Chapter 4: Regretting

Regret, guilt or shame were things Sandor had not use for. Never had, never would.

When he had first put his sword through a man's gut, not older than twelve at the time, he'd understood with undeniable clarity that most things you do in life, most decisions you make, are final. A dead man would not come alive again, no matter the amount of regret or guilt you felt, no matter how often his horrified face, his dead eyes appeared in your dreams.

So he had learned not to look back. He did what he was ordered to do and sometimes what he decided to do and that was it.

And just as a dead man would not come alive, just like a scar would not magically disappear, a broken maidenhead would not repair itself and lost trust could not be won back again.

The bloody sheet in his saddlebag was just one item on a long list of things a weaker man like him would feel guilty or ashamed for, but he wouldn't.

He had not even planned on following Joffrey's orders.

Yes, Joffrey had demanded he'd bring him the bloody sheet and told him he would be extremely unhappy if he found out the blood was Sansa's. But Sandor had figured that as long as the sheet looked sufficiently rumpled from having been slept on, Joff wouldn't be able to see the difference between a maiden's blood and that of a freshly slaughtered chicken.

But then he had come into that room, with its cosy warmth and she had been waiting for him. Had looked at him with something in her eyes that might not have been an invitation, but acceptance and determination.

And she'd told him she would give herself to him willingly. Hells, she had even been partly undressed already when he came back from having a quick and much needed wash. Had undressed herself completely right in front of him without him even having to ask.

Had bared her beautiful body to him alone, his for the taking.

What more could a man like him wish for? He knew she hadn't really wanted to have him take her; that she'd rather he hadn't, that she'd been seconds away from asking him not to; but when had any woman ever wanted him? For his whole life, he'd paid solid coin for every single kiss, every caress and every fuck.

Just as he'd paid for this one. He'd paid with whatever it would cost to maintain a household that would cater to her needs. He'd paid for it with the risk he had taken.

He had a right to what she had offered and she had been smart enough to know it.

He thought he owed it to himself to take the opportunity to have for once something precious only to himself.

Maybe he could've been gentler, maybe he could've kissed and caressed her first. He had never done any of this with whores since they preferred to have it over with quickly, but it couldn't be that complicated after all.

He had even tried, but after she had flinched from him as if his touch had burned her, he decided it would be no use. If she behaved like a skittish horse, he had reasoned, the kindest thing to do would be to break her to the bridle quickly and without much fuss.

Little did he know that he would almost literally be breaking her.

For some reason, he'd always thought that taking a maidenhead would be like a successful siege. Once you've smashed the portcullis, you're all the way in. But even after he'd pushed through her veil, her body had fought him relentlessly for every inch it gave. It had been exhilarating and terrible at the same time, having her cunt grip him so tightly he saw stars, while the smell of her blood was invading his nostrils; knowing he was the first man to ever be there, while noticing the pain he inflicted.

Having seen her in pain often enough, he'd known the signs. The way cold sweat had pearled on her forehead, the way her lips had been almost white where she had pressed them together to make no sound, the way her hands had clawed into the rough straw mattress beneath her, almost tearing through Joffrey's fucking bedsheet. The way she had tried so desperately to breathe through her agony.

He had forced himself to stop then, even though he was barely more than halfway in. He determined it would be enough like that, he was close enough as it was. Still, it had taken torturously long for him to come, especially once he saw the drop of blood running down her chin from where she had bitten her lip and the translucent wetness seeping out of the corners of her tightly closed eyes.

He hadn't lied to her when he told her this had to have been the worst fuck of his entire life. Daring to touch something as perfect as her had probably tempted fate too much and thus ended in pain and blood as it always did, leaving him with the bitter taste of defeat.

He had been more relieved than satisfied when it had finally been over.

Maybe he shouldn't have said it to her like that, though. But then again, she had asked and who was he to lie to her.

…

Joffrey was singularly unimpressed with the amount of blood on the sheet when he demanded it to be presented to him under the watchful eyes of his mother and her uncle.

"You said you would hurt her," the boy complained, while his mother silently wrung her hands and looked down at her feet. "This is nothing."

Before he came up with a suitable reply, Cersei, to his surprise, came to his aid.

"This is quite a lot of blood, Joffrey, trust me," she said sweetly. "When your father took my maidenhead, I didn't bleed even half that much."

I bet you didn't, Sandor thought surly. You surely were all wet and ready for that pretty brother of yours.

Joffrey sulked.

"Did she cry?" he asked.

It would be a satisfaction for Joffrey to know she had, Sandor knew. For months now she had managed to keep her eyes dry through whatever Joffrey thought to inflict on her.

A weird sort of pain stabbed at him at the thought that he had managed something all of Joffrey's carefully executed cruelties hadn't yet achieved.

"She did."

A nasty smile flashed over the king's face.

"Present her to me a few days from now," he commanded and then gave a wave of dismissal.

…

"A word, Clegane?"

Kevan Lannister's words shook Sandor out of the half-sleep he managed sometimes during guard duty.

"Cersei and I wanted to speak with you."

With a sinking feeling, Sandor followed him to the council chambers, where not only Cersei, but also Pycelle, Mace Tyrell and Littlefinger awaited them.

