A/N: Hi! Welcome to yet another chapter of this fic. Little bit of lemon in this chapter, definite spice in the next chapter. I've stayed up all night and I'm too exhausted to poof-read, so bear with me for any mistakes! I unfortunately don't own Game of Thrones, or anything related to it. The song quoted and sung by Bronn here is called "The Bear and the Maiden Fair". It was sung numerous times by several characters for different reasons. In the book it was referred to as a widely popular song. You would've heard it during these events: House Bolton men sing it when they captured Jaime and Brienne, and again when Brienne fought the bear. It was also sung during: Tyrion and Sansa's wedding, Joffrey and Margaery's wedding, and during The Red Wedding Feast. Lastly, The Hold Steady sang it for the end credits for "Walk of Punishment". Thank you to magnus374 for your diligent reviews, it always brightens my day to see someone enjoying the story! Alrighty, here ya go!
Physical manifestation of darkness is the atmosphere of night that swallows the ocean whole. There is nothing but empty blackness, the whooshing of waves rocking the ship, and the cool breath of air that blows through the sails. A million stars blanket the inky sky, a smattering of sparkling guidance doing their best to aid the moon in providing light for the travelers. There are only dimly lit lanterns along the deck of the ship; the crew must adjust their eyes to the darkness to see best. A strong light is dangerous at this hour, damaging vision and guaranteeing errors.
Sansa found she preferred the solitude of this soulless deck to the bright and loud festivities taking place below. She leaned against the solid wood, peering blindly into the depths of the salty water, a much-appreciated breeze rustling her skirts and tickling her neck. The milk of the poppy had worn off almost completely, leaving behind a comfortable, peaceful haze as a reminder that she'd ever even had it. The edges of her mind were pleasantly warm, unlike the raging fever she'd endured earlier, and her focus was sharper. Sansa flexed her wounded leg and found that the nearly unbearable pain had dulled to a minor, hardly distracting throb. She smiled, gently tracing the bandaged area. If it hadn't been for Bronn and the Hound, she didn't know how she'd be right at this moment. Certainly not standing at the side of the ship, gazing into the darkness with a foolish sense of security. But that was what she was doing – and she enjoyed it. She enjoyed the soothing sounds of water meeting wood, the quiet, deep orders volleying between seamen, and the steady billowing of the sails. She enjoyed the secret pleasure of the breeze caressing the swell of her breasts and infiltrating the thin material of her summer dress, kissing sensitive skin.
"See something you like?"
Sansa was unable to refrain from gasping at the sudden voice that broke the silence so obnoxiously. She whirled around and clutched the lip of the wood with one hand, curling a fist against her chest with the other. Joffrey stood there like a smug demon of the night, his ill-fitting crown tipping crookedly upon his blond head as it always did. His awful face, so pinched and pale, always twisted in disdain and misery, held an expression of perverse glee as he eyed his fiancée. The look was familiar in the worst way possible, and Sansa knew this encounter would be far from pleasant.
"Your Grace…I was unaware you'd left the festivities. Was it not to your liking?" Sansa asked innocently. She cast her gaze downward demurely; feigning meek modesty pleased the boy king, and she also preferred to avoid looking into the face of such evil.
"Why would it be to my liking? My fiancée, the future mother of my children, is standing out in the darkness like a common whore waiting for a customer. Is there something out here you prefer over my company? Do you not wish to celebrate the first night out on sea with your beloved?" Joffrey sneered, prowling closer ever so slowly, each step small and calculated. Her eyes never lifted even as her heart quickened in pace. She breathed through her anxiety, instead focusing on his feet and how she'd never really noticed before how pathetically small they were. It occurred to her that everything about him was small - his feet, his stature, his beady eyes, and bitter little mouth. He was only a hair taller than she was. Yet despite his youthful, subpar size, he contained more evil than Sansa had ever known to exist.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace. There is nothing I prefer over your company, not on water or on land; you are my one true love. I would love nothing more than to have the honor of celebrating with you. Shall we walk to the dining festivities together…right now if you so please?" Her voice was soft and barely audible over the rocking of the waves, a quiver to her bottom lip that Joffrey oh so loved to see. He closed the distance between them, horrendous smirk deepening as he noticed the way she shrunk back against the wood instinctively, and placed a hand on either side of her, fingers gripping the lip of the wood so tightly his knuckles turned white, imprisoning her within the confines of his arms. It was at this moment that Sansa's eyes finally lifted to meet his, submissive blue against fierce green. She truly looked at him for what he was. He was handsome, attractive like the rest of the Lannisters, but he perfectly spoiled those good looks with his permanent, petulant sneer and spiteful eyes. Jon Snow had once mocked him behind his back, stating the young king looked like a girl with his slender build, utter lack of muscle, soft hands, and whiny attachment to his mother. At the time, Sansa had wanted to slap Jon for his disrespectful remarks, too immature and lovestruck to see a grain of truth in the assessment from her older, bastard brother. But now she wholeheartedly agreed with Jon as she gazed upon her ruthless fiancé.
