#sandor clegane fic
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The Caged Bird and The Leashed Dog
+:✿ Chapter - 1 ✿:+ New Pretty Cage
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Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it.
CW: slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of animal death, alcohol consumption, mention of infant death, mention of parent(s) death, loras being very lgbtq , mention of arranged marriage.
Leaving the Eyrie at first was exciting. You hated to admit it, you screamed at your father for even suggesting it, you cried like a child, but it was. The Eyrie was hardly a home, It was cold, isolated, and a constant reminder of what you’d lost. Kings Landing was warm, crowded, and offered a future outside of living in the past.
Your father, Jon Arryn, was more than optimistic that you would find a suitor worthy of your name. Your aunt and now step mother, Lysa Arryn was elated at the opportunity of ridding her and Robin’s lives of you.
After the death of your mother, Aemma of house Tully, your father married her sister, your aunt. You could have stomached it, you could have even forgiven it, if it weren’t for the fact your mother died during her labors of childbirth.
As you and your father rode in the carriage, your mind couldn’t help but think of it. You’d spent your mothers entire pregnancy hoping she’d bear a son. You even prayed, prayed to the seven Gods whom you didn’t even believe in. You had hoped if the child was a boy, you wouldn’t have to be wed off to the best house name possible.
What's worse, not only did the labors kill your mother, but it also killed your brother. You’d prayed for a brother and the Gods gave you a brother. But they took him away and your mother with him.
You had spent days sulking, wallowing in grief. Unbeknownst to you, all the while your father was arranging his own marriage with Lysa. A son followed behind soon, Robin, the brat. You hated him, even if you were the same blood.
“We approach,” your father said under his breath. It was enough to bring you back to reality.
“How long will I be here?” You asked, knowing the answer. Your father shot you a look with a furrowed brow, as if to say, “You already know.” You nodded as your concerned gaze turned to a glare as you looked out the carriage into the city. You lost your sweetness after your mother died, you were in no rush to get it back.
“Who am I to wed?” You asked flatly, your stoic expression and eyes filled with venom shot outside of the carriage and away from your father.
He sighed and looked upon you softly. “The Baratheon boys are eligible I suppose,” before he could finish you began. “Blondes, I have a distaste for blonde men.” You say as you rest your chin on your fist, still staring outside of the carriage. Your father let out a sigh about to lecture you on the importance of uniting families and the unimportance of such trivial things like personal happiness. But you cut him off, you look at him with eyes filled with venom, “I know you’ve a plan. You don’t go into anything blind.” he let out a small huff of a laugh as you arrived at the impressive castle. Your eyes did move from your fathers however. “You are just like your mother. Filled with angry eyes and hard questions.” Your eyes narrowed a bit, as the door to the carriage opened.
“Welcome Lord Arryn, welcome Lady (Y/N)”
Later that evening, you met the Lannisters and Baratheons over dinner.
You took note of the “Baratheon boys” your father mentioned. Sons of the King. From all those story books you'd read as a girl you would have thought that Princes’s would be handsome, kind, gentle, and brave. However you weren’t a naive child anymore. So the scrawny and boyish looking Joffrey didn’t surprise you, but did disappoint you. And Tommen was boyish too however Tommen was just that, a boy, a child. You found yourself praying again, praying you wouldn’t be subjected to an arranged marriage between either of them.
The dinner was mostly spent with your father and Robbert yammering, and occasionally people needing to remind you that you were being spoken to.
It was strange, on one hand you were excited to be out of the isolation of the Eyrie, on the other hand you couldn’t care less about the people around you. That was until the royal family's guard stepped into the room. The man was giant, standing at least 6 '6, his shoulders were so broad he had to step into a room at an angle. You felt your eyes linger on the figure just a second too long. Reverting it back to your hands in your lap.
You felt her cheeks blush, you felt yourself get embarrassed by this. But the thing is you’ve never seen a man like that. You never saw a man that big, a man that broad, ever. The Eyrie was secluded and maybe men from the vale were just shorter. Maybe this was a southern thing. Before you could roll the thought around your brain for long, the hulking figure walked to the opposite side of the room, it was only then when you noticed his face lit by the candle lights.You saw the left side of his face first. His face was masculine, there was nothing about his appearance that was feminine. As you analyzed his face, he turned it towards you which is when you saw the opposite of his face. It was horribly scarred, all the hair on his face was burnt off and ribboned in scarred tissue.
It was beautiful. You’d never seen anything like it.
You didn’t break your gaze as it was intertwined with the giant in the room. His deep brown eyes seemed somewhat confused with something about you. You felt the blush returning to your cheeks and nose as you studied him. You only broke your improper gaze once you felt the dread you feel everytime your fathers gaze comes towards you. You were able to look away before he noticed. He grabbed ahold of your hand and shot you a half hearted smile hoping your sour mood would magically improve with this minimal affection. However the daggers in your eyes did not surrender.
You spent the following days walking around the castle, hoping for another glimpse at the man everyone feared so terribly. You asked your father about him, “He’s the royal family's dog, both the Cleganes are. They are not the kind of people I wish for you to be around.” You rolled your eyes, but the information you got from anyone else was no better. His monstrous and vile actions. His temper is so fierce he’d kill anyone without a second thought. But when you saw his eyes, those deep brown eyes, they weren’t mean or angry they were sad. They were scared.
Days in this shit city were long, and often just as boring as the days in the Eyrie. Only instead of a shivering cold there was a sticky warmth. Instead of Lysa and Robin there was Cersei and Joffrey. At least Robin didn’t kill little creatures and beat girls for fun.
There were some advantages to living here however. There were more books, more food, more drinks, more dresses, more music. Living so high in the mountain such luxuries were sparse. Luxuries like friends, of which you felt you gained a few. The Tyrells for example were the only people you felt you could be truly honest with. Specifically Loras, there was a sense of vulnerability you two shared with each other. Both of you are unhappy with the prospect of marriage, arranged specifically. You remember the time he confessed to you that he was in love with a man. You walked through the garden together, those times became special. The only times when you and he could speak plainly. You always thought of how lovely it would be to have a friend, someone to trust solely. You always thought it would be a woman but you couldn’t complain.
You held onto his hands as he confessed. He said he wished he could change, to not be what he was.
