Chapter 1
Sansa Stark spent the better half of her time in her bedchamber, either studying her scrolls, practicing her needlework, or praying. It made no matter how she occupied her time so long as she was safe in the solace of her room, away from Joffrey and his terrible Kingsgaurd. Not entirely safe, of course. Joffrey could simply summon her by way of sending one of those knights knocking at her chamber door, and she'd have little choice but to comply. The reason why she was hiding, for hiding was what she was doing in truth, was because some part of her believed that Joffrey would forget her if she'd simply stayed out of his line of sight. Fade into the background and watch him find a new poor soul to inflict his wrath upon.
But Sansa knew that even then, even risking gathering his attention, she would try to stop him. Somehow come up with an innocent fib for the sake of saving someone some pain. She remembered Ser Dontos, the way Joffrey nearly had him drowned in wine at his nameday tourney. It was a terrible day, and she'd almost borne the brunt of Joffrey's anger when she stopped him. If it weren't for the Hound, things might've turned out for the worse.
He lied to Joffrey, she mused to herself, thinking upon Sandor Clegane. He lied even though he told me he hates liars. She wondered why he had done it, why he'd even care to save a wretched fool like Dontos, or help her. The way he behaved with her was frightening; he'd do things like protect her and go on to say awful things to her all the same, as if his mood alternated between good and bad depending on the weather. No, not the weather of course, it was always sunny in Kingslanding. It must be something else, some secret love for her he was constantly fighting for the sake of his loyalty to the King. No, it's not that either, she admitted to herself, he still stood by while I was being beaten.
A sharp sting in her thumb shook her from her thoughts. She'd pricked it through the embroidery in her hands. A tiny ball of blood blossomed on her finger and she drew it up to her lips to stop the flowing, safely away from her needlework. Looking up through the window she'd been sitting by, she saw the sun setting and the light in her room was rapidly fading. She walked across to her dresser in search of a rag for her thumb, her shoes stirring awake the creaking floorboards beneath the rug.
Odd, the sound her shoes were making. Pulling a handkerchief from her dresser she wrapped it around her thumb and walked across to the window again, listening to the noises of the floorboards. Her mind would wander in such a way sometimes, focusing on the minute details of her room like the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling or the number of cracks in the walls. I've spent too much time in here.
She was sure there was a place nearer to her mirror where the boards squeaked louder, now that she'd paced back and forth a few times. She found the specific spot and stood over it, exactly three footfalls between her vanity and her bed. Looking down at her thumb, she contemplated moving the dusty carpet out of the way. The handkerchief was a little stained with blood, but not from her finger. She quickly realized it was the one Sandor had given her on that especially terrible day on the parapet… Save yourself some pain.
She crouched down and slowly rolled up the heavy rug, wrinkling her nose at the dust it drew up. Filthy. Looking underneath she found some stray hairs, a tiny squished skeleton of a mouse, a blank piece of paper, string, more dust, and ah, suddenly the floorboards were cut straight through where once they were unaligned, two large rusted hinges appearing along the side. She ran a hand over one of them, two intricately melded dragons on each hinge, separated to just shorter than the length of her arm span. She rolled the carpet even further, looking for the handle she was sure would be there. Following the four sides of what appeared to be a door, no handle could be found. Strange, she though, whoever made this hole didn't intend for it to be opened. At least, not from the outside.
Curious for the treasures and secrets sure to be inside, she set it upon herself to explore. Neatly folding the handkerchief back into her drawer, she grasped a candelabra in both hands, deeming it a good enough tool to open this secret door. The edge of the ornament jabbed into the ridge between the boards and, pushing down, she heard a loud crack from the other end. One of the hinges had snapped from underuse. She didn't care, because amidst the sound and a cloud of dust the door had finally gave, opening up to…
Darkness.
No, not only darkness, but stairs. Leading down. She stared, wide-eyed. It seemed a steep climb down. Shuddering, she got up and lit the waxy candles melted into the candelabra. She took a step down.
Counting twenty steps down a narrowly winding path she finally stumbled upon even ground. There were ancient sconces along the wall, the sinuous shape of dragons breathing iron fire around them. She studied them as she walked on, imagining how long it might've been since last they were lit.
