Once the girl closed her door, Sandor picked up the flower that had fallen from her hair. The child selling them had looked like nothing special, but Sansa had cooed over her and the half wilted weeds. The one she eventually chose got tucked into one of the braids in her hair and forgotten about. For the rest of the day, the bit of purple had caught his eye each time he looked her way. When at last it was time to leave, she had left it in her hair and the poorness of the flower contrasted sharply against the grandness of her jewels and hair net. Only her sudden movement as she had kissed his cheek had been enough to dislodge it. He tucked the thing in his pouch to hide the evidence of her small adventure.
Over the next few days, he watched the girl carefully. She was starting to learn to pick her words, to choose them carefully so as not to raise the king's ire. She kept quiet most of the time now, speaking only when spoken to. But she watched. She watched the courtiers as they flattered their way into favor. She watched his fellow Kingsguard members for how they looked at her: with hate, with pity, with lust.
And she watched him. He would catch her glancing from the corner of her eye. After a moment she would duck her head and look away with a tiny smile. Sometimes a becoming flush would grace her cheek. At those times he would curse himself for wanting to know the cause, for wanting to be the cause. He could see she was developing an unnatural interest to him. He knew he should end it, break her heart, show the little bird the folly of mooning after a hound. Avoid her if nothing else worked.
"You yawn, my lady," Joffrey said to Sansa one day. "Does my melee bore you?" He couldn't blame her if it did. Blunted swords and poor fighters made for a dull battle, even a mock one.
The girl looked over the king's shoulder at Sandor and colored before answering. "Forgive me, Your Grace, no. I have not been sleeping well." She finished with her eyes meeting his again. When her flush deepened slightly he knew just what was keeping her awake at night.
"Pray tell, what has been keeping you awake, dear lady?" The brat king's voice started to get the dangerous edge to it, finding a slight in her exhaustion. Her eyes widened and she lost some of the pretty color in her cheeks as she ducked her head.
"That would be our fault," Sandor found himself interjecting. He couldn't believe he was defending her for being foolish. "I have been training the soldiers at night according to the Hand's orders. The sounds from the training yard carry throughout the castle." He saw her shoulders relax with relief.
"Is this true, my lady? Has my dog been keeping you awake at night?"
"Yes, Your Grace," the girl murmured, nodding fervently.
"Dog!" Sandor grimaced, sick of the name. "You need to learn to be quieter so as not to disturb my lady. She's not as pretty when she yawns all the time."
"My apologies," he grumbled in her direction.
"I only hope you are able to sleep well yourself, se– Hound," she replied. He knew she was trying to appear courteous, but the intimacy of the subject and her wide blue eyes had his cock stirring. "You do so much, I would hate for you to be too tired to guard our good king." She gave the boy a frightened smile.
"My lady is right," Joffrey replied. "Hound, you work so hard you deserve to be rewarded for your service. I want you in better quarters. Starting tonight I want you in the chamber next to Sansa's."
The girl's flush was gone at this point and she had gone pale. "It's already occupied, Your Grace."
"So?" the boy-king sneered.
"They'll need time to leave pack and find new chambers. Wouldn't it be better to wait a day or two before the Hound takes the rooms?"
In response, a page was sent to clear out the current residents immediately.
That night, Sandor learned quickly why it was so important to Joffrey for him to have this room. As he removed his armor before bed he could hear voices through the wall. Though he could not make out the words, the little bird's courteous little chirps were recognizable. He groaned. This was meant to be another punishment for the girl. She was to hear everything he did, be it snoring or whores, and she would get even less sleep. For a moment he marveled at the boy's surprising use of minor forethought as opposed to immediately lashing out. He changed quickly and left for the barracks. If he was going to survive being just a thin wall away from the little bird, he would need wine. Lots of wine.
Sandor staggered back to his new chambers, brain fuzzy and already starting to pound from the wine. The stairs up the tower nearly tripped him several times and he didn't remember latching the door on his way out. Once he made it in, he worked his way to bed. The dark made his way difficult and he found himself tripping over furniture he didn't recall being there. In peevish retaliation, he let his clothes drop where he removed it. At long last, naked and exhausted, he climbed into the bed and fell asleep.
Shortly before dawn he was woken groggy and hurting. A small, warm body was curled up to him; the hand resting on his chest was pale in the weak moonlight. The woman's skin was soft in his hands, her hair like silk. Her cheekbones were high, the angles still slightly rounded like a child. The darkness made it difficult to judge the shade of her hair but he was certain it was a wrong shade of red. He didn't remember getting a whore and was impressed to have found one this lovely in his drunken stupor. Her resemblance, however weak, to the little bird had his cock waking up as well.
He already paid for the whore, might as well use her.
Pushing her to her back, Sandor moved between her legs. The whore murmured sleepily, blinking at him in the dark. He stroked at her cunt, imagining Sansa's sighs and moans in place of woman before him. He shouldn't have touched the little bird, shouldn't even think of her, but thoughts of her in the throes of pleasure were never far from his mind. When he slipped a finger in the whore's wet quim, he groaned with her, surprised to feel it as tight as he remembered the girl's to be.
In front of him, the woman arched and writhed, hiding her face with her arms and muffling her moans. He didn't care. She didn't need to look at him, just be ready for him to fuck her. With one hand he raised her hips level with the tip of his dick and the other guided him in. The velvet channel squeezed so tightly he could no longer sit upright. He found himself hovering above her, catching himself by the forearms before he smothered her. He thrust again, head spinning as the whore whimpered and cried out beneath him. He slid one hand down her body, the skin soft, smooth beneath his rough fingers. He roughly squeezed a breast and pinched the nipple before continuing down to her hip. He clutched her tightly to brace himself as he thrust and ground deeper into her.
She kept her face covered but one arm draped across his shoulders. Her nails clawed and scratched at him, and he was sure by morning he would have some new scars. The need and desire she faked so well drove him further. He pounded harder and faster until he spent into her tight hole. As he stroked out the last of his orgasm, he grazed his thumb across her nub. Her cries turned to moans as her own peak hit her.
"Sandor," she panted.
He froze. Sandor never gave a whore his name. There was no need for names. He pulled away. Grabbed the wench and pulled her naked form to the window. There was not enough light to see the shade of her hair, the color of her eyes, but it was her. Sansa Stark, not a whore.
"What are you doing in my bed?" he barked, stomach dropping.
"These are my chambers. You came to my room."
She was whispering, as if afraid to anger him. She was supposed to be the one angry, her maidenhead in tatters. The queen would be angry, the girl's value to her gone. The king would be angry, the betrothed he hated so much taken by his dog. Sandor backed away from the girl, seeing his death in the glistening drop of seed and blood rolling down the inside of her thigh. Quickly, he grabbed the possessions he could find before sliding out the door and to his own room.
He dug a kerchief from his pouch and roughly wiped away her juices and the rest of his seed. Something dark on the floor caught his eye and he bent to pick it up. The night had turned it black and it had dried in his pouch, but he recognized Sansa's flower from the coronation celebration. Memories flooded him unbidden. Memories of her wide eyes dancing that day, of her eagerness to please him as she'd sucked his cock, her ready pleasure as he'd tasted her. Memory of how tightly her cunt had clutched at his cock. He began to harden again and he quickly beat it into the handkerchief.
How was he meant to avoid her if he kept finding himself in her room? How was he supposed to expect her to lose interest in him if he couldn't stop thinking of her?
The sun rose to him crouched on the floor, waiting to be summoned for justice.