A/N: Beta'ed by the amazing, fantastic, wonderful, and sweet (she just cringed, muuuhahahahaha) Manniness. She also beta'ed the previous two chapters, and they are SO much better than before. You should go read them if you have time, just for shits and giggles.
Disclaimer: Look! Observe all the things I don't own! My vast empire of nothing!
"She asked me to take her away, she did, she did, only I didn't know how to say no –"
"Clegane." Lord Tywin rubs two fingers against his temple, mouth pinched in a taunt line.
A boot to the gut and the fool curls up on the floor, gagging on blood and vomit. Perhaps Sandor's smile is a bit too feral at the sight of this man's pain, but if so, no one comments on it.
Gathered in the Tower of the Hand is Lord Twyin, Queen Cersei, Lord Varys, Sansa, and Sandor. And Dontos. But given the way he is currently wallowing on the floor, dripping tears and snot and stinking like a privy, he's hardly human enough to be counted among them.
"You should have come to me immediately, Sansa. You stupid girl, I can't believe –" Cersei's spewing is cut off by an upraised hand from her father. The Queen huffs in annoyance, folding her arms under her breasts and glowering.
"Your Grace, I beg pardon, but perhaps it would be wise to consider that Lady Sansa is still quite young. Of course she is wary of involving herself in anything that may make her sound a traitor, as her father sadly proved himself to be."
Sandor loathes Varys, hates the bald, plump, not-a-man fiercely. Not because he was cut, this Sandor could have forgiven (he knows of what it is to be made into something against your will, after all), but because of the eunuch's actions. He spies, lies, and spins needlessly intricate webs of deception. For a man of Sandor's nature, a creature like Varys is unforgivable.
"How is it that our Master of Whispers did not know what Littlefinger was doing, or that Dontos was causing the girl so much trouble? One of your little birds should have flown to you and sang a pretty song about it." Cersei appears furious enough to tear out Varys throat. Sandor suspects it is because she was woken from a wine-induced stupor; having been her personal guard for several years, he can see the signs.
"As a matter of fact, Your Grace, I was going to bring this to your attention as soon as I had gathered more information. I knew that Dontos had been visiting the godswood when Lady Sansa went to pray, and that she often left appearing upset; but alas, my birds never seem able to penetrate this last southron holdfast of the old gods."
He lies, Sandor thinks, wariness tickling his spine. Why? What gain can the Spider have in protecting Sansa?
Bowing, Varys lowers his head. "I am sorry, my Queen. I should have come to you immediately."
"Yes, Varys, you should have." Ruffled and irritated, Cersei rubs a hand across her eyes tiredly. "Baelish must be dealt with. Hound, I want his head. Now."
Sandor thinks is an excellent plan. Lord Twyin, it seems, has other ideas.
"No. Clegane, you will remain. We must deal with Baelish carefully."
"We would not have to deal with him at all if he were dead," Cersei snips plainly, and while Sandor has no love for the woman, he agrees with her. He longs to gut Baelish for tempting his little bird into danger; the thought of what Sansa may have been subjected to. Had she allowed Dontos to take her to Littlefinger … there would have been nowhere in the vast, wide world Peter Baelish could hide if he had taken Sansa. Someway, somehow, the Hound would have taken up his scent. And in retaliation for whatever schemes Baelish put his little bird in the middle of – for whatever perversions he might have pressed on her – Sandor would have killed him slowly. Inch by slow inch, until Baelish begged for mercy.
The moon rises to its zenith and begins to fall as the Lannisters and Varys talk and plot. They say one thing while meaning another, which makes Sandor's head ache fiercely. Dontos moans and cries softly, while Sandor stares into the distance and yearns for a skin of sour red. Sansa sits with her hands neatly folded in her lap, eyes lowered. They are finally dismissed with little being resolved, as far as Sandor can tell. It is clear that Sansa is in no trouble. The queen's ire is up, but Cersei is always looking to find fault with the girl.
What matters is that Lord Twyin had believed Sansa's story, and so she is safe.
Rubbing a hand over his lower face, stubble and scars alike, Sandor again finds himself pining for wine. "If you find anymore fucking notes in your bed, burn them."
