#sandor clegane one shot

[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.

[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, 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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[auxmodi]

sandor clegane x healer reader drabble

summary: After a brutal fight, Sandor Clegane seeks the healer's care, bantering with her as she patches up his wounds, both hiding the unspoken connection between them.

A/n: This is my first small drabble!! i need more sandor fics so i decided to start writing them, #needthat.

word count: 567

The door creaked open, and Sandor Clegane stepped into your small cottage like a storm rolling in. He ducked to clear the low beam, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the doorframe. Blood streaked his face and caked his armor, and he smelled of iron and sweat, a grim testament to the fight he’d just survived.

You didn’t look up from your workbench, where sprigs of lavender and sage littered the wood. “Another fight, Sandor?” you asked, your tone more resigned than surprised.

“Aye,” he grunted, letting the door fall shut behind him. He dropped into the chair by the fire with a clank of steel and a wince. “Seemed rude to let the bastard walk away after he insulted me.”

You sighed, pushing away your mortar and pestle to fetch the bowl of clean water by the hearth. “And you decided it was a fine idea to let him insult you with his sword instead.”

His mouth twitched, just enough to show a flash of teeth. “ You’re the lucky one, girl. Get to patch me up again.”

“You’re bleeding on my floor,” you muttered, kneeling beside him. His armor was already half-unbuckled, the edges of his tunic soaked through with crimson. Without asking, you reached for the fabric, peeling it back to reveal the jagged slice across his shoulder.

“Careful,” he growled, though it sounded more like a pained groan. “I’ve still got fight left in me if you’re lookin’ to make it worse.”

“You’ll sit still and shut up if you know what’s good for you,” you shot back, pressing a cloth to the wound. His muscles twitched beneath your fingers, hard and tense as stone.

He tilted his head, watching you with those sharp, dark eyes. “Feisty for a healer, aren’t you?”

“I have to be,” you said, dabbing away the blood. “You wouldn’t listen otherwise.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward, just slightly. “Might listen more if you smiled at me.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the needle and thread. “I’ll smile when you stop walking in here half-dead.”

“Then I’ll never see it,” he muttered, but there was warmth in his voice, buried beneath the usual growl.

The room fell quiet save for the crackling of the fire and the steady pull of the thread as you stitched his wound. He didn’t flinch, though you could feel the way his body tensed with each tug.

“You could’ve let me bleed out, you know,” he said after a long moment, his voice softer now.

You glanced up at him, your hands stilling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged with his good shoulder, his gaze flickering to the hearth. “Just sayin’. Would’ve saved you the trouble.”

You frowned, tying off the stitch with a firm tug. “And who would keep me entertained with their terrible flirting?”

That earned a rough laugh from him, low and gravelly. “Terrible, is it?”

“Terrible,” you confirmed, rising to clean your hands. But before you could move away, his hand shot out, his fingers brushing your wrist. You turned back, startled by the sudden gentleness in his grip.

“Still patched me up, though,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “You’re too kind for your own good.”

You swallowed, the weight of his gaze making it hard to breathe. “You’re not as bad as you pretend to be,” you replied, soft but firm.

For a moment, his usual smirk faltered, replaced by something raw and unguarded. Then it was gone, his hand falling away as he leaned back in the chair with a grunt.

“Don’t go spreadin’ that around,” he muttered. “I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

You couldn’t help but smile, just a little, as you turned back to your workbench. “Your secret’s safe with me, Sandor.”

Behind you, the fire crackled, and for once, he didn’t argue.

______________________________

TEEHEEEEEEEE im bluhshing

[norringtondeservestheworld]

"All my life men like you have sneered at me, and all my life I've been knocking men like you into the dust."

[hustlemeanokay]

Sandor the-fucking-Hound Clegane Master List:

Her Name Was Rosie | 3299 words | Sandor/OC

Stark Wolf Sanctuary | 12 Chapters / 19382 words | Modern AU | Sandor/Sansa

You're Cute | 2 Chapters / 8215 words | Modern AU | Sandor/Sansa

After the Long Night | 25 Chapters / 38975 words | Sandor/Sansa

Bells Will Be Ringing | 3 Chapters / 6168 words | Modern AU | Sandor/Sansa

A 10 Hour Drive | 3731 words | Modern AU | Sandor/Sansa

Ask Me | 5 Chapters / 11567 words | Sandor/Sansa

A Tale of Two Brothers | 23 Chapters Planned / Currently Posting | Sandor/OC

All fics have warnings were applicable and they all include 18+ elements.

[catsteeth]

She's My Collar

Sandor "The Hound" Clegane x Baratheon Princess

+:✿ Request ✿:+ 

Request: “This request is for sandor of course!! I am all for angsty, yearning sandor clegane!! My train of thought is all over the place but heres a list of something I hope you could include in the one shot: •hozier level yearning •unrequited love/want •perhaps stark!reader or baratheon!reader •fleeting interactions like something small but it sticks with sandor •“im not a religious man but ill follow her” kinda vibe if that makes any sense!!" CW: MDNI, ANGST, afab reader, alcohol consumption, unrequited love, yearning, misogyny, arranged marriage, violence, joffrey being joffrey, mention of death.  A/N: He’s pathetic and I love it

Word Count: 5K

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

The girl was born a Baratheon, born to Robert Baratheon during a previous marriage. Her mother, born to some wealthy house. But her memory would be lost in time after she died in childbirth. Robert did not speak of her. Cersei despised the mention of her name. So not much was known of her. Though she must’ve been pretty, as the girl born to Robert Baratheon was a girl of beauty. And soon after her mother’s death, Robert married Cersei Lannister. 

Either due to jealousy or embarrassment Cersei would treat the girl with malice, and hostility. But unlike the King's eldest son, the girl was kind and good. 

The boy was born to a man who wanted nothing more than for his sons to be knights of the Seven Kingdoms. His ambitions blinded him, allowing his eldest son Gregor to commit horrid acts. So long as the boy was a knight, none else mattered. The man's youngest son was kind. He was just a boy, no more than six years old. 

The little boy dreamed of being a knight just as his father did. Dreamed on the good deeds he would do in the name of his king and the Seven Kingdoms. Though those dreams would be dashed and discarded once the boy's older brother showed him the cruelty the world is capable of. The cruelty he was capable of. The cruelty the world rewarded him for. 

The boy grew into The Hound, Sandor Clegane the second most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms. The girl grew into a princess, one hated by her stepmother and eldest half brother. But loved by her father, her half siblings, the realm, and by a Hound.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ 

The Hound and the princess grew alongside one another most of his life. He could remember when he and she were much younger. The Lannisters and the Baratheons were traveling across the Stormlands. It was a hard journey, soon food became scarce. Naturally the scraps of whatever the royals did not eat were left to the guards and any other member of the traveling crew. But the princess would offer a young hound the meat from her plate every night.  He always hesitated, but was too hungry to deny her charity. She never held her charitable act over him, never even mentioned it. 

He was not one to appreciate beauty, nor was he one to indulge himself in fantasies of love. But the princess’s beauty was one that haunted Sandor. His whole life he looked at her as though she were the maiden herself. And the princess did not look upon the Hound with grotesque curiosity. Nor did she flaunt his presence to others in a manner of threatening them. No, the princess was kind towards him, kind when she did not have to be. He often found kindness a weakness in people, but in her kindness he found a comfort. 

The girl was different from her father, different from her brother. She was kind, she was honest, and he would follow her as if she was a God.  

He could also remember the first time she bestowed her favor onto him. 

Sandor never feared the tourneys he fought in. He did not fear the joust, he did not fear the competitors. What he did not like was the tradition of asking a noble lady for her favor. 

Sandor never liked this tradition. Never liked having to speak to noble ladies much less ask them to favor him. Not only was it ridiculous to him, the ladies often grimaced at his gesture. But at this tourney, and every tourney after it, he would pick the lady he wished to have picked each time before. 

As he rode his intimidatingly large black ill tempered stallion around the tournament pit. He looked up at all the noble ladies above him, looking down at him. They all sneered at his gaze, wishing not to be picked. The noble men all snickered amongst one another. But there was one person who looked upon him with indifferent eyes. The Baratheon girl’s eyes were not filled with pity, disgust, nor anticipation for the violence he was about to insight for the high lord's entertainment. She simply watched him with her same kind eyes. 

He did not think much of it, it came naturally to him as he stopped his horse in front of the royal family's seating. “I ask the favor of the Princess.” He said begrudgingly. 

