtful but speak of the horrors of the world. “A lady and her knight,” he muses, sparing a glance at the makeshift medicinal supplies illuminated by faint firelight and the state of the brutish man sleeping—half-dead more like.

“Can you help us?” You ask. “Please.” And the broken plea strikes something deep down in the man’s heart.  

He thinks on it for a moment. “Aye,” the man says, “I can try.” If he couldn’t, the others on the Quiet Isle could—especially the Elder Brother. His dusty brown robes dust across the rocky ground as he goes to the Hound’s side. It takes all your strength combined to lift Sandor Clegane into the cart—even with the weight of his armor gone. Then you clamber to the front of the cart next to Sandor, letting his head rest in your lap, and with a snap of the reins, the mule walks on again, heading south along the bumpy road—it would be a long night.

Weary and exhausted, you look between the Hound and the driver. “Who are you?” 

“You can call me Ray,” the kindly man says. “I’ll take you both to the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother can help.” You’ve heard tales of the isle—where men go to atone for their sins and take vows of silence. Some even say those who reside in the Bay of Crabs live in a world unlike the one ravished by war and pain. Brother Ray can see the growing trepidation on your expression. It’s nigh common knowledge women are not allowed to dwell on the Quiet Isle. “Won’t force you and your knight to be parted,” he tells you. 

“He’s not a knight,” you murmur, eyes trailing from the road ahead to Sandor, knowing he doesn’t like being called a knight—and for good reason. 

“No, but it seems he’s your knight,” Ray says with a chuckle, sparing a wayward glance back at you and the Hound. You flush at the thought and turn your gaze to Sandor, his head resting on your thigh.

A FEW MONTHS pass and Sandor is as well as he’ll ever be. The damage done to his leg makes him limp after long distances or strenuous tasks, but no one would be able to say such injuries made the Hound a feeble man. Even now, you’ve never seen a man split firewood with so much power and anger. Sometimes, you wonder if he hates you for not ending it when he pleaded for the blade’s mercy. But on the day when the brothers let you see him again, he wore a fleeting smile, soft and weak—the first time you’d seen such a sight. 

Storms roll in for the night, and lightning flashes through the window—thunder rattling your featherbed. You pull the covers tighter, squeezing your eyes shut, praying for sleep to come. It feels childish to be afeared of a storm, but it’s a reminder of the night the Lannister men destroyed your home and family and put an arrow in your leg. Rousing from the uneasy rest, you pull on your dressing robe and wrap the wool and linen blanket around your shoulders before setting off in search of company. 

His bed is empty, and you frown. Disheartened, you turn back only to bump into a solid wall of flesh and muscle. No man his size had a right to move around so quietly. “What are you doing awake, little dove?” Sandor asks, and you’re unable to meet his gaze with your flushed cheeks as you search for a valid answer. “Can’t sleep?” He surmises, and grateful he spake first, you nod sheepishly. The hand that wraps around your wrist is warm and calloused, yet his touch is light—as though you’re some bird with a broken wing. But wordless, you climb onto the bed next to Sandor, still huddled under your blanket, but not alone, and even with the storm raging outside, within these walls with him, you’re safe. 

The morning light breaks through the small window—only glowing embers remain in the hearth, not enough to chase away the chill in the air. You wake to find yourself alone, and it sends a strange pang of sadness through your heart. Making your way back to your chambers, you change into a plane shift and stride from the cottage to find him—the wet grass tickling the soles of your feet as you head down a winding path toward the water’s edge.

Sandor is sitting down on the rocky shore of the island, his dusty brown cloak fluttering in the wind. You go to him and sit on the weathered rock next to him. The morning is cool, and the spray of waves breaking against rocks in the bay kisses your cheeks. Wordlessly, the Hound pulls his cloak free and drapes it around your shoulders. In comfortable silence, you pull the coarse material tight and rest your head against his arm, looking out over the water and the clear blue sky—as though the Old Gods had not unleashed their wrath upon the land last night.

After a long while, Sandor rises, knowing it’ll be time to head to the Sept and see what tasks the Brothers need help with today. You’re quick to follow after him, but before he can start up the rocky path again, you brush your hand against his with all the timidness of a mouse, daring to have a lingering touch as you gather the nerve to ask something that’s been festering in the pit of your stomach, in the darkest parts of your mind and the deepest parts of your heart. You take both his hands—rough and twice the size of your own—and look up at the Hound. "Sandor,” you breathe, his name like a birdsong in your voice, “will you kiss me?"

He laughs—thinking you are playing him for a fool. No sane woman would ever wish to have his touch or his kiss. “With this ruined mouth?” He mocks. But the next jape dies on the tip of his tongue when you fist your hand into his woolen tunic, hauling him down with all your strength to just the right height where if you stand on the tips of your toes, you can kiss him. And you do. Sandor is surprised at first, but his hard exterior fades, and then a strong arm curls around your middle, hoisting you up and then off the ground entirely. You pull back for only a quick second and smile for him.

“Little dove,” he rasps when you move your hands to hold his face, thumbs stroking over his cheeks—one marred by the flame—and down into his thick, wiry beard. He half expects to find a shred of fear or disgust in your eyes, but there isn’t any. There never had been. You kiss him again, softer and sweeter this time, and he returns it in full. 

Reluctant to part, he places you back on the ground but is quick to pull you into his side and hold you close in the golden hour of the morning. And for the first time since he can remember, Sandor Clegane has a handful of happy memories, and perhaps, in the end, he's found something even sweeter than killing.

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Gentle

Sandor Clegane x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 2737 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Ned Stark’s eldest daughter finding herself interested by the King’s loyal protector, and even more disenchanted by how he’s treated

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The King’s arrival in Winterfell wasn’t of much interest to you, if you were being honest.

Of course you understood that it was a great honor and that his Grace was very important to your father, but outside of that, you had no real reason to pay the caravan much mind as it moved through the streets of Winterfell.

Had it not been for the pretense of duty and honor, and more severely, the pressure of your mother’s wrath, you truly believed you would have skipped the entire affair.

You weren’t the object of their visit, after all.

As the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you were much too old to be of much interest to the young Prince compared to your sisters, and the King only came to Winterfell with your Aunt Lyanna on the mind.

Really, you weren’t sure why you needed to attend.

Until, you found yourself staring down the traveling party of the King’s guard, and the striking presence of the man they called “the Hound”

You had heard stories of the man over the years, and you knew where the title had come from, but never could you have imagined the man before you now and that man were one in the same. He hardly struck you as some ravenous monster, even then.

…and as the days went by, you found your opinion unchanged.

You existed in Winterfell simply, a privilege afforded you by your father’s title and the love the families of the North had for the Starks.

For the most part, you did what you wanted and didn’t call too much attention to yourself, content to read on the sidelines and follow after your siblings as they grew into their own. That meant that you escaped a lot of the formalities of nobility, as no one really needed too much of your attention.

If they were looking for a Stark to talk to, you were always fairly low on the list and you liked it that way, especially given all the excitement in Winterfall over the past few days.

With Sansa entertaining the Prince, your father entertaining the King and Queen, and the charms of the North keeping the guard away, you finally had a moment to yourself which only meant one thing. You could finally finish your book.

It was all set, just as you wanted it.

The weather had yet to get so bitter cold that you couldn’t stand to be out, so you grabbed a blanket and set it in the clearing near the market, under a big tree. The septa’s rarely bothered you these days, so you should be able to get some peace and quiet.

Not that you got too far before something else caught your eye.

You had only been reading your book for a short time when you heard the familiar sing-songy tone of your sister’s voice, followed unsurprisingly by the nasally pitch of Prince Joffrey.

They were to be married following this trip, and you knew she was excited. You could tell by the way she skipped lightly as she walked, and how she hung on his every word.

You had never been in love yourself, but you had to imagine that was what it looked like. Perhaps that was why you found yourself watching them as they walked, or maybe it had more to do with the Hound, loyal as always, who was trailing behind them steadily.

He was an interesting man, you’d decided.

Even as he walked, he studied the world around him as if he wasn’t a part of it, rather that he was peering in at it from the outside. You felt that you could relate, in some way, as you had always been that way.

They’d chastised you for being a dreamer as a girl. The Septa would take your books and keep them from you, your mother would beg you to engage in your duties as a lady and even Robb and Theon teased you.

Your head was always far away and even now, you had managed to keep it that way. While other women your age married and had heirs for unimpressive Lords, you remained in your father’s homeland.

A place where you could keep your books and your dreams, without having to endure the ugliness.

Not that ugliness was really the problem in the first place.

You were certain that some found the Hound ugly in all his violence and impropriety, but you couldn’t dare count yourself among them. Even now, as you stared at him over your bound paper novel, you saw nothing short of a dream like all the others.

It wasn’t even something you could truly understand, if you had any desire to try. There was just a softness to him, a quiet contemplation that made you feel as if no harm would ever come to you.

That wasn’t a feeling you’d known before now, as that was one of the things the North had never really had. Your father and brothers would rather die than let something or someone hurt you, you knew that, but it wasn’t so simple.

The comfort his presence held went beyond any physical threat or danger, it was almost warm.

Not that you would have ever ventured to admit it.

After all, you had never even spoken to the man and if you tried to explain the way you were feeling to anyone, they would surely have you committed. The hound was a lot of things, but none would have called him warm.

None outside of you that was.

You continued your staring for quite some time, only occasionally looking away from the sight before you to mindlessly turn the page in your book. You imagined you may have sat there all evening if you remained uninterrupted.

However, when your attention returned to the imposing form of the King’s dog across the way to find him already looking at you, the illusion fell away entirely.

Surely he thought you were demented.

In the entire time he and the King’s guard had been in Winterfell, you had yet to speak a word to a one of them but that didn’t mean he was unfamiliar with you. Every time he turned around, he found you sitting somewhere over his shoulder, that same book perched in your lap.

Anyone else may have just brushed you off, assuming you were a bit out there as your family always had, but Sandor couldn’t quite do that.

After all, he had grown used to the weary glances and fearful whispers between people as he passed, but no one had ever paid him so much mind as you seemed to be.

Naturally he was curious.

No one had voluntarily spent that much time looking at him in all his life, and he needed to know what it was about you that was different.

You tensed the moment you noticed his attention, not daring to look away from the weathered pages beneath your fingers, not when you heard him nearing where you sat and certainly not when he stopped at your side.

Neither of you spoke, and you weren’t even sure if you drew a single breath, but he certainly did as he waited. Waited for what he wasn’t sure, but it just seemed to be the thing to do.

As if you would somehow explain yourself if he stood in your presence long enough.

Though, after a long moment passed between you without so much as a glance from you, he decided to just end the torment for you both.

There would be no sense in just standing here all evening.

“Why do you stare so much?” he wondered aloud, his voice just as gruff as it always was, though you caught something else hidden there too. Just beneath the surface, hiding beneath the walls he’d built hugh within himself.

It almost sounded like a sort of nervousness, though you would have imagined him incapable of something so common.

You didn’t answer at first.

Whether it was due to the humiliation of being caught that held your tongue or the nerves of facing down such an imposing man on your own, he wasn’t sure. All Sandor knew for sure was that this was one of the strangest interactions he’d ever had.

If only he knew.

The real reason for your silence wasn’t some twisted interest or shame but because there was no real answer at all. At least not one you’d confidently admit while those brown eyes had you locked in a stare.

You hadn’t meant it to be disrespectful, of course, because the nature of your admiration couldn’t be farther from distaste. However, to a man like Sandor, that was exactly what it looked like.

…What it felt like.

Naturally, after a life of rejection, Sandor assumed that your staring was like that of every else when they looked at him. He assumed you were disgusted by him, and his grotesque face, or perhaps that you were afraid.

He hoped you weren’t afraid.

In any case, he never could have imagined that you would answer him in the way you did, even if it took you a moment to summon the courage to string any words together at all.

“I suppose I’m interested in you” you decided finally, twisting your face up slightly at the way that must have sounded.

It wasn’t quite right, of course, though it wasn’t entirely wrong either.

You were interested in him, but that seemed too simply a phrasing, like all the gravity and sentiment was missing even still.

Sandor only grunted in reply after a brief pause, his gaze drifting across the market, watching as the surrounding northerners studied your interaction, only to drop their eyes when they met his.

They all feared him, and they were right too, because they understood what he was and what he was capable of. Though, maybe that was another thing that you had done since he arrived that was unique to you.

Never once had you looked away from him.

You had never shrunk away or grimaced as they did, even at a time like this when anyone else would have run for the hills. It was certainly new, even he couldn’t be so stubborn as to ignore that.

“What’s so interesting about me?” he wondered, not daring to move closer or join you as you sat, but not moving further away either. Even though it felt wrong to speak freely with an unmarried noble woman like you, it really wasn’t.

You certainly didn’t think so, and you believed that anyone else would agree.

If anything, you were simply making conversation while he did his duty, watching over the Prince and his future bride.

Now, it was your turn to pause, regarding the words on the page only a moment more before you closed it, and discarded it in the snowy grass.

“We don’t have men like you here,” you allowed, considering his imposing frame as he stood above you.

Though you had only seen him from afar until now, at his impressive height and with your current low position, Sandor seemed even larger than he had before. Still, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be frightened by him, which had to have been because he wasn’t frightening in the first place.