At his side, Sansa winces. She walks with her head down and arms folded around her stomach, the posture of a beaten animal instead of a young lady. Sandor bites his tongue to keep from cursing. He aches to wrap her in cotton wool and tuck her away, out of sight of the court and the world as a whole. On the other hand, he knows that protecting Sansa will not truly help her. She must learn to see the horrors, plots, and lies, or else she will end up dead by them.
The thought of Sansa Stark dead, the light gone from her eyes and never a chirp to pass her pink lips again nearly cripples him. Better she fear his words and learn the truth, rather than have poetry and songs and never see the axe coming for her little neck.
"I'm sorry," Sansa whispers once they are outside her door. Placing a soft hand on his wrist, she looks to him with swollen eyes and an exhausted gaze. Her lower lip swollen and chaffed from the worrying her teeth have done to it. Sandor's gut clenches hard and fast. The lingering need for violence, the remnants of his rage swirls and morphs into lightning strikes of lust. "I'll never be able to properly thank or repay you for all you've done for me. I...I'm sorry I've been so much trouble for you, Sandor."
The girl is too young and blind to see that he does not want repayment or even thanks for the things he has done. Or perhaps he does, Sandor admits; thanks given in the form of his name falling from her tongue with caring. He wants her hands on his shoulders as she pulls him into her bed … most especially he wants her smiles.
Sneering at his own desires, Sandor barks out a rough laugh. "Trouble, is it? Aye, you're trouble."
Recoiling as though he has hit her, Sansa presses a hand to her throat.
Belatedly he realizes that she has no idea of his thoughts. or of the fact that he would do nearly anything to please her. "Stop that," he commands, stepping close. Too close, honestly; Sansa's back is against her door, and her breasts brush his chest with each inhalation. Without making a conscious effort to do so, he realizes his hand is at her waist. Strong, blunt fingers splay over her side and back as he palms the sweet curve of her young hip.
"You are trouble, little bird, I won't deny it. I can't say I'm a man that has ever walked away from such...more that I'm the sort who seeks it out." Sandor cannot hide the gruesome smile he wears.
Once Sansa has digested his words, she beams. And it is far, far too much for Sandor; her hand on his wrist, her warm gaze and happy smile. Leaning forward, Sandor presses her flush against the door. A groan pushing through his teeth as his cock nestles against her soft stomach.
He kisses her, and it is not short or sweet or gentle. It is hard; he scrapes his teeth across her upper lip, and when she gasps he invades her mouth with short, searching strokes of his tongue. He kisses her as a man would kiss a woman grown. Barely more than a child, Sansa should not keen into his kiss, neither should she yield with such eagerness. It is too quickly paced and rough for her to truly respond. Despite this she follows his actions as best she is able. Quivering, whines of lust pushing up her slender throat, Sansa is happily devoured.
When his hand travels to her backside, cupping it through the many layers of fabric between their flesh, she mewls. Pulling Sansa onto her toes, Sandor presses hard against her, while knotting a hand in her fiery hair. But it is as he lifts her, takes her feet completely from the ground (stooping is putting a terrible crick in his neck) and pins her against the door, his thoughtless display of strength allows Sansa to overpower him. She opens her thighs, those sweet virgin thighs, cradling Sandor's hips between them.
"Oh, oh gods," Sansa breathes, once his mouth is at her jaw and traveling down her throat. His hips press forward while Sandor groans, setting his teeth hard against the skin of her neck. Sansa twines her arms around his shoulders and – ever so slightly and hesitantly – mimics his desperate thrust with her own hips. The cry she gives is wordless and shocked; Sandor very nearly peaks, panting into her throat as he presses against her once more.
"Fuck," he grits out, and then again, "fuck, Sansa."
Behind her door is a bed, only steps away. He could take her inside, strip her bare, lay her down and have her. He doesn't think she would stop him. Not with all her little sounds, her fingers in his hair and the way she pushes against him as he ruts against her like an animal.
It is this thought that stops Sandor – or him cools, rather, nothing but being inside Sansa and spilling his seed could truly stop his wanting now. The thought of taking her like the helpless dog he is, only days away from their wedding. Truthfully, Sandor could not possibly give less of a fuck in regards to her being a virgin on their wedding night, but he knows highborn girls are taught to place the majority of their worth on their intact maidenheads. Taking this away from Sansa, sweet little Sansa who does not even truly understand what they are doing … who smiles and says thank you so when he has done something only passingly kind … who has kissed him without revulsion and said we are going to be very happy without a doubt to be had ...
