A/N: Check out how much BETTER this is than the original version. Wanna know why? Because it was beta'ed by Manniness, who literally works miracles.
Disclaimer: I own everything I did last chapter, which is a whole bunch of nothing.
Stripped of the white and cloak the duties that go with it, Sandor sinks into the wine soaked and whore infested pits of King's Landing. He spends three days drinking, fighting, and fucking (red haired whores, fucking them too hard while hissing my pretty little bird, sing for me), and he has no idea of when or how he and returned to the Red Keep.
He wakes smelling as though he rolled in a gutter, which he admittedly maybe have done. Head throbbing, stomach rolling, and extremities trembling, Sandor drags himself to the bathhouse. The heat makes him vomit, which helps clear his head, and he scrubs hard with cheap soap.
"Fucking worthless dog," he snarls at himself, attempting to wash dried vomit from his dark hair, "you're not even worthy to look at her. You dirty, buggering whoreson."
I want to be safe, my lord. I feel I am with you.
Sandor drops back into the hot water. He closes his eyes, and considers never coming up for air. No matter how much wine he had drunk, Sansa's words had stayed with him. Her tears had unmanned him. Her level, serious expression as she gazed upon him without so much as a flinch with his hideous face so close to her own left him in awe. But it was her words (I want to be safe, my lord. I feel I am with you and you have always been as kind as you possibly could and most especially my father was no knight. He was the best man I've ever known) near killed him.
And yet he does not die. He lives, and he will Sansa Stark, yes, but how is he going to shield her from the fucking Lannisters? How in the bloody buggering hell is he supposed to place his cloak around her childish shoulders and draw her into his bed, fuck her as he longs to and refuses to consider because she's only a little girl? After he taking her maidenhead, how will he look her in the eye again, knowing he has ruined her for the life she deserves? How is any of this going to happen?
He was made for war, not for marriage. This will kill him, Sandor is sure of it.
Clean and in fresh clothing, Sandor exits the bathhouse to find that fiery maid of Sansa's awaiting him. A Lannister man is limping away, tossing evil looks over his shoulder; Sandor thinks he sees blood dripping down his fingers, and he doesn't bother to bite back a laugh.
"Did you stab him?" he asks, jerking his chin towards the sullen, retreating solider.
"I only cut him a little. Still he practically cries for his mother; what a pussy." She's a brazen thing, meeting his gaze and thrusting out her chin, with her arms folded under her breasts as she stares him down.
Sandor is suddenly glad she's with his little bird. This woman will put up a hell of a fight to protect Sansa Stark, and she has always attempted to protect the girl as best she could. He knows she threatened one of Sansa's bedmaids with a knife when her moonblood had came, and he'd honestly thought she might attempt to slit his throat the moment he realized that Sansa had flowered.
Seven hells, he still can't think of that morning without his gut rolling. Sandor has seen more blood than Sansa could ever bleed out in her entire life, but her bloody nightgown and sheets, fuck, that had nearly ended him. Standing over that mattress, listening to his little bird weep as though she were being killed, all Sandor could imagine was Joffrey rutting on top of her. Hurting her, cutting her, hitting her; planting his bastard seed in her sweet womb, and making her birth his horrid bastard spawn.
"Come with me, Hound." The maid's accented words break Sandor from his unwelcome memories.
He almost balks – a dog he may be, although he doesn't take his orders from maids – but with a sigh he follows. Head still aching, Sandor simply doesn't have it in him to fight at the moment. At least not with words. Give him a blade, or even just his fists, and he'd gladly kill as many men as would dare to face him.
The woman leads him to the godswood. Sunlight falls through the leaves, dappling the ground in pretty patterns, and he can't help but notice that this woman is beautiful. Dark and ripe and alluring, and Sandor thinks how easy it would be to want her. To fuck her. Not too long ago he would have; but her hair is not red, her skin not as pale as crushed pearls, her eyes are not so blue and precious that his heart seizes when she looks at him for too long...
"My lady is a sweet, innocent maid. This whole fucking court and city have tried to ruin her, as though they hate a little girl for being a little girl. That son of a bitch that sits on your Iron Throne, he hurts her because he likes it; you guard him, so you know. Did you see the whores Lord Tyrion sent him? Have you heard what he made them do?"
Teeth bared in an ugly smile, Sandor leans forward. "Saw them? Woman, I stood outside that door and listened. When it was over, I carried the whore to the Lord Imp to show him what Joffrey did to his gift. I've killed men, women, and children. But even I have done nothing so brutal as filthy as the boy had done." All he says is true. In all the wars and riots and fights just for the fucking fun of it, in all the sins he has committed and will commit again, he's seen few things as terrible as that whore Joffrey had torn the woman open for his amusement.
Not so deep down, it scares him. The things Joffrey would like to do to Sansa...
