#sandor fanfiction

[author-morgan]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[azulolivart]

❤️‍🔥Just two beings kissed by fire❤️‍🔥

I am literally obsessed with this scene, and with them. I feel that it is an important moment that represents a lesson for both the characters involved and the reader.

In the books, Sansa teaches Sandor a lesson with her song. Violence is not the way. Things are not taken by force. Even people like him, whose life is full of resentment and anger, have a chance to redeem themselves.

In the TV show, it is Sandor who teaches Sansa a lesson. Looks are deceiving. She is afraid of him because of how he looks and is unable to look at him but he tells her, in his own way, that she will encounter people in life much worse than him and that she will have to look at them. In that moment, Sansa understands what he meant and sees through his horrible burned mask. That's why she says: "You won't hurt me".

Both versions seem like a poem to me and I needed to make a fanart of it. I love this scene, and I love the interactions they both have. I hope that at least in the books they’ll have a worthwhile reunion and that they can thank each other, or if GRRM allows it, something more. It would be such a beautiful thing to read that she sings to him again, actually wanting to sing a song for him. Of course, that’s if Sandor is really alive.

[honeyxbunny99]

Sandor Clegane~ The Bitch and The Hound pt. 1

You bit your tongue as you scrubbed at King Joffrey's stinking royal feet. The taste of blood and pain mingling in your mouth was the only thing strong enough to distract you from your own humiliation in this moment. You could blame Joffrey Baratheon, the foolish demon before you. You stole a glance upwards only for your eyes to quickly flit back down in shame when you saw his thin lips curled up in a wiry smile, hatred in his blue eyes, and it was all directed at you. No, not all the blame on him. Your father. 

Your father was to blame, that damned fool. He was the reason you were in this mess in the first place.  Once your father had been charming, or so you were told. A traveling magician who settled in King's Landing when your beautiful mother opened her legs to him one night. Truly, the greatest trick he'd ever pulled was bedding your mother. She was said to be the most beautiful woman in the Reach once, before she was trafficked to marry another noble. One fateful stop for the night, wine, and slight of hand, and you came into existence. You, who were once not even a thought, were suddenly a big problem. She was found with your father and bloody sheets and thrown out into the cold. She bore your stupid father one more child, a girl, before she couldn't handle her life any longer, and ended it herself. 

~Good riddance.~ You used to think sometimes. ~How could you leave us?~ You thought all other times. 

YOU were now the most beautiful girl in King's Landing, or as your father would bolster, in all the Seven Kingdoms. He had made it his mission in life to improve your family's circumstances, through no work of his own. No, your family's future depended entirely on your pretty face. Barely 17, you had developed a reputation around town for your beauty, and your mystery. You were not allowed to walk about unescorted, but your family had no money. Your father would walk you everywhere, keeping his prize close to his chest at all times. You were no fool; you knew you were beautiful by the way people's heads turned in the streets. By the way shopkeepers offered you items freely and how many men would come knocking on your father's door asking for your hand. 

Some men had been handsome, some had many prospects. And yet, your father turned them all away, wanting, no, needing, only the best. ~A fool~, you thought as you opened your mouth to wince, drinking in your own blood from your harsh bite on your tongue. 

He is the reason you were here, presented before the young king in your finest dress. 

~~"Your grace, what she lacks in title, she many times over supplements with her beauty, her kindness, and her intell--"

"That dog?" Joffrey started, looking between you and your father with a disgusted look that you had never seen before. "You've come to my castle to bring me a bitch? To what, to fuck, to marry, to kill?"

Your heart sank to your stomach as you listened to his harsh words. "Y-Your grace, it was my daughter's greatest wish to meet you. She can only dream of calling you her husband..." You watched your father take a step back in apprehension. Joffrey said nothing, only raised his eyebrows as if in wait of a punchline. "(Y/n) is the greatest beauty in all of the Seven Kingdoms, and she wishes to be your wife now and alw--"

The Boy King erupted with laughter. He doubled over in his chair, slapping his knee for effect. Your cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and you glanced at the crowd surrounding you. Some laughed along with the boy king, others hid their face in embarrassment for you and your cause, but most were stoic, waiting for Joffrey's next move.  

The King stood finally and pointed his dainty finger at you. 

"This bitch is not fit to kiss my boot! You have brought shame on your family, ser, but not nearly enough. You see, I can't simply allow everyone to waste the king's time like this. Your family name is what, I've already forgotten?"

"(L/n) ... Your grace." Your father's voice was low. This had not gone at all how he had been expecting.

"(L/n) ... Well, my good man, I truly believe you will succeed in what you came here to do today. You came to make a name for yourself, and your whore daughter." As Joffrey spoke, you looked at the people around him. His mother, useless. His Head of the Kings Guard, an abuser just like him. And The Hound, his protector from childhood. Not one of them could end this miserable moment. "Today, no one shall forget the name (L/n)." 

As he finished speaking you realized he was right in front of you. He reached his hand up and turned your face with it, examining you. You held your breath, nails digging into your palms behind your back. 

"Hmm..." He looked you up and down, licking his lips fiendishly. "You are not fit to kiss my boot, but perhaps you could make use of yourself by washing my feet."

Your brow furrowed in confusion and the boy's smile grew. "Someone bring this bitch a sponge and water." 

"Your grace, I--"

"Ah, she speaks!" He cried out, looking at his followers for approval. Laughter followed and you saw someone dart off to fetch the items. "I don't like the sound of your voice. If I hear it again, your father will take the blows."

He stalked up the steps to the Iron Throne again with Pride. You stood frozen. "Well, take off my boots." He said lazily. 

"Your Grace, I do not wish to offend--" "Then don't, bitch... Your father said it was your greatest wish to be mine, or are you calling your father a liar... Lying to the king is an act of treason, and I don't mind reminding the court of the punishment for such crimes... Is your father a liar?"

"No." You said breathlessly. Tears pricked at your eyes at the thought. 

"Then today should be a dream come true for you... You get to touch your beloved king."

You looked back at your father, and out towards the freedom behind him. 

"Ser Merryn, pull her father to the side and bring forward my next citizen." Just then the man returned with a sponge and a bucket full of soapy water and forced it into your hands, the water splashing on your gown, making the king laugh. 

You struggled internally for a moment before your feet walked forward on their own. The king stared you down as you knelt at his feet, finally resolving to wink at you before his attention was drawn to another subject complaining. 

You tuned it all out as best you could and focused on the task at hand.~~

Finally, as you were drying your king's feet, he tutted at you and looked down. "You really are worthless, aren't you? You've missed a spot!" You squinted in confusion as the king brought his right foot closer to your face. Suddenly your face scrunched up tightly in pain as Joffrey kicked you hard in the nose. You fell back on your ass and slid down a couple steps as a result. Joffrey chuckled quickly as you panted and held your nose to stop the bleeding. He made a show of tying up his shoes while the court was silent, before standing and grabbing your bucket. He walked slowly towards you and raised the bucket over your head, then dumping the dirty water on your head. You gasped and choked on your own blood. Tears could flow freely now, as the water would mask it anyways. You stood quickly, not even thinking. 

"FUCK YOU!" You screamed. The boy's eyes widened. "Fuck you and your incestuous mother, you pathetic little shit!"

Ser Merryn marched forward at you as you heard your father shout scoldings and apologies. You blocked your face, but he hit you anyway. You stumbled back but did not fall.

"Ser Merryn! I said her father would take the blows!" The boy king retorted. The knight marched back over and whacked your father hard with the hilt of his sword 3 times. You dared not look away from the king. 

"Stop!... Ser, you came here today to improve your circumstances... And you, bitch, to find a husband worthy of your beauty. I am nothing if not a generous king, and I understand the needs of my people." He smirked, a fire in his eyes. "So, I will grant you your requests... Your circumstances shall improve, knowing you no longer have a bitch around to mooch off your family. And you," he smiled, biting his bottom lip, "You shall have a worthy husband... And who more worthy for a bitch, than a hound?!?" His voice was deranged, and he raised his arms up, demanding approval from his court. He did not receive it. 

"Hound!" He called and you watched his guard dog snap straighter in attention. "Come collect your bitch. You will wed tomorrow." 

You watched in terror as the giant marched up to you, his hair hardly hiding the burns marring his face, scowl ever present. 

"But--"

"Didn't I tell you that I hated the sound of your voice?! You will hold your tongue, or I will cut out your father's."

The hound grabbed your shoulder roughly and you pressed back against it, trying to push his hand off. He growled and picked you up to throw you over his shoulder. You winced at the change in pressure for your throbbing head but kept your mouth as quiet as possible in fear of further punishment. The hound began walking off, until he snapped back around at the final words you heard from Joffrey. "Don't forget to break her in rough!"

You trembled in the hound's hold. His pace was quick, and your face burned with anger and shame as he paraded you about the halls of The Red Keep, marching you to God knows where. Servants looked at you with fear and sympathy clear in their faces and you let out a small, choked sob. 

Suddenly you were dropped down to your feet in front of a great door. The Hound opened it wordlessly and shoved you in. He quickly shut it again before you could say a word, and you heard the lock click into place. You bolted over to the small window and looked down. There was no hope of escaping. You tried to steady your breathing and made note of things around the room but there wasn't much. You walked slowly into the next room, a bathroom, and noticed your reflection in a very broken mirror. 

Your sobs racked your body when you studied your face, bloody, dirty, wet, worried. You crumpled down to the floor and rocked yourself back and forth as you cried. That night was spent alone, cowering in fear in the bathroom. The Hound never once walked back in. 

In the morning you blinked your eyes open in surprise when a woman entered the bedroom. "Miss (L/n)?" The strange woman called, scanning the room. She rushed over to the window, as if worried you had somehow thrown yourself out of it. You came up behind her, back still flush against the wall, and said "I'm here." She gasped and smiled softly, hand clutching her chest. 

"Goodness, you gave me a fright." You winced at her words, remembering your face. You could still feel your heartbeat in your nose, and your right eye's vision was smaller than your left; a result of the backhand you'd earned from Ser Merryn. 

"I-I'm here to help you dress for the day, Milady." She sensed your discomfort and matched it with her own. 

"I don't need help." You retorted rudely. 

"I don't make the rules, I only follow them. Queen Mother Cersei has instructed that the rules for today are to dress you, feed you, and prepare you for your wedding night."

Your heart thudded faster in your chest, and you tried not to let your panic show. "Very Well." No use in fighting. You loosened the ties on the back of your dress and she rushed over behind you. "Let me help." She insisted. You thought of your sister, who you would normally dress with, and wondered if you would ever see her again. You wondered if your father already had, or if he was dead or locked away too. Either way, for certain you knew you were now a prisoner. A forced marriage to a monstrous man awaited you. You bit your lip and breathed quickly through your nose. 

"Hey," the woman said, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder and walking around to face you. "It does not have to be so terrible..." She tried to make you feel better. "You are here, in one piece. That is more than can be said for those that came after you... You really pissed the King off yesterday, you know."

"Whatever suffering Joffrey caused after me was his own doing, not mine and I--"

"Milady, calm down. I am not blaming you for anything. No one should. You said what we've all thought one time or another..." She smiled softly at you and your brow twitched. "The King is a monster... But your husband does not have to be."

She continued on as she dressed you, informing you how easily men can be manipulated into softness by their women. "Your beauty and your gentleness are weapons against a dog like him. Even wild dogs enjoy being pet." She winked. 

You let out a noise between a laugh and a scoff. "I am to be, in the words of his Highness, broken in rough. By a man people call a mad dog. Whatever beauty I had cannot save me now. My gentleness will be my undoing." You said coldly. The girl shook her head.  "Perhaps... Come, there will be breakfast in the garden."

Over breakfast you got to know the servant girl, called Anna, deeper although it took a great effort as she was not used to talking about herself. She even made you smile in spite of yourself. You did not eat of your own accord, only when she would force food into your hand, and say that you would need your strength. 

"Do you know how it works?" Anna said after some silence.

"What?"

"Sex? Breaking in?" 

Your eyes widened and you looked around the garden for eavesdroppers. She didn't seem amused. You cleared your throat. "My father could be a very crass man. Unfortunately, I have seen the act firsthand, when he was keeping my sister awake one night. Still, he wanted to preserve me as best he could."

"So, you ARE a virgin?" She raised her brows. 

"Of course."

She brought her hands up to hold her face, as she looked almost embarrassed or nervous for you. "Well, if you can handle the hound, you should be able to handle anybody."

You reflected on his size and felt the heat return to your face. "I'm terrified..." You confided. "I don't know all the cruel things men can do, and I never wanted to..." Your eyes welled with tears and your hands began to clam up and shake. "Do you think he will kill me?" You choked out. 

Anna got on her knees before you and took her handkerchief and dabbed at your face. "Oh, my lady, no, no, he will not kill you. Joffrey has not ordered him to do so, so he will not."

"But he will be rough."

"Yes, I imagine even gentle sex is rough with him... I am so sorry, (y/n). I do not envy your position, but know that I will see you the next morning and help you wash his filth off of you... Just try to close your eyes and imagine yourself somewhere else." 

You chuckled sadly and nodded. You took a deep breath and stood as you heard the large clock strike noon. You were to be married in 4 hours. You had to start getting ready. You grabbed Anna's hand tightly and followed her back to the room. 

Later, things flowed as expected. There was a girl to do your hair, and one to fit you into a simple wedding dress. You tried with what little makeup they provided to hide how swollen your face was and highlight your eyes. Father always said it was one of your best features. Every girl is meant to feel beautiful on her wedding day, and yet as you walked down the aisle to your husband in a suit of armor and King Joffrey holding back laughter, you felt like a true clown. You said your vows, and your husband grunted out his. It was only then during the ceremony that you learned your husband's true name: Sandor Clegane. And now you were Lady Clegane. 

You sat silently beside your husband at the wedding feast. No one came up to congratulate you, and you didn't want them to. This was, after all, a punishment. Eventually you heard the voice of your father pipe up from across the room. He was laughing with some other nobleman you'd never seen. You furrowed your brows in confusion and anger and stood abruptly, causing your husband to glance at you. You paid him no mind and instead walked across the room to find him. 

"Ah, (y/n)!" He was loud, drunk. You saw the bruising on his face. "You looked beautiful as always, my darling. A truly happy day!" He said, truly jovial. You scowled at him, wanted to hit him. 

"A happy day?" You asked, venom in your voice. "Do you have any idea what you've cursed me to?! Your stupidity, your pride, your--" "That's enough." He grabbed your wrist tightly. "You've cursed yourself, you insolent girl." He whispered angrily in your ear. "If you had only shut up and let me do the talking, maybe you would be home right now. Maybe your sister would not have to carry on your burdens!" 

You winced audibly and twisted your arm. Your father grabbed your face and turned you forward to look at your husband, who was already looking at you from across the room, expression truly unreadable. "Your tongue got you into this. Your fiery spirit... I've heard the hound LOVES fire." Truly, your father had never quite been this cruel to you. You must have truly embarrassed him. "You made your bed." He spat in your ear. "Now go and lie in it."

With that you were released and walked quickly back to your seat. Sandor's eyes followed you the entire way, but when you sat down beside him and tried to meet his eyes face-to-face, he turned his head away. You blew a sharp breath out through your nose in humiliation. Your eyes were then directed to his hands, the way he tore apart a leg of chicken, his large meaty fingers relentlessly prying. Your stomach flipped on its own and you tried to chug your wine. 

Later that evening, at the king's insistence, Clegane carried you bridal style all the way to your room as his laughter echoed behind you. You tried not to, but you were shaking like a leaf. Even the alcohol could not dull your nerves. He set you down gently inside the room and you walked slowly to the bed. There was a great silence after he closed the door and locked it. You took deep breaths and tried to remember all that Anna had told you to prepare you. He turned around to look at you and leaned back against the heavy wooden door, arms crossed over his chest. Your eyes raked over him. Truly, if he wasn't so terrifying, he might be attractive. You tried to list his positives.

Tall, strong, gruff voice, very likely well-endowed, loyal... Who he was loyal to was another issue entirely, but perhaps like Anna said, you could work him into your favor. His eyes focused on all the different parts of you.

You licked your lips in preparation of your speech, truly the first words you would ever speak to him outside of your wedding vows. 

"Would you like to take off my dress?" You asked meekly, reaching for the laces on the back yourself. 

His face hardened almost unnoticeably. It was very dark in the room, but you could still make out his expressions--deciphering them was another task entirely beyond you. 

"Aye. I would, actually." He spoke lowly. "Let's get this over with." He stepped quickly over to you, and you tried not to flinch. Your face almost collided with his chest plate as his hands made quick work on the dress at your back. A shiver ran down your spine at the closeness and you closed your eyes. Suddenly you felt him ball the fabric at your sides in his fist, he growled and tore the dress open. The sound of it ripping sent a shock wave through you and you gasped, hands coming up instinctively onto his hands to stop him. You looked up at him through your lashes in fear. ~My God, he IS rough.~

Your hands did nothing to stop him as he tore the dress down your sides, leaving you in your underclothes. 

"Shut up," he said gruffly. You stood in your sheer garment and your body tensed. He picked you up and threw you onto the bed. You yelped at this and finally felt the familiar prickling in our eyes. 

"Please" You begged for nothing. 

"Shut up, I said." He stood at the edge of the bed and looked only at your face. "Take that off." He ordered, and you dared not disobey. You pulled the dress off over your head and covered your breasts instinctively with your arms. Sandor Clegane, however, still, made no apparent effort to see your exposed body. 

Instead, he took the armor off of his arms and withdrew his sword from its keep at his waist. Your mouth opened in terror. 

He's going to kill me. He climbed onto the bed with you and grabbed the underdress you had discarded nearby. Then he surprised you again, taking his sword to his own forearm and cutting the top of it. You gasped as he started to poor blood. Your gentleness took over your confusion and fear and you reached out to him to try to stop the bleeding. He growled at you viciously and you retreated your hands. You watched him from the edge of the bed. He directed his blood flow to the crotch of your dress, and the proceeded to smear it around the bed. Your heart had never beat so fast, and you felt faint. 

He tossed your clothes aside and covered his wound, walking to the bathroom to wash it off. Your chest heaved, repeating the scene in your mind. 

~That was not sex.~

"W-What the hell was that?" You called out, still frozen on the bed. 

"Don't worry, girl. That's the most action you'll be getting from me."

You frowned; confusion only intensified. "B-But why?" You begged. 

He walked around the corner, revealing himself again. "You are a virgin, aren't you?" He asked, as though you were dumb. Perhaps you were dumb. "Ah hell, it doesn't matter. You'd bleed from ME even if you were a well-trained whore." 

He blew out snot onto the floor and proceeded to take the rest of his armor off in the bathroom. Your heartbeat steadily slowed to a somewhat normal pace. 

"They'll be coming in the morning to check the sheets. To see what all I've done to you." He said casually. 

"You won't touch me?" Your voice was still thick with apprehension. 

The Hound scoffed and sneered. "You think I want to?"

You blushed and covered yourself again as he finally looked you up and down. 

"Maybe I ought to..." He surprised you, and a lump formed in your throat. He approached slowly. Now that his armor was removed you could see him in his plain clothes; see and smell the sweat under his arms. The musk that emanated off of a man after a long day. You trembled and closed yourself up as much as you could without cowering. "Come here, girl." He mumbled and grabbed your ankle, pulling it toward him. You shouted weakly and slapped him, though he didn't flinch a bit. 

He was on top of you in an instant, legs closed in tight around your hips as he took both of your wrists easily in one of his own. He raised and pinned them up above your head on the bed and you whimpered, his face close to yours. The pace of your heart quickened again as you squirmed beneath him, but you did not yell, did not cry. He looked down at you, grip becoming bruising on your wrists. You moaned in pain, and he scrunched his face up at the sight of you. 

"Look at me, bitch!" He demanded, a bit of spit flying from his mouth onto yours. 

"I am!" You called back, eyes locked onto his face. He took your throat in his other hand while the rest of his body kept you powerless against him. 

"What do you see?!" His voice was bellowing, and his eyes glared down at you. "A monster--"

"My Husband!" You answered, simultaneously. His hard expression broke and his grip on your neck loosened, though truthfully it wasn't tight to begin with. He pulled himself back from you a bit, slowly, and his eyes left yours to drift over the sheets. "I know you don't know me, don't like me. Hurt me if you have to! But you're my husband now, the only man I'll ever have, and I intend to make the best of it..."

His face twisted into a grimace and his hand on your throat tightened again, making it difficult to breathe. 

"I'm not your husband, you stupid little girl." He chided. "I'm your damnation! I am your life sentence, but you are not mine. Weak little girls don't last long around here, especially when they don't know when to shut the fuck up!" His words were harsh, but his voice was low, like he didn't want anyone else to hear but you. 

Your eyes studied his face as he let you go. He got off of you quickly and sat at the side of the bed. You stayed laying down for a while, silently counting your blessings. 

"If you are a monster, why did you hurt yourself instead of me?" You couldn't hold it in any longer. "Monsters don't know sacrifice..."

He side-eyed you, breathing through his mouth like a true brute. You sat up, rubbing your wrists together to soothe them. "You don't want to hurt me."

"You want me to hurt you MORE, is that it? You crazy, stupid, fucking cunt." He shook his head. 

"I don't want more pain... But, am I..." You looked down at yourself, then residing to cover yourself with your underdress once again, as bloodied as it was. You were feeling incredibly insecure, something you weren't accustomed to. You turned heads, made men and women and children smile at just the sight of you, and even you yourself thought you were above average all dolled up for the big day. He made you feel ugly without saying a word. 

Imagine that. Someone deformed like him and a supposed beauty like you, joined in matrimony. And he will not touch you. Does not want to touch you. In that moment you felt so much smaller than he. You sighed, feeling more comfortable now that you were covered. You looked him in the eyes until he was staring back at you. 

"I am sorry that you are punished with me... I realize you also had no choice in this marriage, and well..." You trailed off, not even sure where you were going with this. "You have been kind. And dutiful, and loyal to your king in spite of the monstrous little shit that he is." You tested, seeing if he would hurt you further. Instead, you saw the smallest crack of a smirk pull on his lips. You looked down abashedly. "I will do my best to be a good partner to you, in whatever capacity you need me..."

He said nothing for the longest time, and you looked up at him once again, in curiosity. He was studying your face in the moonlight. "Are you quite fucking finished?" You nodded quickly. "You talk too much." He chided. 

You couldn't believe it. You breathed out a laugh and he rolled his eyes. He stood and pulled one of the fur blankets off of the bed. 

"Maybe try sleeping in the bed tonight instead of the room I shit in."

You blushed and furrowed your brows at him as he crouched down on the floor, smoothing out the blanket as if it were bedding. Your mouth gaped as he laid down on the floor, closing his eyes. 

"Ser, this is--" "My Lord. It's my lord, when people hear you talking to me, that's what you say. I'm not a ser and I never will be. I ain't no fucking knight..." He paused licking his lips. "But now I'm your husband. To Joffrey and everyone else in the Red Keep, that's what I am. In this room, with me, you can speak freely. Call me what I am. A dog." You leaned over the bed, studying him as he spoke with his eyes closed. He looked so vulnerable down there. "Just don't go on and on." He chided again. 

"Get some sleep. I won't touch ya."

You wanted to speak, but did not know what to say. He rolled over anyways, his back towards you. Finally, you resolved to lie on your back. You closed your eyes and truly believed he would not touch you. You had no fear of it throughout the night. 

The strangest thing, however, was your desire for it. Your dreams that night twisted reality.

~ You were back in that bed, Sandor on top of you, barking down in his usual dog way. Wrists in his grasp, breathing controlled by his pressure on your throat. Your mind, however, changed his form to sink his mouth down onto yours. He swallowed your moans with his kisses and his hand went from your throat to your pert breasts. He squeezed and groaned into your mouth. Finally, he released your hands, and they went straight to his hair, pressing his kiss even harder into yours. "Call me husband again!" He growled when he pulled away, string of saliva connecting you. ~

"Lady Clegane, are you hurt badly?" Anna's voice woke you and you sat up quickly in bed. You watched her rush over to your bedside, and you nearly warned her to avoid stepping on Sandor, but you quickly realized his blanket was back on the bed and he was nowhere to be found. 

"Hmm, what?" You asked, still confused. 

"You were whimpering in your sleep!" Anna explained, looking over you. She gasped lightly at the sight of your neck. "Oh my lady, I am so sorry." She grabbed your hands and slowly led you to the bathroom, where you saw a tub steaming. "It's always the worst the first time, remember. But boy, he really did a number on you." She lifted the dress up over your head slowly, leaving you naked. "I'll launder these with the sheets, My Lady." 

You watched her carry your bloody dress away and found yourself in the broken mirror again. You saw the bruising around your neck and almost felt a thrill. To everyone else, your husband had set up quite the convincing show, and yet he kept your dignity intact. As you slipped into the bath and Anna droned on about the day, trying to distract you, you wondered if Sandor Clegane would ever touch you in the true ways husbands touch their wives. You wondered deeper, why you suddenly wanted him to.

[justagirlwholikesadam]

Realm's Delight

Summary: You were the twin of the dark haired child Cersei had with Robert. While fever took your twin, you survived. You are known throughout the seven kingdom as the realm's delight. The years has passed and your younger brother Joffrey wants something you have. Sandor Clegane x Baratheon! Reader

A/n: Let me know if you enjoy this. Likes and comments are appreciated. Enjoy -L

Warning: NSFW, being the it girl, Joffrey being Joffrey, Robert is nice to us, manipulation at its finest, daddy's girl, princess wants princess gets, territorial!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“It was a miracle.” Robert Baratheon, your father told you. You had survived the horrid fever that took your twin brother away. It was a secret that was kept among the Lannisters and only Robert. While Cersei was in mourning of the loss of her son, Robert’s was cut short. Cersei always resented him for that and that he gave you his undivided attention. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew how Robert adored you. Some had even said that he loves you more than his own wife, Cersei and as you grew, he practically gave you whatever your heart desired. Your father wasn’t the only one to give you gifts. Fur straight from House Stark, jewels and the finest dresses from House Martell. Seafood freshly caught by House Greyjoy. The list of gifts went on and on. You were named the realm’s delight among the people. 