The princess rose from her seat with a smile. She grabbed a ring of florals and silk. The flowers were yellow and the silk ribbon was black, the colors of both her house and his. As she approached him, she smiled upon him and placed the favor upon his joust. “I wish you good fortune, Sandor Clegane.” Sandor, he did not know she knew his name. Her voice itself was gentle and hushed, only for him to hear. Her smile was gentle and warm, one that he would have killed to see each night. One that he won the tourney for. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

Once, Joffrey had decided that a servant boy had shot him a momentary disrespectful glance. If he had, it would not have been unwarranted, though who is to say if he even did. Joffrey, sometimes bored, would pretend small disrespectful gestures were made against him. Allowing him to justify any horrid act he found amusement in subjecting any poor soul to. 

“I am sorry, my prince! Please if you would give me another chance-” The servant boy pleaded on his hands and knees. His cheek red from the blow Ser Meryn had given him moments before. 

Sandor never liked being Joffrey's sworn shield. Never liked that blonde cunt at all. Whenever he wanted to feel powerful, wanted to hurt someone weaker than him for no good reason, it bored and irritated him. 

Though it hardly ever embarrassed him, until she stepped into that room.

“Brother stop this!” The Baratheon princess commanded with a look of disgust. Sandor, though he’d not laid a hand on the boy, swallowed hard and stood straighter at her sudden presence. He worried how she’d look at him now, would her kind eyes fade for him?

“Why should I?” Joffrey asked her back with a raised brow.

The girl, bravely scoffed and took a few steps closer to her younger ‘brother’, “Because I commanded you to.” She said with angry eyes, an expression Sandor rarely saw from her. She looked beautiful even when she was angry.

Joffrey narrowed his eyes at her, “Who are you to command anything of me?” he stifled a laugh which only enraged her more. And only enraged Sandor more.

She took another step closer to him. Her hand gently trailed along the extravagantly dressed wooden table. “Your elder sister, the Kings first born-” 

“First born daughter.” Joffrey finished her words for her. “Daughter. You are not heir to anything. I’ll be king one day and you, a princess for a lifetime.” He said laughing as if he were amused by some great jest. “And as your king, I could have anything done to you that I like.” He walked closer to her, with a threatening gaze. “In fact, as heir to the throne, I could do anything I like. I could have Ser Meryn hold you down and-”  And with that the girl's temper got the better of her. She grasped a glass goblet from the table she stood by, and threw it with great force at her brother’s feet. The goblet shattered into a hundred pieces. Bits of it flew and cut Joffrey’s right hand. And some other bits cut Sandor’s cheek, not deeply but enough to bleed. “You cannot do that!” His shrill voice cracked as he grasped hold of bleeding palm.

“Clearly I can.” The girl said with little emotion. It would have made Sandor laugh if he didn’t have to worry about the other royal guards. He worried that they would put their filthy hands on you, or would be foolish enough to draw their swords. 

Though none would. The guards were shocked by the scene. This princess had never done so much as raised her voice, and now she was assaulting their future kind. They had to think of defending one of the King’s children from the other. They stood, unsure of how to act.

Furiously Joffrey shouted, “I’ll tell my mother!” Knowing his father would do nothing but ridicule him.

The princess raised her hand, and slapped the boy across the cheek, “Tell her I did that as well.” She added. 

Her slap was enough to leave a red imprint across the boy's face.

In a fit of anger, the young prince grabbed hold of his sword. Prepared to draw its blade and point it at the princess. Just before Sandor could grab the prince, a different Kingsgaurd stepped between the two royals. “Stop this!” the man commanded. Joffrey let go of the sword's hilt and the girl began to walk away, ready to face whatever punishment her step mother desired. 

With her back turned, and the guards' attentions divided. Joffrey ceased his moment, and drew the thin blade of his sword and readied himself to strike the princess. 

“Boy!” The princess turned back as the Hound’s loud voice boomed out through the dining hall. She was stunned by the sight before her. The prince’s attack was stopped by the Hound ceasing the blade with his bare hand. Blood from his hand trickled down the blade of the sword.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Soon the two royal children were brought before their father the King.

“How the fuck did any of this happen? You are meant to protect my blood!” King Robert questioned the KingsGuard furiously. 

“Never had to protect a princess from a prince.” Ser Meryn attempted to explain, “Or a prince from a princess.” He said in a lower tone that angered Joffrey.

“Shut up!” King Robert angrily shouted, sick of hearing whatever excuse they had. He sat back in his chair, and huffed loudly. He looked between his two children. “Well done, my girl.” He said in a gruff low tone.

Joffrey looked surprised his father would congratulate her on striking her brother. “But look what she-“ Joffrey began, holding up his cut palm.

Though Robert interrupted him, “How could you ever be a king if you cannot win a fight against a woman?” 

“Father!” Joffrey’s shrill voice shouted, 

“Leave!” Robert shouted back. With an infuriated huff, Joffrey left accompanied with two guards by his side. Though Sandor stayed in the room. “Girl, come ‘ere.” Robert commanded much softer to his daughter, waving his hand, beckoning her to come closer. 

She did as her king commanded. Stepped closer to him with her head lowered. Robert stood before her, and held her chin up with his fingers. “You’re more of a man than your brother.” He said proudly. He meant it as a complement, it was a rare thing to receive as a child of Roberts. With a sigh he patted the girl on the back, “Go on then.” He said softly dismissing her. 

She nodded and took her leave as her father requested. 

As the girl left, Sandor turned to follow her out. Though the King’s voice beckoned out, stopping him in his steps. “Dog.” Sandor stopped, and turned towards the King, “If that yellow haired shit lays a hand on my girl you beat him.” The King commanded. Sandor needed no other instruction. He was quite content to do so. “Understood?” The King pressed.

Sandor nodded, “Aye.” 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As the Hound walked down the Halls of the keep, he saw the princess walking in the opposite direction. He tried to keep his eyes ahead, not looking at her at all. 

Though his illusion of disinterest did not deter the girl, “I beg pardon, ser.” Her serene voice called out gently. It felt like a cool breeze on a hot day, a relief. 

Sandor looked up at her, hoping she was not speaking to him. If she was, he knew whatever words she spoke to him would haunt his thoughts. As he looked at her, he knew she was speaking to him. He swallowed and then croaked out, “I’m no ser.” 

The Baratheon princess shook her head, “No. You are more true than any knight.” He knew her words would haunt him, but now they would torture him. The girl stepped forward, making him almost flinch, “All the knights in that room were content to let my brother kill me. What you did today-“

The girl began but the Hound interrupted her, knowing if she thanked him, his stomach might turn. “It’s my duty to protect you.” He grumbled, attempting to not look the girl in the eyes. Her beautiful eyes.

“I’d call it brave.” She chimed, making him stop and turn to face her once again. He was about to tell her it was not brave but she continued, “But I know you’d not. You are a hard man with many scars. You needn’t courage, nor praise. But I thank you for what you've done.” 

Fuck.

He was never thanked for doing his duty. Never thanked for anything. He was commanded and he did as he was told. 

Her eyes wandered over the Hound’s face. It made him feel weak, for the first time in a very long time. “I am sorry-” She said, her voice sickeningly sweet. Sandor looked at her with confusion, “Are you hurt?” She asked as she reached her hand towards the cut on his cheek. Her sudden movement made him flinch. 

“No.” He rasped quickly. 

The girl however was scared of the Hound. She continued forward and placed a hand on the Hounds shoulder. Even though her hand was separated from his skin by his thick armor, he still felt a chill run over his body. “Oh but you are-” She began, concerned for him. A feeling that was new for him.

“It’s a scratch.” Sandor interrupted the girl.

She shook her head, “Still, I caused it.” The girl reached into the neckline of her gown, making Sandor almost blush. Such a strange thing, a man who had seen every part of a woman, and every sexual act no matter how deviant in almost every brothel in KingsLanding would blush at such a thing. She pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with her name, “Take this.” She said holding it out to him.

He could not take it. He could not, no matter how badly he wanted to. “Don’t need it-” 

“I command you to take it, as your princess.” The girl said without hesitation. Reluctantly Sandor grabbed the cloth, “I am sorry.” She said once more before continuing on and walking past Sandor. 

She did not know that he would worship that cloth. Keep it in his armor, and keep it in his rooms when he slept. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

When Robert mixed drinking and hunting too often, a boar attacked him. Leaving him so injured he was on a deathbed.

The princess visited her father each day, morning, noon, and night. And when he died, she stayed confined to her chambers. Her only company she’d allow was her Septa. Though the girl was grown enough to be without a Septa, hers was closer to a mother. Since the girl never had one, her septa was there for all her girlhood. So she insisted on keeping around. 

Sandor often checked on the girl, though of course she was not wise to this. 

He would open her door, just a crack. He would listen in just to be sure she was alright. One day when he decided to open her door he heard her and her Septa speaking plainly. 

“Do you think the boar was the Gods doing?” The girl asked as she stared out her window with a stoic and dazed expression.

“Hm?” Her septa responded, looking up from the needlepoint she mindlessly toyed at.

