Author's Note
Hello all! I've been fascinated with the Sansa Stark/Sandor Clegane pairing for awhile now, based partially on the way their interactions are written in the books and partially on some truly amazing fanfiction I've read. Finally, I've decided that I want to try my hand at writing some fanfiction of my own! This is a Blackwater departure AU in which Sansa accepts the Hound's offer to bring her to her family. I know it's not the most creative plot idea in the world, but I do find the topic so compelling that I want to try it out anyways! It should be rather slow-burn and my ultimate goal is to keep everyone as true to character as possible. The universe is a mix of the books and the television show, but there are definitely a few things I want to get out of the way right away.
First of all, Sandor is his book age, about twenty-seven. Although I do love the way he is portrayed in the show (Rory Mccann is a great actor!), he's cast a little old for my tastes, and he isn't written that old in the books. My vision of him (and also of Sansa) is most closely matched by all the Sansan art made by the talented Bubug. If you haven't seen anything she's made, I highly, highly recommend that you look her art up. Also, I've aged Sansa up to sixteen or seventeen because the age gap is a little too much for me otherwise.
That's about all for now, I believe! Reviews are seriously appreciated, as I'm always looking to improve my writing. Also, I'm not sure how frequently I'll update it but as it's a topic that I'm fascinated with, I'm sure that it will eventually be completed. Many thanks if you're still reading!
SANSA
In spite of what Joffrey and his mother were wont to say, Sansa Stark knew that she wasn't stupid. Naïve, perhaps, and at many times foolish, but not stupid. Never stupid.
But as she sat clinging to the Hound's middle, her fingernails catching desperately at the rough material of his jerkin, her thighs saddle-sore, she wondered if maybe she was just a stupid little girl after all. She knew that a more cautious girl wouldn't have done what she had, but Sansa had been desperate.
Even from her bedchamber high in the Red Keep she had heard the screams and roars of the battle below. The air had been thick with the scent of ash and blood and sweat, rising up from below and filling her nose and mouth and eyes until her face was awash with salty tears and her throat was heavy and itchy. Cersei's words still rang in her ears as she bolted the wooden door of her bedchamber, and she had been so distracted that she hadn't even noticed the Hound, hulking and stinking of wine, perched on her bed.
He had been bloody and wild-eyed. He had pressed the sharp, cool edge of his dagger into the skin of her neck. But still, remembering the fire in Cersei's cruel eyes and hearing the cries and screams and sobs – and not just the cries and screams of sobs of men at war – from below, she had gone with him.
The Hound had been right that nobody would bother them as they left the city. His destrier was fearsome enough as it was, nearly as black and imposing and fit-for-war as was its rider, but he was another thing altogether. Although the burnt side of his face was cloaked by the night's cool cowl of shadows, he was still one of the tallest, broadest men she'd ever seen and she knew that to anyone they passed, he would be a formidable sight to behold. There was also the matter of his white cloak, although up close, she could see that it wasn't nearly as clean as it appeared from afar. As they rode through the high grey doors of the Iron Gate, the acrid scent of smoke stung in Sansa's lungs. She coughed.
"Wildfire, girl," the Hound spoke.
Sansa had to strain to hear the rough whisper of his voice under the screams and sobs of the battle still raging around them. Although they had passed the heart of the combat, where the spill of blood and song of swords was the thickest, the path they took was still overflowing with soldiers and men running and shoving their way away from the fray. She couldn't blame them from wanting away. She did too. Hot tears swam in her eyes, but stubbornly, she refused to let them fall. Don't be a coward, Sansa, she told herself. If I had stayed, Cersei would have sent Ser Illyn Payne to cut my throat. With the Hound, I shall be safe. Be brave, Sansa.
It was true that the man had promised not to harm her; to kill any man who got in their way. To bring her back to her mother and brother in the north. Still, she wasn't convinced that his intentions were entirely pure. He was so large that he could overpower her easily at any moment, and she wasn't fool enough to miss the way that he had sometimes looked at her when they passed in the halls of the Red Keep. Shivering, Sansa pictured him bringing her to some faraway wood and taking her innocence cloaked in the trees where nobody could hear her screams.
