Better edited on my Ao3, tbh. Sorry for the few mistakes! Hope ya'll enjoy!
Sandor
Nothing was easier than killing, Sandor Clegane told himself as his sword knocked down Meryn Trant, the obnoxious prick that had thought it within his best self-interest to boast about the Kingsguard latest folly in Baelish's brothel.
"The tits on that one," Trant's hands had covered the gold medal of his chest plate, obnoxiously shaking the tepid air trapped in the space between. "Almost didn't come up for air when I had her on her back, tits bouncin' in my face like that. Be happy to die in a warm cunt between a pair of tits like hers." Trant had a habit of pissing off anyone who had the pleasure of meeting him. Yellow teeth and breath that smelt of piss soaked lard and ale would have any man already reaching for their sword near Trant.
"Clegane!" Blackwood belted, his golden locks a shining beacon in the open training field. "The King's requested your presence." Various knights and lords were practicing on one another. Sounds of swords hitting metal breastplates and yelps of pain had the burned part of Sandor's lips twitching. Almost no one was stupid enough to try to fight him.
Dumb cunts, he thought, watching a young baker, Hot Pie, get thrown on his ass, again. The shiny swords and metal armor always tempted younger boys, thinking they stood a chance at having a future in the Kingsguard. Sandor scoffed.
"Don't keep the King waiting, Dog," spat Wendel Manderly. "You know what happens to those that keep the King waiting." It was happenstance that Manderly even remained in Winterfell still, seeing as his wife had just given birth in White Harbor. A trade city at heart, but a true ally to Winterfell as well. Wendel was the second son of Wyman, and as was typical of second sons, utterly disappointing. Reflecting on his bald head was a blinding light that nearly knocked Sandor off his feet.
Re-sheathing his sword, Sandor nodded to the boy he'd been casually besting. Their name was something strange. Lommy, he remembered.
"How'd I do, Dog?" Lommy yelled at Sandor's retreating back.
"If this were a real fight, you'd be dead." Sandor grunted over his shoulder.
Trekking through Winterfell, Sandor glanced at the people mulling about in the streets, children screeching at one another, sellers selling their goods and buyers buying. Suckling pigs lay one after the other while women dressed in their finest robes poked and prodded the hanging carcasses. Bountiful barrels of turnips, potatoes, beets and pumpkin, sweet and soft fish fresh from the daily catch, live cattle for the picking. It bored Sandor to see the barters bartering, and he scoffed once more.
Truth be told, King Ned was behind the iron desk that had been within the Stark family for generations. His large fearsome hands resting near a stack of parchment, fingers intertwined. He had no fear for a man like Ned, but the little girl that sat at the one of two chairs before the desk, her legs swinging back and forth in a carefree childish way, did give pause to Sandor's stride. She looked like a boy and a girl. Her chest was flatter than a board and those thin hips wouldn't pass a babe anytime soon.
"My King," started Sandor. He waited patiently, watching the King raise one eyebrow at the child before standing.
"Clegane!" Ned smiled. "I was beginning to think Lucas Blackwood was the wrong man to deliver a message, but alas, you've arrived just in time." His hand motioned to the child, who now sported a fearsome pout. "This is my youngest, Arya."
Ah, Sandor realized, the younger Stark bitch.
"Arya," The King's tone went down a notch. "This is Ser Clegane."
"You mean the Dog." Arya hummed.
"Arya!" Ned snapped. His brows drew into harsh lines as his youngest stared ahead defiantly. Sandor held back a chuckle; the little brat wanted to be a snapping wolf, but was just a pup. "One more word from you and I'll send you back to schooling with your sister."
Sandor knew very little about Arya Stark, aside from the few instances he'd seen her overturn boys younger and older. She had a fighting spirit, which Sandor admired, but claws too sharp for his taste. But the sister- her pretty, pretty, sister, Sandor thought, openly grinning as the King motioned to the open seat.