She halted at the sounds of scratching somewhere further into the darkness, somewhere the flickering candles' light did not touch. Flickering. There was a draft. Meaning only one thing: a secret way out.
Her heart was pounding in her chest, the hand clammy where she gripped the candelabra. She proceeded despite her fear, hoping against hope the Gods had answered her prayers, thoughts of sweet escape filling her mind.
A large rat scurried past her, desperate to flee the unfamiliar light. The walls were covered in dust and soot; some dried roots had crept through the cracks. She came across decayed pottery and scrolls, a rat's carcass left to rot. Quickening her pace, she counted fifty heartbeats until she noticed a faint orange light up ahead. She ran.
And was disappointed to find naught but a narrow slit in the cold cobblestoned wall. She was just tall enough to peer over into the window that was too small for her slip through, too high off the grounds for her to climb down from. The sun was entirely gone, the memory of its red embers following in its way out. In the fit of her excitement, a single candle of the three she'd begun with remained lit. She tried to remove it to light the other two, but it wouldn't budge. Her heart felt like it was sinking in her chest, her throat tightening. Keeping herself from crying, she turned from the window and found herself looking up another staircase.
Resolved, she continued to climb.
Another forty steps and her feet began to ache in her shoes. Her expectations were diminishing with every step. I should've never come down here.
Watching where she placed each foot she was almost thrown back when her head hit the ceiling. A dead end. She brought the light higher. No, not a dead end. Another door. She did not think twice before pushing up on the old wood. Thankfully, any noise it made was muffled by the carpeting overhead. She pushed just enough to lift the rug as well, the weight straining her left arm and she heard a loud thump somewhere in the room. Dropping the door, she took some steps back down, readying herself to run before someone found her in her secret passageway. But no one came. No footsteps sounded in the room at all. Deeming it empty, she went back to pushing.
Coughing through the dust, she managed to flip the door to the other side, pushing more of the rug out of the way. Her head poked up into the room, blue eyes scanning the place for any sign of someone who might be hiding. As she thought, it was indeed empty. Sansa stepped up into the room.
It was another bedchamber, poorly kept judging by the messy white linen sheets on the bed off to one side. Large white curtains flanked the tall window, and that was as far as decorations went in this room. A large weirwood dresser stood by the door, a dirty old sheet covering what looked to be a rectangular painting on the wall. Setting the candelabra down on a desk to her right, she walked over to the sheet. The fabric felt rough to her hands as she pushed it away. Sansa was startled when she saw her own face staring back at her through a mirror. Not her face, but a shattered, broken version. Whoever had owned this mirror had maybe dropped it and did not care enough to replace it.
Sansa moved the sheet back into place and wondered why there was a passageway leading from her chambers to this one, and why it was concealed so impressively. She imagined it to be a secret rendezvous point for a royal princess and her lover, a forbidden affair needing to be hid away from the public eye. Or maybe it was just an old passageway after all, long forgotten from underuse. She opened the dresser and found a large suit of armor, its knots and fastenings lying on the floor. But this was not any suit of armor. The ornate, white paint decorating the helm and breastplate indicated it belonged to a member of the Kingsgaurd.
She turned back to look at the white cloak covering the mirror. There is only one of the Kingsguard who would leave his knight's armor to collect dust. And he is no knight.
Sighing, she closed the door to the dresser and made her way back to the hole in the floor. The rug was disheveled, and the faded white chair that had caused the noise earlier was on its side. She figured he wouldn't notice if she moved it away from the door, in case she wanted to make another visit. She pulled the rug with the door so that it concealed it once more and retraced her steps to her own bedchamber.
***
The Gods, she found, were answering her prayers. But only in parts. Robb Stark was winning the war, it seemed, and Sansa had to the pay the price. Some weeks after having been forcefully, violently stripped from the waist up on Joffrey's orders she still shuddered at the remembrance. The far off snickering, the anger in Ser Meryn's eyes, the steel screech of a sword leaving it's scabbard with insidious intent. It was the worst thing she'd ever experienced, and now she was being haunted.