The rest of the realm may have treated him like a monster but you hardly believed that made him one.

You could tell in the way he glanced down at you, surprise painting his features, that he wanted to argue with you but he faltered, because he didn’t understand. He wanted to tell you that there were violent men everywhere, and that most were just better at hiding it, but somehow, he knew that wasn’t what you meant.

No matter how diluted that may have made you seem in the moment.

“Gentle,” you clarified, watching as his mind tried to pin down exactly what you were trying to say, because the most obvious answer just wasn’t possible. “Men here are all the same. They’re either ruthless fighters or cowards and fools. On rare occasions, they may be both but neither are gentle as you are”

That was it.

There were the words you had been trying to find before, but it still didn’t feel as if he understood, or perhaps he just didn’t feel as if you had any right to be the one saying them.

After all, you had only ever been in the North and you hardly knew anything about him, or many other men for that matter. What real ground did you have to stand on when it came to this?

“Trust me little girl, there’s nothing gentle about a man like me” he scoffed, washing away any tenderness you’d been feeling in a moment.

Perhaps he was right, but you didn’t think so.

While it was true that there were no other men like him in the North, you had seen your fair share of guarded men hiding from the truth about themselves. Normally they were trying to convince themself that they were braver than they were, or stronger, but it looked the same.

It made them look small.

“It’s in your eyes. You think I can’t see it because you don’t, but it’s there. It’s the same reason you’re still having this conversation with me, even though the Prince snuck off with Sansa” you countered, gesturing to the missing space they’d previously occupied through the pass.

If he’d truly been keeping an eye on them, and nothing more, he wouldn’t have let them out of his sight.

“Maybe I just want to know what’s wrong with you? After all, I thought the future Lady of Winterfell would be a bit more sociable” he argued, almost poking fun at you in a way you hadn’t seen coming.

Which was a welcome break in that untouchable armor of his.

“I am hardly the future Lady of Winterfell. That title will belong to the wife of my brother Robb,” you informed, gathering your skirts to rise to your feet, only to find his hand outstretched to you, a further invitation behind the curtain.

You took it as gracefully as you could and rose to your full height, though you remained entirely dwarfed by the large man at your side.

“And I have never really taken to being sociable, that’s true. It’s my mother’s greatest upset” you teased, straightening out your gown and taking in the full sight of the Hound in all his glory.

He looked small, if that was even physically possible, as you admired him with those eyes of yours. If you thought his gaze was pointed, you had no idea how he felt beneath the heavy weight of your own.

“You’re a strange little thing, aren’t you?” he grumbled, his question hanging in the air untouched for a moment as you studied him, no longer caring how strange it may have looked to anyone else.

You had been right.

He was anything but ugly up close, and it was a tragedy that so few got to gaze upon him in this manner.

“I suppose. Perhaps that’s why I remain unmarried” you suggested, subconsciously hinting at what you knew to be your own greatest flaw, at least in the eyes of your people and your house.

At the very least, the Hound had been able to make something of himself outside of being a husband or son. He could be a warrior, and he was, one of the most fearsome warriors you’d ever seen.

As a woman, you had never been afforded that kind of privilege and you never would. As far as your mother was concerned, you would live and die a spinster, and there was little you could do to change that.

“Perhaps. Or maybe this place really is full of cowards and fools, as you said” he muttered, sparing you one more heady glance before turning his back to you, his attention fully on the clearing ahead.

That was it.

In all the days you’d been admiring him and making a desperate attempt to understand exactly what lay beneath that shell of his, that was all he had for you.

…and you couldn’t have been happier, because for the first time in a long time, you found yourself looking forward to what the days ahead would hold.

[rax-writes]

↬ in the middle of the night

Sandor Clegane x Reader

Warnings: None

Something awoke you from a deep slumber. Perhaps it was the Mother herself, you thought, because when you opened your eyes, they slowly focused on your husband, who was standing in the middle of the room, his silhouette illuminated by a couple of candles and the sliver of morning sunlight peeking over the horizon.

Sandor’s back was to you as he stared at the cradle at the foot of your shared bed, fully clothed in his leathers and his sword strapped to his waist. When he heard you stir, he spoke, but did not turn to face you.

“I should go with them. Go kill my brother,” he said with a humorless laugh. “Gods know I’m the only one who could end that evil bastard.”

You said nothing, so after a few moments, he continued – and you could swear you heard him sniffle faintly before speaking.

“But I just keep staring at this little fucker here, and… I can’t. I can’t bring myself to walk out that door – knowing I’d never see him, or you, again. Knowing I’d be condemning him to grow up without a father. Knowing that me walking out on him makes me no better than my father – who abandoned me to protect Gregor.”

A little noise from the dark-haired babe in the cradle prompted another, louder sniffle from Sandor this time. There was another pause, followed by an agitated, “Damn it all.”

The Hound then began hurriedly prying off his sword, outerwear, and boots, letting it all fall carelessly to the floor before climbing into bed with you. When he rested his head on your chest and wrapped his big arms around your torso, you noticed his face was wet, and he sniffled quietly a few more times. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, the feeling of the scarred flesh so familiar to you now.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?” Sandor grumbled.

“For staying with us.”

He let out a heavy sigh, and although he did not respond, he gave you a squeeze in response. Sandor’s breathing slowed as you gently scratched your nails up and down his back, and when you heard a snore, you knew he was asleep. Soon after one last kiss to his forehead, you joined him in sleep.

[perkqularkreashions]

Take the Black |Sandor X Reader|

Part One: Unconditional

I know this doesn't follow the plot exactly, but just roll with it. So, I had some suggestions from mutuals to lowkey make it a Jamie X Reader for her survival... What y'all think?

WARNINGS: unwarranted affection [kissing without consent], Jamie projecting his trauma on the reader, mentions of murder, murder [Ned Stark], SMUT [wrap it up!], Joffrey being Joffrey

AS ALWAYS CHECK YOUR TRIGGERS.

You hated the fresh smell of the air, the cool wind wrapping around you softly, brushing against your exposed skin. You spent many days in the library running your fingers against the spines of the books, taking hold of one in secret as you shoved them into your sack. Books that you read underneath the moonlight, books that only slightly drove your mind away from the King's landing, your father, your sisters, and Sandor. You missed your home, the chilled walls of Winterfell dragging you in as you roamed through, your fingers intertwined with Theon’s in secret, your head resting against his shoulder as he spoke of nonsense. You would just listen; you missed the simplicity of life, and now everything seems muddled with confusion and Lannisters. 

You gasped as you felt a hand wrapped against your upper arm, tugging you away from another book that would soon be a part of your collection. Your eyes followed the man; Ser Jamie stood tall before you. The brightness of his hair reflected in the illuminating sun, his hair mimicking gold. His touch softens in the realization of who you are. His lips play in a soft smile as he watches you, taking in your soft, doe-like features—the surprise written on your face, the paleness of your face, and the claminess of your hands. “So you’re our book thief. For months, you have evaded all the guards.” Jamie was impressed; it was a harmless crime and brought no real attention to the drunken King’s radar. He slurred out a command and had Eddard follow up on the missing books. “Intelligent little wolf,” Jamie hummed in thought; he let out, causing you to stumble back; you hadn’t realized that you had placed all your weight against him. 

You reminded him of Cersei in her youth, not physically but mentally, the way you chewed on your lips when in deep thought. The way you studied people intently before answering. But you weren’t like Cersei, were you? You were kinder and spoke with a gentleness when you spoke with him. Maybe he was attracted to the thought of you possibly being Cersei. Jamie thought about you often; maybe he was projecting his traumatizing relationship with Cersei onto your budding relationship. Jamie sighed for a moment, deep in thought. 

Your voice broke him out, “Just…a little entertainment for myself these days. The castle grows boring,” Jamie hummed, his fingers dancing along the book's spine. The words slightly faded, and the book would crumble at the touch. The pages are a brittle brown color. 

“Entertainment in the decrepit ?” he raised his brow, watching you closely. A nervous laugh escaped your lips, and you clutched the book tighter against your stomach, your hands strumming against your sides, the anxiety cementing in your stomach as you nodded. “I see.” Jamie didn’t take his eyes off you, examining all your features, the strongness of your brow, the silverness of your eyes, the darkness of your hair, and your slim face. You reminded him of Eddard, Bran, and even Jon. Despite your femininity, you were a spitting image of your father; no trace of your mother itched its way on your face. His hand gently grabbed a strand of hair, pushing it away from your face, his thumb tracing against your cheek to the tip of your chin. You were boyish and lanky but held a certain beauty. “Tell me, wolf, what amuses you then?” 

“The cold,” you quickly responded; Jamie let out a laugh, a genuine laugh, something that he hadn’t felt in so long. It was unusual for someone not to find something that piqued their interest in the King’s Landing, whoring, welding, swordsmanship, ladyship, or lordship. Sansa wanted to be a princess, Arya wanted to be a swordsman, more or less, and yet you had no place in King’s Landing. “I miss my pup; surely Robb knows nothing of Luan,” Jamie hummed once more as he watched you closely. 

“I see,” silence washed over you both; it was comfortable. You bowed gently, trying to walk past him. He grabs your arm, “Be careful, little wolf, it’s dangerous here at night.” His grab loosened, allowing you to walk away, stuffing the book in your sack. You walked back to your room, your thoughts muddled with the handsome knight, his tall brow, and the subtleness of his lips. He was more gentle than you remember him to be. You recall your passing moments with the knight at Winterfell, rarely staying for the festivities but always within reach from Cersei if needed. Your eyes stumbled ahead, watching the maidens move around you, whispering gently before returning to their task. The knights march about, hands placed on their swords for comfort. 

𓃥𓃦𓃨

As the days stumbled into night, you had seen less of your father and sisters; you’d been confined in your room, your nose nuzzled in a book. You were carefully absorbing every word, noun, verb, and sentence. Slamming your book shut, your eyes flickered to the door. You sat against Sandor’s chest; he had been sleeping for the past couple of hours—he spent his stolen spare time with you in flights of passing moments, reading a book, fucking, or simply lying together on the terrace. His snores lightly salting the air as he adjusted against you. You had started to read the novel to him, but he cursed, waving his hand about in proclamation. “Aye, I would’ve stayed with the Imp if I wanted to hear someone read.” 

“Tyrion.” you corrected as you passed a glance out the side of your eye. He scoffed, rolling his eyes for a moment. “His name is Tyrion.”

Sandor fixed himself against you once more, taking his hand and wrapping it against your waist, tugging you closer, his lips close to your ears, breathing out gently. Shivering, you relaxed against him. He didn’t say anything, though you knew he would make some idiotic remark about you correcting him on another man sooner rather than later. Arya made her way closer as she hesitantly stepped in. She calls out your name softly before shouting it more confidently. 

“Out here,” you finally responded, Arya's face drained of color as she rushed to you. Her hands shakingly moved to your wrist, yanking you into a hug. You could feel her tremble against you as she silently whispered your name. “Arya, what’s wrong?” 

“Dad, they took Dad away. Sansa… I don’t know– something is going on,” she whispered; you nodded, unsure of what to make of this information or how to react. You needed to find Sansa. You pulled her away, your eyes watching over her. You whispered, “Go pack your things, stay calm and easy.” Hesitantly, she nodded, your hands resting against her shoulder as she moved away. Sandor grabbed your arm, his face filled with worry, tightening his grip as he tugged you closer. He slammed his lips against yours, which you now take as his way of kissing. You flinched as your teeth bagged against your gums, and you poked your lips drastically, allowing his deformed ones to mold into yours. He pulled away, your bodies still close, as he looked down at you. “You find the girl, and you come back here. If there is any trouble, you come back here. Aye?” You nodded.

Now, you set out to find Sansa. You held your head high as you moved through the corridors, eying everyone who passed without saying a word. Her door was guarded; you watched the men for a moment; their eyes remained forward as they watched those who passed. 

You gasped softly as you felt a hand grab at yours, yanking you back into a secluded corner. Your chest slammed against your chest as your body was pressed against the chilling wall. Your eyes fell against the Lannister Knight, who eyed you suspiciously—a soft smile toying on his lips. You felt a sense of relief wash over you, something you didn’t know you could feel when next to a Lannister. “What is going on?” was all you could whisper out, your hands trembling as you reached for his elbow. “Where is my father… why are there guards outside of my sister’s chambers?” He stared at you, nothing being spoken between the two, your breath smacking against the air as your chest heaved with each passing moment. 

“He is going to die.” You felt lightheaded; you could feel yourself falling and slipping as your grip tightened against him. His hand wrapped against your waist, keeping you as you rested against him. 

“Take me to him,” you begged, your voice barely escaping. “Please,” Jamie didn’t like to admit, but you reminded him of an innocent Cersei if she ever was to be. The softness of your voice, your gentle touch, the way your lips parted when you spoke, and the way your eyes held so much and yet so little emotion. Jamie moved away from you, keeping his hand on your waist as he nodded. He moved away from you, and you quickly followed behind him; the more you traveled, the colder it began. The darkness surrounded you every few feet; the torches would burn bright until they dimmed behind you. You stayed close to the knight, praying he would protect you if anything unsavory happened. You entered a long, narrowing hallway, one torch placed directly beside the stoned cell and one small window in the uppermost corner of the dungeon. Jamie’s head motions, and you follow, moving slightly as you dip your head slightly to look closely into the cells. 