"Then you know she's not safe, here. Your king, he might be marrying another, but he'll use her. Even if she becomes your lady wife. The boy will call for her, and if you deny him, you will be punished. Possibly killed. And he will take my lady Sansa and hurt her. If the gods are true, he will kill her. Because I don't want her to live through what he would do, I wouldn't wish it upon even the people I hate." Tears glint in those fierce black eyes, making them shine in the mid-morning sunlight.
Fists clenched tightly at his sides, Sandor has to breathe deeply to keep from roaring. "What is the point of this, woman? I know better than anyone how at risk your lady is."
She approaches inch by inch, until he can feel her heat and smell the strange spice of her scent. Thrusting her chin up, she doesn't even pale when so closely faced with the ruins of his face. "I've seen the way you look at her, how you follow her and try to help her. You care for her, and I do as well. We both very much want to see this girl made safe, and that, I think, makes us allies."
Saying nothing, Sandor waits, as stoic as he has forced himself to be so many times when standing before the Iron Throne.
"I have a friend who is very rich and powerful, and closely connected to Lord Tywin. If through him I can arrange for you and Sansa to be given an escape from this place after the wedding, will you take it?"
If she were anyone else, Sandor would bash her skull in and be done with it. Courtly intrigues and mysteries have never interested him, and he wants no part in them now. But he has watched for long months as this maid has grown closer and closer to his little bird; becoming one part sister and another part mother.
"Aye," he finally answers, nodding. "I don't have any idea how you could, but aye. You find a way for us to leave without the king coming after her, and I'll take her away."
Quick as a snake, the woman has Sandor's hands in her own. When she smiles, she is even more beautiful than before. She cannot be that much older than his little bird, but in experience she is ancient compared to Sansa, who has been brutalized but is still so innocent that he fears to touch her.
The woman's smile is bright and sweet, and her mouth is wet as it brushes his jawline in a sweetly chaste kiss of thanks and joy. "I am Shae," she says, beaming. "And I'm going to help you protect her from now on."
-X-
A week after the announcement, and a week before the wedding, Sandor knocks at the door Sansa Stark so often hides behind in an effort to avoid the cruelties of her captors. Shae opens it, which is no surprise. Behind her are several fluttering, twittering bedmaids. They belong to the queen herself, placed with Sansa only to spy on the little bird.
"I need to speak with Lady Sansa." The words come out stiffly; as with anything that involves his little bird, Sandor would much rather not have an audience. The badly stifled shrieks and giggles of the bedmaids grate on his nerves, but Sansa crosses the room, beaming as though she's been given a gift of gold and jewels. It steals his breath and weakens his knees.
A fourteen year old girl has stolen his strength. Who could have possibly imagined this?
"Shhh," she quietly orders the twittering women, waving a hand in an attempt to bring silence. Then her smile is aimed at Sandor once more, bright and sweet and so innocent it makes Sandor's heart throb. "My lord, I am pleased to see you."
"I'm not a lord," he grumbles, irritated and out of place and so fucking ready to be rid of these stupid, giggling wenches.
Sansa blinks big, blue eyes and laughs. "Not yet," she admits.
"The King has summoned us. We're to go to him immediately."
Paling, Sansa sways, quickly clutching the door to steady herself. Shae is quickly at her side, squeezing her arm and whispering in her ear. Whatever she says makes the girl nod. A faint smile graces Sansa's lips as she touches her maid's hand in gratitude. "Of course, my lord. As always, I am at the King's disposal."
She takes his arm, her little hand curling in the crook of his elbow, and Sandor feels like a gods damned aurochs at her side. Already tall for a woman, she is still so much smaller than he is, gently bred and refined. It makes him want to curse, but he bites his tongue and stays silent.
"Do you know why we've been summoned?" she asks. Fear lurks in her eyes.
"No," he answers shortly. No words of comfort are offered; Sandor knows they would most likely be lies.
Joffrey receives them in a private audience chamber off the throne room. It boasts a long table and chairs, and a ostentatiously gilded chair on a small dais. He perches there like a brightly colored carrion bird, a vulture with emerald eyes and blonde curls. Sandor quickly slips on an emotionless mask to protect he and the little bird.
"Your Grace," he rasps, while Sansa says the same much more softly. He bows stiffly and she curtsies prettily at his side. As soon as the motion is complete her hand returns to his arm. Unseen in the fabric of his tunic, her fingers cling desperately.
"Lady Sansa, you already look a blushing bride. Are you very eager to wed my dog?" Joffrey laughs. His eyes are bright, seeming almost manic in his enthusiasm.
Sansa blushes and bows her head. She smiles and keeps her eyes hidden under her lashes, though her grip has tightened to the point that Sandor is honestly shocked at the strength in her slender fingers. "I am, Your Grace. As you know, I have long looked forward to becoming a wife and mother. You were wise to give me to your Hound, as you are in all things."
"I am wise, aren't I? I think you're growing smarter, Lady Sansa. Finally. Well, Clegane? Are you looking forward to the bedding?" Joffrey leers.
