Sandor Clegane knew King Joffrey was brewing a wicked plan in that psychotic mind of his.
On this particular morning, he arrived to escort the young king from his quarters to the throne room and His Grace was yelling at the top of his lungs at his tailor. Something about his trousers being too tight. Sandor just waited at the doorframe as he watched the poor tailor gather his fabrics and box of sewing tools before shuffling past him. The Hound wondered how Joffrey could find his trousers too tight; he doesn't have a cock to begin with.
"Ah dog," the blonde boy greeted him. Sandor only bowed his head and allowed him to exit the room before following at his heels. That's when he saw it: that psychotic grin he spreads across his inbred face when he's come up with something he deems intelligent, or cruel, or humorous—or all three.
Sandor rolled his eyes and forced himself to ignore it. And he wished he fucking hadn't.
The moment he sat his arse on that throne, he snapped his fingers at Ser Meryn. "Summon my tailor."
Sandor sighed. It was too early to have to mop up blood in the Great Hall.
The poor tailor was pulled into the throne room. He was a frail, middle-aged man dressed too humbly to be the royal tailor. His black hair was tussled on his head, indicating Meryn man-handled him around before dragging him into the throne room, and his clear blue eyes were wide with fear. Sandor could tell the man was seeing his life flash before his own eyes.
"Your Grace…" he mumbled, bowing to the child king. Joffrey's grin widened at the man's submission, "You didn't think you wouldn't get punished for this morning, did you?"
"Of course not, Your Grace," he let out.
"Now, what could be your punishment…?" Joffrey laughed cruelly. Sandor rolled his eyes. The king was stalling: he already knew the man's punishment but was doing so for dramatic effect. Sandor hated when people stalled: just slit his throat and be done with it.
"Your Grace, please!" the tailor begged.
"Silence!" Joffrey screeched, his voice echoing throughout the Great Hall. "I know your punishment already."
Joffrey paused for theatric flair before asking, "You have a daughter, isn't that right?"
Sandor never saw so much horror on a man's face—not even the guarantee of death compared. The tailor stammered, "Y-Your Grace…"
"Answer me!"
"Y-Yes…" he whispered. "She's all I have after my wife—"
"Is she married?" he asked, stalling a bit more for his amusement. Sandor frowned slightly. What the fuck was this moron planning?
"No, Your Grace," he was trembling.
"Excellent!" Joffrey cackled like the fires lighting the torches around him. "I have found your daughter the perfect husband!"
He stood from the throne and, to Sandor's disgust, felt the king pat the armor on his back, "A bitch like your daughter can only marry a dog! Isn't that right, dog?"
This fucking cunt.
"Your Grace!" the tailor pipped up. "Please!"
"It's decided!" Joffrey laughed hysterically. "It's about time my dog mounts a bitch!"
What the fuck did he do to deserve this shit? He has enough trouble taking care of this cunt for a king and making sure he doesn't swallow his own tongue.
Sandor watched the poor tailor get dragged out of the Great Hall as Joffrey dictated his orders officially on paper to Grand Maester Pycelle. Sandor just watched on silently, having nothing to say. How could he? Deny the king and he would have his head on a spike—and he wasn't about to die over a marriage this idiot cooked up on his walk from his bedchamber to the Great Hall.
He figured the king forgot about the wedding announcement—hell, he prayed he did. But the cunt didn't forget and in a week's time, he had Sandor's future father-in-law forcefully make him something decent to wear that wasn't armor and sew him a black and yellow cloak with the Clegane sigil for the ceremony. It was a cruel joke to have the man tailor clothes for the Hound that is to marry and deflower his daughter, and Sandor found no words to say to him. He just drank wine as the tailor measured him and picked out fabrics to sew together for the wedding.
He didn't meet the girl until the wedding day. Joffrey purposefully forbade his servants to serve Sandor wine before the ceremony, so he would be sober throughout the entire thing. He wanted to strangle everyone in this fucking sept. Seeing Joffrey's grin made his blood boil.
When the doors of the sept opened revealing his bride and her father the royal tailor, Sandor really wanted the earth to swallow him whole. The girl was no older than twenty-three with beautiful features, bright strawberry blonde hair swirling in soft waves, and eyes like the clear blue skies above the sept. She was petite and delicate like a porcelain doll, with flawless skin to match, and the ivory dress she wore only made her look more innocent than she was. Sandor asked the Seven what cruel irony this was—a hideous and murderous dog like himself paired with a delicate and lovely doll like her! She didn't deserve this. And neither did he, honestly.
When she stood next to him, she was shorter than his collarbone.
"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."
He placed the black and yellow cloak over her shoulders and he noted how small her frame was. He could snap her in two with a single flick. By the Gods, he wished he had wine as he stood there and listened to the septon go on and on about marriage and the Gods. Her hand was so small compared to his as the septon tied a ribbon around it and he tried not to hold her so tight—he felt he could break her delicate hand if he squeezed just a little.
"My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. Let it be known that Celeste Beauron and Sandor of House Clegane are one heart, one flesh, and one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."
So that's her name.
Sandor grumbled through his vows and then grimaced when she spoke hers softly, her voice like the sweetest honey and the richest wine. This must be a joke! She'll probably turn into a Frey girl after midnight!
