Author's Note: Thank you HF for the title... and the synopsis... and beta reading... and everything else.

Warning: Incest, rape, references to sexual violence and underage sex.

Soiled and Shattered

Effie is seven years old to Sandor's eight, the daughter of the cook, and the only child who will speak to Sandor, not that there are many children left in House Clegane. When she has finished her chores of an evening, they throw stones together in the courtyard. No one much cares what Sandor does, and he prefers to stay far from his brother's eye. Effie's mother is quick about calling her in, these days, as soon as her own work is done.

"She's scared of you," Effie tells him, her blue eyes wide as they study his scars and burns with odd fascination. Her mother calls, and with a toss of red-gold curls and only a quick backward glance, Effie skips inside. But she comes back the next day, and the next. Then Sandor is eleven, and he wakes from odd dreams about Effie, dreams that leave him feeling oddly, that leave his bedclothes stuck to his legs.

He looks at her differently the next day.

"What is it?" She wants to know, prying, and he shoves her away, but his hand lingers on his shoulder. A shadow falls across the path, and he looks up to see his brother watching. Sandor scowls. He knows Gregor could kill him easily, but he hasn't yet, and the pain that lingers with every movement of his face forces him to anger.

His brother only turns and walks away. But the next day, Effie does not come out. Sandor waits until the third day, then goes to the kitchens and shoves open the door. He's been there before, looking for treats, but that day, Effie is nowhere to be seen. Her mother looks up with hollow, red eyes. When she sees Sandor she seizes the knife lying beside her and advances, screaming things he cannot understand. He kicks her away and runs, knowing that Effie is gone, that his brother has taken something else from him.

His brother smirks at the supper table. On Sandor's plate is a clump of long, red curls. Dried blood mats the ends together. He howls, and Gregor laughs.

"Did you want to make the kitchen girl your whore? I don't think you'll want her now. She looks quite different. She had such a sweet smile, didn't she? I don't think she'll be smiling much any longer."

Sandor draws his sword, for he cannot go about this place without one, and lunges, but Gregor only knocks him aside, still laughing.

"I never even bother with whores. They're offering it. What isn't offered is sweeter." He carves his meat, which drips as he brings it to his face. "You, my brother, won't even be able to pay a whore to stomach your face above her."

The sun is warm, warmer than the sun over Winterfell, Sansa thinks, although of course she knows there is only one sun. Her braided hair is heavy and damp, and all the wine she's drunk is beginning to make her head spin. Sunlight spills through the leaves and branches of the trees overhead, flickering at the corners of her eyes. But she will not say anything. She wants to keep walking with Prince Joffrey, to hear stories about King's Landing and the court. But her prince is kind as well as brave and bold, and he notices when her steps begin to falter, when her shoes begin to slip against the sweating grass.

"Shall we sit for a bit, my lady? Here, under this tree?" Waiting atop the ridge, he gestures to a gnarled tree with wide limbs. She clambers up after him, her skirts in her hands. When she reaches his side, he offers his hand. His eyes linger on her, and she looks down, pleased and embarrassed. Sansa knows that she is beautiful. Her mother and septa have said so, often enough, when she shows them a new dress she's made or tries to arrange her auburn hair. Now she is going to court, and she will dress like a fine lady. She will be a fine lady. She will be the queen.

Once again, she is dizzy, and not from being sun-struck. It's hard to imagine herself as queen, grand and regal like Queen Cersei, with her long curling hair, her gentle, knowing smile. Sansa wants to be elegant and beautiful just like her, but today she only feels hot and dusty. At least Joffrey doesn't seem to notice the dust. And the queen had said admiringly, just yesterday, that Sansa was so ladylike. She shivers with delight, remembering the queen's soft fingers brushing back a lock of her hair. Sansa realizes that someday she may be having tea and lemon cakes with her son's betrothed. That's too much to think about just now, though, so she pushes the thought from her mind and sits after Joffrey does, arranging her skirts modestly around her ankles. She is no child, like Arya, to carelessly let her legs show.

"Are you enjoying the day, my lady?" Joffrey asks, his smile curling up sweetly at the corners of his mouth. Sansa almost cannot believe her good fortune. Her betrothed is a prince, more than she ever dared to dream of. She hoped she might marry a brave, handsome knight some day, but now she is to marry the heir to the throne, and he is tall and strong and has a sword and already calls her his lady. Sansa only wishes that the fearsome man, the one Joffrey calls his "dog," would not follow him everywhere. She is glad that he is not shadowing them today. His eyes are huge and hungry, and his scars are terrifying. When he wears his helmet, he's only imposing, like any rough knight, but when she can see his face, see the bone scraping from his chin, her stomach churns.