Some serving girls took charge of her that day, mouthing meaningless comforts to stop her shaking. One stripped Sandor Clegane's cloak from her shoulders along with the ruins of her gown and smallclothes, and another bathed her and washed the sticky juice from her face and her hair. As they scrubbed her down with soap and sluiced warm water over her head, all she could see were the faces from the bailey. Knights are sworn to defend the weak, protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the Hound . . . the Hound hated knights . . . I hate them too, Sansa thought. They are no true knights, not one of them.
No matter how she tossed and turned in her bed, she could never seem to calm herself enough to sleep peacefully. Weeks had passed since the rioters in the streets had almost claimed her the day Princess Myrcella had sailed. It seemed the Gods were following some twisted agenda meant to harm her in every way, maybe pay her back for any mean thing she'd ever said or done. She could feel the fear in her tummy, twisting and pinching, worse every night. Nightmares still troubled her sleep; dark suffocating dreams that woke her in the black of night, struggling for breath. She could hear the people screaming at her, screaming without words, like animals. They had hemmed her in and thrown filth at her and tried to pull her off her horse, and would have done worse if the Hound had not cut his way to her side.
She had kept his cloak neatly tucked away beneath her summer silks. She thought about how it had once covered his shattered mirror and realized, in the dark hours of the night, that the mirror was not broken by accident.
Wiping stray tears from her eyes, she sat up in bed. Her bare feet touched the floor, making their way over to her wooden chest. Gathering the cloak and the candelabra, she went back through the hidden passageway.
Night and day seemed indistinguishable in the dark hallway, excepting the faint light from the moon, which shone through that small opening in the wall. The cobblestones were cold beneath her feet. She found the staircase leading up to the Hound's room and began her ascent, the cloak folded over her left forearm.
Making it to the top, she threw the cloak over her shoulder and began to push up on the door.
And almost dropped it back down when a light shown in from the room.
Stupid! Should've anticipated he'd be here. What had she been thinking coming here anyway? Did she think she could cover the mirror with the cloak once more without him noticing? Had she gone mad? She thought about turning back, that it was all too dangerous a situation to begin with. His presence in his room had frightened her badly. She did not know how he'd react to finding her sneaking into his chambers, maybe yell and say something nasty, or bring her to the Queen. Somehow, I don't believe he would do that. Had he saved her from the jaws of the riot only to have her thrown into an almost equally perilous situation? It wouldn't make any sense. She considered revealing herself to him then and there, return his cloak, thank him for saving her, and go.
It wouldn't work, she already knew. He would get angry with her, and that alone was enough to trigger unwanted memories. Still, her hand remained on the smooth wood of the door overhead. Setting down the cloak and blowing out the candles, she pushed ever so slowly, enough for her eyes to peer into the room.
She heard his heavy footfalls. What is he doing? Large chunks of what seemed to be his armor were clambering onto the floor. He had just finished his guard's shift for the night and was undressing for bed. Sansa lifted the door just a fingernail's width higher, too curious and fascinated to leave now that she knew what was happening. This isn't proper at all, she thought. But she had yet to see what a grown man looked like under his armor, and the opportunity was too rare to pass up, even though it was the Hound she was watching. Sandor Clegane, stripping, Gods! What am I doing?
Suddenly he came around directly in her line of sight, and, with a sigh, settled down onto the chair right where she had placed it the last time she'd visited. Fear gripped her and she lowered the door, but only by a fraction. He was removing his greaves now, she could see, kicking them away. What a mess.
In nothing but his breeches and a light tunic, Sansa felt she had to hope he wouldn't have to remove anymore and just go to bed. But the Gods were ever spiteful, and he pulled the loose garment up over his head.
Her eyes raked over his upper body. His broad muscular chest was covered in hair, almost entirely so, and his large biceps flexed when he simply threw the tunic across the room. Covered in scars, he leaned back into the chair, spreading his legs as he went, his left hand massaged the back of his neck and she embarrassingly looked at his hairy armpit. His long torso was oddly shaped. She studied the ridges on his abdomen, never having seen anything like it before. Her brothers, she remembered, used to be very thin, and similar, muscular ridges had shown on their bellies once too. But Sandor Clegane was huge and still managed to maintain such a physique. Sansa realized his body impressed her, feeling the heat flood to her cheeks as her eyes traveled down a trail of more hair leading between his legs, under his trousers. Sharp V-shaped ridges near his sides seemingly lead to the same point under his belt.