The girl did not look at her septa. Simply continued to stare out her window into nothingness. She paused for a moment, not speaking, “I’d a dream the Stranger came to those woods. He changed into a boar and killed my father for his deviance.” She spoke of such morbid dreams with no emotion attached to it at all.

“How awful.” Her septa gasped, throwing her needle point down onto the table in front of her. “No dear girl I don’t think it was.” She said more gently, “You dream too much.” 

The girl shrugged, still not looking at the old woman. “I suppose I’m trying to find the Gods in everything I do.” 

“Prayer is best for that. Not such morbid dreams.” The old Septa said, picking her needle point back up. 

The girl did not respond for a moment, still simply staring out into nothing. “Do you think they’re real?” She asked softly and without shame. “Do you truly believe it? Never did you doubt it?” She asked, finally looking at the Old Septa.

“They are real.” She asserted sternly, “You believe they aren’t?” 

The girl sighed, not wanting for a lecture, “I know the Gods are a necessity for people. Like food, water. I know they must exist. But I also know they don’t.” She said calmly. Her words stuck with Sandor like a knife driven into his back.

“What a terrible thing to say.” Her septa said shocked.

“Is it?” The girl's eyes narrowed in confusion, “It’s just my thoughts.”

The septa shook her head looking back to her needle point. “You think too much, dear girl.” 

The girl sighed and went back to looking out her window, “Seems I do too much and not enough.”

Without many words at all, this lonely girl would consume Sandor’s every thought. She was smart and kind. Two things Sandor did not think of himself. 

He did not believe in the Gods, because if there were Gods, why did they punish this girl? Perhaps she was his punishment. Perhaps he was hers. Perhaps it was the world that was their punishment. 

This girl should be queen. She’d be a good one, a better one then her cunt brother. She’d be loved by the small folk and no doubt able to keep some kind of peace, even with the war. She’d not let her pride keep the seventh kingdom. If they wanted independence they’d have it. Clearly they could fight well enough on their own. But she was not queen. But she was his. 

How her hair laid against the delicate fabric of her pillow. She was all too precious for his affections. He couldn’t help it really, he felt drawn towards her. Felt a stronger pull towards her than he felt towards anything, even food or water. But he’d never subject her to his presence. 

He simply needed to see her, needed to know she was safe.

She slept sweetly, her breathing though loud was the calmest noise he’d heard. It was like the sounds of waves meeting the sands. 

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes he would fantasize about what it would feel like to sleep beside her. For her to invite him into her bed. To sleep in his arms. He’d feel her heartbeat against his own. He’d smell her scent, and feel her chest rise and fall with each breath. He never slept well, but he believed if she was in his arms, perhaps he could. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As time went by, the royal family debated what to do with the girl. She was not a Baratheon Lannister, she was the reminder of Robert's first marriage, a reminder that Joffrey was not the true king. 

Sandor stood guard by the small council’s chamber door as he heard the girl’s step mother Cersei say, “She’s as wild as the boar that killed her father. No man would want her, she is too difficult. So give her to the Tyrell’s, a poisoned gift.” 

Overcome with a myriad of emotions, anger, sadness, and grief, Sandor rushed to the girl's chambers. 

Sandor stood behind her door. His hand firmly grasped the door handle, and his forehead rested against the wood of the door.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity. 

He wanted to open the door, ask- no beg you to run away with him. He wanted to tell you all the things he felt for you. Wanted to protect you. 

But he was a second son, a kingsguard, he had no land, and no money. He had nothing to offer you, he didn’t even have a handsome face to bargain with. 

And so, he let the handle of the door go, and he walked down the hall. He considered it mercy. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Instead of subjecting that poor girl to his company he decided to subject tavern dwellers to him instead. That night, as her marriage was announced, Sandor sank into his cups.

Though even there he was not protected from talks of her betroval. 

Beside Sandor at another table were four men, 

“Say what you will, I think it’s a perfect match! Loras Tyrell loves a Baratheon!” Some oaf shouted as he slammed his cup onto the table laughing. 

“Aye but she’s missin’ a cock now isn’t she!” A shorter guard shouted out.

Sandor wanted to break the fool's jaws for speaking of her situation with such amusement. “Too bad for Loras, and too bad for all the other men in the realm!” A bald guard added,

The shorter guard raised his cup, “Hear hear. I’ll miss seeing that girl… Miss seeing her bend over to pick flowers.” 

The bald guard nodded in a facade of sadness, “Aye that ass will be missed-”

“No, her pair of tits will be missed!” The fatter guard spoke up.

“Nay her cunt! Ah and what a waste she’ll be giving it to a boy whore.” One of the men said, it was enough for Sandor to slam his cup onto the table in anger. He was trying with all his might to hold onto his restraint.

Though this did not go unnoticed by the men at the table. The oafish one spoke up again, “What of you Clegane?” He said getting closer to the Hound, “You guard that sweet stag so loyally. Surely you’ve thought of what her cunt tastes like-” 

Without another thought, Sandor took the man by the back of his head and slammed it into the table. His nose broke and his teeth cracked. Sandor took his dagger out and stabbed it through the man's hand. His blade took one of the man’s fingers. 

Sandor stood, taking his drink with him, “You speak to me like that again, I’ll take more than a finger.” He warned as he left the tavern in a huff.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

Against his better judgment, that night Sandor checked in on that girl. 

She was with her Septa again. He hoped that she were alone, if she were perhaps in his drunken state he’d have actually begged her to run off with him.

“My father would never have allowed this.” The girl said with a scared and sorrowful waiver of her voice, “Though I suppose it will be a relief to be gone from this place.” She sniffled, “I just don’t want to be forgotten.” 

“You’ll not be forgotten, dear girl.” Her Septa said petting her hair. 

“I suppose if I were to marry anyone in this city it would be him.” She shrugged, “But, I am unsure of how I could please him. You know of his nature. Know of his relationship with my uncle. I care not for any moral righteousness and I hold no judgment of it. But how could I ever make him happy?” She asked desperately, frightened by the prospects of her future. 

Her Septa grasped the girl by her shoulders tightly, “You will make him happy by giving his children royal blood.” 

“And how can I even do that?” The girl put her face into her hands,

“You are familiar with the act, I have explained it-”

The girl interrupted, “I won’t want it.”

Her Septa sighed, “A dreadful duty for some wives. Just lay there. Look at the ceiling and memorize the pattern of the trim. Count the seconds. Anything to let your mind wander away from your body.” She tried her best to comfort the girl, but clearly was doing nothing to help the girl’s fear.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As Sandor took leave of his duties. He threw off his armor without caution, and nearly ripped his clothing off himself. He was angry, no, he was enraged. 

This girl did not deserve this. She deserved none of the shit those blonde shits put her through. And the words of ‘advice’ given to her by her septa only enraged him more. She should have told her to slip poison in his wine. 

Sandor sat down on his bed in his small clothes with a huff. His weight made the bed creek and bow. He drank from a wineskin as he thought of it all. Soon his anger subsided, replaced with a defeated sorrow. 

Naught could be done for her. This much he knew for certain.

So, after his wineskin ran dry he laid down. Finally allowing his body to rest even though his mind could not.

As he laid there, stripped of his armor and steel. As his sensitive skin laid against the rough material of his bedding he was reminded once more that he, and his body were punished. Punished by both too much, and not enough.

Too much combat, too much drinking, too many tourneys, too many cuts and bruises. So much he endured, and his body was punished for it. He ached and felt pains all over his body all the time. His scars were sensitive and hurt in warm bath water. 

But as he laid there he was again reminded how he had not enough. Not enough gentle touches, enough love and care. Though of course he’d never admit it to anyone. His body felt truly alone in his bed. He wished he could have felt her around him. He’d fucked before, that would not shock anyone. But he’d never made love to anyone. And Gods did he need to. 

He thought of it often, kissing her. He’d do it gently. He’d be gentle with her. She deserved gentleness. He’d kiss her while he held her face in his palms. Kiss her neck, press his lips against her skin and lick where she was most sensitive- wherever those spots were. Gods he wanted to know where they were. 

He felt shameful for thinking this way, he really did. He was no better than those men in that tavern. But, he’d be good to her.

He’d make her his wife, in the eyes of The Seven. He’d build her a home. It wouldn’t be like the one she’d been brought up in. Not a castle, but a house made of stone and wood. He’d give her safety, love. And as his hand began to wonder his punished body he thought of how he’d give her children.

He wished to know how her body would feel in hands. How it would feel to have his hands caress her breasts, the curves of her body, the soft plumpness of her belly. He wondered how it would feel to be inside of her. How his cock would feel to slide in and out of her slick, warm, inviting cunt. He did not know, but he did know it would have felt oh so much better than his calassed hand that was wrapped around his length now. 