You paused, seeing a man hunched on a bed of straw; his head pressed against the stone wall as he sucked in a deep breath. His face was only slightly revealed by the torch.

“Father!” you whispered, stumbling to the ground as he grabbed your hands. His face sunken in as he pressed his head against yours, thankful. “Are you—what is going on?” His eyes weakly moved to Jamie, holding his gaze as Jamie watched over you for a moment. Before moving his attention ahead of him, his hand gripping the sword’s pommel, shutting his eyes, he took a deep breath. He knew you had a few moments before someone would catch you in here; he was not afraid of the consequences for himself; just the thought of being at odds with Cersei was motivating enough not to be down here. Your hand gently rubbed at your father’s face, trembling at the sight. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“You do nothing.” He spoke, his voice calm and confident. “Keep your sisters safe; know I always love you, my wild wolf.”  He pulls away, sinking into the darkness. You felt Jamie’s hand on your upper arms, tugging you up gently. You were stunned, your eyes widening as you gently shook your head. Your mouth gaping open, your throat swelling emotions as your mouth soon became dry. You didn’t have anything to say; you wanted to scream at him– you wanted the truth about why he was here. You found yourself on your feet, leaning against Jamie as he escorted you out of the holding cell, the fresh air overwhelming you, and bile soon rose in your throat. You swallowed thickly before snatching yourself away from him. 

“You will be the safest with your sister; for the moment, she has Joffrey’s favor,” Jamie spoke behind you, his voice muddled in the daze that rushed over your mind, the haze that clouded you. You spun around, eyes low and drained of emotion. Jamie was stunned, his mouth slightly gaped open as he watched you. He quickly recovered, shutting his mouth as he tried to find the right words. He hated–no loathed Eddard Stark, they contrasted–their values and beliefs vastly differed. Eddard knew from Jamie felt like the deepest part of him had been unearthed, and he dishonored him. Jamie grew frustrated. You finally look at him, taking him in. Your lips never said a word, but your eyes spoke for you. He felt vulnerable, the only kind that he felt with Cersei; she stripped him bare and made him feel worthless but loved. He grabbed your shoulders, yanking you closer to him as he pressed his lips harshly against yours. 

You remained frozen, eyes widening as you watched him, the harshness of his breath fanning against your upper lip. His hands tighten around your shoulders, bringing you closer. Jamie pulled back; his chest riled with emotions as he watched you closely, taking in your features—the redness of your cheeks to the salvia dripping on your bottom lip. You were the second woman he had kissed other than Cersei; he stumbled back, the emotions weighing on him. “Accept my sincerest apologies,” Jamie mumbled. You nodded, unsure of what to say or how to feel. 

Now, you both walked silently, your hands resting in front of you as he escorted you to Jamie’s room. Eyes washing over you both, taking in the scene. You felt his hand gently grab your arm as you reached Sansa’s chambers. “Stay safe, Lady Stark.”

𓃥𓃦𓃨

Here you sat confined with Sansa, Lilly, and Jeyne Poole; the girls' faces were puffy from crying. You watched as Sansa stumbled to button the dresses. Sansa begged and pleaded with everyone who came into the room, face flushing with emotions as she begged to speak with the Queen and Joffrey. “Please, Please, I need to speak with the Queen! Prince Joffrey! It is important! She will want to see me! I know it!”  You groaned as they flushed out of the room, leaving you with a sobbing Jeyne, a frantic Sansa, and an aggressive Lilly. Sansa looked at you, eyes full of despair and desperation. She tugged on her bottom lip, tears streaming down her face. She wept, colliding with her older sister. 

“It’s okay,” you mumbled against her head. “Well, see father soon and gone from this hellish place.” she nodded against your bosoms, not genuinely believing your words… and neither did you. Night fell upon Kings Landing quickly; you grew irritated with the weeping of Jeyne and Sansa. She stirred in her sleep, mumbling of Joffrey. She cuddled into your side, smiling gently at the comfort she hadn’t felt since she had been there. She wanted so badly to be back home with her mother, brothers, and sisters back in the coldness of Winterfell. You finally could lull yourself asleep, dreaming of home and Sandor. 

Ser Boros burst through the doors, awakening the girls with fright. You stared at him, taking in his features. He was a short man with broad shoulders and stubby legs. His hair was grey and thinning. Sansa greeted him with a smile, bowing gently as she approached him. “You look handsome this morning, Ser Boros.” You stood behind her, watching the knight flush at the compliment before escorting them back to the Queen. You admitted you were nervous to see her; you hated being in her presence. It was heavy and full of darkness. You sucked on your bottom for a moment chewing off the dead skin. Finally arriving at the royal chambers, you watched Cersai at the head of the table. 

Ser Boros bowed, “I brought the girls.” Your heart rushed excitedly as you could climb through your throat, yet you remained stoic. Lord Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Lord Varys were dressed in black at the table. So the king is dead. 

Cersai grew a smile on her lips; you thought of it as feigned and full of mischievous. The smile did reach her eyes. “Sansa. My sweet girl.” Sansa smiled in pleasure; she watched the Queen; she thought it was the sweetest smile she had seen. “I do apologize for not seeing you sooner; things have been unsettling–I trust my people have taken care of you…both.” her eyes flicker to you as you stand still, soaking in her words. 

Sansa said politely, bowing. “Thank you for asking; everyone has been pleasant.” Their attention turns to you, waiting for you to sing the praises of her gracious treatment. You remained emotionless, eyes glaring at Cersei. The conversation droned on, Sansa frantic in concern for the steward girl and her father. You hated the feeling that her anxiety gave you.

“Sit down,” Cersei finally pronounced, patting a chair directly to her left. “ I want to talk to both of you.’ You stayed where you were, not being able to move your feet as you felt dread course through your body. Cersei’s eyes flickered to yours, a harsh expression taking hold of her face before softening. Cersei’s attention turned back to Sansa, who was laying a soft hand on her wrist and speaking. 

“I do hope you know I love you, and so does Joffrey.” Her eyes lit up, her positioning straightening as she leaned closer to her, grasping every word. 

“You do!” The queen nods as she continues spinning gold yarn for Sansa. Her words are calculated and precise, knowing what exactly to say to manipulate the young Stark. You knew Cersei was a witch, something never to be trifled with. Her power and presence weighed more than Robert’s. Her actions were cunning, meticulous, and precise with her words—also ten steps ahead of everyone else. 

“Your father is a traitor,” Vary’s words cut through your thoughts as you tried breathing, your fingers clenching at your side as you pushed out shallow and sharp breaths. “He is a traitor to the crown; he has besmirched the name of King Joffrey. Claiming that he is not the rightful heir to the throne.” You became dizzy and faint, wanting to reach the table and grasp on it. They were going to kill him; that is why he was in the cell, decaying as he awaited punishment. Jamie knew that’s why he took you to see him—one last time. You were also warned of the dangers of speaking against the Lannisters, constantly wary of making one wrong move in front of them. They watched the weak but always preyed on the strong. You swallowed thickly, watching them continue. 

“I am not like Arya.” Sansa blurted, capturing your attention, “She is of traitor’s blood! I am good. Obedient! I only want to serve Joffrey, to be loyal to the throne and him!” Cersei wickedly smiled, watching you for a moment; Baelish and Vary's attention was now on you. You straighten your posture, tightening your trembling lip as you observe them. 

“What of you? Mm? Little wolf?” Baelish questioned, his eyes running down your body. You wanted to cower away in fear, run into her father’s arm, and wish him to protect you. But you were grown– a woman now. You hand to stand on your own. “You look like your father, dark and brooding. Dark wild hair like your father. Eyes as hard as a stone, just like your fathers’, Unlike your sister, who is a spitting image of Cat when she was her age. You are the twin of the proclaimed “King of the North.” He continues; you watched the Grand Maester tug at his beard in thought. You remained silent, unable to form any words. Sansa tried to speak for you, Cersei shushing, comforting her in the thought that she needn’t speak more. “Are you of traitor’s blood?” 

“I wish to see my father.” Was all you muster out, yet your voice was stern and commanding. Baelish stared at you for a moment, chuckling at the sight. “If he is what you call a traitor, then I wish to know for myself.”

“Do you not believe me?” Cersei begins, and Sansa shakes her head rapidly. 

“That’s not what she’s-”

“No, I don’t, and I would like to hear it from my father,” You commanded, sternly looking at her, watching her cat-like eyes churn with an unrecognizable emotion. She sat back, turning her attention back to Sansa. 

“No. You will not. Is that understood?” Cersei commanded, her posture straightened and her eyes a dancing sage color. You found no words, found nothing to object to her decree. You stood there emotionless. With no further acknowledgment, you looked down, fighting back the tears and the rage that built-in you. “If you don’t trust my word, what are you to trust?”

“The devil, preferably,” you whispered as you sucked in a deep breath, masking your words as her eyes snapped towards you.

𓃥𓃦𓃨

Months have passed, and Jamie has only taken to see your father two more times. You begged him to help you free him—to speak with Joffrey and Cersei, but he remained silent. You marveled at your efforts but knew that they were futile. He would confess his sins and take the black. Cersei had soon caught on to this, whispering of Lady Stark and Jamie Lannister. Anger pitted in her stomach as she assigned one of her ladies to gather intel. She was never too far from you, her eyes catching every glance at Jamie and turning at you. The whispers in secluded corners, your hands grabbing at his, pulling him close. Jamie never pulled away, sinking into your warmness. He knew that you were using him, just as Cersei was. But you were different…sincere. But soon Jamie left, taking all the chances of Ned escaping with him; he was off to fight the war against your twin, Robb. You prayed that Jamie would day at the hands of your brother, his sword taking his life as he looks up for his last moments. He wouldn’t see his family, but he would see Robb and prayerfully see you. 

𓃥𓃦𓃨

You were excited for this day, for your father to take the black and your sisters to escape back to Winterfell. You wrote to Robb secretly, updating him on the little things in the code; you sent a trusted guard from Winterfell who rode with you. Soon, those letters would stop as the Royal Guard intercepted them; Cersei would drag you into the throne room, her hands holding the letters in fury. Her lips pursed in anger as she watched you, waiting for you to tell the truth. She waited for you to repent and beg for forgiveness just as Sansa did, but she knew you weren’t like Sansa. You were silent and studied the room before speaking; your brows furrowed in thought before relaxing. It was hard to read you; it was hard for anyone to read you. Cersei knew punishing you would damage what had been damaged, so she dismissed you, keeping her guards around you at all hours of the day and night, ensuring that you were not planning a coup of her authority.

You snapped back to reality; you stared at the bell as it toweled, echoing through your body, signaling you to follow the crowd; you wandered, pushing through as emptiness settled in your stomach. Your eyes landed on your father. He was dressed in a rich grey-colored doublet with a white woven on his shoulder. He was thinner, his face sunken in and eyes shrouded with darkness, given that it had been roughly three months since you had seen your figure as much. All he had to do was confess; he would spared. Your heart filled with terror as he spoke confidently, his words carrying into the wind. Sansa whimpered as they shouted obscenities and taunted him. He would take the Black and be reunited with Jon; he would be alive, and you would be rid of this place. He would take the black. 

“My mother… bids me to let Lord Eddard take the black! Sansa begs for her father’s life. That delectable wolf, Lady Stark, has offered no sentiments on her father’s behalf, just silence. Strong and just that one, not pleading like these women. They have soft hearts. As long as I am your king, no treason will go unpunished, Ser Illyn, bring me his head!” You pushed through, your hand pulling and tugging as you drowned in the crowd. You screamed for Father, “Please! No!” You could feel your knees growing weak as you pushed through the crowd, the man’s longsword glistening. Your chest aching and soon caught his eyes. He smiled, his lips mumbled, and you couldn’t catch it.

You felt someone yank at you, “Here, you!” your vision was clouded in darkness. You screamed, yanking yourself away from the familiar comfort. “Don’t look, little wolf, don’t look,” You sobbed hysterically as you felt him grab your body, tugging you away from the crowd. You hissed in discomfort, watching Sandor, his face full of grief and worry. “Aye, I thought something happened to you! I thought something- I couldn’t find you. For months, they kept you locked away from me.” He grabs your face harshly, bringing your attention to his. “You are alright!”

You sob, tears blurring your vision, and your mouth gaped open as you tried calming yourself down. “Please, tell me–” Sandor brought you close, wrapping his arms around you, letting your sobs rattle through his chest. He didn’t speak much of your father’s death; he dragged you away from the screaming mob, the roar of the crowd, the profanities that hung from their lips.

Sandor returned you to your chambers; you moved through the empty halls. You felt nothing; you could feel nothing. You wanted to cry, but it pained you even to blink. You flopped on your bed, and your body spread erratically across the perfectly made duvet. It was a soft red color decorated with gold flowers, and you hated the color and the scent of warmness it gave. You missed the frigid air of Winterfell, the thick blankets that pilled on your bed, and the dullness that surrounded you. The colors overwhelmed you, and the people overwhelmed you. You felt Sandor tuck you, gently stroking your hair out of your face and leaving you with the Lannister appointment maidens. Gripping one of the women by her dress, he dragged her close. She yelped, startled by his aggression. “If anything happens to her, I will kill all of you.” 

