"No!" Ned Stark yelled. "Send me to the Wall instead!"
Joffrey laughed. "I'd take your head if my mother hadn't begged so prettily for you to keep it, but then you wouldn't be able to see the wedding, would you?" A sneer oozed across the boy king's smug face.
"My daughter has done nothing wrong. If you must issue a punishment, issue it to me."
"No!" All traces of humor evaporated from Joffrey's face. "Lady Sansa will marry my dog and that's an end of it. Complain again and I'll have your head right after the ceremony."
"And what have I done to warrant marriage to a traitor's daughter, your grace?" the Hound rumbled from behind the throne.
Joffrey stood and looked at his sworn shield. He smirked. "Consider it a gift. She was good enough for me once. She's pretty enough still. You should thank me for giving you an obedient wife. I think she's been afraid of you since she first saw you at Winterfell." With that he strode out of the throne room, leaving Ned Stark to harness his anguish, Sansa Stark to bite back her fear and nausea, and Sandor Clegane to stare openly at his betrothed and her father.
"Sansa, I can't allow you to go through with this . . . to endure . . ." Ned shook his head in frustration.
"I don't see that we have a choice. Joffrey will kill you if I don't marry the Hound."
"The man is little more than a beast with a taste for blood. To have you under his power is unthinkable." Ned paced back and forth. "I'll talk to Cersei. If I can convince her to release you and Arya -"
"No! She's already saved your head. It's best not to draw her notice," Sansa urged. The queen was as changeable as her son. Tractability was their best course; Sansa was sure of it.
"Sansa," her father somehow grew even paler, "do you not understand what a marriage to Sandor Clegane would mean? Don't fool yourself into thinking he'd spare you or be gentle with you."
"Please." Sansa could hardly bare to think about it let alone discuss the inevitable event with her father. "Please do not believe I would rather see you dead."
"You shouldn't have to do this. The boy has no honor, no sense of honor -" And on it went.
Sansa, her father, and Arya were allowed to wander the Red Keep but were not permitted to leave its walls. They were given a suite of rooms, two bedrooms and an adjoining solar, and it seemed one or more of the gold cloaks were always in the corridor outside their door.
A few weeks went by since Joffrey had determined Sansa must marry Sandor Clegane and nothing had happened. Clegane did not speak to Sansa any more than he had done before, and, when he did, it was usually only while fulfilling King Joffrey's orders. He seemed to stare at her more often but, as she was an object of interest to the entire court, this was hardly noteworthy. Sansa and her father hoped that maybe the betrothal had just been an idle threat, forgotten in the chaos of Joffrey's as yet brief but bloodsoaked reign.
Still, it was public knowledge. Her erstwhile friend, Margaery Tyrell, had said what a shame it was while her cousins grinned gleefully behind her but Sansa only bobbed a curtsy in acknowledgement and walked on. One night, when Clegane had escorted her back to her family's rooms, she'd very nearly asked him his feelings about their betrothal but, upon seeing him looking directly at her, she faltered, bid him good night, and shut the door with haste.
"Lady Sansa." The Hound's voice cut through the door after three swift knocks.
Sansa, Ned, and Arya exchanged looks. Clegane's arrival was not expected but neither was it unusual. His voice betrayed nothing amiss yet all three of them grew tense at the raspy greeting.
Sansa rose and answered the door. The Hound dumped a gown into her arms. "We're to be wed tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?!"
"Yes, tomorrow."
Sansa's mouth fell open. She looked down at the heap of fabric in her arms. The flesh-colored material had blotches of rust red that Sansa supposed were to look like flowers. It was the ugliest gown she'd ever laid eyes upon and it smelled like a woman of ill repute.
"Why the sudden urgency, Clegane?" Ned asked with a frown as he approached the door.
Clegane looked at him for a moment before responding. "The young wolf," he mocked, "has won another victory. It sits ill with the king."
"So?" Sansa blurted out. "Robb has won every battle he's undertaken."
"Not with Stannis at his side."
"What?" the Starks asked in unison.
Clegane looked up and down the corridor. "It seems your boy and Stannis have entered into a bargain. They aim to take King's Landing together, rid themselves of Joffrey and Cersei, and then settle their differences later."
"Stannis will never let Robb continue his campaign for northern independence," Ned said, mostly to himself. "Foolish alliance . . ."
Sansa looked up from the gown to take in her future husband. He was as hulking and intimidating as always, though she was surprised by what she thought sounded like a note of grudging respect in his voice when talking about Robb.
Clegane turned and saw her staring. "You're to wear that," he said as though she were simple.
"It's ugly."
The Hound threw back his head and unleashed his snarling laugh. "You think Joffrey cares to please you?"
Sansa looked down to hide the tears suddenly pricking her eyes. She blinked them away. A surge of anger, at his laughter, at Joffrey, at her whole miserable situation, rose up within her. "I don't want to marry you," she said, hoping to hurt him at least a little.
"Feel free to tell the septon that tomorrow, girl. See where it gets you."
He turned to go but Sansa followed him out into the corridor, shutting the door behind her. "Do you want to marry me?"
"A daughter of the north asking for my hand? Bit unusual but I accept."
"I wasn't proposing, you . . ." Sansa bit her tongue.
"Joffrey promised me an obedient wife," the Hound replied with a look of warning.
Sansa bit her tongue again. The last thing she needed was to raise the ire of both the king and the Hound. "Why haven't you objected? Surely you don't want to marry me any more than I want to marry you."
"I serve the king."
Sansa said nothing. For some reason that seemed to make him go on.
"It'll never be less trouble for me to gain a wife than now."
