Author's Note:
I don't own any of these characters or anything to do with Game of Thrones; that all belongs to George R. R. Martin! The quote that starts the story is not mine, either. It's from Buffalo Bill.
With that said, this is my first FanFiction for Game of Thrones. I'm not very proud of it, but it's 3 in the morning and I just had to finally write something. I promise it'll pick up speed! I hope you guys like it!
You who live your lives in cities or among peaceful ways cannot always tell whether your friends are the kind who would go through fire for you.
But on the Plains, one's friends have an opportunity to prove their mettle.
Buffalo Bill
He'd seen the look in her eyes as he stood at the end of the walkway, the sun beating down on him mercilessly. The sweat had trickled down his back and along his face, over the cracks and ridges of the scarred side. He'd swiped his arm at the droplets to dry them away and as his limb went back to his side, he had caught the look of murderous intent in the little bird's red-rimmed, swollen blue eyes. He'd watched as she glanced furtively downward, calculating how far the bastard king would fall, if it would be enough to kill him. The fall seemed sufficient; she had begun to stride forward. He knew he had to stop her. There were too many guards around. He would never be able to save her this time. Perhaps she didn't want to be saved. But that was too damn bad. His stride was easily longer than hers and in two steps he had reached her, grabbing her arm, not ungently, and turned her to face him. He had dabbed at her bleeding lower lip with a white handkerchief, ignoring the way she stared at him with wide, startled eyes. Again, he had saved her life, and again she didn't know. He pretended not to notice the way her gaze lowered in shame.
"My lady is as boring as she is stupid. Don't you agree, dog?" Joffrey drawled, a hint of irritation crawling under his tone. The Hound nodded once, resisting the scowl that wanted to spread across his mutilated face.
"Take her away. I want her cleaned up for dinner tonight. She shall dine with me," the bastard king ordered, storming past them. As the Hound started to walk away, knowing Sansa would follow, Joffrey suddenly turned to face them with a shit-eating grin. The Hound eyed him warily.
"Actually, I will be walking with the two of you."
With that said, Joffrey turned and continued walking. The Hound didn't have to look over to know that Sansa had begun to tremble.
When they had reached Sansa's bedchamber, Joffrey swung the door open and gestured for her to enter. She did, wringing her hands in front of her, eyes downcast. The Hound started to walk away until Joffrey's voice rang out.
"No, dog, come inside. You may enjoy the show with me!" The Hound's stomach lurched with disgust and anger. He didn't know what 'the show' was, but he knew that it was going to be something horrible. It took all of his strength to not say anything, to not beat the little weasel's face into a bloody, unrecognizable pulp. The brat reminded him of a younger version of Gregor, and that was enough to make him want to kill the inbred son of a bitch. He maintained his mask of indifference and went into the room, not looking at Sansa.
"I see your bath has been prepared," Joffrey noted, pleased that the hand servants were on top of their duties. It was true, the great claw-foot tub stood proudly by the fireplace, filled with steaming water. Scented oils had been poured in, smelling of honeysuckle, and flower petals floated at the top of the water. A small table was set beside the tub, holding a large, smooth bar of soap, a hair brush, a collection of small bottles containing oils, and a fluffy towel.
"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa replied, her voice shaky. Joffrey smirked, gesturing at the tub.
"Well, my lady, bathe yourself," he sneered. For a moment, there was silence. Sansa gaped at him in shock, glancing at the Hound with horror in her eyes. The Hound wouldn't meet her eyes. Instead, he clenched his jaw and glowered out the window.
"B-But you can't be serious! I won't do it," Sansa finally burst. These words didn't sit well with the king. His eyes narrowed and he strode forward, striking her cheek with the back of his hand with enough force to turn her head and cause her to stumble backward.
"If you don't get in the bath, I will have my dog undress you and do it for you," Joffrey shouted, his angry, shrill voice echoing in her large room. The threat rattled her almost more than the slap did. Her tear filled eyes flickered over to the Hound, who scowled at her. Just do it, don't make me get involved. Joffrey retreated to stand beside the Hound and crossed his arms over his chest, smirking at his betrothed.
Sansa slowly undid her gown with trembling fingers, staring at the bath instead of her audience. Each button was worked on with a careful amount of attention, savoring every last second of dignity. Eventually, the gown was pooled at her feet. She stood before them in only her smallclothes, her nipples strained against the white slip that clung to her torso and gave her small breasts a bit of a lift. Joffrey's impatient sigh jolted her back to her work; she began to remove her smallclothes.
"I don't have time for this shit."
The sudden boom of the Hound's voice caused Sansa to jump, startled. She immediately stopped undressing and hugged herself, staring at the floor. Joffrey whirled to face him, his face screwing up in anger like a toddler who needed to defecate.
"How dare you defy your king?" Joffrey shrilled. The Hound walked to the door of the bedchamber, glowering at the boy.