“Never,” You held onto his hands tighter “Never wish for such things. Change even a single thing of you and you aren’t you. And you are my friend, my dearest friend.” You whispered, he embraced you tightly. You however had a slight growing distaste for Renly, a man who brought such tears to your friend.
To anyone secretly observing, it was courting. To you and he, it was friendship. In its purest way.
Maybe your father was true to his promise, he’d find you a man whom you’d love, a man who was brave and gentle. Only this love was different. As he was the only person you could trust.
The two of you thought of a plan for you and the wedding of one another. It was a good plan, the two of you would be bound by love and respect of which you both shared for the other. And the two of you would be free to find romantic, and sexual love freely. Loras teased you’d be able to fuck all the KingsGaurd if The Hound did not please you. It made you giggle but blush in embarrassment like a little girl.
Honestly you and he would have had the most healthy relationship of all the realm, and the only difference would be the two of you never consummated. But who would need to know?
You almost went through with it after the death of your father. If it weren’t for the fact Cersei forced her company upon you so much, you could have ran to the nearest septon and made your marriage official. But Cersei never left you alone, you were either with her, or one of her ladies. And, and you hated to admit it, you’d miss those butterflies in your belly anytime you caught The Hounds gaze. It makes your cheek red and your belly burn. And you loved it, it might have been the only reason you could have lived during those days. You spent anytime you got alone with Loras talking about The Hound, a topic he grew bored of quickly. So you also spoke of your marriage.
However these plans changed at the arrival of your cousin Sansa. Upon her arrival you saw a girl who would never handle the city she was stepping into with such naive big eyes and fairy tale fantasies of her future. You agreed with Olenna that Loras should attempt to court Sansa prior to her wedding with Joffrey, one last attempt at her freedom. You began to care less and less of your own.
Selfless yes, but stupid.
During the tournament you sat beside Sansa, and her father Nedd Stark who had such an affinity to your father apparently it was transferred to you now that he was dead and gone. She begged her father to stop the tournament. You wanted to roll your eyes at it, but you also wished someone would stop it as well. The Mountain, Gregor Clegane, scared you. He was different from his brother. The Hound was almost as big but he had a stoic and sad nature to him, even though everyone told you to beware. The brother you feared was Gregor, he was unstable, rabid, and frightened you to no end. You’d hoped your plan of him using your mare, who was in heat, would work.
It was a trick, but a good one, if it worked. And it did, it upsets and confuses Gregor's mount. Gregor was thrown off his horse. You felt a wave of relief as Sansa stood and cheered. What you didn’t account for was Gregor's reaction. Gregor, absolutely furious, decapitated his own horse. You, still seated, grabbed ahold of Sansa’s arm as Gregor made his way to Loras. You sat and watched, you hoped someone, anyone would intervene. Renly, Nedd, the King, anyone.
Just as you were sure that was the end, “Leave him be!” The giant man behind you roared. The Hound swung his sword blocking a fatal blow to Loras. You sat there, your eyes not wide but narrowed and brows furrowed. You studied the battle between these two brothers. You wondered why, why would this man risk his own life just to save one of Loras? If he was the merciless monster that everyone had claimed, why do this? As you watched these men fight you noticed, the noble men all fought as they were trained, this man fought as he knew would kill. He fought with experience.
You couldn’t help but find it exciting.
As The King called off this fight, The Hound dodged a fatal blow he simultaneously bowed to the King. This made your lips part slightly as you struggled to conceal a smile.
As Loras named The Hound champion everyone stood and clapped, but not you.
You sat and stared at the man, your cheeks with a renewed blush on them. You smiled softly at him, his gaze soon met your own. Once met, it was hard to break.
You managed to weasel your way out of the sight of the Starks and Lannisters to check on Loras. As you made your way to the stables you didn’t find Loras but The Hound. You felt like you walked into a brick wall as you saw the Giant drinking from a wine skin sitting against the stable that held your own horse.
He didn’t look at you as he said “Your pretty boy isn’t here, girl.” as he took another long swig of the wineskin in his fist.
“I’m sure I don’t know who you refer to.” You lie as you slowly walk over to your horse.
“Fuck you don’t.” He hissed “Dirty trick you and that boy pulled.”
“No honor in tricks.” You say feeding your horse some feed from your palm.
“Honor,” He scuffs “only cunts believe in that shit.” your brows raised, you’d never heard a man curse so much. They rarely did in the company of a Lady.
“There was honor in what you did, It was quite brave, Ser.”
“I'm not a ser, I already told your pretty boy that.”
“Loras is not my ‘pretty boy’” you said in a mocking tone making the hound crack a small smirk.
“Fuck off,” He scuffed, “Round that boy you’re as in heat as that bitch mare in that stable.”
“Is that why you came here? You sit in front of my mare's stable because you wanted to accuse me of having relations with a friend of mine?” You eyes shift from your mare to glare at him with disgust. His eyes locked with yours. He hardly needed to look up at you to see your eyes.
“I don’t like the way you look at me.” He said flatly
“I don’t like the way you talk to me.” Your eyes went back to your mare. “Don’t talk to me like that and I won’t look at you like that.”
“Don’t matter how you look at me, just that you do.” He said as he took another swig.
You looked down contemplating what that could have meant as you looked over to him.
“Didn’t I just fuckin’ tell ya not to do that?” He growled however your gaze did not falter.
“You did not, you said you don’t like it.” You asserted mockingly, not at all scared of this man beside you, even though you maybe should be.
He stood, showing just how small you were in comparison to him. As he loomed over you, his eyes raked over every part of you, avoiding your eyes.
“It will serve you well to listen to a man. Save yourself some pain. Some men, like to hit stubborn girls like you. Men who like to beat them.” He said in a somewhat more gentle tone than before.
Your eyes met him once more, as you looked up at him, you realized he’d never been so close to you.
“And what of you? Are you one of those men?” You asked teasing him, testing his patience
“Maybe,” he rasped “You don’t know the things I’ve done,”
You turned your body towards him to face him completely.
“You should be scared of me, of any man in this shit city.”
“I should be, but I’m not. I tried to be, but I can’t make myself feel frightened by you.” You said fidgeting with your necklace.
“I’m a killer,” He wrapped his fingers around your throat, but his grasp was hardly there at all, almost like he was hovering his hand there. “I could crush your pretty throat.”
“Do it.” You said quickly, His brows furrowed, “You think I want to live here? Do it.” you held onto his wrist, needing both hands to grasp his thick wrist fully. “No, you won’t hurt me.” You say softly.