When Robert learned about the nickname that you have been given he feared that you will have the same fate as Lyanna Stark. Robert decided to do what was best, keep you protected at all times. Robert declared for Sandor Clegane to become your personal guard. Cersei had cried out to Robert about it. He is a monstrosity and hideous beast, she ranted. You heard of the Clegane’s brothers. Lord Baelish always been somewhat kind enough to keep you up to date about the accomplishments Ser Gregor had done along with Sandor’s. 

“A flower like you shouldn’t be guarded by such an animal.” Lord Baelish exclaimed as his wandering eyes looked up and down that you. You grabbed a hold of his hands. Lord Baelish blushed from the sudden contact. 

“I will grow to be the most beautiful flower because of that animal.” You whispered to Lord Baelish who honestly wasn’t paying attention to what you were saying. 

You were so close to him, his mind was in the gutters. Rolling your eyes when you turn away to leave Lord Baelish, you wipe your hands on your dress while walking away from him. Men, they will always think with their cock. Cersei had told you after she had too many cups of wine. Your uncle, Jamie had laughed at her and tried to take her back to her chambers before she said anything else. That’s how you used Lord Baelish to tell you about the gossip going around. A praise, batting your eyelashes at him or giving him a smile was all needed for him to tell you what you wanted to know. 

When Sandor was presented to you for the first time, you were surprised. He was the second tallest man you ever seen, his brother was the first. He had lowered his head as he entered the chambers so he wouldn’t hit the door frame. Robert had taken your hand and pulled you towards Sandor. You noticed Sandor had the most beautiful brown eyes you've ever seen. Brown, like the earth and as the light hit his eyes, they looked like honey. You got a closer look when he knelt in front of you and vowed to keep you safe. You knew about the story of his burn scars. It took you an afternoon with Lord Baelish, drinking tea to learn about it. You had taken a liking to Sandor when he became your guard. He was too silent for your liking but that meant you had to break his walls down. 

Sandor stood and waited with you outside of your mother’s chambers. She was going to give birth to her second child. Sandor had mumbled to you to keep still since you kept walking back and forth, worried every time you heard your mother’s screams. You were about to say something when the screams stopped. Joffrey was born, and he was healthy. King Robert had his heir to the iron throne. Cersei had two other children after that and your relationship with her became unsteady. Sandor would cast a look at you whenever someone mentioned to you about Joffrey’s and your siblings' golden locks as they grew. You gave them a smile and answered. “They have been blessed with the Lannister’s golden hair.”

He knew you weren’t an idiot, he ignored when people said you were and sometimes when in a bad mood he slayed them whenever they expressed their opinions about it to him loudly. All beauty but nothing in your head. He wanted to tell them how wrong they were. He had spent hours with you in the dusty library of the castle. Seen you excelled in your studies. The winning smile you gave them disappears the moment they leave your sight. 

“Something to say, my beloved Sandor?” The tips of Sandor’s ears grew hot by your affectionate words. You had a habit of calling him all sorts of names after both of you grew closer. You didn't want to admit it to Sandor but you like seeing him squirm after calling him those sweet names. 

“No, princess.” He croaked out when you gave a cheeky smile. He immediately looked down at the ground. 

“Do you think father will ever notice?” You ask Sandor and he looks back at you. You were being serious. 

Sandor shook his head, no. “Maybe if he stops drinking and catches a break from his whores, I reckon he might see it. Unfortunately I can’t say anything. As much as father loves me more, I fear I will be punished if I say it.” 

Sandor was right you weren’t the dumb princess everyone seems to think. As the time passed, Joffrey and the rest of your siblings grew; it's been nearly 16 years. You had finally managed to get out of a marriage proposal that your father mentioned to you. Sandor was waiting outside as he heard your voice behind your father’s chambers door. He couldn’t help but grin when he heard the hearty laughter from the King. 

“Thank you, father. I knew you would be able to understand. That’s why you are the most wonderful King to ever live.” Sandor heard you say before walking out. 

Sandor watched as you shut the door behind you and pointed at the staircase nearby. Sandor looked around his surroundings, making sure no one was in sight. He walked a few steps down and turned to see you walking towards him. He lets out a huff when you jump on him, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“Seven hells.” Sandor cursed when kissed his cheek, attacking him with kisses. Sandor moved to capture your lips with his. 

“I take it. It went well.” Sandor said, pulling you close to him. You nodded with a grin. 

“Father can be very kind when he’s drunk out of his mind.” You told him as he put you down on the steps. Both of you froze at the sound of Joffrey’s voice, he was coming up the steps. Sandor immediately took a few steps away from you. 

“Oh look, it’s my dear sister.” 

“Hello, my dear brother.” You greeted Joffrey in the same sarcastic tone. The blonde stood a few steps down from you with Ser Meryn Trant behind him. 

“Dog.” Joffrey said.  “My-.” 

“You mean Sandor.” You cut Sandor off. Your harsh tone wiped the smirk off Joffrey's face. You crossed your arms over your chest. This was an ongoing thing. Joffrey would call Sandor a dog to get a rise out of you. 

“His name is Sandor. Have you forgotten?” Joffrey can’t help but smile wickedly at you. It irritated you, Joffrey grew to be more ill and filled with a horrible attitude. He was a spoiled child, that’s all you had to say about your brother. His words and remarks were vile and you wouldn’t stand for it especially when it came to Sandor or to your servants. 

“He’s a dog, my dear sister. There’s no changing that. He is The Hound.” 

“You’re a dog as well. You even act like one and yet people still call you prince.” You answered back. 

“You little-.” Meryn Trant stopped mid sentence when he saw Sandor walking down the steps to get next to you. 

“Finish what you were saying. I fucking dare you.” Sandor threatens Meryn Trant and gives him a cold stare down. Sandor’s reputation grew as the years passed. Killer, monster, perhaps even worse than his brother, the names and the fear of fighting against him grew. They all knew no one is safe when he’s protecting you. 

“You are so kind to the people below us.” Joffrey said, making your eyes roll. You wished for the day when Joffrey realized that he is a bastard. It was called a rumor but you knew the truth. Cersei has always been a bit sloppy when she was drunk. You had seen your mother and your uncle, Jamie getting cozy. 

“I will be so heartbroken when you finally leave King’s Landing and join those filthy people from Drone.” You smile at your brother. Plans have been changed. 

“I’m surprised that you know about my marriage proposal with Drone.” You said knowing him and your mother had conspired this marriage proposal. 

“Let me be the one to deliver this good news to you, dear brother.” Joffrey frowned as you approached him closer. 

“There is no need to be heartbroken, for I am staying. There is no proposal.” Joffrey's blonde brows rose up and his shocked expression turned into an angry one. 

“It must be hard not being father’s favorite.”  You whispered. 

This dispute, the rivalry between you and brother began when he was able to see how Robert favored you more. He reached out for Robert but Robert was busy being King or being drunk. Joffrey was always envious of you, you had your father wrapped around your finger along with the entire realm while you got cheered and praised. He got concerned looks from the people of King's Landing. 

“Shall we go, Sandor? Agatha said she was preparing chicken for prandium.” You looked over at Sandor who nodded at you. 

“Yes, princess.” Passing by Joffrey, you ignored the look from Mery Trant. Sandor bowed his head to Joffrey and followed you. You can hear Sandor’s heavy footsteps behind you as you continue to hold your front. You wouldn’t let Joffrey know that his little plan to get rid of you didn’t work. Thanks to Lord Baelish and Lord Varys who gave you a heads up about it again, this wasn’t the first time. Joffrey wanted to get rid of you again and now he had even gotten your mother to play along. 

Night came and you welcomed the warmth Sandor provided you. Even though the weather of King’s Landing was already warm you still preferred the heat from Sandor’s body. 

“I heard something.” Sandor spoke after a moment of silence. You played with the soft hair on his chest while you laid your head on his arm, his arms tightening around you. 

“Speak, Sandor.” You softly said, growing anxious every passing second. 

“The servants overheard Joffrey asking Cersei about taking me as his own guard.” You raised your head off his arm and looked down at him. 

“What?” 

“He wants me as his guard.” Sandor answered you. You shook your head. 

“That little cunt.” You whispered under your breath and you realized Sandor wasn’t even looking at you. He kept staring up at the ceiling of your chambers. His eyes had become dull and his face was emotionless. Pushing the sheets off your body, you moved to sit in his lap. Paying no attention to the soreness between your legs, you felt him hold on to your legs as you cupped his face with both hands. 

“He won’t take you away from me.” Sandor let out a strain chuckle.

He knew what he had with you won’t last. He had made a promise to himself when he first met you. He wouldn't fall in love with you but he broke it. He was utterly in love with you after being your guard for many years. He had convinced himself in the beginning of your relationship that you guys can be together but reality was hitting him straight in the face, you were a princess and he was just a second born son. You would be married to someone else, someone better. You would leave him. 

“I swear it.”  

“Might be for the best if I do switch. It will be for the best.” Sandor said, making you frown. 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to watch you marry some lord or a king and give him kids.” Sandor traced the skin of your legs as he spoke. 

“Your father won’t decline the next marriage proposal. He did it for the last two but not the third one. He won’t, I know it. The realm wants to see you married and have children. If I keep guarding you and you get married, I’ll kill your husband.” Sandor said sincerely. You dropped your hands from his face and brought it down to his chest. 

“Do you love me?” You asked. 

Sandor’s jaw clenched and his eyes grew hard. “Yes or no?” 

“You know I do. I have killed for you.” Sandor responded with no remorse. He had spilled blood for you and had lost count on how many people he killed to protect you and your honor.  

“If you love me then never say those words again. Promise me?! Promise me that you won’t say that it’s best.”

Sandor said your name softly but you yelled at him. “Swear it to me! Please.” 

Sandor nodded, raising his hand up to cup your cheek when he saw you on the verge of tears. He couldn’t bear seeing you cry. You grabbed on to his wrist, kissing his palm. 

“I promise. I swear it.” He told you. You leaned down to kiss him. Enjoying the tender moment with him, there were a few times when Sandor showed his soft side with you. It was mostly in bed, both of you would be wrapped around each other and sometimes the aftermath of many orgasms. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” He told you and you began to kiss him harder moving your hips, your cunt humping against his cock. Whining loudly when you felt him pull you to his chest and wrap an arm around you. His free hand touches your bare ass. Sandor takes a deep breath as he feels how warm and wet you are. 

“I won't let Joffrey take you away from me. I have a plan.” 

Sandor’s hand freezes on your ass and looks down at you. 

“A plan?” You nodded as you pressed a kiss on his chest. 

“Yes. You’re mine, Sandor. No one is going to take you away from me.” Your words were like a shot of adrenaline to him. He gripped your ass harder, he wanted to believe you.

He didn't want to ruin this moment with a fight. He wanted to remember this night with you incase this would be the last night he gets to spent with you. Naked and curled up together. He wanted to enjoy it, so he moved to his side, taking you with him. Facing each other now, Sandor drapes your leg over his waist, your right arm under his head while his arm goes under you. In a thirst position, he can hold you close to him. You bump his nose softly and kiss his scared cheek.  He gripped your waist pulling you closer to him.

You shut your eyes and moan when his thick fingers touch your slit. Gather the reminiscence of your cum and his dripping from your hole and rub it on along the swollen lips of your cunt. The tip of his fingers gliding over your clit making you cry out, your cunt was sensitive from earlier. Your toes curled up and legs tensed up when you felt his finger inside of you. 

“Fuck.” He groans as he holds you close to him. Moaning his name as you felt him finger you for a moment. He shifted and moved your legs higher so he had room. 

“Sandor.” You cry out his name as he slips inside of you. You held on to his arms as he gripped your waist while pumping into you. 

His face hidden between your neck and shoulder, you can feel his hand on your back, nails digging into your skin. You held on for dear life as you heard him growl against your skin. 

“I’ll kill him, Y/n.” He moans to you as he fucks you, his cock sliding in and out of your cunt. His thrust was growing faster and harsher. The thought of you married with some prince made him angry. Even if people didn't know, you were his and he would keep it that way.

“You hear me?” He said with a moan. He moves his face towards you. You nod at him letting out a pitched whine when he hits that sweet spot. 

“You belong with me. You’re mine.” You kissed him trying to mask your moans but nothing in the world would mask the squelching sound of your pussy being fucked. 

Sandor held on to you as he moved his hips back and forward. He feels his balls tighten when he feels you cum on him, you’re trembling, skin slick with sweat. Sandor is grunting as he manhandles you. Your hands are on him, touching him, you can feel the muscles and his scars from his battles on his back and his arms. 

Sandor cries your name and you shut your eyes as he presses his hips against you, slamming his cock deep inside of you. His hand on your hips goes down your ass, cups your cheek. He squeezes it as he cums deep inside of you. You whimper feeling stuff, your pussy keeps clenching and unclenching around him. He shifts his hips and you moan at the feeling of your clit being ticked by his pubic hair.

You feel his lips on your cheek, pressing soft kisses as he huffs out of breath. 

“Sandor.” You whispered as you nuzzled against his face. You didn’t mind the feeling of the scars against your face, you kept close to him enjoying the aftermath of your orgasm. 

You didn’t want this to end, you wouldn’t allow it. Sandor was yours first, Sandor belongs to you just as much you belong to him. You weren’t going to give him up without a fight. 

Morning came and you were woken by your ladies in waiting. The flock of ladies knocked and waited for you outside to respond. You rose up, finding yourself alone. You wrapped yourself in a blanket and invited them inside. One by one they walked inside, picking up the sheets from the floor, one went to your closet to get your clothes for the day and one opened the doors to the balcony. 

“Here, my princess.” The eldest came by you after you covered yourself with your robe. You thanked her for the tea and waited patiently while one warmed your bath water.

One of the ladies was brushing your hair after your bath. They stopped when there was a knock on the door, opening the door. Sandor came walking in, he had a concerning look on his face. 

“Good morrow, princess. The king demands your presence in his chambers at once.” 

You walked to your father’s chambers with Sandor behind you. He sensed how nervous you were. Before going around the hall, you felt Sandor grab your arm. He gently pulled you back. You were pushed softly against the wall. Sandor stood in front of you, towers over you as he looked down at you. 

“Worried?” You whispered to him. You feel one of his hands cup your face. 

Sandor doesn’t reply, he simply presses his lips against yours. “Go on.” He tells you and steps away from you. 

Sandor has a habit of never expressing his feelings out loud. Sandor followed you quietly. He wasn’t worried at all, he was scared and he hasn’t felt this way since he was a child when Gregor disfigured him. 

You walked down the hall and came to a halt when you saw Ser Meryn Trant standing outside of your father’s chamber. It meant that Joffrey was inside. You felt bile rise up. Clearing your throat, you took a deep breath to calm your nervousness. 

Meryn Trant saw you and opened your father’s chamber door for you. You looked over your shoulder and gave Sandor a look of nervousness. You took one last look of his brown eyes. It calms you for a moment and you’re able to walk inside your father’s chamber. You noticed Joffrey sitting down along with your mother while your father sat behind his desk. The door shut behind you as you walked towards your father. 

“Mother. Brother.” You greeted them and walked next to your father. You leaned down to kiss one of his pudgy cheeks. Robert gave you a smile and greeted you. You can smell the wine coming off your father.

“Sit, we have been waiting. Joffrey and your mother wish to discuss something with us.” 

You sat on the empty seat next to your mother. “Joffrey has told me that he would like Sandor as his personal guard.” Your mother said. 

So this was about Sandor. “What's wrong with Ser Meryn Trant?” You asked Joffrey. 

Joffrey wasn't expecting for you to say something. He thought you would obey instantly. You stare at Joffrey, you weren't going to let Sandor slip away from you. You were going to fight for him. 

Joffrey looked over at his father who was also staring at him. “Well, since Y/n is going off in Dorne. I want Sandor.” 

“I'm not going to Dorne. I told you.” Joffrey clenched his jaw. 

“You had refused your last marriage proposal. Father, are you going to accept this?” Joffrey asked Robert. 

“She isn't going to Dorne.” Robert said, making Cersei sit up. “Why not?” She asked him. 

“You dare to question me, woman.” Robert eyed Cersei. 

“Our daughter has not been wed, people will talk.” 

“You think I care what people say about her. She is my daughter. My word is law and final. She won't be shipped to Dorne.” 

You dislike how sometimes your father would speak to your mother. Robert was a down right misogynist but when it came to you he was different. You knew it had to do with Lyanna Stark, everyone told you how there was a resemblance between you and her. It was confirmed when Ned Stark and his family came to King's Landing to celebrate your name day. Ned couldn't take his eyes off of you and had even stuttered his sister's name after drinking with your father. 

You felt bad for Ned after so many years the death of his sister still had a hold over him just like Robert. He had begged forgiveness to you the next day. “Nonsense. No need to forgive, Lord Stark.” 

“He’s a good man.” Sandor told you after Ned left. You had finished a walk with Ned in the garden after you told him if it would be alright to share some stories about Lyanna. He gave you a smile and accepted. You learned a lot about her and intend to use this information. 

“He is.” You replied to him. 

“It will get him killed one of these days.” Sandor’s words made you sad. You didn't want to see the Lord of Winterfell dead. Unlike Joffrey and your mother, you enjoy their presence and have grown fond of his wife, Catelyn. 

“Our daughter should have been married and had babies by now. We can use her as an advantage, a leverage.” Cersei stood up from her seat and walked to the corner of the room where the cart of wines and cups were at. 

“I believe it has to be that atrocious dog always behind her. His face scares off any suitors. She will be married soon and doesn’t need him anymore.” 

“He protects me, mother.” You said folding your hands on your lap. Cersei looked over her shoulder at you. You looked over at your father because at the end of the day, he has the last day. 

“Father, remember the riot. Those men would have killed me. Sandor was there and killed them all. He killed those men.” Robert nodded remembering all too well about that horrible riot that broke out.  

You stood up from your seat and walked towards the desk. You kneel down near your father ignoring the tsk sound from Joffrey. You decided if Joffrey and your mother wanted to play dirty. So will you. 

“I do not wish the same fate as the lovely Lyanna Stark. May she be at peace.” Your father’s eyes shifted at the mention of Lyanna.

“I know. I have refused two marriage proposals now but I must tell you the truth, Sandor didn’t trust them. He had seen him, heard them speak ill behind my back.” You knew the words you were about to say will be a low blow to your mother and it will create a shift between you two but you had to do it. You didn’t want Joffrey to have Sandor. Sandor Clegane is yours. 

“You might think this is ridiculous, father.” You grabbed your father’s hand. 

“I want to be loved. The type of love you and Lyanna shared. Ned told me stories about your love with her and it warmed my heart. I crave for that love you both shared.” You flinched at the sound of Cersei throwing her cup of wine to the ground and walked out of the room. No one said anything for a moment. You just watched as the red wine from Drone stained the carpeted rug. This was your chance, your moment to seal it. Joffrey won’t take Sandor away from you. 

Sandor stood straight up when he saw the queen running out of the room. The door was opened and he looked ahead. He saw you kneeling by your father, looking up at him. 

“Don't take Sandor away from me. Don't let me have the same fate as the woman you loved.” 

Robert smiled down at you and cupped your face. “No need to worry. Clegane will stay by your side.” 

Robert looks towards Joffrey. “Stay with Ser Mery Trant. If you wish for a more depraved guard. Perhaps we can ask The Mountain to fill in.” Joffrey quickly shook his head. He sent a glare at you before standing up and walking out of the room. Sandor moved away from the door when he saw Joffrey with a pout on his face. Ser Mery Trant followed the prince. 

Sandor looked back at the doorway. Robert had helped you get up on your feet and gave you a hug. Sandor gave you a small smile when he saw you staring back at him with your own smile as you hugged your father. It worked. 

Sandor knew he would have to beg forgiveness for not believing in you. Your plan worked. Shame on him for ever doubting you, Princess Y/n Baratheon, the realm's delight. 

Chapter 2 ->

[rax-writes]

↬ in the middle of the night

Sandor Clegane x Reader

Warnings: None

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?” Sandor grumbled.

“For staying with us.”

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

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

Fool - Sandor Clegane x Reader

Summary: You save a man once and despite all it was the best decision of your life.

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader

Warnings: Angst, a bit of violence, swearing, Sandor is a dick, not really smut a bit of touchy-touchy.

AN: Soooo... I did a thing... I hope you enjoy it :)

Words: 11 287

The dusk settles thick and silent over the hills, fading the world around you into muted grays and purples. The only sounds are the sigh of wind across the barren moorland and the steady crunch of your boots as you make your way home. The house you live in is a squat, stubborn thing, as weather-worn and tenacious as you have become in these years since your brother left it to you. Just enough land, just enough walls to hold out the loneliness. It’s more than you’d ever thought you’d have, and, somehow, just enough to keep you here.

The moor stretches in rough, empty shadows around you, vast and silent. That silence is part of why you stay; it settles around you like a second skin, a balm after years of watching your brother lose himself to things he’d seen in war. For all the ways you wish you could have saved him, solitude, at least, has kept you whole.

The moor stretches out before you, dark and endless beneath the heavy cloak of twilight. You’re just reaching the edge of your small plot of land when you hear it—the faintest, rough sound cutting through the silence. A groan, low and guttural, catches your ear, half-swallowed by the winter wind. You stop, heart pounding, every instinct screaming to turn back. You’ve heard enough tales of what lies beyond your quiet little corner of the world: soldiers who have no home but war, men who live by taking what isn’t theirs, the dying, the desperate, and the dangerous.

Yet something draws you forward.

You cross the stretch of frostbitten grass, weaving between the trees, and as the shadows deepen, you catch sight of a hulking figure slumped against a tree. He’s half-collapsed, head bent forward, shoulders hunched beneath a tattered, bloodstained cloak. His breath comes in ragged gasps, misting in the cold air.

For a moment, you think he’s dead. He’s so still, his body slouched in a way that seems to defy life. But then, with a low, pained growl, he shifts, bracing himself with one hand in the snow, lifting his head just enough for you to see his face.

And it takes everything in you not to gasp.

The man’s face is a study in harsh contrasts, a brutal landscape of scars and strength. The left side is hideously burned, a grotesque mass of raw, twisted skin that gleams faintly in the fading light. But it’s his other side that holds you captive. The skin there is unscarred, rough from battle and the elements, but it holds the remnants of a fierce, almost unwilling beauty. His cheekbone is high and sharp, his jawline as hard as iron, and his mouth—had he ever known kindness, you think it might have once held a smile.

But his eyes—dark and watchful, flickering with something bitter and broken—pin you in place. There’s a wildness there, something untamed and angry, like a wolf forced into a corner. His gaze is sharp, assessing, as if weighing your worth in that single, searing look.

This man is dangerous. You can feel it in the way he holds himself, even in weakness. There’s something in his bearing, in the raw strength of his frame, that speaks of violence, of a man who’s known blood and pain. And yet, as you take in the curve of his mouth, the line of his jaw, you realize that somewhere beneath the scars and bitterness, there’s a strange, reluctant handsomeness to him. It’s not a softness, not beauty in any traditional sense, but an intensity, a rawness that catches you off guard.

He grunts, a harsh, frustrated sound as he tries to push himself up. His hand slips in the snow, and he slumps back against the tree, his face contorted with pain. Instinctively, you step forward, your own caution dissolving under the faint pull of pity. He hears you, and his head snaps up, his gaze locking onto yours with a ferocity that makes your breath hitch.

“Don’t come closer,” he snarls, his voice a low, gravelly growl that carries an unmistakable warning. “Nothing worth taking here.”

The words are hostile, but there’s a roughness to his tone, a weariness that almost borders on defeat. He’s like a wounded animal, too proud to show his pain, but unable to hide it completely. You feel the weight of his gaze, the cold edge of his mistrust, but something in you softens. Despite his snarl, his threat, there’s a woundedness in him that you recognize, that calls to you.

For a moment, you think of walking away. You tell yourself it’s only logical, that he’s a stranger, a man who looks like he could tear you in two with a single hand if he wanted. But your heart, foolish and unyielding, won’t let you abandon him here.

You take a step forward, keeping your voice low and steady, as if coaxing a feral creature. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”

He looks at you like you’re mad, his mouth curling into a grimace that could almost be a smirk. His eyes hold yours, dark and searching, as if trying to understand why anyone would risk themselves for a man like him.

After a long, tense moment, he slumps, too exhausted to protest. “If you’re going to do something,” he mutters, his voice barely above a rasp, “do it quick. Don’t have time for… pity.”

You swallow, your gaze drawn again to that scarred, angry face, and to the strange beauty hidden within the hardness. He’s a man scarred by life, brutal and battered, but still something about him calls to you. Maybe it’s the strength that radiates from him even in his weakness, or the deep, restless pain in his eyes. Maybe it’s the way he seems like he could have been someone else, someone better, had the world been kinder.

You move closer, your hands gentle as you help him to his feet. He leans heavily on you, his weight a harsh reminder of the raw, unyielding strength in his frame. His body radiates heat, even through the blood-soaked cloak, and as you guide him towards your home, your heart pounds with a strange, nameless thrill.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is the worst mistake you’ve ever made. But as his rough voice murmurs a grudging, bitter “thank you,” you feel something flicker within you—a spark, a warmth that defies the winter cold, that promises something you don’t yet understand.