The young king had all the pride of the Lannister lions without a drop of strength from the Baratheon stags, leading her to wonder if perhaps the whispered rumors were true regarding who his genuine parents were. He was a spoiled rotten by the queen, embarrassingly stupid and dimwitted, knowing nearly nothing of politics or decorum. The extravagant, impressive weapons he constantly wore at his belt were for decorative boasting, as he was uneducated in swordsmanship, battle, and honor. Sansa doubted he'd even have the physical strength to properly wield such weapons, and the thought alone made the corner of her mouth twitch with the threat of a smile. Perhaps deep-down Queen Cersei shared the same sentiment, hence why she'd hired the Hound to serve the pathetic king as his bodyguard and sworn sword. She'd successfully hidden such beliefs by feeding him years' worth of unjust praise, creating his uncontrollable sense of superiority and psychopathic sadism. Her relentless doting after every man in his life rejected him fueled his self-serving rage and entitlement. Everything was below him; Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Ilyn Payne did most of his dirty work, and the Hound followed his orders like a loyal dog as well, unless it involved Sansa. The Hound had never once struck, abused, or mistreated her, and Joffrey had at least the sense to not try him. Whenever the Hound made it clear he was not obeying a threatening order against Sansa, Joffrey would merely switch the order to one of his other devils instead. Those two always took great glee in causing her harm; harm to anyone, for that matter.
"No. No, that is not what I 'so please'. I have a better idea, my beloved," Joffrey said. In this proximity, Sansa could smell the bitter wine on his breath and the scent alone sparked an inkling of dread in the pit of her stomach.
"I am sure your idea is wonderful, Your Grace," Sansa practically whispered. Her eyes darted from his face, quickly assessing their surroundings. Where was Sandor and Bronn? They were nowhere to be seen. Only a few seamen walked the deck, paying no attention to the couple, their focus set on their tasks at hand.
"It most certainly is," Joffrey purred. His leering gaze dropped to her exposed chest, drinking in the sight of the swell of her smooth, milky white breasts, loving the way they rose and fell quickly with her anxiety. He grabbed her arm before she could utter a word and escorted her across the deck, to the short flight of stairs that led to the uppermost deck. This deck was empty and had a long bench surrounding the perimeter of the wooden railing so that one could sit and watch the waters. Joffrey led her to the bench and forced her to sit with him, the two of them facing the water, back to the stairs.
"Drink," he ordered, interrupting the false pleasantries that Sansa had begun to chirp. A large flask of wine was trust into her hands and she looked down at it, startled, and then at the king beside her. Her father had never allowed her to drink; he'd always said she could have a taste when her mother deemed her a woman. But her father never got the chance to see the day.
"Your Grace, I've never -,"
"Did I stutter? I said drink! And you will continue to drink until I order you to stop," Joffrey snapped so viciously Sansa didn't even waste the time to blink before raising the flask to her trembling lips. The liquid was red and bitter, so strong it made her nose wrinkle in disgust as it slid a burning path down her throat. It tasted awful, but the fire it created in her throat and chest made her feel…alive. She took a larger gulp, and then closed her eyes and tilted her head back, chugging the wine as though it was water, and she was dying in the sands of Yunkai. Joffrey watched her desperate greed with a cruel smile, lifting his own flask to his thin lips.