Sandor is not a man of honor. But for her, he can try.
One last kiss. It is almost gentle and not nearly deep enough, but Sansa makes those pretty, needy sounds and he thinks she is smiling against his disfigured mouth. Carefully he places her back on her feet and backs away, hands balled into fists. "Go inside," he commands, "and bar your door."
She flushes, biting her lip even as she twists her hands into the fabric of her skirts. "Your cloak –"
"Doesn't matter. Go, little bird."
She fumbles with the latch, but inside she goes. Pausing with the door almost shut, only half of her face visible in the moonlight from the window at the end corridor. She shyly whispers, "Goodnight, Sandor."
He waits until he hears the bolt being slid into place before he leaves.
-X-
Joffrey had insisted that the wedding be held in the great sept of Baelor the Blessed, and Sansa had not attempted to fight him. Still, she wishes for summer snow and the heart tree at Winterfell; she imagines green moss and grass made icy in a cold snap, and instead of a marble floor she would walk on fallen leaves the color of blood. Her cheeks would be rosy from the wind, and Sandor would stand before the face of her father's gods, serious and upright, in the flowing yellow cloak Sansa had embroidered.
Robb would take the place of their father, and Catelyn would weep. They wouldn't understand, not at first, how happy Sansa is to be tying herself to this rough man, but in time they would respect him as she does. Perhaps Jon would come down from the Wall to see her wed; Sansa would kiss his cheeks and hold his hands, sit him at the high table and proudly say, "This is my brother," even if it caused her mother to grow sullen.
"My lady?" Tyrion Lannister speaks softly, snapping Sansa from her fantasy. The younger Lannister son was grievously injured in the Battle of Blackwater Bay; in truth, she cannot understand how he is not being heralded as a hero. When Sandor had left combat, driven away by the sight and stench of men dying in the embrace of poisonous green flames, Tyrion himself led a sortie out to defend the Mud Gate.
Despite being a dwarf, the men say he fought bravely and well. Many died by his axe, and while his face is now a ruin – even part of his nose is gone – he managed to survive when so many others did not. If he had acted so bravely under her father's command, Eddard Stark would have honored and thanked him. Sansa does not think Tyrion's lord father has even acknowledged his efforts to help win the battle.
"I'm sorry, my lord," she says softly, a bittersweet sadness filling her heart. "I was thinking of Winterfell. We might have married before the heart tree, as Starks have done for centuries. Even my own parents, after Father came back from the war. Robb was already born, but Father insisted. Mother thought it queer, but..." Sansa trails off, blinking back stinging tears.
There is no point in dwelling what she cannot have ... and there is no excuse for making herself appear so weak in front of a Lannister, despite how small he is.
The dwarf's eyes hold pity. His short fingers are gentle as they grip Sansa's own, squeezing softly. "If you were at Winterfell, you would not have to marry Clegane at all," he whispers, and there is a spark of anger there. "I am sorry that my nephew is disgracing you like this, Lady Sansa. You deserve much better than you have been given."
Is it a trick? Is he playing her? In truth, she doesn't think the Imp is; he has always been kind to her. Still...
"I am glad to serve the King in any way he wishes," she dutifully responds, her smile becoming small and false. "It is an honor to marry his own guard, who has long served your esteemed family."
"You are such a clever girl, Lady Sansa. I thank the gods that my sister never realized it, but I have always admired it." This admission is heartfelt, and brings a wide smile to Tyrion's face. He looks like a monster when he smiles, worse than ever before with his new scar and missing nose. Once she pushes past her initial revulsion, Sansa finds herself accepting of his visage.
He did not ask to be ugly. Besides, Sansa has grown quite fond scars, even the disfiguring sort. She thinks they are more marks of strength and bravery than something to feared. Her father had worn scars, some small and some large, though none savaged his face. Eddard had born the signs of a warrior's life with pride.
