Warning: dub-con ahead
The pleasure of leaving the Red Keep was short-lived. Sansa told her father and Arya as precisely as she could where Robb was encamped, which was to say that there was smoke above some trees. Arya was ready to leave on the instant but their father cautioned against rash action. They would wait to see what happened before losing their tenuous status as valuable hostages.
Aside from her deferred hopes for escape, Sansa's life too soon returned to her usual routine. Clegane continued to ask what she'd done during the day and it saddened her to recount the dull sameness of her hours so, one night, when she was feeling particularly confined, she asked him about his day first.
He turned on to his side instead of remaining on his back, which was how they usually conducted their nightly conversations. "I guarded the king," he answered.
"Oh." Sansa supposed his days could be numbingly repetitive, too.
"There was a small council meeting. Joff wants to attack your brother and Stannis."
Sansa turned on her side to face him. "Why?"
"Because he's a fool."
"I'm surprised you think so."
"And why is that, little bird?"
"I - I suppose I never considered that you might think about what Joffrey does. I guess I assumed you only paid attention to his orders."
"I listen to every word."
"Will you tell me what was said?"
"Will you repeat it?"
"Of course not."
Clegane ran his hand down her arm and entwined his fingers with hers. It made her heart patter but she allowed it. Joffrey hated her brother, Clegane told her, though he hated his uncle more. He took it as an affront that they would join together against him rather than recognizing it as strategy. His immaturity was goading him into an ill-conceived display of force. He promised to arm every peasant in King's Landing and send them north to where the would-be usurpers were encamped and so make Castamere look like a tea party. Shame and dismemberment were the least of what awaited Robb and Stannis. Their heads would adorn the walls and their followers would be executed one by one.
Sansa shivered. She prayed that Robb would turn north and be safe, even if he took her only chance of rescue with him. "What would that mean for me?" she whispered.
Clegane pulled her into his chest. She didn't resist, her mind far away. "Nothing."
"Joffrey would never -"
"You are my wife."
Sansa once again felt the separation, the trench, the gulf that now lay between her and the rest of her family. Winterfell had never felt farther away.
"I'll keep you safe," he added.
Part of her wanted to believe him. Part of her already did.
"You're sworn to Joffrey."
"I'm married to you."
Sansa blushed and kept her head ducked below his chin. They were married, in word if not in fact. She appreciated his kindness and honesty and, when he lowered his head and found her lips, she didn't resist.
The next morning Clegane kissed her before he left. Sansa's stomach clenched. What if he's expecting more now? I should never have kissed him. But she had. And she couldn't deny that it sent a tingle through her. That's only because you've barely been kissed before, and because he said he'd keep you safe. The heat in her blood knew it for a lie, though. Ever since she'd realized that he'd liked her even before their betrothal, and since she'd reflected on his generally kind treatment of her, there had been a hum within her that looked for and recognized him. She could pick out the rattle of his armor or the resonance of his voice within a loud hall. His proximity awoke something in her that could no longer be quieted. Such feelings were not entirely welcome.
The following night, after Sansa had stolen surreptitious looks at Sandor while he bathed and they'd discussed the day's events, he kissed her again. When his tongue prodded her lips and his hand settled on the plain of her belly, she turned away. Her gratitude for his kindness would not come at the cost of her maidenhead. Robb was inching closer and closer. Rescue might yet be possible.
Clegane pulled her back around, not ungently. "What are you doing?"
"Going to bed. Good night." She made to turn on to her side again but he stopped her.
"You're a tease."
"I'm a maiden."
"Only because I allow it," he said angrily. "What do you think you're doing, kissing me in the morning and turning me away at night?"
Sansa steeled her nerves. He'd know if she was lying. "I'm grateful for your protection but -"
"But not grateful enough to put up with my face, is that it?"
"No! It has nothing to do with your . . . the way you look."
"Spare me your lies, girl. If I was the Knight of Flowers, you'd be moaning like a whore right now."
Sansa drew back in surprise. He glared at her and turned away. Sansa stared at his massive shoulder and wondered what had set him off.
The next night, Clegane came to their rooms drunker than she'd ever seen him. He didn't speak but the anger radiating off of him frightened her. To her relief, he fell into bed and began to snore loudly.
The following morning started with a crash and a curse as her husband knocked his light armor to the floor. The way he squinted in the light told Sansa he had a hangover of exceptional proportions. She got out of bed and helped him pick up his pauldrons, greaves, vambraces, and the various knives that had scattered across the floor. Instead of the thanks she expected and knew she deserved, he gave her a look and snatched a gauntlet out of her hand.