Also, there was the matter of the fact that he was clearly drunk, judging by the heavy smell of wine on his breath. Maybe when the cloud in his head settled in the morning, he would regret his decision to bring her along and end their journey together with a flick of his blade. Sansa knew there wasn't much she could do if he decided to do that. She was, after all, a gentle-bred highborn girl, raised to sew and sing and smile. On a cold, hard journey, she was a liability, she knew. She had nothing to offer the Hound in payment for her passage north, either. Unless… what was it that Cersei had said earlier? Tears are not a woman's only weapon. You've got another one between your legs, and you'd best learn to use it.
No, Sansa pushed the idea from her mind, squeezing her eyes shut, no. Not him. Not with the Hound. In front of her, he sat streaked and matted with tar-black blood, some of it drying into a crust and some fresh and scarlet. A beast of a man, with wild eyes and a strong body made of muscle and bone and flesh and anger.
Suddenly, Sansa was overcome with a sensation of homesickness. Of loneliness. In the north, her family awaited her. She wondered what her mother would say if she saw her again; what she would do. Weep, most likely. Sansa felt like weeping too. She wondered meekly if Arya was still alive. Her sister had always been wild, a wolf girl if there ever was one. Perhaps she had managed to survive the journey north to their home and awaited her return there. Somehow, the feeling made Sansa's heart ache and itch. I will be strong, she decided. I will be as strong as a maiden from the songs and win my way back to my family and perhaps someday they'll sing a song of me too.
They rode hard for what felt like hours. Behind them, the sounds of battle melted gradually away and were replaced by the cold, eerie quiet of the wood. Eventually, Sansa's inner thighs began to chafe and ache and her throat grew dry and sour. Unused to the perils of riding, she knew that she couldn't keep going for much longer, but loathe to interrupt the delicate silence that had fallen between her and the man she clung to, she bit down hard into her lower lip. The Hound certainly wouldn't appreciate her whinging.
Soon, though, her prayers were answered when the Hound eased the big horse to an uneasy stop and swung himself off of its back. A moment later, he was reaching up with callused hands to seize her waist and pull her off of the horse as well. There was something reassuring about the firm pressure of his grip, but it was gone the moment Sansa's feet touched the ground, as if burnt by the touch of her body. The Hound busied himself with tying the horse's reins to a nearby oak.
"We'll stop here for the night," he said in a low voice, not quite looking at her. Sansa wrinkled her nose. It was only a quick thing, gone in an instant, but the Gods ensured that the Hound noticed her reaction. He scoffed. "What, girl? Expected we'd be staying in castles of gold and silk featherbeds along the way?" His roar was razor-sharp. "Look at me, girl." Reluctantly, she pulled her eyes up to meet his own, steel-grey and unforgiving. "This journey will be long and hard. You've made it before, but there'll be no pillowed wheelhouse for you this time. I don't expect you'll be of much use to me along the way, but you'll do what I fucking say and not object, and when we get to Riverrun I'll sell you back to your wolf family and you'll be gone of me forever. Understand?"
Sansa understood. She felt her eyes watering again and this time she could not stop her tears from kissing her cheeks. Luckily, the Hound had already prodded away to gather kindle for a fire and didn't notice. She curled her knees into her chest and let her sobs come in shallow heaves until she was too thirsty and cold to cry anymore, which could have been an hour or a minute.
Before her, in a root-jagged clearing, the man had produced some semblance of a campsite: two straw bedrolls laid out by a sad little fire pit. A weak yellow flame flickered in the mud and dirt, and Sansa dragged herself forward on her elbows to reach it. Her legs felt too weak to stand on and her forehead was warm and sweaty. Beneath her, the skirts of the thick dress she had chosen to protect her from the cold tangled and tore, their woollen material already covered in dirt and to her horror, blood. She didn't dare to think long on whose.
A moment after Sansa had positioned herself close enough to the amber-gold of the flames to soak up their heat, the Hound joined her. The air had started to lose its thickness and send a shiver down her spine. Wordlessly, the Hound reached into his saddlebag and produced a hunk of bread, which he threw at her. It landed in the dirt nearby, but Sansa picked it up, her pride stung, and nibbled at it anyways. It had been nearly a day since she'd last eaten, and although the bread was dry and hard, it tasted better than anything she'd ever eaten before.
Neither of them spoke as they ate their bread. There was no more talking that night, and as the air grew chilly, Sansa tucked herself into the bedroll she had chosen. Her eyes were crusty with dried tears when she tried to closed them and force herself to sleep. Still, true rest could not find her until she heard the Hound's movements cease and his breathing slow and she was sure that he was asleep. Only then did Sansa Stark allow herself to slip into an uneasy, restless sleep. There would be no dreams tonight.