#i feel my sandor is rlly weak but hope u enjoy nontheless

[a-libra-writes]

Congratulations on 800!

24. “You’re my favourite.”

For Sandor Clegane from his s/o mayhaps? 🪐

Enjoy 👀

The hooves hit the ground so hard, she could swear the horse's legs would break. But the beasts stayed true to course, carrying the weight of the riders that were determined to run straight into each other.

Both knights missed their mark completely, and the men around them groaned in annoyance. The riders lined up to try the list again, and Y/N found her patience running thin. Only a man would think up the idea to mount a horse in full armor, carry a stick and think to knock someone off a horse with it.

Y/N sat restlessly, not able to use the excuse of her 'delicate constitution' disagreeing with the heat because the weather was perfectly agreeable. She glanced at Joffrey, a boy too small to sit in his seat properly, yet allowed to watch the practices. His seat had to be stacked with cushions, and he was yelling princely directions at the knights. In Y/N’s opinion, he was far too young for this, but her opinion was rarely considered by her queenly cousin.

Ignoring the boy’s shouting, she scanned the armored knights, looking for the only reason she was here. It was always worth enduring Cersei’s brat to see him.

Finally, he rode up, wearing that distinctive dog helm she found ridiculous but the boy insisted on. She hated how Sandor was in Joff’s service, even if that’s what brought them together. He hadn’t closed the snarling visor yet, so she could look at him, brief as it was. Of course, Sandor wouldn’t look back at her. He was careful about these things. Paranoid, and rightfully so. Still, it wouldn’t kill him to slightly glance in her direction…

Y/N was so focused on watching him, she hadn’t noticed how the other men were deciding who would ride next. No one wanted to risk broken limbs for a practice run. They whispered hastily amongst themselves, and then a mounted knight stepped forward dramatically, ending their conversations. Y/N only vaguely recognized his shield. He turned and bowed to the prince, and then bowed to her. That was surprising; she was used to being ignored when in the presence of the crown prince. The young knight’s helmet was off, giving her a proper view of his bright smile and a flourish he made with his hand.

She was sure if he had flowers, he’d be offering them to her. Y/N didn’t even know who this knight was, but he ought to keep the dramatics for the tourneys. A bold man, but a foolish one. She simply pursed her lips in a smile, then dropped it. An indication that she noticed the flattery, and no more.

The sound of metal hitting metal resounded through the field. The snarling dog helmet snapped shut with a swift motion. Y/N dismayed at losing sight of Sandor’s face. If that knight hadn’t distracted her, she may have had a few more moments, pathetic as that sounded. He was always busying guarding her cousin’s royal terror. Now that her focus was back on him, Y/N noted how tightly Sandor’s fingers curled around the lance. The other knight was not holding his near so tightly, and why should he? This was practice.

Little Joffrey stood on stop of his cushions and bellowed, “FIGHT!” There was no point in telling the boy it wasn’t a real fight, because gods knew he wanted blood.

Y/N hadn’t expected it to actually come, though. Stranger hit the ground running hard. He was a brutal mount, and Sandor had a strong, rigid poster. Y/N tensed, then gasped as Sandor knocked the knight straight off his horse with a single blow. The man went flying, hitting the ground with a cacophony of metal clanging. His horse bucked and ran off from the shock, causing several squires to shout and jump out of the way.

Joffrey laughed in delight. “Get him! Get him!” He said, though his cries were drowned out by the voices of men. They all stayed far away from Stranger, whose nostrils were still flaring, and a few squires ran for the dismounted knight. Y/N winced as they lifted his battered body. At least he was able to shamble to his feet.

That dog helmet turned sharply toward her, and Y/N realized she was holding her hand to her mouth. She lowered it, making sure the disapproval was clear on her face. Joffrey shouted and pointed some more, demanding someone else go against “his dog”, but Jaime stepped forward. His patience always ran thin with Joff.

“That’s enough, your highness,” The Kingsguard said airily. “It’s time you head back for your lessons.”