It has been days since anyone has seen you; Sansa grew worried as the maidens wouldn’t allow anyone into your chambers other than the King and his appointment men; Joffrey was worried that you were of traitor’s blood and wished for you to be confined to the four walls of your room against his better judgment. He wanted to behead you and send you to Robb, but Cersei had commanded against it. You were to only speak with Lannister appointment maidens, to be escorted by Ser Meryn and, on occasion, Ser Clegane. Joffrey, to much dismay from his mother, grew fond of you; he sat in your chambers, speaking of how he was going to behead your brothers and offer to you as gifts; accepting this gift would be the only way that you would genuinely be renounced as a traitor. In fear, you agreed softly, nodding along to every sick and psychopathic demand. He enjoys your presence; you say so little, unlike Sansa, who seems to say the wrong things, and his mother, who thinks she is now the King. You were more enjoyable than Sansa. He entered your room, now guarded by knights; his eyes scanned your chamber. Nothing had been touched or moved since the last visit. That was two weeks ago after showing Sansa the head of her traitor father. You didn’t move, but you knew it was Joffrey; he was the only person who came to see you. Your eyes shifted to him as he made his way around your bed. You mumbled out, shifting in the bed slightly, “Your Grace.” 

Lilly bowed gently as Joffrey as he walked away, a smirk resting on his lips. He knew that you recognized his rightful claim to the throne. He knew you were more intelligent than his sister; most importantly, you were Robb’s twin sister. A great show of dominance was fucking his twin sister; he needed to bed you. Get you pregnant; be his mistress. He knew you bleed; he asked the maids to check, and your moonly cycle had just ended. His hand holding the sword's pommel, his eyes scanning over you. “Please make yourself presentable. Once completed, one of the knights will escort you to the throne room. I wish to speak with you.” He walked away, stopping for a moment. Anger was building inside of him as he waited for a response. 

“As you wish, Your Grace.” He heard you shifting in the bed, and with a smile, he was gone. 

You were dressed in a backless black dress, exposing your perky bosoms; despite the rancid looks, you still mourned for your father; embroidered on the right collar was a wolf that Lilly had stitched to all of the gowns given to you by the Lannisters. You thank the maidens before moving with Ser Meryn to the throne room. You said nothing, acknowledged no one. 

You bowed gently at Joffrey, his eyes stalking your body, taking in the sight of your breasts, arms, and face. At his side, Sansa. Her eyes widened, and her lips trembled as she straightened her posture; she missed your touch's warmth and the gentleness of your words. She felt she betrayed you; she didn’t have time to think after the Father’s death; she just wanted to survive. 

“I want you to bear my children, rightful thrones to the heir!” he announced. You said nothing; you continued gazing at Sansa, praying that she was alright and praying to the Old Gods that the light cast shadows on her face instead of the bruises. Your hands clenched at your side as you watched her flinch at each movement made by Joffrey. “To fuck the traitorous blood out of you! Send the babes’s head to your brother, maybe send yours, force him to bend the knee, and submit to me.”

You simply answered, “No.” His face sunk, his eyes widened as his lips tightened, and his jaw clenched in frustration. You heard the footsteps of the knight, his armor rattling against each other. You watched Meryn, his decrepit face glaring into you. 

“Meryn,” he called out, his hand waved in his direction. 

You felt a hand glide across your face, your head snapping from the force; he struck you repeatedly. You remained still as the knight was instructed to hit you again if you didn’t accept his offer; Joffrey grew frustrated at your resilience. You felt blood dripping from your eyes, burning, blinding your vision. “You lay another hand on her, and I kill you.” you heard a knife unsheathing or maybe his longsword. Joffrey cackled; it settled in the throne room. You felt the uneasiness of the air and how it settled in your bones uncomfortably. 

“You want to protect this bitch! Your bitch! You know… I should make you fuck her, fuck the beast until you bear his litter of pups.” Joffrey tossed his hands in the sky, a wicked smile grew on his lips. “Why don’t we feast? A wedding between a wolf and a dog! You want her to fucking bad, have her! Make litters of animals. I’ll behead them and you. We will send them to your traitor brother,” he spits, his cackles once more as he claps his hands in excitement like a child. You squeezed your eyes closed, your face searing in pain; you heard him pushing past Meryn and Clegane, his hand grabbing my chin as he brought it closer to my face. ‘What do you say, wolf? Mm? Want to marry this ugly mutt?” You stared at him, disdain dripping from your lips as you tightened them. His Lannister eyes dull into you; for a moment, you are frightened but realize he was just a little boy playing King. He was a sadistic little boy. You retracted your thoughts, fearing that he might be able to hear them. You didn’t speak; you didn’t acknowledge him. Only turning your head out his hand. 

“This can all go away, and you don’t have to marry this ugly dog if you bear my children. Don’t you want to prove that you aren’t a traitor to be loyal to the rightful King,” he whispers into your ear, feeling your trembling skin with his finger. You calmly replied, remaining solid in your ass. He hisses in dismay, tossing your head back, causing you to stumble around. Sandor’s gently grabbed at your back. “A perfect alliance! You two mutts belong together! Soon, your head-”

“Enough!” you heard Cersei call out, her voice commanding the silence, causing Joffrey to stumble back. His face widened, and for a moment, you saw a child being reprimanded by his mother, a child who needs to be punished. His face grew slightly red, his lips tightening with embarrassment. 

Cersei dismissed you. Walking away, you rushed out of the throne as you felt the emotions run through; you wanted to cry, you could feel the tears building in your throat, and yet nothing. Numbness washed over you as you mindlessly moved back to your chambers… You needed to get out of here. You let yourself stumble into your chambers, greeted by Lilly, the only thing that reminded you of home. You collided with her, remaining silent as you listened to the constant beat of her heart. “It’s a’ght, M’lady,” she murmured. You flinched at the sound of the door; you could feel his presence filling the room. Lilly released you, bowing to Clegane as she stumbled out of the room. You didn’t dare move; you didn’t want to look at or think about him. 

His voice was strong, “Let me see you.” You obeyed, turning your gaze to him. You noticed he had a grey-ish clothe in his hand. In one stride was in front of you, dapping your face gently. You never thought he could be this gentle with you. His thumb caresses your chin as he huffs angrily, his face contorted slightly, causing his lip to twitch. He was in deep thought and wanted to kill Joffrey, behead him just as he did your father. He wanted to prove to you that he was not his loyal dog. “Stupid girl, why didn’t you marry him,” He cuffs your bruised face, bringing you closer to him. “Why didn’ya accept the offer?”

“Sandor,” you mumbled weakly, his name bringing joy to his ears. You didn’t have an answer, nor did you want to provide him with one. You simply let yourself rest against him, feeling the cold sting of his armor. It was nothing like the chilling sensation of the North, but it brought you a sense of comfort. Sandor sat stiffly, allowing you to rest against him. 

“You’re a stupid girl,” he whispers. “My stupid girl.” His lips pushed against your head, mumbling insults to you.

𓃥𓃦𓃨

It was Joffrey’s nameday; you grew tired of the insipid celebration of the arrogant and cruel King. Your body leaned against the railing, the calm winds blowing against you as you were in deep thought. You could hear Lilly calling out for your name, but you ignored her, knowing that it must’ve been Joffrey who once again offered his seed to you and offered you an out for the marriage with Sandor. His hand would grab at your throat, snatching you closer to him before pushing you against the wall. His other hand yanked your hair down, and you croaked as you clawed against his hand. Your whimpers barely escape your throat. Soon, as he grew tired of your squirming, he let go, watching you gasp helplessly. Your body fell limp to the ground as you clutched the dress that pooled at your feet. This became routine for the last couple of weeks, but you were hoping on his nameday, he would leave you be. 

You peered over your shoulder, seeing Sandor aggressively march into the room, his eyes capturing yours; a small smile rode on his lips. You returned your attention ahead of you, taking in the pastures of green and the ant-like bodies walking about. Everyone and Everything was loud in celebration of King Joffrey. You could feel his gaze on you; it was heavy and needy. Roughly, his armor fell against the floor, clanging and being kicked to the side. He could him slightly cursing and fumbling to move closer to you. You relaxed against him, feeling his warmth against your backside. “I need you.” You could feel him stiffen against you, his hand roughly grabbed at your waist. “I miss you…I’ve missed you for some time now.” You grind yourself gently against him, your ass grazing the tip of his throbbing cock. “I just—I want you inside of me.” 

“You don’t know what you are asking for.” he hums, his hands tightening on your waist as he guides your movements slightly. His hands roughly yanked at the back of your dress, exposing you, his fingers gently caressing your ass before moving to your opening. You hiss as he drags his thick finger over your wetness, his finger tracing at your glistening pearl before inserting his finger; you gasp, grabbing at the rails as you let yourself fall against it. He was rough and sloppy, thrusting in an erratic pattern before slowly retracting his finger. You hum in pleasure, your stomach churning with the familiar euphoric sensation as he pounds his finger into you; Sandor is growing impatient. He wanted to fuck you, to make you scream out his name for all to hear. His cock ached and pulsated as he watched your leaking cunt, dripping his fingers against the cement. Irrationally, he became jealous of the bugs that would taste you and the air that kisses you. He admires your soft kitten-like moans, how they purr against his ear gently, the soft meows of his name as he rams his finger into you. You quickly turn to face him, startling him for a moment. His finger was slipping out of you–your face flushed with color as your chest heaved harshly. The material tightened against your chest before retracting as you watched Sandor. Sandor turns away in disgust of himself; your hands inched to his face, tugging at him. 

Slowly, he returns his attention to you. His eyes glared at you. Quickly, he grabs at you, pulling you off of your feet; you gasp as you feel your back pressed against the cool brick. Quickly,  your legs around him, steadying yourself as you watched him fumble with the ties that held up his trousers. You watched him, your eyes taking the scars that riddled his face and the solemn look that marked his lip. His face grew in frustration; he shut his eyes briefly, insecurity shattering him as he tried not to think about your judging eyes. You heed his direction, shutting your eyes as you watch the darkness that clouded you. You flinched at his unexpected softness, his fingers touching your face and lips. His hands move to your thighs, squeezing at your flesh as his hands move to your ass. You could feel the pressure building inside of you as you felt the tip of his cock rest against your entrance, pocking and sliding against your wetness. 

The air is stolen from her as Sandor’s hips meet yours. Your eyes flickered open as you moaned loudly, your hands wrapping against his neck as you lazily pulled him closer to you. He stumbled closer to you, your breath mingling as Sandor’s head rested against your clavicle. He gently gnawed at you, his lips gliding against your skin before resting against your neck. Rapidly, he thrust inside of you, your heat tightening around him as you moaned out his name, the pace of this thrust was ruthless as he cursed at you, using his grip on your hips to yank you further down on his throbbing and needy cock. He pulls away from your neck as he watches you chant his name over and over. “Sandor, Sandor–oh Sandor, Please—Sandor.”

He stops, taking the time to watch you squirm underneath his touch. His nose brushes against your cheek as he kisses it; quickly, you turn your head to face him. He watched your eyes slowly prying open as your doe-like eyes overtook him. Your face contorted in pleasure as he continued to thrust into you. Your fingers danced back to his cheeks, cuffing them in admiration. You slam your lips against him, tasting the bitter wine on his tongue. Your tongue dipped into his mouth, gathering everything before sliding back into your own; you moaned against him while his hips picked up in pace, the slaps echoing into the air as you cried out a moan on his lips. You pull back as a slew of words fall from your lips. “All mine, you’re all mine,” he growls through his runts and your rants, his words falling upon deaf ears as you call out his name through your orgasm. His dick twitches inside of you; he could feel himself approaching his high, his seed jutting out as you whine out his name. Your cunt clenches against him as you feel his cum flooding inside of you, his hips still moving at the painstakingly harsh pace, fucking himself through his orgasm as he pushes himself against you. He retracts slightly, letting his cock slide out, exposed to the cool air. He rams himself deeper inside of you, shoving his seed into you. “You take me so well, little wolf.”

You felt him pick up pace, his jerked against you, his head resting against you as he grunted out your name. Soon, all of his seed was slammed into you, dripping around his cock and your soaking cunt. He pulls back swiftly, his eyes watching as silence veiled over you. Your mouth parted as you tried catching your breath, your hands lazily cuffing his neck as your thumb stroked his jawline. You peeked at his lips, still feeling his cock twitch inside of you. “I missed you.” You repeated, the words lazily falling off your tongue. Sandor had no words; he couldn’t think around you. You left him in a state of wanting—needing more. He pulls himself out of you, causing you to take intake quickly. You weren’t like the whores that he paid to fuck, the needy and whining pleas as he rammed his cock into them, their eyes squeezed tight when laying on their backs. He recalls one time, paying the woman handsomely to moan out his name; she nodded shyly, her eyes never meeting his face that she did, her voice coarse and full of emotion. “Sandor Sandor Sandor—- you fuck me so good, your cock fills me so well.” He hated it, the way her auburn hair bounced, the way her hands grabbed at his chest, the way her teets moved about as she bounced on him, the way her mouth horridly gaped open as she screamed out his name, and everything that falls out of her mouth was scripted and unreal. She came undone, jumping off his lap and taking his manhood into her mouth, soaking up all his seed as she smiled brightly. With a grunt, he pushed her off, irritated by her presence. For months, it went on as such, endless whores that never pleased him.