It's suddenly quite silent behind them. The chirping of the birds stutters and dies, one last quick call piercing the air before all Sansa can hear is the rushing of the nearby river. Startled, she draws closer to Joffrey, turning her head back and forth to see beyond the trees. She doesn't fancy that the day has quieted for their sakes; having grown up in the wild North, she knows that when the forest quiets, someone who doesn't belong is near.

"The wretched birds are finally quiet!" Joffrey sounds delighted.

"Yes, the noise was making my head ache," Sansa says, although she rather enjoys the sounds of the birds. She looks behind her again, uneasy. "Do you think they've quieted because someone is coming this way?"

"Someone? Like who?" Joffrey stands, his hand on his sword. "No one would dare challenge the prince! And if they do, I'll slay them with Lion's Tooth!" He draws his sword and waves it at the trees.

Sansa has paid little attention to any practice bouts or play fighting, but she thinks the prince looks quite impressive with his handsome coat and shining sword. He's so brave, to protect her. Although likely there's nothing she needs protection from. The birds must have caught the scent of horses and direwolves. Arya's off in the forest somewhere, likely rolling around in mud like a pig. She comes back filthy enough that she might as well be doing that. Nymeria will of course be with her, but Lady, good, gentle Lady, is back at camp, although her scent is probably in the wind. A light breeze ruffles the leaves above them and Sansa settles back, satisfied.

"Of course," Sansa says. "I'm so glad you're with me. I'd be afraid on my own."

"I'll protect you from anything," he boasts. "You're mine now. I'll keep you safe. I'm to fight in a tourney soon, you know. You can watch me draw first blood. Perhaps it'll be to the death!" He leans in earnestly, his breath coming in short pants. "Once I've fought, I'll be a man. I can have whores, like my father does." Joffrey turns to Sansa, who is finding it difficult to follow his words. "Do you know what a whore is?"

Sansa knows, although her knowledge is, admittedly, only recently gained. She had heard the word said in reference to her half-brother's mother. Her mother, always honest, gave her a clear but brief answer when Sansa asked, saying that she would have to know someday. Mother's voice had been biting and bitter, although she had stroked Sansa's braids before leaving her chamber. It wasn't until later that Sansa had realized why her mother had been angry, what Jon Snow's very existence meant, and she had been both embarrassed that she hadn't realized sooner and angry on her mother's behalf. She had ignored Father for several days until, puzzled, he'd gone to Mother, who had come back to Sansa to further her education in the ways of men and war.

"Yes, my prince," Sansa says. She averts her eyes, pressing her palms to hide the flush warming her cheeks. This isn't something they should speak about, she knows somehow, but how can she tell Joffrey no? Perhaps the rules are different, since they're to be married. She is quite in love with him already and decides she can tell him anything.

"That's good. You won't weep and wail about them the way my mother used to. That's what my father said she did, anyway. Men have whores, especially kings. You'll be my queen and the mother of my heirs, but I can have any woman I want. You can't look at anyone else, though. Remember that. I'll punish you."

Sansa shakes her head furiously. "Oh, no, Joffrey, I'd never look at anyone but you. Why would I? You're the handsomest, bravest boy I've ever seen."

"I'm not a boy, not really," he says, a touch of irritability creeping into his voice.

"Oh, of course not. I'm so sorry, that was so silly of me. You're a man, of course, since you ride with the men, and you have a sword," Sansa babbles, thinking of just moments earlier how Joffrey had said he'd be a man once he'd fought in a tourney. But perhaps she misunderstood him. Of course he couldn't be wrong.

But he doesn't seem to mind her hasty recovery; in fact, he smiles, pleased. "I saw my father with a whore once," he says, leaning toward Sansa as if to confide in her.

Sansa smells wine on his breath, a heavily sweet scent. She doesn't know quite what to say, so she says nothing, which seems to be the correct response. He hands her the wineskin, and she drinks again, excited all over by the novelty of the day. Her father never lets her drink wine on ordinary days. But now she is with the prince, and what her father says doesn't matter. She takes a long drink, although the warm wine is not particularly refreshing on this sunny day, and then settles her hands in her lap, turning to him attentively, although she is a bit distracted by the grass rustling beneath her. She hopes that there won't be stains on her dress when she stands. If Joffrey saw her with stained clothing again, she'd be mortified. At least Arya isn't here to throw mud or rocks or gods know what else at her. The thought that she should be with Arya today crawls sluggishly through her head, but she squashes it. Arya can take care of herself, as she's always insisting. Her head swirls and it takes an effort to remember what Joffrey has said, but he hasn't noticed her distraction.