His hand runs down your throat and lays flat engulfing your chest in his palm as his fingers laid on your collar bone. He felt your heartbeat for a moment, savoring it. “No, no little bird, I won't hurt you.” He conceded painfully, the name he called you made your cheeks blush. With that he turned away from you and stomped out of the stables.
You felt yourself release a breathe, fuck, you thought to yourself.
Few questions remained in your mind, ‘Why was he so gentle?’ and ‘Why did he make you feel this way?’
NOTE: Hi, this is my first time writing any fanfiction- believe me it will get better. We will be fuckin I promise we will be laying it down girls!! This one is mainly just world building. Let me know if there's anything you’d like to see going forward!
Xoxo
Bambi <3
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hello, congrats on 10k! i just read your answer about sander’s first kiss and now my heart hurts :( could we get a baby blurb of sandor and a reader who really, really wants to kiss him for the first time!!
Sandor deserves so many kisses ready mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah
You frowned up at Sandor despite the gentle kiss he pressed to the top of your head. “What was that for?” You demanded.
“What?” Sandor grunted, straightening to his full height and staring down at you.
“You pulled away…” you mumbled, suddenly embarrassed at causing a fuss. But Sandor had always been your protector, and now there was something more there… or was there?
But Sandor was not one to reject your advances, your hugs, your gentle touches.
Only your kiss.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to offend you… didn’t want to… I thought…”
“You wanted to kiss me?” Sandor asked, his voice a mixture of astonishment and incredulity, a frown etched on his scarred face. When you nodded he cocked his brow. “And why the fuck would you want to do that?” He said, his thumb subconsciously rubbing at the scarred half of his lips.
You covered his hand with yours, moving it slowly. When you cupped his face-the burnt side- he almost jolted back like a jumpy horse, but soon melded to your touch. Slowly, he lowered down to your level, and when your lips brushed against his, he did not recoil.
Instead he pulled you closer.
#10k celebration#10k baby blurb#fandom-puff’s 10k celebration#Sandor Clegane x Reader#Sandor Clegane fluff#Sandor Clegane x you#Sandor Clegane fic#Sandor Clegane#the hound#the hound x reader
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“Of Septons and Hounds” (Sandor Clegane x Original Female Character)
SUMMARY — A recently widowed impoverished spinster, who now finds herself at the Lannisters’ mercy, develops a strange relationship with the fearsome Hound. As the ten year long summer comes to an end, she tries to fight for the man she really wants, while dodging her good-brother's schemes to see her wed yet another elderly lord.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — This is my first ever work in this fandom, I hope I did my favourite fearsome Hound justice. English is not my first language so if you spot any mistakes that is my fault alone. Oh, and there’s also smut.
WORD COUNT — 3,391
Masterlist
The ten year long summer was coming to an end. I could feel it in my bones. Casterly Rock still stood tall and strong, as I suspected it would for another eight thousand years, but everything else around me was changing.
I was savouring a rare moment of peace and hid from the world in the alcove of the rose gardens. The round-petalled, sunset-coloured variety that grew here were my favourite, though of course the crimson ones planted at the very centre were the most magnificent. My good-brother Ser Damion once told me they were the pride and joy of Lady Joanna, and knowing his cousin Tywin I could certainly see why the gardeners worked so hard to keep these blooming all summer long.
As the recently widowed impoverished spinster, who now found herself at the Lannisters’ mercy, I hid in these gardens quite often–mostly to escape my good-brother’s schemes. One should hope his duties as the castellan of the Rock would have kept him busier…
I breathed deeply and felt my head swimming from the sweet scent of the roses. Somehow I knew the crimson ones smelled stronger as of late. I was sure they spoke of impending autumn winds. They had developed a startling, imposing scent that permeated almost the entirety of the gardens and it almost seemed like the flowers wanted to shine just one last time before they would inevitably wilt. Like the one last feast one would throw just before the first snowstorms.
“Well, then.” Suddenly, strong hands grasped my shoulders and I shot up from the bench I was resting on.
I was met with the half-burned face of Sandor Clegane; his ruined lips twisted in a mockery of a smile and his imposing frame blocking the sun from my view completely.
“Oh. It’s you.” I was clearly relieved.
No less confused than before, Sandor took a step closer.
“Who did you think it was?” he asked. His voice was broken glass, crunching under infantry iron boots.
“My brother,” I confessed easily. “He is getting fatter on his castellan purse, but is almost as tall as you, Ser Clegane.”
Immediately, Sandor snarled at the title, his grey eyes full of hate. But I stood there proudly, daring him to scold a high-born lady in public. I was riling him up and he knew it, but he let me all the same.
“Come.” His command was short; an order a captain of the guard would throw at a fellow soldier.
“Is that any way to talk to a lady, Clegane?”
He said nothing to that, just sent me another angry look over his shoulder and then kept walking. I stifled a laugh.
Unlike all those other guards prancing around the Rock in their gold shiny armours, Sandor’s black ring mail and boiled leather seemed to be quelling the sunshine around him.
Unable to help myself, I followed him inside the castle.
His long legs carried him quite a distance further and soon enough I found myself trotting behind him like an ungraceful pony.
“Is that any way for a lady to walk?” he grumbled, though there was mirth in those angry eyes and I grinned as soon as I saw it.
“Is that a jape I hear, Clegane? By the gods, it–” But the rest of that remark died in my throat as he pulled me into a dark corridor that ended with a spiral staircase. He went down and again, I followed.
“Where are we?” I inquired.
“Underneath the barracks.” His rasping voice drifted up to me. Once more, he was leading.
“Lovely,” I sighed and then simply kept following.
At the end of the staircase, there was an old door with an even older-looking lock, to which Sandor for some inexplicable reason produced a rust-covered key. He unlocked the door and it soon became apparent he must have been the first one to do it in quite a while. It took a formidable power to open it at all. I looked at how his muscles bulged under the dark sleeves of his tunic and against my better judgement I did not stop looking until he caught me in the act.
Without any niceties, Sandor took my hand and led me through the narrow passage, then firmly shut the door behind us; the rusty hinges straining under the task.
“I do appreciate the effort, Clegane, but if I should have to perish, I’d rather not do it under some aimless old stone that decides to drop on my head with–”
“You talk too much, woman.”
