Sansa is terrified that King Joffrey will be wanting her soon, but she cannot bear the thought of him being her first. She thinks of who she would rather give herself too. She is shocked to find her decision is only too easy.
Sansa
She had heard Joffrey speaking so often about coming into his manhood. How he was now a true king, a man in every way. She had also heard some of his knights joking that he was a man in every way but one. Unfortunately Joffrey had heard it too. She knew he would come for her for he shouted for the world to hear that their marriage would take place within the month and the consummation would occur the very night of the wedding, despite their age and their hatred for each other.
Sansa had gone to her bedroom and threw herself upon the bed, terror rooting itself deeply in her stomach. It was not the loosing of her virginity itself that bothered her so much. She had been preparing herself for that for some time, and it was years ago that she had felt the first stirring of desire in her stomach. It was knowing that Joffrey would not only have the satisfaction of becoming a man, but that he would be her first. She could not bear knowing that was the truth. Let Joffrey think he had deflowered her. She would know the truth.
She considered finding any guard willing to risk his skin for the future queen's cunt, but quickly tossed that idea to the side. She was above that. She was still a lady, no matter what else had happened to her or her family. Then she considered going to Littlefinger. The way he looked at her had always disturbed her, and she had just recently realized that when he looked at her with those hot, dark eyes, the stare that made her feel as if she was wearing no clothes, that he was indeed imagining her in no clothes.
But that also was not a sound plan. She could not give herself to Littlefinger. He was the one that betrayed her father she had managed to discover. He had been in love with her mother. That was why he stared at her so, and she found her stomach turning at the thought. It would be almost as bad as finding a random guard or giving herself to Joffrey pure. These thoughts only lasted a half a second before another name flashed itself before her eyes, searing into her brain.
As hard as she tried she could not rustle up the disgust and horror she knew she should feel. She tried to remember how ugly he looked, the terrible burnt flesh, the drooping eye and mangled lips. Could she really allow him to touch her body? She told herself he was a dog, a hound, and she was a lady. She was above him in every possible way. He had not even accepted a knighthood when it was offered to him. And good too, for he did not deserve it.
But as she thought of how she was above him, she had an image of him above her, in a completely different way. She felt her cheeks turn hot and her stomach flutter. Perhaps it was because he had saved her life, maybe it was because he tried to give her advice when he had the chance, regardless of whether she listened or not. What would his rough, dirty hands feel like on her soft, smooth skin? Would he accept her into his bed with the animalistic excitement of a dog? Would he tear off her clothing and mount her like a savage? Or perhaps he would be kind and gentle, whisper soft words into her ear.
Though she doubted the latter both images brought more heat to her cheeks. She shook her head. But was Joffrey better? When she imaged Joffrey she felt nothing of the heat between her legs, the redness in her cheeks. And the hound, brusque, cold and insulting, had taken care of her in a way that Joffrey had not. Maybe, for his goodness to her, he deserved this little reward.
Unless he ran to Joffrey and told him of her proposition. She chewed on her lips. Was it worth it? She did not know what the hound would do. She thought she was beautiful, she had been told so many times, and the hound sometimes looked at her the way Littlefinger did, though with less of a predatory glare in his eyes. He had to want her. She was young, pure and beautiful, and he old, scarred, and ugly. He was a dog and she was a lady. She got up and pulled her cloak up over her shoulders.
She moved as swiftly and as quietly as she could. Arya would no doubt be able to slip past everyone unseen, but she was not so skilled. Her legs moved on their own accord as her brain ordered her to turn back. The hound might not even be in his chambers and if he were not, and she were found standing around his rooms, what would people think? It would put them both in danger. But luckily he lodged in a quiet part of the castle where everyone minded their own business. With her cloak pulled up over her head everyone assumed she was a whore going to a client, not the future queen heading off to rob her king of her virginity.
She knocked on the door and swallowed hard. It was late and he was without a doubt off duty, but he might be out drinking or whoring. She had no way of knowing and she found herself praying to the gods that he was both there and away. She felt little beads of sweat break out over her forehead. Not Joffrey. Anyone but Joffrey.
She followed up her first knock quickly with another in short succession. Fast, rapid knocks with her knuckles, insistent and urging. She was in mid knock, her third round of wraps on the heavy door, when it flung open. The Hound stood before her, only his burnt flesh visible in the torch light. She looked over his face, her eyes widening as she arched her neck. Her resolve nearly faltered, and she almost turned to run, but she held herself still, straight, and proud.
"Little bird, you are far from your nest," he rasped and she saw him remove a hand from the hilt of his blade. He had clearly been expecting some sort of fight when he opened the door.
"May I enter, ser?" she asked and swallowed hard again. He frowned, his scarred flesh wrinkling grotesquely. Why did she feel the need to reach up and touch the degusting scare, and kiss his damaged eyelid?