You don’t know if this man will bring you harm or if he’ll leave you with nothing but regret. But for now, you can’t bring yourself to let him go.

***

The walk back to the house is hard with the weight of his body slung over your shoulders, but somehow, you manage. Once inside, you lay him out on your small, sturdy bed, and your breath comes in gasps as you straighten, shaking out your sore limbs. He is still, barely breathing, but alive. The fire flickers nearby, casting his harsh features in half-shadow, softening the edges of that burnt, brutal face.

You busy yourself gathering water and cloth, setting out to clean the wound. Your brother had insisted you learn a few things about tending wounds, enough to patch up a gash and keep someone from bleeding out in the night. You settle beside the stranger and begin, peeling back the bloody cloth with steady hands, trying not to think about the heat of his skin or the size of his scarred hands. You just clean the wound, murmuring quiet apologies as you stitch the torn flesh, trying to ignore his low groans of pain, even in unconsciousness. When the wound is bound, you wipe your brow, exhausted but satisfied.

Your stomach rumbles, reminding you that it has been hours since you last ate. As you ladle out some stew into a bowl, you look back to the bed. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths, but he’s alive. And tonight, strange as it is, that feels like a small victory.

***

The next morning, you’re awakened by a low, pained grumble from across the room. Your eyes snap open, and you see the man stirring, his hand rising to his side. His face twists in confusion and pain as he tries to sit up, and before you can even think to approach, he’s on his feet, moving with surprising speed and strength, his eyes blazing with something that’s half terror, half rage.

“Easy now,” you murmur, holding up your hands. “You’re safe here.”

But he doesn’t see you. The wild look in his eyes is that of a cornered animal. In one swift, instinctual motion, he reaches for you, his hand closing around your wrist, shoving you back against the wall. His other arm raises, ready to strike, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you meet his gaze, calm, steady.

“Go on, if it’ll make you feel better,” you say softly. “But I doubt it will.”

He hesitates, the haze of panic clearing as he takes in his surroundings. You feel his grip slacken, the tension in his shoulders slowly ebbing away as his mind catches up to where he is. He lets you go, blinking in disoriented silence, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You watch his eyes flit across the room, lingering on the bed, the bowl of stew left unfinished by his side, and finally, back to you.

“Where am I?” he rasps, his voice raw and full of suspicion.

You rub your wrist absently, shrugging. “In a poor excuse for a house, on a plot of land no one would want, with a stew that probably won’t kill you, but I’m making no promises.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, though it could hardly be called a smile. There’s a look of recognition in his eyes, though he quickly masks it.

“You brought me here,” he says, still wary.

“Yes,” you reply, keeping your tone casual, unbothered. “I found you bleeding out on the moor. Looked like you’d had a bit of a rough day, so I figured I’d give you somewhere to pass out that wasn’t a muddy ditch.”

He studies you, his eyes still narrowed with distrust. “And what do you want for it?”

“Nothing,” you reply honestly. “Maybe I just have a soft spot for stray dogs.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, and then, almost reluctantly, he sinks back onto the bed, wincing as he shifts to keep pressure off his wound.

“My… My brother acted like that too,” you say, unprompted. You look away, clearing your throat. “He’d come back from battles all twisted up, thought I was something dangerous more often than not. Woke up with nightmares, sometimes shouting, sometimes striking out.”

The man watches you, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. “I’m not your brother,” he mutters.

“No, you’re not,” you say, shaking your head. “But you’ve got that look about you. Lost, mean…not sure what to do with someone trying to help.” You offer a small, self-deprecating smile, letting out a soft sigh. “It’s all right. Doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think. My stew’s likely to do worse damage to me than you will.”

He lets out a low grunt, but you sense something easing in his posture, a faint crack in the hard shell he wears like armor. He leans back, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks, his tone testing, as if expecting fear or awe.

You shake your head lightly. “A lost soul needing help, far as I can tell. I’m not much interested in the rest, if there’s any more to it. You’re here, you’re alive…well, mostly.”

For a long moment, he holds your gaze, something unspoken passing between you. Then, he nods, almost as though he’s granted you some small, silent approval, and shifts his attention to the bowl of stew. You pass him a spoon, keeping your distance, letting him have the silence he seems to need. The room settles into an easy quiet, with only the soft clinking of his spoon against the bowl and the crackle of the fire.

You know he’ll be gone before long; men like him don’t linger. But for now, he’s here, and maybe that’s enough for the both of you.

One morning, while setting a cup of weak ale by his side, you accidentally call him ser, and his reaction is swift, a growl that seems to rumble up from somewhere deep.

***

The days pass in a quiet, uneasy rhythm, and you begin to learn the habits of the stranger who now shares your roof. Sandor is a hard man, as unyielding as winter itself, his words as few and cold as the frost clinging to the windows each morning. He doesn’t speak unless he must, which you’ve come to find is perfectly fine by him. When he does respond, it’s in a grunt or with a sidelong glare, his acknowledgment as brief and gruff as possible.

“Not a knight,” he snaps, his eyes hard as they settle on you. “And I’m no lord, neither.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender, but a smile pulls at the corner of your mouth, despite his scowl. “Fair enough,” you say lightly. “But what am I supposed to call you, then?”

He scowls at the question, his gaze darkening as though you’ve struck a nerve. It takes him a long moment, his jaw clenching as though he’s forcing himself to speak, before he finally mutters, “Sandor.”

“Sandor,” you repeat, tasting the name on your tongue, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth or just pushing you away with a lie. His eyes hold a hard, unyielding light, a barrier between himself and anyone who might try to cross it. You decide not to question him further. If he’s offered a name, it’s enough.

“Well then, Sandor,” you say softly, meeting his gaze as steadily as you can manage. “Now you know my name and I know yours, so I’d say we’re even.”

“Even,” he mutters under his breath, as if the idea itself is laughable.

Sandor is a man as thorny and unyielding as a bramble bush, prickling with gruff remarks and muttered complaints, yet for all his hostility, there’s a strange comfort in his presence. For years now, your house has been quiet, its rooms filled only with the soft creaks of settling wood and the lonely whistle of wind against the shutters. Now, though, his muttered grunts and low growls, his heavy footsteps against the worn floorboards, feel like a balm to the ache you can’t quite admit. That ache of loneliness, the deep, unspoken grief that has weighed down your heart for so long, eases just a little with his presence.

He heals quickly, each day growing stronger, his movements less labored and his strength returning in steady increments. By the week’s end, he’s able to stand and move without wincing, his rough, dangerous strength a reminder of the man he was before his injury. Relief fills you, tempered by a strange, reluctant dread. Part of you wonders if, once he’s fully mended, he’ll vanish as quickly as he came, slipping back into the wilderness, leaving you to the silence and the solitude you’d almost forgotten.

One morning, with the weather turning colder and the threat of snow looming, you walk down to the neighboring farm to barter for milk. The farmer, a kind, weathered man who’s known you since you were small, hands over the jug with a gentle smile, pressing a few thick blankets into your arms as well, “For the winter,” he says. “Keep yourself warm, girl.”

When you return home, though, the warmth of his kindness is quickly overshadowed. There, hunched over in the center of your small home, is Sandor, his broad back turned as he rummages through your belongings, rifling through cupboards and drawers with an urgency that sends a chill through you. His hands move roughly over your things, his muttered curses breaking the fragile peace that has grown between you.

You stop in the doorway, clutching the jug of milk tightly as you watch him. He tosses aside your few meager belongings, his face set in a hard, bitter line as he digs through your things, as if preparing to leave. A strange, painful mixture of betrayal and resignation rises in your chest, twisting into something sharp. Of course he was planning to leave. He’s not the sort to stay.

But seeing him like this—rummaging through your belongings, discarding your few possessions like they mean nothing—hurts in a way you hadn’t expected. You want to feel angry, to confront him, but instead, a heavy weight settles in your chest, the same hollow ache you’ve felt so many times before. Like father, like daughter, you think bitterly, remembering how your father had always trusted too easily, given too freely, only to be taken advantage of time and time again. He’d been a kind man, giving everything he had even when it left him with nothing, and you were foolishly, painfully similar.

Sandor turns at the sound of your footsteps, his face hardening, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword as if you’re an intruder. His eyes narrow as he takes in your figure standing in the doorway, milk jug still in hand. There’s a harsh, guarded look in his gaze, and it sends a shiver down your spine—an unspoken warning to stay back.

You force yourself to keep your gaze steady, even as something inside you twists painfully. “Planning to leave?” you ask softly, trying to keep the hurt from seeping into your voice.

His mouth twists, a sneer curling over his scarred face. He steps forward, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, the edge of his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t be foolish,” he warns, his tone a cold blade against your skin. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

For a moment, you can only stare at him, the weight of his words sinking into you, bitter and sharp. You swallow hard, fighting back the hot sting of tears as you reach into your cloak, pulling out a small package you’d prepared the night before, just in case. It holds a bit of food, dried meat, and a few dressing supplies you’d set aside for his wounds.

You hold the bundle out, your hand trembling slightly as you offer it to him. “Here,” you murmur, the word barely above a whisper.

He stares at the bundle, his gaze hard and unyielding, and for a brief, flickering moment, something almost like hesitation crosses his face. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual mask of scorn and indifference.

“Your coin, too,” he snaps, his voice like steel. His sword hovers near your chest, a silent, unyielding threat. “All of it. Don’t think I’ll leave a thing behind.”

A hollow feeling settles in your stomach, a weight that presses down on your chest, heavy and unrelenting. You’ve never had much, but the thought of giving up the little you have, of facing winter with even less than before, fills you with a quiet, aching despair. Yet even now, you find yourself trying to reach for something, a thread of understanding, a flicker of humanity in his gaze.

“Please,” you murmur, your voice breaking just slightly. “I… I don’t have much coin. If you take what little I have, I’ll have nothing left for winter.”

He sneers, his mouth twisting with something like contempt, and the weight of his disdain cuts through you, sharp and cold. “Maybe this’ll teach you,” he spits, his voice low and harsh. “A lesson in trusting stray dogs.”

He snatches the package from your hands, his grip rough and unyielding, ignoring the quiet desperation in your eyes. The words hang heavy in the air, a bitter wound that tears open inside you, leaving only a raw, aching pain in its wake. You swallow hard, forcing back the tears that blur your vision, but one slips down your cheek, betraying the hurt you’re trying so desperately to hide.

For just a second, you think you see something shift in his gaze—a flicker of regret, a shadow of something softer. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced by the hard, unyielding mask that has come to define him. He shoves past you, his heavy boots thudding against the floor as he strides toward the door without a backward glance, leaving only the echo of his footsteps in the quiet.

You stand there, rooted in place, your heart pounding painfully in your chest, tears rolling down your cheeks as you watch him go, as the last fragile thread of hope slips away, leaving you alone in the silence once more.

***

Winter’s chill settles deep into your bones. It’s an unforgiving season here, the kind that tests everything from your wits to your resolve. Your small house creaks and groans under the weight of ice and wind, and you wonder, at times, if it might be better to go into the village, to stay there until the thaw. But you’re stubborn, more stubborn than you should be, and you’ve come to find a strange comfort in the solitude.

You take up odd jobs at the inn when you can, enough to keep your stores filled. It isn’t much, but it keeps you busy, keeps you from feeling the sting of an empty house quite so sharply. But it’s no joy. The men there are rough, rowdy, especially after a few rounds. They leer and jeer, grabbing at your arm or the hem of your sleeve. You despise it, the feel of their hot breath, their drunken grins, but the coins in your pocket help you keep your head high. You grit your teeth and bear it because you have no choice.

You’ve been keeping company with a new stray—a scrawny brown dog that wandered onto your land and decided to stay, curling up at your feet by the fire each night, his tail thumping whenever he sees you. You named him Fool, a reminder of the soft, foolish heart you’ve inherited. A part of you still aches, still feels betrayed by the man who once sat in that same spot, the one who had sneered at your kindness and left you with nothing.

You’ve come to accept it as part of your nature, something passed down from your father. He had been a good man, too kind for his own good, always helping others even when it meant less for himself. Your brother had hated him for it, berating him every chance he got, calling him weak, calling him a fool. But you never saw it that way. You admired him, adored him. And, though your brother couldn’t understand it, you became just like him, carrying the same silly heart that gets broken again and again.

One evening, just as you’re finishing your meal with Fool at your feet, you hear voices outside—low and ragged, like someone fighting just to breathe. You tense, listening. It’s not the sound of drunken revelry, nor the calls of travelers. It’s something closer, something weaker. Fool growls, his ears pricked as he looks toward the door, his body stiff with tension.

Slowly, you rise and make your way to the door, drawing it open to peer out into the night.

At first, you can hardly believe it. There, slumped against the old tree on the edge of your land, is the familiar hulking figure, dressed in ragged, bloodstained clothes, his face twisted in a half-smirk even as he bleeds into the snow. Sandor. Or whatever his name truly is. His eyes catch yours, filled with that same strange, dark amusement that first unsettled you.

You stand there, frozen, the cold biting through your cloak. He watches you, the smirk faltering as his breath hitches. Blood drips from his side, staining the snow beneath him dark red, and his skin is deathly pale, as if the winter itself is pulling the life from his veins.

“Didn’t… think I’d come crawling back, did you?” he rasps, his voice rough, tinged with something you don’t recognize. “But here I am.”

He laughs, the sound hoarse, pained, a laugh that nearly turns into a cough. It’s as if the sight of you, standing there shocked and hurt, is some cruel joke. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing heavily, then looks at you with a half-lidded gaze, his expression somewhere between frustration and amusement.

“You’re… not going to leave me to die, are you?” he mutters, a taunting edge to his tone. “I know you’re too soft for that.”

For a long moment, you don’t move. You want to turn around, to let him suffer in the cold as he’d left you to face winter alone, empty-handed and betrayed. But that part of you, that foolish heart you can’t quite stamp out, stirs again. You can’t just let him bleed out there, not while you’re able to help. It would go against everything your father taught you, everything you’ve tried to be.

You kneel beside him, close enough to see just how deep the wound is. Your breath forms clouds in the freezing night air, and you shiver as the cold seeps through your clothes. Gently, you reach to peel back his cloak, trying to assess the damage.

But before you can even touch the wound, his hand shoots out, iron-strong despite his weakness, clamping down around your wrist in a crushing grip. He looks up at you, half-delirious, but his gaze is sharp, angry, almost as if he expects you to exact some imagined revenge.

“No… revenge for you,” he slurs, his voice thick with exhaustion. He laughs again, harshly, even as his fingers dig into your skin with bruising strength. “You… thought you’d get to watch me… rot out here, did you? Not… going to give you that satisfaction.”

You wince, the pain of his grip flaring hot and sharp in your wrist. It feels like he’s about to snap the bone. You try to twist free, but his hold is unyielding, as if every last ounce of his strength is focused on this one, foolish grip. The pressure builds, and you can’t help the pained cry that escapes your lips.

His eyes widen slightly, as if the sound finally registers through his haze. His grip loosens, more from weakness than mercy, and his hand falls away as he sinks back against the tree, his breaths shallow, his skin sickly pale. You rub your wrist, feeling the tender flesh pulse with pain, but you swallow it down, forcing yourself to focus.

He’s slipping, you realize. The blood loss is taking its toll, his head lolling to the side as his eyes flutter shut.

And so, once again, you find yourself hauling him back to the house, his weight leaning heavily against you. It’s harder this time—your strength worn from winter’s hardship, from the nights of cold and hunger you’ve endured because of him. You half expect him to turn on you again, to mock you for your foolishness, but he’s silent, unconscious, his head slumping against your shoulder.

As you drag him inside, your heart is a heavy, tired thing, pounding against your ribs with equal parts anger and despair. You manage to get him onto the bed, his limp form settling like a dead weight. His face is ghostly pale, the scarred skin standing out in harsh contrast. For a moment, you just stand there, watching his shallow breaths, wondering what in the gods’ names possessed you to do this again.

This time, you think, as you go to fetch the bandages, this time, if he turns on you, you won’t hesitate. If he threatens your life again, if he makes even a single move to hurt you, you’ll do what you should have done before—you’ll leave him out in the snow. You’re not strong enough to keep making the same mistakes, to keep paying the price for a kind heart in this unforgiving world.

But as you bind his wounds, as you feel the rough heat of his skin beneath your hands, that soft heart of yours, the one your father instilled in you, refuses to harden. You’ve been foolish, yes. You’ve been hurt, and you’ll likely be hurt again. But as you watch Sandor’s labored breaths begin to steady, you know that some part of you would rather be foolish than cold.

And so, for better or worse, you tend to him, wondering, with a tired bitterness, if this kindness will be the last one you’ll ever give.

***

The first thing Sandor feels as he surfaces from unconsciousness is something warm and wet against his face. For a moment, he’s sure he’s lost more blood than he thought, until he cracks one eye open and sees the mangy face of a dog staring back at him, tongue lolling and nose sniffing eagerly. With a low groan, he shifts his head, feeling the ache flare up along his side. Before he can shove the mutt away, you swoop in, pulling the dog back with gentle hands.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur, pulling the dog’s scruffy head back and rubbing his ears to settle him down. “Fool doesn’t know what ‘personal space’ means.”

Sandor raises an eyebrow, a wry smirk tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Fool, huh?” he mutters, his voice rough, still thick from sleep. “Fitting, that. You’re both a pair of fools.”

He can hardly believe it. Here he is again, bleeding and half-dead in your bed, in your home. After everything he’s done—after holding a sword to your throat, stealing what little you had—and still, you dragged him back here, fussed over him like a wounded animal. The stupidity of it, the softness in you that hasn’t been beaten out by life, it boggles his mind.

As he’s about to mutter some biting remark, something stops him. He looks at you properly, for the first time since he woke, and he notices the changes. Your clothes hang a bit looser on you, as if you’ve shrunk inside them. Your cheeks are thinner, a bit hollowed out, and the brightness that once lit up your eyes is gone, replaced by a dullness that tells him of long, hard days, of nights colder and hungrier than they should’ve been.

The smirk fades from his face, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, you speak.

“I… took care of your wounds,” you say, almost formally, as if you’re a healer giving a report. “You’d lost a lot of blood. If you’re planning on walking out again, I thought you might like to know where things are. There’s stew on the hearth if you’re hungry. And, if you feel the need to repeat that goodbye of yours, just… don’t destroy anything this time.”

The words are matter-of-fact, but there’s a thread of sadness running through them, a tired acceptance that pricks at something deep within him. You straighten, brushing off your hands before turning to the door, as if it’s no big thing that he’s here again, as if his threats and cruelty were no more than a mild inconvenience. Your voice, soft and resigned, reaches him one last time.

“I’m off to work now. Do as you please, Sandor.”

And with that, you leave, closing the door quietly behind you.

For a long time, he lies there, staring at the door. The dog, Fool, looks at him curiously, tilting his head as if wondering why Sandor hasn’t moved yet. There’s a restlessness in Sandor’s chest, a knot that twists and pulls, refusing to settle. He’s had people look at him with fear, with hate, with indifference—but no one has ever looked at him the way you do. You looked at him like he’s something worth saving, worth trusting. It grates on him, that look of yours, that damn fool’s kindness that he doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to understand.

He forces himself to sit up, biting back a grunt of pain as the wound throbs in protest. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he surveys the small room. It’s as bare as he remembers—nothing of much value, nothing a sane person would want to steal. There’s a wooden bowl by the fire with the stew you’d mentioned, and though he’s hungry, he can’t bring himself to touch it. Not yet.

His eyes drift to the small pile of belongings he’d rummaged through during his last departure. They’re stacked neatly now, as if you’d placed each item back with quiet care. It stirs something in him—a shame he doesn’t want to feel, a guilt he’s spent his life learning to ignore. And yet, the evidence of your continued kindness, after all he’s done, sits like a stone in his gut.

Grimacing, he looks down at his hands. They’re scarred, rough, made for breaking things, not for accepting the kind of foolish generosity you keep offering. He knows he should leave. But something in the way you looked at him, that dullness in your eyes, that resignation—he can’t shake it.

***

When you return home that evening, you brace yourself to find the place empty again, as you had the last time Sandor left. Part of you expects him to be gone—like some bad dream that you keep waking up from only to find yourself alone, with nothing left to show for your troubles but a sore wrist and a dwindling store of food.

But as you step into the dim warmth of your small home, there he is, slouched on the floor by the hearth, with Fool sprawled across his lap. He looks different in the firelight, softer, though you’d never say that out loud. He glances up at you, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his scarred face, then back down at the dog, his fingers idly scratching behind Fool’s ears.

You’re caught off-guard by the sight. He should be long gone by now. But perhaps he isn’t feeling well enough to travel, not with his wound still fresh. Or maybe it’s just that he hasn’t taken enough to be satisfied—though, truthfully, there’s nothing left here for him to take.

You notice that he’s tried to redress the wound on his side. The bandage is clumsily tied, blood seeping through in faint, angry patches. You want to say something, to tell him he’s done a poor job of it, but who are you to speak? The man would only scoff, maybe laugh, and truthfully, you’re too tired for it. So you say nothing.

With a sigh, you take off your cloak and hang it near the door. Your fingers are cold, stiff from the bitter workday, and the thin chill that clings to your bones makes you shiver. You spent what little strength you had left chopping wood for the innkeeper’s kitchen and serving ale to men with wandering hands and slurred voices. All for a few coppers that barely cover enough to last the week.

Your stomach growls as you sit down, reminding you of the hunger you’ve been pushing down all day. You feel Sandor’s eyes on you, a weight you can’t ignore, but you keep your gaze lowered. Most of what you had went into the stew for him. You’d put in the last of the carrots, a precious few potatoes. He needed it more than you, after all. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

Gathering the scraps left, you prepare a small bowl for Fool, letting him lick at what’s left from the pot. He wolfs it down, not realizing it’s little more than gristle and broth. You lean back against the wall, every part of you aching with exhaustion, and wrap your arms around yourself, trying to ignore the rumbling in your stomach.

The silence between you and Sandor feels heavy, like something you could reach out and touch. You feel his gaze, keen and appraising, but you don’t meet his eyes. Instead, you reach for the small, worn book that rests by your bed, the only one you own. It’s a collection of stories, a gift from your brother, back in the days when the world seemed brighter and he was still full of hope. You run your fingers over its cracked leather cover, a comfort against the cold.

Reading has always been your escape. You loved books even as a child, their pages carrying you to places you could never hope to see. Your brother taught you to read himself, spelling out each word by candlelight until the letters began to make sense. But books are expensive, and now you can barely afford to eat, let alone buy a single new volume. The last coppers you’d saved were gone, taken by the man sitting just a few feet away from you.

As you open the book, Sandor’s low voice breaks the silence, rough and edged with scorn.

“Didn’t know you could read,” he mutters, a cruel smirk playing at his lips. “Didn’t peg you for the scholarly type.”

The words sting, a barb that lands squarely in your chest, and you feel something twist in you, something that snaps like a thread pulled too tight. You bite your lip, trying to push down the frustration, the hunger, the anger that’s been simmering for weeks.

“Yes, I can read,” you reply, the words tumbling out unbidden, your voice barely steady. “I’ve read this book since I was a little girl. It’s the only book I own.”

You look down at the pages, blinking quickly, fighting back the tears that blur the words. But the hurt breaks through, spilling over before you can hold it back.

“I can’t afford books, Sandor,” you say quietly, your voice trembling. “I can barely afford food. And since you stole what little I had before winter, I’ve got even less now.”

The words are bitter on your tongue, and as you say them, the weight of them settles in, raw and unforgiving. Your voice catches as you add, “I hope you enjoyed your stew, because that’s all there is.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Sandor’s face changes, just slightly—something you can’t quite place, something like shame, maybe, or anger. But you don’t give him the chance to respond. You’ve had enough of his cruelty, his smirks and jibes.

Without another word, you set the book aside, pulling on your cloak with hands that tremble from more than just the cold. Fool looks up at you, his eyes warm and concerned, and you give him a soft pat before whistling for him to follow. The dog bounds to your side, tail wagging, as you push open the door and step out into the night.

The night air is sharp and cold, seeping through your cloak as you walk farther from home, past the shadowed trees and thorny underbrush. The stars overhead feel distant, detached from the world below, indifferent to your weariness and grief. Fool trots by your side, his warmth pressing against your leg as if he senses the turmoil churning inside you.

You keep walking, unwilling to return to that small house, the one place that should feel safe. How could it, when inside is a man who, despite your kindness, has been nothing but cruel to you? A man who mocked the one thing you had, the only treasure that connected you to your past. You’re tired of feeling like the world’s fool. The ache of hunger gnaws at your stomach, and the weight of exhaustion pulls at your limbs. You wander until the cold begins to settle into your bones, until each step feels heavier than the last.

Finally, when you can’t take another step, you sink down beneath a twisted old tree, pulling Fool close and burying your face in his fur. His warmth is comforting, his quiet companionship a balm to the loneliness that has followed you all winter. You run your fingers through his fur, whispering soft words to him, trying to keep your thoughts from straying back to Sandor, to the anger and bitterness that make your chest ache.

“Just you and me, Fool,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the dog’s head. His tail thumps softly against your leg, his brown eyes warm with loyalty.

You lean your head back against the rough bark of the tree, staring up at the sky, the endless, uncaring blackness. Your eyes feel heavy, the exhaustion you’ve been pushing down finally seeping into every inch of you. You don’t even realize when your eyes slip shut, your body sinking into a restless sleep in the frigid air.