One door to Baelor's is pulled open from the inside, just enough for Loras Tyrell to slide through. The tight passage rumples his fine tunic, which he straightens before bowing. "Lord Tyrion. I hope you won't mind, but I requested the honor of escorting our fine Lady Stark to her groom, and King Joffrey was kind enough to grant me this request."
Tyrion looks nearly as relieved as Sansa feels. The dwarf had been ordered to walk Sansa down the asle in place of her father, but only to humiliate them both. Margaery must have had some hand in this, especially in Joffrey's acceptance.
"Gladly, Ser Loras. I understand that your family will be standing up for Lady Sansa?"
"Indeed. We have all grown so fond of her that we couldn't imagine being anywhere else on this happy day. Margaery loves her as she would a sister, and our grandmother thinks she is as sweet as she is beautiful." Flowery words given with a saccharine smile, Loras waits until Tyrion has waddled to the doors before moving to Sansa and kissing her cheek.
"Thank you," she whispers, throat squeezing with emotion.
"I know I am not at all a replacement for your father, Lady Sansa, but I visited the godswood this morning. I asked your father's gods to send his spirit to be with me as I took you to your husband this day, and in truth I feel him with us now." A surprisingly cool gust of wind picks up. For a moment it smells of summer snow and sentinel trees, the sulfur of the hot springs and the particular scent of rotting leafs from the weirwood. The breeze tugs at her maiden's cloak, ruffling the Stark colors.
Gone white, Loras blinks several times.
"The old gods hear our prayers," Sansa says softly. Loras' face blurs, but she is quick to blink the tears away. She may take Sandor's cloak today, but she will always be a Stark, and Starks do not weep before the entirety of their enemies.
When the doors to Baelor's open, her hand is on Loras' arm and he has recovered his smile. The entire court has come to see the Stark heiress wed the Hound. Their gaze is a heavy weight, heavier than the silver chain fastening her maiden's cloak, heavier even than her jewels and elaborate dress. Whispers run up and down the asle, running mouth to ear and back to mouth once more. Sansa does not need to hear their words to understand the uneasy tone of the crowd.
The nobles mislike a girl of her station being wedded to Sandor, who is lowborn and a second son. If Robb dies he will hold Winterfell through her, will become a high lord though he has no idea of what being a lord actually entails. They think him a brutal butcher incapable of higher thought, and imagining him as Warden of the North … it stirs the ire and trepidation of many.
This knowledge coaxes up Sansa's smile, a secretive curl of her mouth that lights up her eyes. Let them dwell on this, add it to the list of other sins Joffrey has committed and will continue to commit. They will revolt sooner or later; as Tyrion had reminded his nephew, the Mad King had once thought he could do anything he pleased. The world knows how that story ended.
"Luck," Ser Loras whispers when he kisses Sansa's cheek. He passes her hand to Sandor, who takes it tentatively, as though afraid he may break her.
Some of the tension in Sansa's shoulders and neck leaks away after taking her place at Sandor's side. Despite being in front of so many, a snickering Joffrey included, she feels much safer with him than she would be alone.
The ceremony takes too long. Sansa's gown is heavy and her pearl encrusted maiden's cloak is heaver still; trapped beneath it, her hair long hair is loose and it sticks to the back and sides of her neck as she begins to sweat. Still, she keeps her fingers tight on Sandor's wrist and speaks her vows clearly when the time comes. It is a physical ache when her maiden's cloak is removed, the Stark colors and direwolf swept away by Ser Loras.
Do all women feel this hurt of displacement? Sansa wonders, thinking on all those who have come before her, the daughters which will come after. She had been born a Stark, and it is the blood of the North that pumps through her veins and will be passed to her children. The Lannisters wish to do more than take away the colors and sigil of her house. They want her to become the wife of their sworn servant, which is a slap in the face to her brother Robb and his own kingship.
She turns her back to Sandor, breathing deeply as, for a brief moment, she is a free woman. Not Stark nor Clegane; neither daughter nor wife; she is only Sansa, unburdened and unencumbered by the restrictions of her birth and the curse of her captivity. If there was ever a time to flee, it is now. She could barrel Ser Loras down – he would topple in his shock – and Sansa would dart out a little side door. Selling her jewels would give her money, and she could hire someone to take her to Riverrun and the remains of her family.