He regretted it every time, especially the nights he came to you, gentle with your words and touch. You lay with him, letting your hands caress him. You were patient with him, understanding his anger and outbursts; he never understood it and loathed the feeling that rose when he thought everything was feigned and a part of his imagination. 

Here he stands, watching you glistening in the sweet sun’s rays, your skin dewy as you happily watched him. Your touch gentle, your words pure. He never felt like this with any woman. Insecurity knocked into him, and he turned away from you, allowing your feet to slap against the ground. He was once again towing over you. He gathers himself, leaving you alone. You adjusted yourself in your garment; his seed was sticky against your cunt and uppermost inner thighs. You pushed your hands across your face, returning to your chamber as you removed your clothing, readying yourself for today’s affairs.

[justanoasisimagines]

Possessive

Hey lovelies back with another headcanon! My requests are currently open and my request guidlines are pinned to the top of the page! Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the Divider!

❀Sandor doesn't let his walls down easily. So when he does, you become his main focus. He needs to protect you. No-one's going to take you from him.

❀Sandor will threaten anyone he deems a threat to you. Specifically, if Sandor believes the individual could be better suited towards you. Sandor's going to get them to back off. He's going to verbally threaten you, sometimes he growls.

❀Sandor pulling you behind him when he's around men he doesn't trust. He likes to put a boundary between you. He's strong, he's powerful and he's difficult to kill. If they want to get to you, they're going to have to go through him first.

❀When you're in a room together, Sandor likes to have you right beside him. It makes him feel more confident, knowing exactly where you are. Even if you're not in a group conversation.

❀When Sandor is feeling particularly possessive, Sandor will drag you onto his lap, hands around your waist as he holds you tightly. He's showing the entire room you belong to him and him alone.

❀Sandor will kill a man for you. If someone wants to attempt to take you from him. He will cut them down. In his opinion, no one is deserving of you. They should have thought about it before attempting to take you from him.

[minsyal]

The Great Stone Knight, Pt. X

Sandor Clegane x Reader

Warnings will remain vague and be for the work as a whole as opposed to each part individually: violence, death, assault, my shitty characterizations, explicit language, sexual content (will be noted), and having too good of a time reading this.

! !!Extra Warning!! ! - This chapter has descriptive depictions of violence and assault.

Masterlist

“What is Antonia like?” Arya questioned. As you traveled together, she became more and more comfortable riding with you behind her. If she wasn’t facing forward, she was on her side, staring up at you as she blasted you with relentless questions about everyone and everything. There were a few occasions when she wanted to ride behind you. Her arms wrapped around your middle, locking together at your center, and her cheek would squish against your back. The vibrations of her speaking tickled with each round of questioning she released. 

“It’s big. Far larger than Westeros. I lived in the capitol, so originally named ‘The Hill.’” Her fingers twisted at the frayed strings of your shirt. “We have vast mountain ranges, grassy plains, a desert if you venture far enough. There are lands much like the ones here, and others that are far different. I particularly liked our jaunts in the Farlands, the grass grows as tall as mountains as the trees extend into the clouds.” 

“Do you have dragons?” 

“Dragons? Not the fire-breathing ones.” You shook your head, immediately losing the full attention she was devoting to you. “We have sea dragons in the northern waters.” Her ears perked. “We have a fleet of sailors who voyage for weeks at a time in search of them. Their scales are said to be impenetrable. I’ve heard of lizards that walk on two legs. They’re to the far east. We don’t know much about them as they have a penchant for violence.”

“What’s your father like?” 

“My father?” You repeated. Sandor listened silently, walking at the side of his steed in a slowed and leisurely step. “Well. Growing up he was very insistent that I be a proper lady. You know, sewing, singing, stitching, and all that. He gave me many liberties. I sailed all around Antonia with my crew. I walked amongst the Ash in Dradow, fell in love with the food in Bretlia, I almost sold our fleet in Bretlol - Ser Lorric had not informed me of their customs, the Gatharb loathed me when I visited them.” 

“Why?” 

“They don’t like the crown. The last king was fairly divisional when it came to the people. He liked starting wars that my father had to end. My father is the current king, my brother is next in line, then me, and so on.”

“Do you want to rule?” 

“Not particularly, but if I happen to fall into power I’ll do my duty. That is, if I ever go back. My father wrote and said I should marry here in Westeros.” 

“To the Mountain.” 

“Yes and hopefully I never have to have my head popped by him.” You eyed her, a gentle reminder to the way she had so bluntly tried to scare you when you first met. She sunk into the cloth of your shirt, hoping to hide behind the thin fabric. 

Between two lines of trees, a plump man struggled at the base of his wagon. From it hung dried and cured meat, legs tied onto the edges of the woven barriers. Sandor stopped your forward march, observing the man for a moment. Turning to you and Arya he took her first, guiding her down to land on the ground, then he placed his hands on your waist and helped you to her side. 

“Remember what happens to children who run.” He took the reins in his hand and placed them in Arya’s. “I’m your father,” he looked at her, then to you “your husband, I’ll do the talking.”

While he walked toward the man and assisted him in fixing his wheel spoke, Arya frowned and spoke over her shoulder to you. “Why aren’t you just his other daughter? Why wife?” 

“We don’t look much like sisters, do we?” You reasoned. 

“Could be.” The man fell to the ground from the force of Sandor’s fist causing Arya to immediately jump to action. She tossed the reins over her shoulder as she trudged forward. “Don’t!” She stood between Sandor and the fallen man. “Don’t kill him.” 

“Dead rats don’t squeak.” He unsheathed his dagger. 

“Sandor.” You called, gathering Stranger and approaching the two in the midst of their duel. Though, they both ignored your presence. 

“You’re so dangerous, aren’t you? Saying scary things to little girls. Killing little boys and old people. A real hard man you are.” 

“More than anyone you know.” 

“You’re wrong. I know a killer. A real killer.”

“That so?”

She sneered, crinkling her nose as she stared up at Sandor. “You’d be like a kitten to him. He’d kill you with his little finger.”

Sandor peered over the top of her head, looking at the plump man who lay groaning on his back. “That him?”

Bewildered by his question, Arya shook her head and cringed her upper lip. “No.”

“Good.” He made to push past her, but was stopped by the strength of your voice. 

“Just leave him be.” You interrupted as Arya pushed against Sandor’s chest, her strength was no match to his. 

Annoyed, he looked back at you and then to Arya who stood fearlessly guarding the man. “Got two of them against me now.” He groaned in congruence to the man who started to wake from his short bout of unconsciousness. As he roused, Arya faced him and picked up a piece of wood from his cart. Striking him across the face, he fell backward again. 

“Can we at least leave him out of the road?” 

~~~*~~~

Arya and Sandor remained by the cart of pigs feet, resting at the demand of Sandor who had grown tired of their travels. Although, with a wagon they were now able to move with less fatigue. Stranger drank from a pond nearby, delighted to not be dragging three bodies and a full cart. 

On the other hand, you were a good distance from the two. With the Brotherhood taking all your belongings, you were left only with what Sandor had. Having spent many years at sea, scavenging was a good trait to keep. The grassy plains and forested marshes of the Riverlands served for perfect fruiting trees and bushes. The gentle climate provided ample weather and conditions for the greenery to survive. 

A thin tree with lightened bark and sprawling branches grew just beyond the line of sight. Its leaves were almond shaped and curved, folding inward as they grew larger. Luscious orange fruits spotted the tree, growing in bunched areas that burst with the vibrant color. Plucking a few that were ripe, you tucked them into the sack that you had taken from the cart. 

When you returned to the company of the other two, they were in the midst of another debate. Arya stood over Sandor, leaning closely as her mouth moved. “Someday I’m going to put a sword through your eye and out the back of your skull.” She stomped off toward the towers, hoping to catch a glimpse of familiarity. 

“Where have you been?” Sandor turned his attention to you, only giving Arya a moment more of his time before the thought of her was dropped from his mind. 

“I could have been killed out there, aren’t you going to tell me how dangerous it was for me to wander off alone?” 

He shrugged his shoulders, ripping another piece from the pig’s foot that jostled in his hands. “Didn’t die, did you?” An elbow nudged in the direction of your bag as a silent inquiry as to what you collected. You fished a hand into the bottom of the sack, collecting a persimmon and handing it to him. Lowering yourself to his side, you stretched your legs out in front of your body and leaned against the wheel of the cart. The pig’s foot he was eating was offered to you, but you did not take it. The pink flesh of the foot smelled faintly porky, a savory fragrance, and looked to be more congealed fat than anything else. Placing two fingers on his wrist, you pushed it away. 

“I said something similar to Beric after you abandoned me.” You twisted your body to grab the knife from Sandor’s belt. The movement went unprotested as he began eating again with the fresh fruit sat at his side. “‘I’ll put out your other eye’ or something like that.” Slicing through the fruit, you gathered a small sliver of it and plucked it from the knife with your teeth. 

There was an unbridled amusement in his gaze. Over the past year and a half, almost two years, he had witnessed an immense growth in your character. Arriving in Westeros, it seemed as though there was a chip on your shoulder wherever you went. You faced the royals with no hesitation. There was never a time that he saw you without your hair done properly or a dress hanging perfectly at your hip. 

Whereas today you sat at his side on the dusty ground. Having been thrown up and tied with a piece of fabric, your hair was always a mess. Pieces dangled in front of your face and it was even worse whenever you let it hang down. You wore men’s clothing with the slightly splattering of blood on the front, and pants that had holes beginning to form at the ankles. Unafraid of what was to come, you threatened warriors and mercenaries while still retaining a gentle kindness to those who deserved it. 

“I kicked dirt in his eye.” You savored one of the first bites of fresh food. The sweet crunch of honey filled your mouth and woke the dormant taste buds that had been living off of unseasoned breads and rubbery jerkies. “He wanted to sell me to the Lannisters. That’s why Arya and I ran.”

“Fucker deserves more than a little dirt in his eye.” 

“Yes.” You agreed. “But he isn’t our problem anymore.”

~~~*~~~

Two nearly identical towers were obstructed from the ground, the one on the southern side of the Green Fork was wild with genial conversations and warm laughter. Alcohol was the main scent wafting into the air surrounding the encampment of tents erected for as far as the eye could see. Men cheered and chided with one another, singing tunes to celebrate the union of the Tully’s and Frey’s. Your arm nestled around Arya’s back as you ducked together beneath a blanket that cloaked the back of the cart. She was anxious to move; it was the first time she had been in such a close range to her brother and mother since she left Winterfell. 

“Why can’t he go faster?” She rolled her eyes, the anticipation in the build up was driving her to her edge. 

You tugged her close, ensuring her head stayed down as you didnt want to draw unnecessary attention in your direction. “We will get there. They’re still here, they aren’t going anywhere.” 

The wagon rolled to a jolting stop as Sandor pulled on Stranger’s reins and called a calming hush to ease the horse. A Frey soldier stepped forward from the gate. “Where are you going?” 

“Got salt pork for the feast.” 

He was a slender man, the perfect type to arm a gate but not the best choice in protecting it. A heavy accent drawled from his mouth, almost to the point of making his jumbled words difficult to understand. Nonetheless, he kept a relatively cool head and seemed to be in high spirits from the celebrations. “The feast is over.”

Sandor peered past him, looking through the gates where he saw people moving about. “It doesn’t sound like it’s over.”

The Frey soldier was quickly losing his jovial facade as Sandor’s persistence grew. “If I tell you it's over, it’s over.” The men who calmed Stranger with their eased touches let him go as the man flipped his arm around and pointed back toward the tents. “Turn this cart around and get the hell out of here.”

Arya was done waiting. Her hand tore your grasp on her shoulder, prying your fingers away as she maneuvered herself over the edge of the wagon. The fluttering of the cloak was entirely lost to the men as the young girl took off into the darkness. “Arya!” You called to her in a quiet hiss, a useless effort in the volume of the crowds.  

Ahead, Sandor was oblivious to the internal struggle that coursed through your veins as you debated following after her or staying by his side. “Got pigs feet, too.” He grumbled to the man, continuing to hold his head low, watching him from the cover of his hood. 

The soldier was angry now, whipping his hand in the air as if to strike Sandor. The strain in his face was apparent by the vein that protruded from his forehead and the tenseness in his neck. “Are you soft in the head? Turn this cart around!” 

As he resigned himself to their denials, he turned to see you preparing to run after the girl. The sudden jostling of the cart stirred your mind, redirecting your attention to Sandor. Stranger pulled the cart backward, returning through the camp of men who carried on with their celebrations as if nothing were wrong. When placed a comfortable distance from the gates, he dismounted, unhooked the horse, handed you the reins, and pointed at a knife in the cart’s basket. 

“You let her go?” His tone was accusatory, but not harsh in its entirety. Rather, he sounded like a tired father attempting to keep his family together. Dismissing your response before it could come, he took the knife and pressed the handle into the palm of your hand. “If I don’t come back, ride south for Seagard.” 