Sandor contents himself with imagining smashing the boy's nose into his skull before he strings him up and guts him. He's never had any use for torture, but for this boy...for this twisted little fuck who so delights in tormenting Sandor's little bird, oh yes, he would put Gregor to shame with the things he would do to Joffrey if given the chance.
"I don't imagine noble cunt is any different than a whore," he says with a shrug. At his side, Sansa stiffens.
"Ha! You're right, Hound. One cunt is the same as any other. Beddings are important, though. Very important. If you don't consummate the marriage, it can be annulled. I had thought I might watch, just to make sure it's done properly –"
Sandor locks his knees to keep from bolting across the room and crushing the little shit's throat.
"Mother says it would be most unseemly, however. But I want to know it has all been properly done, dog."
Sansa vibrates with tension.
"As I said, Your Grace, one cunt is no different from any other. You know my nature."
"Indeed I do, dog. But it pleases me to see this all done right, and so the sheet will be brought to me the morning after, and not my mother. Moreover, Lady Sansa will be attended to by a septa, to prove her maiden's gift has been taken." Smile as wide and dark as a shit stain, Joffrey chortles before propping his chin on one hand. "Try not to savage her too badly on the first night, Hound. I wouldn't want to give a septa nightmares."
Sansa is very nearly in tears by the time they reach her room. "How will...how will the septa prove I'm no longer a maiden? Will...will she have to..." It seems the girl cannot finish the thought. Instead she swallows hard, and Sandor honestly fears that she may faint.
"She will examine you," he answers roughly, pushing open the door to her chamber. It is blessedly empty. He follows her inside, needing time to collect himself before going back into public.
Once the door is shut and bolted, he hisses, "Gods be damned," before viciously slamming his left hand against the wall. There is a small cracking sound; perhaps a broken bone, or only a strain. This little pain is good, though, as it helps to draw Sandor's focus and push the rage back down.
Sansa cowers beside her bed, twisting her hands together. "M-my lord?" she stutters, and for the first time since the night of the Blackwater, Sandor turns to find she cannot look him in the face.
He's frightened her again, and it only serves to make him ache for violence.
"I was going to leave you a maid," he admits hoarsely, moving to the foot of her bed. He sits heavily on a wide wooden chest, rubbing a hand over his face. Calluses catch on his scars and coarse stubble, and quite suddenly he is so weary that even his bones hurt. "After a few years, I thought you could seek an annulment. Mayhaps you could find a knight or highborn lord, and make a proper marriage."
A sharply indrawn breath draws his gaze. Sansa has gone terribly still, and is pale as death once more. "Don't...don't you want me?" she asks for the second time, lips trembling. "I mean as a – as a man wants a woman – I-I know I'm not very … round … but I thought, maybe ..." Curling in on herself, Sansa appears positively heartbroken.
"You are a child." This statement is made harshly, and with a cold sort of strength. "It doesn't matter if I want or not."
"Is it because I'm not very pretty?" Timid and sad, Sansa blinks. Two fat tears roll down her cheeks.
Suddenly, it is all too much. Therage, sadness, and fear. His yearnings to do the honorable thing by this one girl. His lust for her body and mind and soul. Most especially the urges he chokes down, the ones he's never had before doesn't understand now:
The desire to wake up with Sansa's head on his chest.
A longing to hold red haired babes, fragile little lives safe in his huge hands.
To worry over pretty daughters and sturdy sons.
The need to become a man who deserve these things, it all combines and Sandor snaps like a bow string pulled too tightly. With a snarl he is across the room. His hands wrap tight around Sansa's waist, lifting her feet from the floor to press her against the wall.
She is gasping and gaping up at him, eyes wide and shocked and so fucking blue it hurts. Sandor leans into her, nudges her knees apart to settle between soft thighs. He curses the fabric of her skirts, which are thick between them. Tangling a hand in her hair, Sandor curls his fingers into the thick mass and forces her too keep her head tipped up, to make her look at him.
"You ignorant fucking girl – you want to know if I want you? If you're pretty enough for me?" A ragged inhale, and Sandor becomes lightheaded from the scent of her. "Thoughts of you keep me awake at night, and before I can sleep I have to fuck my fist and think of you. Your hair and mouth and high, pretty teats; I buy whores with red hair and take them from behind, because with their hair and white skin I can pretend it's you I'm fucking raw and gods be damned, just the thought is so good I'm turned into a green boy again. I want your mouth and hands and teats and cunt; I want to fuck you so hard and deep you'll always have a part of me in you, always. I want to make you beg for me, cry and plead and sing your pretty little songs until I've driven you as mad with wanting as I am. I'll drink from that sweet little cunt, drink until you drown me and you've lost your voice from pleasure, and then I'll plant my seed in you and watch you swell with my child. And then everyone will know, Lady Sansa, know that behind closed doors you open your legs and ask for me." Winded from the release of these words, from the power they have over him and the images they bring to mind. Aching and only just clinging to restraint as he pins Sansa to the wall, he comes to know the feel of her chest heaving against his ribs.