A spark of hope lit in Sansa's heart. "If you want to marry, why not do so before you're saddled with me?"
His grey eyes roamed over her. "You'll do." With that he turned and left.
Deflated, Sansa returned to her family's chambers with the travesty that was her wedding gown. Lacking anything else to do, she tried it on. It was several inches too short in the hem and was so tight across the bodice that her breasts spilled forth in a most provocative manner. The flesh-colored fabric made her look nude and the garish red flowers were placed to suggest that they were all she was wearing. There was no question where Joffrey had acquired the gown.
"You look like you've bled to death," Arya commented.
Sansa's shoulders sagged. She could only hope her cloak would cover the entire thing.
The next morning there was a knock on the door. Arya opened it. "Sansa, it must be for you."
Sansa raised gloomy eyes from her toasted bread and wondered what further humiliation Joffrey had in store for her. She'd done what she could to alter the dress, but it wasn't much. Arya dragged in a large package. Sansa pulled off the wrapping. Inside was a simple gown of white, a black sash at the waist. She frowned at it.
"Sandor Clegane must have sent it," Arya said.
"Why would he do that?"
Arya shrugged.
Too soon, Joffrey himself came to escort Sansa to the sept.
"I'm her father, your grace," Ned all but spat. "I'll escort her."
Joffrey turned a malevolent eye towards him. "As king, I'm father to the whole realm and I'll dispose of my subjects as I wish. You can follow behind and look at this." He snapped open Sansa's bridal cloak. Heralded on the back was a direwolf's head. Instead of looking bravely forward, the animal's head tilted down in defeat, a collar and chain having been stitched around the neck. Sansa stiffened as Joffrey laughed. "Like it, Stark?"
Before her father could reply, she said, "We should be off," and moved toward the door, fastening the cloak around her as she went. Joffrey's cruelty was no surprise. She only hoped Robb would defeat him sooner rather than later. And since Joffrey was too amused by his own jape, he hadn't taken notice of the white gown she was wearing.
They arrived at the sept and were greeted by the queen regent. She took in the modified sigil on Sansa's cloak. Her mouth dropped open slightly and she cast a look at her son but pressed her lips together and said not a word. Sansa felt sick when Joffrey offered his arm. She could not believe she'd once dreamt of marrying him. Before she could process the blur of faces lining the aisle, she was at the front of the sept and facing Sandor Clegane, only dimly aware of the congregation's reaction to the shamed direwolf.
The septon read some nonsense about love, fidelity, and other noble sentiments that had no connection to her or Clegane so Sansa spent the time trying to remain calm. She chanced a look at Clegane and found him looking back at her, his face creased with annoyance. Why should he be annoyed? He, at least, wanted to get married, even if it wasn't to me.
Suddenly Clegane's big hands were at her throat. His fingers seemed unable to work the brooch fastening the offensive cloak and, after a brief struggle, he simply grabbed the two ends of the fabric and ripped them apart before casting the whole thing onto the floor next to the goggle-eyed septon. Sansa's heart suddenly jolted back into motion, startling her and causing her to lean away from the man who was at that moment becoming her husband. Clegane fanned his black and yellow cloak around her and used it to pull her closer. Before she knew it, the septon had said a few more words and Clegane's fire-ravaged face was closing in. Sansa blinked, wanted to shake herself awake, but the mass of charred and twisted flesh, red and oozing, was upon her. She squeezed her eyes shut with a whimper as his lips claimed hers. It was mercifully brief and then she was swept back up the aisle.
Had she spoken any vows? She supposed she must have. Sansa sat at her wedding feast and wondered how she could have gotten married and yet missed most of the ceremony. Clegane was steadily pouring wine down his greedy gullet but otherwise ignored her. Sansa looked down the table to where her father was seated. He was being ignored as well, untouchable thanks to the taint of treason. Arya was nowhere to be seen. The crowd, nearly all of whom she recognized, seemed split into thirds. One third glanced at her with pity, another third seemed amused and mocking, and the last third appeared to care for nothing at all but the next course and a refill of their cups. Joffrey spent most of the evening making himself agreeable to Margaery Tyrell. He'd just started to call for the bedding when Clegane suddenly lurched to his feet. He weaved unsteadily and then yanked Sansa from her chair. "The bedding. About time," he slurred as he hoisted Sansa over his shoulder, her face flaming with mortification.
"Hey! We're supposed to strip her!" Joffrey called, inciting others to do the same.
Sansa kept her head down, the blood rushing to her skull doing little to drown out the crowd's lewd suggestions. The Hound staggered and crashed into a pillar.
"You can't fuck her if she's dead, Clegane!" some half-wit called.
"Wouldn't stop you, Johnson!" another called back.
Waves of laughter followed as Clegane got his bearings again and stumbled and swerved toward the staircase. He began to climb, reversed his steps, grabbed a flagon off a nearby table, clipped his elbow against the wall, and disappeared up the stairs, his bride hanging like a pelt over his shoulder. A few drunken revelers made to follow them, one man grabbing at Sansa's legs. Her squeal drew an angry "bugger off!" from the Hound and then they were alone.
"Put me down," she said. "Please," she added when he didn't respond.
"We're not there yet."
Sansa tried to wiggle out of his grip. "Do you want to fall and break your bloody neck on the steps? No? Then stop moving." His shoulder was digging into her stomach but she stilled. Long minutes later a door swung open and she was dropped onto a bed.
The Hound threw his head back and shook the hair out of his eyes. He studied Sansa's face. All of a sudden a truth hit her. After leaving the hall, Clegane's steps had been sure and steady. "You're not drunk," she accused.
A sardonic glint lit his eye. "No more than usual."