***

The sound of footsteps crunching through the snow pulls Sandor’s attention. He’s been walking for some time, an uneasy restlessness pulling him to his feet as he stoked the fire, watching the smoke curl up the chimney. You’d gone out without a word, and though he’d fought the urge to follow you, something gnawed at him, a sense of wrongness he couldn’t ignore.

He listens, and then he hears it—a faint, muffled bark. He follows the sound, his heavy boots leaving deep prints in the snow, his breath fogging in the icy air. When he finally spots you slumped under the tree, his stomach clenches at the sight.

“Seven hells,” he mutters under his breath.

The last thing he’d expected was to find you curled up like a wraith, Fool nestled beside you. Your cheeks are streaked with tear stains, and your face is pale, your body curled into a defensive huddle against the cold. You look fragile, too thin, too worn, like you could disappear into the frost.

He kneels down, slipping his arms under you, and curses under his breath at how light you are. Fool trots along beside him, whining softly, his brown eyes worried as he watches Sandor lift you. Sandor feels a pang of regret, remembering the words you’d spoken to him before you left—the way you’d put everything you had into that stew, that last precious meal you’d given up for him.

“You damn fool,” he mutters, anger seeping into his voice as he carries you back, fighting the guilt that twists in his chest. Fool barks softly as if in agreement, trotting loyally beside him as he makes his way back to the house.

***

When you wake, there’s a strange warmth wrapped around you, a thick blanket heavy on your shoulders. For a moment, you wonder if you’re still dreaming, but as you shift, you realize the warmth isn’t just from the blanket.

The fire crackles brightly in the hearth, far warmer than the usual thin flames that you can barely afford to keep going. There’s more wood than you remember, enough to keep the room warm all night. You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and glance toward the hearth, wondering where the firewood could have come from. It isn’t yours; you’d never have been able to afford such a large stack.

You pull yourself out of bed, your legs stiff and cold, and shuffle to the window. Outside, in the faint morning light, you catch sight of Sandor in your small, snow-covered yard, his back to you as he brings down an axe, splitting another thick log with brutal efficiency. The wood splits with a crack, falling to the ground in two neat halves, and he sets another log in its place, bringing the axe down again with a practiced swing.

For a moment, you just watch him, too surprised to move. When you finally step outside, the cold morning air bites at your cheeks, and Sandor glances up from his work, his eyes flicking over you with a dark, assessing look.

“You’re awake,” he grunts, setting the axe down and stretching his shoulders. “Good. Got some food inside for you. And when I’m done here, I’ll give you back the coin I took.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, his gaze hardening as he crosses his arms, looking at you with something between anger and exasperation.

“Falling asleep outside in the cold. Stupidest damn thing I’ve seen,” he growls, shaking his head. “Do you have a death wish, or are you just that foolish?”

The harshness of his tone stings, but you say nothing, lowering your gaze as he picks up the axe again, splitting another log with a clean, efficient swing. You lean against the porch, too tired to defend yourself, too numb to react to his anger. The weight of your exhaustion presses down on you, but you can’t deny the small warmth of relief at his words, at the sight of the stack of wood growing at his feet.

After a moment of silence, Sandor glances up at you, his expression softer, almost curious. “That book you keep reading,” he says, his voice gruff. “What’s in it?”

You blink, caught off-guard by the question. “It’s… it’s just stories. Tales of old knights and distant lands. My brother gave it to me when I was little.”

He grunts, swinging the axe again, sending another log splintering in two. “Don’t see why a grown woman would waste time with children’s tales.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips, a small spark of defiance as you shrug. “Books are rare. Expensive. I can’t afford more than this one, so I read it over and over. I suppose it just became… familiar.” You pause, a touch of longing in your voice. “If I had a choice, though… I’d like to read something new. Anything, really. A book with tales from the South, or a story about far-off places I’ll never see.”

Sandor pauses, his gaze thoughtful, as if weighing your words. “Stories aren’t going to fill your belly, or keep you warm,” he mutters, though his tone lacks its usual bite.

“No,” you agree, looking down at your hands. “But they give me something to look forward to. Something to hope for.” You glance up, meeting his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve lost so much, Sandor. My brother, my family, everything. The book… it’s all I have left of them.”

He’s silent, his gaze shifting back to the axe in his hands. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps chopping, the steady rhythm filling the air. 

You watch him in silence, the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots, the steady rhythm of the axe. Fool wanders up to you, resting his head on your knee, and you scratch behind his ears, feeling a warmth settle in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time. You know Sandor could leave any day, take the coin he promised to return and be gone by nightfall. But for now, as he stacks the wood, the house feels a little warmer, the world a little less empty.

As you sit there, watching him work, the weight of loneliness lifts, just a fraction, and you find yourself hoping, for the first time, that maybe—just maybe—he’ll stay a while longer.

***

At first, Sandor stays only as long as his wound takes to close, but as the days pass, he doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave. He falls into a rhythm in your home. Some mornings, you wake to find him already chopping wood or tending to small repairs that you’ve let sit for far too long. You aren’t sure what keeps him here, and you don’t ask, afraid that if you put words to it, he’ll take his leave for good.

One evening, as you stand at the hearth stirring stew, you feel him watching you from where he sits by the fire. His gaze is intense, making the hair on the back of your neck prickle. When you glance over your shoulder, you catch him staring, his eyes following the curve of your neck, his mouth set in a strange, unreadable line.

“Something on my face?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He scoffs, though you notice he doesn’t look away. “I just don’t get it,” he mutters, leaning back in the chair, his gaze still fixed on you.

“Don’t get what?”

“Why you don’t run screaming when you see me,” he says, his tone rough. “Face like this, most people can’t bear to look at it.”

You stop stirring, turning to face him fully. “I’m not most people,” you say, your voice soft but certain. Slowly, you walk over to him, standing in front of his chair until he has to tilt his head up to meet your gaze. “I don’t care about that,” you murmur, letting your gaze linger on his unscarred side, then back to the marks of fire on the other. “In fact,” you say, your voice dropping to a near whisper, “I think you’re rather handsome.”

His brows shoot up, a mixture of surprise and suspicion flickering across his face. “Handsome,” he repeats, as though testing the word for himself.

You lean down, bracing a hand on the arm of his chair, bringing yourself close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. “Very handsome,” you whisper, and before he can react, you let your hand slide up his arm, squeezing gently before pulling back.

He shifts uncomfortably, a faint flush rising to his scarred cheek. “Think you’re the only fool in the world who’d ever say that,” he mutters, but you catch the slight twitch of his mouth, the way his gaze softens as he watches you return to the hearth. And when you glance back, he’s still looking, his eyes darker than before, like he’s seeing you for the first time. 

***

After that night, there’s a shift between you, an invisible thread that draws you closer with each passing day. Sandor doesn’t shy from you the way he used to; he lets you touch him, lets your hand linger on his shoulder or arm when you’re talking, even lets you fuss over his bandages, though he grumbles that you’re treating him like some “invalid.”

One night, you sit close by the fire, reading aloud from your single book. Sandor sits beside you, his arm slung along the back of your chair. Every so often, his fingers brush your shoulder, light but deliberate, sending a warm shiver through you. The warmth of the fire and the nearness of him make it easy to forget the hard edge of the world outside.

“Never known someone to be so taken with words on a page,” he murmurs, his voice low as he watches you read.

You smile, leaning against his arm, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt. “They’re an escape,” you say, meeting his gaze. “They take me somewhere I’ll never get to go.”

He watches you a moment longer, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering. “Maybe you don’t need to go anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice softer, almost tentative. “Maybe what you’re looking for’s right here.”

Your breath catches, and you find yourself leaning into his touch, your heart pounding. “Maybe it is,” you whisper, the words barely audible, and for a long, endless moment, you both sit there, your eyes locked, the fire crackling softly in the silence between you.

***

The flirting becomes a familiar rhythm, woven into your days like a song that only you and Sandor know. He’s braver now, bolder, his rough edges softened by the warmth that grows between you. One afternoon, as you wash linens by the stream, he wanders over, watching as you scrub a shirt of his with practiced, careful hands.

“Got no business handling a man’s things like that,” he grumbles, though there’s a glint in his eye as he leans against a nearby tree, arms folded across his chest.

You grin, wringing out the shirt and hanging it to dry. “Well, if you’d quit splitting the seams, I wouldn’t have to.”

He snorts, shaking his head as he steps closer, his hand brushing yours as he reaches for the next shirt. His fingers linger a moment too long, rough and warm, and when he looks at you, there’s a spark of mischief in his dark eyes.

“What would you do without me, then?” he asks, his voice low, teasing.

You pretend to consider it, your own grin widening. “Probably sleep better, eat more.”

He laughs, a rare, genuine sound that fills the quiet air around you, and before you realize what you’re doing, you reach up, brushing a hand over his cheek, feeling the faint stubble along his jaw. He freezes, his breath catching, his gaze fixed on yours.

“You know,” you say softly, letting your hand linger, “for someone so big and gruff, you’re awfully soft right here.”

His lips quirk into a smirk, and he catches your hand, pressing it against his cheek. “Keep talking like that, and you’ll give me ideas.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” you murmur, leaning in, your breath mingling with his. For a heartbeat, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you, but he pulls back, his gaze flickering with a mix of hesitation and want.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he mutters, his voice rough with something deeper, and you can see the strain in his eyes, the fight between wanting and holding back.

“Good,” you reply, not letting go of his hand. “I like a bit of danger.”

***

One night, as the snow begins to melt in earnest and the first whispers of spring reach your small home, there’s a knock at the door. The sound is low, almost hesitant, as if unsure whether to break the silence. Fool barks, his ears pricked, and you pull yourself from your chair, wiping your hands on your apron as you approach.You smile softly when you see him outside.

“Are you going to let me in, or do I stand here all night?” he grumbles, shifting the weight of the sack on his shoulder.

You step aside, too happy to see him for your own good, and he walks into the warmth of your small home, setting the sack down by your bed. The firelight casts strange shadows over his face, softening the hard lines, and for a moment, he looks almost uncomfortable, as if he isn’t sure why he’s here, or what to expect from you.

Without a word, he reaches into the sack and pulls out the first of its contents. When you see what it is, you gasp softly.

It’s a book.

The leather binding is rough, worn by years of use, and the pages are yellowed, fraying at the edges. Sandor sets it in your hands, watching as you stare down at it, unable to believe what you’re seeing. Then he reaches back into the sack, drawing out another book, and then another, until a small pile of them rests in your lap.

You stare down at the books, hardly able to breathe. There are five, no, six—each one a little treasure, worn and tattered but precious beyond words. For a long moment, you can’t speak. You just look at each one, running your fingers over the covers, flipping through the pages, reading the faded titles and tracing the spines. You feel like a child, given the greatest gift you’ve ever dreamed of.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you laugh—a soft, breathless sound that quickly turns into a sob. You cover your mouth, the tears streaming down your cheeks, but you don’t care. In that moment, you forget all the anger and hurt, all the cruelty he’d shown you. You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a fierce hug.

He tenses, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides, but you cling to him, sobbing and laughing, feeling the solid warmth of him under your hands. Slowly, as if afraid to break something fragile, he lets his hands rest on your back, his touch awkward, hesitant.

“You’re… crying,” he mutters, a trace of discomfort in his voice. “What are you crying for? It’s just a few damn books.”

You pull back, wiping at your cheeks, laughing through the tears as you meet his confused gaze. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “You don’t know… you don’t know how much this means to me.”

He shifts, scratching the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes flicker to the side, avoiding your gaze. “You’re a fool,” he mutters, his voice rough. “Don’t even know why I bothered.”

But there’s something softer in his expression, something that hints at a vulnerability he rarely shows. He watches you, his brow furrowing as if he’s trying to make sense of the sight before him. And then, after a moment, he speaks again, his voice quieter, more uncertain.

“Aren’t you… afraid of me? For real?” he asks, his gaze searching. “Don’t I… disgust you? I know I am not nice too look at.”

You look at him, truly look at him, taking in the harsh lines of his scarred face, the hardness that has been etched into his expression by years of pain. And you realize that, despite everything, you aren’t afraid. You aren’t disgusted. To you, he’s just Sandor.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I’ll keep repeating that I don’t care how you look. It doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that you’re… that you’re kind.”

At that, he scoffs, his mouth twisting with bitterness. “Kind? I put a sword to your throat. I stole from you, left you to freeze and starve. I’m not a good man,” he growls, the words dripping with self-loathing. “And I won’t be good to you. You think I’m some hero from one of those tales of yours? I’m nothing like that.”

You smile, a soft, sad smile, and reach up to cup his face, your thumb tracing the rough line of his scar. Before he can react, you lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. He freezes, caught off-guard, but you linger just a moment, letting the warmth of the kiss speak for the words you can’t find.

When you pull back, you see the shock in his eyes, the raw vulnerability he’s tried so hard to hide. You smile again, softer this time, and settle down on the bed beside him, gathering the books in your lap and turning to show him each one.

“Here,” you murmur, your voice soft as you run your fingers over the first cover. “This one’s a collection of songs. My brother used to sing to me when I was little. He’d make up his own songs, silly little rhymes, and tell me I’d learn real ones one day. I suppose now I can.”

Sandor’s gaze softens as he watches you, a strange mixture of regret and wonder in his eyes.

You hold up another book, a thick, leather-bound tome with faded writing along the spine. “This one looks like a history book. Probably dry and boring, but I’ll read it anyway. Who knows? Maybe there’s something useful in it.”

As you go through each book, you feel his gaze on you, steady and intent, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt, just watches as you trace each title, as you murmur your thoughts, your hopes for each story.

When you finish, you turn back to him, your heart full, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Sandor,” you say again, meeting his gaze with a sincerity that makes his expression soften, almost against his will. “I don’t care what you’ve done. You’ve given me something precious. Something I’ll never forget.”

For a long moment, he’s silent, his gaze searching yours, his rough hands resting on his knees. And then, almost reluctantly, he nods, as if he’s accepted something he can’t quite put into words.

“Don’t go making me out to be something I’m not,” he mutters, his voice gruff but lacking its usual bite. “I’m not a hero. Don’t need your thanks.”

You smile, resting your hand over his. “You may not be a hero, Sandor. But to me… you’ve been something close.”

He shakes his head, but you catch the faintest hint of a smile, a softness that lingers in his gaze as he looks at you, as if he’s finally beginning to understand the depth of your foolish, stubborn kindness.

As the fire crackles softly in the hearth, the warmth filling the room, you sit beside him, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. The books rest in your lap, a symbol of something precious, something more than words on a page. 

“I have something more”, he says after a while. A bottle of dark wine glistens under his arm, rich and rare, the sort of indulgence neither of you have seen in ages. He sets it down next to the books, meeting your surprised gaze with a shy sort of confidence that almost makes you laugh.

“Wine and books?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “You’re spoiling me, Sandor.”

“Maybe I am,” he mutters, looking away as if unsure of himself. “You deserve more than… well, more than you’ve had.”

Something about his tone pulls at your heart, and you take out two clay cups, pouring the wine with quiet reverence. You both take a sip, the taste rich and warm, settling in your chest. It’s delicious, smoother than anything you’ve tasted, and by the time you’ve both emptied your first cup, you feel a warmth spreading through you, loosening your reservations, softening the edges of the quiet tension that’s lived between you.

Sandor leans back in his chair, watching you in the firelight. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the line of your neck, the soft curve of your mouth. When you catch him looking, he doesn’t look away, and the heat of his stare sends a shiver over your skin.

��There’s something different about you tonight,” he says, his voice low, thoughtful.

“Maybe it’s the wine,” you tease, but there’s more to it than that. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something that makes you bold. “Or maybe,” you murmur, reaching across the table to touch his hand, “maybe it’s you.”

He glances down, watching your fingers brush over his knuckles, his rough hands unmoving, allowing the touch. Then, slowly, his fingers close over yours, his thumb tracing a gentle line across your skin. The simplicity of it sends a warmth through you, soft but undeniable, and when he looks up, his dark eyes are filled with something raw, something yearning.

“Why me?” he asks, his voice a murmur, rough yet filled with vulnerability. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You lean forward, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because I want to,” you say simply, and before he can respond, you press a soft kiss to his knuckles, your lips lingering on his scarred, calloused skin.

He lets out a breath, something that sounds like surprise, and you feel his hand tighten around yours, his fingers weaving between yours as he stands, drawing you to your feet. The firelight flickers over his face, casting shadows over the deep lines of his expression, but his gaze is warm, focused, and you feel your heart pound as he reaches out, brushing his hand over your cheek.

For a moment, you both stand there, caught in the quiet of the moment. And then, in a single, slow motion, he leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that’s both tender and possessive, his hand cradling the back of your head, holding you close.

The kiss deepens, his mouth exploring yours with a hunger that’s been long denied, a need that thrums through your veins. You reach up, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer, feeling his body against yours, solid and warm. He slides his arms around your waist, his hands moving over your back, mapping out each curve, each hollow, as if memorizing the feel of you.

He pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. His hands linger at the small of your back, pressing you close, and you can feel the faint tremor in his fingers, the depth of his restraint.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his voice rough and thick with desire, his gaze searching yours.

In answer, you kiss him again, your hands drifting down his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. He lets out a soft, low growl, pulling you closer still, his lips finding their way along your jaw, down the curve of your neck. Each kiss is deliberate, sending a warm thrill through you as he holds you, his touch bolder now, possessive.

He guides you to the bed, his hands on your waist, his touch reverent as he lays you down. You watch him in the firelight, his gaze tracing over you, lingering as he lifts the hem of your shirt, his hands sliding over your bare skin with a gentleness that feels almost worshipful. He looks up at you, a question in his eyes, and you nod, reaching out to touch his face, your fingers tracing the scarred lines of his cheek.

Slowly, he shrugs off his own shirt, and for a moment, you just look at each other, caught in the intimacy of the moment. His skin is warm beneath your touch, the muscles beneath his scars solid, strong, and when he leans down to kiss you again, it’s softer this time, filled with a quiet tenderness that makes your heart ache.

You trace your hands over his shoulders, his back, learning each line, each scar, feeling the strength in him, the resilience that has carried him through so much. And as he moves, as he pulls you closer, his hands gentle but insistent, you feel a warmth spread through you, filling every hollow, every lonely ache that has lived within you for so long.

His mouth moves over you, his lips trailing down your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, each kiss igniting a quiet fire that burns just beneath your skin. His hands find yours, fingers intertwining as he presses soft, lingering kisses along the hollow of your throat, his breath warm against your skin.

When he finally joins you, skin against skin, it feels like something deeper, something that goes beyond words. His hands cradle you, his movements careful, reverent, as if you’re something precious, something he’s afraid to break. You pull him closer, your bodies entwining, moving together in a slow, steady rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.

As you hold each other, your fingers tracing gentle patterns over his back, you feel a closeness, a connection that feels almost sacred, and you realize that somewhere along the way, he’s become more than a mere companion. He’s become part of you, filling the empty spaces in your heart with a warmth that feels stronger, more lasting, than anything you’ve ever known.

Hours pass in a blur of touches, of whispered words and shared breaths, until finally, you lie together in the quiet of the night, tangled in each other’s arms, his hand resting over yours. The fire crackles softly, casting a warm glow over the room, and as you drift off to sleep, his arm tightens around you, a quiet promise that, for now, he’s yours, and you are his.

[drymushroomfics]

Reminiscing

Sandor Clegane x Female Reader

Next

Chapter One

"Sandor."

"You don't want this, girl."

"It's all I want."

You take in a breath, thoughts drifiting back to what you lost... To who you lost.

Your brain drifts to him less and less as time goes on. The pain of what happened hurts less and less as the time passes too.

You'd never been one to trust or love anyone.

You kept to yourself when you worked in the kitchen at the Red Keep.

He always waited until there was no one left in the kitchen, then he'd come in and ask for dinner. It became like clockwork. You'd finish all your cleaning duties once everyone had left and he'd walk in and sit at the table. You never understood why he never ate with the other Kingsguard but you never bothered asking. For at least a month, you never spoke to each other; just sharing silent glances.

When you had spoke to him finally, he only gave small responces. He was not one for social situations and you were almost glad for it because you were just the same.

Everyone was always so scared of him but you never felt that fear. You only felt curious toward him. You wanted to know more about the King's guard dog and you had learned more than you expected all those years ago.

•○•◇•○•♡•○•◇•○•

Taking a break you step down from your horse. After tying her to a tree off the trail, you move to find anything to ease the ache in your stomach.

You're greatful to whatever gods looking down at you when you manage a rabbit and two apples.

You feed the apples to your mare, relieved to see her not hungry anymore.

Moving to the fire you'd started, you began skinning and cooking the small rabbit.

Digging into your small find, you let more memories play through your head.

  One day while working the kitchen, you had heard the servants talking of King Joffrey. He had apparently been rather cruel to Sandor. He had been the object of Joffrey's amusings all day. You knew it was bad if the servant's had thought it was cruel treatment to Sandor.

You expected him not to show that night but there he was, right on time.

You had just finished cleaning up the kitchen when he walked in. You pushed the plate toward him and gave him a small smile. He looked you right in the eye. He never did that and you felt sometime shift inside you.

When you turned your gaze away out of embarrassement, he scoffed.

"Can't stand to look at me either, girl?", he had asked you.

"I have not a problem with you.", you had told him, moving to continue your duties.

"Don't lie to me, girl."

"Just because you've had a shit day, doesn't mean you can can come down here and be crued towards me, Clegane."

You had watched him stand up and move toward you. He had you pinned against the counter, trying to intimidate you.

"You don't scare me.", you told him.

"Why's that?", he smirked.

"If you're a dog like everyone says, then all dogs can be tamed by certain people."

"Think that'll be you just because you set my supper aside and I don't yell at ya every time I walk through the fuckin' door?"

"May be... But I'm not sure if you deserve to be a tamed dog."

"Have no need for being tamed. Especially by a little bunny like you."

That's where the nickname he gave you started. You remember it all too well as you eat the meat from the rabbit.

It was weeks before you saw Sandor again. You always left him food anyway, just in case.

When he did come back, you could see his surprise that you still left out his dinner.

"Starve?", you asked with a smirk on your face, "Figured you'd have to return to eating down here some time."

He didn't reply as he sat and scarfed down his food.

"Why'd you call me little bunny?", you had asked me a few moments later.

"You're always hopping about the fuckin' kitchen like a rabbit.", he had told you.

You had laughed and nodded in aggreement.

That's how your friendship with Sandor Clegane had started. From that night on, you did start talking and the romantic feelings had seemed to just seep into the both of you.

[fantasydreamland]

Queen in the North

sansa stark x fem reader

Summary: Sansa is titled queen in the North. After too much wine during the celebrations you discover no man has ever treated her properly in the bed chambers so you do your best to serve and worship your new queen.

Notes: 18+ ONLY!!! wlw, smutttt, fluff, alcohol consumption, fingering, oral (f&f), some spoilers

word count: 2171

masterlist

“Congratulations, my queen.” You curtsy and smile wide to Sansa as people continue to gather for the celebration.

“Thank you, (y/n).” She gives a soft smile back.

“You look radiant tonight, the crown becomes you.”

“Thank you, you as well.” She replies. “I meant- the crown doesn’t become you- I meant you look radiant as well… Not that a crown wouldn’t become you! I believe you would look quite good in one.” She flusters.

“Thank you, my queen.” You giggle at her stuttering.

She gestures you to sit beside her. You chat and drink at the table with her and the others enjoying the feast. You couldn’t help but admire Sansa’s features from the side. She had the most beautiful face, her eyes, her pale face, her prominent nose, the way she smiled when she laughed, and her lips…

Sansa’s leg brushes yours and you can’t decide if that was causing the heat in your cheeks or if it was all the wine you had consumed, perhaps both.

As the hour becomes late most people head to bed. You say goodnight to the gentlemen leaving your table. Soon you and Sansa are left alone at the table while a few other drunks still hang about on the other side of the room.

“So…” You turn to Sansa. “Now that you’re queen I assume you will be looking to marry soon?”

“I am in no rush.” She chuckles. “I’ve not had the best luck with husbands.”

“So I’ve heard…” you place your hand gently on hers. “I’m sorry for everything that has happened.”

“So am I…” she says quietly and puts her other hand over yours. “However, I’m not sure if I would be the woman I am today had those things not happened.”

You nod and she gives your hand a gentle squeeze before removing it. You reluctantly let go of her other hand and place it back in your lap.

“And you?” Sansa asks.

“What about me?”

“Will you be searching for a husband soon? I am sure you are eager to start a family.”

You let out a laugh that causes a snort.

“Pardon me, your grace…” you say a little embarrassed by your laugh. “No… I have not found a man suitable enough for me.”

“It appears we have that in common.” She says lowly with a slight smirk.

“Forgive me for being forward…” You begin. “But were you able get any sort of pleasure from them?”

“Lord Tyrion and I never consummated, he was respectful. Which oddly enough, he likely would have been the only one to give me true… pleasure.” She becomes shy with the last word.

“As for Ramsay… well. What he lacked in pleasure he provided in pain.” She continued, looking down as her mind drifted.

“I’m sorry…” You say quietly.

She shakes away the awful memories and meets your eyes.

“No matter, it is all in the past.” She says reassuringly.

“Cheers to that.” You say holding out your goblet.

She smirks and clinks her cup with yours and you both take a drink. Theres a calm moment of silence just enjoying each other’s presence. You both hold your smiles and make shy glances at each other. You’d meet her eyes making her blush and look away. Then you’d look away and notice her glance back at you until you’d met her eyes again which caused you to then blush and look away. Sansa looks away again with a smirk and takes a sip of wine.

“I should slow down.” She puts her goblet on the table, breaking the silence. “Otherwise I may not be able to get up from this table.” She laughs.