He's said too much. But she had pushed too far, and he has been tempted far longer than she knows. Joffrey's orders and taunts, Sansa's innocence and smiles and happiness upon seeing him, Sandor's long unseen desire to be a good man; all of these things and more leave cracks and holes in the sturdy fortress he places between himself and the world.
"Oh," she says, and it is a soft, breathless noise. It makes shame rise in his chest even as his cock throbs. Seven hells he can imagine her making that same little sound as he slides his fingers up her thigh for the first time. So focused on trying to make his fingers release Sansa, an animal growl ekes out before Sandor can contain it.
But then, like a gods damned miracle or a line from one of her buggering songs, soft hands are cupping his face. Both sides, ruined and plain, are caressed. Her thumbs rest beside his mouth, and long fingers are cool and tender as they stretch up into his hair to whisper like warm sunlight over his terrible scars. Sansa smiles gently, and Sandor forgets how to breathe because no one – no one –has ever looked at him this way.
She kisses him with damp lips and a youth's artlessness. Her lips remain closed but she is humming behind them, a soft noise of happiness that Sandor wants to take into his own body, to pull inside and keep in his chest like a gentle fire to warm him when the winter of his pain and rage becomes too much.
"There will be no annulment," she serenely informs him with her feet nearly a foot from the floor and her arms now wound about his neck. "I wouldn't want one, even if you didn't take my maidenhead. We're going to be very happy, my lord, as my parents were. They didn't know each other at all before they were wed, but love came. We will be the same."
Stunned, he lowers Sansa to her feet. She pats his face and chest reassuringly, sliding away to twitch her skirts, removing the wrinkles. Sandor tracks her movements, stricken silent as she makes her way to a little desk.
"Could you do something for me?" she asks. Shooting him a nervously hopeful smile over one shoulder, Sansa a seat.
"Aye," he assures her gruffly. At this moment, she could ask him to run Joffrey through in front of the entire court, and he would gladly do so.
"If I write a letter to my mother, will you send it for me? I'm watched, you know, and not allowed to send anything...but I would like her to know I'm to be wed. But only if it won't get you in trouble," she rushes to add, flushing.
"Write your letter," he tells her. Moving to a too-small chair at her little table, he hopes she doesn't notice the fine tremor of his fingers and the weakness of his usually strong legs. "I'll see it sent."
She says, "Thank you," before blinking at him as though she's been caught doing something terribly naughty. Her face flames, nearly as red as her hair, but she squares her shoulders and stiffens her back. "Thank you, Sandor." Sansa appears impossibly pleased and thrilled, grinning widely at him before turning back to parchment, quill, and ink.
Dazed, Sandor watches the sunlight on her hair and the way she wrinkles her nose and bites at her lip while thinking. He wonders at his blessings, and the price he will have to pay for them.
-X-
Four days before her wedding, the Queen summons Sansa.
As pleased as she is at the thought of marrying Sandor Clegane – a baffling thought, when she thinks of how she had once feared him (but that was before she had learned that monsters are often golden and pretty, all the better to lure in little girls) – Sansa has been teetering on the brink of an almost hysterical terror since the decree had been given. If Joffrey should ever suspect that she is looking forward to life as Lady Clegane, the most well-protected woman in all of Westeros, she knows he will take this unintentional gift away. Joffrey craves Sansa's fear, not her happiness.
"Lady Sansa, Your Grace," Ser Osmund Kettleblack announces, stepping aside and holding the door to the Queen's sitting room open for Sansa. He had spoke at length to her on their way to the Queen; asking about the details of the wedding, gently teasing her about the bedding and laughing at her rosy blushes, even giving her a short but kindly intentioned review of Sandor's nature.
"He's a rough man, my lady, no denying it. But he is just and honorable in his own way; I imagine that as your husband, he will respect and honor you well."
Sansa had thought it so gallant that she had squeezed his arm, delighted that despite Sandor's fearsome reputation, others had seen the bits and pieces of goodness in him that she now does. Of course, this is not something Queen Cersei would ever attempt to understand.
"Thank you, Ser Osmund." Cersei stands in front of large windows, the glass thrown open to allow the cool wind to sweep in off the water. She is tall, beautiful, and as imposing ever. She wears emeralds at her throat, in her hair, at her wrists. The shade is mimicked by her gown and her stunning eyes.
Walking forward, the Queen extends a hand. Once, Sansa might have thought her smile warm and welcoming. Now she clearly sees the ice in her eyes and has to fight back a chill. "Please sit, Sansa. Your dress is lovely, little dove, though I don't recall such fine embroidery on it before."
Sansa answers quietly, "I worked the embroidery, Your Highness."
"I shouldn't be surprised. You are a girl of many talents, are you not?" Cersei's smile is sharp and mocking. She pours two glasses of wine, sitting one in front of Sansa before taking a seat for herself. She is so close that when she crosses her legs, her foot bumps Sansa's knee. "Tell me, child, does being the betrothed of a dog suit better than that of a prince?"