Or she would be caught and punished, possibly killed. But she would be free.
A deep inhale, air stirring around her sweat slicked neck. Behind her comes the sound of Sandor shaking out his cloak – her cloak, now – and it stills Sansa's feet. Her limbs cease their quivering with the urge to bolt, and serenity falls over her as softly as the first winter snow. Light silk is draped over her shoulders, and she helps pull it in place.
My choice, she thinks, and something in her heart is soothed. I choose to stay with him, to not run away or fight this. Joffrey has nothing to do with this, now.
Arms coming from behind her, Sandor fastens the cloak at her neck. He is close enough that his body heat throbs against her back, even through so many layers of fabric. When she looks down, it is to see his strong, nimble fingers shaking. Before entirely withdrawing his hands, Sandor pulls Sansa's hair from under the cloak, leaving it free to flow and softly curl across yellow silk and its three black hounds.
With the first deep breath of her new life, Sansa turns and lifts her gaze – so far up, sometimes she forgets how large he is – heart lodged in her throat. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband."
A small, almost unnoticeable pause comes here. Gray eyes flicker over Sansa from head to heel, taking her in; how does she appear to Sandor? Flushed from more than the heat and wrapped in his family cloak … she cannot read the expression in his eyes, cannot begin to guess his thoughts. The only thing she is certain of is that the rage he always burns with has fled, and the trembling of his fingers is mimicked in the small tremor of his lips before he speaks. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my wife and lady."
The kiss is brief, and yet Sansa is hyper-aware of its many parts. The scratch of his beard and the way her lower lip fits between both of Sandor's, as though it had been made to settle there; the notched gap where the fire had burned away the corner of his mouth, and how he tries to angle himself so this ruined part does not touch her (she must find a way to make him see that she doesn't mind it at all); even his steadying hand at her hip as she stands on her toes to receive him.
As they part, Sansa opens her eyes to discover that she and Sandor are bathed in the rainbow light of the septon's crystal. Loudly he speaks the final words; "We stand here in the sight of gods and man, to witness this union; one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one that comes between them. I do solemnly proclaim Sandor of House Clegane and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife."
"Is it binding when he's missing a good portion of his flesh?" Joffrey jests too loudly, and is discretely hushed by his mother.
Sansa ignores the jape, curling her arm tight around her new husband's to keep his focus on her. He gives a small nod, an acknowledgment of her intent, but his jaw is tight and his eyes have grown fierce. The rage has returned.
The feast – most especially the free flowing wine – lightens the mood of the lords and ladies. Sandor and Sansa sit below the royal table, alone. "I wonder how long we're expected to stay?" Sansa asks quietly.
Snorting, Sandor lifts his goblet, taking a long drink of rich red wine. "Until the first of the lords begin passing out in the plum pudding," he answers, remaining eyebrow quirking up. "So eager for the bedding, little bird?"
She can feel the flush overtaking her entire face, trailing down her neck and the exposed portion of her chest. "Mayhaps," she answers daringly, wondering if she can shock him. Her laughter is bright and loud as Sandor sputters on his wine, blinking incredulously.
"Keep at that sort of talk, girl, and you'll be carried out of here over my shoulder." He leans close – much closer than is proper, even for husband and wife – teeth flashing as he leers. It makes Sansa's stomach jolt, her toes and fingers tingling. She thinks of his kisses and his rough words when she thought he did not want her that way, and how they made something deep and low inside her clinch and ache. It happens now and provokes the strangest noise of wanting to escape her throat as her mind turns to thoughts of being yanked up and publicly hauled away.
"I wouldn't mind," she admits, finding herself out of breath. Her words seem to hit Sandor with the force of a physical blow, widening his pupils even as he gives a soft, ragged groan. On the arm of his chair his hand flexes, long fingers clenching and unfurling. Sansa almost whimpers when her attention falls to arm. Dark hair curls lightly on his knuckles and the back of his hand, and before she is even aware of the movement, Sansa finds herself trailing her fingertips over the bulging veins and the knobs of his knuckles.
"Little bird," he rasps shakily, booted feet bracing against the floor, pushing back his chair.
He's going to do it, Sansa thinks giddily, he's going to carry me away before the feast has finished and we've had a proper bedding.