Though his actions were vulgar and sexual, he did not think of it as that. He couldn’t think of her for long without feeling the need to have her. To be close to her. To please her. To hold her close and make her feel safe under his touch, to make her feel loved and desired with his body, his hands, and his mouth. 

He thought of what her septa told her. That she’d have to lay down and take it. If she was with him she’d want it, she’d never be forced. Bedding would be a pleasure not a duty.

His groans loudened, and his breathing quickened as he thought of how she’d ask him for it. How gentle her touch would feel on his ruined skin. 

Soon he was awoken from his day dream as the hot splash of his release jolted his mind back to reality. 

He did not have her, and she for all he knew, did not want him. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

And so the Hound was left with nothing to do but sit and watch as the love of his life was preparing to leave his life forever. 

He felt his heart breaking as he escorted the royals to the docks with the rest of the Kingsguard. He felt his eyes water as she began to step onto the dock, and approach the boat that would take her away from him. 

Naught could be done for her. 

So without a word the Hound offered the girl his hand. She took it, gently. He helped her into the boat. Her gaze fell onto him, and Gods it felt warm. He wanted to cut through them all. Wanted to take her off that boat and ride her away on Stranger. He’d do all the things he thought of the night before. Build her a home, keep her safe, and he’d love her. But they didn’t live in that world. 

The princess would marry that Tyrell. She’d have his sons, whether she wanted it or not. And she would never know how much her dog loved her.

The Hound watched as the boat sailed away with the girl he had loved all his life.

It’s the world that’s awful.

Thank you so much for your request! It was so much fun to write!!

Requester: @rhinestonecowboysworld

[novaursa]

The Hound She Loved

- Summary: You loved him and he loved you, but he had to leave you behind. 

- Pairing: baratheon!reader/Sandor Clegane

- Note: The reader is the oldest child of Cersei and the only trueborn child from Queen's marriage with Robert Baratheon. This one-shot is based on an anonymous ask I received not long ago and I've managed to find some free time to write it.

- Raring: Mature 16+

- Next part: the princess

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air is heavy with the mingling scents of roasted meat, horses, and the distinct tang of sweat from the crowds gathered at the tourney grounds. Robert, your father, is in his element, his booming laughter carrying over the clamor of the festivities. Knights parade past the royal pavilion, resplendent in polished armor and house sigils. But none of this interests you. Your focus is elsewhere—on the shadow looming just behind your chair.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, stands like a stone sentinel, his face set in its usual grimace. To everyone else, he is merely fulfilling his duty as your sworn shield. To you, however, he is far more. The knowledge of your shared secret sends a thrill up your spine, though you force yourself to keep your composure.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, careful to make it look casual. His eyes flicker down to meet yours briefly, a flash of something soft in his usually hard expression. It’s a fleeting moment, gone as quickly as it came, but it’s enough. You straighten in your seat, pretending to adjust the folds of your gown, but really trying to steady the quickening of your heart.

"Your Grace," Sandor mutters, his voice low and rough, just audible over the noise.

It takes you a moment to realize he’s addressing you, and you tilt your head slightly in his direction. “Yes, Ser Sandor?”

“Eyes ahead,” he growls, though the corners of his mouth twitch as if suppressing a smirk. “You’re drawing attention.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “I was merely admiring the knights,” you reply, your tone light and innocent. “Surely that is allowed?”

He grunts in response, which you’ve come to understand is his way of conceding the point. Still, his gaze lingers on you for a heartbeat longer before he resumes his stoic vigil.

The day drags on, the tourney unfolding in the predictable manner you’ve grown accustomed to. Your father bellows his approval of a particularly brutal joust, your mother sips her wine with an air of practiced disinterest, and you pretend to watch while your thoughts wander.

As the crowd’s attention shifts to the melee, Sandor leans down ever so slightly, his proximity sending a shiver through you. “The stables,” he murmurs, his breath brushing your ear. “After sunset.”

You don’t respond, but the subtle nod of your head is enough. The stiffness in your body eases slightly, anticipation already building.

The stables are quiet, save for the occasional snort or shuffle of the horses. The scent of hay and leather fills the air, a welcome change from the oppressive atmosphere of the tourney grounds. You slip through the shadows, your heart pounding as you scan the dimly lit space.

Sandor is already there, leaning against a wooden post, his massive frame partially obscured by the gloom. His helmet rests on a bale of hay, and his hair is damp with sweat, strands clinging to his scarred face. Despite his usual grim appearance, there’s a softness in his eyes as he watches you approach.

“You’re late,” he rumbles, though his tone lacks any real bite.

“I couldn’t just leave without a good excuse,” you retort, crossing your arms. “My mother has eyes everywhere.”

Sandor snorts, pushing off the post and closing the distance between you. “Your mother doesn’t scare me,” he says, his voice low and rough, though there’s a flicker of something akin to amusement in his tone.

“She should,” you reply, though the edge in your voice softens as he steps closer.

His hand, calloused and rough, reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is uncharacteristically gentle, and it takes all your willpower not to lean into his touch. “And what about you?” he asks, his voice quieter now. “Do I scare you?”

You meet his gaze, the intensity of his brown eyes pinning you in place. “No,” you say softly. “You never have.”

His hand lingers, the rough pads of his fingers grazing your cheek before dropping to his side. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. Then, unable to resist any longer, you close the distance, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that is as desperate as it is tender.

Sandor’s hands come to rest on your waist, his grip firm but not unwelcome. You feel the tension in his body, the way he holds himself back, as if afraid of breaking you. But you press closer, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, silently telling him it’s okay to let go.

When you finally pull away, your breathing uneven, he rests his forehead against yours. “This is madness,” he mutters, though there’s no conviction in his words.

“Maybe,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s worth it.”

He huffs out a breath that could almost be a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re going to be the death of me, girl.”

You smile, your fingers brushing against the rough stubble of his jaw. “Not today.”

The moment is short-lived, reality creeping back in as the distant sounds of the tourney reach your ears. Sandor steps back reluctantly, his hands falling away. “Go,” he says, his voice rougher now. “Before someone notices.”

You hesitate, your heart aching at the thought of leaving him. But you know he’s right. With one last lingering glance, you turn and slip back into the shadows, the memory of his touch burning like a brand on your skin.

As you make your way back to the royal pavilion, your mind is already racing with thoughts of the next stolen moment, the next fleeting chance to be with him. For now, though, you wear the mask of the dutiful daughter, hiding the fire that burns within you—a fire only Sandor Clegane can stoke.

The road stretches long and dusty before them, the air thick with the heat of the sun. Sandor Clegane trudges ahead, his armor clinking faintly with each step, while Arya Stark stalks beside him, her eyes sharp and observant as always. It’s been days of travel, days of Arya’s barbed remarks and Sandor’s gruff retorts, yet an uneasy companionship has formed between them.

For the better part of the morning, the two have walked in silence, the rhythm of their boots on the dry earth the only sound. But Arya is not one to remain quiet for long.

“You talk in your sleep, you know,” Arya says suddenly, her tone casual but her eyes glinting with curiosity.

Sandor’s head jerks toward her, his scarred face twisting into a scowl. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Arya insists, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “You said something last night. Something about a ‘princess.’”

Sandor freezes for a fraction of a second before resuming his stride, his shoulders stiff. “Mind your own business, girl.”

Arya falls into step beside him, undeterred. “Was it about Joffrey’s sister? The one everyone says is so beautiful?” Her voice is laced with mockery, though there’s genuine interest beneath it. “Did you have a crush on her or something?”

Sandor stops abruptly, turning to glare at her. “Watch your tongue,” he growls. “She’s not like that little shit you called a king.”

Arya blinks, caught off guard by the vehemence in his voice. Her curiosity flares brighter. “Then who is she?” she presses. “You care about her, don’t you?”

Sandor exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he seems to wrestle with himself, his scarred face a storm of conflicting emotions. Finally, he mutters, “She’s the only one I’ve ever cared about.”

Arya tilts her head, her brow furrowing. “The princess?” she asks, her voice softer now, less teasing. “What happened?”

He hesitates, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if the answer lies somewhere in the distance. “I had to leave her behind,” he says at last, his voice low and rough. “When I left King’s Landing, I couldn’t take her with me. Couldn’t drag her into this.”

Arya is quiet for a moment, studying him. She’s seen Sandor angry, sarcastic, even vulnerable in fleeting moments, but this is different. There’s a rawness to his voice that makes her pause. “What was she like?” she asks eventually.

Sandor’s lips twitch, the faintest ghost of a smile playing across them. “She was… everything the rest of them weren’t,” he says, his tone unusually soft. “Kind. Honest. Didn’t care about how I looked or what people said about me. She saw… more.”