Bile burns hot and sour at the back of Sansa's throat. Careful, she thinks, drawing in a short breath. This is a double-edged sword.
"I mourn that the acts of my traitorous family tore me from the King, though I know that for the good of the kingdom and his own happiness he must have a queen worthy of him, and I am not. However, I am honored that he made a match for me, Your Grace, and will do everything I can to be a loyal and loving wife to my lord husband once we are wed – just as he is a loyal and loving servant to your family." Sansa takes a sip of wine, knowing it will help ease her way with the Queen.
One sharp eyebrow arched up in what can only be amusement, possibly even mockery, the facade cracks and Cersei laughs. It is an ugly sound, though she cuts it off by taking a long pull from her glass. "Oh little dove, how you have learned to sing," she chuckles, shaking her head. The light catches on her golden hair and it glows. "There is no need to lie to me on this account, girl; any woman would be unhappy to be wed to either Clegane. Be glad it is the Hound you've been given to and not the Mountain. His wives do not last very long, I fear, and you would go quicker than any of them, I'm sure. In this, you are lucky."
A pause. The Queen watches Sansa, who laces her fingers tightly around her glass and shifts uncomfortably. Sea birds cry and scream from the harbor, and the salty wind also carries in the scent of the flowers that crawl up the side of Cersei's tower.
"I assume you know little about what happens in the marriage bed. I will tell you this now, and remember it well: it is not magical. Women can have pleasure, yes, but I somehow doubt the Hound will bother with yours, so do not expect or ask for it. He will demand you that demean yourself, and you must, or he will hurt you. Do you understand, Sansa? This is no story or dream or song, you are being wedded to a man who can snap your neck with one hand, and if you deny him in the bedchamber he may well do so. It would be within his rights, as women are easily replaceable." Scathing for a woman's role in the world drips from the Queen's words. "So give him what he wants, girl. Whatever he wants, however he wants it, whenever he wants it."
Sansa wants to cry. Is the Queen trying to scare her? Or is she speaking truthfully? She can't imagine Clegane – Sandor, gods be good, she must use his name more easily! – hurting her. Not like that. With his words, yes, as they are often barbed and offensive. But his touch is often reverent, and even when he might have taken her by force, he had not.
Easily, her mind goes back to the riot. He had saved her from those brutes who wanted to hurt her for no other reason than she was a highborn girl at their mercy. She still has nightmares … that cold stone floor she had been pinned on – the sour reek of the old straw – the inescapable strength of their hands upon her limbs. The sound of her dress ripping – a chorus of rough laughter in response to her struggles – the whisper of breaches lacings being undone. Most especially she recalls the one between her thighs, the way he had rubbed his man thing against her before Sandor had pulled him away.
Sansa also remembers the rage in Sandor's eyes when she had first caught sight of him, and later the way he had banded an arm over the back of her legs to keep her over his shoulder. "We're almost to the Keep," he had kept telling her. Sansa had cried and clung to him, while men had died trying to tear her from his grasp. "Hush, little bird, you're safe with me. You're safe."
Looking back, Sansa realizes how utterly shaken he had been when she was brought back to the Keep. She had heard it in the tremor at the edge of his words, his nervous movements as he had directed her maids, "Little bird's bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage. See to that cut."
With these things in mind, Sansa cannot believe that Cersei is correct.
"There it is," the Queen says with a terrible sort of vicious pity. "I can see the understanding in those pretty, blue eyes. It is a woman's lot in life, Sansa, to be used by our men when they want us, and to stand aside when they desire something else. But I will tell you something more; you are maiden and a stupid little girl, but I am a woman grown. I know the way the Hound watches you when he thinks his master's eyes are averted. He wants you, girl, in all the ways a man can want a woman. So when he comes to your bed and takes his desires out on your body, do not just lie there and let him. Kiss his mouth, touch his face – yes, child, that ugly face you will wake to every morning for the rest of your life – kiss his scars, and smile for him. Tell him you love him. I doubt any woman has ever done such a thing, and if you do this, well, you may gain a woman's power over him."
Revulsion washes over Sansa, thick and heavy. Cersei would have her build her marriage on a foundation of lies and a struggle for power. It makes her stomach revolt just thinking of telling Sandor such a cruel lie as I love you if she doesn't mean it.
The Queen can see how Sansa feels, that is clear. It is good for Sansa to appear unhappy with her marriage. The older woman clearly seems to it as disgust towards Sandor Clegane, and the thought of sharing his bed.
"Thank you for your advice, Your Grace," Sansa mouths thickly, her voice hollow. "You are much wiser than I. I am glad that now I will know what to do."
"I survived Robert," Cersei tells her, draining the last of her wine. "You may yet survive Clegane. Come, now; you may be marrying a monster, but you will be a pretty little bride. The seamstress is waiting for us to try on your new dresses."
-X-
Not long after her meeting with the Queen Regent, Sansa is waylaid by Margaery Tyrell. Lurking near the near the courtyard where Sandor is training, Sansa is huddled behind a spear rack. She watches as Sandor practices, in awe of his strength and skill. She can't say why the need to see him has come on her, but her conversation with Cersei had left Sansa feeling … unclean.