“If?” Before you could continue he, too, disappeared into the crowd leaving you alone on the edge of chaos. It was instantaneous, how the celebration turned to battle. 

The men who were telling stories and singing tunes a second ago pulled their blades from their waists as they slaughtered every man decked in Stark armor. Guffaw amusement bled into horrified screams of agony as blood flowed like wine. The Stark men had no time to react as the Frey’s guerrilla warfare stained a night meant for unification and merriment. Men fell to the ground, gripping at their wounds as others rounded them and pulled the light from their eyes. It seemed that each man had a different death, but all equally gruesome. Everything done was to inflict the most pain possible. 

A man screamed as two others held him down and one stole his legs from his body. Another kicked and choked from his suspension in the air. You watched as one came running in your direction, burning in the fervent flames that had encased his body. He fell before he could make it to the treeline. Your heart was pounding in your chest a thousand miles a minute. The tents were set ablaze, sending the field into a storm of flames that rose high above the treetops. Everything was moving so rapidly that it almost seemed that time slowed. 

You soothed your hand down the horse’s neck, more for your comfort than his. Stranger seemed unbothered by the battle that raged on, acting as a true warhorse. You, though, hadn’t seen true warfare like this up close. The closest you got was the Battle of Blackwater, where you still remained relatively distanced from the actual fighting within Maegor's Holdfast. Even more once Sandor swept you from the city. Now all that stood between you and the bloodshed was a short plot of land and a few trees. It was enough to bring tears to your eyes both out of fear and for the amount of death and destruction that the world was capable of. 

Your heart sunk into your stomach as your mind did the only thing it could do while you waited for some sign of Sandor - think. If Arya had just waited a moment more, she could have escaped this madness unharmed. Her longing for her family was unmatched, but losing her life would do her no good in the end. Just as you reconciled with what you would do if Sandor did not appear at the battle’s edge, a voice called out from behind. 

“I thought all the whores were inside.” A man bellowed from behind you, the yellow flames of his torch cast ominous murky shadows across his plush face. “What do you say, lads?” He slapped his hands against his sides as he took two steps forward. “Do we deserve a reward for our efforts?” 

The men concurred with one another, rousing their appetites as they all voiced words of approval. You gripped tightly onto Stranger’s reins, backing away but finding the steed acting as a barrier keeping you like a caged animal. “Pretty little thing, you are.” The eldest of the men sneered, lurching forward as he took your neck in his grip. “I’ve the most years of service, boys.” His fingers squeezed lightly to restrict your airway. One finger dug into either side of your neck, feeling as if he were going to tear the tendons from your skin. The hand that once held onto Stranger was now hanging off the man’s wrist in a sad performance of restraint. Try as you might, your strength was no match to him. “How abouts I get ‘er first. Then you all can have a go.” 

Alcohol stung your nose; his fuming breaths slid across your face and sunk into your senses. He was heavily subdued, but still aware enough to overpower you. “Stark whore? She don’t look used enough to be one of ours.” Another man, younger and thinner, said. “Can’t tell how used she is until we see what’s under here.” The older, plumper man jeered, giving a slight tug to the waist of your pants. 

“Let me go!” You struggled in his grasp, kicking your legs out in the hopes that you could connect with one of their knees. The third man appeared, a perfect middle-aged man to add to their trio.

A gloved hand, still soaked in the blood of the Stark men, groped you grossly. You weren’t sure whose hand it was, but knowing would not make the situation any better. “Stop!” You clawed at the old man who had you pinned, drawing fiercely red lines down the front of his face. His head lurched backward, keeping his face from your reach. Redirecting your strength, you galled at his chest. His armor protected him well, though. Your fighting was futile as you were only chipping away at your own nails and skin. 

“Stop.” The youngest man mocked in a sing-song voice. “We should cut ‘er tongue out while we’re at it, dumb cunt.” He pressed his muddied hand to your mouth. “You’ll like it more if you’re quiet.”

The taste of dirt and iron flooded your tongue, covering the entire surface with the disgusting thickness of filth. You wanted to spit, to get the gritty grime from your mouth, but his hand remained firm.

Behind your back, the cold blade was still in the palm of your hand. It begged for bloodshed, practically vibrating with excitement as you debated whether or not retaliation would spare you from their assault. As the eldest man raked his hands over your body, grossly making contact with now-exposed skin, you acted.

Prying the blade from your backside, you pushed it deep into his chest and drew it out to strike again.  

The oldest man gasped and clutched at his chest that poured his hot blood down his front, forever staining the end of his life. Frantically, his hands wandered his own body. His fingers plunged into the hole and his eyes went wide. With a final breath, deflating and defeated, the man toppled backward into the ground and landed with a sickening crack as his head connected with a stone.

Again, the blade was plunged into a warm body, seeking its newest home. The youngest man, who still had his hand over and inside your mouth, began to hurl slurs in your direction. His hollering riled up the middle man who rushed to the aid of his elder. His hollering, though, was squelched by the horrible bite of your teeth. The rancid taste of iron flooded the inside of your mouth as the spurting scarlet ichor ran down the sides of your chin. Screaming, the young man pulled his hand back to observe his two missing digits. He couldn’t decide what to focus on, his eyes wildly shot from the wound in his chest to the squirting blood and exposed bone. 

You couldn’t have been faster to spit. Two dismembered fingers tumbled to the ground, disappearing into the brush. Salt and bile puckered your tongue, bringing with it the contents of your stomach. Another’s light was extinguished at your hand, and the youngest man landed at the eldest’s side. 

Their hands fastly stopped moving across your chest, instead they were immediately brought to the various wounds that you had inflicted. Most were motionless at this point, laying next to the rancid pool of your stomach’s contents. 

“You bitch!” The third man lunged from his spot on the ground, aiming for your throat. “You’ll regret that.” Black spotted your vision as his hand collided with your cheek. He held his palm flat against your neck, restricting your air until you saw stars. The knife had been left in one of the deceased men, serving no defensive purposes to your aid. The man’s ungloved fingers dug into your skin, drawing droplets of red liquid to the surface as he assaulted you with a litany of cuts and patches that would turn to bruises if you lived through the night. His eyes were wild and heavily dilated. A choked laughter garbled at his lips as he relished the way you gasped for air. 

As the night’s darkness faded to the clouding of your mind, your body relaxed and your limbs slowly gave out beneath you. The man bellowed, a deranged giggle mixing with his screams of anger. Just as you felt the cold embrace of the twilight, his body was pulled from yours. 

You couldn’t see what happened as you tried to regain your footing. Your hand met the firm side of Stranger, searching desperately for the reigns that seemed to be just out of your reach. In the gloom of your hazed vision, you could see a large dark figure raising his foot and stamping it down quickly. His heavy heeled boot met the middle-man’s face, driving him to death. 

Before coming to your wobbly aid, Sandor secured Arya in the rehooked cart and threw the remaining goods to the ground to make room for you. When he returned, you were clutching your head in your hands, hoping to will the dizziness away with the touch of your skin. Instead of placing you in the cart, his arm looped itself around your waist and positioned you upon the horse’s back. Unsteadily, your fatigued body swayed back and forth until the soothing warmth of Sandor’s chest met the aching skin of your back. He cast a glance backward to ensure Arya was still there, tightly tucked into a cloak that acted like a net to keep her secured. 

