Disclaimer: I own nothing, as usual. Just filling my brain and waiting for the next George R.R. Martin Book!
Note: I'm playing with story telling and perspectives in this short drabble. It's going to be PWP, a kind of reverse seduction that Sandor has not expected but clearly will enjoy. This one is my, relax my brain and have a bit of naughty fun type of a fic!
Chapter 1 A Prize More Valuable Than Gold
Sandor
He knelt on the soft dirt of the Tourney grounds in front of the dias thankfully several rows above him. Sandor Clegane's only reprieve from the scorching sun of King's Landing was the fact that he was allowed to remove his helmet while kneeling, its ferocious dog face tucked under his arm, sweat rolling down the back of his neck as he waited. Sandor was not a patient man, he never had been and he never would be, but he had been waiting a long time for this prize so some minutes more wouldn't make a difference. Now he would finally get what he desired, what he would have never been given otherwise. This prize was never meant to be his, but being the opportunist he was, it had not taken him long to understand that winning this Tourney would change his life. He grinned to himself knowing his win had been unfavorable to some, and not giving a rat's ass about it.
Sandor's steel grey eyes were still downcast, but his senses were not dull to the increasing murmur of the crowd. A highborn woman had fainted as he had been announced the winner, he couldn't have been sure if it was from his victory or the fact that he had sliced his Hedge Knight opponent nearly in half. Sandor smiled this time outright, the adrenaline still rushing through his veins. The Hedge Knight's blood still ran down his blade, the fresh smell of blood still hung heavy in the air. Sandor enjoyed killing, he always had and knew he always would. It had not been good etiquette to kill his opponent, but he didn't care. For this prize was more valuable than gold.
'Fuck etiquette,' he thought to himself, unable to wipe the small grin from his downcast face.
The knight had been skilled, no man would have said otherwise, but he was cocky and that was what Sandor had capitalized on. The knight had already felt like he had won the prize and had, as such, underestimated Sandor in his dented armor. His whole life Sandor had always been underestimated. Whether it be his intelligence or his prowess as a fighter, everyone had looked to his brother and never to him. Playing second to Gregor had afforded Sandor the time and space to practice, improve his skills while nobody was watching. He was a good fighter, of that there was no doubt, but just how good had only been put on display today, once it had been announced what the winner of the King's Marriage Tournament would recieve. Sandor's muscles thrummed from use and his chest heaved from exhaustion, he knew he would be sore come morning, but it was worth it.
Sandor was doing his best to maintain his posture under his heavy suit of armor, it would do no good to have won Tourney like this and then fall over from heat exhaustion or sudden lack of strength. So he focused on the ground in front of him, eyeing the individual granules of dirt as they moved in the light breeze of a warm fall day, waiting for the King to grant him what he had a right to, what he had rightfully won.
"Well well, it seems that my Dog has bested every man in this tournament. I always pick the best." King Joffrey's words rang through the crowd, Sandor knew all eyes were on him as he spoke. He fought the feeling of discomfort, and kept his eyes downcast.
"It pains me Dog to have you leave my King's Guard." Sandor clenched at these words, knowing his anger would rise if his King refused him his spoils. "However, a deal is a deal."
"I shall serve your Grace with even more loyalty." Sandor said, still looking at the ground. It gave him comfort to look at the ground, not having to process the looks of the entire court and onlookers alike.
"You had better Dog." The boy King spat, doing his best to sound fierce. "You can never say I am not anything but generous to those close to me."
Sandor did his best not to fidget, his knee was killing him and the longer he stayed like this the harder it would be to get up. 'Just get this over with for fuck's sake.' He cursed.
"Get the Septon!" Joffrey yelled, his smirk casting a shadow across the crowd.
When the Septon was brought to the dias, it was clear he was drunk. Sandor didn't have to look up from his fixed place on the ground to hear the unsteady footsteps and smell the scent of alcohol wafting from dias to the tourney field to know the man was drunk. 'It's probably for the better.' Sandor thought to himself as his glance shifted to Maester Pycelle.
No matter how drunk the Septon was, as long as the Maester recorded this moment it was as good as legal. Pycelle had his book out, a quill ready to scratch out the final information. Sandor held his breath.
After a bit of finagling the Septon said a few incoherent words then, "...Sandor Clegane, do you take this maid Lady Sansa Stark as your wife in the eyes of the Seven?"
"Aye." He said, still not able to look upon the dias.
"And you Lady Sansa Stark, do you take Sandor Clegane as your husband in the eyes of the Seven?"
"I do."
Sandor let out a breath he had not known he was holding. He watched Pycelle scribble the nuptials in the book and felt relief. It was done, finally he could breathe easy. The whole tournament he had been walking on eggshells, nervous for the bracket outcomes, though he did his best not to show it. Now, he could relax. Finally he shifted his gaze upon the dias, but did not see her there. She was gone, his prize whisked away to their quarters.
'She's probably so upset she doesn't know what to do with herself.' He mused, not surprised that she was not there. Highborn ladies were raised and bred differently from others, he would have to navigate this somehow. Even highborn marriages were not made for love, at least that part of it she should be prepared for.
Sansa would not escape his grasp tonight, he would make her his wife in truth, not willing to lose her on some technicality. It was the mark of a warrior to know his battles before engaging in them, and Sandor had come to know the laws of Westeros well. The sooner he consummated their union the better, whether she was willing or not. He felt himself harden under his armor, relieved it not only afforded him protection from external attacks.
"She has traitorous blood Dog. I trust my best and most accomplished warrior will keep her in line." Joffrey said, giving Sandor such a cuntish smile he almost laughed right in his King's face.
"Yes your Grace. She shall submit to me." Sandor rose carefully from his spot on the Tourney grounds, using his sword for balance. He ripped the white cloak of the King's guard from his back and handed it to the boy that was squireing for him.
"Then go Dog. I want to see her submissive at the my marriage feast this evening."
Sandor bowed lower than normal, partially because the weight of his armor was taking its toll on his tired body, partially because he wanted to seem more formal. He turned on his heel then, taking his leave of the grounds. Sandor had prepared himself for many a battle over the last two days, but none would be more challenging or more rewarding than the one he would have with a beautiful redhead, a prize more valuable than all the spoils of war he had ever taken.