The fic 'The Lioness's Game' is not on but is available other places online. It is not necessary to read it, as its events will become clear in time.
The door to the queen's chambers, beautifully carved and in places even expertly gilded, closed with a gentle clack.
And Sansa realised it was over.
But it would never be over.
Just moments before, while she had been struggling back into her dress, her mind had been a furious boiling of feelings and questions and terrible black distress.
Yet, now outside, in the quiet of the hall, the internal riot had dwindled down to silence.
Why would she do that to me? She had wanted to demand an answer. But she realised with morbid calm now that she would never know, and it didn't even matter. The king and queen did as they pleased, and explained themselves to no-one.
She knew how she was meant to feel in the aftermath of her rape; degraded and soiled. And maybe she did feel so, but she didn't want to.
They will never stop hurting me until they break me.
She felt as though she was of two minds, fighting against each other.
Just break. Weep and wail and let them lock you up as a madwoman. Perhaps they would forget about you then.
But she was a Stark. She could not disgrace her family any further, or let them find her in such a state that only her body had survived; her mind escaping its horror.
As long as she defied them though, these "punishments" would surely only get worse. If she had allowed herself to think of it at all, she imagined it would be Joffrey defiling her in this manner. Why the queen? Why the Hound?
Sansa turned to face Clegane, and found the questions she had for him also sloughed away into apathy. Why did you let that happen to me?
How could he have stopped it?
She tried to catch his eyes but his own avoided her with frustrating irony.
And was it good to kiss me? That was not a thought she should have.
But Sandor would not look at her. Without a word, he turned and walked away, the way they had come, and Sansa knew she was to follow.
Her pace was slower than usual, her legs aching and pain spiking up and down her frame. But she wasn't going to think about why that was, not just now.
She knew he had been as unwilling to be the queen's plaything as she was; his whispered remarks had been the only comfort afforded her.
"None of this foulness touches you, little bird. The queen is a sow wallowing in her sty. She can roll you in mud but she can't make you swine as well."
Somehow it had been the right words to give her strength. His eyes had held guilt, but she didn't need his guilt. She had needed his caresses and gentle touch, making her feel calm, making her feel almost… nice. She would nearly have forgotten Cersei was there at all if she hadn't forced Sansa to bow before her like a dog.
Even at the memory of that, the anger and shame that should have consumed her were strangely lacking. Was it because everything had been wrung from her and left her worn, frail, trembling?
The queen had soured even those few shocking shreds of enjoyment that lying with the Hound had brought her with that act. Making Sansa touchherself in place of his warm fingers, making her be blind to the astonishing expressions he had made from entering her body.
Cersei had taken everything she could from Sansa. Her maidenhead, her dignity, the mysteries of the marriage-bed, and any familiarity with the man forced to couple with her.
From the moment that curious sense of fulfilment at the finale had fled her body, she had felt like a shadow. As if to affirm her corporeal nature, she idly traced her finger over the join of mortar between the stones on the wall as she walked past. The sun had only just set, yet already the castle held a morbid chill.
It's rough, she thought. And the stone so cold. Not warm like Winterfell. This whole place is colder than winter.
The thought made her almost let out a barely-stifled giggle, and that made her realise for truth that something was wrong with her. Slowly, her head dragged towards the man escorting her, and upon seeing his face, she knew that he thought something was wrong with her as well. But the Hound said nothing.
Sansa let her arm drop from the wall, but the roughness of it and the feeling of being attached to it had comforted her, so she raised her hand back up again. Her fingers were covered in dust.
The walk back to her chamber seemed ten times farther than ever before. Every step had been a splinter into some delicate core she had rarely before sensed. Into what must be her womb.
Finally she found herself outside the doorway to her chamber. Sandor Clegane paused in front of it, and she paused as well. She stared at the door, thinking of what was behind it.
Her past as a child.
Her future as a woman.
In silence except for the squeak of his mail and leather, Clegane finally moved to open the door, but even after it swung all the way open, Sansa didn't move.
"Into your cage you go, little bird," Sandor said to her gruffly but quietly.
Still she didn't move. She didn't want to go in there. It was a cage, and now she knew for certain she would never be free. Despite what the Queen said, the Tyrells would surely learn of what had happened, or Willas would discover it on their wedding night. Either way, she was too ruined to be a high Lord's bride. And Ser Dontos, who she had so desperately placed her hopes on, had done nothing but offer her empty words.