Riding away from the slaughter was just as bad as witnessing it. The sounds of terror echoed into the Riverlands, singing a song of sorrow that would last for many days and nights to come. You tried to stay awake, to focus on where you were headed, but exhaustion flooded your senses as your eyelids tugged downward. Relaxing into Sandor’s chest, you allowed yourself to curl into the strong embrace of his arms and get swallowed by the darkness of the night. 

~~~*~~~

The silence of the land reverberated for hours after the wails faded into nothingness. Retreating south, Sandor’s main goal was to put as much distance between the group and the Twins as possible. Hours passing by brightened the moon as the sun extended its warm rays over the horizon, encasing the world in the safety of its light. Rousing you from your dreamless sleep, Sandor guided your aching body down from Stranger who was just as tired. The poor horse couldn’t sustain any more travel without a few hours rest. Three bodies and a cart were added weight that caused his feet to drag. 

Roaring beside you was the Green Fork. A small pond collected river water, flowing at a steadier pace in a spiraling motion as the cool liquid made its way in and out of the area. The cover of trees and tall grass were the perfect security for rest. Sandor unhooked Stranger, intending on leaving the cart behind when you eventually moved forward with your journey. 

Arya still didn’t wake from her slumber, having fallen into a fitful sleep the moment she descended into darkness. The cloak nuzzled around her shoulders, encasing her in the thin veil of safety that it could provide. She didn’t move as you brushed the ragged hair from her face, revealing the dried blood on her brow. Sandor nestled himself amongst a patch of thick green grass,  sitting with his forearms resting on his knees as he watched you. 

A cloth from the cart’s baskets was soaked through with water, heated by your touch. Arya crinkled her nose the moment it brushed against her face. It didn’t take long to wipe the filth away. Without your salve, you couldn’t seal her wound. Instead, you opted to press a new piece of cloth to her forehead, hoping to quell the bleeding. Content with the care you could provide to her, you tucked the cloak beneath her chin, making sure it was fully wrapped around her body to guard her from the cold air that had begun to set in. Descending the cart, you made your way to Sandor’s side on the ground. 

“Thank you.” You sat with your knees to your chest, hugged tightly by your arms. The bed of grass you sat upon was cold, sending chills through your bones to pair with the discontented shake of your shoulders. The events of the night washed over your body, drained the fight, and sent your mind spiraling. “I thought that they-” you repressed a sob as your clothing started to shift uncomfortably where the ghosts of their hands wandered. “I just couldn’t-” a shaken breath warmed the air in front of you. The shivers in your lungs caused your throat to clench. 

Sandor watched as the retreating moonlight waltzed with the blue hue of the sun. The two mixed hazily together and illuminated against your silhouette. Powdery azure depthened the soft features of your face. It was almost ethereal, he thought. The way the light reflected from the iridescent tears that streamed freely from your glassy eyes was enthralling. Most were ugly criers. Crying annoyed him. It was a childish habit, something that irked him when adults threw their composure away. But you, you cried silently. He watched you bring your lip between your teeth, suppressing the gasps that raked over your body the best that you could. 

“They weren’t going to kill you.” He finally said, taken by the way you lowered your head into your knees in response. 

There was a beauty in the remorse that flooded your body. It was tragic, almost. Like watching a play that you knew the ending to. There was no stopping the waves of emotions that crashed upon the rocky shores. This sadness, though, was entirely different from that of when Ser Lorric died. Those emotions came from a place of anger, of hurt, and unbridled pain. Your screams back then were frantic and fast; hysterical to most. The tears that carved your face then were frenzied, flowing freely from your reddened eyes. 

Now, your sobs were restrained and coming from a place of disgust and defeat. The whites of your eyes did not fall red, instead they glowed in an arctic blue effervescence like the cracking ice of a moving glacier. There was a potent uncomfort expressed in the tenseness of your body. You tried to hold yourself together, to keep your composure, but the thin string that wrapped itself tightly around your poise and grace was not enough to mend the shattering shards of jagged glass. 

“I,” you took in a deep breath and wiped your eye, but it was useless as the pain still flowed. “I tried. I can’t even protect myself. I can’t-” 

A protective hand tugged at your arm as Sandor knocked you off balance, forcing you to tumble into his side. “Shut up, would you?” He raised a hand and wiped the blood that wasn’t yours from the corner of your mouth. “You protected yourself. Killed two. It wasn’t a fair fight.” 

He chipped away at the cracking blood that pinched at your lip. Putting all of his focus into the curvature of your skin where his finger rested. “I can still feel them.” You cringed, relaxing into his side as he rubbed a soothing hand across the apple of your cheek, brushing your hair out of your face. 

“They can’t feel anymore.” He tried to joke, earning the smallest of smiles. It wasn’t much compared to the jibs and jeers that you once slang in his direction, but it was something. An awful tearing sound rang in your ears as he forced a tuft of cloth from his cloak, having turned his body slightly to complete the action. . The canteen of water he kept at his side was spilled onto the ground, the water pooling into a reflective puddle. “Hold still.” 

The frigid fabric was raked across your skin, cleaning unceremoniously as he attempted to be gentle. Your neck stung as he removed the dried blood that dripped from your wounds. He pressed the cloth onto your swelling cheek, soothing the burning of your welted skin. As he dragged the red-stained material over the rounding of your lip, he paused. His eyes were tormented. The struggle in his heart was displayed in the way his focus danced from your cuts to your lips. It seemed so out-of-character for him to play the part of the nurse. When he was satisfied with his work, he discarded the rag and cupped your cheek in his palm. His heart swelled at the way your eyelids fluttered shut, savoring in the safety of his touch.

“I’ll keep you safe, little lamb.” 

He gathered you to his side, the protection of his arm draped down your shoulders. The two of you let the adrenaline of the night wear off as the comfort and warmth of one another set in. 

You fell asleep under the fading stars, wanting nothing more than to live in that moment forever. But as the gods would have it, the morning would come and with it would bring the consequences of the night before.

Writer's note: 💕

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[factorydefaultlu]

im not sure if this is consensual because of the s/o being in the state of intoxication,, but how would sandor, cersei, petyr, oberyn react to having an innocent s/o that is an insanely horny drunk??

Sandor tries to hold back his laughter as his beloved tries to climb him. They requested a kiss, getting up onto their tippy toes and nearly fell in doing so. "I think you need to lay down." he tells them, gripping their shoulders to steady them. They giggled and pressed their body against his, heir hand immediately groping his crotch. "Hmm only if you come with me." they look up at him through their lashes. Damn they knew exactly how to wrap him around their fingers.

Sandor sighs, and picks his lover up. They cry with laughter and wrap their arms around his neck, burying their face into his neck and leaving kisses in their stead. He was going to have fun trying to wrangle them.

Cersei certainly finds it entertaining when her lover is drunk and thinks they're being smooth with their flirting. She'll roll her eyes and brush them off, but truth is she loves the attention. She'll capture her beloved's chin between her finger and her thumb and make them look at her. Of course they try to lean in and kiss her, she dodges them and they fall forward onto her lap.

"I say it's time you switched to water." she'll say raising a brow. Her lover just buries their face into her thigh, their hands running up her legs. Cersei smirks, she knows what they want. She could certainly give into them, but what's the fun in that. She wants them to beg.

Petyr would definitely take advantage of this opportunity. His beloved is hanging all over him, and it's truly amusing to him. He asks them questions, silly little ones at first, then he starts asking more serious ones. He has to make sure they truly love him and want to be with him of course.

"My love, I can't bed you while you're in this state." Petyr lies, he just wants to hear them beg, and they do. His lover pouts and keeps pulling at his shirt, saying they need him. It's certainly a stroke to his ego to hear that his beloved is not only devoted to him, but is willing to beg for his cock.

Oberyn is quite amused. His beloved is very shy when sober but after half a glass of wine and they're trying to undress him in public. He calms them down, holding their hands and kissing their lips.

"We have plenty of time later to wrap ourselves around eachother. For now let's finish our party." he smiles softly as they pout. Oberyn loves their wandering hands and flirty eyes. He can't wait for an opportunity to drag them off, why must politics rely on his presence. He wants to just ravage his lover already.

[tessimagines]

Hello, I’d like to make a request. 💥+Game of Thrones+ a preference about how they would react if you comforted them when they were crying/vulnerable. Feel free to pick the characters you want!

GoT Preference: Comforting them & their Reaction

Jon Snow

We all know Jon is broody

Therefore, he can have a bit of trouble accepting comfort

You can always tell when something is wrong, and will let him know you are always open for comfort

At night, that is when Jon can loosen up a little more

Comforting generally starts with small physical touches, like running a hand through his hair of placing a hand on his back and kissing his cheek

He will eventually begin to talk and accept more physical comfort

The night will end with Jon's head on your chest, you placing soft kisses to his forehead

He doesn't cry often, but knows that if he does in front of you, you will never judge him

He appreciates your comfort more than he lets on

He rarely verbally thanks you, but sometimes, he will leave a little thank you note for you to find in the morning

Robb Stark

Robb knows he can immediately come to you for comfort

If he has any issues or problems, you are generally the first person he wants to discuss them with

After meetings with the heads of other Northern Houses, they will be dismissed and you will stay behind to talk things over

If something is emotionally getting to him, he is the kind of person who wants to talk it over

You can stay up all night, talking over the things that are upsetting him

He also appreciates physical comfort, like holding his hand while he is talking

When he is finished getting all of his emotions out and hearing any of the advise you might have, he will take your face in his hands and kiss you

It's a deep and passionate thank you, one that shows how grateful he is to have you

Eddard Stark

Ned likes to bottle up his emotions

He knows he can always turn to you but it is hard for him to be vulnerable around other people

When things really get to him, he tends to become silent

This is when you know

You will comfort him with a kiss first, and cuddle up to him

He doesn't need words

If he cries, you don't say anything, you know he would rather you just remain physically close

You know he is beginning to feel better when starts to place kisses to your forehead

He doesn't need to say thank you for you to know he appreciates your comfort

The thank you is there when he finds peace and falls asleep in your arms

Jaime Lannister

Jaime is another one who bottles up his emotions

If you ever ask him if he is okay, the answer is always the same: "I'm fine."

Him knowing you care is generally more than enough of a comfort to him

Just asking and a kiss to his cheek is enough to make him feel better. Not completely better, but significantly

Jaime will never admit it but he loves head scratches when he is sad or stressed

He does find it hard to thank you, that requires a vulnerability he doesn't like to show

There are some nights, however, where everything just comes to a head

Tears, sobs, everything. He will start talking about whatever is bothering him with no limitations

In these moments, you just sit and listen. Just the idea of being listened to is perfect for Jaime

To thank you after those nights, he will run you a bath or buy you a gift as a thank you

sometimes, he will even sum up the courage to whisper a thank you in your ear

Tyrion Lannister

Tyrion knows he can rely on you

But when you have spent your whole life being unloved by the people who are supposed to love you most, it can be hard to trust

That's why he can become distant when he is upset

He doesn't like showing vulnerability in fear that you will laugh

He knows this will never happen, but he can't let that feeling go sometimes

When you kiss him though, sometimes you can feel him melt into it

He loves physical comfort

He appreciates that affection more than he could possibly put into words

In these moments, when he can feel you are there for him, sometimes he will let himself cry

And you will just hold him, slowly running your fingers though the mop of curls on his head

He is simple in the way he thanks you - "I love you"

Tormund Giantsbane

Tormund is very open with his feelings

He, of course, likes to appear strong in front of others, but Tormund doesn't seem to equate weakness as being emotionally open and vulnerable

No, to him, that is a showing of true strength

When Tormund is feeling sad or down, he will tell you he is sad or down

He seeks out your comfort more than most men would

If he needs you to hold him, he will tell you and then lie in your arms for as long as he needs

He is not much of a crier, but he is not afraid to shed some tears in front of you

Tormund's way of making it up to you, is a little more physical than others

He is not afraid to show you intimately how much he appreciates your comfort

Sandor Clegane

This man is the king 👑 of repressed emotion

He will simply refuse to accept that anything is wrong with him

If you offer comfort, he is simply not accepting

Dedication is key, however, and sometimes, rarely, Sandor will let you hold him

He might grumble about it, telling you that you are being "fucking stupid", but inside, he revels in it

That physical connection has the power to calm any emotional storm going through them

He will never let you know though, no, that would be way too vulnerable

Jorah Mormont

Jorah is a man who thrives off words of affirmation

The most effective way to comfort him is to reassure him through words

He can totally feel himself calm at your reassurances

Sometimes, all he needs to hear is that he is enough and you love him more than he could possibly imagine

Every time you comfort him, Jorah wonders how he ever ended up having a love like yours

Afterwards, all he wants to do is hold you in his arms and place kisses to your cheek

Sometimes, you have to stop him from continuously thanking you

Oberyn Martell

Oberyn Martell is an emotive man

It is very easy to tell when he is upset

He is honest and real about his emotions, always

He likes to talk them over with you and hear any advise you can offer

Sometimes, though, all he wants or needs is for you to listen

Some nights can be entirely full of him talking about his issues

This will always lead to talk of Elia

As these nights progress, Oberyn's mood always seems to improve

He slowly moves closer

By the end of the night, he has his arms around you and is placing soft kisses all over your body

Oberyn shows his appreciation through pleasure, letting his body do the talking

Gendry Waters

Gendry can get grumpy when he is upset

When he snaps at you, which is rarely, this is when you know something is wrong

A few moments of silence go by before he takes a deep breath and apologises

You don't ever say anything, but instead, you walk over and just wrap your arms around his body

He will always lean into it, taking comfort in the feeling of you holding him

Sometimes, this is all he needs, but other times he needs to talk about his emotions or issues in order to feel better

He will look into your eyes as he does so, their soft expression calming him down

When he is finished you will just smile and place a kiss to his lips

He will place a hand up to your face, running a finger across your cheekbone and thank you

Podrick Payne

Podrick Payne is not a man afraid of crying in front of you

Whenever he is stressed or feeling down, that is what mostly happens

To him, there is no more calming feeling in the world than having you hold him while he cries

He also likes when you just listen to him talk about whatever is bothering him

Your advise is always appreciated too, but he also just likes when you listen to his issues and don't try to solve them

When he feels comforted, his way of thanking you is through acts of service

This can include trying his best to make you a meal or running you a warm bath

You can make your own request for my Back-to-Writing Celebration

Masterlist | Game of Thrones Masterlist

[charliedawn]

Their last words to you:

Sandor Clegane:

You had been ambushed and attacked by a bunch of thieves. Sandor had had no choice but to fight back and try to kill all of them—but he had suffered through numerous stabbing wounds and at the end, he knew he wasn’t gonna make it. He fell to the ground as you screamed and cried out his name. You tried to stop the blood from flowing, but you couldn’t. He had too many injuries and you could only sob as you desperately tried to find a solution.

But…

Sandor lifted a hand to your cheek and his eyes met yours. You both knew that he wouldn’t last much longer and there was so many things he had to say and that he wouldn’t have the time to say. So many things he had hoped he would get to do and experience with you. And now, he felt that tell-tale pang in his chest.

He could almost laugh at the irony. For so long, he had laughed at the face of death and taunted it to come get him. But now, he was willing to pray for just another day with you.

He swallowed with difficulty before speaking up—his voice low and shaky.

"…You are…everything I never deserved. Everything I never thought I’d ever find in this fucked up world. And fuck…You made me want to live, Y/N. But now…I have no choice but to ask you. Please. Please, Y/N. Do not let me suffer. I hate pain. So, you gonna have to cut our goodbyes short—yeah ?"

You shook your head at first. No. No. You wouldn’t do it. You refused to do it. There had to be another way. A way to save him. Anything.

"Y/N. I need ya. I need ya. Please." He insisted and you sobbed harder. No. You didn’t want to say goodbye to Sandor. But when he stared at you with pleading eyes and blood stained your hands…you knew that there was nothing to be done. You sighed and took out your knife. You pressed your forehead against his.

"…See you soon, Sandor."

You then kissed his forehead before stabbing him in the heart.

Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger):

