Summary: A Game of Thrones take on the classic tale Beauty and the Beast by Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont. This was written for zsra187.
Warnings/Rating: Current chapter is rated M for Sandor's mouth and because there is a passing mention of rape (Lyanna/Rheagar legend).
Author's Note: Also there is a quote here too that comes directly from GOT. As such credit goes to the god of this ASOFAI series GRRM...
Another enormous thank you to onborrowedwings whose support and wisdom helped me pound out this most awkward chapter.
Pairing: Adult!Sansa/Sandor
Disclaimer: All this belongs to GRRM and Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont. Am just playing with the characters/theme. I promise to return them safe and sound when I'm done.
Beta Reader: A huge thank you goes to onborrowedwings for your advice and your help, ensuring this tale more than a piece of tripe. I owe you so much!


It was two days after Sandor had given her the obsidian dagger when Sansa finally began her training with it. The Hound had been insistent that she learn as soon as possible, however other important matters took precedence, rendering him unable to fulfil his wish.

Now she stood in the center of the hall attempting to straighten the cuffs of her shirt. Despite the early hour, Sansa was wide awake and feeling entirely out of her skin. The riding breeches and boots felt uncomfortable to the young lady who was more accustomed to wearing dresses. She could almost hear Arya's laughter, and imagine her teasing Sansa for looking so silly. It made her miss her little sister all the more.

Ahead the straw quintain stared at her with its faceless mockery. The large tables and chairs that normally filled the room had been pushed against the stone walls; providing ample space for movement if required. Not even the warmth of the hall's two fireplaces could ease Sansa's growing nerves. She feared hurting not only herself, but the Hound as well.

'Extend your left arm girl,' Sandor rasped, drawing the young maiden out of her thoughts. Sansa did as she was instructed; pensively watching as the warrior deftly strapped the dagger's scabbard to her wrist and forearm. There was a time when Sansa would have been terrified to let a man such as the Hound near her, much less touch her. Now being in such close proximity to him left her feeling both nervous and content. As she gazed upon his face, she noticed that the Hound looked as self-conscious as she felt.

Since their first visit to the library several months prior, something had changed between them. Every glance stolen, every hint of a smile shared, and every touch, no matter how brief or rare held a weight that had not been there before. Though she could not fully understand the depth of her growing affections, Sansa could not deny that Sandor had grown dear to her heart. Nor could she imagine her world without him in it.

Upon completing his task, the scarred lord's fingers lingered longer than considered proper against the maiden's forearm as their eyes briefly met. Save for her direwolf, Lady, they were alone in the great hall; such moments were rare at best. The sounds of footsteps were soon heard passing by the hall causing Sandor to politely withdraw his hand, leaving the Sansa with a mix of relief and disappointment.

'You'll have one advantage; no one will ever suspect you of wielding a weapon,' he rasped. 'So you better make good use of it. Now draw your blade girl.'

Sansa did as she was told. The dagger, though small and light, still felt clumsy in her hands. It was difficult for her to imagine herself ever wielding a blade properly, or with the sort of ease her brother or Arya had.

'Hold the blade with a steady, firm grip.' Sandor instructed. Sansa did as she was told, but her inexperience left much room for improvement. At the sight of the young maiden's attempts to wield the blade, the Hound burst into laughter. She frowned as her cheeks burned. 'You're holding a dagger, girl, not a dinner knife!' he teased with a grin causing his scars twist in a grotesque fashion.

'A proper lady knows when to speak, and when to remain silent; when to step back, and when to fight.'

The memory of her mother's voice whispered in her ears forcing Sansa to swallow her pride. Sansa silently swore to learn what she could from him, no matter how bitter the lesson. Politely she asked how it was to be held. No longer mocking, the towering man gently readjusted her grip. Stepping back he motioned to the straw quintain with a slight nod of his head. 'Strike it!' he ordered.

