Author's note: Starts off with Tyrion's POV
Chapter 2
"Mother, you can't let him yell at me," Joffrey whined. "I am king now!"
"Mind your tongue, Imp," Cersei said. "Or I'll have it ripped out." Cersei was looking down her nose at him as was her custom.
Good to see you too, sweet sister. "And make it a present to our dear father?" Tyrion took another sip of wine. "I am not sure he would be pleased with it." Tyrion turned to look at the Hound as he stood behind the king's chair. His face was impassive, bored even, as if they hadn't been discussing his brutality just now. There were three deep scratches healing on his face.
They say the girl's screams had reverberated throughout the castle. I leave them alone for one day and this is what happens.
"All I am saying, sister, is that his Royal Highness has made a massive blunder. Not only has he endangered Jamie's life, he has thrown away the heir to Winterfell. This isn't Casterly Rock where he could have made his loyal Dog a sweet gift of his betrothed's maidenhead and gotten away with it. This is King's Landing. As soon as the High Septon hears of this he will ride over as fast as his poor horses can carry his holy bulk."
He watched as the blood drained from Cersei's face.
Joffrey frowned. "I don't understand. Why would the High Septon come here? Does he want more money?"
Cersei looked at her eldest born as if he had dozen slugs crawling out his mouth. "No, Joffrey," she said slowly. "The High Septon will see to it that the Hound marries Sansa."
Tyrion poured more wine into his cup and watched the Hound. He was standing as still and silent as ever, but now and then his ruined mouth would twitch. Tyrion imagined that mouth on Sansa Stark's pretty pale flesh. He would have shuddered if he hadn't become so immune to the grotesque over the years. Chiefly by peering into the mirror every morning.
"Well it makes no difference," Joffrey said, his full lips set in a petulant pout. "The Hound will marry her and the Hound is loyal to me. Aren't you, Dog? I will still have Winterfell. I didn't want to marry her anyway but mother said I had to."
Tyrion considered this. The Cleganes had been loyal subjects of the Lannisters as far back as anyone could remember. No reason Sandor Clegane should be any different.
"Yes," Cersei said, quick to jump on board. Anything to not have to admit her darling is a thoughtless monster. "This could indeed be a blessing. I was never happy with the match to begin with. It was Robert's idea. Joffrey can marry into money like I had planned."
"So it is settled." Joffrey clapped his hands together. "Boy, bring me more wine. And Hound, go tell your betrothed the good news."
"As you wish, your grace," the Hound rasped. His bow was surprisingly elegant for such a large man. But as he lifted his head Tyrion thought he saw a decidedly threatening sneer on his face before it was gone.
Directed at Joffery? Surely not.
***
There was a knock on the door and Sansa pricked her finger. She watched as the blood welled into a fat droplet and fell to the floor. She put her needlework aside. "Come," she said.
It was the Hound, and he seemed to be as angry as she had ever seen him. His eyebrows were drawn together and his mouth was twisted in a scowl. She was taken aback, but somehow it was difficult to truly fear him when her scratches were still half healed on his face.
Her fine eyebrows drew together in worry. I really hope I haven't scarred him for life.
The Hound was just standing there, saying nothing. He shifted from one foot to another and looked around.
"Does Joff want me?" she finally asked, her voice barely a whisper.
The Hound heard her anyway. "No, he doesn't," he said, his voice rough. "He never did, not really. That has always been your problem, little bird." He noticed the doll Joffrey had given her on her side table. "A cheap porcelain doll, to break and discard. That is what you are to him."
Sansa looked down at her clasped hands. She knew this, of course. But to hear him say it out loud was something else.
She heard the Hound's footsteps bring him closer to her chair. "You are bleeding again," he rasped, picking up her hand.
"I just pricked my finger. It is nothing."
He dropped her hand into her lap. "The King has decided I must marry."
She looked up at him. "Congratulations, my lord. I am sure you will make a fine husband."
The Hound snorted and sat back on her bed. "Always courteous, aren't you, little bird? For once in your life say what you mean. You are sorry for the poor wench who will have to warm my bed. Well, feel sorry for yourself. I have taken your maidenhead, so it is you I must marry. Or so the High Septon will decree whenever he gets his fat arse here."
She sputtered. "But I... But you didn't! We could tell them. We could tell the High Septon that you just..."
He laughed. "Stupid little bird. I suppose we could tell him. The High Septon will have some withered old septa shove a finger inside you and proclaim you a maiden. And then the king will display my head beside your father's for disobeying him and you will be queen after all. Is that what you want?"
Sansa looked at his face, forcing herself to take in the burned side as well as the scratched. The rage had left him for now and the gray eyes regarding her were calm, almost sleepy. Despite what he said, despite what the others thought of him, he was the truest knight in this place.