"Don't drink so much if you don't want to feel bad in the morning."
"You've turned into a nagging wife already," he said in a voice even rougher than usual. "That didn't take long."
"I'm not nagging. I'm merely suggesting -"
"You want a suggestion? Don't lay there like a fucking corpse when I kiss you."
For some reason, his words cut her to the quick. It had never once occurred to her that there was technique involved, or that she would be criticized for hers. It embarrassed her.
"I watch that little fuck Joffrey all day. I don't need him here as well," Clegane continued, obviously in the mood to air his grievances.
Sansa didn't understand. "He's not here."
The Hound rose and towered over her. "You want to cry and look sad in court? Fine, but not here. You want to carry on some mummery that I beat you and rape you every night so Joffrey thinks he's punishing you and your father? Fine, but not here. You lie to them, not to me. I'm sick of it. If you can't stand the sight of me, say so and say it now. You liked my face well enough when I was protecting you from your king."
Sansa realized he must have been stewing over this all the previous day. "It's not your face," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.
"I told you I wouldn't hurt you and I haven't."
"I know."
"Then what are you afraid of? That you might enjoy it?"
"Enjoy it?"
"Yes. You do know how to enjoy things, don't you?"
"I want to . . . want to." She couldn't be more honest than that.
Clegane's grey eyes held her gaze for a moment and then looked away. "You don't know what you want."
That night Sansa's husband returned to their room quite sober. He said nothing until she stopped sewing and got into bed.
"What did you do today?" he asked stiffly.
Sansa recognized that he was trying to make amends for his rude behavior of the morning but wasn't of a mind to make things easy for him. "I sewed."
His arm slid around under the sheet until his hand found hers. "Your fingers must be sore if that's all you did today."
"I didn't have many choices."
"I could give you a choice."
"Don't be crude."
"For fuck's sake, Sansa." He turned on his side and pulled her over to face him. "You're my wife." He leaned in and kissed her, silencing her protests by drawing his tongue over her lips. His hand raked through her hair as he kissed her harder, his mouth drawing hers open until his tongue rolled around hers. A current of tingles flooded her body but she gathered herself.
"Stop!"
Clegane groaned and sat up. He rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. He stared at her for a long moment. "Go back to your father, girl," he said tiredly. "Tell Joffrey I'm too cruel to you. Tell him I got you with child. Anything. Beg him to spare you another day of marriage to me."
"No." Sansa was more afraid than she'd ever been before in his company.
"No? That's what you've been wanting. I won't stop you."
"No," she said stubbornly. "Joffrey will kill my father."
"Not if you offer yourself to him." He shrugged. "Not right away."
"That's a horrible thing to suggest."
"Yet I'm to sit around until my balls turn blue and drop off? Believe me, girl, if it's between your father and my balls, he's a dead man."
"That's not very nice."
"Nice is not going to brothels because you prefer your wife. You make demands like a bloody queen so go act like a queen. You know how queens get what they want, don't you? Spread your legs for Joffrey and let him try to chisel through the ice. I have a better chance of melting the bloody Wall with my bare arse than I do of being what you want. So go. Go to Joffrey. I'll back up whatever tale you tell him."
Sansa clamped her jaw down to stop it from trembling. "The High Septon wouldn't . . . couldn't grant us . . . I'm still your wife whether -"
"You're more like a bloody live-in septa. The only singing you do is from hymnals and the only thing your tongue is good for is licking your damned embroidery thread."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Stranger, Smith, and Crone," he muttered. "You don't know because you don't want to." With that he flopped down on the mattress and jerked the sheets over his shoulder, leaving her to stare at his back.
Sansa was making another lap around the bailey, trying to let the sun warm her and wondering what to do about her husband, when an out-of-breath Arya came racing up to her.
"The Hound's getting it from Joffrey," she gasped.
"What? What do you mean?"
"He's in trouble. In the throne room."
"Why? He hasn't -"
"He took you into the city."
Sansa's blood ran cold. "But that was -" How long had it been?
"Joffrey doesn't care. Robb and Lord Stannis are just outside the city now. He's accusing the Hound of trying to return you to our brother. The Hound's denying it, of course, it would be stupid not to, but that weasel-faced Joffrey is just mad that he's no match for Robb and -"
"Has he issued a punishment?"
"Just a warning. You know how Joffrey likes to parade the Hound around. He'd never dismiss him as his shield. But there were a lot of people there and Joffrey likes everyone to know he's the king . . . I thought you should know. The Hound is likely to be in an even worse mood than usual."