Below the upper and middle deck, Bronn was standing atop a table, a mug of ale in each hand. His face was flushed red with inebriation, expression one of wild joy as he took turns swigging from each mug. He danced an amusing, ridiculous jig, his balance despite intoxication quite impressive, not a single drop of ale wasted. As he danced, his spectators clapped in rhythm to the crude, silly song he belted out.
"A bear there was, a bear, a bear!
All black and brown and covered in hair!
Three boys, a goat, and a dancing bear!
They danced and spun, right to the fair!
Oh, sweet she was, and pure, and fair!
The maid with honey up in her hair!
He smelled her on the summer air!
The maid with honey up in her hair!"
The merriment was contagious; the rest of the crew hollered, clapped, and danced to the famously popular song; mugs of ale being passed around faster than gossip in a kitchen full of servant girls. Bronn spun around and around in dizzying circles, bouncing from foot to foot and chugged his drinks between verses. When it was clear that he was becoming out of breath, the crewmates picked up the chorus for him, someone whipping out a lute to strum along.
"From there to here, from here to there!
All black and brown and covered in hair!
He smelled that girl on the summer air!
The bear! The bear!
The maiden fair!"
Bronn threw his empty mugs into the crowd and continued to dance crazily, breathless with laughter and exertion. His gleaming, glazed eyes landed on Sandor, who had entered the room of festivity with an impassive look on his scarred face. The Hound looked straight back at him, shoulders tense, but Bronn was one of very few people who did not fear him. Rather, the drunk sellsword leaped from table to table, snatching someone's fresh mug of unknown liquor and greedily gulping down the entirety of it as he danced his way to his friend.
"Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair!
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!
I called a knight, but you're a bear!
All black and brown and covered in hair!" –
(Bronn's voice rose to an exaggeratedly high, silly octave, mimicking the tone of an insistent maiden, earning the roaring laughter of everyone in the room, even a reluctant smirk from Sandor. With the next verse, his voice dropped back down to his normally deep tone with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.)
"He lifted her high in the air!
He sniffed and roared, and he smelled her there!
She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair!
He licked the honey all up in her hair!"
The room hollered the chorus over and over while Bronn made his way to Sandor. He hopped off the table and would've fallen flat on his face had Sandor not expected the clumsy landing and hadn't readily held his arms out to catch the drunken fool. Thankfully for Bronn, he stumbled straight into the muscular arm of the Hound, steadied himself, and then grabbed the Hound's rough hands, spinning him in crazy circles. Sandor was too shocked to prevent it from happening, and Bronn was too drunk to be smart, so they spun and spun to the chorus of the rambunctious song until Sandor finally pulled free from Bronn, who flew into the crowd and fell onto his buttocks. Unphased, Bronn accepted the mug held out to him and finished the rest of the song loudly with slurred words.
"She sighed and she squealed, and she kicked the air!
Then she sang: My bear! My bear so fair!
And off they went into the summer air!
The bear, the bear
And the maiden fair!"
Appalling, exaggerated, and hilarious imitations of sexual noises, from moans and gasps to wails and shrieks filled the room in a mockingly orgasmic clamor. Bronn was partaking in this foolery as well until the Hound yanked him to his feet. The ale sloshed all over Bronn's shirt, but the man simply swayed with a goofy smile, grasping onto the Hound's broad shoulder for support.
"Let's pretend for a single moment that you aren't a fool. Where is Sansa Stark?" Sandor said, his voice frighteningly pleasant. Bronn hiccupped and hugged the mug to his soaked chest protectively, as if preventing Sandor from snatching it away. His glazed eyes flitted to the ceiling as if he was thinking really hard.
"Gee, I'm not sure, Sandor. If I had to take a wild guess, I'd say she's in her room sleeping off the milk of the poppy," Bronn slurred. He gave an affirmative nod and drank deeply, and then nearly choked when Sandor ripped the mug from his hands and threw it against a nearby wall. It shattered, shards of clay and sticky liquor scattering across the floor like rats to forgotten crumbs. The volume of the festivities was so boisterous, nobody even noticed. Bronn scowled, his expression nearly matching Sandor's.