“I would be happy to assist you my queen.” You smile as you stand up and hold your hand out to her.

“Why thank you, my lady.” She says in a jokingly polite voice.

She takes your hand and pulls herself to a stand before nearly toppling over. You catch her arm and she steadies her balance again.

“I appear to be more intoxicated than I had thought.” She jokes. “I think you may need to help me back to my chambers.”

“I am at your command, my queen.” You smirk and give a small bow before holding your arm out for her to take.

She takes ahold of your arm and you walk down the halls to her chambers. You’re not sure why the air feels tense. Maybe it was the way her hand gently held onto your arm or how ethereal she looked in the dark candlelight. You wondered if she felt it too. You look to Sansa and she simply smiles at you. You give a soft smile back, then turn away hiding your blush.

Once you arrive at the door to her chambers she lets go of your arm and turns to you with her hands folded together in front of her.

“Well, thank you my lady for escorting me.” She gives a polite smile.

“Of course, my queen.” You curtsy.

“And thank you for being the best drinking companion. I’ve not been this happy and content in a long time.” She reaches out and lightly takes your fingers into hers causing your breath to catch.

“You deserve nothing but happiness my queen…” Your voice comes out as a whisper.

She gives you a soft smile and takes a step closer to you, still holding your fingers. You notice her glance to your lips before meeting your gaze again with an intense look in her eyes. She hesitantly leans in at an excruciatingly slow pace as her eyes search yours for any sign you don’t want this. Once her lips are merely a breath away and your noses brush you close the gap and press your lips to hers, assuring her you definitely want this, you definitely want her.

Her hesitation instantly fades and she kisses you back passionately as your fingers intertwine. You sigh as you taste the sweet wine on her tongue. She moves her other hand to your waist to pull you closer against her. Your other hand caresses along her cheek and jawline. Your tongues continue to slowly and softly dance together. The kiss is gentle and fierce at the same time. She eventually pulls away and you see a soft smirk lingering on her lips.

“Would you like to come in?” She says lowly.

You nod your head a little too quickly, making her chuckle. She keeps her hand in yours as she leads you into her chambers. You look around at the room as she closes and bolts the door shut behind you. She walks over to a small table and gently places down the crown from her head. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears and feel your palms sweat from the nerves.

Sansa comes back over to you and you awkwardly look at each other, neither of you sure what to do next. You gather all of your courage and take her face in your hands and pull her into another passionate kiss. This kiss is hungrier and more heated than the last. You shiver as her fingers lightly brush down your neck to your collarbone, before they make their way to pull the strings of your dress. You follow her lead shoving the cloak off her shoulders before beginning to pull at her dress. Your lips never part as you both fumble with the strings of each other’s dresses.

After a frustrating minute of jumbled fingers you break the kiss and giggle to each other as you both unlace your own strings. Once they’re loose enough Sansa reaches out and slowly pushes your dress off your shoulders. Her gentle fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. You blush as her eyes look up and down your exposed body. Nervously you move your hands to her shoulders, pushing her gown to the floor. You gulp hard as your eyes scan her beautiful figure. Your eyes fill with lust as you look at her like an animal ready to pounce.

You lean into one another, lips meeting again. You hold each other close as your naked bodies press together. You feel sparks shoot throughout your body when your sensitive nipples brush against hers. Sansa keeps your body pressed to hers as you move towards the bed.

Once you’re both laying in the bed something in you snaps. You kiss her again hard before moving your lips along her jaw, down her neck and collarbone. You’re both surprised by your sudden boldness. Your hand moves to massage her breast as you lean down and take the other in your mouth causing her to gasp. You graze your teeth on her nipple before soothing the tender spot with your tongue. You continue to kiss down her body, lower and lower.

“What are you doing?” Sansa says in a breathy whisper.

“Worshipping you the way you deserve, my queen.” You mumble, continuing to kiss down her skin.

You move further down to kiss the inside of her thigh making her jump. You lift your head to look at her.

“Unless you want me to stop…?” You say with a hint of disappointment in your voice.

“No.” She quickly says staring down into your eyes with a heated look.

You smirk and lean back down kissing and nipping slowly up her inner thigh. You hear her breath quicken as you get closer to where she needs you most. She gasps loudly when you give a tentative lick up her wet core. You smirk again before latching your lips to her clit causing her hands to reach into your hair. The taste of her makes you dizzy. You have never done anything like this before but you do your best to work your tongue on her. The sounds of her soft cries and desperate moans are like the sweetest song you’ve ever heard. You continue testing what pleases her. When your tongue dips into her hole she groans loudly. You do it again and she moans again grabbing harder onto your hair.

With her encouraging moans you begin to tease your finger around her hole before pushing it slowly inside, your gaze fixed on her as you watch her face contort in pleasure. Her moans become less contained as you slowly move your finger in and out as you continue to work your tongue on her clit. You add a second finger and her hands move from your hair to tightly grasp the pillow under her head as she pants harder between moans. Her legs begin to shake and you pump your fingers faster knowing she must be close. She gasps your name. You moan against her in response, the vibrations finally pushes her over the edge. Her thighs squeeze tightly around your head but you still clearly hear her long loud final moan ring in your ears.

Her body and legs relax and you crawl back up the bed to lay beside her. She pants heavily for a moment before turning her face to you. She smiles before leaning forward and capturing you in a quick kiss, tasting herself on your tongue.

“You are…” She holds your face in her hands and looks deep into your eyes as she struggles to find the right word. “…extraordinary.” She breathes.

You can’t help but smile as you hold her intense gaze.

“Thank you… my queen.” You whisper the last part.

“I would like to try...” She says sitting up and placing a soft kiss to your stomach.

You smirk and nod as she copies your previous actions kissing all the way down your body and then slowly up your thigh. With much less hesitation than you had, she dives right in. She spends no time working you up and slipping her fingers in. Her other hand reaches up to grab at your breasts. You hit your own peak much faster as she devours you like it’s her last meal. Her fingers curl inside you and that causes your sight to go black. Stars begin to fill your vision as you cry out from the intensity washing over you.

You feel her come to lay back beside you as you regain consciousness and steady your breathing. When you turn your head to her she’s smirking shyly at you.

“Well?” She asks.

“Extraordinary.” You breathe out.

She smiles and leans in to give you a chaste kiss but you put your hand around her neck to pull her closer and dip your tongue into her mouth. Her mouth tastes sweet and tangy from the wine mixed with your essence. You reluctantly pull away to breathe and lay back on the pillow. Your eyes meet again and you both laugh softly. You lightly brush her red hair from her face. She leans into your touch and sighs.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” She says hopefully.

“Of course, my queen.” Your soft smile turns into a mischievous smirk. “I plan to worship you again in the morning.”

[plzhearmeout]

why is there not more sandor clegane fanfic???? is anyone out there?? can anyone hear me??? please if god is real drop your sandor fics right the fuck now or i’ll be forced to do it myself

[ohmy-zabrak]

🌙 Have this part of my wip because we need more silly Hound content 🌙

"Oh, have a cock do you?" The Hound snorts.

"I do, it's massive. Bigger than your's even."

To Bronn and Tyrion's surprise...the Hound giggles. "Let's see it then."

The sound of rustling blankets through the wall.

"No, he's shy," Lady Alice says. "Knock it off, you're scaring him!" She giggles.

The sounds of wrestling.

"There's no cock here-"

Alice yelps but it turns into a moan.

[vampirepirates]

THE LONG WINTER — SANDOR CLEGANE .

Masterlist:

cast + author's note

parts:

1 2

CHAPTER ONE , A NEW FRIEND.

Hooked on a dream that is reeling me in. Oh, is this how we begin? Flowers on fire in black and white film.

— Count Me In, Early Winters

Lyarra Stark had always been a wolf, for all intensive purposes. Frost coated her blood, winter exuded her very being. From the day she came into the realms of men, she was cold to the touch. As her mother went to caress her cheek for the first time, she couldn't help the instinctual flinch. Her babe all but frozen, with pink cheeks — and warm breath. When they took her to the Maester, they discovered there had been nothing wrong with her — not at all. She was born of Winter, and Winter she would remain.

When her hair began to grow in, it was thick — black curls, that cascaded down her. She stood out from the snowy wasteland of the North. As did her personality. While her eldest brother Brandon had always been described as a hot-head, she was cold. Not unkind, but her words were sharp. She did not speak often, and never to those outside of her family.

Her sister, Lyanna, carried the very thought of love with her everywhere she went. It was impossible to hate her, unthinkable to not adore. The two were halves of one whole. In that same breath, they were also almost identical. Lyarra's features were just a bit sharper than Lyanna's. To the naked eye, one could hardly tell the difference. While it was expected of ladies to think naught of anything but life — but love, childbearing, and marriage — the twins would spend their nights sparring. No one else would ever come close to raising a blade to them, wooden or not -- so they knew it was their own task to see through. The two, previously alike in everything but name — had only one staggering difference. Lyanna would spend her nights blissfully thinking of her life ahead, of flowers and life. While Lyarra knew all too well of what was to come.

She wasn't blind to the life that was expected of women. What was expected of her. It was at the age of eight that she began sneaking out of the walls of Winterfell — at the very peak of night. When one could see nothing but wisps of snow coating the ground — and stone surrounding them. She'd been beyond the walls a few times, but not often. Her own curiosity took hold of her, pushing her further and further — until she came upon a forest. It was nothing frightening, by any means. Lyarra could see the end of the tree-line, if she stood up. The trees almost seemed to form a circle, with one solitary stump in the middle. Again, Lyarra's feet seemed to carry her before her mind could argue — and in a few short steps, she was perched on the stump, watching the snow fall above her.

Every night that she could, for the years to come — she would spend her hours gazing up at the trees on that very stump. Sometimes she would bring a book, sometimes her sword. But she would never share it with anyone else. If she had to live someone else's life — a ladies life — she would need something to her own. Even if it stung to keep something so precious from her sister.

At age ten, she traveled with her brothers to Riverrun — and as it was her first time making such a journey, she spent most of it clutching her sister's hand. The two did not hold one another close very often. Lyanna would scold Lyarra for how cold she was, and rip whatever Lyarra was holding onto out of her grasp. It wasn't meant to be cruel, and she knew very well how her touch felt to others — but she could never help the scowl that followed. This time, though, Lyarra would not let her out of her grasp. For all of her curiosity, she couldn't help but long to be back within the walls of Winterfell.

The more that she cowered to her sister's side, the more attention from her brothers she drew to herself. This was not the first time that Brandon had made this journey — as they were going to visit his intended, after all — nor Eddard, for that matter. Though it was Benjen's first time traveling this far, he walked ahead of the two girls. As Lyarra noticed this, she couldn't help but pout in the slightest. She longed for her brother to be by her side, making her laugh — taking her mind off of the journey. Eddard, as if he knew what she was thinking, glanced towards Benjen's retreating figure. His jaw fell open, as if to call for his brother, but he shut it just as quickly — thinking better of himself.

"'S alright, Lyarra. We'll be back home soon, I swear it." Eddard grasped onto her shoulder. The boy was only a few years her elder, but she couldn't help the awe she felt in his presence. If she thought her sister carried the thought of love with her everywhere she went, her brother carried honor. It was almost breathtaking, in certain lights. The peace and loyalty that he exuded, that came out in his very presence. She couldn't do much but nod, but even that was enough to bring a calming smile to Ned's lips. He squeezed her shoulder, bending down to meet her eyes evenly, and she couldn't help but meet his smile with one of her own.

For the first few days of their visit to Riverrun, Lyarra did not care to leave her quarters. When she did, she stayed at the side of her sister — avoiding any sort of conversation with those around her. Brandon did his best to introduce her to those around them, but she only spared them a timid smile — before moving to stand behind him. On the third day, however, Lyarra snuck out of her room at the very peak of the night — as she normally would have, had she been home. This time, however, she knew she could not exit the walls. She knew not how to come back in, nor if they would hear her yelling. Instead, she took to wandering the halls. She was unaware of how much time had gone by, stuck in a palace of her own thoughts. After a while, she came across a small stone window. If she tried hard enough, she could stick half of her body out of it — shimmy her way down. But this wasn't a prison, not really. How she longed to return home, though. Her curious stupor was broken then, by a small - almost weasley voice,

"It's a long fall, you know. I've thought of it before. At best, your ankle would snap as you landed. At worst? Your head would cave from the pressure." Lyarra almost jumped out of her own skin, as she twisted her head to find where the voice was coming from. In front of her stood a small, common-looking boy. With clothes far finer than one would assume he would have. His eyes were soft, while the rest of him was sharp. He was, in all, truly a small child. One look at him, and Lyarra knew the boy wasn't royalty. So, he wasn't Edmure Tully then. Unfortunate, that Lyarra hadn't listened much when her brother had described the inhabitants of the castle.

As if he knew what she was thinking, a coy smirk pulled across the boy's lips — with a smile forming just as small as the rest of him. "My name's Petyr. Petyr Baelish." The last part came out as a bit of a ramble, as if it were an afterthought. He couldn't be royalty, or any kind of highborn. The ward, then. Now Lyarra could vaguely recall her brother's words. Eddard had not spoken fondly of the boy — describing him as a leech, for lack of a better term. However, in this light, Lyarra could not see what was so monstrous about him. He appeared to be just a boy.

"Lyarra is mine. I apologize my .. friend, I know I am not meant to be out of my quarters. I only meant to take a short walk. I will return at once." Her words came out meek, and she sounded much smaller than she would've liked. Petyr, who seemed to brighten at the word 'friend' took a step forward, as she meant to make her retreat.

"Please, don't leave on my account. Spend your night roaming the halls, if that is what you wish. That's what I did, on my first night here." Petyr's coy smile melted into something more genuine, and Lyarra could just barely see a glisten of light in his eyes. He didn't want her to go. The further she stepped away, the closer he stepped to her. If it were anyone else, Lyarra would feel threatened. But somehow, she knew that this boy wouldn't hurt her. "If it would comfort you to not spend your night alone, I could walk with you. I was on my way to my own quarters, when I saw you."

Lyarra couldn't help the hesitation that swept over her. She didn't have any friends, beyond her siblings. She had never been outspoken in that aspect, never in the way that she should have been. Yet, here was a boy practically throwing himself at her feet — just for the chance of a friend. She took a breath, before reaching her arm out — giving him the chance to link with her.

"Come then, Petyr. I'd like to see what other secrets this 'castle' has in store for me." She glanced at him expectantly, then, and couldn't help but meet his smile with one of her own as he grasped onto her. Unlike everyone else, he did not shy away from how cold she was. His eyes only widened for a second, before he clutched onto her arm that much stronger. The two spent the night roaming the halls, and for once Lyarra listened as someone explained the meaningless history of these walls to her. She matched his stories with some of her own, describing to him what Winterfell was like — what her first snowfall felt like.

The two only stopped, when they had returned to the window again. The sun was just barely rising, somehow they'd managed to talk through the entire night. As Petyr went to make his leave, Lyarra clutched onto his sleeve before she could stop herself.  At his inquisitive, but not unkind look — she took a breath, before she spoke.

"Back home, I would do this every night. I would sneak out of my chambers, beyond the walls. Past the guards, into the woods. And every night, I would go to this forest. A small thing, really. But in the very center of the forest stood a stump. Yet it isn't frayed, like someone cut it themselves. It's as if it just grew that way. Small, never growing any larger. Content. And when I would sit there, for once it felt as if I knew my place. As if I was meant to be there." Lyarra finished her ramble as quickly as it began, as she delicately placed her free hand onto the stone at the bottom of the window. She had never told anyone that before, and here she was — prattling her secrets off to the first stranger she'd met. Petyr took a beat before answering, and Lyarra couldn't help but realize how ridiculous she sounded. She'd only just gone to correct herself, when he spoke up.

"Should I ever make that journey, I'd like to see that. If you'd have me." His words were soft, and as her head snapped to him for the second time that night — she saw in his eyes then what she had never seen before. Understanding, wholly and completely. He knew how it felt to not have a place in the world, to not know where you belong. The value of having somewhere entirely to yourself. She couldn't help the small grin that graced her lips.

"Well, of course, Petyr. You're my friend, aren't you?" For the second time that night, Lyarra watched as the boy all but glowed at the word. He needed a friend just as badly as she did. Maybe even more. The two held onto one another for a beat longer than necessary, before saying their goodbyes. As Petyr began to walk in the other direction, Lyarra called out for him. "Petyr, if you wouldn't mind? Keep what I told you between us. I haven't told anyone else.." He said nothing, but the previous coy smile that she'd been introduced with covered his lips once more. With a slight nod, the two went their separate ways.

The rest of Lyarra's stay passed in all but a blur. She spent her day with Lyanna — or one of her brothers, if they weren't busy with the Tully girls. She hadn't gotten much of a chance to speak to her brother's intended, herself. Catelyn Tully intimidated Lyarra, for some reason that she couldn't place. While Petyr's features were sharp, Catelyn's words carried that weight instead. She exuded a sense of responsibility everywhere she went. Lysa, on the other hand, didn't carry herself the way that her sister did. Though, admittedly, Lyarra had only gotten glimpses at her — and each time, the girl was already glaring at her. A petulant child, then. Lyarra spent her nights roaming the halls with Petyr. Some nights they would go to one of their respective quarters, both sitting on the floor — in a way unbecoming of their station — as they talked about their lives. About things they'd never seen, and the things that they wanted to see. Some nights, Lyarra would have supper with her family as well as the Tullys — and throughout the night she would make faces at Petyr, forced to contain her laughter at his reaction. She caught Edmure giving her a strange look more than once, and each time she would simply look back at him blankly.

Eddard caught on all too quickly, though her other siblings remained oblivious to this newfound friendship. He'd made his disapproval quite clear. 'Littlefinger' -- as he'd so delicately named him — 'was not to be trusted', he'd argue. Every day, the two siblings would get into the same quarrel. She loved her brother, and trusted him beyond words. But she wouldn't allow his bias to go against her care for her new friend. Too quickly, she became all too aware of Petyr's feelings for Catelyn. When she was braced with the news, she couldn't help the slight sting in her chest. Of course, she would never be allowed to marry someone as lowborn as Petyr (though, in her eyes, a ward was far from below her) but he was the first boy who had taken an interest in her for her. Her own bitter feelings subsided eventually, though, as she saw her friend longingly staring at the Tully girl.

On the final day of their stay, Lyarra spent her night at the very window where she was introduced to Petyr. As she waited for him, staring up at the sky, she couldn't help but think about how different things were. She dreaded going home, after all this time. Losing her one friend, being forced to return to a life that didn't feel like her own. Reminiscent of their first meeting, Petyr broke her out of this thought by lightly grasping her shoulder. This time, she knew exactly who it was without looking. She'd become familiar with the boy's almost-too-soft hands. His spindly fingers.

"There's something I want you to see. Something I think you'll like." Was all he said as a greeting, gently moving to spin her towards him. Her brow furrowed almost instantly, and without a word she nodded — moving to follow him silently. The two didn't say much to one another, Lyarra still stuck in her somber thoughts. Petyr, as if noticing this, clasped onto her arm as he had on the first night. Before she knew it, the two were outside — walking along the battlements. This was the furthest outside she had been since her stay began, even when she walked through the castle with her family. Lyarra's eyes cascaded over the water below, as she marveled at the land in the distance. As she turned to look back to Petyr, she noticed he was already looking at her.

"Figured you would like to get out of the castle, at least once." Was all he supplied, with a small — almost imperceptible shrug. Lyarra couldn't help the smile that overtook her, as she all but threw herself into the thin arms of the boy next to her. He grunted in surprise, as her arms entirely wrapped around the small boy.

"Thank you, Petyr. Oh, thank you, my friend." Her voice was muffled, as she shoved her face into his coat. After a beat, he moved his arms to wrap around her in return. She held him for only a moment longer, before pulling back with a wide grin. Lyarra turned back to the open land, moving to clutch onto his hand then. "There's so much out there.. haven't you ever wondered where it all ends?" At that, Petyr let out a noncommittal grunt. He stepped forward, placing his own hands on the stone wall.

"'Course, I have. These walls, they're all I've ever known. All I'll ever know, if I'm being honest." He sounded almost sorrowful. As if he were a frail bird locked away in a cage, desperate to fly as far as he could away. "The Tullys, they took me in when they didn't have to. My family was nothing, I've yet to forget that. Yet to be allowed to, I should say." Lyarra understood what he meant all too well. She had always been grateful that she was given this life. That her family didn't need to fight for food, that she had a warm hearth. But at night, she dreamt of living another life. A free one, where she was allowed to do as she wished. She was young, still a child of course — but she was soon to be a woman, whether she wished for it or not. Lyarra squinted them, trying to look as far as she could into the distance.

"If you could, where would you go?" Lyarra had never felt as young as she did in that moment. For just a second, the two were only hopeful children — dreaming of a life so far out of their grasp. For just a moment, they were allowed to wish for something else. A beat of silenced stretched over the battlements as the boy thought.

"South. King's landing. Maybe I'd work for the king. Work my way up, until I was his most trusted advisor. Men often overlook what they cannot see." He seemed to spin a web of gold, within his words. He sounded so certain of himself, and it was such a contrast to the timid boy that Lyarra had come to know. Her stomach churned, almost uneasy — but she couldn't feel the burst of pride within her chest as the boy dreamt of a life so far away.

"You'd make a good king, I think. You're smart enough to navigate that sort of thing." Her words showed her own youthful innocence, as she leaned against the stone wall to smile at Petyr. At that, his eyes seemed to narrow with intensity — as if her words alone just gave him a purpose he'd never truly imagined.

"Intelligence means nothing in the eyes of a King. King's Landing itself is chaos — a pit that I'm not quite confident I'd be able to find my way out of." Petyr took this moment to lean against the wall himself, glancing over at the Stark girl as he spoke. Lyarra blinked, her expression more serious than he'd ever seen.

"Chaos isn't a pit, Petyr. It's a ladder. If you're a step ahead of someone else, you're just a step behind another." In just a moment, Lyarra sounded as if she had entirely grown up. Her voice was mature, the word's coming out of it carried that she kept close to herself. Petyr looked at her then, properly, and moved forward before he could stop himself. For the second time that night the two were linked — his arms wrapped around her waist. In an instant, she did the same -- wrapping her own arms around his neck. The two found understanding within one another that they had never found within someone else. Beneath the light of the stars, they held one another close for much longer than they had to — and only began their journey back inside once they saw the sun peak over the hills.

The following morning, Lyarra was back on the road before she was even fully awake. Her goodbyes with Petyr were quick, away from the all-seeing eyes of her siblings. She held him close as she had the night before, and he grasped onto her hand. They made a quick promise to see one another again, and he was gone before she could say anything else. On their way out, Lyarra stuck close to Brandon. She fit into the side of his cloak as he towered over her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. The Tullys bid them farewell, Catelyn smiling softly at her intended -- While Lysa, on the other hand, was glaring daggers into Lyarra. She almost glanced behind her to see if the girl was staring at something else, before she'd realized it was surely meant for her. She moved closer to Brandon, and ignored his inquisitive gaze as they began their journey.

Lyarra tried to ignore the sorrow that threatened to overcome her at the thought of leaving her first true friend behind — but she did her best to steel herself, marching proudly at her brother's side. On the way there, she had hung back with her sister the whole trip — insistent on avoiding everything she could. This time, she wanted to be in the front. She wanted to know what was to come, what the future had in store for her. Come what may, Lyarra would be ready for it. Even if she was forced to live a life she had no care for — she knew that she had the support of a small boy from Riverrun. A boy who was certain to work his way to the top, at the cost of anyone around him. She couldn't help the burst of pride she felt at that, and her steps almost doubled in speed.

"Lyarra, don't run ahead! Wait for us!" Eddard called after her, but she was already well over the hill. She was eager to get home. More eager than she'd been in weeks. She no longer dreaded what was in store, rather she'd never been more ready.

Okay, So. There's that! The first official chapter of this story .. What did you guys think?? I'll warn everyone now, there won't be a Sandor appearance for a minute. I have too much storyline to build. This book is about Lyarra, not just their relationship. I am very excited to build that as I go along.

As you can see, Petyr plays a large role in this fanfic. I wouldn't classify this as a 'Petyr x reader', because the feelings that the two have for one another are confusing even to one another. They are each other's first true friend, and there will always be love between them for that. They have a very complicated relationship.

The next chapter will likely involve two of the main characters that I have yet to introduce, and further propell Lyarra down the road that she is meant to take. I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Young Petyr is so interesting to write. And yes, I gave myself creative leeway, and made it so Lyarra is the one to give Petyr the "Chaos is a ladder" idea. Sue me. They're really smart ten year olds, alright. There are dragons in this series, not everything has to make sense.

As always, feel free to leave any thoughts that you have in the comments! My tiktok is @vhenanfilms if you would like the see the edits I am making based on the series! Thank you all,

Zevran.

[reallyprofoundkryptonite]

some Sandor doodles because I love this man dearly and wish him the best.

Tormund was right, he does have very sad eyes.

also with quite a few of my designs/personifications for characters i kinda just tend to pick and choose things from the source materials (the show and the books) and go from there. Like the book’s description of Sandor was actually when he was younger, and actual time frame he Yk. Aged. Since he’s 35 years old in the show. (At the end he’d be about 40-42 I think)

but anyways

dog helm sketch/personal interpretation.

[azulolivart]

I’m obsessed with SanSan

[honeyxbunny99]

Sandor Clegane~ The Bitch and The Hound pt.4

Sandor wasted little time in moving from your mouth to your neck, his hands ran through your hair and kneaded your breasts as if he was starving for you. Your brain could hardly comprehend the switch in his desires for you but you tried not to jinx it with overthinking. You decided to only live fully in the moment, as it felt like the most exciting thing that had ever happened to you. At last you could do whatever you wanted to him, he was yours in that moment and you were his.