"Now, Clegane," Ned began, "I'll admit, I called you here for selfish reasons pertaining to my youngest daughter." Arya grunted. "She's taken a liking to swordsmanship, and has turned her back on her studies. Normally, I would pay this no mind but people are beginning to talk, and I will not have my family's name slandered in my own Kingdom. You must understand, Clegane, I would not ask you this if I did not respect you and your sword as my finest Knight in Winterfell."
Sandor sat up taller, side eyeing the still pouting Arya.
"As of this moment, I will be removing you from my Kingsguard, and you shall devote your time to training Arya until she is ready to fight on her own without fear of her losing her head." Ned rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Sandor's eyes. "I will return by the end of the Maiden's Day Festival, and would hope she would be ready to fight."
"A fortnight?" Sandor lurched from his chair, staring down at his King with disdain. "You would remove me from your Kingsguard to train this little princess?"
Arya leaped forward as well, finally turning to speak directly at Sandor. "I'm not a princess, Dog, and I could slice your head off in your sleep!"
"Ha! You don't even have a sword, girl."
"Yes, I do!" Having gone red in the face, Arya began to stomp her feet. "I do have a sword and I'll kill you, Dog. I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you!"
"Enough!"
Sandor held back his tongue, wanting to throttle the Stark bitch. An insufferable brat, she was, thinking the Seven Kingdoms bent to her will, or even the will of King Ned. She wouldn't last five minutes against his brother. No, she'd never learn to use a sword nor fight anyone over her own name day. He guessed she'd barely had her moon bloods, the scrap of a girl.
"Arya," Ned coldly spoke. "On the marrow, you will begin your training with Clegane, and you will address him as such. Are we understood?"
"But I hate him!" Arya stomped her foot down again. "He's stupid and ugly and I hate him!" Her hands were clenched at her side and her face turned an awful shade of red, brown tawny locks swinging back and forth. Sandor could see there was more she wanted to say, no doubt that she wanted to maim him in his sleep, but one look from the King welcomed a reluctant leave.
"Go find your brothers, Arya. I would speak to Clegane, alone." Not needing to be told twice, she bolted from the room, muttering curses under her breath. The door slammed behind the youngest Stark, and Ned turned his attention to Sandor.
"I would hope you do not seek to aggravate her on purpose, Clegane. Her temper is much like her mothers, and it's one I would never want to be on the receiving end of. She may be my daughter, and I love her, truly," Ned smirked, "But she could do with holding her tongue every so often."
Sandor did not chuckle with Ned.
"Alright, there is one last piece of business, then." He aggressively cleared his throat. "Not that I do not trust you, or Arya for that matter, but I will be enlisting my eldest, Sansa, to watch over you and Arya during your sparring matches. I hope this will not be a problem for you?"
Sansa Stark, Sandor internally growled, Sansa fucking Stark.
When gazing at a woman like Sansa, beauty was not in the eye of the beholder, but wrapped in her pale slim fingers with trimmed clean nails that she never bit. Beauty was not the full, round teats of the brothel whores, nor was it their neatly trimmed cunts that smelt of sweat and another man's seed. There was no comparison when mounting a wet cunt with no name. Sansa belonged in the Eyrie, far away from the rough hands of a man like Sandor. His hands had killed more men than could count, crushed throats and stolen goods; his hands were too impure for the likes of her.
She belonged with a Prince, speared on a cock that came with a crown and jewels. And she deserved pretty jewels to don on her pale neck, ones that would hang down to her breasts and bounce in a way that had Sandor adjusting his breeches. He'd pictured all the different shades her teats would be, perhaps soft red to match her crimson locks, or a light dusty rose with a pink nipple that he'd bit on, relishing in her moans.
His hands clenched at his sides, trying not to picture her naked body standing before him. Only fools thought they could rut into a woman as beautiful as she, but he still dreamt of her and her soft, wet cunt. Kissing her mound covered in fiery curls would be his undoing, and tasting her juices would have him meeting the Stranger himself, walking on from this life to the next.
Sansa Stark would be the death of him, Sandor knew, and yet he uttered, "Not a problem, My King," feeling his lips twitch at the days to come. Trying to not kill the youngest Stark would be hard, but knowing Sansa would be watching… that would be torture.