"Yoohoo, Sansa!" Margaery seems to materialize out of thin air to dart toward the shocked overly-loud greeting gains the attention of the men training in the yard.
Sandor turns, gaze quickly finding Sansa. His opponent attempts to take advantage of the Hound's distraction, lunging from the side with an upraised sword; Sandor casually whacks him across the throat with the flat of his blunt tourney blade, leaving the other man to collapse, choking and wheezing, at his feet.
Sweat drips from his hooked nose and has flattened his hair, Sandor narrows his eyes on Sansa. She does her best to melt into the stonework of the wall behind her, fails horribly, and suddenly finds herself arm-in-arm with a laughing Margaery. Dark curls and silk trailing along behind them as she pulls Sansa into the open.
"Sansa, darling, how adorable! You're actually watching him train!" Margaery is kind enough to keep her tone low enough so her words aren't carried out to the men in the yard, but Sansa would still very much like for a hole to open up and swallow her. "His face may not be much, but he is quite fearsome. Oh, he's still watching us. Wave to him. Wave!"
Margaery waves excitedly. Sansa follows suit, wondering if death by blush is possible, or if she'll survive her embarrassment. She suspects death is possible. It certainly feels eminent.
A few of the other men begin to jeer Sandor. Not loudly enough for Sansa to hear their words, but she can surmise the gist of it. Sandor turns very slowly, head tipped to one side as he eyes a particular Lannister guard who is having trouble speaking around his laughter. Another man points to the women on the sideline, makes a truly vulgar series of gestures involving some shameful and cringe-worthy (on Sansa's part, at least) thrusting, braying like a donkey.
"Oh dear, I think they've made him angry." Margaery sounds positively pleased at this development. "My goodness, for such a large man he is very quick."
"Should we try to stop him?" Sansa asks worriedly, biting at her lower lip.
Shaking her head, the future queen appears amused. "No, darling, of course not. He's defending your honor, I'm sure...and showing off, at least a bit. I've always liked watching my brothers and guards train. It's so interesting, seeing the men in their natural habitat. Mother's mercy, look at all that blood!"
"Don't kill him," Sansa whispers, eyes round. "Don't kill him!" she begs louder, pressing a hand flat to her stomach. Oh, she wishes Margaery hadn't shouted and drawn their attention. Margaery pulls her away, though Sansa looks back several times to watch Sandor efficiently pulverize the guards who had mocked Sansa and Margaery.
The rest of the afternoon is spent pleasantly in the Tyrell overtaken portion of the Red Keep. Gossip is shared and too much wine is poured, leading to a pair of incredibly loosened tongues. Margaery insists that if Sansa is willing, her marriage may be a good one. Sansa knows she says too much when "I have high hopes for it." passes her lips.
Margaery's eyes are far too sharp and keen, and Sansa squirms under the suddenly understanding gaze. She thinks a rain of questions must be coming, but instead the future queen directs their conversation to a mercifully different, though equally uncomfortable topic: children.
"A son learns from his mother, and I plan to teach mine much," she says slyly, nibbling at fruit. "He will be a great king and a good man, like my brothers. Mayhap I'll find his queen from House Clegane, hmm, Sansa?"
Sansa chokes on her cider. Margaery laughs so hard she turns red and splatters fruit juice on her silk gown, which only serves to make her amusement grow. Their talk turns to lighter fare, clothing and wedding planning and how they both agree that autumn is nearly upon Westeros.
Margaery showers Sansa's cheeks in quick, happy kisses when their time draws to an end. She tucks a yellow rose behind Sansa's ear before allowing her to leave. Waving goodbye, framed by the afternoon sunlight with the sapphire sea at her back, the future queen is a picture of joyous beauty. Sansa's heart is warm, pleased that she has finally found a true and honest friend.
On arriving back at her room, Sansa sends Shae to bring up dinner for two. "Tonight we'll sup together, in private. I'm too relaxed to attend dinner in the small hall."
After Shae has gone to fetch the food, Sansa falls onto her bed. Humming, she lazily plucking pins from her hair, allowing her elaborate up-do to topple. Thinking on Margaery's words regarding children makes her blush, though not entirely with shame. What will her future daughter look like? Dark haired like her father, or will Sansa pass on her Tully coloring? And their sons, what will they be like? Large, Sansa thinks with a giggle, big and strong. Honorable like Robb and Father...and even Sandor.
Lost in her thoughts as she is, it takes Sansa a moment to notice the sound of parchment crinkling. Sansa sits up, having reclined onto her pillows as she daydreamed. Curiously reaching under them, she finds smooth parchment. Dread knotting her stomach, she slowly unfolds the note.
Meet me in the godswood, my lovely Jonquil.
