She wants to stay a child.
She lays on her back upon a cloak in a summer's snow with her dress riding up her legs. She swings her thighs side to side to a silent melody and picks at the spots of white-flecked grass by their roots. Lord Eddard sits above her, sharpening the Valyrian steel of his house. The honourable Lord Stark, a man that would sell his daughters for the sake of an alliance, another political friendship or maybe for a couple of wineskins and a tourney, thought Sandor. Stark manoeuvres his girls about in the game of thrones as though they were empty bodies, devoid of prerogative and protected once under the cloak of another man.
Fucking fool, thought Sandor.
Sandor rests his forehead against the white trunk, adjusting his shoulders so that he remains hidden when Lord Stark's snaps his head in his direction.
He had arrived at Winterfell as a part of the King's escort the previous day. They were in search of a new Hand to the King, but by the prattling of the Prince you'd think they were on their way to meet the Maiden made flesh. He had endured the Prince's drivel about auburn hair and a cunt kissed by fire for the weeks spent travelling to the North. Sandor knew of the Starks. They took a pride in their royal lineage, but lacked a lust for the power that had made crooked the Lannisters. One house or the other, however, they were all fucked by their love of all things knightly, all things "honourable". So long as they had their little codes and rules, they were all fucked.
Sandor looked once again at the child on the cloak.
No doubt she dreamed of her Prince, of their sweet marriage and sweet little children. To look upon her, there could be no doubt that her babes would be beautiful. It would only be that instance, however, in which the girl's expectations would reconcile with reality. Sandor studied the sway of her thighs, the song she sung for none but herself.
She wants to stay a child.
They would set off for the Lion's den in a week. He would have to unspin the lies her mind were tangled in, tell her of the brutality of the world in King's Landing if she were to protect herself from the Queen and the shit of a Prince. He would have to wretch her from her innocence and throw her into the disgusting shit-stained world if she were to learn. Maybe then she'd plead with her father to break her betrothal. Perhaps she could stay in the North.
He took one last look at the swaying thighs and sloped back to his pallet.
The clank of Ser Meryn's gauntlet was making the bones in her back quiver. The little shadows cast by her shoulder blades were dancing in the centre of her back to the beat of his armour. Sansa was somewhere between skipping and walking in her attempts to meet the knight's strides. The Hound loomed behind. Every now and then she'd throw her hair back and her eyes would flicker to his own. One eye was bruised about the socket. Her neck bore Ser Meryn's handprint in a faint yellow. The Hound ignored her pleading eyes. He remained stoic and looked through her to the door ahead. When Sansa was once more looking ahead or at Ser Meryn, the Hound followed the shadows on her back, trying to measure her fear by the tempo of the dancing shadows.
The King was married to Magarey Tyrell, but he had proclaimed that Sansa were to be brought to him by nightfall. The girl had told the King she would be honoured to bring him pleasure. On hearing the words, Sandor had created a small dent in his gauntlet with the pressure of his clenched fist. Still blurting courtesies, still pacifying His Grace with vacuous sentiments. Of course, Sandor knew the truth. He had been with her the morning of her flowering. He had seen her take the dagger he had hidden astride her bed and plunge it into the mattress, striving to cut the redness out. Her hysteria had overwhelmed him. He had never seen her without her mask of pleasantries. She had not seen him but as the Hound. It was a strange meeting of the two. Sandor had grasped her hands in one of his own and squeezed hard enough to hurt her, to stop her. She had stilled and told him she wanted to die. He had whispered to her he was going to take her away. She hadn't smiled and instead had asked him to go. He did, returning with the queen after enough time had passed for her to regain her composure.
Her shoulders stopped quivering as Ser Meryn's footsteps halted outside of the King's chambers. The clunk of armour on wood echoed about the hall. The King called them inside. Sansa flicked her auburn hair one last time so that she could catch the Hound's eyes. He held her gaze and told her to do as she was bid. Ser Meryn grasped her chin and pulled her face toward his. He commanded her to walk. She did so with her face held high and her hands together in front of her belly, her Stark pride evident in her body if not in her chirping.