"I am no ser, gods be damned," he grumbled and stepped to the side. She entered and felt her muscles tighten as he closed the door. "Have you come to sing me a song, little bird?"
"Would you like me to sing you a song?" she asked with a defiant tone and turned to face him. She watched him place his sword, in its sheath, on the table. The room was dark, lit by only the fire on the far side of the room. Other than that the room was sparse, empty and impersonal. It seemed the hound owned little.
"Have you offered the king a song yet tonight? Or do I have the honor of being the first?" he asked and her face burned. If she did not know better she would think he knew her scheme, but it was clear from his stance and his face he did not. He was only trying to get a rise from her, but she was here for other reasons. She took a deep breath and let out a little breath before pushing forward. Perhaps she could do this unlady like deed with the subtlety and class of a lady.
"I would prefer you be my first to the king," she answered smoothly. His eyebrows rose. He moved toward the first, his back to her for a moment. He turned to look at her and tilted his head to the side. She could now see only the unburnt flesh, the man he might have been.
"Is that so? You make me blush," he said and she knew he thought she had misspoke, that he could embarrass her with her own words. He did not know she meant exactly what she had said.
"The king means to marry me soon," she said and he nodded.
"Yes, I have heard. I was in the room when he made the announcement," he said plainly and she nodded, blushing slightly. Of course he knew.
"He will be wishing to consummate the marriage," she informed him softly. He was clearly unimpressed.
"As any man would," he said and she looked at him, licking her lips.
"I do not want to give him the satisfaction," she said and he gave her a mocking smile. He stepped to the side and his entire face was better illuminated, the handsome, and the scarred.
"You have little choice. A wife yields to her husband's wishes, little bird. If you wish to remain alive and unharmed, you will give him all that he wants."
"I mean… I do not wish to know he was my first. I know Joffrey must believe it," she breathed. "But I cannot let it happen."
She thought she saw the beginnings of understanding on his face but he was not allowing himself to believe it.
"And so you come here?" he asked, his eyes slowly moving down the length of her body and then back to her face.
"You have been kind to me," she started but he barked out a laugh.
"I? Kind to you? I simply do not like seeing a young girl beaten and ill treated. That is hardly a kindness." His voice reached her on the other side of the room, dark and raspy. She swallowed. She felt her pride slightly wounded. Why was he questioning this? Should he not be pleased? Should he not jump at this chance while he is being presented with it? Surely he understands. She lifted her chin a fraction of an inch in proud defiance.
"I am offering myself to you, dog," she snapped. "Or are you too daft to see that?"
"You assume I think you worth the risk, little bird," he said gravely. "My head, scarred though it is, is better left on my shoulders."
She felt her face burn with humiliation. He thought to send her away.
"I am worth the risk," she said defensively, but she knew she sounded like a little girl. He barked another laugh. He sat down on the chair and looked her over.
"Prove it little bird, and take off your dress for me," he said and she hesitated. Suddenly she did not want to remove her clothing. She did not want him to look at her. She only wanted him to take his pleasure and be done with it. This was not for him and it was not for her, it was so Joffrey would not get what he was after. Still, she pulled the ties of her cloak and draped it over a couch. "Go on little Bird," he urged. "If you truly wish for this old, burnt dog to have you, then take off your dress."
She saw what he was doing then. He thought she was playing with him and did not want to tip his hand. He wanted her. She could see it. By having her remove her dress he wasn't asking her to prove she was worth the risk, he wanted her to prove she was serious before he committed to an answer. She reached down and gripped the hem of her simple gown. She watched him closely. His eyes became slightly more hooded, his jaw clenching. She watched as the taught burnt flesh tightened further against his jaw bones as he ground his back molars. Removing the belt around her middle was simply enough. Her next task had her mouth dry and her stomach tense. She pulled her dress up over her head with a deep breath. She held it in front of herself, her knuckles turning white as she held onto it for dear life.
The Hound's body stiffened and he leaned forward in the chair. His lips parted and his eyes moved over what flesh was visible to him. He let out a deep breath and raised his hand. He said nothing but beckoned her closer, his eyes on her body. As she came to stand before him his hand darted out with the same speed in which he wielded his sword. His fingers curled around the silk fabric of her dress, wrenching it from her grip. She let out a cry of surprise as it flew from her body, leaving her naked and vulnerable in the fire light.
He stood then and she took a step back. She continued to retreat until he grabbed her upper arm, yanking her to him. Her body slammed into his armor, her breasts crushed against the hard steel.
"Look at me," he growled and bent down. He pulled her to him so tightly and at such an angle that she had to stand on her tip toes. His face was only inches from hers and he forced her to look at his face. She had not studied him so closely since the day he confessed the cause of his burns. "Can you stomach it?"