"Oh, Sansa, you look beautiful!" Margaery appears without warning, swooping behind the table to perch on the arm of Sansa's chair. She wraps her arms around Sansa's shoulders, squeezing tightly before peppering her face in quick kisses. The improper behavior isn't at all fitting for a queen-to-be, but Sansa adores Margaery for showing her such kindness. She does wishes it had come earlier, so Sandor could have swept her away. They could even now be close to their bedchamber, and the thought makes her ache with a new, strange longing.
"Thank you, Lady Margaery," Sansa answers, blushing from more than the flattery.
"None of that lady nonsense," Margaery decrees, nose wrinkling. "We are friends, aren't we? Who cares if someone hears us being friendly? Oh, here's Loras; Loras, isn't Sansa the most beautiful bride you have ever seen in all your life?"
Ser Loras Tyrell is so handsome that he himself seems something out of a fairytale. Sansa remembers the Hand's Tourney and when he had given her a rose, and how she had been overwhelmed with adoration for the the handsome knight. Now she feels only a fondness for him as he, too, comes behind the bride-and-groom's table.
As Margaery has taken the arm of Sansa's chair, he hoists himself to the table. Dark curls fall into his face as he beams. "Indeed she is, my dear sister. You glowed as you wed your husband, and even now I see the blush of love on your cheeks. I'm surprised Clegane hasn't swept you away already!" Loras laughs brightly.
The look Sansa shoots her new husband is guilty, thrilled, and longing. His eyes still burn right through her, and as he removes his goblet from his mouth and licks a droplet of wine from his lower lip, Sansa becomes lightheaded.
The arrival of the first course draws the Tyrells back to the royal dais, leaving Sansa and her new husband alone. It may kill her, Sansa decides, but she is absolutely going to be the perfect picture of a lady during her wedding feast. Sandor deserves more than a gaping, blushing, eager to be swept away little girl as his wife.
-X-
The wedding feast does not end with a bedding.
"A toast!" King Joffrey calls, gangly arms failing as he finds his feet. "A toast to the Hound and his Lady Whore!"
Sandor can feel the muscle in his jaw jumping in rage. He is a heartbeat away from pulling the dirk from his boot and throwing it; he longs to watch the blade sink into one green eye, and see the boy king fall back, dead. Fingers and muscles flexing, he contents himself with the satisfaction the dream brings without acting upon it.
Joffrey, roaring hysterically at his own joke, is rendered speechless. Rather than by his dog, he has been slain by his own wit and snorted wine out of his nose while cackling. Cersei, flushed with rage and drink both, pulls at his arm, no doubt trying to force the drunken boy back to his seat.
"Did you hear, Mother? Lady Whore!" Collapsing into another fit of giggles, Joffrey turns to his mother seconds before his laughter dies and a strange look crosses his face.
"Joffrey?" asks the Queen, worried. Her son heaves, vomiting a belly full of Dornish red and what seems to be pease across her lap. Cersei shrieks. Tywin Lannister begins ordering the Kingsguard to take the King away, and Joffrey – fifteen and wine sick for perhaps the first time in his life – gives a snorting chortle before passing out.
His head slams against the table edge as he falls, leaving a smear of red blood on the white linen.
Ribs aching from sucking back his own laughter, Sandor takes Sansa by the hand. "Hurry," he orders, pulling until she stands and follows him. The gathered courtiers are too involved in the mockery the King has made of himself – some genuinely concerned for his welfare and the rest all but rolling on the floor in hysterics – to notice the newly wedded couple sneaking away. Or perhaps a few do, and simply have no interest in attempting to strip the Hound's new wife, or the Hound himself.
Outside the hall, Sandor scoops Sansa up, moving quickly. She is trembling , hissing and squeaking as she attempts to silence her giggles. By the time they make it their new rooms (as a married couple, their former residences in the Red Keep would be much too small for the both of them) she is biting her knuckles.
Sandor busies himself with setting Sansa on her feet. After he bolts and bars the door, bracing one hand on the wall before he dares meet her gaze. Sansa makes that strange little hiss again – water coming to boil and half-choked giggles combined – while he gives a guffaw loud and deep enough to rattle the stones of the Keep. After this there is no holding it back; he collapses with his back against the wall, weakened by the force of his amusement, while Sansa leans heavily against his chest, tears of mirth dribbling from her eyes.