The man beside her though, he had offered her action, a chance for freedom right then and there, with no conditions or promises. Now, his warm hand pressed against her back and pushed her gently back to her confinement, but for the first time in her life, Sansa resisted, digging her heels into the ground.
"Little bird," he whispered, the pressure on her back lifting.
"You told me to do as I was bid," she said blandly. His fingers clenched slightly against her.
"Aye, I did," he admitted, still soft yet rough. "It could have been much worse."
Sansa turned to look at him, and the anger that had been curiously absent from her thoughts finally made an appearance. She knew it could have been worse! She knew that! But how could he say that to her right now? Did he truly have no regard for how she felt? Her lower lip began to quiver, and for the first time, it was the Hound who averted his eyes from her face.
"Go to sleep, little bird, and this will have just been a nightmare," he turned to go, his head lowered slightly. Desperate, her arm snapped out, and she caught his sleeve with her fingertips.
"Don't leave me," she whispered. She knew her eyes must be wide with fear and strangely, his became wide as well.
"I'm scared," she confessed. "What if she makes me go back tonight, or tomorrow, and there's someone else?" Sansa felt the bile rising in her throat to even think about it, but if she went into the lonely darkness of her rooms now, that's all she'd have in her thoughts for the entire night.
"That's likely what she has planned, little bird," he spat out, looking as disgusted by the thought as she felt. "She's as sick as Joffrey, in her own way."
Sansa reached out, clawing at the front of his breastplate weakly.
"Please don't let it happen to me," she begged, tears finally making slow trails down her cheeks. The sight of them suddenly riled him from his habitual simmering anger to almost a frenzy of rage. He alternately pulled his lip into his mouth to bite, and drew it back to bare his teeth. By his side, his fists clenched until the leather of his gloves creaked.
"You refused my offer," he growled savagely.
"It was not… there was another, who had already pledged to help me. I didn't want to waste his efforts," she babbled, knowing what she said sounded absurd. "But he hasn't saved me, and the Tyrells said they'd wed me to Willas, but they won't now, I'm ruined, and now it's too late for him to save me either…" Her hands twisted into little fists against his chest.
"Who?" The Hound rasped, his voice filled with murder. Sansa quailed back against the door frame. She hadn't thought he would be critical of anyone else helping her, after he had offered to himself. Was he angry she considered someone more competent and trustworthy than him? Ser Dontos isn't either of those things, though. Why didn't I leave after the battle? Why?
"I… I won't tell, I don't want him to die as a traitor," she peeped. She could hear his teeth grinding together. But he had no further offer or words. It seemed the whim to assist her had passed from him. Unless…
The Queen wanted to degrade her, treat her as less than a human. Sansa wouldn't let her. She could be strong. With a monstrous effort, she took her gaze to the only means of escape left to her. Her eyes fell onto the Hound's sword.
"Please don't let it happen to me again," she whispered, but calmly this time, beseeching him gently. Before he could reply, she reached out boldly, almost thoughtlessly, feeling as though she were in a dream. Her hand rested lightly on the pommel. Clegane's dark eyes widened, then narrowed, and his lips drew back in a snarl. His ferocity comforted her. He could go through with this. The Hound thought nothing of killing a young girl. Her hand tightened on the hilt, cupping the pommel as though it were a means of support. She couldn't help but think of his other sword, so close to her hand, which had so recently been inside her. Now the steel one would enter her as well.
Without saying a word, his right hand moved to grip the hilt, pushing her delicate fingers aside. He drew it smoothly, and a shiver passed up her spine at the whisper of death she heard between the sheath and the sword. As he had on the rooftop that night, he laid the steel against her throat, so softly it didn't even feel sharp. She was afraid now, but only of the sword, not of him.
"Is this what you want?" Sandor asked, sounding gentle despite the ever-present gravel of his voice.
With what she hoped was a grace befitting a high Lady at her execution, she bowed her head, exposing the slender nape of her neck to Sandor Clegane.
Sansa let out her breath in one long exhale, then brought it back in again through her nose, savouring the cold entering her sinuses. She was of the North. It was right that she be cold, in the end.