He nipped under your earlobe and you exhaled a "Yes!" born of pleasure. He bit down harder where your neck and shoulder joined and you let out your first loud moan. Sandor growled, only fueling your fire and you wrapped your legs around his hips, desperately trying to get some friction where you needed it most. One large hand grabbed your thigh and squeezed before he pushed his hips into yours.

"Fuck--" He muttered under his breath, pulling away from your neck only to pull your dress down to reveal your breasts and latch his mouth onto one of your piqued nipples. You arched your chest up into his mouth and directed both hands to pull his hair. He sucked and bit one and pinched the other and it sent your heart beat between your legs and your skin erupted in goosebumps in spite of the heat between you. It was at this point you realized how many sounds you were making and, fearing someone would hear, you brought one hand to cover your mouth. You tried hard to steady your breathing through your nose but the way that Sandor was pressing against you made it a nearly impossible task.

Suddenly he pulled away and looked cross with you. "If you cover your mouth again, I'll stop."

You furrowed your brows. "But--"

"I want to hear you scream tonight," he dragged his hand up to your throat and applied only a bit of pressure, just enough to dizzy you. "Are you going to deny me that, princess?" You shook your head and he nodded, a sort of crazed smile pulling on his mouth. "Good girl."

The hand that was at your throat drifted down your breasts, your stomach still covered by the dress, until it finally creeped its way between your thighs. His smile grew cocky as he rubbed his fingers against the wetness you'd created. You blushed as he repeated the phrase, "Good girl... All this for me?" His finger brushed against your sensitive bundle and you trembled and moaned.

"Please, Sandor... Please don't tease me..."

Your face scrunched up in a near pout as he sank down off of the bed. Quickly he grabbed your thighs and pulled you so that your legs were hanging off of the edge. You gasped at his actions, at how easily he could control you, and grew insecure and confused when he sank down to his knees and threw your legs atop his shoulders. His eyes were locked in now on your flower; he looked upon you as if you were a feast and he hadn’t eaten in days.

"Why shouldn't I tease?.. You dont think," he kissed your left inner thigh. "I've earned the right," Then he kissed your right. "to a little payback?"

You sat up on your elbows and watched in disbelief as he sank his head under your dress and began to devour your flower with his mouth.

"What are you--Oh!" You clenched your eyes shut and tried to close your thighs in reaction to him, but he made sure your legs stayed put. The pleasure was indescribable; you had never even heard of such a thing. You moaned again as he relentlessly lapped up all of your nectar. Your arms felt weak and so you threw yourself back against the bed, surrendering to this new delicious torture. Suddenly his tongue grazed a spot more sensitive than the rest and you let out another loud moan and thrust your hips instinctively, chasing that high. Sandor expertly obliged swirling his tongue over and over again in a spot you didn’t even know you had, and you felt a pressure build in your stomach. Your moans grew higher in pitch, more desperate, and again, you covered your mouth with both hands now. He stopped.

"I hate repeating myself, girl. What happens if you cover that pretty little mouth of yours?"

You whimpered in response, begging him with your eyes to continue.

"Use your words." He chided.

"You stop..." You sounded like a bratty child and he smirked down at you. One of his fingers quickly found your sensitive nub again and he swirled circles around it, watching you approach your high to ensure you didn't cover your mouth again. When you became a writhing, moaning mess he decided to gently slip a finger into your entrance, making you gasp and try to sit up.

"Take it." He commanded, voice low and heavy with lust as he pushed you back down with his other hand. "Take it like the good girl I know you are..."

At last one whole finger pumped in and out of you, curling against your insides until you felt something snap inside you. You shuttered against his hand, moans and curses falling in a tangled spell from your lips. The knot in your stomach tightened again and you began to cry out, "Yes, yes, yes!" Sandor at last returned his mouth to its rightful place between your thighs and with a few laps from his tongue, you were finsihed. The knot in your stomach unwound and your eyes welled with tears of pleasure; your moans practically echoed off the walls as you pressed your husband's face even closer against you, riding out your waves of pleasure. His hands dug into both of your hips and he nuzzled his face in even closer, cleaning you completely. Finally, he pulled away panting.

"Oh fuck, fuck, what was that?" You felt dizzy, silly, sweaty and you weren't even sure if you were making sense, but you tried to sit up again. Sandor rose up from the ground and leaned down to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his tongue and moaned again.

"Something I've wanted to do since our wedding night."

You leaned up and kissed him again, hands around the back of his neck to steady yourself. You wanted more of him, all of him. Your hands trailed down his chest, his stomach, to the waistline of his pants. He growled and pulled away.

"You sure you want this?" His eyes searched yours for a lie.

"Sandor Clegane, if you don't fuck me right now I'll die." You joked and he laughed breathlessly.

Your fingers slipped under his breeches and slid them off. He hovered over you as you finally saw what they had been hiding. Massive, as anticipated, but not as terrifying as you thought a cock would be. You considered the difference in your size for a moment and looked up at Sandor.

"Will it.. fit?"

"I'll make it fit." He assured.

You nodded, trusting him. He brought a hand up and caressed your cheek, and you leaned into it, turning slightly to kiss his palm and his skilled fingers.

"Have you really never done this?"

It was unbelievable to him that he could be so blessed with a mate like you, and by Joffrey no less. You shook your head softly and he sighed. The look in your eyes read both innocence and desire, and it was all for him. He almost didn't want to corrupt you, but the throb in his dick was becoming painful.

"This is gonna hurt then." He resolved before picking you up bridal style and carrying you over to your side of the bed.

He laid you down gently and thought for a moment about how best to do this. You were now completely naked and sprawled out before him like a goddess, (h/c) hair clinging to the sweat on your temples. The way Sandor looked at you only made you desire him more than ever and you opened your arms to him, practically begging for him to come back to you. He obliged, climbing on top of you. It now seemed he was the nervous one. His manhood rested against your thigh; it would be a lie to say you weren’t nervous but your desire for him was strong enough to conquer your fear.

"Kiss me." You ordered and he smiled, brushing hair out of your face, and leaning downs to grant your wish. The kiss this time was more gentle, as if it meant something more than just lust. "I want you, Sandor.” You kissed him again. “I don't care if it hurts..” you opened your mouth for his tongue to enter again and you felt him throb against your leg and he let out a small moan into your mouth. You pulled back, biting his lip as you did so, causing him to suck air through his teeth and look down at you in shock. “I trust you with my life." You admit. You leaned your head up to lick and nip at his throat this time, and earned another sharp breath from him.

"Careful, girl." He warned again.

"Or what?" You quipped, feeling bold enough to reach out and graze your fingers along his manhood, still stood at attention. The sound he released was too interesting to cease your actions and so you continued, wrapping your hand around it and stroking up and down, smearing him in his own precum. He lurched forward into your hand and you both moaned. He pushed you to lay down again and took himself in his hand, stroking a few times before aligning with your entrance. He leaned down, the pressure on your cunt filling your stomach with butterflies. He nipped your ear and said, "I'll try to be gentle, but I make no promises..."

You nodded and kissed him again. It was your new favorite activity, after all, and you would be sure to do it whenever you could. His cock ran up and down, in circles around your entrance and you moaned into his mouth. Inch by inch he slowly slid himself in, his teeth clenched and breath in a hiss. He pressed his forehead against yours and you shared breath. It did hurt, like Anna had warned you. You felt as though you were being split in half, but remembered that she assured you it was normal. You looked down between your bodies, face tight in pain. ~Just a little bit more~, you thought. Sandor claimed your mouth in a kiss again as he finally filled you completely. You whimpered and he panted. Tears left your eyes against your will and you hoped he did not see. But he did, and he stilled in you and kissed away the saltiness on your cheeks. He pulled out slowly, not completely, and thrust back in.

“Hold onto me, love.” ~Love?~ In that moment, you truly felt it. Your hands went to his back and you dug your nails in, resulting in a groan from him. His pace quickened and the pain dissipated. The sensation of being full was something you never wanted to lose, but God did it feel good when he pulled out and pushed back in.

“Oh, Gods!” You murmured against his shoulder, nails scratching down his toned back now.

“Seven Hells, woman!” He exclaimed, leaning up to watch your breasts bounce with every hard thrust.

Soon the familiar knot was bound in your stomach again and you moaned louder than ever. “Please please don’t stop, Oh God, fuck me, Sandor!” “Fuck!” He swore and his thrusts grew sloppy as he brought his hand down to rub delicious circles on your bundle of nerves again. It took only a few seconds before the combination had your eyes rolling back in your head and your orgasm ripping through you again. You clenched around him, biting his shoulder to hold back a scream and he pulled out quickly, leaving you feeling empty. You whimpered at the loss before warm liquid shot out across your stomach and boobs. Your husband groaned and growled as he stroked himself to completion. Then he collapsed beside you, the pair of you breathless, drenched fools.

“Fuck.” You both said simultaneously and he started to laugh.

You smiled at him but couldn’t bring yourself to laugh. You turned your sore yet buzzing body to face him. “Something funny?”

He covered his face with both hands for a moment and shook his head. Then he turned to you, looked you up and down, and said “C’mere, woman.”

You squinted your eyes in suspicion but began to lift yourself to close the distance between you. He grabbed you by your waist without warning and picked you up as if you were a doll, and you were placed straddling his stomach. “I just can’t believe it, s’all…” His eyes roamed over your messy hair, your love-drunk face, your perfect tits and torso decorated with his seed, and that delicious little cunt you’d given only to him.

“Can’t believe what?” You said, feeling a little shy under his gaze in spite of all that just occurred.

“I can’t believe you’re mine.”

You smiled softly at the revelation and took his hands in yours, guiding them to stroke up and down your body. “And you’re mine.” You agreed, finally leaning forward to run your hands through his hair. Finally your fingers focused gently on the burn scars. They felt just like yours.

“Does it still hurt?” He didn’t answer. “You can touch mine.” You offered, adjusting his hand so that he could feel your secret trauma. He stroked his thumb across your thigh but maintained eye contact.

“It doesn’t hurt when you touch me.” He admit.

You wondered for a moment, if it remained acceptable to kiss him outside of sex, as you desperately wanted to do so.

“May I kiss you?”

He laughed again, you relished in his smile and matched it with your own. “We’ve just done a lot more than that!” He spoke as though you were ridiculous, but leaned up to meet your kiss anyways. After you pulled away you sighed contentedly and settled down against the crook of his neck, his arm enveloping you to stay close to his hot body.

“It’s usually not that quick.. It’s NEVER been that quick, not even my first time.” He admit, eyes watching the ceiling in memory. “I’ve never had anyone like you before.” He said.

“I’m sorry…” you were embarrassed and he scoffed.

“(Y/n) it’s a good thing… You’re… I don’t know how I can explain it to you.” He huffed and grabbed your hand. “Make a point.” He instructed and you stuck your index finger out. “Now slip it into my hand.” He had clenched his fist into a loose grip and you stuck your finger in and out, blushing and not understanding. “Right, that’s everyone else.” He said nonchalantly. “Now this one’s gonna be you, go on, stick it in.” His fist closed a little more and you smirked at his attempt to explain. The moment you slipped your finger in, he captured it and wouldn’t let go.

“Ow!” You yelped laughing as you struggled to free your finger. Soon it turned into a full on wrestle with feet and opposite hands shoving each other, trying to get a grip on yourself. He smiled and you laughed, finally beating on his chest. “And you like that, huh?” You were still confused.

At last he released your finger, now sore from the struggle. He sighed. “It was good. It’ll be better next time, when I don’t have to worry about going slow.” He brushed your hair smooth with his sweaty palms and you winced. “Perhaps. Perhaps I’ll take charge of the next time, if and when it happens.” You laid down, feeling utterly tuckered out.

“It will happen.” He stated and you smirked. “And I’ll still be in control.”

You bit your lip in excitement. As your eye lids grew heavy, you yawned, and Sandor watched you from his seated position beside you. “Thank you.. for wanting me.” You mumbled, allowing sleep to overcome you.

“Damn near impossible not to…” Sandor spoke to himself. He walked to the bathroom to splash his face with cool water but stopped when he saw his reflection in the mirror. His expression had been light, glowing with sweat, and for a second he thought he might be able to see the handsome man you claimed to see in him. But he turned his face to reveal his marred skin and frowned again. He felt shame wash over him. Guilt. Vulnerability. How could he have touched you, consumed you, defiled you like that? How could you have let him? He was a monster. He remembered every story he’d heard about himself all too well, and the way the whores scurried away or closed their eyes when he fucked them. Yet the way you responded to his touch was what he’d always wanted. You gave him a gift, and thanked him for taking it. He turned away from the mirror again, before he could grow too angry.

What could he give you in return? He had no money; only lived a pampered lifestyle so long as he stayed loyal to those cunt Lannisters. His name was born of violence, not nobility as you deserved. No land, no family, no plan for a future. He planned to die serving the king, taking revenge on his bastard brother, or drinking himself to death. He wanted none of that now that he had you. He exited the bathroom and looked down upon you on the bed again, smooth skin barely visible now in the darkness.

He kneeled beside the bed and gently traced random symbols on your waist, causing you to shutter and groan, though you did not waken. He smiled softly at your reaction and went over in his mind all the things that made you perfect for him.

Your dirty mouth, the way you always stood up for yourself, your stories and how you could always find something to talk about, your kindness and understanding, your patience, your sex appeal, the way you fit perfectly in his hands…

He had been struck when your father presented you to the king, as he was certain many others were as well. You were beautiful, but that fake smile could use some work, he had thought. When Joffrey assaulted you, he made no move to help. He didn’t care. He didn’t think of you, only of what a little prick the boy was. When you cursed at the king, you struck him again. He didn’t expect you to be that brave, or that dumb. He expected they’d kill you then and there, and at the time he would have made no move to stop them. He knew only to look out for himself and spare the so called innocent when he could, but you he couldn’t do anything for. Then he was told to take you. As you struggled against him, he thought you a burden. A pretty burden, but one that would only take up space in his room until you killed yourself or died trying to escape. He never planned to fight you, comfort you,trust you, fuck you, love you. Mere days ago, the thought of someone like you desiring someone like him would have made him burst into a fit of laughter on a good day… bloody any man who suggested it on a bad day. Yet here he was, practically worshipping you, after he’d claimed you, after you’d begged for him. If anyone tried to hurt you now or take you away from him, he’d kill them. Even Joffrey. He didn’t plan for any of this, and now he felt compelled to plan for everything. A future, with you in it.

“Aye, I was born to be YOUR protector… Maybe your book was right, silly little princess.”

[justagirlwholikesadam]

Realm's Delight

Summary: You were the twin of the dark haired child Cersei had with Robert. While fever took your twin, you survived. You are known throughout the seven kingdom as the realm's delight. The years has passed and your younger brother Joffrey wants something you have. Sandor Clegane x Baratheon! Reader

A/n: Don't hate me. Enjoy -L

Warning: Death, murder, Joffrey is Joffrey, the angst is real af, suicide

Word Count: 12.8k

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Chapter 3

Losing Sandor felt like you were drowning in an abyss of loneliness, you felt like you were being stabbed in the chest multiple times with each breath you took. The servants grew worried when you locked yourself in your chambers. They knocked and asked if you needed something. You just shouted you needed to be alone. You were in bed, under the blankets with your face under the pillow when you heard one of the servants mention Sandor’s name. 

“He will get her.” 

“You didn’t hear. He’s Joffrey’s guard now.” The servants grew quiet and you heard them walk away from the door. You begin to ponder on what you have done to upset Sandor so much for him to leave you. Everything was going great, plans were set and you were ready to leave this wretched place. You let out a sob at the thought of your mother. She had told you men only wanted one thing from a women but Sandor was never like that. You were the first to touch him. You were the first to kiss him and you were the first to tell him that you loved him. 

You had to leave your room the next day. The servants had told you that your father requested your presence for breakfast. The servants glanced at one another as you kept quiet while they helped you dress for the day and comb your hair. You felt one of them behind you finishing a braid and placed her hands on your shoulders. 

“Look at you, princess. You look beautiful.” She told you. You look ahead at the mirror and look at yourself. She gave you a smile but you kept the same stoic expression. She had braided your hair and left a few strands to frame your face. They had picked out a light blue dress with white lace on the hem of the dress. You remained silent as you walked out of the room to meet your father. Entering the hall you came to a halt when you saw Joffrey sitting next to your father already eating. Your father sat at the head of the table, Robert’s dark eyes widened at the sight of you. Waving for you to come, you walked inside. You glance back at Joffrey and feel your heart drop at the sight of Sandor standing by the wall behind him. Sandor kept looking forward with a straight face. 

You quickly walked to your father, leaning down to kiss his pudgy cheek. Thanking one of the male servants who pulled your chair for you, you sat on the right side of your father. 

“I didn’t see you yesterday, dear.” Robert said as your plate was being served and Robert’s cup was being filled with more wine. 

“Forgive me, father. I was tired from walking around King’s Landing. I mostly slept and needed much rest. I apologize for troubling you especially during these times.” You had come up with the lie yesterday and knew if you apologized enough he would brush this over. 

“This war.” Robert said before taking a drank from his wine. 

“This war is the last thing on my mind. You are what matters.” You tried to ignore Joffrey’s face. Joffrey’s eyes grew hard and his thin lips turned into a frown at Robert’s word.

“What’s the matter?” Robert asked when he saw how down you looked. Sandor watched the servants glancing at one another waiting for your response. Robert kept his eyes on you when you didn't respond right away. “I think I'm coming down with something. Don’t feel well.” 

“Someone bring a maester.” Robert yelled at the servants. “Eat. The maids told me you haven't left your chambers yesterday.” His words were soft and you nodded looking down at the plate. 

“Probably caught something from feeding those peasants. That's what you get for being so close to those animals.” Joffrey said, stabbing his fork into his food. 

Before Robert could speak you answered your brother. “They are not animals. They are humans just like us.” 

“You have spent so much time with them. You have gone mad. Perhaps from being very close to one.” Joffrey said with a smirk. Sandor for the first time in his life, prayed. He prayed to whatever the fuck was up in the heavens to listen to him. He hoped King Robert didn’t think there was any meaning behind Joffrey’s words. The servants and knights watched as Joffrey and you glared at each other. 

“ENOUGH.” Robert shouted at Joffrey. You remained quiet thinking what he meant. Looking at Joffrey, your eyes glance up at Sandor. You wanted to cry all over again, he had his usual scowl and his eyes were hard. He couldn't even look at you. He didn't want to, he knew he would break character. He would rather be punished than have you think he didn’t love you but he couldn't have you get hurt. 

“Is there a reason why you have Sandor as your guard now?” Sandor’s heart dropped to the floor at Robert’s question. “I’m sure my sister would like to answer that.” Joffrey said, trying his best to hide his smile.

You wanted to throw the plate of food at your brother’s face. You didn't know what to say. How can you tell your father that Sandor had broken your heart after being together for years. You didn't want Sandor to be punished or worse, executed for being with you. Sandor had hurt badly but you still loved him.  Clearing your throat, you look over at your father. You told the lie you came up with. A lie that would change your life forever. 

“I think it’s time for me to get married.” Joffrey and Robert frowned. 

“I won't be able to do that. Like mother said, that d-man is always behind me.” You had refused to call Sandor a dog. You wouldn't do it even if you were angry at him for leaving you.  Joffrey leans back against his chair and gives you a glare. 

“I see.” Robert said looking unsure. You had to make sure your father believed you. For Sandor’s sake and yours. If Sandor didn't want you then you would leave King’s Landing. 

“I will write to my betrothed in Dorne and ask if he still wants our houses to be joined.” Robert gave you a look still not believing since you fought so hard to not be married. 

“This will be a good thing. Dorne's army had risen as well their weapons. Houses are sliding with your brother, father. We need the manpower. I know Dorne will keep me safe. You have done so much for me, father. Let me help you in the only way I can. I must marry.” You finished with a nod looking at Robert seriously. Joffrey was angry when Robert yelled at him but the look Robert gave you infuriated Joffrey. Robert looked proud at you. 

“Spoken well, my dear. Dorne is fortunate to have a true, strong Baratheon.” Robert gave you a smile and quickly rose up saying he will write to Drone himself about this matter. 

“Dog, let’s go.” Joffrey shouted, throwing his fork on the table after Robert left in a hurry to write the letter. Force of habit, you were about to yell at Joffrey for calling Sandor a dog but you remembered he wasn’t your guard anymore. Sandor isn’t your lover or your guard or your friend anymore. You look over when Sandor begins to walk behind Joffrey. Blinking the unshed tears away, you took a deep breath. You were alone at the table. You can feel the eyes of the servants behind you, waiting for your next move. 

“May I have wine, please?” You asked and quickly a cup was placed in front of you. A servant came beside you and leaned forward to fill your cup. 

“Thank you.” Your voice was soft as you grabbed the cup. Staring at the red liquid inside of it, you wondered why Cersei drank so much. Is this why your father drank so heavily? Both of them were unhappy with their life so they drank. No one said a word when you drank the cup completely, drank it in a hurry that it spilled from the corner of your mouth and dripped down to your dress, staining it. When you were done, you asked for another and another. They kept their silence when you stood up without touching your plate, disregarding the maester that came in. With the cup in your hand, you began to walk out of the room to your bed chambers. 

Your days were spent like that. Waking up and asking for a pitcher of wine. You stayed in your room for hours, with no human contact, just your books and wines. At night, you cried yourself to sleep. Dreams of being with Sandor and nightmares of him screaming that he never did love you woke you up. 

“Lord Baelish.” You greeted him when you opened the door of your chambers after you heard a knock. He stood outside your door with a smile and his hands clasped behind him. 

“Princess, I haven’t seen you in days. How are you doing?” 

“I’m alright.” He gives you a nod before stepping close to you. 

“We should walk in the garden, princess. I have some news.” Your eyes widened and you nodded at him. Lord Baelish waited outside with the new guard appointed to you by your father. The guard was a young man, not tall as Sandor but he had a kind face. Walking side by side with Lord Baelish and the guard a few feet behind. Lord Baelish filled you in with the war. The last battle wasn’t going well for your father, he was losing men and Dorne hasn't responded yet with his letter. 

“You wanted to know if the Hound was doing alright, correct?” Lord Baelish asked, looking over at you as you stopped in front of a bench. 

“That is right, I care for all the servants.” You said getting close to him, you didn't want him to grow suspicious on why you were so interested in Sandor. Lord Baelish froze when you placed a hand on his chest. Playing with the buttons of his shirt, you grabbed his hand and pulled him down to sit with you on the bench. 

“I care for all my friends as well.” You said as you pulled Lord Baelish’s hand on your lap. His hand were so different from Sandor. Lord Baelish hands were soft and small with no evidence that he has done manual labor in his entire life. Running your fingers over his knuckles, you wished it was Sandor. Sandor’s hands were a gift from the Seven. His hands are large, fingers are thick and rough. He had scars and calluses on his hands from working and fighting. You pressed your thighs together when you remember how big they felt inside of you. The way you drooled on them when Sandor was making love to you.  

“Good princess, keep sucking on them.” You let out a deep breath and let Lord Baelish’s hand go. 

“You’re far too kind, Princess. You amaze me everyday.” You look over at him with a smile. You felt bile coming up your throat at the look he gave you. 

“Sandor is doing well. Joffrey and him visited the brothel last week. Sandor fucked a whore bloodily. He has become quite the beast since he started to guard your brother.” 

You felt an arrow being shot in your chest by his words. Sandor was at a brothel. Sandor was sleeping with another woman who wasn't you. You wanted to cry all over again. You began to wonder if Sandor had been with anyone else when he was with you. The nights you shared your bed with him, was he sharing his with another? Did those lips you love so much were on someone else's lips? 

“Lord Baelish, do forgive me. I have forgotten that my mother asked to see me before dinner. I must see her. She said it was rather important.” You rambled as you got up from the bench. 

“Farewell, my dear friend.” Lord Baelish was starstruck when you placed a kiss on his chin before walking away without waiting for his response. He kept his gaze on you, watching you walk away. 

“Princess, if he has done something. Tell me right now.” Your guard said when saw you in tears. He had taken his helmet off and kneel in front of you when you barged into your chambers in tears. 

“I swear it. I will kill him.” You look at your guard who held a concerned look on his young face.  When he was about to rise up to leave the room. You held on to his shoulder, you quickly removed your hand.

“Please don’t. Lord Baelish hasn’t done anything. He just brought me sad news.” The guard nodded before looking down at the ground. 

“I’m sorry, princess. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll help you.” Wiping your tears with the back of your hand. You glance at the guard who kept his gaze on the ground below you. 

“Thank you. What’s your name?” The guard looks up. “It’s Felix, princess.” You nodded at him. 

“Well Felix, would you like to join me for some tea?” You asked since he was so kind to you. He rose a brow at you in shock by your invite. “Or you can have some wine or ale. Whatever your choice is, it's yours.” You added just realizing now how ridiculous it is, that a knight will drink some tea. 

“Are you always this nice?” His question caught you by surprise. You noticed he was staring at you. His eyes had a pretty shade of blue, his nose and lips were thin. 

“I try to be but now I’m thinking I should change that.” Felix saw how your eyes dropped down to the ground. “You shouldn’t. There’s not enough nice people in the seven kingdoms. I’m happy that I am guarding one of them.” You smiled at his words. 

“Tea does sound good but I would prefer ale.” He told you as he rose up from the ground. 

“Then you shall have ale, Ser Felix.” 