Ser Dontos. Sansa knows she should have somehow contacted him to explain she is going through with her marriage to Sandor, but there has been so little time. And in truth, she simply hoped that Dontos would give up and forget the whole mess. He certainly hadn't rushed to rescue her before her betrothal was announced, so what is the point of bothering now that she is going to be wed?
"I'll explain," she announces firmly. "He will understand. I'm sure he'll be pleased."
The memory of Ser Dontos's sloppy kisses, always aimed for her mouth or neck and never her cheeks, mingle with that of his eternally moist hands. They grab more often than not, sliding too low or high to be proper. The memory of these actions take the strength from her conviction, and Sansa suddenly feels empty. Aching with the loss of her previous happiness, she resolves to go to the godswood directly after dinner and wait for Dontos.
-X-
Sandor ignores the light, persistent rapping upon his door for as long as he can. It is long past sunfall and the Lannisters can go fuck themselves, he is no longer a Kingsguard or personal guard. The knocking persists even after he hurls a dagger and several curses at the door. Giving in, he opens the door on a snarl of, "The fuck is it?"
It is the last person he'd expected to see on his threshold is Sansa Stark. His betrothed. Faintly stunned, Sandor blinks in shock before his expression slides back into his habitual scowl.
A flash of pleasure at knowing she has sought him out strikes. It fades, however, as soon as Sandor truly looks. Her hair is wild, leaves caught in the tumbled twists. Dirt streaks across one high, smooth cheekbone. Sansa's narrow shoulders tremble with each short, ragged breath she draws. Tears glint in her eyes, and her dress is torn. All of this Sandor absorbs in a split second, all while she is still opening her mouth and attempting to speak. Taking her fragile wrist in hand, he tugs her inside.
"Was it Joffrey?" he asks, but only after the door has fallen shut. Sansa shakes her head, tears streaking down her dirty face. "One of his Kingsguard? A Lannister guard?"
"No, i-it was – it –" Sansa is obviously on the verge of breaking down. Despite the glaze of shock in her eyes and the bubble of hysteria that curls around her gasped words, it is equally obvious that she is fighting like a starved wolf to maintain control. Taking in several more breaths, she finally meets Sandor's gaze. "Gods have mercy on me, but I t-think I've killed him."
Torn between bafflement and pride – little bird has talons, does she? – Sandor takes a moment to watch this cowering girl cover her mouth with a trembling hand. Choking on a sob, she shudders.
"Sit down," he orders, pushing her into a chair. She falls into it, too shaken to fight. Sandor is quick to snag a wine skin, pulling the cork out with his teeth before pressing it into her hands. "Drink. No, girl, I said drink, not sip. Another. One more – burns, doesn't it? Good. Now, tell me what the buggering hell has happened."
"I think I killed Ser Dontos in the godswood." Sansa pushes the words out in a rush, as though terrified armed guards are going to spring out of the walls and take her away the moment she has confessed. Once the words are spoken and no hammer falls, she releases a long breath. Lifting a hand to rub her forehead, she marshals up that quiet strength Sandor has come to so deeply respect. "I told him I wasn't going with him – I explained that the king ordered me wed and I would do my duty, but he kept insisting and then he got so angry … he grabbed me and pushed me down, and I didn't know what else to do!"
There is a story here, Sandor concludes, and he already mislikes the sound of it. "Why were you with that fool of a fool in the godswood?"
Sucking back tears, Sansa gives him the tale: Ser Dontos, acting as her Florian after she had saved him from death, and how he was biding time while promising to take her away. Not even an hour ago Sansa had met Dontos and explained that she would no longer be a part of his plans – and he had not been able to sweet-talk her out of it – the whorseson had attacked her.
"He knocked me down, going on about his money … he wasn't going to lose it because of me. There was a rock beside me. I grabbed it and I hit him. There was blood, and he fell, and I think he's dead … I don't know what to do! They're going to kill me, aren't they? Joffrey is going to kill me for this …"
"Do you have a brain behind that pretty little face?" he hisses, throat aching with the need to shout. Taking her by the upper arms, Sandor gives her a sharp shake.
Sansa's battle with her tears are lost, and she practically wails. Sandor's arms and proximity keep her from hiding behind her hands, so she hangs her head, weeping.
"He was playing you – no doubt he's working for someone. Gods be damned, Sansa. Fuck." Releasing her, Sandor shoves his hands through his hair. His teeth are tightly gritted, mouth locked in a snarl.
"Stop crying," he finally snaps, though by now one hand has reached out – almost of its own will – and is softly wiping moisture from her flushed, swollen face. "I doubt you killed the bastard. We're going back to the godswood, and I'll get the story from him. If he has an ounce of sense, he won't try to give me the same lies he fed you."
Sandor takes only enough time to strap on his sword belt and shove a spare cloak at Sansa before they leave. By some miracle they encounter no one, though Sandor's neck prickles with the sense of being watched. The walls and streets of all King's Landing have eyes and ears that go right back to Varys. This only serves to make him angrier. Gods know what that fucking eunuch will do with this information if he receives it in full.
