The Hound hadn't said a word to her, and she was too scared to move. She'd perched upon the end of his bed, waiting for him to come back and tell her if Joffrey had been deceived, and he'd thumped in with a face like thunder. The first pitcher of wine hadn't lasted long, and then he'd left for a second, returning with a hunk of bread and an apple for her. She'd eaten it core and all, as the room grew dimmer and dimmer. He'd lit the taper on the way to get the third pitcher, and in the flickering gloom she knew. Joffrey hadn't believed it, and he was going to have to…
She'd steeled herself then, but the only time he'd moved from his chair was to get another pitcher and to visit the privy, and he paid her no heed either time. It had to be nearing midnight when he finally moved, turning his head towards her with melancholy eyes. He still didn't speak, but the thin nerve she'd woven pressed her. "He didn't think it was real, did he."
The Hound's face split into a grin, and his laughter filled the room. It was not a nice laugh. It was harsh, almost a choking sound, and then he stood, swaying. "Ah, no, Little Bird, he thinks it. But he wants more proof. More fucking proof."
He took one unsteady step forward, then another, before motioning for her to stand, first slowly then with more seriousness. She obliged, stepping before him and holding her head high. His eyes shifted over her, down the green woolen dress she'd dressed herself in before back to her face, and he let out another choking laugh. "I'm going to hurt you, Little Bird."
With that, her bravery gave out, and she felt herself petrify before him as he pawed his hair back from his brow, then reached out. He forced her head to turn, forced her eyes to look at him, and he was angry. "You think I'm drunk enough to fuck you? All the wine in King's landing couldn't blind me enough to it, you fucking… I'd sooner be back on the Blackwater, with the alchemist's piss and Stannis' men charging me."
Sansa felt herself trembling, and The Hound did too, his thick tongue running over his upper lip in a nervous motion. "Take your dress off."
It took all her strength to move her hands, fumbling with the buttons that ran down her chest before shrugging out of the wool, letting it puddle to the floor as she crossed her breasts with her arms, feeling bile rise in her throat. He hadn't moved save to take his hand back from her face, looking away as if he was the one embarrassed, though he stood fully-clothed.
"That'll do, Little Bird. And if you fucking cry, I'll snap your neck and have done with it."
He circled her, before his good hand closed hard on her hip from behind, pressing so hard she wanted to yelp. Only his warning kept her quiet, and she closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see him as he let her go. His breathing, heavy and scented with sour wine, told her where he was. He rounded her side, clumsily tugging her braid forward over her shoulder, and then enfolded her in his arms. A moment of confusion claimed her, but then she felt his fingernails score her back, three times in quick succession, the sensation catching her breath in her throat. It hurt, and she couldn't express it, the knowledge that he could easily kill her as effective as a gag. His breathing was heavy, and his hands caught her shoulders.
"No more. Please." Her voice was little more than a whisper, but he heard, and she knew that there was more to endure.
"So you'd rather I deflower you? Give Joffrey more bedsheets to pore over?"
Sansa opened her eyes, seeing his so close, and starred with tears. When he is drunk, he isn't The Hound. He's trying to be, but The Hound cannot cry, and would not come close to tears for me. "No. But... how much more?"
"Not much. You'll have scratches and bruises aplenty for his grace. Let him think I've savaged you like the beast he thinks I am and he'll smirk and be pleased with himself. Turn your head so I can get this done."
She complied, looking away into the dark as The Hound's teeth closed upon the side of her throat, his mouth hot and wet as he worried at her. He was too drunk to do it gently, and she had to grip his shoulders to stay upon her feet, drawing in a harsh breath. He paused at that and his hands trembled, and then he turned his face away. "You'll get a nice bruise there. Now get dressed. I need more wine."
He half-pushed her away, turning to the door and escaping before she could even ask him to wait. It slammed behind him, and she gathered her dress from the floor, neatly folding it and tidying it away before sitting upon the bed. Her neck ached, but oddly, and she raised her hand to touch. It was still slick with his spit, and the pressure of her fingers seemed to trace down her entire body. She shuddered, shaking her head, before seeking out her nightgown.