"I was hiding in my father's bedchamber when he came in with a girl. She didn't sound like my mother, and when I looked out from under the chair, I saw that she had dark hair. She climbed on top of my father and bounced and shouted. It almost looked she was riding a horse. He just lay there and let her have him. If it were me, I'd have pushed her down, climbed on top of her, and held her down. I wouldn't let a whore take control." Joffrey sneers.

"No, my prince," Sansa murmurs, and Joffrey seems pleased. She's finding it difficult to follow his words and can't quite picture what he is describing. But she's happy to listen to his voice and keep her eyes on his face. His words make more sense when she watches his lips move, and she likes the way his green eyes flash so sharply. Her betrothed is truly handsome.

He's speaking again. With an effort, she concentrates on his words. "Then another whore came into the room. She joined them on the bed. My father slapped her rump and legs. She seemed to like it. I would have slapped her face. She wouldn't have liked that at all." Joffrey pauses to take another sip of the wine. This time he doesn't offer the wineskin to Sansa, who is grateful. Her head is beginning to ache, and she doesn't want more warm wine. "After some time my father began to snore. Then the whores began to talk." Joffrey's eyes narrow. "They said what a fat old man my father was, how a king should pay them more for their troubles. They started to decide which things in the room they could take without my father noticing and began to collect them. And they laughed at my mother," he spits. "They said she was a jealous old cow."

Sansa exclaims in horror. "The queen is beautiful and kind!"

Joffrey gives Sansa a sharp glance. She hadn't meant to interrupt, but her tongue feels heavy, and the words in her head just seemed to come bursting out.

"I jumped out from under the table and shouted for my father to wake up. You should have seen the looks on the stupid whores' faces. I told him what treacherous, lying thieves they were, and do you know what he did?"

"Did he punish them?" Sansa offers. The act of speaking makes her feel out of place. Her voice is not quite her own.

"No, my sweet lady, he did not. He ordered me to leave the room and let him enjoy himself. He didn't believe me, when I told him what they'd said. They said I was a strange little boy, that I must have fallen asleep under the table while playing." He reaches for his wineskin but only takes a few drops. It seems to be nearly empty, Sansa notes hazily. "My mother says my father is a fool," Joffrey snorts. "But he's not. He's a man. A king. A brave warrior. Whores are foul, lying creatures, and I will punish them all."

He seizes Sansa's knee suddenly. "If I could have, I'd have tied those girls to the bed by their hair and beat them. Then they would have lost their hands, for stealing, and their tongues, for spreading foul lies about my mother." Joffrey's breath comes in short, quick gasps, and Sansa wonders if he is feeling the effects of the warm day and the wine. She is suddenly very sleepy and wonders if it would be improper to rest under the tree. What if she sleeps and Joffrey wakes her with a kiss, just as Sir Florian woke Jonquil in the song? Warmth rushes through her body as she imagines his lips pressed to hers, his fingers soft on her cheek, and she presses her legs together.

Joffrey takes his hand from her knee and gathers a handful of her skirts, pushing them up. "You'll be my lady, and you'll make me happy, won't you?"

Sansa is dizzy, her tongue thick. She doesn't know what to say, so she says nothing. Her head feels too large, and she thinks she might lie down, whether it is proper or not. She leans back against the tree.

"When we're wed, I'll have you. I can't yet, but I can touch you now. Show me," he demands suddenly. "Lift up your gown and show me what's between your legs."

Sansa wonders, is this a dream? Has she fallen asleep? Is she now dreaming this strange and unsettling afternoon? She cannot deny Joffrey anything. She isn't sure she even wishes to deny him; she is only confused. What does he want from between her legs? She lets them lie slack, allowing Joffrey to push them apart as he shoves her skirts farther up her thighs. When his fingers brush the bare skin above her stockings, she shivers. No one else's hands have ever been there. Joffrey, her sweet prince, said that he wants to make her happy. His fingers brush at the hem of her smallclothes. She wants to ask what he means to do, but she can't make her lips form words. It's grown warm, quite suddenly. Tugging at the neckline of her gown, she wishes she could take it off and crawl into bed. Even the hateful cramped bed in the wheelhouse that she shares with Arya would be wonderful, right now.

Joffrey's hands are insistent inside her gown, and she hears fabric ripping softly, feels movement of cloth across her skin. Then she gasps, as she feels a nail scrabbling across the inside of her thigh, then at the folds of skin between her legs, feels fingers snatching at the scattered curls of hair that have recently grown in, Tully red and coarse. Sansa feels pressure as Joffrey moves his hand back and forth against her, as if he's searching for something, then an odd, uncomfortable feeling as one of his fingers goes inside her.