He grabbed me and soon my back was pressed against the cold stone wall. I did not necessarily mind. This was what I came there for; it was what I wanted and what Sandor kept giving me for the past year and a half.
I reached out blindly and when my hands found his face I pulled him closer for a kiss. He wouldn’t reciprocate at first, this much I knew, because such was our game. He would let me sense his humours and somehow through a simple touch and kiss I would read him like a book. I realised he would need it rough today and my body shivered with anticipation. I deepened the kiss and finally Sandor moved closer and started to unlace his breeches.
There was scarcely any light source in the old dungeon and I could barely see a thing. Regretful, giving my particular weakness for the sight of the man. Because Sandor was everything I could ever want from a man, even though he would never let me say it out loud.
But the noose around my neck was tightening. With the summer ending and Her Grace slowly packing to move back to King’s Landing with the children, I knew the proper mourning period after my late husband’s passing was over. As I had no remaining male relatives, Ser Damion Lannister was in charge of any dowry my puny cousin Crakehall branch could offer. Soon, the evil beast that married my sister would force me to wed once more–undoubtedly to another evil beast of his choosing.
“You are shaking, my lady.” The familiar raspy voice brought me back. I sighed because I enjoyed him calling me a lady quite as much as he liked to be called “ser”.
“It’s cold in here.”
“Aye.” He reached under my skirts and I gasped once he pulled down my smallclothes. “So let me make you warmer.”
Another sigh turned into a moan when he put two fingers inside me and curled them. He was not being rough to be cruel, but because he knew I could not stand a slow and tedious prelude.
“So wet,” he rasped into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “Were you thinking of me all day?”
I could not smell the wine on him this time and I enjoyed the thought that he wanted to experience me sober. I always liked it better when he was not drinking and I thought the incentive for him was that our time together would last longer.
“Actually no, I–” I exhaled and let out a surprised chuckle as he grabbed my thigh firmly to lift up my leg. I rested it against his hip and he added another finger inside me–this time more smoothly.
“Cease your prattling, woman,” he grunted. “Does the dark frighten you so much? Or the creature you find yourself in the dark with?”
I let out another moan as his teeth nibbled at my neck.
The sensations were overwhelming. The stone wall was cold against my back, and the dank dungeon was not something I would call remotely romantic–it smelled of damp earth and rot, and to be truthful after a day of training in the yard, Sandor smelled no better.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see him sneering at me.
“Where in the seven hells are you?” He leaned in closer and as he replaced his fingers with his cock, I steadied myself by clutching his arms. “Because you sure ain’t here with me.”
“I am… thinking,” I whispered and it gave him a pretence to claim another kiss from my lips.
He knew me too well; such was the consequence of two souls connecting the way we have been doing. At first our dalliance was just a mutual understanding–but now it expanded and grew like a root, and despite our better judgement, we started to get to know one another.
“Stop thinking so much, woman,” he grumbled, his voice surely hoarse from yelling at incompetent recruits through all of the morrow. “Look at me. Look at me.”
I finally looked up and saw the faint outline of his face. His eyes no longer resentful, now they glinted with lust. I smiled as I understood the object of that lust was me.
“Go on then,” I mustered my best commanding tone and moaned as he squeezed my thigh harder in return.
The rough wall behind me, the strong arms I was clutching and Sandor’s hardness inside me all brought me back from whatever hell my mind had wandered to and I set my heart on the now. That is why we worked so well, I supposed. His roughness and my need for it paired together beautifully.
We were both close, I could feel it. Sandor let out a groan and I made myself tighten around him in response. I wished the moment could last longer, but I knew deep down all things that exist in darkness and privacy must one day come out to light.
I reached my peak first and nearly cried out–but Sandor was faster. He captured my lips in another harsh kiss, spilling inside me. I felt how his body tensed, pressed up against me. Still seeing stars, I let him release my leg back down, though I appreciated him still holding me close. I swore under my breath at how unsteady I felt and I heard Sandor chuckle. An oddly comforting thing, that disembodied rough chuckle in the dark.
I pulled up my smallclothes and straightened my skirts, wincing at the mess that spilled from me. I did not care if his seed quickened, though. Thankfully I was no longer a maiden and knew my sums better than I used to. My monthly blood was still far away and I had more time to take precautions.
My release did make everything better, but I still was not finished with my game of teasing the bull.
“When was the last time you took a bath, Sandor?”
I could not really see it, but I knew his brows were tightly pinched together.
“Last week, I think. Why? Does this dog’s stink offend your ladyship?”
“No,” I chuckle. “Have no fear. I know who you are and I still enjoy your company.”
That, I gathered, stunned him more than a blow to the head could. I heard his clothes rustle. He was putting himself back in order, too.
“The smell of blood and sweat,” he grunted. “Some twisted tastes you have, woman.”
I put my hands in front of me and grabbed at his tunic to pull him closer. This time, he obeyed. I pressed myself against him and I could feel his breath quickening.
“Some twisted tastes, indeed,” I hummed and moved to rest my cheek against his chest. “But I wish we could go somewhere else. Somewhere far away from Casterly Rock.”
Somewhere far away from my sister’s husband, is what I truly wished to say and Sandor knew it well. I could feel him stirring uncomfortably, undoubtedly unsure what to say to that. I knew then that I let myself say too much.
“Well, we’ve got that. The two of us here, nice and private, as the lady commands.”
“Very amusing.”
“I do try.”
His hands moved from my backside then and I felt his fingers in my hair. True to the word he had once given, he was doing his best not to make too much of a mess of my braid. But I knew he liked my hair. He remarked on it often.
We were quiet then, just the two of us in that small dungeon under the barracks of Castle Casterly, and it was as close to peaceful as I have ever felt. I knew I was trying to hold on to this moment just a little bit longer, to somehow keep it from ending.
To my surprise, it was Sandor that broke our silence this time:
“I do not want to let you go yet.”
I knew what it meant, for him to speak his mind like that. I was fast to answer so as not to keep him in suspension:
“Nor I you.”
I wanted to say more; to say I wished he were mine and mine alone. But that would be foolish. I knew it could never be. I started to trace soothing circles on his back instead; something I knew he enjoyed very much.
After a moment, he spoke again, though his voice was less hoarse now:
“And if I said… I am yours as you are mine?”
The pang of emotion in my chest was as pleasant as it was scary.