Uncertain what to do, Sansa began to repeatedly stab at the straw form before her. 'Stick them with the pointy end!' her sister would have said had she been witness to the sight. Sansa was equally certain that Arya would have laughed at the sight of her big sister haphazardly attempting to kill the quintain before her. Even she could see that the attack was poorly done.

Sandor breathed a heavy sigh to her awkward attempts, but did not chide her for it. Instead, the giant man quietly approached, taking his place behind the young maiden. He was mindful to try and maintain a proper distance despite his task. Engulfing her right hand with his own, the Hound patiently showed Sansa how to properly strike.

'Aim for the eyes, little bird; the eyes or any opening between a man's armour. Strike hard, and strike fast. Make it count!' he rasped. Sansa did not know what was more distracting, the familiar rasp of his voice tickling her ear, or the warmth of his hand now resting over hers. He took a step back so as to permit her the chance to attack the straw figure again. Despite her best attempts, Sansa could not maintain the proper formation of attack that Sandor had shown her moments prior. Frustrated, she continued to strike, feeling foolish and ashamed at her lack of skill. Just when she was about to give up, the Hound placed a heavy hand over hers, forcing the maiden to pause in mid-action. Glancing back to him, Sansa braced herself for the mocking that never came.

Standing behind her, Sandor leaned in to guide her sword hand into the proper position for a deft strike. 'Like this,' he softly rasped in her ear. Though he tried to maintain a respectful distance, it was difficult for Sansa to ignore the warmth of his breath caressing her cheek and the bristle of his unkempt beard tickling at her throat. The Hound smelled of tanned leather, horses, sweat, and stale wine. It was not an inviting scent, but it was quintessentially him; to the maiden it was a smell that she had come to associated with home.

'Adjust your body, so your assailants have less chance of striking your proper,' he said. Flooded with a rush of strange emotions, Sansa struggled to remain focused. Moving her feet as instructed, the maiden felt as though she were made up of elbows and knees. If only I had Arya's agility, she thought to herself.

'Almost, but not quite—'Sandor murmured in low tones. Placing a hand over Sansa's left hip he carefully adjusted her body so as to face the quintain in a proper fighter's stance. Biting back a gasp of surprise, Sansa marvelled at how such a powerful and large man could have such a gentle touch.

Sansa froze upon realizing that their bodies were now touching. She could hear the soft hitch in his breath and felt the rise and fall of the man's chest against her back, despite the black leather armour he wore. The Hound too remained unmoving; his arms tense and hands perfectly still; barely pressed against her left hip, and over her right hand. Feeling his eyes on her, the young maiden leaned in slightly so as to brave a glance back to meet his gaze. When her blue eyes met the grey orbs of his, the quintain, the dagger, and even the large hall seemed to fade away.

Sansa had long since come to see Sandor for the man he was, not the Hound the kingdom believed him to be. Nevertheless, when it came to her feelings for him, there was still much that Sansa could not fully comprehend. Sandor Clegane was not a handsome man, but he was strong, kind and brave; he was also her dearest friend. In that instant, the young maiden finally understood what she could not before, so much became clear, although much yet remained uncertain.

As her eyes fell to his lips, Sansa felt her troubled thoughts slip away. The frustrations felt moments prior were entirely forgotten as she found herself wondering how it would feel to kiss his mouth. Would his lips taste of the dornish sour he loved so much, or something more sweet? What sort of kiss would they share? Would it be like the tales of old, or something entirely different? Sansa's heart raced and her breath quickened at such thoughts. In all of her twenty years she had never been properly kissed; leaving her feeling both nervous and excited at notion of sharing her first with Sandor.

The Hound's gaze never faltered as he cautiously slipped his fingers around her petite waist; while his grip over her sword hand grew more confident. A moment later, Sansa slipped her fingers over the hand that held her waist, causing him to draw her closer. A gentle smile graced her lips as she felt the Hound's beard and scarred flesh brush against her cheek. Immediately, Sandor froze in place as he held his breath. Though nervous and entirely conscious of herself as well, Sansa leaned in, her eyes fluttering shut as their noses lightly touched. All the while her heart fiercely pounded, while her own breath caught in her throat. Sansa could feel Sandor's lips hovering above her own, and knew he was about to kiss her, when suddenly someone cleared their throat loudly. Feeling disappointed and guilty, she quickly drew back at the sight of the old maester.