Arya frowns, trying to picture it. The idea of someone like Sandor being cared for, being seen as more than a killer or a brute, is strange to her. “If she cared about you so much, why didn’t she leave with you?”

Sandor’s jaw tightens, his expression darkening. “She couldn’t. She’s tied to that place, to her family. And even if she wasn’t…” He trails off, shaking his head. “She deserves better than this. Better than me.”

Arya crosses her arms, her sharp eyes narrowing. “That’s stupid,” she declares. “If she cared about you, she’d want to be with you, no matter what.”

Sandor snorts, though there’s no humor in the sound. “You’re a stubborn little thing, aren’t you?”

“You’re the stubborn one,” Arya shoots back. “You think you’re doing her a favor by leaving, but all you’re doing is making her miserable. You said it yourself—she saw more in you. Maybe you should start seeing more in yourself.”

Sandor’s gaze snaps to her, startled by the unexpected insight in her words. For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable, the weight of his regrets laid bare. But then he shakes his head, the walls going back up. “Life’s not that simple, girl,” he mutters. “Not for people like me.”

Arya doesn’t respond immediately, but her mind is whirring. She files this revelation away, this glimpse into the heart of the Hound, the man who had once been her enemy but now feels like something more complicated. She’s seen too much of the world to believe in happy endings, but some part of her hopes Sandor might find a way back to his princess, even if he doesn’t believe he deserves it.

As they resume their journey, the silence between them feels different—heavier, but not unpleasant. Arya glances at Sandor out of the corner of her eye, her curiosity sated for now. She knows there’s more to his story, more to the princess he left behind. And maybe, just maybe, there’s more to Sandor Clegane than even he realizes.

[first-edition]

if you still take requests and ofc if you're willing to, could you please do a one shot of sandor clegane x f reader with lactation kink? like they're married & he survived (post got) and have children - type of scenario?🤍

OFCOURSE omg. Firstly thank you to @dat1angel aka my bestie for helping me figure this out as I’ve never wrote a lactation kink fic before but it was fun.

MINORS DNI

Cw- pinv unprotected, fem reader, pregnant reader, lactation kink, consumption of human milk, Husband a wife ,mother and father , with little plot, not proof reader sorry for any error as usual i write this shit at 3 am usually lol.

I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!

Sandor holds your waist as you grind against him. His cock has been buried in your cunt for over an hour and just being able to watch you riding him is enough to keep him hard and cum better than he ever has.

You’ve had the greatest honor in giving him two sons both of which are old enough to be riding thier own horses and exploring the village under the supervision of the guards you have at the castle and that is where they are now. Exploring the village as the festival goes on.

You’ve become pregnant with sanders third child only a few months ago your belly every growing as you prepare to give birth once again. Sandro cannot help the fact that he is utterly obsessed with your plump state. How you flesh grows softer and your body becomes rounder in support of the little life he helped create inside you.

Any chance he gets he. Has you strip and dance for him the new baby fat perfectly giving you more curves than before. Even now as he groans under you his large hand grips the flesh of your waist once in a while giving your apple ass a slap causing your cunt to clench around him as you jump.

You open your eyes only to see him lustfully starring back at you his hand exploring your sides feelign every inch of you. His actions and look of adoration makes you smile but that smile fade when you feel liquid secrete from your breast your face reddens as cover your chest gasps about to get off your husband in embarrassment.

But he grips you still and sits you looking you square in the eyes before he runs his thumb over your hardened nipple taking your breast into hand.

“Fuck…we cant let this go to wast now can we.” He speaks before dipping down and licking the liquid off. The sweet taste of your milk coating his tounge as he moves to the other.

He groans as he sucks on it wanting more. You moan out as he then turns your both over so he’s on top only to pull his lips away for one second to being fucking up into you relentlessly your tits begin bouncing up as he does.

He grips one and massages it causing more milk to seep out. He quickly laps it up and does the same with the other. Somehow keeping control as he roughly fucks you. Drinking up your sweet nectar. You clown at him and moan out as he continues to stimulate you.

“Fuck you taste like gold!” He groans deeply continuing to feast.

“Ah-ah s-Sandor i-“ you trail off as your toes curl and your pussy clenches. The sensation of your orgasm washed over you in shock causing your back to arch only giving your husband better access to your breasts.

Moments later his thrusts falter and hes cumming up in you making sure you get all of his seed despite being currently pregnant.

You pant as you stay in place for a moment. Sandro comes off your boob with a light ‘pop’ you look to him as his lips and chin are coated in a sheen as he licks off the access. You glance down at your chest seeing it littered with mini bruises from his rough suckling.

You wrap your arms around his neck pulling him too you kissing his lips deeply tasting your own on him. And fuck he was right.

You do taste like gold.

MY REQUESTS ARE STILL OPEN SEND A NOTE IF INTERESTED.

[luxbub]

sandor clegane x stark!reader pt.1

a/n: i actually hate this but i needed an escape from my writing slump, also ignore the fact that i frogot half of my vocabulary ( not proofread )

Sandor clegane whose face was the first one you saw when the king came to winterfall, his face— half covered by a helmet of a hound, with his teeth bared and scrunched up brows—burned from the left side made a grimace come over yours and yet when your eyes met you back shot up straight and a small smile graced your features.

Sandor clegane for who you circled the whole camp for while going to King’s Landing with your father. Even catching the smallest glimpse of his big frame and scowling face gave you enough satisfaction to go on about the day with a smile.

Sandor clegane who of course noticed the stark princess suddenly appearing everywhere he went. Stupid girl and her stupid smile was oblivious of the looks the troops gave her when her skirt swayed so deliciously as she trudged around the camp or when her corset was tightened more than usual and her cleavage looked ready to spill over the neckline of her dress.

Sandor clegane who never smiled before you and your backhanded comments to that cunt of a prince Joffrey appeared( it was never a big broad grin, only the right corner of his mouth lifted up just barely, but enough for you to notice).

Sandor clegane whose favourite place in whole of King’s Landing was a tavern far from the Red Keep, where he could drink his weight and more in wine.

Sandor clegane who you stumbled into one day while rushing through the halls of Red Keep. “My apologies, ser.” Not many women dared too look him in the eye; even the whores he payed, looked at their feet in his presence. Your eyes hypnotised him, the enthracing sound of your voice seemed to freeze him in his place before he answered. “I’m no ser, girl.” He grunted and stomped away, the clanking of his heavy armour being the only sound left echoing in the corridor.

Sandor clegane who had already drank two glasses when you walked through the door with a cloak and hood pulled up as if the filthy scum of flea bottom wouldn’t notice the shiny material of highborn clothes, weaving at your feet.

Sandor clegane who had noticed some of the dwellers visiting the tavern getting a little to close to you, so he stood up—the sound of his chair chirping the wooden floor, catching the attention of nearby drinkers—and marched up to your table, where you were giggling at a man whose hands were wandering too far south for sandor’s comfort. With each of his heavy steps towards you, your giggles seemed to get louder and louder and the man’s greasy hands go lower and lower.

Sandor clegane who stood there for a minute until you and that cunt noticed him. He could feel your stared burning a hole through his head, but dared not to look you in the eye and instead stared the filthy man down. In a matter of seconds he kneeled down and hauled you up on his shoulders, turning towards the exit. “What do you think you’re doing?” Your screeched with your head hanging upside down. From what Sandor remembers from your encounter your voice had not been as high as it was now, your head must have become pumped up with blood for the little time sandor has been having you hang over his shoulders. “What does it look like?” If you asked Sandor he wouldn’t be able to tell you why he did it, why his ears turned red the moment he noticed that you had found company, the moment the scum’s hands started wandering all over your body.

Sandor clegane who seemed to have painted a target on his back now with your little encounter in the tavern, from smiles he was now met with scowls and narrowed eyes. It all kept on going until your father was attacked in Flea Bottom, now it was you whose every move was watched and critiqued, it was you who had to be humiliated from the cunt Joffrey who became a King, it was you who had to see your father's head chopped off.

Sandor clegane who happened to be the only one you found comfort in, after he held you back from meeting the same fate as your father.

Sandor clegane who came to you first when he planned to run away from King’s Landing and it’s stupid King.

Sandor clegane who would not allow you to stay in the castle, so when you said that you couldn’t leave your sister alone, he proposed to take her with you. But when she declined, his knees felt ready to buckle. All this stress and all this torture, would be all for nothing if he couldn’t get you at least out of this hell. Your sister seemed to have noticed him and the absent distance between you two, and started begging you to leave, go without her, tell Robb about her, tell mother about her, but save yourself.

[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.

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

Is there a comprehensive list of actors GRRM cites as faceclaims or is it all in disparate blog posts?

Most of it isn't in blog posts at all, it's things GRRM's said at conventions or interviews. (Note for anyone going "Them, really?", check the dates and what the actor looked like at the time.)