“I would say that is all I want.” I placed my palm against his scarred cheek and felt him lean into the touch. “I want you,” I assure him. “I do not wish to be away from you. I do not wish to be married to a lord or a hedge knight or the first drunk who wins against Damion at cards. I want…”
But then the moment faded away and Sandor brought us back to reality:
“What we want doesn’t matter.”
We have been here before, I realised. This was not the first time when both of us wanted the same, but neither believed we could truly take it.
“You know I am no knight. No lord. I’m just their creature, I’m the Hound.”
“Do not say that.”
“But that’s the truth,” he replied, his voice harsh and grating like knives on stone. “I have killed more men than I could even remember. I’m scarred and ugly and hard to look at. You would not be getting a man, you would be getting a beast.”
I knew what he was doing, what he was trying to do. But this time, somehow, I did not want to cower before my better judgement. Winter was coming and I was growing tired.
“Well, fortunately I am good with wild creatures,” I declared in my best lady-like tone. “If I could make your Stranger eat my apple offerings, I am certain you are no more work than that.”
He went silent and even in the dim lighting of the dungeon I could see the conflict in his face.
“Never had a woman like you, with manners and all. I was never meant for any court. If we give in, you’d be wed to a brute.”
I exhaled and decided then that if after a decade the seasons were changing, I deserved a change as well. I have decided then to break the spell of misfortune with a jape and took a step closer to sniff at his neck.
“Well, as your lady wife I could at least make you bathe more often. If that is not a credit to my taming skills, I do not know what would be.”
He laughed at that and even though his laughter would always be short-lived, I still took that as a victory.
“Fuck the court then, eh?” he said and gently held my face in his rough, calloused hands.
“Fuck the court,” I said sternly, and I knew my swearing always took him by surprise, “and fuck their dances, and fuck their hedge knights. May they all dance themselves off the cliffs of Casterly Rock! And may Ser Damion die of a bloody flux. I hope it is painful.”
“Aye,” Sandor chuckled again and kissed the top of my head. “It is. But do not let them hear you cast your spells. I will do much, but I will not save you from a burning pyre.”
It would not matter if they burned me to ash tomorrow for true. Today I finally had hope.
“I want to be your wife,” I declared. “I want them all to know who protects me. I know you will protect me. They are all afraid of you and–”
“Look at me,” he ordered and I did so at once. “You say this… And you say this knowing what I am? Knowing why they are all afraid?”
“I do not care,” I replied, now close to tears from thinking he would not agree after all. “My good-brother is in charge of my money and in charge of me. I have nothing of my own, no reputation, no lands or keep. Truth be told, you are marrying down, Sandor.”
He laughed at that and I cherished the sound. I adored making the mask fall.
“You are taking advantage of me, woman, is that it?” he rasped, though now his voice lacked all that anger. He seemed almost happy.
“Yes, Sandor Clegane,” I grinned. “I have cast my spells and ensnared you in my power. All of our combined riches of one dragon and two stags shall get us as far as… The Trident, most likely. After that we shall both be whores, but we shall be very happy, indeed.”
“Careful, woman,” he snarled, though his eyes showed no anger.
“Pardon me, my lord.” I gave him my best curtsy.
That earned me a hard squeeze of my backside, but I had no regrets.
“Do you have no fears, then?” he rasped, his hand playing with my hair again. “None at all?”
“Well, I do not particularly care for spiders…”
“By the gods, woman! About me, I meant.”
“Then, no.” My grin grew wider. “You are many things, but you are not a monster, Sandor. I know I can believe your words if you say you would not hurt me.”
“Never.” He rushed to answer this and his hands immediately tightened around my waist. “But I will hurt anyone around you if I need to keep you safe. I will keep you safe, the rest of them can fucking burn.”
“Then I shall dance on the ashes,” I japed again, though my heart threatened to burst out of my chest from happiness. “Come then. Let us find some drunk Septon, I hear your Lord Tyrion knows a few.”
Sandor chuckled and took me by the hand to lead us out of the dungeon.
“He is your cousin.”
“Only by marriage. Remember, I am a Crakehall. Wild boars and lions are not exactly friendly.”
“And hounds are? You are mad.”
“You better wed me fast, then. Such a grand prospect shall not wait forever. But after that, I never want to see or hear the name ‘Lannister’ ever again. ”
We stopped on our way up the stairs and to my astonishment Sandor kissed me right then and there. He looked me in the eye, solemn as always, no doubt waiting for me to change my mind. But I would not. Not when he had shown me what happiness tasted like.
“What is it?” I asked.
“This may be the most foolish thing I have ever done,” he grumbled. “And that’s saying something.”
I took his hands in mine and shook my head, smiling in a way I hoped was encouraging and not entirely deranged from joy.
“I am the unreasonable one, Sandor. You shall be my reasonable husband that tames my wicked nature, remember?”
“Am I now?” He smirked. “So you do take me for a husband? I ain’t even civilised enough to know the… vows.”
“Neither does the Septon, if we get one drunk enough to agree to wed us.”
“Nothing will change your mind, then?”
“Nothing shall save you now from this predicament. The hounds are out, the boars are slain, the… I do seem to have run out of house sigils for my japes, but you do know my meaning, I hope?”
“Aye,” he said and this time he seemed to have believed me. “That I do, woman. Now, let us get you that Septon so that I can bed you long and proper.”
#Sandor Clegane fic#Sandor Clegane x reader#Sandor Clegane fics#Sandor Clegane fanfic#asoiaf fanfic#Sandor Clegane x ofc#Sandor Clegane x original characters#game of thrones fanfic#game of thrones fic#sandor clegane fanfiction
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「The Hound and The Vulture 」
Part 5 (and a half)
Third person reader-insert! After weeks—or had it been months now?— on the road north, the Hound and the vulture can finally withstand the cold rain no longer and turn to an inn for a single night of reprieve. And, of course, there is only one bed.
Contains: Reluctant pining, teasing, mature situations
Words: 4,871
Tags: @lunnybunny12 @supervalcsi
Notes: The overused, cliché, worn-out trope of “and there was only one bed.” Let’s have it one more time, then, once more from the top.
This is half of Part 5. Parts of the second half are already written, but I wanted to go ahead and get this finished, edited half out for everyone who has been so supportive and so patient! Thank you all for your kind words.❤️
The town was dismal at best. But still, there was an inn. Any respectable person from any respectable keep would have spat on both the inn and the town, but neither the Hound nor the vulture were in any position to turn away a warm bed. Even the thought of a damp straw mattress and a bowl of dubious brown stew warmed the vulture inside—just a little.