The days went on and Ser Felix made it manageable. The servants seemed to be happy that you were talking again but once in a while they would find you staring off in the distance. Word of Sandor’s vicious attitude has gotten around the castle. Joffrey has grown to be more aggressive to the servants and to the people around him. You had refused to look at Joffrey and Sandor. It has been a few weeks and you haven’t spoken to either of them. Whenever you walked down the hallway, you kept your gaze ahead and if you happened to meet Sandor and Joffrey, you passed them like they didn’t exist. You ignored Joffrey as he taunted you while making your way with Ser Felix behind you. 

Sandor kept staring at the new guard, Ser Felix was strapping a saddle on a horse. Sandor was behind a pillar as the servants came up to Ser Felix and handed him a large satchel. Sandor knew you were going to walk again, giving food out. He felt ridiculous for being jealous that you were going with the new guard instead of him. He always went with you when doing that. Sandor thought he could handle being Joffrey’s guard. He couldn't, it took all the strength in him to not strangle the prince. He had gotten used to sitting down with you and eating meals with you but Joffrey didn’t care if he ate or rested. Joffrey would call him a dog or worse snap his fingers at him and because of it. His attitude changed more, he was more angry. 

He was furious that he was taken away from you. Furious that the new guard you had, is so close to you. Sandor had watched you and Ser Felix walking in the garden. You drank tea, while your guard drank a cup of ale. He kept updates on you, your servants were kind enough to fill him in. He felt horrible when they told him you barely ate and you weren't yourself but you were getting better now with Ser Felix. News of the prince of Drone arriving at King’s Landing had broken him. He was drinking in his new chambers that Joffrey provided him. It was half of a room now and the bed was uncomfortable. Sandor knows the prince will wed you and will take you away from here. Away from him. Joffrey had taken him to a whorehouse to celebrate the prince coming to take you away. Joffrey did it to hurt him and it did. “Go find yourself a new bitch, dog.” 

Sandor obeyed him and grabbed the nearest girl from her wrist. He didn’t look at her or asked her for her name. Sandor ignored the girl who was sitting on the bed waiting for him but he sat by the corner of the room with a cup of ale. The girl grew worried when Sandor didn’t move from his spot, he just kept staring at the ground as he drank. After an hour had passed and the girl flinched when Sandor finally rose up from his chair. The pitcher near him was empty and the sun was setting. He walked towards the bed and threw two silver coins near her.

“If they ask you, tell them I fucked you bloody. You hear me, girl? If you don’t say that. I’ll fucking kill you.” Sandor snapped at her and she nodded at him. 

There was a relieved look on her face when she realized Sandor was really not going to do anything to her. He was about to walk out the room when he froze and grabbed a dragger from his belt. The girl let out a whimper when Sandor raised the dragger. She saw Sandor slicing the bottom edge of his palm, just enough for him to bleed. She flinched when Sandor walked towards her and yelped when he pushed her back and lifted her skirt. She felt him wipe his blood on inner thighs. She pushed herself up when Sandor left the room without saying another word. Sandor walked out of the whorehouse and saw Joffrey had waited for him outside the establishment, in a carriage. He brought the window down and had a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Sandor wanted to roll his eyes. Joffrey still hadn’t gotten used to the smell of the shit city. 

“How was your new bitch?” Joffrey asked as Sandor walked closer to him. “Tight.” Sandor answered as he signaled Stranger to come forward. He just wanted to go back to his room and be alone. He wanted to sleep because at least he’s with you in his dreams. 

Sandor watched as the new guard gave you a smile as you walked towards him, you were ready for the day. You had a light brown dress on. He left when you began to walk with the new guard. Trying to ignore the horrible gut feeling in his stomach. Few hours later he stood behind Joffrey as the prince was with his father in a council meeting. Robert was in the middle of talking when the door opened with a bang. One of the king's guards came running inside. Robert was about to yell at the guard when the guard announced something that turned Sandor’s blood cold. 

“There was a riot, your grace. The princess was giving them food when it broke out. We found her guard, he’s been killed. Ripped limb from limb. We can’t find the princess.” 

Robert rose from his seat and began to yell for every knight to search the city. “I want every house, every building searched.” He screamed as Marcella and Tommen were being comforted by Cersei. 

“Stay here, dog.” Joffrey commanded him after Robert said every available knight must go. “My pri-“ “Stay put!” Joffrey yelled at Sandor cutting hm off as he looked out the balcony. 

Sandor could hear the screams of the people as the knights barged into their homes. Flipping it inside out then leaving for the next spot. He knew the feeling in his gut was right, something bad did happened. His eyes widened when he saw Jamie Lannister and his group walking up the hill. Jamie was carrying you. You laid unconscious in his arms.  Jamie had found you after an older woman and her daughter saved you and hid you in their house. Sandor stared at the woman and her daughter as they were brought into question. They stood in the middle of the court and explained Robert what had happened. Sandor looked down to see the daughter’s feet. She wore your shoes that you had gifted her. 

“It’s the war, your grace. With barely enough food going around, they became crazy. Everything was going well. The princess was handling food when the people from flea bottom started to cut the line.” 

The woman started to tear up as she continued. “She tried her best to calm them. She didn’t want the children to get hurt. They ignored her and took her guard. She tried to help him.” 

“She cried out to them to stop as they began to beat him and started to pull his limbs.” The woman let out a deep breath. Her daughter rubbed her back for comfort.

“That’s when the riot broke out. The city split into two. Many tried to protect her, we love her, your grace” Robert stared at the woman below him as she confessed their love for you. 

“We love the Princess. Is she alright? We are all worried for her.” The woman began to cry loudly as she fell on her knees in front of the court. 

Sandor snuck into your bed chamber in the middle of the night when you haven’t woken up in two days. Robert usually left at night after spending his morning and afternoon in your room. Something changed in the drunken king after the incident with you. Robert punished the flea bottom for it, he gave rewards to anyone who knew who started the riot. Sandor shuts the door behind him carefully making his way towards you. He can hear your soft breathing. He freezes at the sight of you. You’re laying on your bed with your hands resting top on your stomach. He can see bruising on the right side of your face, they have washed you and clothed you in a nightgown. He couldn’t get rid of the sight of the light brown dress you had on earlier that day you left. It was bloody and caked with shit and dirt from the streets when they found you. 

Sandor whispers your name. He knew he shouldn’t be in your room. He shouldn’t have come here but it was killing him not seeing you. Even if you weren’t speaking to him, he at least got to see you but now since you've been hurt. He hadn’t seen you at all. Sandor touches your hand, he brings one of your hands up to his lips. Kissing it and nuzzling into your palm as he leans down. He starts to breathe heavily as he cups his face with your hand.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers as he stares down at you. Your hand falls limp and he brings it back to his face, using his other hand to keep your hand in place. Knowing the maesters should be making their rounds soon. He leans down, close to your face. The bed dips under his weight. He says your name once more and kisses you on the lips. Sandor whines as he kisses you once more. Savoring it, since it will be the last time. He hoped you would wake up in time to get healed before the prince from Dorne arrived. 

“I love you.” He whispered against your lips. Pouring everything he had left to give, he kissed you for the last time. He blinked the tears away and walked away from the bed. He gives you one last look over his shoulder before he leaves and continues to pretend that he doesn't love you. You woke up the next day and found your father sitting next to you. He had hugged you and kissed your forehead calling the maesters to come and check up on you. Your servants stood outside your chambers when Robert told you about the news of Ser Felix. 

They cover their mouth with their hands to stop themselves from crying when they hear your cries. You let out a sob after learning what happened to him. You cried in your father’s arms at the horrible news of Ser Felix's death. Robert had you tell him everything from your point of view. He was happy when your story matched the same one from the woman. Robert had forbidden you to go back to the city, he had grown close to you as the days passed and it only made Joffrey more angry to the point that Sandor had witnessed Joffrey being the true monster he is. Sandor stood outside of the prince's chambers as the prince laughed loudly while he shot a whore in the leg with his bow and arrow. Sandor disposed of the body the next day and pretended nothing happened just like Joffrey did. Sandor only saw you when the family sat together eating dinner. It was the only time when Robert wanted to be seated together. Cersei and Joffrey had gotten annoyed at the fact that Robert wanted you close to him. Sandor watched as you barely ate but you drank more and more each day. You never looked up from your plate only when your father spoke to you. He can see the fake smile you gave everyone including the servants. 

You gave the same fake smile when you were told the prince is making his way up to King’s landing. 

The castle was going crazy the following day for the arrival of the Prince from Dorne. All morning your servants waited on you, they washed you, clothed you into one of the finest dresses you were gifted. You allowed them to place a diamond necklace around your neck as they rubbed oil on your arms and legs, you tried your best to be excited like they were but you just couldn't. You tried your best to be in a good mood but nothing was working. You had nightmares every night since you woke up. Your dreams would be flooded with the sight of Ser Felix being ripped apart, you started to imagine his screams and the sound of his flesh being torn. You can still recall the pushes and the slaps you received when you tried to break the riot apart. You had called out for Sandor, you screamed his name as the riot broke out. Thinking about it now, you felt ridiculous for shouting his name.

You felt nothing even when the prince walked towards you when you entered the great hall. It was dinner and he was the first to rise up from his seat. He was tall, had brown curls on top of his head and his eyes matched his hair color. His skin was tan and it went well with the yellow mustard robe he wore. You gave him a smile as he introduced himself, while grabbing a hold of your hand. He leans down to kiss your knuckles and you glanced behind him. 

Catching Sandor’s gaze across the room, he quickly looked away and you did the same. The prince's name was Lewyn, second of his name. He sat across from you and you had to admit. He was very handsome. Speaking with Lewyn had eased your worry of not liking your husband to be. He was kind and respectful. You were surprised when he gave you his condolences about your guard, Ser Felix. Walking around the garden, he told you that he knew about the incident that had occurred. You immediately thought, he wouldn't want to join houses because of it. Your mother had screamed up a storm, telling you to stop with this excessive idea of helping the poor. 

“To be honest, I thought the stories about you were lies.” He said and you froze next to him. He turned to face you. 

“The most kind and beautiful princess to have ever lived.” You blushed hard at his words. “The stories are true and I'm happy because of it. I need a good and kind woman by my side.” For a moment you had forgotten all about what happened the last few months as he leaned down to kiss your cheek. His lips were soft and he smelled like the sun and spices. 

A celebration was in order according to Robert, House Baratheon and House Martell will be joining together. Robert had deemed that the celebration of your engagement will be the largest celebration the Seven Kingdoms will ever witness. The days passed and everyone was preparing for the celebration. The castle was being cleaned and decorated. Everyone who your father invited was coming to King's Landing. You greeted the Starks, Arryn, Greyjoy, Mormont, Tarly, Tyrell, Glover and more as they came to the celebration. Everything was overwhelming but you were grateful for Lewyn. As the days passed you grew closer to him, he never left you unattended. Walks around the gardens and eating meals together. He showed you books he had brought you about his home. The time you had a moment for yourself was at night. You stayed up staring at the ceiling as you thought about Sandor. 

You haven't seen Sandor as Joffrey was doing god knows what. You touched your lips as you remembered the dream you had. You had dreamt that Sandor had come to your room in the middle of the night and kissed you. The dream felt so real, he kissed you and told you he had loved you. Shutting your eyes you traced your lips with your fingers as you placed the other hand on your chest. You can recall his smell and his warmth. You imagine Sandor between your legs. You cupped your breasts, imagining it was Sandor’s large hands. You let out a whine as you pulled your nipple over your nightgown as you remembered the last time you were intimate with him. Your cunt clenched around the nothingness as you remembered his cock going in and out of you. Taking your hand from your lips, you bring it under the covers and under your nightgown. You moaned when you touched your clit, you whispered his name as you remembered how good his fingers felt, how good his tongue felt on your cunt. 

“Sandor!” You cry out as you slip your finger inside of you. 

The night ended and the sun rose, it was the morning of the celebration. The official announcement of your engagement. Robert wanted you to have this since your wedding will be held in Drone. Lewyn wished for you to be married in his home and you accepted it. You knew you couldn’t get married in the same room with Sandor. You were woken a bit later by your servants who came inside your chambers to get you ready. The morning seems like a blur to you, you allowed them to fawn over you. While they dressed you one of the servants gave you a note from Prince Lewyn. His words made you smile but you felt nothing. He wished you a good morrow and he will count the seconds until he gets to see you again. 

“This seems a bit too much.” You said as you stood in front of the door of the great hall while looking at the decorations hanging by the door. You were unaware of your uncles behind you. Jamie who stood with Tyrion just smiled at you.

“Is that so?” Tyrion said as he stepped near you. He was dressed in red and golden robe while Jamie wore his golden armor. Giving a warm smile to your uncles, he asked you to kneel down. You tried your best with the dress you had on. 

“You’re not like us, child.” You frowned and he continued. “I'm so happy you aren't. You're different and I pray that you will live a happy life in Drone.”

“You think I will live a happy life?” You asked him and he nodded. You don't believe him as you stood up with the help of Jamie who lent you his arm. 

“Your husband-to-be, shall be standing near your father. Just walk towards the throne.” Jamie said as the servants came in to fix the train of your dress. Jamie kissed you on the cheek and wished you good fortune. 

They handed you a bouquet of flowers as you heard the music start to play. The guards opened the doors and you looked ahead. Everyone's eyes were on you as you walked to the throne. Your hands shook but you continued on. You can see Eddard Stark along with his wife standing. They gave you a nod as the guards announced your name. Lewyn stood below the steps of the throne where your father sat. He smiled when you made eye contact with him. He was dressed in beautiful silver and white dress robes. It matched with your dress. He gives you his arm and helps you walk up the steps. 

“You're absolutely breathtaking.” He whispered to you as both of you stood in front of your father. 

Sandor watched with a heavy heart as you walked to your husband-to-be. The gown trailed behind you and the diamond necklace around your neck shined with every step you took. The guards and servants whispered amongst themselves about your appearance, calling you an angel. Robert made a speech about the houses joining together, you tried to look at the prince but your eyes wanted to look over at your family side, for you hoped to see Sandor. Lewyn leaned towards you to whisper in your ear after Robert’s speech. 

“Your father mentioned to me that you are close with the people of King’s Landing. He didn't want you walking around anymore. I was able to do something since this will be their last chance to see you.” Lewyn said as he held your hand and walked with you down the hall. 

Walking to the front doors of the castle, he gently squeezed your hand as he waved the guards to open the doors of the castle. The moment the doors opened you can hear cheering and your name being shout. You let go of his hand as you walked forward seeing the people of King’s Landing standing out of the castle. Knights were lined up as a wall, keeping the large crowd back. The people in King's Landing grew silent when you stepped closer to them. They haven’t seen you in weeks after the riot, they stood staring at you in complete awe by the way you’re dressed. A smile appeared on your face and you chuckled in shock at the amount of people who showed up. You waved at them and the silence disappear, they cheered loudly as you waved at them. They shouted the word princess over and over again as they waved their hands and arms. They threw flowers at your feet. Robert stood behind you as he watched in disbelief by how much the people loved you but that's why you were called the Realm's Delight.

It soon changed when the crowd started to push the knights back trying to get closer to you. There was a shout and the knights a few feet in front of you fell back, the crowd pushed forward. Robert yelled at the knights to keep formation. 

“PRINCESS!” You gasped when people started to run towards you. Robert pushed you behind as Jamie started to run towards the crowd. One man had managed to go under the knights and threw himself at your feet. Leywen gathered you in his arms pulling you back, you almost tripped on the train of your dress. The man was about to touch your dress when there was a rough growl and a tall frame came between you and the man. 

You watched as Sandor grabbed the man from the back of his shirt. Growling at his face, Sandor gave him a glare. “You dare to touch her.” Sandor snapped as he grabbed a hold of the man’s neck, pulling him up. The servants and the Lords and ladies gasped. 

“Sandor! Please! Stop it. Don’t hurt him.” You shouted, pushing yourself away from Leywen, reaching for Sandor’s arm.  Sandor drops the man when he feels you grab a hold of his arm. He looks at you and takes a step back. The man is gasping for air on the floor. 

“Y/n!” Cersei shouted pushing the ladies out of her way when she saw you leaning over the gasping man. 

“Are you alright?” You asked as you helped the man who still on his knees. You ignored the muttering behind you from the lords and ladies when you offered your hand to him, a commoner. 

“Get away from him.” Cersei forcefully pulled you back making you wince from her gripped. 

“Throw him away!” Cersei shouted at Sandor. He glances over at you for a second, taking in your facial expression. He looked away when Leywen walked in front of you. The prince looked over at you, taking your face in his hands. 

It was two days after the celebration when Sandor was told of the news of the war. Robert’s brother was going to attack soon again. One of Lord Varys’ spies had found out and Robert was getting ready. Sandor stood behind Joffrey when he received the news that Joffrey will be joining them as well. The blonde looked shocked by it. 

‘What do you mean?” Joffrey asked as Robert grabbed his sword. 

“You're heir to the throne and you haven't fought once in battle. Do you want to sit this out and add more fuel to what the people are saying?” Joffrey glared at his father. 

“I don't care what they have to say about me. I am heir to the iron throne and I can send men in my place.” Robert walked close to him and signaled Sandor to leave the room. He bowed and obeyed, he stood behind the door as Robert yelled at Joffrey. 

The rumors after your celebration had spread throughout the entire kingdom. A rumor that had the council worry. Sandor decided to walk to the armory of the castle. Knowing since Joffrey was going to go, he will have too as well. Sandor isn't afraid of war, he has been in them since he was kid. He looked at the swords and the shields hanging on the walls. 

“Sandor.” He turns when he hears you behind him. You were standing by the entrance. He looks away from you. “Have I angered you so much that you won't even look at me?” Sandor doesn't know what to say.

“I'm truly sorry for whatever I have done. I'm sorry.” He made no response because you were going to leave soon. The prince from Drone had gone back home to start preparing for your arrival and the wedding. You looked happy with the prince, he couldn't take that away from you. Not after he broke you, he tells himself. 

“At least look at me before I leave. I wish to see you one more time.” Sandor shuts his eyes when he feels your hand on his arm. He turns to you and looks down at you. He won't say anything but he will look at you, giving you your last wish before you leave. 

“I want to hate you.” Sandor’s eyes shot open at your words. You gave him a face and repeated it again. 

“I want to hate you. I should hate you.” You cried out slapping his chest with all your might.

“Hate me then.” Sandor said, grabbing a hold of your wrists and holding them. 

“You’re a fucking coward, you know that.” You hissed at him trying to pull away from him but he kept his grip on you tight. Sandor laughs at your face, “Coward, you say.” 

“The coward is your fucking brother.” Sandor said, making you shake your head. 

“He isn't my brother. He's my half brother. I'm nothing like him.” You snapped at him and Sandor pushed you against the wall. He released your wrists and caged you with his arms. 

“You aren't.” Sandor whispered as he stared at you. You don't flinch when he brings his hand to touch your cheek. 

“You ain't nothing like them. Not like your mother who fucks her brother. Not like your devil of a brother. You're kind. You're good, so good.” You held on to his arms as he touched your cheek, you missed his touch. 

“You bring that good to Drone, you hear me. Don’t fucking change.” Sandor tells you softly, making you frown. “I don't want to go to Drone. I want to stay here with you. You made me do this. You made me do it. I did it for you so you wouldn't get punished.” Sandor steps away from you and you quickly go to the entrance, blocking his path. 

“I did it for you because I love you, Sandor Clegane. We still have a chance. We can still run away.” Sandor looks at you with hope for a second. 

“I have to get ready for the battle. I'm going with your brother.” You looked so distraught by this news. 

“Leave with me, please. Right now.” Sandor shook his head at you. “If I leave before the battle, they will know. They will look for me. Joffrey will have my head.” 

“Joffrey has never gone to any battle before. I don't even think he knows how to swing a sword. Why is he even going?” You asked and Sandor looks at you with furrowed brows. 

“You don't know?” He asked you. “I would have thought Little Finger would have told you already.” 

“Told me what?” Sandor stared at you. “The people want you to be their queen. Not your bastard brother.” You stared at him shocked. 

“I don't understand. The realm will never accept a woman on the throne.” You told him, making him shake his head. 

“That was before, now they would rather have you on it. They want you. They have started calling you the rightful heir to the throne. You have done more than Joffrey. Your father is taking him tomorrow to the battle so the people in the realm can see him.” Sandor told you. 

“That day..” Sandor stops in mid and grabs your hand with his. “You should have seen them. Robert saw they loved you but he didn't realize how much. Then you gave your hand out to that man, to help him. A princess helping a commoner. The street started to shout your name and they called you the true heir. The rumor that Cersei and Jamie tried so hard to cover has exploded. The people started to shout bastard at the sight of Joffrey.” 

“My father doesn't believe them, though?” You asked. “ I don't know. The council suggested for him to take Joffrey. He has to do this because half of the army is on your side now.” You frowned. 

“They will serve for the true heir of the throne. A true Baratheon.” 

Sandor felt you grasp his hand and pull him closer to you. “After the battle then? I thought I could go to Drone without you but I can't. My heart refuses to leave you behind.” 

“I won’t watch you marry him.” Sandor said, making you chuckle. “I'm not marrying him. The moment I'm on the road I'm escaping.” 

Sandor frowned as you told him your plan to escape. “You're crazy. You won't survive by yourself.” 

“I only need to survive until I make it 100 miles from Winterfell. Eddard Stark has granted me safe haven until I figure out where to go.” 

“You believe him?” Sandor shouts in disbelief. “He knows of us.” Sandor is left speechless. 

“After the celebration, I was walking in the gardens. I never felt more alone that day. He found me crying, we spoke about what happened with the crowd and it just slipped out. He swore to me he wouldn't say a word. All I have to do is send a raven and he has promised to meet me halfway to escort me back to Winterfell.” 

‘If it's a trap?” Sandor asked angrily. “I don't care. As long as I'm with you.” You answered him. 

“I’ll leave you now. My offer still stands. You will make me the happiest woman if you do come with me, I’ll wait after the battle. I don't know what I have done to you. What I have said but I'm sorry and I love you. I will always love you, Sandor. If this was all just a ruse so you can get your dick wet then enjoy your whore and farewell.” 

Sandor screamed at himself as he watched you walk away. He wanted to run after you. His feet remained glued to the floor. ‘Whore?’ he asked himself. ‘What whore?’ You were the last person he's been with, your lips were the last he has kissed. Sandor manages to break free and begins to walk out of the room and down the hallway. He looks both ways in hope to see you. He's about to walk to your chambers when he hears Joffrey behind him, coming to a halt he turns to see the prince.

“Father, has lost his mind, Dog! He wants us to go tonight. Says I need the experience.” Sandor watches as Joffrey walks towards him with a frown. 

“All because of my bitch sister!” Joffrey yelled. Sandor’s jaw clenched. “This is all because of her. I hate her.” 

“The realm wants a whore who fucks second born sons sitting on the throne.” Joffrey spawned out with hatred. 

Sandor's body has been acting on its own. First holding his feet froze as you left and now his hand is resting on the hilt of his sword. He stared at Joffrey as he tightened his grip on it while Joffrey kept calling you a whore. With one swing, he can kill Joffrey and go to your room. Both of you could run away, go to Winterfell then go to Braavos. He will be free and tell you everything. He will tell you everything and he will be happy. 

Sandor wants to be happy with you. 

“Prince Joffrey!” Sandor drops his hand when Jamie comes walking towards them. “Your horse is ready. We leave now. Your father is waiting for you.” Jamie told him. 

“Very well.” Joffrey answers and signals Sandor to come with him. 

You were looking out the window when you saw your father walking to the stable. You frown when you see the knights do the same. You thought they would leaving tomorrow. You ran out of your chambers and searched for your servants. You found her looking out the balcony outside of your chambers. 

“What's happening?” You asked her and she told you Robert decided to get to the field early so they can have an advantage. 

“The rest of the army will join them at morrow.” She said before walking you back to your chambers. You drank tea that night, trying to ease the unwell feeling in your stomach. You paid no mind to it, you had to get ready to leave. You couldn't sleep that night, the thought of Sandor on the field with your half-brother. Knowing Joffrey, he would make Sandor protect him while he hides away. Packing a light bag the next morning, you grabbed the letter to Eddard Stark. Quickly walking out, you noticed your servants and the guards down the hallway were gone. How strange, it was. 

Out of breath from running, you watched as the raven flew with the letter attached to its leg. You prayed it would make it in time. Walking out of the room, you heard yelling. Making your way to the kitchen, you saw the cooks huddle together as they looked out the door. 

“What's going on?” You asked and they yelped in surprise. They greeted you with a small bow. 

“Tell me at once, what's happening?” You asked worriedly. 

“It's the other knights princess. They don't want to go! They refuse to fight with your bastard brother.” One of the cooks gasped when she let out the word bastard. 

“Forgive me, pri-” You cut her off by shaking your head. “I know, I know all about it.” You told them, making their eyes widen. 

“It's true.” You said with a nod. “But my father still needs them to win this war.” You said pushing the cooks out of the way with the small bag over your shoulder. 

You can hear them shouting for you to come back. Making your way to the stable, you saw the stable boy. You begged him to prepare a horse for you, you were in dire need to get to the rest of the knights who were refusing to go and fight. The stable boy and the cooks watched as you began to ride to the front gates of King’s Landing. 

You saw the golden armor of the King’s guard, it was Jamie second in command. He was arguing with one of the knights as they stayed still. The moment they saw you, they froze. “Princess,” the second in command bowed. 

“Why haven't they moved? The battle can be happening now and my father and Sa-” You stopped yourself, you were going to say Sandor’s name. They couldn't know why you were doing this. 

“We won't fight with that bastard Joffrey.'' One of the knights yelled and the rest cheered.   “How dare you call the heir to the throne a bastard!” Jamie’s second in command yelled. 