So, a quick list:

Sandor Clegane: Ron Perlman

Cersei Lannister: Nicole Kidman

Jaime Lannister: Cary Elwes

Tyrion Lannister: Peter Dinklage

Tywin Lannister: Kurtwood Smith or Robert Duvall

Renly Baratheon: Adrian Paul (also for young Robert)

Arianne Martell: Apollonia Kotero

Nymeria Sand: Janina Gavankar

Daenerys Targaryen: Tamzin Merchant

And sources:

November 2000, fan con report: "Pearlman, from BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, would be great for Sandor. Best guy for Tywin: the father on THAT 70s SHOW and who was the father of the kid, who shot himself, in THE DEAD POETS SOCIETY (I think I spelled it all right)."

December 2003: "...I have a few people in mind. I think Nicole Kidman would be good as Cersei. I always liked Ron Perlman, the actor I worked with on 'The Beauty and the Beast’. He would be great as Sandor Clegane. Ron is very good in heavy make-up and he’s also a big, strong kind of guy. He has a great voice that he can do all sorts of wonderful things with. I think he would be terrific as the Hound. For Jamie Lannister, a couple of years ago I would have said Cary Elwes but he might be too old now. I don’t know…"

c. 2006: "Myself, I'd love to see Tywin played by Kurtwood Smith (as in DEAD POET'S SOCIETY) or Robert Duvall (THE GREAT SANTINI)."

July 2006, fan con report: "On being asked about "the casting game" (picking actors to play the characters), he said the only one who he would definitely choose was Ron Perlman to play Sandor "The Hound" Clegane because of Perlman's aptitude for acting through prosthetics."

February 2007, fan con report: "When asked about ideal casting choices, he formally endorsed the idea of Nicole Kidman playing Cersei. He says she has the perfect look for her. But it would never work, because where are you going to find a guy that looks like her to play Jaime? I really got a kick out of that. He also said Ron Perelman would be perfect as the Hound -- but I am pretty sure I had hears or read that somewhere before."

date/source uncertain, but c. 2007: "Adrian Paul and I actually worked together once, long before the Dreamsongs audiobook. Wonder if he remembers. Back then he had a great look for Renly…but of course, that was twenty years ago."

February 2008: "Much as I *cough* admire Salma Hayek, I picture Arianne as looking more like Appollonia Kotero, as she was around the time of PURPLE RAIN."

November 2008, Elio Garcia: "George has said in the past that Adrian Paul is Baratheonish in looks (years ago he said he could see him for a young Robert or Renly)"

May 2009: "Playing Tyrion Lannister will be Peter Dinklage, who was almost everyone's "dream casting" for the role (he certainly was mine)."

August 2009: "I know my readers play the casting game. Well, confession time, so do I. Ever since I began A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE (way back in 1991, thought it wasn't until 1994 that I got writing in earnest), there was always a little part of me that would watch every television show and movie with one eye looking for actors and actresses who might work as my characters.

And so there I was, watching THE TUDORS (which I have VERY mixed feelings about, I confess), when Tamzin Merchant came on screen as the fifteen year old Katherine Howard, Henry VIII's fifth wife. I sat up at once, thinking, "Hmmm, she could be a good candidate for Dany.""

July 2011, Janina Gavankar: "George just told me I look like Lady Nymeria." (additional link 1) (link 2)

[axelsagewrites]

Kinktober 2023 List

Welcome to my first ever kinktober, a month long of smutty drabbles and one shots. Hope you all enjoy and if you want added to a charecter/fandom tag list so you dont miss anything let me know <3

NSFW under cut

Masterlist Here

Day one: discrete fun with Robb Stark – deciding to take his teasing to a new level Robb decides to take the sex toys out of the bedroom

Day two: marking with Jace Velaryon – jealous is an understatement for what Jace is feeling so he decides to fix his problems by showing everyone who you belong to

Day three: phone sex with Jamie Tartt – even though he loved to play the long nights away from you were almost impossible to bare so he often found himself hitting call at late hours of the night

Day four: body worship with Podrick Payne – Podrick feels honoured just to be able to touch your body and wants you to hear his praises

Day five: role reversal with James Potter – James is used to being in charge, but things change when one night you decide to give him a taste of his own teasing medicine

Day six: over stimulation with Jon Snow – Jon is eager to please but even more eager to make you a mumbling mess who doesn’t know their own name by the end

Day seven: stepcest/cam girl au with Daemon Targaryen – after Daemons new stepdaughter moves in daemon finds out her naughty little secret

Day eight: dubcon kidnap au with Ramsay Bolton – Ramsay can’t stand the idea of such a pretty creature going unappreciated any longer

Day nine: edging/orgasm denial with Rhanerya Targaryen – since you’re used to get everything you want Rhaenyra decides to show you good things come to those who wait

Day ten: throne/semi public sex with Danerys Targaryen – being the queen is a stressful job and it is your job to help your queen relax even if that means risking getting caught

Day eleven: knife play with Ivar the Boneless – people whisper and wonder how someone so sweet could marry someone so angry, but they don’t see what Ivar does when you’re underneath him

Day twelve: exhibitionism with Tormund – while wildlings talk freely about sex Tormund enjoys watching your blush at even the mention of it making it even more fun to tease you when you come to tend to his wounds

Day thirteen: primal play with Remus Lupin – usually when Remus runs around the forest its not by choice but tonight, he is chasing his favourite prey

Day fourteen: sex toys and teasing with Sansa Stark – after finding a sleek pink vibrator in her top drawer you decide to see what it can really do

Day fifteen: voyeurism with Aegon Targaryen – while you are visiting his family Aegon discovers a secret passage and what he accidentally sees through the cracks makes him want you instantly

Day sixteen: caught in the act with Roy Kent – when Roy came home all he wanted to do was curl up in bed with you but when he heard a buzzing from under the sheets his plans took a very different turn

Day seventeen: mommy kink with Cersei Lannister – while she may be rough and callous to most others Cersei finds herself dotting on her sweet girl in her chambers each night

Day eighteen: corruption kink with Alicent Hightower – a new septa arrive at court but none of the thoughts on Alicent’s minds are holy

Day nineteen: choking with Bjorn Ironside – you may have been captured by the enemies, but the punishment Bjorn gives you is starting to feel like a reward

Day twenty: bondage/wax play with Margaery Tyrell: people may whisper about her brother’s bedroom habits but none of them see the things she gets up to with her ladies’ maid

Day twenty-one: face fucking with Cregan Stark: to gain his loyalty Cregan demands that you earn it, and he enjoys watching the tears streak down your face as you do

Day twenty-two: daddy kink with Sirius Black – the word just slipped out one time but now it’s all Sirius wants to hear from your lips

Day twenty-three: brat taming with Sandor Clegane – after growing sick of a princess’s bratty attitude Sandor decides to teach her how to behave

Day twenty-four: thigh riding/dry humping with Ragnar Lothbrok – after taking a Christian girl prisoner he decides to show you the pleasure a heathen can feel

Day twenty-five: breeding kink with Ned Stark – there is a reason why Ned has so many children and it’s not as noble as many assume

Day twenty-six: collaring with Aemond Targaryen – not wanting to share Aemond decides to invest in something to show that you’ll always be his and only his

Day twenty-seven: double penetration with Jamie Tartt and Roy Kent: they both like you and when they came to settle it once and for all neither of them expected this out come

Day twenty-eight: mutual masturbation with Oberyn Martell – you always heard that the dornish were more sex positive than most, but you hadn’t expected Oberyn Martell of all people to show you just how good it could feel

Day twenty-nine: face riding with Heleana Targaryen – while Heleana appeared shy outside of your chambers when you, her maid, came to tend to her at night she was anything but shy

Day thirty: teacher student au with Jamie Lannister – he knew it was wrong to ask you to stay after class but after one too many short, short skirts he could no longer keep his thoughts at bay

Day thirty-one: orgy/group sex with Aegon, Aemond, Jace, Daemon, and Rhaenyra since after all sharing is caring

[auxmodi]

hired killer pt2

pt1 pt2

A/n: i've got so many ideas for this series im fucking excited

summary: After a failed attempt to kill Sandor Clegane, the assassin faces his harsh mockery, leaving her humiliated but burning with determination to prove him wrong.

humiliation, slowburn, enemies, violence, power dynamic, mocking, degradation a little, mad ass reader lol, angst, hate, cursing.

word count: 1.8k

The forest was dead quiet, save for the soft rustling of leaves in the cold night air. You crouched low behind a tree, your eyes never leaving the hulking figure near the dying campfire. Sandor Clegane sat on a fallen log, sharpening his sword, the firelight flickering over his scarred face. His hands moved methodically, the rhythmic scrape of metal against stone the only sound in the stillness.