They plodded their way down what they could only assume was the main road of the town, though it was currently little more than a bog. The mud sucked at their horses’ hooves as they went; gods forbid the northern reaches of Westeros go more than a day or two without getting rained, snowed, or sleeted on, or any miserable, abysmal combination of the three. Sometimes they were met with all three in one day–those were the worst days, soaked to the core and chilled to the bone–but still, Sandor would not let them rest.
The rain had let up to a cold, ever-present mist when they reached the village. Everyone is staring again, thought the vulture. They’re always staring. She had half a mind to run the staring people down from time to time. Everywhere they went, the Hound drew stares. Children often fled, sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they asked questions. The adults were no better, and often the vulture found herself wondering how many times the Hound had been recognized. She half expected to be seized by the white cloaks themselves in the middle of the night. Sandor could fight them off, no doubt. She’d seen him do some serious damage in their time together.
And though he could defend himself blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back (of this the vulture had not a doubt), it was the people who stared who bothered her the most. The brute of a man was somehow too nice to send the staring children away with a “fuck off,” easy as it may have been. The vulture was less nice in this regard.
Wait. She turned in her saddle to look at him. He raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing—an expected interaction by this point. When did I start caring if they laugh at him? Why would I want to defend him? She’d had her moments of weakness, it was true. But she was not one to chase love unrequited. Especially not from a mongrel like Sandor Clegane. It had been the cold and the dark and the rain that had gotten to her before, or so she could tell herself. She would have wanted any man. And he saved her, too. No matter who he was, he had saved her and he had not forced himself onto her. It was a noble act. Of course she’d wanted him, it was almost instinct.
And yet…
“Boy, get over here.”
She was wrenched from her thoughts by Sandor’s voice. There was a boy a few strides away from the stables of the inn, shirtless and shoeless even in the cold, and dirty, too. Had he not had such a nasty look of revulsion on his face at the sight of the Hound, the vulture might have pitied him. But she didn’t.
“You the stableboy?”
The little cretin’s face twisted further. “No, I’m here for fun,” he japed.
Sandor paid the comment little mind. “Take these horses. See that they’re brushed and watered. And that they have oats.” Sandor began to dismount as he spoke, and the girl followed suit.
The ground was miserably soft and wet below, mud from the rain and muck from the stables. Her nose wrinkled as she swung one leg over the saddle to dismount, bracing herself for the ankle-deep plunge into the filth. Please hold, please don’t come apart, she prayed silently to her boots. If there was any place for her only pair of boots to be ripped apart by the mud, it would be this hole of a town, though, and the vulture was anything but optimistic.
“Easy there.” The Hound was aside her, suddenly, and before she knew what he was doing, the mountain of a man had lifted her from her horse. He took her with the ease an average man would use to lift a child.
The sudden act of kindness caught her off guard so badly that all she could think to say was, “What are you doing?” He held her, navigating the muck of the stables with the small woman in his arms. Without thinking, she draped one arm over his shoulder and held fast to his chest with her other hand, holding onto him as if for dear life.
“No point in both of us getting fuckin’ muddy,” he grumbled. It was, it seemed, to be the most begrudging act of kindness ever. But still, it was an act of kindness nonetheless, and the vulture found herself oddly fond of the Hound in that moment.
Said moment was cut short when the Hound unceremoniously all but dropped her back onto drier ground. The well-packed earth beneath the overhang of the inn rose up to meet her boots, and when she was no longer entwined in his arms (his big, strong, protective arms…) the young woman snapped back to reality.
“Thank you,” she said, still dazed. All she received in response was a grunt of acknowledgement—not that she’d expected anything more.
The inside of the inn was significantly better than the outside of the inn. Hells—it was better than the whole town. Or maybe it had just been that long since they’d lived like civilized people, sleeping in barns that had been put to the torch with only their cloaks for comfort, hiding out beneath crevasses in hillsides. The inn smelled of rabbit stew and hot spiced wine, and within moments of standing in the doorway it was undoubtedly the warmest the pair had been in weeks.
The woman behind the bar eyed them suspiciously. “What do you want?” she asked.
Before the Hound could answer, it was the vulture who stepped forward. “Two rooms, please. And two meals, and some wine.” She thought for a moment. “And two baths as well.” They had the coin to spare, after all, having sold their third horse to the farmer and selling the bits of armor the vulture was so good at scavenging from the many dead soldiers they encountered. Stark, Lannister, Frey…it was funny how the houses they died for didn’t matter anymore when they laid dead in the dirt with a woman ripping the armor from their bodies for whatever coin it might bring. A futile fight with a fitting end. Often it sold for a few coppers at best, but the stew and ale it would buy was worth a hundred gold dragons to the pair.
The innkeep eyed the Hound. “It’ll be double the cost of the bath for him,” she said. “I’ll have to heat and haul twice as much water.”
“Done,” the vulture answered for the Hound. She could feel the scowl he was boring into her head behind her.
“I’ll get you your food, have a seat. But there’s one problem,” said the woman, who was already shuffling off to the kitchens.
“Seven hells. What’s the problem?” The Hound finally found his voice, it seemed, and joined the conversation.
“There’s only one room. Big bed, though, even for the likes of you,” the woman never looked over her shoulder. “I’m sure you can share.”
Beside the vulture, the Hound huffed. “I’m sure we can share,” said the small woman, half-mocking the innkeep, half-teasing Sandor.
Her traveling companion, ever silent, said nothing. He strode off for the dining area, no doubt in anticipation of the promised wine. The vulture scowled. They’d shared a bed once at the farmhouse. Something inside of her fluttered at the memory. It hadn’t gone anywhere, though, and she’d be a fool to expect he’d feel any differently about her at an inn than he would in a farmhouse or a cave or a barn or anywhere else they had been or ever would be. It was cliché, to be sure, having arrived at an inn with only one bed vacant in the whole damn place. But it made no difference. The vulture could strip herself of her clothes and present herself before him bare; she could climb on top of him, she could do and say whatever she wanted. The Hound would not have her.