His breaths are shallow and excited. Sansa, distracted by a rustling in the bushes, can't quite focus on what Joffrey is saying. Something is wet, she thinks he's said, and then that she's just like Myrcella. But of course she's not like the princess, she's only Sansa Stark, not even a lady yet. And she has red hair, not blonde, and is three years older than the princess. And what does he mean by "a game"? This is a game? Sansa means to ask him, but before she can get the words out, he shoves his finger farther in and twists it, scraping his nail against her. Sansa's breath chokes her throat. She can't inhale or exhale, almost as if she's forgotten how. Her heart flutters rapidly as Joffrey repeats the motion again, and again. Sansa's eyes are closed tightly, as if shut against night. When did she close them? Opening them, she sees a wild expression on his face. It's like excitement and anger together.

He's just said something about her blood when they hear shouts. Sansa thinks one of the young voices is her sister's. She leaps up after Joffrey, her skirts falling back around her ankles as they should, and follows him in the direction of the river.

"The dogs can wait at camp," the prince had said, but Clegane knows better. His job is to make sure the prince is safe, but he cannot do that if he remains in camp. Ultimately, it is not Joffrey that he answers to, although he prefers to keep this information to himself. It's best if Joffrey thinks that he is in control.

The day is warm, and he hates it. The warmth of the sun is harsh on his scars, and it's too bright, too easy for people to see his face. At least at night, he can hide in the shadows, and those he frightens will be afraid because he wants them to be. It's little enough insult that he's been compared to this freakish beast, the largest wolf he's ever seen, sitting beside him. He's less than human; his brother's cruelty saw to that. He's not fit to be a knight, not with his face scarred in layers, his bones bared, his honor shredded.

"Stay," the Hound barks at the wolf, although she hasn't moved at all since her mistress, the Stark girl who has hair like fire, left. She lowers her chin and whines, showing him her teeth. Then she seems to toss her head before curling up, her back to him. He is impressed by how like her owner she seems to carry herself. The animal isn't frightened of him, like the girl is. She looks him in the eye, but she is graceful and docile and wants nothing to do with him.

He leaves camp. Their path is easy to follow, would have been even if he couldn't hear the prince's voice, thick with boasts and bravado, winding back through the trees, and the Stark girl's short, murmured replies. He wants to watch her walk. She reminds him of a bird, a small, startled bird. A bird he could crush easily in his gloved fist. The prince won't crush her. He seems to like her well enough, but once he tires of her, as he tires of all his playthings, he'll pluck her feathers out, one by one, betrothed or no.

Something is not right in the boy's head, for certain. When I'm king, Sandor had heard him say last year, to his small sister, if you disobey me, I'll have your clothes stripped off and then my Kingsguard will beat you.

The Stark girl is young and sweet, and more importantly, she is new to Joffrey. So things may go well for her, for a time. His laugh creaks humorlessly in his throat. In this world, things do not often go well for young, beautiful girls, especially those in the hands of this twisted, tainted family. He pushes back the memory of Joffrey's small hands pulling his sister's golden curls tight, then wrapping around wristsand her neck before creeping up under her skirts, relentlessly. Her whimpers were no different than those of a sack of pups about to be drowned. He had left the room as swiftly as he'd come, shoving the first maidservant he saw against a wall and giving her an order "from the queen" to fetch her daughter. Let the girl discover them. They are all mad, these Lannisters. Mad, twisted, and cruel.

The king is not unkind to his women, though. He is known in all the brothels: he takes the women he wants, and he pays them well. But once their bellies swell with his children, or the bloom of youth begins to fade from their faces, he forgets them readily and finds another. The Hound has had some of these women, himself, heard them gossip with one another while they pour his wine before he draws them into a shadowed alcove. They don't mind his scars, not when he pays, but they don't like to look on them, either. And how can he blame them, when he doesn't like to see his own face?

It gives him some small pleasure, though, to know that he can fuck the same women the king has fucked, he, who is nothing but the prince's dog. And with every woman he fucks and pays, flipping an extra coin to the ones who don't grimace or look away from his destroyed eye, his missing ear, he burns with satisfaction, remembering his brother's words.

He follows the prince and his betrothed on their ramble, closely at times, although they never notice him. Joffrey drinks a good deal of wine and offers the skin to the girl often. Once, Sandor catches a glimpse of her through the trees. Her head is turned to the side, and although her long, bright hair is braided back from her face, for a moment she reminds him painfully of Effie, who he has not thought of (who he has tried not to think of) for nearly ten years. This angers him. Effie is gone, likely dead, after being subjected to horrors that he can all too easily imagine, now, and the desire to shove through the trees and grasses and rip the prince's golden head from his narrow shoulders is overwhelming.