“He’s right.” You said and he looked over at you, shocked by what you said. You would have to tell them the truth. It was the only way to help Sandor and your father. Without them, you fear the war will be lost. Gripping the reins of the horse tightly, you took a deep breath and looked over at the knights ahead of you.

“You are all right!” You yelled with all your might. 

“Joffrey is a bastard. His father is Jaime Lannister. You won’t fight for him but I beg you to fight for me. Fight for me!” You cried out. 

“And when we win this war against Stannis, I will speak with my father. If what you say is true, you want me to be your queen. I’ll do it! I’ll be your queen and I'll rule the seven kingdoms with fairness and with just. You will no longer be hungry, no longer shall you worry about how to survive because I will be your queen. A true Baratheon will sit on the Iron Throne. Will you fight this war for me?!” 

You let out a deep breath when they shouted amongst themselves. 

“FOR THE FUTURE QUEEN!! FOR THE FUTURE QUEEN!” 

Jamie’s second in command was astounded as the knights began to get on their horses. “Will you stand by my side as we bring them to my father?” You asked him with hope he will accept. 

He nodded at you. “For our future Queen.” 

Sandor felt like he was sinking under water and his head was ringing. He didn’t see that knight coming at him. Too busy keeping Joffrey safe. His helmet was long gone, he used it to break someone's jaw when he dropped his sword.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Robert’s army should’ve been here. Stannies had decided to attack the moment they saw Robert’s army coming at dawn. Sandor felt Joffrey behind him. Jamie had shouted for the rest of the remaining king’s guard to hold their post. 

“Dog!” Joffrey’s voice echoed in his mind. 

He felt Joffrey hitting Sandor’s on the back. Sandor looked over his shoulder and grabbed Joffrey’s Valyrian steel sword from his hand and swung it across the man near him. Joffrey's mouth dropped open when Sandor completely decapitated the man’s head in one single blow. 

“JOFFREY!” Jamie yelled.  Sandor watched his back as Jamie yelled at Joffrey to go back to base. They had to retreat, they were losing men by the minute. 

“Where’s your father?” Sandor growled as he looked ahead, ready for anyone to get near with Joffrey’s sword in his hand. “I don’t know. You keep this.” Jamie said, handling Joffrey a dagger. 

“I’m not going back.” Joffrey hissed at his uncle. Jamie frowned, “There are not enough men. We have to retreat.” 

“Take him with you.” Sandor snapped at Jamie as a group of men started to head towards them. Jamie grabbed Joffrey by the neck ignoring his shouts to release him. 

Sandor can hear the galloping behind him. Sandor let out a deep breath as he relaxed his nervousness. Sandor Clegane was nervous, he didn’t think he would survive this time. The cut on his arm hurts like a bitch. His head is ringing, he could have sworn he saw a glimpse of you on a horse, the horse is standing on the far edge of a cliff across the field. 

Sandor was so busy looking at you, he didn’t see the man coming at him. Before he could see the man, a horse passed him, taking the man down. The rider had stabbed the man in the head. 

“Clegane.” Robert shouted as he rode towards him. Robert had just saved him. 

Before he could answer, there was a horn that caused them to stop for a second. Robert had sweat dripping down his forehead, blood of his enemies was dripping down his armor. He looks across the field and his dark eyes widened when he saw the other half of his army riding in. There was hope that they would win this war. In the corner of his eyes, he saw two horses standing by the cliff. He saw it was the second in command of the King’s guard and you. You’re on a white horse, staring down at the field. A smile appeared on his tired face, you, his daughter had brought his knights to him. 

They won the war because of you. Robert and his men rode back to base. He frowned when he saw Joffrey's horse standing by the King's tent. 

“Where’s my son?!” He shouted. Robert noticed the angry look on the knights' faces when Joffrey walked out of the tent. Joffrey stood still when he saw Robert getting off his horse and walking towards him. 

“Where were you? You hid?” Robert shouted. Joffrey glared about to say something when they heard the rest coming. Joffrey was seething when he saw you riding first into base with the second in command. The army you brought rode behind you. 

Robert watched as you rode near him. Without a single thought, Robert helped you get down off of your horse. The knights around you stood up from their seats. 

“I had to do it. It was the only way for them to come.” You whispered to Robert, looking at Joffrey by the tent. 

“Do what?” Robert asked, cupping your face. 

“They came here because they fought for me, father. I must tell you something and you have to believe me. Please, let’s go inside.” You said grabbing your father’s hand and tugging him to the tent. 

“What are you doing here?” Joffrey yelled as he walked towards you. “This has nothing to do with you.” You said taking a step back when you saw the craziness in his eyes. 

“Father-.” “Pleas-.” 

Robert hushed both of you as the knights began to shout amongst themselves. “Go inside. I’ll be back to discuss this matter.” Robert tells you before walking to the group of knights. 

You passed Joffrey and walked into the tent. “You just had to be here.” 

You ignored Joffrey and stood at the far end of the tent. “Just because you brought the rest of the army, you think you’re better than me?” Joffrey asked as he came to the table where the maps were laid out. 

“You’re nothing, sister. I count the days where you leave for Drone. I pray to the gods you get sick on your travels and die.” You look at Joffrey. 

“Fuck you.” You spat at him and there was a look of pure anger in his eyes. It scared you because you never saw him like this. 

“He’s dead, you know.” Joffrey said, walking around the table trying to get closer to you. 

“What?” Joffrey nods at you with a smile. “I saw that fucking dog you love so much go down. The sword was rammed in his chest.” You felt your chest tighten by Joffrey’s words. You shook your head, not believing it. Sandor was a good fighter, one of the best swordsmen in the seven kingdoms. 

“You’re lying!” You yelled and walked further away from Joffrey. 

“Then go out to the field and see him for yourself. He’s dead. He did his job to protect me. You can have him back now. I have no use for him anymore.” Joffrey lied to get that reaction he’s been craving. He smiled when he saw you crying. 

“No!” You cried as you covered your mouth. You’re about to walk out of the tent to see it for yourself. “You aren’t going anywhere.” Joffrey screamed and grabbed a hold of your arm, pulling you back inside. 

He pushed you against the table and you let out a whimper when you felt the cold steel of his dagger under your chin. 

“Tell me the truth? Is he really dead?” Joffrey just sighs at you as he pushes the tip of the dagger under your chin making you wince. He smiles when he sees he cut your skin, a trail of blood starts to run down the blade of his dagger. 

“He is dead. You want to know what his last words were?” Joffrey asked with a smile as tears ran down your face. 

“He said. Fuck the whore princess.” Joffrey laughed at you. Joffrey's smile disappeared when you slapped him across the face making him cry out. 

“Fuck you! You fucking bastard.” You yelled at him. Joffrey growled and you let out a gasp when you felt Joffrey’s hand hold your shoulder. 

Looking at Joffrey’s face, you felt frozen for a moment. The anger on his face washed away and a look of panic came across his face. He took a step back and looked down at your chest. Following his gaze, you looked down and saw the hilt of the dagger. Taking a breath, the pain came rushing through you. He stabbed you in the chest with the dagger. Joffrey shook his head as he looked at you. 

“Joffrey.” You cry out and fall down on your knees as you cry out in pain. Joffrey ran out of the tent leaving you behind. You were left alone, you looked down to see blood start to stain the front of your dress. You can feel the blood flowing down your body, you let out a moan of pain with each breath you took. 

You didn’t even hear the commotion outside of the tent as you fell to the ground on your back. You stared at the ceiling of the tent as you cried. Your vision grew blurry, you didn’t hear someone coming in. You didn’t hear the shouts and the sound of someone walking inside. Blinking the tears, you were met with your father’s face. You see his lips moving but no words are coming out. 

You feel so cold now. You let out a groan when you felt someone grabbing a hold of you. Robert started to cry as he held you in his arms. 

Robert shook his head when he saw you were trying to speak but blood started to come out of the corner of your mouth.  He flinched when you started to cough up blood.  The only thing you can do is stare up at him. You were dying and it brought tears to your eyes. You were dying and he wouldn’t know what happened. Robert felt your hand on his cheek as you used all the strength you had left in you. 

“Joff- ery.” Robert frowned when you spoke. "Joffrey."

“Jof-fery did it. H-he is a-a bastard.” You cried as your vision grew dark. “He is a bastard.” Robert felt you go limp in his arms after you said those words. 

He calls out your name as he picks your head up. Something broke Robert in half and he relived the day he was told that Lyanna Stark was murdered. A scream came from inside the tent that made Robert’s army freeze. They all saw how the prince came running out bumping into his father. Robert had commanded Joffrey to stay put and that he will have a word with him after he spoke with you. Jamie yelled at Joffrey to come back when he saw Joffrey mounting the nearest horse. Joffrey rode out as Sandor came walking with a group, he had retrieved his sword and walked back to the base. He stopped when he saw Joffrey riding away and looked ahead when he heard a scream. 

Sandor quickly walked to the white horse he saw you on. He began to breathe quickly when he saw you weren’t on it. He looked around and flinched when he heard Robert’s scream once more. Everyone looked at the tent, all frozen because they never heard Robert scream like this. Sandor shouted your name, not caring what people would think or say. He had to find you. He shouted once more before walking inside of the tent passing Jamie. 

Sandor froze when he entered. He took a step back bumping into Jamie. The King Slayer gasped when he saw the sight of Robert holding your dead body in his arm. Robert sobbed against your neck. Sandor watched how your body trembled with each sob Robert made. Your eyes were open and staring at ceiling. Arms flared out, blood started to pool on the ground and cover Robert’s armor but he didn’t care. Your father held you in his arms. 

Jamie saw the dagger in your chest when Robert pulled away from you to move your hair out of your face. 

“Where is he?” Robert hissed. Sandor and Jamie remained silent. “Where is that blonde bastard?” The look of absolute fear appeared on Jamie’s face. 

The knights outside quickly hushed down when they saw Sandor walk out of the tent. He dragged his sword on the ground as he walked to the nearest tree. Dropping the sword completely he ignored the questions thrown at him. They all looked at themselves when they saw The Hound with tears rolling down from his face. Sandor was in complete shock. His bottom lip trembled as he cried. 

“Where is he?” Robert shouted in the tent and Jamie came out walking backwards. Robert had his sword aimed at him.

“This is a mistake. Joffrey wouldn’t do this.” Jamie explained but the look in Robert’s eyes. Jamie knew it was no use, Robert wanted revenge. 

“Arrest him.” Robert yelled looking at his men. “Wait-this has nothing to do with me.” Jamie yelled as they tackled him down to the ground. Sandor looked over his shoulder when he heard Robert. 

“The person who brings me Joffrey Lannister will be rewarded.” Robert's words rang out and the sound of Jamie screaming no was all that Robert needed. You told him the truth. A few knights had begun to ride back to King’s Landing. 

Joffrey was indeed a bastard. 

Sandor felt like an empty shell as he rode back to King's Landing. The cut on his arm was numbed, the banging in his head was nothing compared to the emptiness he felt in his heart. His blood shot eyes were glued to the wagon a few feet in front of him. Robert rode his horse as he led another with a wagon attached to it. He laid you there when they started to get ready to ride back. The knights that stayed bowed their heads when Robert came out of the tent with you in his arms. Robert covered you with a blanket, his hands shook as he checked you were strapped in. 

Sandor can see the outline of your body, your body moved whenever there was a bump in the road. He had shut his eyes when he saw the blood seeping through the blanket. Robert decided to ride through the gates of the back of the castle. The servants and stable boys were all waiting to tend the wounded and the horses. Robert got off his horse and saw Cersei walking towards him with a frown when she noticed Jamie was chained. 

“What is the meaning of this? Joffrey has barricaded himself in his room. He won’t open the door. My brother has been arrested.” Cersei yelled at him. She was met with a slap across her face that made her fall to the ground. 

“Is Joffrey mine?” Robert asked, looking down at her. Cersei’s eyes widened in surprise but she hid it with a look of anger. 

“Don’t you fucking lie to me.” Cersei flinched under his gaze and looked away. She looked ahead at his horse and noticed a wagon with a body on it. 

“That bastard killed my daughter.” Robert yelled, grabbing Cersei by the hair and dragged her to the wagon. Cersei yelled in pain as he dragged her over. Robert ripped the blanket off of your body and pushed Cersei down on her knees in front of you. All she did was stare as the servants behind her scream in terror at the sight of you. Your servants began to cry and fell on their knees from shock. 

Cersei just stared in shock, Robert grew angry when she didn't show any emotions. Cersei yelped when Robert grabbed a hold of her blonde hair again. Jamie screamed across from, screaming at Robert to let her go. 

“Your grace, what's the meaning of this?” Jon Arryn, the hand of the King said as he walked along with the maester to Robert. 

Jon Arryn froze when he saw you. He looked at Robert and at Cersei on the floor. Robert kept staring at her as Jon started to yell at everyone to leave. The stable boys grabbed the horses and brought them to the stables while the servants tried to cover their cries. 

“Chain her with her brother.” Robert told Jon Arryn. The news of your death was not announced until two days later. Those two days seemed to be a nightmare to most. Robert had caused a rampage in the castle. Jamie and Cersei Lannister were arrested. Robert had the doors of Joffrey’s chambers broken down and the knights grabbed a hold of the blonde boy. They found him hiding under his bed. He screamed with all his might as they dragged him down the hall. Tommen and Marcella were kept guarded in the Red Keep, they had Jon Arryn to thank for. Robert had become ruthless and wanted every Lannister executed including the children. 

Sandor stayed in his room those two days. He locked himself. He ignored the shouts and the screams from Joffrey who was being dragged to the dungeons. He ignored the knocks from your servants. He didn’t want to see anyone. He didn’t want to speak to anyone. He laid on his bed, covering his face with his pillow as he sobbed. He screams into the pillow trying to cover the sound. He cried until he fell asleep and woke up to do it all over again. 

He shouted at the person to fuck off when he heard a knock on the third day. His throat was sore from the screams. 

“It’s me, Sandor. It’s Ned Stark.” Sandor froze as Ned knocked once more. “I need to speak with you.” Sandor rose up from his bed and walked to the door. 

Sandor notices Ned has been crying as well. His eyes were red and he let the lord walk inside. Ned walked in, looking at the room before looking back at Sandor.

“Did she tell you-.” Sandor cuts Ned off with a nod as he shuts the door. 

“Very well then. I’m sure she didn’t tell you but she wanted me to tell you in case the plan fell through. She wanted me to give you a place in Winterfell, if you want too. Since Joffrey is still kept in the dungeon, you can come back with us after the funeral. I will arrange for some of my men to escort you to Winterfell unseen.” Sandor frowned. 

“She asked you?” Ned nodded with a small smile. “She knows you've been treated unfairly by Joffrey. She wrote to me before her death, in case something happened to please have a place for you. She loved you, I didn’t understand it at first but the way she spoke about you. She called you a good man, a man with honor.” 

Sandor shook his head. “I’m not a good man. I broke her heart because Joffrey threatened to have us exposed. He threatened to have her executed for being with me. For being with a dog, a second born son. It’s my fault she died. It’s all my fault.” Ned watched in silence as Sandor sat down on his bed and covered his face with his hands. 

“You didn’t kill her. Joffrey did. It’s not your fault. In the end, I know for a fact she knew you still loved her. She had to know because why would she send me a letter asking for safe haven for you if she couldn’t make it.” 

“The Lannister's trial will start soon. I don’t know about you but I can’t wait to see their faces. Robert's decision is final on them.” Ned told him and left the room leaving Sandor in his thoughts. 

The trial ended with Jamie and Tyrion sent to the wall for their remaining days, it was thanks to their father, Tywin Lannister. He had rode to King’s landing demanding for his children's freedom but at the end. Tywin had begged for his sons to not be executed. 

“Kill all the bastards, for all I care.” Tywin said, ignoring Cersei's cries. “And your whore daughter?” 

Tywin looked at Robert and picked a decision that will haunt him for the rest of his life. “Do what you like, your grace. This is the last time she will tarnish the Lannister's name.” 

Before the trial ended, Robert called out for Tywin. “Take your sons to the wall, Lord Lannister and stay there with them.” Tywin’s face fell, all the Lannister's were punished for Joffrey’s doing. 

For the first time, the people in King’s Landing didn’t push and shove to see you or touch you. They stood in silence, some cried and others just watched as the knights carried your body in an open carriage. You laid on a bed of flowers, you wore a black and golden color dress as a tribute to your House. Your hands laid on top of your stomach as you laid there peacefully. 

Making it to the Red Keep, the knights carried you inside where the realm can give you their last goodbye to you. Everyone had gone home when Sandor visited you. He dropped his shoulders and he felt the tears well up in his eyes at the sight of you laying so still in the middle of the keep. Lit candles surrounded you and you had golden coins laid on top your eyes. He removed his sword and wineskin from his belt, placing it by the wall as he walked towards you. 

His hands shook as he tried to reach for your hand. He flinched when he felt how cold you were and stiffed. He grabbed it, ignoring it and bringing it up to his lips. 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles against your knuckles. “I’m sorry, Princess.” He cries out. After a few minutes, Sandor clears his throat after saying his goodbyes to you. “I’m not going to Winterfell. We were supposed to go together.” He gently puts your hand back in place.

Before Sandor leaves, he looks down at you once more. “I love you. I will always love you.” 

Grabbing his sword and wineskin, he shuts the doors behind and walks down the steps of the Red Keep, he ignores the two bodies stung up across from him. He had no need to see Joffrey and Cersei again. He walked to the stable to find Ned and his men. Sandor walked to Stanger, giving his head a rub before looking at Ned. 

“Are you sure?” The Lord of Winterfell asked him. Sandor nodded at him. 

“He just needs some time when it comes to new people. He’s a war horse, fast and strong.” Ned nodded before reaching his hand out for Stranger to smell it. 

“We will take good care of him. Rob, my oldest needs a good horse. I swear Stranger will be well taken care of.” Sandor gives Ned the reins of Stranger and pats him once more as goodbye. Sandor watches as Ned and his men begin to travel back to the North. He wasn't worry about giving Stranger away, Sandor knew Ned will be true to his word. Stranger will be taken care of by his new owner.  

Sandor doesn't tell anyone where he’s going off too. He walks out of King's Landing and walks through the forest to the edge of the cliff where he saw the sun was setting. Removing his sword and wineskin, he sits down and leans back against the tree as he remembers the sound of your laughter. This is the place, the place where you kissed him for the first time. You had managed to convince him to take you out after being cooped up in the castle. He was sitting on a rock as you gave him a wineskin out of your bag. It was out of nowhere but you had walked towards him catching him by surprise and you were at the perfect height to kiss him. 

Sandor grabs the wineskin he brought and brings it up to his nose to smell it. He looks ahead at the scenery with a smile. Maybe it was the gods showing him a vision, or perhaps it was all in his head but he can see himself with you at the same spot on the rock where you kissed him. He had returned those kisses, gathering you up in his arms and both of you stayed there for a while. He forced himself to drink the wine as he stared ahead watching the sunset. He wanted to be with you. Throwing the empty wineskin, he looks down at his hands. His eyesight blurred and he looked up to find himself back in your room. 

“Your hands are huge, Sandor.” He looks to his right to see you under the covers, naked. He notices the look on your face, the love bites on your chest were fresh. He lets you grab a hold of hand and compares it with yours.

“My hands aren’t not huge. You're just small.” Sandor comments as you raise his hand with your up in the air as the sunlight of the morning shined through the window of your chambers. Sandor had grabbed your hand and rolled over on top of you making you laugh as he kissed your neck. 

Ser Gregor stood next to Sandor’s body. They finally found him after four days later when he received news of Sandor's disappearance. His men found him, found his body laying against a tree, with the sun beaming down on him. One of his men brought the wineskin near Sandor's body to Ser Gregor. Bringing it up to his nose, Ser Gregor makes a face when he smells the poison. 

“Let’s take him back home.” Ser Gregor said, looking down at his younger brother one more time. It's the first time he had seen his brother so at peace. Sandor had died with a smile on his face.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

<- Chapter 2

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[sugar-lolya]

Anything can be cured.

Sandor Cligan x reader

(Hello dear reader. I am a newbie writer, why don't judge harshly:) I hope the story came out not bad for the first time. But I will be glad to all your comments (recommendations/advice), which I will take into account in the future. I won't keep you any longer, have a nice read.)

Chapter 1

The North is cold and harsh. Many newcomers cannot even live there, let alone stay. The Northerners are the only ones who can survive in this chilling cold. And they are led by the equally great Stark family, who have ruled the North for hundreds of years. But sometimes you don't have to be born a Stark to be one....

......

Winterfell Castle. It stands on a hot spring, and the water runs down its mighty walls like blood through your veins. It is as old as the wall that towers over all of Westeros. But the castle has not been abandoned for so long. On the contrary, it is teeming with life.

The fierce clang of swords sounds in the courtyard, accompanied by cheering shouts, the neighing of horses and the howling of the harsh North wind. Inside the castle there is the usual bustle, everyone is busy with business. Even the lord's children, the boys are practicing swordsmanship. And the girls are working in the upper room at the top of the tower.

-Aunt Kris, please tell one of those 'camping' stories again, I can't stand this nasty embroidery class. I'm worse at it than Sansa anyway. - a nine year old girl whimpered, if she had her way, this would be the last place she'd show up. Her interests were at odds with those of other little girls. She didn't like embroidery or playing with dolls, but she enjoyed shooting, swordfighting, and horseback riding. But none of those things were available to her.

-"Arya, my girl, you've heard these stories thirty times, and the septa doesn't like it when I tell them to you. You know how she feels about cruelty and violence, and my stories are full of it,” the girl replied, keeping her eyes on her embroidery: she was holding her own cloak, which she had been working on for weeks. It showed Winterfell, flanked by a dark gray draug and a fox. Most of the fur was white as snow, except for the ears, paws, and tip of the tail. They were black as night, and the eyes were like two small pieces of ice, just like the owner of the cloak. She didn't really like embroidery, but it was better than dealing with the colors and patterns she had left behind.

The girl turned around, looking at the elderly woman, Septa Mordain, once again praising the work of the eldest Stark daughter. A dozen girls crowded around Sansa, also praising her embroidery. Only Arya and Crystal did not participate in this “henhouse,” as the little Lady Stark called it.

Rolling her eyes, the girl turned around, turning her gaze back to her aunt: - "Please!" - Arya whispered, making her expression as pitiful as she could.

Crystal sighed, put the embroidery aside and raised her hands in surrender with a smile: "Okay, okay, but just one last time. So, what story does my little she-wolf want to hear this time?" - The girl sat closer and gently touched the girl's hair.

-"That one about you and your father,"- Arya's eyes lit up, and she fidgeted nervously in her seat as she waited for the story to be told.

"A long time ago, when your father was about ten years old and he had just become a student of John Arena at the Eagle's Nest. One day, he and his friend Robert went hunting in the nearby forest. Of course, they weren't allowed to go alone, and they sent a whole squad with them to help with the hunt. Your father didn't like such senseless noisy gatherings, so he separated from the group and went hunting on his own. At some point, Ned heard a strange sound that was not typical of the forest. He headed in that direction and came across a stream flowing down from one of the many mountains. He looked around and saw a basket being carried along the stream, and from it came the sound of a child crying. He dropped all his weapons and rushed into the stream in front of him without hesitation. At the last moment, he managed to grab the basket and pull it out. He returned, clutching the basket tightly in his hands. I stopped crying and looked at my savior's face with interest. Soon Robert and his servants found him and took him back to the Eagle's Nest. Already there, Ned called me Stark and gave me the name Crystal, after the color of my white skin and light brown hair"… Her story was interrupted by Arya's scream.

-"And my father said that he named you after your eyes, because they looked like crystal clear waters."- The girl blurted it out in one breath and looked at her aunt with a satisfied look, but the smile quickly disappeared when she saw the expression on her face.

Crystal looked very gloomy, thoughtfully staring at the wall. Arya realized that she had blurted out too much and was already thinking hard about the words of apology. When suddenly Septa called out to them,- "Arya, show me what you've done!" - The woman came over and snatched the work out of her hands. -" Again, everything is crooked and askew, your hands are not made for sewing, these are the hands of a carpenter."

Crystal looked up at the septa and crossed her arms over her chest in protest. As she approached, she snatched Arya's work out of the old woman's hands and began to study each stitch carefully. -" I don't think so, she has potential, but if you notice only the bad in your work every time, then you will never get good." - putting the embroidery on the table and taking her finished cloak, Crystal left the room, Arya jumped out after her. The septa's scream echoed throughout the tower. Upon hearing it, Arya distills the Crystal and gets lost in the countless corridors of Winterfell.

On the move, putting on a cloak, the girl leaves the tower and goes to the Godswood. After passing through the high arch, Crystal saw her brother Lord sitting on a stone under one of the weirwood trees. Coming closer, she nodded in greeting and sat down next to him. Eddard was diligently sharpening his family's sword "Ice". None of them dared to interrupt the silence, because they did not want to end the already few moments of calm.

After a while, Catelyn joined them. The expression on her face and the black letter in her hands did not bode well. As she got closer, she hesitated, trying to find the words. -" Ned, Crystal… bad news has come from King's Landing, I'm very sorry, John Arryn died… "- there was a tense silence, people sitting in mute horror stared at Catelyn. -" I know how important he was to you because you grew up with him, and he replaced your father with a Crystal… But there is something else in the letter… The King and his family are going north to Winterfell to visit you." - Catelyn gave the letter to Ned so that he would be convinced of the truth of his words. Looking at each other, the brother and sister smiled slightly. They had a good relationship with Robert, and as children, Ned and Robert took care of the newborn Crystal.

To be continued…