"Check on her before I show you what the inside of your cock looks like; I'd go myself, but our royal pain in the ass requested a bottle of Highgarden wine to drink on the upper deck. The brat probably can't handle a single glass without pissing himself," Sandor said bitterly, pushing Bronn towards the exit. Bronn looked like a child who'd been given an extra chore during a lunch break.
"What is your obsession with this Stark girl? She's sleeping, leave her be! When did I become her father?" Bronn snapped, avoiding the venomous look in the Hound's eyes. He quickly stumbled through the crowd, not in the mood to get into a physical altercation with the royal beast. As the Hound snatched the requested bottle and Bronn stormed out of the party, the final chorus of the song he'd started rang out behind him over and over, echoing into the outer hall.
"And the bear, the bear!
The maiden fair!
And the bear, the bear!
The maiden fair!
And the bear, the bear!"
Inebriation was not isolated to the party below deck; Sansa swayed in her seat upon the bench, hardly able to hold herself upright. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink and her twist had come undone, allowing her long red waves to cascade freely to her waist. She smiled at her betrothed, dimples highlighting those pink cheeks, her blue eyes sparkling, and he grinned back at her. Her flask was empty at her feet, and she now held his – he'd only had a few sips from it before deciding he wanted something of finer quality. They'd actually been conversing and joking as though they were two normal people on this voyage, Sansa's lovely laugh ringing above the noise of the ocean waves, Joffrey even letting out a few chuckles.
The intoxicated young lady tipped her head back and drained the rest of her betrothed's flask, dizzy and merry, uncaring that some of the sticky red liquid sloshed out, missing her mouth, and instead streamed down her chin, down her throat, to her chest. It stained the crisp white neckline of her summer dress and she dabbed at it uselessly with her hand.
"Gracious gods, I've made a mess of myself," Sansa babbled, setting down the second empty flask. Joffrey huffed an amused breath and leaned into her, smoothing her soft hair away from her face and shoulders. She looked at him in drunken innocence, full lips parting questioningly right as he closed the distance and captured the question with his mouth, swallowing her words and explored her sour-sweet mouth with his tongue. He gripped at the back of her head, preventing her from moving, from pulling away. He kissed her hungrily, and she could feel his hard need pressing against her outer thigh as he leaned against her. Breath stolen, lightheaded and inebriated, Sansa didn't resist him. Wasn't this what love was supposed to be? Wasn't this what her Septa always sang about? Sweet, stolen kisses, passionate touches, lying beneath the stars? This was love. This was her fiancé accepting her, wanting her…needing her. Sansa continued to convince herself that this was right and natural, forced herself to think that this was what she wanted as Joffrey enthusiastically and easily yanked her into his lap. She didn't have the clarity to hold herself up and he knew it; his arms wrapped securely around her slender waist and her hands gripped his shoulders for stability and balance, straddling his lap, his hard cock throbbing against her core, separated only by his pants and her smallclothes. He panted against her throat, and she gasped for air as well. His mouth latched onto her throat, licking up the wine she'd spilled, his tongue and lips journeying down further and further as she arched back, drawing in ragged breaths. His tongue reached her breasts and she flinched, startled through her haze.
You keep saying this is what you want. And it is what you want, but for all the wrong reasons. You want him to love you so badly, to magically change overnight into a charming, gentle, kind king like the stories depict. You want the cruel words and beatings to stop. You want the bloodshed, fear, and abuse to stop. But it never will. Your body is no temple to him, not something he worships and respects. You're his toy tonight because he's drunk, horny, and bored.
As reasoning broke through her cloudy mind, Sansa managed to pull out of his grasp and tumbled to the floor, scrambling backward. Her hand fluttered to the side of her neck, knowing the sore, wet spot would be bruised by tomorrow from where he'd suckled. Shame colored her neck.
"Take off that ruined dress," Joffrey ordered, voice thick with lust. He stood, the front of his pants bulging, and came closer to her. She continued to back up until her back hit the wall of the ship.