He likes to kill men, any men, but he particularly enjoys a good death of a cruel man. Their blood is brighter, and it sprays farther. He kills them because he cannot kill his brother, whose death would be the most satisfying of all. But were he to kill the prince, before his bastard blood had cooled, the Hound himself would be dead, and though his existence is somewhat miserable, he is still fond of it. He won't let some smarmy brat tempt him.

The Stark girl is not Effie. She is shy and foolish, easily deceived by beauty and afraid of ugliness. Her body is approaching womanly: though her tits aren't large enough to fill his hands, there's certainly enough of them for him to hold, if he could. But she is still innocent. Her short breaths are quick with it, which makes both his groin ache and his skin crawl. More innocent than most, if she thinks the prince is kind and brave.

He is not a good man, but neither is he like his brother, or the prince. He enjoys the kill but does not delight in tormenting women or children or animals. Why bother? Kill them quickly, if necessary, and move on. Effie wouldn't like who he is now, but she doesn't matter anymore. What else could he become? He's always been a monster. At least he doesn't conceal his deeds behind lies of valor and bravery.

The trees have grown still. His ears are sharp, like a dog's should be, and he hears Joffrey's voice, carrying through the trees. He stalks through to a clearing, where the prince and the girl are seated below a tree, facing away from him. He knows, without seeing, the expression on the prince's face. The corners of his mouth turn up sweetly, to match a gentle voice. Myrcella, I have something to show you. Let's go into your room and play.

Joffrey's golden curls shine in the sun. Gold on shit, thinks the Hound. The Stark girl's hair blazes with light. Fire burns. It's fitting. Fire is the one thing he fears, and like flame, this girl is something beyond his reach.

The prince's voice rises excitedly, and though Clegane cannot hear his words, he senses that something has changed. He takes a step back. The air is charged with the hush that has fallen around the trees. Joffrey grabs at the Stark girl, and she turns her face. Her expression is dazed. She's had too much wine, clearly. The prince is a fool. The girl is young, to have so much wine . But he is the prince's dog, not his nursemaid, and the girl is nothing to him, though she looks like Effie and smells of innocence. So he does nothing when the prince pushes her skirts aside and thrusts his hand up toward the join in her legs. The Stark girl's face is blank, not twisted in terrified sobs like the princess' was, some years back, as Joffrey held her arm tight behind her back, watching with hideous delight as she pushed a carved wooden toy between her legs.

Rabid dogs are put down, Clegane thinks, but not mad princes. How much easier the world would be if they were. But what does he know about ease? His life has been wretched.

He watches Joffrey abuse the Stark girl. She'll be soiled and shattered beyond repair before she's married, if she doesn't bleed soon. Her wolf will not save her. If he must, he'll rip its throat out, if the prince commands. And the prince may command. He does not like beasts, for they do not like him.

He finally hears a soft cry escape the girl's throat, and his body answers. He grunts, knowing he is foul, despicable. An animal. To desire this fragile, startled bird, while she's drunk and being tormented by the prince for the first time. But he does. Her throat is white and long, and her hair looks as though it would soothe his skin. He's never had a whore with such hair. His hand is unlacing his trousers before he can stop it, and while Joffrey touches the Stark girl only a short distance away, Clegane rubs his cock, yanking it angrily. He can't picture Effie; the Stark girl's face and hair are all he can see, and the blue of her gown, creased from traveling. He thinks of the blue cloth, imagines it marked with dirt, pushed up high on blood-smeared thighs. Her face wouldn't be blank when he finished with her. He's a man. He'd fuck her bloody and then do it again, gripping her soft, white flesh until it bruised.

Another faint cry from the girl, and his seed is shooting toward the ground as he grips the branch of a tree. When he's finished, Clegane wipes his hand on the grass and looks back at the two of them. They've finished, too, and they stand, hearing the shouts just as he does. Not wanting to be discovered, he waits until they're out of sight before turning back to the camp.

He desires the Stark girl. Spent, he aches to think of her white thighs, bare underneath him, but he cannot help himself. He tries not to think of her terrified face, because that makes him angry, which makes him wants to hurt her. The world is an ugly place. Those who make it ugly cannot touch those who make it beautiful. He'll never have her, so he'll protect her. He's at Joffrey's side, just as she will be. If he cannot keep her alive, then she is meant to be dead.

The sun is hot on his face, and his burned flesh smarts. Fire burns.

Fin.