"We – shouldn't – laugh –" Sansa forces out between gales.
"Bloody hell we shouldn't! That was the best wedding gift I could have ever received."
"Did you – see his – face? He sort of –" Mimicking the look of idiotic bliss the king wore before he fell, Sansa has to curl an arm around her stomach. "Oh – oh this isn't lady like – I shouldn't – but he was sick on the Queen!"
A fresh wave actually weakens Sandor, forcing him to slide down the wall until he sits. Sansa comes with him, ending up half-between his knees and half-on his lap, clinging to his shoulders and actually sobbing with laughter.
Sandor doesn't think he has ever laughed like this in his life. Even as a child, when his sister had been alive, Gregor had abhorred noise and punished them for laughing too loudly. In truth, there has been tragically little to laugh about in his life. Though he may be wine-and-mirth drunk, Sandor hopes that this is a sign of their coming life together. He wants this for Sansa always: laughter and cheer, happiness and peace. Safety above all else, and freedom from Joffrey, the Queen, and the court.
"Oh, little bird," he sighs, a strange, soft smile curling his mouth as pushes hair away from her glowing face. She tips her chin up, radiant. Smooth skin rubs, feline-like, against his rough palm and fingers before she nestles the side of her face into his hand. There is no fear in her eyes; they shine with warmth. She smiles for him, all wine-stained lips and trust, and Sandor is crushed under the weight of his realization.
He loves Sansa Stark (Clegane, he reminds himself in both awe and pride, she is my wife now), but not in the way the court would find acceptable: falsehoods presented to satisfy a fleeting lust. What he feels for Sansa is more than that. More than had he ever thought could be real.
Fingertips running along his ruined jawline take him by surprise, and Sandor cannot stop his instinctive flinch. Though he catches her wrist, Sansa easily pulls out of the loose grasp, resuming her exploration of his scars.
Shame very nearly overwhelms Sandor. It doesn't matter how fierce of a warrior he is, how loyal, how much he cares for her, or even the lengths he is willing to go to keep her safe … he will never, never be enough for this beautiful girl. The Hound is a ruined, scarred, ugly man that kills in the manner of a rabid dog, and the fact that she is forced to face him nearly breaks his heart.
"Do you know," Sansa speaks lowly, jerking him from his thoughts. He can feel little through his scars, though he knows her touch is there. A pressure more than a sensation. "I've found myself beginning to think you handsome."
Jerking his chin up, fury wells in his chest. How dare she mock him –
"Shh," she soothes, pulling his face back down. A wiggle and push finds her higher in his lap, legs astride his hips as she takes his face between both her delicate little hands. "I'm not being cruel, I swear. Just as you are, scars and all … you are handsome to me, Sandor. Because of all you've done for me, and how good you are to me, and even how I...I feel for you. When Ser Loras removed my maiden's cloak today, I thought, 'I can run.' I could have. I don't know if I could have even made it out of the sept, but I could have. I think Joffrey would have killed me if I'd been caught, would have cut off my head and mounted it beside Father's, but I wouldn't have minded. It would have been my choice, do you see?
"I have so few choices left. The queen orders my clothing. Joffrey tells me who to wed. I eat when and what they give me, and even sleep in a bed they provide. But today I had a choice, to stay or to run as I was uncloaked and belonged to no one but myself. I was only Sansa. I chose not to run; not out of fear, certainly not out of pity … I chose to stay with you because I care for you. I am glad I married you today, and will continue to be glad of it for the rest of my life." Looking down, Sansa rests her forehead against his blunt chin. Nervous, self-deprecating laughter wells out of her throat. "I'm sorry, I know I must sound like silly little girl –"
"No," Sandor cuts her off hoarsely. Pushing a hand into her hair, filling his palm and fingers with slick, perfumed copper tendrils, he gently pulls until she looks up at him. "You don't sound like a little girl. I've never heard you sound less like a child than you do now."
Sansa Clegane kisses her husband for the first time – of her own free will, out of her own desire to touch him – and to Sandor it is an irrevocable brand across his soul: I belong to her, it sears, and she belongs to me.