Breathing unevenly, her eyes lingered there for a while. Just a moment longer and I'll go, she promised herself, just long enough to commit the image before her to memory. Her arm was getting tired holding up the door so she simply rested it atop her head, her hands at her side. She did not know what she was waiting for anymore. Thinking she'd seen enough, she almost turned around until the Hound brought his right hand down to his belt buckle and began tugging. Will I ever leave this position tonight? He pulled it straight out with a whip and it landed so dangerously near her secret location she almost ducked her head so it wouldn't hit her.
Both hands on his laces now, Sansa noticed something different in that area between his legs, as if a tent had suddenly emerged there. He was palming himself, running his hand over something solid and she was shocked to realize he was aroused and was about to do the unthinkable.
And she could not look away.
Sansa almost made a noise when he slid his hand into his trousers, drawing himself out all the way. The grip of his hand around his own cock was maddeningly seductive and, at the same time…
She used her free hands to draw up her night shift. There was an ache between her legs unquenchable by mere muscular contractions alone. She moved her hand over her smallclothes. Wet. Clegane began to move his fist up and down his long shaft. So long and thick. Sansa almost moaned out loud when she applied some pressure between her nether lips, somewhere near the top. A nice, small place that felt amazing under her touch coupled with the sight of Sandor pleasuring himself for the night. She was having trouble keeping quiet. Her neck was aching so she brought her hand up to hold the door once more. Just a moment longer. The muscles in his forearm flexed as he continued to pump into his hand, the head of his cock appearing and reappearing through his fingers. Sansa pressed harder, moved faster. He looked down at his himself, straight black hair falling towards his cheeks. The burned side of his face was towards her. Somehow, the sight of his scars only fueled her pleasure.
His left hand came to the base of his cock, and her eyes left his face to follow it. He pressed down around the root of himself as his right hand continued to pump at the top. He could've easily wrapped both fists around himself. I could… He lifted his head, finally, his brow furrowed as if in anger, lips taut in a grimace. He hissed once, pumping hard, lifting his chin, "Sansa." She barely heard it before long spurts of a white liquid erupted from his cock and onto his abdomen. She forgot herself, gasped out loud, loud enough to make him stop in his movements and look straight in her direction.
Dropping the door, she almost threw herself in running down the steps.
Making it to the bottom in what felt like a single heartbeat, she paused to let her heart settle down. Her knees were shaking, but in fear or arousal she could not tell. Having left the candles and cloak at the top of the steps she was submerged in total darkness. Her hand along the wall, she began to feel her way back to her room as quickly as possible. She heard a sound from behind her, the creak of a rusty old door. Oh, no! She kept moving, stumbling over pottery and cutting her foot on a broken piece. The clay had cracked where she had kicked it and she was sure he had heard. A light was coming up behind her when she spotted the staircase leading to her room. "Who's there?!" she heard the man roar not far behind her. There was anger in his voice.
Disregarding the pain in her foot, she bolted up the stairs.
Making it up through the trap door, she immediately began looking for something to place over it. Her dresser wouldn't budge. The bed was twice its size. The chest. Sansa began to push the large wooden box over the door and then proceeded to sit atop it. Resigning herself to sleeping there for the rest of the night, she laid down. If she curled up her whole body she could fit on the top.
And now she waited for the struggle she knew would come.
Sure enough, the pound of his fists reverberated through her. She hoped the box would be too heavy, especially with her on top of it. Closing her eyes, she prayed he would just go away. She climbed higher up on the box. What? In a moment she realized she was sliding down, the door being pushed open from beneath her! Jumping off the box she scrambled over her bed and almost made it across, almost, when a strong hand gripped her left ankle and pulled her unceremoniously back. She wanted to cry from shame, refusing to look over at him, scared witless for what he would do to her.
"The little bird's been spying on me, hasn't she?" he rasped. She almost choked out the words. "No, I swear! Please, it was a mistake." Desperately looking for an excuse, she stumbled. "I found that door in the floor and was curious. Please! I didn't see anything, I promise." The hand still gripping her ankle loosened its hold, and she turned to regard him. He had not bothered to put any more clothes on, the laces still untied where the hair on his waist grew thickest. She gulped.