He spots the two figures in the distance atop Stranger, the stallion that rode fiercer than any other with a stride longer than any two men together. Crimson locks flowing against the wind above a cream silk dress that no doubt hugged her bosom, standing tall next to a rusty blonde gold who could've passed for a Lannister.
He rides forward and ignores the gawking faces of peasants. They murmur little whispers, teeth chattering lies that Sandor ignores, riding on.
It's the Tyrell girl with the crooked lips. Margaery, he remembers. Tyrell blood was old and wealthy, but they all left a sour taste in his mouth.
"Hound!" The Tyrell girl spits as he comes to a halt before them, sliding off Stranger's back. "What brings you here today?" Her eyes are pinched and beady. It reminds of a hawk; poised and ready to strike when needed.
He's quick to snap back, "Little girls shouldn't wander."
"We are anything but little girls, Hound." He watches as the Tyrell girl lifts her golden skirt from the dry grace. She begins to walk closer. "Sansa and I were just discussing womanly things, before you so rudely interrupted us."
After what seems like an eternity, he takes a peek at the burnt locks just a few paces away. She's stunning, he knows, and he pats down the urge to go hard when she bites her lip.
"You've done nothing wrong, Ser Clegane."
The 'Ser' title chills his bones, "Not no damned Ser, girl." He kept his eyes on the young Tyrell girl.
"You didn't answer me, Hound," Tyrell raises a speculative brow at him, "What brings you out of Winterfell?"
"Keeping an eye on you two, I suppose," he grumbled. "I'd lose my head if either of you two fell into the wrong hands." Any unruly hands reaching for the eldest Stark girl would like to tell the tale. Except my own, he thought.
Tyrell sighed, "We were doing just fine before you ruined our fun. I… suppose it is getting late. I think I'll walk back, take a nice stroll and find my brother. Sansa gives quiet good advice when you need it," Tyrell turned to Stark. "I suppose you can take Sansa with you. She wouldn't mind at all, right, Sansa dear?"
Sandor openly looked at her, taking in the chilled flush on her cheeks, blue round sapphire jeweled eyes twinkling in the dying Sun's rays, and lips rosy red. She was the picture of innocence to Sandor, innocence he wanted to throw to the grass and ravish.
"I suppose I wouldn't mind, Ser Clegane." She was like a little precious bird, repeating the soft words her master whispered in her ear. It gave him hope that she'd bounce on his cock if he whispered prettily enough.
Again, he bristled at the title, "Not no damned Ser, girl." His burnt lip twitches when her eyes widen at his tone. He wondered what else was affected by his gruff tone.
The Tyrell wench interrupted his train of thought, screeching, "Perfect!" even childishly clapping her hands. He'd expected her to shut it and make way with the silent Sansa back home, but opened that smirking mouth again. "And Hound, will you be participating with the other men of the court in the Maiden's Day Festival? I hear some of the ladies are eager for a showcase of your… attributes."
Scoffing before ladies was considered crude, but Sandor was no knight, so he scoffed. The Maiden's Day Festival was for nancies and cowards. Only men whose brain was run by his cock would willingly prance before a crowd and fight for the right to fuck the right hole.
"Only fools ride around for pretty ladies. Never needed a horse to get access to a warm cunt." He relished in the hearty gasp from the Stark girl, wondering if she'd gasp like that when he plunged through her maidenhead. The Tyrell girl looked disgusted at his words.
"Do you speak to all your lovers as crude as now, Hound?"
Sandor grinned, "Reckon it's worse when we're fucking." And it was; most whores enjoyed his foul mouth, made their cunts wetter and easier to slide in and out. Having grown tired of the Tyrell girls' mindless chatter, his attention turned to Sansa, and with a quick motion forward she was at his side. Without a thought, his hands were resting on his soft hips, resisting the desire to squeeze and reach under to grope her warm cunt. Maybe it would even be a bit wet.
Ignoring the Tyrell girls' farewell, he made back for Winterfell with Sansa pressed to his chest. Her hair smelled of lilacs, lilies, and lemons.