"I…I'm not ready. Can we wait?" Sansa said weakly, already knowing the response. Joffrey tutted and yanked a dagger from his belt, the sight instantly bringing tears to her eyes. But he didn't harm her with it; no, he sliced it down the front of her dress until the fabric fell from her body, pooling in shreds at her feet. Sansa stood before him in her meager, thin smallclothes; white, knee-high silk stockings with a matching pair of small, short bloomers, and a lifting band around her breasts. The band simply tied in a fashion to push her breasts up and hardly left anything to the imagination; her nipples were hard and strained against the silk material. Sansa attempted to hider her breasts with her long red tresses, crossed her legs shyly, hands hiding her groin. Joffrey smacked her hands away from her body and used his dagger to push her hair behind her shoulders, away from her breasts. He pressed the tip of his dagger against her jugular, turning every drop of blood in her body to ice.
"You were more than ready a few minutes ago. Look at those hard little nipples of yours, all perked up for me. What a needy little whore you are, Sansa Stark. Say it. Say you're a whore," Joffrey said, dragging the tip of his dagger down her pale throat, her chests, reaching her nipples. He lightly circled a nipple with the dagger, slicing the fabric very slightly. Sansa whimpered, a bead of blood staining the white silk band.
"I…I'm a whore," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut in terror as the dagger dragged to the next nipple.
"Tell me exactly how much you want me," Joffrey sneered. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, taking a deep inhale before biting painfully into her neck. She cried out, squirming away, but one of his hands snatched at her breast, the other to her hip, keeping her in place.
"Tell me!" the boy king shouted. She jumped in his hands, a tear trickling down her cheek.
"I want you," Sansa sobbed, trembling all over.
"Tell me in detail," Joffrey snarled, yanking her hair violently. She immediately clutched at the back of her neck, terrified he would snap the bones with his vicious grip. Her back arched to give slack to her neck and scalp and he hungrily gazed at her nearly exposed breasts, practically drooling over the beads of blood marking each nipple. In detail…Sansa closed her eyes, refusing him the satisfaction of seeing her tears, the Hound's words ringing in her mind about not giving him what he wanted, hide the tears, be stronger.
The Hound – Sandor. Her thoughts drifted to him as Joffrey bit at her neck again, the skin stinging and tearing as he let his teeth sink in like an animal. Maybe it was all the wine, the dizziness in her head, or fear alone, but Sansa imagined it was Sandor. In her mind, it was his rough hands groping and exploring her uncharted skin, caressing forbidden, sensitive areas. It was his lips upon her breasts, her neck, nose, mouth, and sinful spots. It was his gravelly voice rasping in her ear, clamping a calloused hand over her mouth to quiet her pleading moans. With these images flooding her head, heat flared beneath her panties, and she obeyed Joffrey's request with more lust than fear.
"I want you more than anything, more than air for my lungs and water for my life. I want you all around me, touching me with everything you've got; your hands, your mouth, your…," Sansa swallowed thickly with an audible click and forced herself to open her eyes. Green narrow eyes and blond hair greeted her, thin mouth parted in need. He slowly started rubbing against her, his bulge grinding against her core, and she hated herself for feeling a flare of need. His hips thrusted in a steady rhythm against her, his face twisted in sexual euphoria, panting.
"Tell me more, wolf bitch," Joffrey commanded, grasping at her breast again, painfully tight. His dagger pressed against the side of her neck menacingly, but it was clear that the pain and fright he was giving her only fanned the flames of his desire. He humped her harder, feminine groans and whimpers falling from his lips.
Sandor's dark eyes piercing her soul, reading right through every lie and charade. His tall, muscular, broad body always standing nearby, watching, protecting. Her lips tingled at the memory of brushing against his scarred flesh, the regret of stopping at the corner of his mouth.