He had to lean down to kiss her, though it wasn't much of a kiss—he just pressed his lips against the corner of her mouth and quickly recoiled before she had a chance to.
The ceremony ended and the feast in the Red Keep began. At least he had wine now, which he gulped like a madman to dull his displeasure over the entire affair. His new wife looked just as disheartened, though she was much subtler about it, he noticed, as any lady would. She barely touched her food and jumped when he slammed his glass on the table and shouted for more wine.
Just before he could get nastily drunk—the drunk where one doesn't even remember his own name—Joffrey stood and announced in glee, "Let us bed them!"
"Fucking hell," he muttered as the men began to approach his tiny wife, grabbing her and pulling her out of her chair. She looked horrified and was trying her best not to look as if she wanted it all to stop probably to avoid offending the king. Sandor, on the other hand, was not surprised to see the women attending his wedding were eyeing each other anxiously, as none of them wanted to come near him or even touch him.
He sighed heavily, guzzled down the rest of his wine, and stood from his chair. He approached the men tugging at his wife's clothes and barked to shoo them away, "I know how to fuck a woman—I don't need help!"
The men quickly let her go. Sandor was able to grab her and swing her over his broad shoulder like a pillow filled with feathers. The crowd cheered along with Joffrey, and the Hound could do nothing more than scowl and hurry towards his bedchamber to finally leave that godforsaken wedding.
When he entered the new bedchamber he'd been given for him and his new wife, he kicked the door closed, put her down on her feet, and went straight for the hearth in the room. He reached for the pitcher of wine, poured himself a cup, and slouched on one of the velvet armchairs to drink it.
The crackling and popping of the fire and the sound of wine being poured into his goblet filled the room. It was roughly ten minutes before he heard the rustle of skirts behind him. He figured his wife got the message: he had no intention of fucking her and only wanted to get drunk.
"Is that all you will do tonight?" her sweet voice asked. Sandor sighed. Apparently, she didn't get the fucking message.
"I'm not going to fuck you," he told her. "Leave me be and go to bed—I won't touch you."
There was another moment of silence before she spoke again. "But what are we to do?"
Sandor rolled his eyes and growled. Beauty with no brains—classic combination. "Did you not hear me, woman? I'm not going to fuck you."
"Yes, I understood that—and I thank you," she snapped. "I mean, people will talk, and the king will be displeased if the marriage he so graciously arranged has gone unconsummated."
Her words encouraged him to turn his head. She was sitting at the edge of the bed in a nightgown and she was running her fingers through her long hair resting over her right shoulder. Her wedding dress was thrown over a nearby chair and the heels she'd worn were neatly tucked underneath the vanity in the room. Sandor scoffed, "What do you fucking suggest then, woman?"
"If we're to stay in the king's good graces, we'll need to maintain a façade," she narrowed her blue eyes. "But the façade can only succeed if we're both on the same page."
"Right," he mumbled. "I'll brag I fucked you. Is that what you want?"
He watched her stand and go towards the vanity, take her shoes and toss them across the room near the bed. She then grabbed her wedding dress and approached him, holding it out to him, "I need you to tear it."
"Aren't ladies very sensitive about their dresses and skirts?" he joked dryly.
"Yes," she nodded. "But dogs aren't. You came in here, put me down, and ripped my dress open before having me, correct?"
He stared up at her, impressed with her firm yet very feminine way of speaking to him, and put his goblet down to take the dress and rip it down the back. He tossed it back to her, "Anything else the dog needs to rip apart?"
She looked up in thought for a second before asking, "What part of me would you grab to hold me down?"
He scowled, "I'm no rapist, woman."
"I'm not suggesting you are," she shook her head. "And clearly you are not, but King's Landing thinks you are."
"Your arms," he pointed out. She nodded and rolled up her nightgown's sheer sleeve. "Squeeze my arm as if I ran from you. My maids will see the bruise when they dress me tomorrow and will surely spread the word."
He glared up at her, but she insisted, "I'm doing all the thinking, so just do as I say so we can both keep our heads attached."
He did as he was told, squeezing her arm though not as tight for fear he'd break it—she kept telling him to do so tighter until she told him to stop. A large and red hand print was visible on her flawless pale skin.
"Now…" she trailed off and dashed to her vanity. Sandor watched as she ingeniously grabbed a hairbrush and began running the bristles quite harshly over her neck and collarbone. "You have a beard so we must take that into consideration."
She jumped from the vanity onto the bed and pulled the covers from it. She rustled the sheets to make them appear messy and tossed pillows to the floor before turning to him, "Can you hand me the knife on the table?"
"You're going to tear the sheets?" he asked, taking the knife and standing to hand it to her. She shook her head, "No. We need proof the consummation happened."
Sandor's eyes widened when he saw her take the knife and poke the skin on her index finger with the fine point. Before any blood came through, he snatched it from her. "I'll fucking do it."
He cut a small incision on his thumb, letting the blood ooze out a bit before wiping it off on the ivory white sheets. He licked his wound like the dog he is before grumbling, "There. We fucked."
"You were amazing, husband," she joked dryly. Sandor scoffed and went back to his chair and his wine.