On the brink of nightfall, King Ned had called for a feast. Bodies in every part of the castle had stormed the hall. Chambermaids were out of their usual plain garbs, instead dawning their festive clothing, though the cooks remained with aprons plenty, checking the tables and scolding little children whose hands burnt from carrying scorching bowls of creamy porridge and stews. Knights still wore their swords at hip, but mead coated their lips as laughs and snickers left their guts.
The tables were covered with creamy turnips, soft stewed beets with a buttery sauce, two types of fish with a salty bite, legs of lamb and goat rode high on each table dripping with grease, each table even had mountains of grapes and red berries, said to be the favorite of any highborn King. A Feast above any other, and Sandor refused to partake.
It could've been due to the boorish laughs from Lucas Blackwood, his broken front tooth on display every time he tore off a slab of lamb. Meryn Trant was no help; his beady eyes had followed a small-hipped handmaiden after King Ned had welcomed all to feast. Barely half the hour had passed before Trant had her bent and stuffed full of cock, her moans and whimpers hidden under the others cheers of drunken joy.
Barely a spoonful of wet porridge had gone down his gullet before he'd left, choosing to stand guard outside the extravagant hall doors, listening in and waiting. It was a full moon that night, and Sandor squinted up to stare at the sky. Red hues popped up with smoke down the way, and his burns started to ache. Only in the night did fire come.
There were no other guards to stand with him, and the temptation to simply fuck off to a brothel and find the whore with the reddest hair and creamiest skin grew. One whore named Palina had caught his eye as of late, she didn't mind the scars, and she hadn't ever backed away in fear that his cock would split her in two. Too modest to let him eat her cunt, though.
"Friends, Allies and Common Folk," bellowed King Ned Stark from his place at the High Table. Catelyn Stark sat on his right with a stony face, Robb Stark next to her with Sansa to his right. Brandon was too young to join them, and Arya preferred whinging at Gendry, the blacksmith's only son- a bastard in title. Jon Snow, the Stark Bastard, loomed in the corner with an untouched goblet of mead. He preferred to have his wits at all times, unlike the man whom he called brother, who'd just downed his third glass under the watchful eye of Catelyn.
From his place outside the door, Sandor heard the King's words loud and true, "On the Morrow, I ride from Winterfell to our allies in the West. Dreadfort has supported Winterfell with men and loyalty for centuries. Lord Roose Bolton has graciously allowed for the Kingsguard and myself to stay for a fortnight in their Castle Walls. Negotiations will be under way, and under the eye of the Seven Gods, we will prosper once more!"
From then on, the night ran smoothly. Sandor did not return to watch the men grow more rowdy and courageous, touch more aggressive and unwanted as women fell under the haze of full bellies stuffed with meat, turnips and rum. Salty fish coated their lips as men drew them forward, cocks hard in need of a good fuck.
Sandor barely turned his head as the doors opened to his left, closing seconds later. Flashes of black curls flickered in the corner of his eyes, and he frowned. There were less than a handful of times that Sandor had spoken to the Stark bastard. The boy always seemed to be thinking quiet hard, his eyebrows always furrowed. He'd be a finer Maester than knight.
"Did you not enjoy the feast?" Jon broke the silence. Sandor looked to the boy with raised brows. "My Father takes care of his people, and I would think a man of your status would take advantage of the crowd."
"Is that your royal way of saying I like to rape young girls?" Sandor clicked his tongue, shaking his head. It seemed the bastard was more stupid than initially thought. "Go fuck yourself, Snow."
"I…" He felt Jon step closer but didn't reach for the sword at his hip. The kid wasn't dumb enough to try to fight. "I don't want to offend you, Clegane, I would not insult you in such a way. I merely wish to speak with you about something I've had on my mind."
"Spit it out then, so I can go back to enjoying the silence."
Jon nodded.