On the table around which they sat, the bloody sheet lay like an accusation.

"Let me first apologize to you, Ser, for not heeding your warnings regarding my grand-nephew much sooner," Kevan Lannister said and managed to actually sound as if he cared. "I am fully aware I am to blame that the mistreatment of Lady Sansa has been going on for so long unchecked."

Sandor held himself expressionless, refraining from pointing out that he had tried to get through to Lannister - and not only to him - a hundred times. Not mincing words, not sparing the gruesome details. All of them as they sat there had only nodded and assured him of their concern, but none of them had acted.

"I am also aware," the man droned on, "that we have you to thank that no permanent harm has befallen our guest as of yet."

Sandor snorted derisively.

"She has more scars than a battle hardened soldier," he spat. "I'd not call that 'no permanent harm'."

Cersei had the grace to look ashamed, the other men just stared at him rather blankly and Lannister waved his hand dismissively.

"Aside from that," he said.

Sandor's gaze fell on the sheet again and suddenly it dawned on him. Of course. Her precious fucking maidenhead. That was all that counted. That was all she was to them. A sealed cunt, fit to be made a present to whoever needed to be won over at the moment, despite her not having a claim to Winterfell anymore.

For a moment, he felt a grim satisfaction at the thought that he had finally done away with the stupid thing.

"So I trust," Lannister continued. "That the blood on this sheet is not Sansa Stark's."

Regret twinged through him for a moment, despite himself. If he had waited just this one night, gone with his original plan, maybe things could've been sorted out. The little bird needn't have been brought as low as she was now.

"It is."

Cersei's eyes widened and Littlefinger shot out of his seat.

Kevan Lannister lifted a hand to calm the others and smiled at Sandor encouragingly.

"Surely you only cut her to pacify Joffrey," he said as if trying to convince him. "You didn't..."

"I fucked her."

"You filthy animal!" Cersei was out of her seat and nearly had her claws at his throat before Lannister could stop her. The performance was almost convincing.

"It was either me or the soldiers at the barracks," he said evenly, honestly not caring about the fuss they suddenly decided to make. There was nothing they could blame on him; he had acted on the king's orders. "And I guess Lady Sansa preferred to have her maidenhead taken by just one filthy animal than by a hundred soldiers as Joffrey had originally intended."

That at least served to shut up Cersei who abruptly turned, grabbed a cup from the table and proceeded to stare out of the window while guzzling her wine.

Littlefinger stood where he had jumped out of his seat, fist pressed against his mouth, seemingly deep in thought.

"Dammit," Lannister said finally. "What is wrong with the boy?"

Cersei shot around again, spilling wine over her dress. "Have a care what you say, uncle! This is treason."

The twinge of guilt vanished without a trace. This, Sandor knew, was exactly what would've happened had he tried any other approach than the one he had. They would have been concerned and outraged and then would've decided that speaking up against the king was high treason and sacrificing Sansa Stark was the lesser of two evils.

"Where is she now?" Littlefinger inquired.

"Safe."

"I could take her with me to the Vale and..."

"No."

"That's not for you to decide, dog!" the little man spat at him. "She is a highborn girl and..."

"… and the king of the realm gave her to me. That's where she'll stay."

"She needs to be protected," Littlefinger pointed out.

Sandor raised an eyebrow, deliberately turning his full attention on the little man.

"You left her to Joffrey's tender mercy for years and now she needs to be protected?"

Baelish took a step closer.

"You insolent..."

Sandor glowered and only lightly moved his hand toward the pommel of his sword. Littlefinger scrambled backwards, almost falling back into his seat.

"What about what she wants?" Mace Tyrell piped up.

Sandor couldn't help himself. He started laughing. Even to his own ears, his laughter sounded more like a bark, loud and grating, but he didn't care. That question didn't even deserve an answer.

As if what she wanted had ever mattered to anyone!

"Then have at least the decency to marry her!" Lannister suddenly shouted but instantly calmed again. "I had intended her for Lancel since he seems to be getting better now, but …"

Sandor narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Something smelled foul.

"Why would you still have her as your daughter in law, if her claim is void?"

There was some hemming and hawing, but finally Lannister made a might-as-well gesture.

"There are doubts as to the identity of the woman Ramsay Bolton married and fathered his son on."

Truth be told, he had had those doubts himself. Pity only that Joffrey didn't.

"You should've told that to Joffrey yesterday," he said.

"We were about to, when he ran out."

"And you didn't think to run after him?" Sandor asked, honestly baffled. "You left his dog to deal with the mess and now I get blamed for how it turned out?"

"Marry her," Lannister repeated. "With your brother dead, you're a lord now, a Lannister bannerman. If her claim is still valid..."

"No," Littlefinger interrupted. "Clegane is Kingsguard, he can't marry. Besides, if I understand his intentions correctly, Joffrey would never consent to a marriage anyway. He meant for her to be ruined. So if I take her with me to the Vale..."

"...and ruin her to your heart's content," Sandor finished for him, showing his teeth in what for him passed as a grin. "Sorry, my lord. This bone was thrown to me, fetch your own."

With that, he turned and walked out on them.

...

tbc