The small talk they made over their dinner was as bland as the stew. The Hound wasn’t one for conversation, much less when other prying eyes and open ears were nearby. The stew was thin and watery and the cook had skimped on the rabbit. But the radishes and potatoes were cooked well, at least, and though the wine was more brown than red, it washed the stew down all the same and warmed them to their core. They mopped at their trenchers with bread that was not quite stale but would be soon. Yet, they cleared their plates. By the time they’d finished, a serving girl appeared at their table’s side.
“A bath for the lady?” asked the girl. She seemed nervous, her eyes darting back and forth from the Hound to the vulture to the floor, then back again. “It’s ready. The bath. For the lady.”
“A bath for the lady.” The vulture nodded in agreement. She drank down what was left of her wine in one swallow and replaced the cup to its original spot on the table. “Hear that? I’m a lady,” she said to Sandor.
He grunted. “Could have fooled me.”
She didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead she stood and followed the girl, who led the way up the flight of stairs and to a store room where a copper tub had been half-way filled. The water was tepid, as mediocre as the meal they’d been served and the wine they had drank, but just like the meal and the wine it served its purpose, and for that the vulture was grateful. The girl helped the traveler out of her clothes and into the tub. The vulture allowed herself to relax the slightest bit; the serving girl dutifully and silently washed her hair (a pity, as the vulture would have appreciated a good conversation) while the vulture set to scrubbing her body.
When all was said and done, the serving girl provided the vulture with a shift made from plain, undyed wool and promised that her clothes would be washed and dried before the night’s end—a service the woman had gladly allowed herself to be upsold on for two extra coppers. Warm and clean for the first time in an undetermined amount of time (even the vulture had since lost track of how long they’d been traveling) she retired to the room they were given. The last room at the end of the hall was where they’d been situated. It was a small room with a large bed that took up the majority of the space. The bed was large and sturdy enough to sleep four, there was a small square table with a single chair, and an iron brazier in which the innkeep had so kindly started a small fire. The innkeep had been right: they could share without problem.
After a moment’s time warming her hands at the brazier, the vulture settled into the bed, choosing the side closest to the wall. It was heaven. The Seven themselves surely had a hand in crafting this wonderful, glorious room in this wonderful, glorious inn. Never before had the vulture been so relieved and comfortable as she was here.
That was an exaggeration. It was a dank inn in a shithole of a town. The vulture knew this. But she knew that she was warm and comfortable, too, and she knew that she’d spent months sleeping in caves and barns and open fields even, and that this was better than anything. She closed her eyes. She was safe and warm. She was comfortable. And soon Sandor would be at her side.
Sandor…
Beneath the covers, her body was warm. Her mind was fuzzy. Sleep was taking her. He’ll have a bath, and then he’ll join me. Soon, so soon. She, in the moments before sleep when the mind is both the most absurd and the most honest, anticipated the feeling of the mattress sinking beneath his weight as he climbed into bed beside her. She wanted the heat of his body beside hers. She wanted him to settle in and pull the blankets around them, to feel his chest rise and fall against her back with every breath he took. She wanted him. She wanted him. She wanted him...
The door closed quietly, but loud enough to wake her nonetheless. The world was dark. Outside the small window the whole sky was black and starless, so the only light came from the single brazier on the opposite side of the small room. It was raining. The rainfall made a quiet patter on the roof, in the same peaceful way the wind whipped against the wooden siding of the inn in the night.
Sandor stood near the door he’d shut. “Were you sleeping?”
“Yes,” she said, though for how long she’d been sleeping she could not say. Long enough for the sun to go down, at least. She was comfortable, and though she couldn’t remember it now, she’d been having some sort of wonderful dream.
The Hound said nothing. He was just standing there almost awkwardly. The vulture sat up, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and in the dim light of the room she could see he was squinting back at her. She realized at once that it must have been a foreign sight to him to see her look so…not feral. On the best of days she could easily be taken for a wildling, like some creature who’d come raiding from north of the wall or an escapee from a hill tribe. He’d never known her as the maid who loved to sing and dance, who baked bread and had once wreathed her hair with summer daisies. He knew her as what she had become. He knew her as the vulture. In their time together she’d huddled beneath a mourning cloak of black with her hood drawn, changing between the two skirts she had (both of which were also black and worse for the wear) with her hair unkempt and her skin hidden from the cold beneath her many layers.
The woman staring back at him must have been a stranger. Her hair was soft and clean and dry, as was her skin, and she smelled of soap instead of horses. Her black cloak was replaced with a thin wool shift. And for the first time, her guard was down.
Sandor was still Sandor, though, just a little cleaner than usual. This is probably what he looked like when he was one of the white cloaks, she thought, studying him.
After a long moment of silence, he said, “Throw me a pillow.”
That struck her as odd. “What for?” she asked, and though she gathered one in her arms, she hesitated on passing it to him.
Even in the darkness he was looking at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which he punctuated with an impatient huff. “If I’m going to give you the fucking bed, you’re going to give me a fucking pillow.”
“Give me the bed?”
“Though I have my doubts about it, you’re a woman. I’m not making a woman sleep on the floor.”
She stared at him. He stared back. “Why would I sleep on the floor?” she asked. “Why would you sleep on the floor?” The question only resulted in more staring.
“So you can have the fuckin’ bed,” Sandor told her at last though it clarified nothing and was circular reasoning at best. “Now give me the pillow.”
“You’re being ridiculous. We’ve shared a bed before.” She clutched the pillow more tightly to her chest. “There’s no need for you to sleep on the floor when this is the first time either of us have had a good bed in—”
“Seven hells, give me the pillow.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No.”
With a signature annoyed grunt, Sandor stomped the few short strides to the bed. “You’re a lady, you get your own fuckin’ bed. Give me that.”
“No!” She pulled back as he reached for it. “No, you beast!” He grabbed for the pillow, but she was faster, lurching backwards onto her haunches. Her win was momentary, though, as for the first time in their time together, he outsmarted her. He reached past her and around her, grabbing the pillow she’d previously been sleeping on.
He pulled away successful in his endeavor and tossed the pillow onto the floor. Sandor knelt, pushing the pillow against the wall and going to his knees to get comfortable.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she reiterated. “We’re paying good coin for this bed. There’s no reason for you to lay down there and catch a chill from the draft.”
He propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. “Do I have to tell you to go the fuck to sleep every time we go the fuck to sleep?”
If he wants to be ridiculous, we will be ridiculous. The vulture swung her legs from the bed so suddenly that even Sandor looked surprised. No sooner did her feet hit the floor than she pulled the other pillow from the bed. She dropped it on the floor with a muffled thump.