“I don’t want lessons! Uncle, go down there and fight the Hound!” The young prince jumped out of his seat in agitation. “You're the only one who will, and mother said he'll fight whoever I say!"

Jaime and Y/N shared expressions of exhaustion. She didn’t envy him in his duty. She put on her sweetest voice and said, “Dear prince, the more lessons you do, the more your mother will let you watch the knights. You don’t want to miss their melee training, do you?”

The boy considered this. For once, the storm in his green eyes lessened, though no doubt it would return when he was allowed to return. “Let’s hurry, uncle,” He ordered his Kingsguard. “I’ll do whatever stupid lesson mother and that old man want, then we can come back for the real fighting. I'll make sure they do it."

Charming. Y/N sighed. She watched Joffrey practically pull Jaime away, forgetting all about the bodyguard he was just shouting at. Her heart fluttered in her chest at the opportunity the brat gave her. Y/N waited a few minutes, watching the knights disperse and talk. Sandor was already gone, but she still took her time in making sure the servants were occupied before slipping away from the pavilion.

Lifting her crimson dress high above her ankles, Y/N walked through winding servant’s paths along the Red Keep’s gardens. She ducked behind a pillar or tall bush anytime someone passed. As she edged closer to the barracks and quartermaster’s keep, she watched squires and soldiers file in and out. As soon as backs were turned, she scampered down the wide hall.

Despite being an official bodyguard of the Prince, Sandor kept his own small quarters. He had little patience for any squires and servants attempting to enter, the only reason she was so bold to come here. That, and no one would ever assume the good-natured cousin of the Queen would ever associate with a scarred, angry dog. Y/N stepped close to the wooden door, pressed her ear to it, and smiled as she heard the movement of armor.

She didn’t knock as she came in, and closed the door quietly behind her. Sandor flinched as though she slammed it. As usual, he was more on edge when she entered his room than vice versa.

“What in the seven hells are you doing here?” He grimaced.

“Lovely to see you, too,” Y/N said. She dropped her skirts down, ignoring the dirty rushes that scattered the floor.

“I told you not to bloody come in here, didn’t I? You’ll be seen.”

“I won’t be. You’re determined to scare off any servant whose trying to do their job."

Sandor scoffed, but said nothing to that. He turned away from her, his shoulders tense, returning to cleaning his helmet. Y/N was familiar with this. She stepped forward slowly, reaching her hand out. Even with the armor on his shoulders, he flinched again when she touched him.

“You needn’t be so rough on the training grounds.” She said, leaning in. She wished he’d look at her. Sandor was lowering his face, the scarred side covered by some of his stringy black hair. “You could have killed that man.”

Instantly, he looked up. “What does that matter to you?” He sneered. “Do you know him?”

“An hour ago was our first meeting.” Y/N said. A smile tugged at her painted lips. “Were you jealous, Sandor? Are you still?”

He scoffed, the harsh noise coming hard from his throat, but he didn’t refute it.

“You needn’t be. You’re my favorite.”

The lady gasped at the feeling of cold, hard metal on her wrist. With little grace, Y/N was yanked onto the man’s large lap. She felt his other metal gauntlet wrap around her waist, digging into the silk and skin, keeping her in place. Finally, finally, they were close. There was no looking away or hiding now.

Sometimes she wondered if he wanted her to recoil and turn away. She never did. Y/N pressed herself closer, all armor and propriety be damned. That raspy voice rumbled through his chest as he said, “You won’t say sweet things when I stop being nice, Lady Lannister.”

He sneered that title as two large hands squeezed her even more, keeping her stuck in place. Y/N was fine with that. She glanced at the modest bed just a few feet from them, one of the few furnishings in this small room. She wanted those gloved hands to squeeze and rip whatever they pleased, wanting to surrender to all of it.

So, she challenged him. “I prefer when you aren’t nice, ser knight.”

She expected the usual retort — the gruff “I’m no knight” line that he was so fond of. A rough kiss was the response, and she gladly accepted it.