The damage could be enough to have Sansa killed for treason, and it makes red spots flicker at the edge of his vision. Over his cold dead corpse will he let Joffrey take his little bird's head off; if it means fighting his way out of King's Landing, so be it.
Sansa leads him into the godswood, to the massive heart tree. Despite not being a weirwood, a face was long ago carved upon it. It seem to watch Sandor, weighing his sins through the smokeberry vines that fall, hairlike, into it's eyes. Before the sacred tree is Dontos, hair sticky with blood and a stained rock beside his head. "Wait here," Sandor orders, striding over to the fool.
He kicks the disgraced knight (but then, what knight isn't a disgrace?) in the ribs, heard enough to roll the fat man over. He groans and belches, one hand rubbing at his no doubt aching head.
"He's alive!" Sansa gasps, sounding positively overjoyed.
It is probably best not to tell her how unlucky this is for Dontos.
Bending, Sandor grips the fool by the front of his motley, hauling him upright. Dontos struggles weakly, toes just barely scraping the forest floor as he squeaks and squeals like a captured pig. "Gods be good!" he cries, releasing his bladder. "Hound!"
For Sandor, intimidation comes easy. Massive height and thick muscles combine with deadly skills and a savaged face, making a man that many others have night terrors of meeting on the battlefield. Expression twisting into a mask of furious bloodlust, Sandor pushes his gnarled visage close to Dontos's own. The man has more to fear than most, given how he had lied to Sansa, used her, and dared to attack her.
Sandor says nothing. He doesn't have too – Dontos begins babbling almost immediately.
"I-I'm sorry! I didn't do anything – I was just trying to help the girl – she asked me to, yes, poor little thing, all alone. She needed a friend, how could I say no? So I told her – I told her lies to make her happy, yes, to make her feel better, how could I not? Poor girl, poor girl..."
"I never. I never asked you for anything! You sent me that note and bid me meet you in the godswood! You promised to help me get home. I never asked for you to do any of it, ser!"
"Children lie. Poor girl, can't blame her. She is scared, of course, who wouldn't –"
"If one more lie concerning the girl leaves your mouth, I will cut off a finger. For every lie you tell, I will cut off another, and another, and another. Should we run out of fingers, we will go on to toes. And after that, you have three more chances to tell it true; two balls and a cock."
In the pale moonlight, with his back to the heart tree of Sansa's old gods, Dontos's tears mingle with the sweat pouring down his swollen face. For a moment his mouth works soundlessly, and he looks remarkably like a fish flung onto land. "It was Littlefinger!" he finally gasps, and Sandor is filled with disgust as the fool shits himself in fear. "He said that – that I owed the girl, since she was the one who convinced Joffrey to spare my life and make me a fool. All I had to do was meet with her, talk with her, let her know that preparations were being made for her escape. I was to be her Florian! It was a kindness, a kindness, I swear!"
"Kindness? You are so craven you aren't even a man, and you expect me to believe you were doing this girl a kindness? What did Littlefinger promise you?"
"N-nothing!"
"What did he promise you?" Another hard shake. Sandor's arm is beginning to ache dully from holding the fool aloft.
"Ten thousand gold dragons!"
Sandor drops the man, leaving him to crash down at his feet in a stinking heap. He looks very much like an overgrown, sobbing infant. "At least you know how much you are worth, little bird: ten thousand dragons."
"I … I don't understand …" Looking far younger than she has since her father had been beheaded, Sansa slowly shakes her head. "Why would –"
"Lady Sansa Stark," Sandor rasps fiercely, chest aching with how entirely innocent she is. Even after all this time, all that has been done to her, she has no idea what men are willing to do for power. "Heir to Winterfell and the North. Your brother is making war, girl, and if he dies there, the North goes to you. If you are under Littlefinger's control, he can marry you to someone of his choosing, someone under him. Or to himself, and then he is Lord of Winterfell, and he has the daughter of the woman who spurned him, a younger and prettier replacement."
Understanding blossoms over Sansa, darkening her eyes and paling her face even further. For a moment she seems likely to crumble, to collapse under the weight of the injustices of the world. Sandor fears this – he is a warrior, not a healer, and he could never hope to help her mend from these kinds of wounds. But before him a change comes over the girl. Suddenly she is less child, more woman, and utterly Northern. She is ice and snow and frozen strength, back straightening and chin lifting to an imperious angle.
"Thank you for helping me understand," she says softly, but with a thread of steel that Sandor had often heard in her lord father's voice. "What shall we do with this...man, my lord?"
Pride heats Sandor's innards. It brings a grim smile to his face as he surveys his little bird. Something tickles at the edge of his mind, a notion caught somewhere between an idea and a foretelling. It whispers that one day this girl will be a woman to be feared.
"We take him to the Lannisters. You'll cry, little bird, and sing a pretty song … he came to you several times in the godswood, attempting to convince you to escape with him. You denied him each time, but were too afraid to tell anyone, until this evening when you came to me. Understand?"
Sansa's nod is small but firm.
Dontos weeps.