"I did not defy my king. I entered like he asked. I have men to train, I don't have time to watch this girl take a pretty little bath. Perhaps my king should join me in training," he snarled, toeing the line of disrespect as he stood by the door. Maybe it was the look in the Hound's eyes or the tone of his anger, or perhaps it was the idea of training soldiers beside the Hound, who had served the Lannisters long before Joffrey had popped from Cersei's cunt red and squalling. But whatever the reason was, Joffrey suddenly lost interest in Sansa and regarded the Hound with interest.
"Help you train your savages?" Joffrey questioned. The Hound resisted rolling his eyes. It seemed as though the bastard king had forgotten that being king meant more than getting his perverse desires satisfied whenever he wanted.
"Yes, Your Grace," the Hound merely gritted out, his voice low and gravelly. Joffrey nodded, clasping his hands together.
"Excellent idea. She's ugly anyway, the show would have been disappointing," the king said. He glanced at Sansa, who stood miserably by the tub. "Finish cleaning up on your own and be ready to dine with me tonight."
The Hound followed Joffrey out of the bedchamber without a glance back at Sansa.
Sansa sat in the bath, knees drawn to her chest and allowed her hand servant to wash her. She didn't understand why the Hound had acted the way he had that day. Not only had he stopped her from killing the awful, cruel person she was betrothed to, but he'd also saved her from exposing herself. Any of Joffrey's other dogs would have enjoyed the show. They would have been honored to be given exclusive access to watching the king's betrothed bathe. But the Hound had never so much as glanced at her as she undressed. He hadn't even looked at her before he'd left. Sansa sighed softly. The Hound had always terrified her the most; she couldn't bear to even look at him unless she had to. Yet he'd proven himself to be the least cruel towards her. She knew she would have to thank him.
The hand servant finished massaging oils squeezed from the petals of honeysuckle flowers into her scalp and rinsed Sansa's long, thick, auburn hair. Under normal, safe circumstances, Sansa would have enjoyed the luxurious bath.
Isn't this what I wanted? This is the life of the king's betrothed. It was always my dream. My father is dead because of my selfish, stupid wishes. And I couldn't be any unhappier.
Sansa angrily wiped away tears. She was tired of crying. The hand servant helped her out of the bath and dried her with the fluffy, warm towel. A gorgeous sapphire colored gown was laid out on her bed, and the servant dressed her.
"You are stunning, my lady," the servant breathed. Sansa gazed at her reflection in the floor length mirror. It was indeed one of the most beautiful dresses she'd ever seen. It even coaxed a smile out of her, which seemed to cheer the servant, who had begun to braid Sansa's hair in an intricate, lovely manner.
"Thank you," Sansa murmured, fingering a silver heart shaped necklace that had once been her mother's. Her mother had given it to her as a gift for her sixteenth name day, which was last year. Sansa now wore it with a sense of homesickness. She'd trade the necklace and the world to see her family again. Her father was dead, Arya was missing, her mother and Robb were at war, Bran and Rickon were in Winterfell, and Jon was serving at the Wall. It would be a very long time before she could see any of them again. If she ever did.
When the servant had finished doing Sansa's hair and makeup, adding a few more accessories to match the gorgeous dress, it was time for dinner. Sansa left the bedchamber and started walking towards the feast hall, her silver slippers padding softly against the stone floor. She chewed a small sprig of mint to calm her anxious stomach and hoped that Joffrey had exhausted his anger and cruelty at battle training. She was afraid of what he might do during or after dinner.
Suddenly, someone grabbed her arm from behind and spun her around.
"It'd be in your favor to behave tonight. No more stupid actions. No more death wishes. I saved you twice today. I won't do it a third time," the Hound rasped. Sansa trembled in his grip, avoiding his gaze and nodded. Her heart slammed almost painfully fast in her chest. She hadn't even heard him walk behind her, he was like a shadow.
"Still won't look at my face, huh? Not even after I saved your miserable life? Fine by me," he scoffed, releasing her arm. She felt guilt flood her body, warming her face and sending a blush creeping up her neck. He was right; he'd done so much for her and she never gave him anything but rudeness. She watched as he began to stalk away.
"H-Hound," Sansa called out timidly. He stopped, turning to look at her warily.
"Thank you. For everything you did today," she said, her hands clasped together in front of her, refusing to fidget. Septa always said a lady never fidgets. The Hound barked a laugh and shook his head of untamed hair.
"Keep your courtesies, I don't care about that shit. They mean nothing. Empty words," he rasped. Sansa frowned, worrying her lower lip. The action stung; it was still tender from being busted open earlier.
"Then how can I express my gratitude if you won't believe my words?" she asked. The Hound gave her a grin, half of it lopsided and twisted from stiff scar tissue; it was a horrible leer that lacked any humor. She resisted the urge to shiver.
"Sing me a song after dinner, little bird," he rasped. With that having been said, the Hound bounded down the hallway towards the feast hall, leaving Sansa standing alone to watch him disappear, fear gnawing at her stomach.
I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review if you did! Goodnight!