'Seven hells! What the fuck are you doing here old man?' Sandor growled in rage, as he stormed towards the maester.

'A raven has been received confirming that Lord Joffrey Baratheon has declared war on House Clegane for the kidnapping of Lady Sansa Stark. His army is expected to be here within the next few days,' the elderly man quietly said. Ignoring the Hound's outburst he took a step forward from the entrance. In his hand was the rolled parchment of the raven's message. Sansa felt her heart drop upon hearing the news. She knew Sandor's men were only two hundred strong at best; the Lannister and Baratheon armies, were said to be numbered in the thousands. Immediately, she thought of the innocents, the families and smallfolk who called the old keep home. They would be the first ones' to suffer the young lord's taste for vengeance. This was the warning that had set Sandor on edge several days prior.

'My Lord, what of Lord Robert Baratheon, Joffrey's father? He would never consent to such an action!' Sansa exclaimed as fear gripped her heart.

Sandor heard not a word spoken, as he grabbed the old scholar by the scruff of his tattered black collars. The sound of his maester's chain jangled loudly in the giant hall as the Hound hoisted him off the floor, pinning him against the stone walls. Panicked, the old maester cried out in shock, his feet kicking wildly in the air. The giant warrior shook the man violently as he shouted in rage.

'Are you truly so fucking stupid old man? I told you to shut the fuck up about that little shit's plans! My lady doesn't need to know—'

'That is enough! I will not be an excuse for your rage, Ser!' Sansa cut in; her voice quiet, but firm. Witnessing the old maester being violently attacked had robbed the young maiden of her fear. The words had come unbidden to her lips, yet she did not regret them.

Immediately, he released his grip on the maester causing the old man to drop to the floor in a heap. Coughing violently, he clutched his throat struggling to catch his breath. Rushing to the elder scholar's aid, Sansa looked to Sandor in horrified disbelief. The giant man turned away in shame, unable to meet her gaze. He left the hall without another word spoken.

With great care, Sansa helped the struggling maester to his feet. The obsidian dagger and the memory of the kiss she had almost shared with Sandor were furthest from her mind. 'Maester, I beg my Lord's pardons, his behaviour was—'

'Inexcusable, but expected,' the elder man quietly answered as he caught his breath. 'He's scared my Lady. You know not what the Lannisters are capable of; he does. Though he will not speak of it, he fears for your safety, and the safety of his people.'

'I don't understand, Lord Baratheon annulled my betrothal to Joffrey because he was already betrothed to a lady in Dorne! My father spoke of it in his letter to me. Why would he permit his son to do this? Surely he knows I was not abducted, but came of my own accord!' Sansa exclaimed. The old man frowned, clearly troubled by her questions. 'Please good maester, I need to know the truth, so that I may do what I can to protect our people,' she pleaded.

'Lord Robert Baratheon is dead, my Lady. His son, young Lord Joffrey is lord of their villages now, and he means to claim you as a prize,' he explained. Horror gripped Sansa's heart as she stared at the elder man. 'In his mind, the Hound has stolen you away, kidnapped you-'

'And raped me,' Sansa softly murmured to herself.

Like all who lived in the north, she knew the legends of the late Lady Lyanna Stark, and her Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Like her father, the young maiden was also aware of Lord Robert Baratheon's obsession with her cousin's deceased mother. Joffrey had spoken of it during their first and only meeting, Sansa could still recall his fevered promise, that he would never stand by and let any man take the woman he loved from him. Years later, the young lord was now trying to make up for what he saw as his father's mistakes, Joffrey saw history as repeating itself and was seeking to change the ending this time so as to fit his pride.

Only now, it would be Sandor and his people who would pay the price for Joffrey's madness.