"Y/N…" He started and you looked up to meet his gaze. "I warned you when we first met. Falling in love with me would be a mistake, that I would only end up disappointing you."

His eyes were empty. Gone was the arrogant and manipulative little weasel you had grown to love and respect. Only Petyr remained now. He looked at you without actually seeing you. He seemed so pitiful now…Had he always been that way inside ? Lost and empty and miserable ? Had you really fallen for that man ?

"I never regretted choosing you, Petyr." You still replied and a small smile graced his features—sad and pitiful.

"Petyr…" You whispered. "Is this…Is this really goodbye ?"

He took a shuddering breath and addressed you a saddened smile.

"I am afraid so, sweetheart."

Sweetheart…That name. That affectionate little name which made your heart happy and your mind content. He was trying to tell you something. Petyr Baelish had never told that he loved you. He had never been able to get through that obstacle as long as you had known him.

But that little sweetheart had still managed to wrap you around his little finger.

He had you eating out of the palm of his hand.

And now, you were sitting across from him. It was almost time for the execution. You didn’t look each other in the eyes. You knew you should be afraid, but you weren’t. You knew it didn’t matter anymore.

Too late to change fate now.

A guard came.

"Lord Petyr Baelish. Lady Y/N Baelish. It is time."

You both looked at the guard before looking at each other. Petyr stood up and offered you his hand.

"…Shall we, my Lady wife ?"

You looked at his outstretched hand and smiled before taking it.

"Lead the way, my Lord husband."

Even after the execution…rumours has it that you and Petyr’s hands stayed firmly locked together—united until death and beyond.

Oberyn Martell:

"Come on, little flower. We had our fun, didn’t we ?"

When Oberyn said those words, you knew. You knew that this was the end. He had grown bored of you. It was to be expected of course, but it still hurt. You forced yourself to smile.

"Very well. I hope we can still remain friends, my Prince ?" You asked—hopeful. His friendship was dear to you and you so loved his company. If he thought that he didn’t desire your body anymore, but you still wanted to enjoy his company and hear his wonderful poetry…

He smiled—but it seemed so fake.

"Of course, my little flower. I would like that."

Liar.

The word echoed in his own head. He was a liar. Being your friend was far from what he wanted. He wanted your brain, your heart and your beautiful soul to belong to him and for it to remain so until you both grew old and withered.

But…he had to protect you.

He knew he would be fighting the Mountain soon. Ellaria was strong enough to withstand his possible defeat and death. But, you ? You were such a lovely and delicate little flower. If he was to disappear and break your heart upon his death, then you would certainly lose your mind. Oberyn loved you enough to realise that the best was to break your heart instead of your mind. He hence decided to prepare you for the perspective that he may not survive.

He saw you turn around to leave and he lifted a hand towards your retreating form. He opened his mouth to speak up, but reconsidered and lowered his arm. It was…better this way. And if he was to win the fight ? Then, he would explain everything to you and you would laugh it off together…

A few days later, he faced Ser Gregor Clegane.

He managed to stay on top for most of the fight and both you and Ellaria were happy to see Oberyn finally get revenge for Elia and her children.

But then…Oberyn’s eyes met yours.

He smiled at you and before you knew it, Ser Gregor had cut off his head. You felt your heart stop in your chest. Unlike Ellaria, you didn’t scream—not a sound managed its way past your lips at that moment. You just stared as your ex-lover’s head rolled down his shoulders and kept rolling until it stopped a few feet away from you. He was still smiling. That smile. That lovely and sweet and warm smile that made you feel as if everything would be alright…

You then wordlessly got out a crossbow you had been hiding and aimed at Gregor’s head before unhesitatingly shooting. The arrow went straight through his skull and the giant dropped dead on the sand right next to Oberyn’s body. Before anyone could stop you, you then picked up Oberyn’s head and cradled it in your arms before walking away.

No one dared to stop you.

Tyrion Lannister:

When Tyrion had asked to meet with you in the Red Keep’s gardens…you had been so excited—happy to see him again after all those days of absence working for Daenerys. You had prepared yourself to welcome him with a warm embrace and a long dialogue under the shades of trees. But…you would have never expected his first words to you after such a long time apart to be the following:

"It is best we keep it at that."

Your eyes widened as you heard Tyrion reject you. You were stunned for a moment. Then, you laughed. You thought it was a joke. But, he didn’t laugh—he didn’t even smile at you. Your amusement immediately vanished. You couldn’t understand why he would say something like that. Had you done something wrong ? What was going on ? He couldn’t…He wouldn’t possibly…But you looked him in the eyes and you gasped as you realised that he was serious. It was over. He was ending it. After everything you had been through, after everything…He was just ending it all.

"I am sorry." He added and your eyes watered.

"No. No. Don’t say that. You don’t get to say that." You seethed and felt bile rise up in your throat. You should have expected it, but you surprised yourself by being genuinely shocked by his sudden decision to set you aside.

"Y/N. Please…" He started before you interrupted him.

"I LOVE YOU !"

His mouth remained opened in shock by your words and you hoped that he would believe you and realise the humongous mistake he was making—but his answer was ten times worse than if he had just rejected you.

"…Yes. I know." He confessed before looking at you apologetically. "I am sorry. Goodbye, Y/N."

And with that, he turned away and walked away. Once he was out of sight, you dropped to the ground—hot tears running down your cheeks. Why ? You didn’t understand. Why did you have to fall in love with that man ? That absolutely brilliant, but cruel man. You thought he would be different, that he wouldn’t leave you, that he would be your forever and you would be his…

How wrong you were…

Sansa Stark:

Sansa doesn’t know when it happened exactly. The moment she had fallen in love with you. Perhaps at the very beginning. Before she had learnt about the hardships of life and womanhood. You had grown up together and she knew that you were the person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. You were the person she had begged her father to betroth her to. And you were the one willing to go far and wide to make her happy. When you were both together, only smiles remained on both of your faces.

But then…She had attracted King Joffrey’s attention and from that moment on, everything had changed for the worse. She had had to watch her father be executed and many people of their closed entourage.

But, not you. No. Joffrey had had much better planned for you. He had dragged you through King’s Landing—your wrists bound to his horse as you were forced to follow as rotten vegetables were thrown your way. You were then brought to a pile of wood and attached to a wooden pole—for all to witness. Joffrey had then set fire to the pile of wood you were standing on and as you were about to burn into ashes, your eyes sought out the ones of your beloved in the assembly.

When your eyes met hers, the only thought that crossed your mind was that you weren’t going to make it and that you wanted to see her beautiful smile one last time. You smiled at her through your tears and Sansa understood. She forced herself to smile back—even though all she wanted was to break down in tears and scream for the mercy she knew you would never receive from the Lannisters.

You were embraced by the flames right in front of her eyes.

From that very moment, all her smiles were cold and grim—without the person she had decided to share her heart with. Joffrey had asked her many times to smile at him the way she had smiled at her traitor of a fiancé/e. But, she was never capable of repeating it ever again. You were gone—the source of all her happiness and hopes—and she had no reason to smile anymore.

Or she would, once this whole place burnt to the ground.

Brienne of Tarth:

"Please. Stay. Do not leave me." Brienne begged you as she looked into your eyes. She was scared and horrified by the thought of losing you. You had been bitten by one of the white walkers and you could feel the blood slowly freeze up in your veins. You knew you were dying and you looked at Brienne with cold tears running down your cheeks.

"…I am sorry, Brienne. But I won’t be able to obey your command." You smiled sadly at her and she sobbed—her eyes holding all the sorrows of this world. You had been the only one to support her in her journey as a knight and even offer to be her esquire when none would agree to serve a female knight. But you had believed in her and learnt to love her. She held you closer and cried against your chest as you started stroking her hair soothingly.

"Live, Brienne. Live for me." You whispered to her.

It was too late for you. But, you wanted her to keep fighting until the very end. Your eyes then looked up to see Jaime standing behind her. He had a sorrowful expression on and you smiled at him before addressing him one command.

"Protect…each other."

You then closed your eyes and managed to stay long enough to hear Jaime answer you that he would. You smiled as life left your body. You wouldn’t be there to help or support her, but you were certain that Brienne would fight her hardest till the end—because that was who she was. Before your last breath, you felt warm lips meet your freezing ones. You knew whose they were. You tried to reciprocate the kiss, but darkness overwhelmed you and you knew that this was the end…

‘Goodbye, my love.’ You thought before all disappeared and you took your final breath in the arms of your beloved.

Jaime Lannister:

Jaime had just returned victorious from a battle and had rode faster than the wind to return to King’s Landing and tell you all about it. Only for his smile to drop as he finally reached the castle to see a funeral procession making its way towards the sea. He got off his horse and asked a nearby old woman who they had died. The old woman turned towards him with tearful eyes.

"Alas—my young Prince. Today is a sad day indeed. For we bury our dearest Lady/Lord Y/N."

Jaime was stunned and he couldn’t move for a few seconds. The old woman followed the procession and Jaime looked at them go—his eyes having lost their enthusiastic spark. He had waited and prayed to go home to see you again. He wanted to laugh with you and tell you all about his strange encounters and how he had managed to lead the army to glorious victory. He looked as your carefully wrapped body was carried through the streets of King’s Landing towards the water and laid down gently on a bed of flowers in a large wooden boat.

Jaime had followed as you were mourned by all of King’s Landing. You had been born a commoner, but had succeeded in becoming a valued member of Cersei’s court. He had met you at your beginnings as a member of the High Council. You had studied hard and supported all mocking jeers and taunts surrounding you to help your people. And now, they were the ones who were to see you go and bide you farewell.

He stared as your pretty little boat floated away.

His jaw twitched and he restrained tears as he saw the only person he had ever loved beside Cersei disappearing in the distance. He was the last one to leave the port and as people walked by to their homes around him—he heard multiple echoes of what had actually happened. You had died—killed by Cersei. She had waited until he was gone before sending the Mountain to kill you. And you had suffered. Days and days of tortured and screaming and tears left unheard which the entire of King’s Landing had been unaware of…And you had had to face your last moments alone and scared and in pain.

He didn’t even try to defend Cersei.

He knew she was capable of it. But what he didn’t understand was…why ?

And then, he returned to the castle and found Cersei in her room—arranging her hair. She looked completely unbothered and smiled as she saw Jaime’s reflection in her mirror.

"Jaime. You are back." She then dared to smile at him—as if she didn’t know. But, she knew. She knew. He knew she knew. His eyes were red-rimmed and he asked with a broken voice:

"Why ?"

Cersei didn’t even attempt to pretend that she didn’t know what he was referring to. She only kept a smile on and replied simply:

"Because they annoyed me. That’s why."

His eyes widened at his sister’s monstrous words…He hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

Jon Snow:

Jon died and was reborn by the red witch.

But you ? They had killed you. You hadn’t been deemed important enough to be brought back to life and your body had been in such a pitiful state that even if he was to ask the red witch to bring you back—there wouldn’t be anything for your soul to return into. Jon had to wake up to the cruel realisation that he wouldn’t get to see you ever again.

You had stood by him. Until the very end.

You had both tried to fight off the rogue night watchers who had decided to get rid of Jon. You had fought valiantly with your sword withdrawn and blood spilling from both you and the other guards. You had fought like a lion. Refusing to back down and let them kill him.

You and him knew it was a lost battle.

But as he had felt his brothers’ daggers pierce him from all directions—all he could see was you. You had screamed as you were held down and forced to watch as he was robbed of his life first. Jon could have forgiven them for that. For killing him. But you ? The fact that they had forced you to watch before slashing your throat and feeding your body to the hounds…

That. He could never forgive.

It was your sword he used to cut the rope and hang all the traitors in one instant. They all squirmed and thrashed as they desperately tried to survive. Some even looked at Jon with pleading eyes—but found no mercy in his eyes. Once the last one had stopped moving, he took a deep breath and looked up at the dark and cloudy sky.

Daenerys:

"Please. Forgive me, my love." You whispered—tears rolling down your cheeks as you were forced to watch the woman you loved slowly die by your own hand. You had been by her side from the very beginning. You had fought alongside her to achieve her slow and glorious ascent to the top. You had watched and smiled as she had burnt down King’s Landing to the ground. You had hoped that this would finally be the end of the suffering and misery.

But…

You had then seen the people who had died. People who didn’t deserve it. People who had tried to protect and soothe their crying children as they were burnt alive and whose statues of ashes would remain forever interlocked. You brought a hand to your face at the stench of death and burning flesh. Then, you looked up at her. At your queen. Your khaleesi. Your heart. She was looking at the carnage with such intensity and satisfaction that it sent a shiver down your spine.

No…

You couldn’t. You couldn’t let her rule over Westeros—no matter how much your heart ached at the thought and how long you had fought for her to get there. You knew Ser Jorah would be disappointed in you and that all the people who had died to get her where she was would be cursing your name from their resting place for all of eternity…but not as loud as your own voice as you plunged that dagger into her heart.

The surprise in her eyes was the worst part. That…genuine shock. As if she really hadn’t expected it. You kissed her forehead. Oh…How you loved her. You loved her so much. But, even though your heart was shattered and your tears were true, you couldn’t let the world suffer through another Cersei—or worse. You simply couldn’t. And you hated yourself for it. You hated yourself for not seeing earlier what or who she was becoming and the pain it would cause you both. You hated yourself for not being able to protect her, or for not having the same blinding love than Ser Jorah had for her. Your eyes saw. And what they had seen was a world of ashes that she would rule over. And then, Littlefinger’s words came back to you.

"Chaos is a ladder…"

How right he was…but love was as much a ladder. And one who rarely led you up or where you wanted to be.

Ser Jorah:

During the final battle, just as sunrise painted the sky with touches of warm colours, you found yourself still standing. Your eyes met with Ser Jorah’s and you smiled at each other. You were alive. You walked forward to join him when your eyes caught sight of a white walker running towards him. You had but a few seconds to act. You ran forward to push Ser Jorah out of the way and got impaled by the spear instead. Ser Jorah’s eyes widened in shock and he gritted his teeth before cutting the white walker’s head off and catching you in his arms before you could hit the ground.

"No. My Lady/My Lord." He whispered sorrowfully and stroked your cheek—tears gathering in his eyes. He looked at your wound and the blood dripping down your chin.

But, you chuckled.

"Come on, Ser Jorah. Won’t you call me by my name ? There will never be another chance for me to hear it from your lips."

He wanted to deny your words and tell you that you were going to be alright. But, that would have been a lie. He gripped your hand and pressed his forehead against yours before asking—his heart hammering in his chest at the realisation that you had sacrificed yourself for him. Him who had never done anything to deserve it. Him who had rejected you time and time again. Him who had never been able to return the love you seemed to harbour towards him within your heart…

"Y/N. Why ?" He finally asked and you smiled up tenderly at him.

"You protected me." You replied with nothing but adoration in your eyes. "You respected me. I know your heart and eyes belong to Daenerys, but you stole mine—Ser Jorah. You made me happy. You always did what you thought was right and offered me someone to care about. And so, you swore to serve Daenerys. Unaware that I—myself—had made an oath of my own. To protect…you." You whispered as your eyes slowly closed in his arms—the place you cherished most. You nestled your face against him. Just for a moment, you would bask in his warmth…Ser Jorah had never pretended to love you or lied to you about his feelings towards the queen of dragons. But…you didn’t even resent him for it. He had offered you friendship and affection beyond anyone you had ever came across…If you were to die for someone—then you were fine with it being him.

You looked up and smiled before lifting your lips to his. If he was to be so kind as to grant a dying soul one last wish…He seemed to hesitate for a second before planting his lips against yours. And then, Ser Jorah felt a cruel warmth ignite within his very being. His eyes fluttered shut and he brought you closer…taking your first kiss and last breath in one instant…

Your eyes stayed closed and your arms dropped to the ground.

Ser Jorah opened his eyes and his heart clenched as he glanced down at the person who he had failed to protect and his sorrow only grew as he realised that he had also failed himself. For in your last breath, he had found something that he had denied you all this time, and his tears only turned even more bitter at the terrible reality that he could have had you. That he had you and your love. And had lost both because of his own blindness…

"Forgive me…my dear Lady/Lord Y/N."