The King was sat on a high-backed wooden chair with one leg swung over its arm. A crossbow rested in his lap, already quivered. Three bloodied whores were sat on the floor by his feet. One had broken teeth. The King pointed at them and told both Ser Meryn and the Hound to use them as they wished. Ser Meryn joined the group at the King's feet, pulling one woman onto his lap and kissing another. The Hound remained behind Sansa, peering at the broken teeth of the lonely whore.
"My lady," began the King. "Would you like to join me?"
Joffery pointed to his left, indicating she sit at his feet on the other side of the whores.
She did as she was bid.
"Would you sing a song for me, Lady Sansa?"
The King's raised his nose and chin, as if in challenge to his Dog.
"I will sing whatever pleases His Grace,"
The King smiled.
"Hound, undress my Lady Sansa,"
The Hound stepped forward and knelt in front of Sansa. He hoisted her off the ground by her waist, twirling her so she faced the King. He pulled his dagger from its sheath. Sansa felt its cold point press against her spine. Tenderly, the blade followed her vertebrae until it made contact with her bodice. The Hound spliced the material in a single stroke so that the material peeled down her body in two, like the skin of a fruit leaving its flesh. He ran his finger down her spine, following the white scratch the dagger had left. Sandor stood and retreated, leaving her alone and at the King's feet. He looked for the dancing shadows on her back, but they weren't to be found.
"How does it feel to be the object of a King's fantasies?" Joffery murmured.
"I feel honoured, Your Grace."
"Tell me true, do you think of me when you're lying in your bed? When you're thinking of knights and maidens? When you're touching yourself, you wanton little traitor?"
The King spat the last words.
"Always, Your Grace."
"Sit on my knee. What do you think, Dog? Do you think the little slut thinks of me? Do you think I should allow her fantasies to be realised?"
Sansa stood and sat upon the boy King's knee. The King's hand snaked around her waist.
"You may do as you wish Your Grace, it means nay to me. Only, let me find a skin of sour red so I may take mine own pleasure tonight," he rasped, like saw on wood.
"Do as you wish, I'll have no need of your bark tonight. You'll be good to me, won't you my lady?"
"In every way I can be good to you, Your Grace."
"It must be said, Your Grace, before I take my leave. I don't think the Lady Sansa is being entirely truthful to you," The Hound started.
"Is that right?"
The King's grip became tight.
"The girl's moon blood is on her. She intends to dirty you. Look at her wantonness; she hopes to laugh at you with her trickery, the wolf-bitch,"
The King laughed, his lips stretching over his teeth so that they turned a pale ghost-like pink. He leaned close to Sansa's face. He took her lip into his mouth and snaked his tongue inside.
The Hound took a small step forward, his brow furrowed and his stoicism momentarily lost. He had seen the King's wrath light in his eyes.
The King bit down onto Sansa's bottom lip. She screamed and he held her flesh between his teeth, a croaked laugh creaking from his throat in small heaves. He tore a small piece of skin from her lip before spitting it onto her dress. Her mouth was filled with blood. He stood so that she fell to the concrete floor.
"Get the slut out of here and let her fantasise about her King for a week. I want her when she's clean and unwilling."
The Hound pulled Sansa against his chest and lifted her into his arms.
"And, my lady? Next time you lie to me, I'll cut your breasts off and enjoy them without having to listen to the shit that comes out of your pretty little mouth."
The Hound nodded and turned for the door. Sansa's head curled into the part of his body where the arm meets chest. She closed her eyes tight. The Hound walked as slowly as he could to her chambers, wanting her weight in his arms for as long a time as possible.
He laid her on her bed, calling for her handmaiden to tend to her lip. Before he could leave, Sansa gripped his hand.
"Do you think my lip will be scarred?" She sounded desperate. Her fingers shuffled nervously trying to find warmth of skin instead of the coolness of metal.
"Aye, perhaps," he growled.
"I hope so," she whispered back.
Perhaps she had learned something, Sandor thought.
My first attempt. I hope to make this a 10 chapter piece. Thanks!