Sansa nodded. "Thank you for telling me."
"Maybe you should stay with me and Father tonight."
"No, I'll be fine, thank you."
Arya's brows drew together. "Well, with any luck, the Hound will just drink himself to the floor."
"Most likely," Sansa answered sadly.
Joffrey's dressing down of her husband was the talk of the castle. Still, she was surprised to find him in their room that afternoon. He was hunkered over their table, a flagon at his lips. He turned toward her and, just for a second, a look of hope crossed over his face before settling into his usual harsh expression. It was that look that moved her. She approached and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry. Joffrey was most unjust."
He grunted but didn't otherwise reply.
She stooped down and kissed him. He pulled away and took a drink instead. His rejection stung but, just as indignation began to swirl in her chest, she realized the hypocritical nature of her feelings. Why should he want her now, when kindness to her was the cause of his unwarranted and public setting down?
Sansa moved to the window and took up her sewing. She tried to be as still and silent as possible. Clegane polished off the flagon and left the room without so much as glancing at her.
Hours passed. The sun was sinking low in the sky when Sansa tossed her sewing aside and looked out the window. No one was out. She turned her attention to the room. It was neat and orderly and absolutely devoid of anything to do. What she first attributed to restlessness, she soon recognized as loneliness. Something inside her curled up at the thought that she actually missed Clegane. She denied it to herself but it was no good. She wondered where he was and what he was doing and if he was thinking of her. When it grew late, she wondered if he would return.
He did return, very late and very drunk. Sansa was already in bed but had lain awake waiting for him. He stumbled into the furniture getting undressed and groped his way around the room and under the covers. It was too dark to be sure but Sansa thought he turned and looked at her. Words deserted her so she inched over and laid a hand on his chest.
Faster than she would have thought possible, he rolled toward her, took her in his arms, and kissed her until he found her lips. His wine-soaked tongue pressed its way into her mouth as his leathery scars scraped against her cheek. Surprise had robbed Sansa of her breath and she had to turn away to gasp in some air. She was breathless again when he shoved her nightgown up to her neck. She knew he couldn't see her but his fingertips skimming over her body made her feel more exposed than his gaze could have done. Worse, her body was unequivocally responding while her mind lagged behind, wondering if any of this was wise while Clegane palmed her breasts and murmured, "Gods," before lashing her nipple with his tongue and drawing her flesh into his mouth. The sensation caused Sansa's jaw to fall slack as her fingers curled into the sheets.
"You like that, little bird," Clegane breathed against her breastbone as he trailed kisses down to her belly, the soft sweep of his hair tickling her.
Sansa's thoughts couldn't penetrate the fog his touch was causing. His speed and brazenness scared her even as her body relented to his onslaught. She was panting and panting and still couldn't fill her lungs. Her smallclothes were gone in an instant and her mouth was trying to form the word "no" when a solitary stroke of his thumb over her woman's place left her gaping. He slithered down the bed, took her hips in his hands, and gave weird sort of hic.
"Damn me, drunk as a dog," he mumbled.
Sansa pushed with her heels and tried to create some distance between them but his big hands held her fast. He began to lower his face between her legs but then groaned and pressed his sweaty brow hard against her inner thigh. "Fuck."
He dipped down and Sansa tried to scramble away, thinking he meant to bite her. His tongue just grazed her and she squealed as he muttered, "Fuck me," and struggled to his knees, bracing himself with one hand on the wall. A drop of sweat slid down the bridge of his nose and landed on Sansa's belly. He swerved and caught the headboard and hicced again.
"Are you going to be sick?" Sansa asked, horrified.
"Too much wine," he groaned, gingerly lowering himself on to his back. "Be fine in a minute. Don't go."
Sansa stared as he gripped the headboard behind his pillow. She didn't move for fear of making him ill. An indeterminate amount of time went by before she detected his even breathing. The sheet around him was soaked with wine-sweat.
Taking the coverlet and finding some spare bedding, Sansa made a nest for herself on the floor. Each time she closed her eyes, she felt Clegane's hands and mouth on her body. It agitated her. It had been pleasing, troubling, confusing, and too much, too fast. Worse, or maybe better, she hadn't touched him at all. Would he be angry about that tomorrow? She'd wanted him to stop but, now, apart and cooled by the night air, she found herself wondering what else he could do, and how it would feel, and if she had any power to elicit a response from him. Long before Sansa could make up her mind about any of it, morning came.