"I will marry you," she said, her voice steady even as her body trembled.
"You would throw aside fine Joffrey for me?" he drawled. "I am blessed."
***
His betrothed stood before him, her eyes fixed to his chest. The septon was blathering on about love and the gods but he was barely paying attention. He was watching the light illuminate the little bird's hair, and thinking it looked like fire.
He took a moment to look around, at the smug faces of the King and the King's mother, and at the oddly pensive one of the Imp. Others were there as well, such as Varys and the measter. Littlefinger's face was twisted and puckered as if some foul odor was emanating from the dais.
Sandor snorted, causing the little bird to peer up at him. Brilliant blue eyes, shining like gems in a perfect face. He felt something twist inside him. Simple she may be, but she was undeniably beautiful.
The smell isn't coming from me, he assured her silently. I have been bathed and perfumed and dressed in my finest. So that I may not offend your sweet sensibilities.
He must not be a good telepathic communicator because she frowned in confusion before fixing her eyes to his chest again.
And now his squire was walking towards him with a neatly folded yellow cloak. It was of the finest wool that could be bought, and lined with silk. Sandor's hands felt clumsy as he reached out to untie her gray maiden cloak. Her fingers brushed his as she helped him take it off. Shaking out the yellow cloak, he drew it around her thin shoulders. He stood back to examine his new bride, and marveled at how this had come to be.
The wedding feast was a subdued affair. Only the King and Queen seemed to be truly celebrating. The little bird seated to his left was cutting up her food into smaller and smaller pieces without eating a single bite. The Imp seemed to be drinking as much wine as Sandor was.
"Answer me when I address you, Hound!" the King said loudly, his voice slurred.
Sandor sat up straight and felt his head throb. He was surely not drunk yet. He'd had only, what, two or three flagons of wine? "I am sorry your highness. I did not hear you."
"Hm. I was saying I would like to sample your bride one of these days."
His little bride had gone still beside him, her knife hovering over her plate. He cleared his throat, looking for the words to say to appease his king. But his mind had gone blank.
"Well, what say you to that, Dog?" Joffrey continued. "Will you deny your king?"
"Surely your highness would not touch a dog's leavings," the Imp said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
Joffrey giggled, sounding like a little girl. Usually he tried to affect the booming laughter of his sire, Robert Baratheon. The wine is strong today, thought Sandor.
"You are right, of course, good uncle. I would never touch something so used." He clapped his hands together, a look of unholy glee taking over his face. "Come, Hound, it is time for your bedding!"
Suddenly it seemed everyone at the feast had woken up. There was laughter and cheers and bawdy songs. Some women approached him, to help him undress he surmised, but he scowled at them and they let him be. But the men were carrying his bride away and he could do little but follow them to her bedchamber.
When he got there his bride was standing beside her bed trying to cover her nakedness with her hands, and the men were leaving. One gave him a hearty slap on his back, knocking the breath out of him. He turned to glare at the man but he was already gone, and the door was shut.
There was silence all around them now, and in it he could hear the chattering of the little bird's teeth. He strode over to the wardrobe and rummaged for a while. He found a nightgown, soft and worn from multiple washings. He tossed it to her.
With his back to her he started undressing.
"Thank you, my lord," he heard her tremulous whisper. The rustle of fabric could only mean she was dressing herself.
He grumbled in reply, struggling to pull the mail over his head. Where had his squire run off to again?
He dropped his inner tunic atop the pile on the floor and kicked off a boot. He reached for the laces on his breeches but his stomach suddenly lurched and the world seemed to be rocking around him. He trudged over to the bed and fell on top of the covers.
His little bird was blinking down at him with wide blue eyes. He raised a hand to touch the soft auburn hair floating to her waist, but she was out of his reach. "You can sleep on the left side," he said to her kindly before darkness took him.
***
Sansa stared down at her new husband and pursed her lips. This was not how she had imagined her first night with the Hound. She had been preparing herself for all sorts of horrible things. The fact that he snored was not one of them.
And he was too large for her bed. One of his feet was hanging off the footboard and the other was on the floor, with its shoe still on.
She found his cloak from among the pile of clothes on the floor. She walked closer to him, almost tiptoeing, and looked at his bare chest. He was heavily muscled, and somewhat hairy. She had never seen a grown man shirtless before and found her eyes following the trail of hair that disappeared into his breeches. He sighed in his sleep and she jumped, quickly covering him with the cloak. She stepped back to look at her handiwork and grimaced. In her haste she had covered his face as well. She considered rearranging the cloak to let him breathe better but thought better of the idea. Blowing out the candles, she curled as far away from him as she could on the bed, and closed her eyes.
In the morning, he was gone.