"I don't just want you…I need you. I feel hot all over thinking about you, and my smallclothes feel…wet. I feel so wet and tight between my legs, Sa – Joffrey. It feels so good it hurts, and I just want to do bad things, things I know I shouldn't do," Sansa mumbled, eyes still closed, refusing to look at Joffrey, refusing to see that it was not the right man grinding against her. Joffrey moaned loudly, sounding quite like a girl, and slammed his bulge against her one more time, jamming the tip of his dagger into the side of her neck just hard enough to draw blood. He wailed as he suddenly shook all over, a hot wetness splattering through Joffrey's pants onto her small bloomers, and she stumbled away from the dagger. She didn't understand what had just happened – Septa had never taught her about sex or the acts that go with it; she'd only ever said that when the time came, her husband would guide the way and that it was her womanly duty to make sure her man stayed satisfied. Her parents had never spoken a word of the subject, and she'd only overheard innuendos and coded conversations between her brothers about their own sexual escapades. Sansa knew almost nothing, other than she had an "opening" between her legs that a man uses to make a baby for her. Fright filled her belly. Whatever had just happened…did it put a baby in her? Was she to be pregnant with Joffrey's baby? The hot wetness seeping into her underwear against the skin of her genitals…was that the baby fluid?
Before panic could set in, Joffrey suddenly shoved Sansa to her knees.
"Clean up your mess, whore," he sneered. Sansa looked up at him, frightened and confused.
"What mess?" she asked. He gestured at his wet pants and yanked them down. Sansa physically recoiled and averted her gaze, her whole body flushing red with embarrassment at the sight of his flaccid penis. She'd never seen one before, didn't know how they were supposed to look, but his was small and wrinkled. It dangled pathetically between his thighs, a white and sticky substance smeared across his intimate region, a thinner fluid of some sort still dripping from the slit of the head of his penis.
"I…I have no handkerchief," Sansa whispered, humiliated, refusing to let her tears fall. Joffrey slapped her across the face hard enough to rock her back on her heels.
"With your mouth, you stupid cunt. Suck my cock until it's all clean. Lick up every drop. Gods, you're a stupid girl, aren't you?" Joffrey snapped. Sansa was horrified, frozen in place on her knees, one hand clutching her stinging cheek, the other arm wrapped protectively around her breasts. There was no way she was putting that wet, sagging little blob of flesh into her mouth.
"Do it!" his entitled shout startled her, and she flinched as he practically jammed himself against her face.
"Your Grace."
Two simple words had never sounded so miraculous. Sansa's head whipped around, and she looked at the Hound. He stood at the steps, holding a bottle of wine, and was looking only at the boy king. His complete ignorance of her presence nearly broke her in half. How could he stand there like that? How could he ignore the sight of her mostly naked body kneeling at the cock of this monster? Too many emotions flooded her body at once; despair, disgust, terror, rage, humiliation…everything. As she began to spiral out of control, Joffrey glared at the Hound.
"What is it, dog? Can't you see I'm busy?" he snapped. Sansa bowed her head in shame and wrapped her arms around herself, even though she knew the Hound had yet to spare her a glance.
"Figured you'd want the wine you asked for," Sandor replied drily. Joffrey glanced at the wine, then at Sansa, and then grinned wickedly.
"Come here, dog," Joffrey ordered. There was a millisecond of hesitation, and then the Hound was walking over to them. The two men stood, the inebriated woman kneeling.
"Dog, would you like your cock sucked by the whore of the North?" Joffrey asked casually, as if discussing dinner options. Sansa was frozen to the spot, unmoving, unspeaking, hiding her body with her limbs. She blamed herself for thinking things couldn't get worse. This time, Sandor did look at her. He bored those dark eyes right through her teary blues.
"Pass. I have no interest in sloppy, sniveling whores. Besides, she doesn't look like she's ever had a cock in her mouth. I'm in no mood to teach," the Hound said, his tone indifferent. At his words, Sansa wanted to melt into the wood and just die. She was absolutely humiliated, and for some reason his rejection of her…hurt. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, hiding the tears, hiding the uncaring look on Sandor's face, hiding herself from seeing Joffrey's smug smirk. She could hear Joffrey taking the bottle of wine from Sandor.
"You're right, dog. Maybe all she needs is a shower. Open your mouth, whore."
Sansa hesitantly opened her mouth, and then her eyes, just in time to see a huge wave of dark red wine come at her. The alcohol spilled all over her; over her head, through her hair, soaking her smallclothes. She swallowed mouthful after mouthful as fast as she could to avoid drowning, but it was impossible to keep up. Soon she was choking, gagging at the excess wine flooding her throat, and Joffrey was laughing, even as her vision blurred.