You’d been tracking him for weeks, and this wasn’t the first time you’d gotten close. The last encounter had been in a crowded alley in some backwater village, and you’d had the perfect chance to strike. He hadn’t seen you coming, not at first. But you’d hesitated, an instant too long, and he had turned on you, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. He hadn’t attacked, no. He just laughed, that low, guttural chuckle that made your blood run cold. That humiliation still burned.

You adjusted your grip on the dagger at your side, the cool metal grounding you. You’d waited for this moment, planned for it, but as you watched him sit there in the firelight, an odd flicker of hesitation made your breath hitch. He looked… human. Tired, maybe even worn down. The stories painted him as a monster, a dog bred only for blood, but what sat before you was a man. A dangerous one, but a man nonetheless.

His voice broke the silence like a stone crashing into water. "Thought I told you to stay the fuck away."

Your heart leapt into your throat. He didn’t look up, his attention still on the blade in his hands, but there was no mistaking who he was talking to. You rose slowly from your hiding place, your fingers brushing the hilt of your blade.

"You really think I’d listen?" you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady.

His lip curled in a smirk, his scarred face catching the light. "Didn’t think you had the brains to, no." Rising to his full height, he towered over you, sword still in hand. "What’s it now, then? You here to try your luck again?"

“I’m not trying,” you shot back, raising your dagger.

He moved before you could blink, faster than you expected for someone his size. One moment he was by the fire, the next, he had your wrist in a crushing grip. The dagger slipped from your fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud. You struggled, but his strength was overwhelming. With one brutal yank, he pulled you forward.

“Still too slow.” he growled.

You struggled, twisting in his hold, but it was like trying to fight a steel trap. His other hand grabbed your shoulder, spinning you around and shoving you against the nearest tree. The rough bark bit into your back as his massive frame pinned you there, his hand pressing against your neck to hold you in place.

“Let go!” you snarled, kicking out at him, but it was useless. He blocked every move with ease.

“Shut up,” he snarled, his face inches from yours now. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be rotting in the dirt already. So stop being a fuckin' fool before I decide to stop being nice.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, though you couldn’t tell if it was fear or something else entirely. His grip was firm, his body radiating heat as he leaned in, his dark eyes boring into yours.

"I’m not afraid of you," you hissed, even though your pulse pounded in your ears.

He laughed. A low, rough sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "No? Then why’s your heart poundin’ like a damn rabbit caught in a trap?"

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the weight of his hand and the way his gaze seemed to pierce straight through you. "Because I’m pissed off," you spat, trying to push against him. "Let me go, or—"

"Or what?" he mocked, tightening his grip just enough to make you gasp. "You gonna beg now? Cry like a little bitch? That how this ends for you?"

You glared at him, the defiance in your eyes sparking something dangerous in his expression. His lips curled in a sneer as he leaned in even closer, his breath warm against your face.

"Here's the truth," he growled, his voice low and rough. "You ain't ready for this. You think you can take me down, but you'd be dead before you even got close enough to land a blow. I’d put you in the dirt like the rest."

The words hit harder than you wanted to admit, but you refused to look away. “You don’t know what I’m capable of,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

He studied you for a moment, eyes cold and assessing, before grunting in disdain. Without a word, he shoved you back, releasing you with a suddenness that left you stumbling. He picked up your dagger, holding it by the blade as if it were nothing more than a toy.

“Go on, then, prove it,” he said, gesturing lazily. “Show me what you’ve got, killer.”

The dagger in your hand felt absurdly heavy, though you tried not to let it show. The insult gnawed at you, as much as his calm, almost mocking stare. You’d been hired to kill him, paid to kill him, and instead of dispatching him quickly, here you were, facing him head-on and already looking like a fool.

Your grip tightened. Without a word, you lunged, the blade flashing in the firelight as you drove it toward his throat.

But Sandor moved like he had all the time in the world.

His arm shot up, catching your wrist with a grip that felt like iron. Pain jolted through your arm as he twisted it with just enough force to make your fingers go slack. The dagger hit the ground with a muffled thud.

You barely had time to gasp before he stepped in, his momentum carrying you backward. You braced for impact, but he didn’t slam you into the tree. No, it was almost clinical how he maneuvered you, pinning you there with his sheer presence. His hand gripped your shoulder, his weight pressed against you just enough to stop any thought of escape.

“Stop,” he growled, his voice low and full of quiet menace. “You’re done.”

Your teeth clenched as you struggled against him, but he didn’t budge. His scarred face hovered inches from yours, his breath warm and rough.

“Let me go,” you hissed.

“Let you go?” he sneered. “Aye, so you can grab that butter knife and have another go at me? Not bloody likely, girl..”

The word hit harder than it should have, girl. Like you were some foolish child who didn’t belong here. Fury rose in your chest, but you couldn’t dislodge him. His grip was unyielding, his strength a wall you couldn’t hope to break.

“Some killer,” he muttered, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. “Tell me, how much are they paying you to bungle this so badly?”

The heat rose in your face, your anger flaring hotter than the fire behind him. “Enough to see you dead,” you spat.

His smirk deepened, and he let out a short laugh. “That right? Well, they’re wasting their coin. You couldn’t kill a rabbit with the way you’re swinging.”

Your glare could’ve melted steel, but he didn’t care. He glanced down at the dagger lying useless on the ground, then back up at you.

With that, he stepped back, releasing you so suddenly you nearly stumbled. He reached down, picking up your dagger and holding it by the blade.

“This?” he said, his tone laced with disdain. “This little thing’s supposed to do me in? I’ve seen sharper kitchen knives.” He tossed it to you with a casual flick of his wrist.

You caught it awkwardly, fury bubbling in your chest. "Keep laughing," you shot back, "You’re not as untouchable as you think."

“Untouchable?” he repeated, his voice dark with amusement. “Girl, I’ve had men twice your size and ten times your skill try to put steel through my heart. You think you’ve got a chance with that?” his eyes pointing at the dagger.

The dagger in your hand felt foolish now, but the anger still burned. You stood your ground, glaring at him. "Maybe I don’t," you snapped, "But I’ll die trying."

He barked out a laugh, harsh and sharp as breaking glass. “Die trying? Gods, you’re a damn fool.”

His eyes flicked over you, assessing, and then, much to your surprise, he shook his head, a strange, humorless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Maybe what you need’s a bit of training,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Can’t have you embarrassing the rest of your kind, stumbling around like a half-blind goat.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You? Train me?”

“Aye,” he said, his grin cruel and sharp. “The Hound, teacher of some half-wit assassin who couldn’t gut a fish, let alone a man. That’d be a laugh. Maybe I’ll train you, girl. You might stand a chance next time, if the poor sod’s asleep and tied hand and foot.”

Your cheeks burned hot, and anger flared in your chest. “I don’t need your help,” you snapped, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

You clenched your jaw, the taste of failure bitter on your tongue. His words stung, and you hated that they were true. He turned away, dismissing you as easily as he’d taken your dagger from your hand. “You’ll learn,” he muttered, voice low. “Or you’ll die. Either way, you won’t last long.”

With that, he turned picked up his sword and walked toward the fire, his heavy boots thudding against the ground.

You stood there, fists clenched, burning with rage. Every word he said hit its mark, sharper than any blade. You hated him for it. Hated how easy he made you look weak. But even more, you hated the truth behind his words. He was right. You were a mess, and you’d made a fool of yourself tonight. But you wouldn’t stay that way. You’d prove him wrong.

As Sandor’s heavy footsteps faded into the distance, an icy emptiness settled in your chest, colder than the night air could explain. You should’ve been dead. He had you in his grasp, at the mercy of his strength, and yet, he’d let you walk away.

Why?

The question gnawed at you, simple and brutal. He’d seen your failure, mocked you, and still, he hadn’t killed you. Was it pity? Amusement? Or something else entirely?

You stood in the quiet of the woods, feeling the sting of your own humiliation. He’d probably killed a hundred girls like you, all full of anger and pride, too sure of themselves to know when they were outmatched. And yet, here you were, breathing, still alive.

Why had he spared you?

[bloodstained-porcelain-doll]

Heel to her Master, ch 3 - Sandor Clegane x reader

Read on AO3 Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Summary: The handmaiden finds him terrifying yet intriguing. The Hound finds her wildly attractive. He stakes his claim. Warnings: Eventual smut, dub con, public humiliation, bdsm, Master/pet dynamic

The handmaid was listening to something she shouldn’t be hearing. Sometimes she would hide in a secret passage she once discovered by stumbling into a bookshelf. That incident had led to her going off to search for more hidden rooms and passages throughout the keep. She had found three, but this one was the only one where she could hear into a council room. On this day she heard the Lannisters discussing battle plans. She knew Stannis was waging war, there was much talk in King’s Landing. But now she listened in as the Lannisters discussed ships, weapons and soldiers.