"I overhead my sister telling Robb that you'll be the one training Arya, and I find myself… concerned for her wellbeing. I do not doubt your skills with your sword, but surely, you must understand, I fear you will hurt her beyond repair." Jon's eyes looked everywhere but into Sandor's, and his palms began to grow sweaty. "You must be careful with her-"
"I don't have to do a damn thing you say, Snow, and the little shit can handle herself better than half the Kingsguard," Sandor stepped closer to the bastard and growled. "You don't get to come out here and tell me how to do what I do best. If you think you can, you must really know nothing, bastard."
Silence wafted between the two of them.
"I see the way you look at my sister."
"The little shit?" Sandor played dumb. "Ay, I look at 'er like she'd do better skinned and eaten."
"Sansa," Jon corrected him. "I see the way you stare at Sansa when you think no one watches." Jon grew bold. "You're not the man for her, you never will be."
"And who will be, the right man for her that is?" He sneered down at the black haired little shit.
"I'm not the man to make that choice."
"That's the most honest thing you've said all night." Looking forward once more, Sandor stoically said "If there's nothing of importance, your grace, get the fuck out of my sight before I spear your guts with my sword."
Finally, Jon Snow left with a glare at Sandor, muttering under his breath like the littlest Stark. Dumb cunt, Sandor thought. Except, the bastard had made a point in his flurry of annoying words. He was the wrong man for a woman like Sansa.
"Ser Clegane."
Speak of the Stranger and he shall appear, Sandor mused as one auburn haired beauty peeked out from the crack in the door. Not waiting for his approval, she slid out from the hall and leaned against the shut doors. Her bosom heaved as she deeply breathed, and he tried not to stare at the creamy swell just starting to spill over the tight dress.
"Call me Ser again, girl, and I won't be as nice." Unlike in Jon's presence, he turned to fully address the petite frame of Sansa Stark, noting she'd changed her dress and let down the eye-catching locks. Smatterings of pink and rose covered her cheeks, bringing out the blue in her eyes. A Tully girl stood before him.
"I've yet to understand why you choose to reject the title of Ser." Sansa pondered, "I think it would suit you well."
"Many things would suit me well, but being the King's glorified stable boy is not one." Breathing in deeply, he smelt her lemony scent. Fruits were too sweet, like mead. "You should be inside, girl."
"I could say the same for you. Why are you out here, anyway? I saw Jon slip away as well but I know he's never enjoyed the company of others, at least this many I suppose. Do you like the company of others, Sandor?"
Seven hells, he thought. The way her mouth uttered his name was enough to bring any man to a halt. "Little bird likes to talk," he hummed, liking the red swarming her cheeks. He wanted to say I like your company, little bird, but what came out was something along the lines of "Don't like the company of cunts and idiots, and back there's the lot of them."
She nodded. Her hands squeezed into fists at her sides, that little pink tongue poking out, "I found myself missing your presence. Which is why I came out here, to find you, which I have. Found you, that is."
"Were you…" Her voice cracked as she twisted her hands behind her back. "Earlier today, were you being honest with Margaery?"
"What about?"
"The Festival. You said to Margaery that you would not be partaking in the festivities and I was hoping it was not true."
Intrigued but dubious, Sandor supplied, "I see no point, little bird. A man like me would have no reason to fight. I've no women, therefore, no need to fight."
"There's not a single woman in Winterfell whose hand you would fight for?" She gulped. "No one at all?"
He'd have given anything to fall to his knee and hold her close, swearing to slay any man who looked at her with less than a lucrative smile. She deserved only the nicest things, and he was un-deserving of perfection.
"Ay, little bird." He nodded, "Not one."
"And if I asked you to fight for mine?"
Little Bird-
Sansa-
Seeing the wideness of his eyes, which could only have been disgust and shock, she muttered, "Excuse me, Ser," scurrying down the dark corridor with mist in her eyes. Was there a reason as to why Sandor Clegane had not followed the beautiful Sansa Stark down the dark corridor and pushed her against one of the cold walls, claiming her lips and rummaging a hand through her skirt?
It was an emotion that Sandor had not felt since childhood, Gregor looming with a sneer as the smell of rotten flesh entered his nostrils.
Fear