"That's enough," Sandor suddenly said, taking the bottle back. It was practically empty anyway. He knelt and hit her back, hard. Sansa immediately bent over and puked up a red, burning ocean. It triggered her earlier nausea and she puked again and again, feeling like it was her very soul escaping.
"Gods, you're disgusting! Dog, throw her back into her room and lock her in there. I need a bath after this garbage," Joffrey said. He retied his pants and swept from the deck, leaving for his rooms. Leaving Sansa in her see-through smallclothes, saturated in wine, surrounded by vomit. Rather than look him in the face, Sansa pulled herself to stand but immediately stumbled, the world spinning in an intoxicated whirl. Sandor caught her elbow, steadying her, but she violently pulled away, grabbing at the scraps of her ruined dress, and hugging it to her body.
"Sansa don't be stupid, you're drunk. Let me help you," the Hound said, following her as she stumbled down the steps.
"I don't need your help. I'm a sloppy, sniveling whore, remember? So let me snivel in sloppy peace. Go wag your tail and perform new tricks for your master," Sansa bit out. She fled to her room as fast as she could, terrified of someone seeing her in such a state. Lucky for her, anyone who wasn't still at the festivities was passed out somewhere.
"Don't. I did what I had to do, and it worked, right? You're okay," Sandor said. He had the audacity to sound tired. They reached her room as she opened her mouth to reply, but Bronn was sleeping by her door. He was snoring disturbingly loud, reeking of alcohol, his shirt stained with liquor and some sort of sauce. Sansa gritted her teeth and swung the door open. She was intending on slamming the door shut, locking both men out, but Sandor was faster. He was in the room by the time the door closed. Sansa whirled around, furious, still clutching the shreds of her dress against her body.
"Oh, so now you get to decided whether I'm okay or not? What're you, in my head? Must've been since you were absolutely nowhere to be found. Though, by judging Bronn's little snooze outside my door, I think I can guess where you two have been. Some protection. You guys really stuck to your promise of watching out for me." Sansa's voice became more and more emotional until it finally cracked at the last sentence. Tears left clean streaks through the dirt and wine on her face and then Sandor was in front of her with his handkerchief, wiping at her cheeks. She tried to push him away, but he was stronger and more persistent.
"I can't be everywhere, little bird. I looked for you, though. I swear it, I looked," Sandor said quietly, his deep, rasping tone comforting in many different levels. He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. Her stomach flipped at the intensity of his gaze.
"Did he…," Sandor's voice trailed off, as if unsure how to ask.
"No," Sansa said simply. She went to her bag and pulled out clean smallclothes and a nightgown, laying them out on the bed. Suddenly, the scared, hurting, humiliated little bird inside of her flew off, leaving the cage bravely open and ready for anything. She was tired of being scared all the time, tired of the pain. She was tired of never having control over anything, no power, no freedom to do as she pleased.
That was going to change, right now. Maybe it was all the wine getting to her head, or maybe she'd finally reached a breaking point. It didn't matter to her, regardless. Sansa Stark slowly turned to face Sandor Clegane, who was respectfully gazing at the floor with the knowledge that Sansa was hardly dressed.
"Sandor," Sansa said, her voice steady and insistent. He uttered a grunted noise of acknowledgement, eyes still trained on the ground.
"Look at me, Sandor Clegane – now," Sansa commanded, her tone leaving no room for question or argument. Confused, Sandor raised his head and obeyed her order. When their eyes locked, Sansa dropped the shreds of her dress to the floor. The Hound's jaw slackened in surprise; the little bird, so demure and meek, now stood before him in nothing but white, silk, tight bloomers, and a mostly shredded white, silk, push-up band. The little scraps she had left were completely see-through due to being drenched in wine, her long hair hanging in wet, wavy tresses down her back and shoulders, small trickles of blood dried to her bruising neck.
Seeing the look of shock and perhaps even lust on the Hound's face, Sansa slowly smirked and pointed at the chair by her writing desk.
"Sit down, Sandor Clegane."
A/N: Thank you for reading this far, I hope you enjoyed it enough to leave a review/favorite/follow. (: Til next time!