"Didn't see anything, did you? Aye, maybe, but what did you hear?" He pulled her in closer, looming over her. "Nothing," she almost pleaded. Her voice was shaky. The nearness of his body to hers made her realize how cold she had been. He was emitting so much heat, or maybe that is my own shame I feel. A moment passed before Sandor's hand came up to her forehead and she flinched. But he only gently moved her hair from her face, his fingers combing through her locks. He growled deep in his throat. "Why did you bring my cloak?"
I am caught. "I was cold. I was wearing it and dropped it." She knew she'd angered him for true now. The Hound hated liars, and he could always smell a liar when one was near. "Cold," he said lifting her foot, "and yet you wore no shoes." It was the foot she had cut in her frenzy to get away. She dragged her shift down where it was beginning to slide up her leg. "Please," she begged when she saw his eyes follow her hand, "I promise I'll lock the door, have it barred. I'll never walk through it again." He simply furrowed his brow and examined her foot, procuring a handkerchief it seemed from nowhere. Kneeling, he rested her foot on his knee as he proceeded to tie the handkerchief around it, suppressing the blood flow. Sansa was sitting up now, staring down at him, lips slightly parted in silent shock and hunger at the feel of his hands working on her injured sole.
Sandor's hands moved from her ankle up her calf, sending tingles down her spine. "No, little bird," she heard him rasp, "or you'll get yourself cut something much worse than what you have here." The marred side of his face was in shadows, away from the candlelight. There was no threat in his voice. Something like relief swept through Sansa, but his hands were still on her calf, under the hem of her shift now. She pulled her leg from his touch, and immediately felt its absence. He made as if to get up, but Sansa replaced her foot on his knee again to stop him. She did not know what compelled her to let this savage of a man touch her like he did, but the flutter of her heart and the heat that bloomed low in her belly longed for his touch. She looked at him expectantly through the dim light.
Without another word, he placed her foot over his shoulder, and did the same with the other. She was feeling those same emotions from earlier, right in her core. His hands knowingly moved with the hem of the thin nightgown, up and up her legs, so softly, up until his face came dangerously too near. She leaned back in almost the same manner in which he had not a few moments earlier. A gasp escaped her when she felt his lips touch her inner thigh. The same urge to touch herself exploded in her body, stronger than ever before, but his fingers were at the sides of her undergarments first, pulling them off. Up, over his head. She felt the scarred side of his lips brush the other side of her inner thighs as she began to hear herself pant. There was nothing in the world that could've suppressed her in that moment when his lips touched the same spot she had so longed to rub for herself.
Is this what goes on in the marriage bed? Unfamilar feelings were coursing through her body. The way his lips would kiss and suck on the little knot there sent tremors of pleasure through her. Fear was long abandoned, the most seductive electrical current taking its place. When his tongue moved between her lips she moaned without caution, savoring every upward movement, up and down over that same delicious spot. What was he doing to her to make her behave in such a manner? His hands were still on her buttocks, the thought of them sent tremors through her body. She moaned again without surcease and felt his tongue explore her deeper, making longer sweeping strokes over her cunt.
Sansa looked down at him again. His eyes were closed, mouth intent on her. He looked like he was eating the most delicious thing he'd ever had and she gasped again when he dazedly met her eyes, shooting her a look almost carnivorous in itself. His tongue suddenly moved faster over that spot again and she was becoming increasingly overwhelmed. The hands on her sides squeezed and released her in turn, his wonderful tongue making a soft wet noise over her. His thumbs came around under her buttocks, around to her opening. He used one of them to gently rub her around there, teasing her opening while he still worked on the little center of pleasure at her apex. It all proved too much for Sansa. Arching her back on her bed she came hard into Sandor's hungry mouth, almost yelling her completion into the darkness. Her hips were moving up and down on him on their own accord, riding out every single pleasurable current that raked through her body. She had never felt anything so amazing in her entire life.
He must have sensed her completion, for he then withdrew his lips from her. In a moment, Sandor Clegane was looming over her once again. His hands found her ruffled nightshift and drew it down over her knees. Sansa did not want to move, her chest was still heaving from the force of that feeling.
He turned to go back down the stairwell, something bunched in his hands. It was not till later when she couldn't find her smallclothes that she knew what it was. Those were my favorite, she thought with regret. And she knew, then, she would get them back.