"I am not disgusted," she whispered. He snarled and shook her.
"Do not lie to me," he rasped low in his throat.
"I am not lying, ser –"
"I am not a ser!" he shouted and she felt tears come to her eyes. His eyes softened for a moment as he looked over his face. He leaned in closer but only hovered over her. His grip softened and his thumb stroked her smooth creamy skin. "I am sorry little bird. I did not mean to frighten you."
"Yes you did," Sansa whispered. "You enjoy frightening people."
"Not you," he said gently and she remembered why she came to him. That same sad look in his eyes when he saw her being mistreated was there now and it touched something deep inside of Sansa. He seemed to her all she had with her brother and family up north. The Hound would keep her safe if he could. "Is this a game? Is this a trick from the king?"
"No, I swear to you, se-. I swear to you," she promised and his eyes moved to look at her breasts where they pressed against his armor. "I do not want Joffrey to have my virginity."
He gave a little nod.
"And what better revenge? His dog taking his lady loves purity," he said softly and she bristled.
"I am not his lady love," she responded.
"Unlatch my breastplate," he said brusquely and released her arm. She hesitated a moment, looking up at him before doing as he said. He removed his armor slowly and she got the scent of him strongly in her nose. Sweat, alcohol, and the smoke of torches. He smelled like a man. A smell Joffrey would never possess. She had been a fool, chasing after these little pretty boys. But her desire was beginning to awaken and she was beginning to mature. It was a man she wanted, and a man the Hound was. When he was in just his tunic and his hose and boots she waited.
"How do you want me?" she asked and held her arms up over her breasts.
"If I ever thought you'd ask me that," he mused. He jerked his head. "Go to the bed, little bird. I won't take your innocence on the floor or against the wall."
She nodded and hurried into the adjoining room. The Hound's rooms were small compared to those of other knights in the realm, but of course he was not a knight. She paused as they went into the bedroom and she chewed on her lip hard.
"Scared girl?" she heard the Hound rasp behind her. She began moving toward the bed, her head rose defiantly. She could feel the Hound's eyes on her naked body as she climbed onto his bed, moving to her hands and knees. She waited for his abrupt thrusting into her body, but she felt nothing. She heard nothing. All she could do was wait.
She looked down at the thick blankets on the bed and the coarse pillows. She imagined him sleeping here at night like any other man, peaceful and gentle. It was hard to do. She gasped when he felt his hands on her hips. She waited for the invasion but it did not come. Instead she was flipped onto his back, her red hair sprawling out around her. Her chest heaved as he settled over her.
"You will look at me," he said. His voice was calm and measured, low and dangerous. "You came to me, you will look upon me."
"That… that wasn't why I gave you my back," Sansa told him, staring up at his face. A second fire was burning from the hearth in his bedroom and lit up his face.
"Oh? It was not to pretend I was someone else?"
"No!" she cried indignantly. "Why would I come to you if I didn't…"
"Didn't what, little bird?"
"…Want you," she said, her voice a ghost of a whisper. His face was stone, impassive.
"Why would you go to your hands and knees then?" he clearly did not believe her.
"It… I have only every seen animals, se-… Sandor," she said. His name felt odd on her lips. Foreign. His bark of a laugh frightened her.
"Ah, so you would play the bitch to my dog?" he asked and she turned deep red. "I wander, will you whine like a bitch in heat while I am inside of you?"
"Please stop," she whispered.
"What did you expect from me?" he asked, lowering his face to hers. "Sweet words and gentle caresses? No, I will rut inside of you like the animal I am, but you will look at my face while I do it."
She nodded, her eyes locking on his. Her body trembled when his fingers moved to rub one of her nipples. He looked away from her body and to her face, checking to make sure she was looking at him. His eyes then moved back downward. His finger tips trailed over her smooth skin, touching her breasts, sides and hips. His eyes were hot, carnal desire shining in them, but there was also a gentleness to his gaze.
"That little boy does not deserve you," he rasped. "He will suck the life right out of you."
His finger played between her legs and she sucked in a deep breath. She wanted to tell him that when he spoke to her, when he rescued her from so many cruelties, that he breathed the life back into her, but she remained silent. Her words lost instead in a little moan. She blushed and watched his face intently; waiting for a little mocking taunt, but none came.
There was pain, terrible pain she had not really expected but it passed. She focused instead on the sound of the Hound's panting breaths. As he slid into her she heard him groan deeply, a pleasurable moan of disbelief. She spasmed around him and she clutched at the back of his tunic.
"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she breathed as he moved over her. His eyes locked onto hers. He gave no taunting smiles, no laugh or sneer. He was far too wrapped up in the hot tightness he was enveloped in, the knowledge that she was finally his, at least for a night. How many times had he imagined climbing the stone steps that lead up to her room and have his way with her, whether she wanted it or not? He had dreamed of her soft, naked body underneath him and now it had come true. He could scarcely believe he was not dreaming.