   “...Ill trained, poorly disciplined gold cloaks…” she heard the voice of Lord Tyrion. She smiled. Lord Tyrion was kind, she liked him well enough. He was the only high born man she knew who bothered learning the names of servants and handmaids.

   “...Thousands will die…”

   The Handmaid was afraid, she feared what would happened when the war approached. She felt no loyalty toward the Lannisters, but she had made a life for herself within their rule. Stannis was a stranger, she couldn’t know what changes he would inflict.

   “What’s this, a welp out of her cage?” The handmaid shot into the air and spun around, gasping as she was faced the the towering frame of the Hound.

   “Ser, I-” she began, but the Hound grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and yanked her out of the secret chamber, slamming it shut behind them.

   “Spare me your Sers, girl. What do you think you’re doing?” he questioned, shoving her up against the wall, causing her to whimper in pain.

   “I’m sorry, please don’t turn me in,” she pleaded, looking around anxiously. They were all alone again.

   “They’re just on the other side of that wall. Why shouldn’t I drag you in front of the king to answer for your crimes? Who are you spying for?” he asked, digging his nails into her arm. He would leave bruises, she was sure.

   “Please, they’ll have me killed. I wasn’t spying, I swear it, I was just curious!”

“Mmm… I like it when you beg. Might enjoy hearing you beg the king for mercy. Not that I think he’d give it to you.” His nails dug in harder and her back scraped against the wall.

   “Please, you’re hurting me… I wasn’t spying, I’m sorry… please don’t tell them, I’ll do anything you want!” she blurted out, squirming in his grip. Instead of releasing her, he twisted her arm painfully, making her hunch forward, having to look up at him as he towered over her. It was embarrassing how she ached between her legs. The Hound held all the power between the two of them, and they both knew it. He chewed his lip and eyed her carefully.

   “Anything, you say?”

   “Yes,” she whimpered. With a rough tug on her hair she found herself inches from the Hound’s face, with no choice but to hold his gaze while her eyes stung with tears.

   “That’s ‘yes, Master’ to you from now on,” he rasped.

   “Yes, Master,” she corrected herself quickly, swallowing down a lump in her throat as another ache made itself known between her legs.

   “Make sure I never catch you spying again. You answer to me now, I own you. And next time I won’t be so forgiving. Understand?”

   “Yes, Master,” she whispered, nodding hastily. Her heart raced while she awaited his next action. He released her hair and she found her balance on her feet again.

   “Good. On your knees.” Her eyes widened at the order. “You’re not going to start questioning me already, are you, girl? And make me remind you what Lannisters do to traitors?” She shook her head and dropped to her knees, sure she knew what was to follow. But instead of unlacing his breeches and shoving his cock in her mouth like she expected, he stripped off his glove and brought his hand to her hair. She looked down at the floor, her heart throbbing in her chest.

   The Hound looked around himself once more before he began to pet her. Gently, fondly, as if she - as if she were a pet, she realised. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes closed, taking in the sensation. Heat rushed through her body at the realisation that she was kneeling on the floor for the Sandor “the Hound” Clegane, and he was petting her like she was his dog.

   “Good pup,” he praised, lightly slapping her cheek before taking a step back. She stared up at him with big glossy eyes, breathing heavily. “Don’t forget your place now.” And just like that he turned on his heel and left the handmaid there in shock.

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

Hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall's Masterlist

Hello and welcome! Thanks for stopping by and hope to see you here again ;)

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I want to be with you, it is as simple, and as complicated as that - Bucky Barnes x Reader ⚠️🌈 (one-shot)

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Nothings ever what it seems - Bucky Barnes ⚠️ (one-shot)

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[first-edition]

Fox and the Hound

Chapter 8

Previous chapter here

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

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

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

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

“Speak man!” jeoffry barks already annoyed. 

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

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

“Fuck..” she says under her breath. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Princess, my lady.” ser merryn says. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Sandor?” you ask. 

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

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

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

“Are you certain?” you ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“O-oh..” you stutter out. 

“I'll have more guards posted outside your doors.” he says before moving around you and heading off down the hall to assign guards to be posted. You stand there watching as he walks away before he disappears past the corner. 

“If it's not too much to mention my lady, but, I think the lord clegane may love you.” your maiden says. A small smile forms on your lips. 

“I think you're right.” you say smiling at her before you both turn to continue your walk down the hall. 

—---

You didn't see Sandor for the rest of the day after he informed you. He was outside the wall and in the knightstand training area. Watched out to the court yard as more troops of knights marched in but sandor was nowhere to be seen. You missed him. 

You missed him until the night fell and you were in your room. He wasn't lying about having more guards posted outside the room, instead of the usual two three were now eight. Two on either side of the door and two across from your door posted on either side. Your handmaids scurried past them as they entered and exited.

“Will you draw a bath please?” you ask one of them. She nodded and left along with another to collect the contents for bathing. You sighed and undid the lacing of the back of the dress you wear. The stretch of reaching behind you a much needed one as the ache of your muscles from your night with sandor last was still lingering. 

The doors open once again making you turn your head in confusion as to why your hand maidens were back so fast. But you were met happily with the sight of your husband. He sets down his sword on the side of the door against the wall. He groans annoyingly as he does. 

“I haven't seen you all day. Are you alright?” you ask, walking up. You meet him and place your hands on  his cheeks; he slightly leans into your soft touch. Your palm resting on the scarred part of his face. 

“Bunch of cunts.” he grumbles. 

“I have the maids drawing a bath ... .would you ... .would you like to join me?” you ask. Sandor goes quiet bringing his hand up to yours keeping it placed on your cheek. 

“Okay.” he simply says. Your heart jumps at his answer. 

“I'll need something from you first.” you say. 

“Mm.” he answers. 

“Can you unlace my dress?” you ask. He lets out a soft chuckle and nods. You take your hand from his face only to catch his hand in yours and lead him to the bed. 

“When you ask me to unlace your dress, little fox…” he trails off as you sit him on the bed. 

“I mean unlace my dress.” you say turning around standing in the space between his legs. You move your hair to the side as he had come up feeling the fabric on your waist making you shiver before he truly moves to the back of your dress and begins to unlace the dress.

You feel it becoming looser and looser with each segment of lacing until it's loose enough to slip off your body. You step out of it as you bend down, picking it up and laying it on the space next to him on the bed. Left in your underclothes sandors hands find your waist again, turning you around to face him. 

He pulls you closer to him leaning his head up but not too much as even as sitting he's still comfortably level with you. His lips catch yours in a kiss feeling the softness he was deprived of all day. You moan into his mouth as his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips and your arms around his neck. The kiss is only broken when the doors open once again your hand maids arrive with bathing materials and begin to fill the tub in the corner but not before apologizing for intruding on the two of you. 

You admire the features of your husband, his scruff already growing back from shaving it thank goodness on your behalf. You sit on his lap, the hot water warming you both. His arms rest on either side of the bathtub as his eyes search you. No matter how many times he will view your body nothing will ever compare to its beauty. The moment calms him but the focus is to keep the blood rushing to his cock while your breasts are virtually centered in front of his face. His knuckle tightens the side of the tub as he closes his eyes. 

“S-sorry.” you speak, causing his eyes to open again and his grip to cease. He looks up at you in confusion. Your hands are now resting on his collar bones. 

“It's not that..” he says realizing you pulled away thinking he closed his eyes due to you touching his scars. He takes your hand bringing it back to his face somehow finding a sort of comfort in you tracing his marks. 

“Does it still hurt?” You ask him as you move his hair out of his face, your fingers brushing against his scar. 

“No.” He says 

“Good…what happened?” You ask

“I’m sure some servant has told you the gruesome story.” He says slowly.

“Yes…but..I’m asking you. What happend?” You ask again.

“Like you’ve heard little fox, I was pressed into the fire like a nice juicy mutton chop by my brother.” He says gesturing to his scar. 

“Why.” You ask. 

“Though I stole one of his toys, I didn't steal it, I was just borrowing it…playing with it. I was 6 or so.” He says you tilt your head slightly brushing your thumb over his cheek. 

“The pain was bad, the smell was worse…but…” he sighs before continuing. 

“The worst thing was that it was my brother who did it. My older brother. My father who protected him..told everyone my bedding caught fire. And my mother…wouldn’t even look at me said i was too ugly to love.” He says eyes averting from yours. It's quiet, the only noise is the crackling of the fire and the light swishing of the water. 

“I can look at you...” You say moving closer to him. His eyes make contact with yours like before. 

“...And I love you, Sandor.” You say he lets out a relieved sort of sigh before pulling you to him placing a much need kiss on your forehead.

chapter 9 here

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