"You wish to press your lips to mine?" he asked breathlessly and her gaze went to his burnt flsh. The pain was less now and there was pressure in her lower belly. It was pressure she had never felt before, but mingled with it was the same type of indescribable blind affection she felt when looking at Ser Loras or Joffrey. But that was when she was just a little girl. She had grown much in the past few months. She looked over the black flesh, the hint of an exposed jaw, the wet, red skin breaking through the charred flesh. His lips were virtually untouched, but skirting along the left side of his mouth was bumpy scar tissue. She wondered if she would feel it if he kissed her.
"Isn't that… what one does…" she breathed a moan escaping her throat against her will. The moan was swallowed by the Hound's mouth as it pressed to hers. His thrusts increased and she writhed underneath him. Pain came in went as he moved and she tried to meet his thrusts. She was in enough control of herself to know she did not want to give the Hound reason to taunt her afterward. She was doing her best to make sure he enjoyed himself, but she did not know how. She only knew the very basics of intercourse and certainly had no skills.
She could feel the mangled tissue on the left side of his mouth against her lips. It felt like he was trying to consume her. His kisses were hard and unyielding. The hand not supporting himself over her was enclosed firmly around her throat, keeping her face in place for his kisses. His thumb stroked her throat, the pressure lessoning and growing in time with the slowing and quickening of his thrusts. When she felt the wetness of his tongue glide over her full, swollen lips she immediately opened her mouth to him. He groaned in approval and his tongue was in her mouth, tasting her.
Her hands, which had been pulling and yanking at his tunic went to thread through his hair. He hissed in a breath when her right hand reached up to the left side of her face and found no hair, but hard scar tissue and the raw nerves of the sensitive skin below where the skin would not heal. But he did not push her away and she did not move her hand. Her chest hummed and she was overwhelmed.
Pleasure, pain, disgust, and desire. It all mingled inside of her. Tears pressed at her eyes as he kissed her, as he felt the mangled skin. What might he have been like, she wondered, if he had not known such cruelty as a boy? It made her want to weep. Instead she moaned and let out little cries. She felt his mouth twist into a smile against her lips.
"Yes, sing for me little bird," he breathed against her mouth. She knew he would laugh at her to himself later, but at his encouragement her little cries increased. The pleasure was not what she had heard it would be, but she thought it might be because she was a virgin and more pain was being felt than actual pleasure. But Clegane no doubt enjoyed himself immensely. He spilled himself inside of her with a low grunt, his hand tightened slightly around her throat but did nothing to constrict her breathing.
Sansa could hear only the sound of their breathing in the dimly lit room and the crackling of fire. The Hound's head was bowed to the crook of her neck, his lips pressing to her neck and shoulder lazily. Her hands went to his back and she felt as it rose and fell.
"Thank you, Ser," Sansa whispered but he said nothing.
"Yes, and let us pray he does not have a maester examine you," he finally said and removed himself from her. He had remained inside of her for some time. Probably because he did not think he would ever experience it again.
"Do you think he would do that?" she asked, taking a thick wool blanket and covering herself with it.
"He might," the Hound replied. He went away a moment and returned with her clothing. He tossed it to her with a short order to dress.
"You might have told me that before," Sansa said, fear nestling in her stomach.
"Unless you give him a reason to suspect otherwise he will not," he replied and watched her dress. Her hands trembled as she slid the dress back on and tightened the belt around her waist. She winced from the pain but did her best not to let him see. After dressing she walked past him, her chin raised slightly too high, and moved for the door. She felt him following her, but he remained by the fire place as she made to leave.
"I trust you will be discreet," she said with the air and confidence of a woman not in her situation. The Hound gave her a cool smile.
"Or lose my head," he answered and she moved to open the door. "Oh, and little bird?" she paused with her hand on the handle. "When the king fucks you, I trust you will be thinking of me."
Her face burned the same temperature of the fire that had burned his face. She gave him a small curt nod and his little smirk increased.
"Good night, little bird. Tonight you sang me the most beautiful song I ever did hear," he told her and she swung the door shut hard. The next day in court, when the council announced that King Joffrey had decided to break off the engagement with Sansa she felt the color drain from her face. Joffrey made some off color remark about a "traitor's cunt" and the court erupted with laughter at his whit, but no one's laugher was louder than the Hound's. When she turned her emerald eyes up at him his own steel eyes on hers, twinkling and smiling.
A/N: Please let me know what you think! This is my first Game of Thrones fanfiction and I am a little nervous. I hope that I kept them both in character and that they are believable. Let me know what you think please!