“What in the gods’ name are you doing?”
“If we’re wasting money on the bed, we’re wasting money on the bed.” She let herself fall back against the pillow. It really is cold down here, she realized, suddenly unsure whether she had the constitution to win this game or not. She didn’t want to be cold. She wanted to be warm in bed, but she wanted to be warm in bed with Sandor.
And seven hells did she hate admitting that.
“Get up there.” Each word the Hound said came out punctuated with evident frustration.
“No.”
“And you think I’m ridiculous?”
“Yes.” She was looking over at him, at his hulking form in the dark. The room was small save for the bed, so they were left with only two or three feet between them. Even with those two or three feet she could feel him thinking, scathing, fuming. If she was good at nothing else in this life, she was good at frustrating Sandor Clegane.
Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if he’d care enough to join her in the bed. He might just let her lay there and be cold. Even on the floor with no blankets, this was the warmest they’d been in a long time. They were in no danger of freezing, and if she wanted to make herself miserable, no doubt Sandor would let her.
That’s why it came as such a surprise when Sandor first pushed himself back onto his knees, then stood.
She watched him wordlessly. He closed the gap between them until he was standing over her. And then he descended on her.
“What are you—oh!” The vulture’s objections were cut short when the great beast of a man stooped and lifted her for the second time that day. Though helping her from the horse had been almost graceful, this was unceremonious but equally effortless.
The bed rose up to meet her when he dropped her. “Get in the fucking bed and go to sleep.”
“You get in the fucking bed,” she told him. And quick as that, she was out of the bed again.
A game was afoot. He grabbed her, catching her in the ribs with his forearm. Her feet left the floor as she found herself tossed like a doll back onto the bed. In the brief pause that ensued, the faintest, most brief smirk played at Sandor’s lips. The vulture silently admired it. But the game was not so easily won, not for him at least, and in a blink she was up again. This time she anticipated his movement and ducked beneath his arm, dancing away from him. He whirled and grabbed for her, catching her by the elbows before she could take her spot on the floor again.
It was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous, she’d called it right from the start. The vulture didn’t even attempt to suppress the laugh that escaped her lips when he caught her. Though at first it seemed he was going to yell at her, her laugh changed everything. They stood there, Sandor holding her by her shoulders inches from him as she laughed and laughed in the darkness. How long had it been since she’d laughed like this? Had he ever seen her laugh? Had he ever seen her have fun?
Frustrated though he may be, he said nothing, instead lifting her again. He turned, and once more made to drop her onto the bed. This time she didn’t let go. She tightened her arms around his shoulders, a move he was not expecting, and he halfway toppled down with her when he dropped her weight. His knee buckled into the side of the bed and he caught himself with his arms, pinning one on either side of the small woman whose arms were still tangled around his neck.
She was laughing again.
“Fuck you, woman.”
And in the dark, with her face inches from his, with her arms around his neck and her chest pressed to his, she could hear her own voice ask, “Is that what you want? To fuck me?”
Why did I say that? A thousand thoughts rushed to her mind in an instant’s time. Why did she say that? Was it the wine? She could easily blame the wine. But the blame didn’t matter. He was him and she was her, and her attempts to sway him in the past had failed, and now she’d fucked up and he was going to pull away, and she’d ruined a perfectly nice moment, and—
And…?
He wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t moving at all, actually. He was still there, still so close to her. He stayed that way, too, studying her in the dark. Without thinking, she silently and gently—so gently—brought one hand to the unburnt side of his face. With her thumb she brushed his hair from his eyes. His hair was surprisingly soft, if not a little damp still from the bath, and so close together he smelled of soap and spiced wine. He didn’t stir, and she didn’t breathe. For a moment she thought he might kiss her.
“I’ll get in the fucking bed if you go to sleep,” he told her. He didn’t back away, though, and she watched his lips when he spoke.
You didn’t answer my question.
“Okay.” She’d been subdued. Don’t let me go, please don’t let me go, she thought as he let her go. He gathered their pillows from the floor and tossed them to her one at a time. She settled back into her spot nearest the wall, watching him move through the dark as he made his way back to the bed. Outside, the rain was falling harder as if to hush them.
Sandor’s movements were awkward but still somehow brusque as he found his way beneath the covers. The vulture remained still as he settled in, pulling the blankets this way and that to accommodate his size. When at last her companion was still too, she allowed her head to rest against her pillow. There were few ways to bother him now; the game was over and she had won. At this realization, she let her eyes close for a moment.
He didn’t pull away, she thought. He didn’t answer my question.
She kept her eyes closed, replaying their fight, however brief it may have been, in her head again and again and again. The way she’d laughed and spun as if dancing, the way he’d smiled, too. If her winning had meant the game was over, she’d rather have never won at all. When at last her fantasies were over and she could replay the scene no more, she opened her eyes again. Minutes had passed, but not too great of a time.
Even in the fading light of the brazier, she could tell he was watching her. Sandor was laid on his side facing her, which in itself was rare as he usually chose to sleep with his back to her when they huddled together beneath a cloak at night. She couldn’t see his eyes, as he was just a shapeless black silhouette in the night, but she knew nonetheless. She could feel it. She stared back.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
She was silent for a long time. You didn’t pull away. Try as she might, she did not have the courage to ask again.
It was Sandor who spoke. “If I want to fuck you?”
Her heart skipped a beat—or two or three or four—and she realized she was holding her breath, scarcely breathing at all. Had she not been laying down, the world may have gone sideways. “Yes.” Her face was hot, suddenly. Her whole body was hot.
“You think I look at you like some common whore?” That was not an answer to her question, though. He was avoiding it. Was that a yes? A no? What did that even mean? The answer frustrated her. She was not a whore, no, but she was no maid, either, and he knew that. She’d been married, however brief it may have been, so what did it matter now if it was a farmer or a hound whose bed she shared? She was no maid, no high lady, and no whore. She was nothing. She was a vulture, and he was a hound. And she wanted him, try as she might to suppress it.
This was not the time for anger; this was the time to get what she wanted. What she wanted, and what she knew he wanted, too. It was time to stop denying themselves.
“I wish you would,” she said. “Then you might give us what we both want.”
“Is that what you want? To be treated like a whore?” Through his aggression, the vulture couldn’t help but wonder if Sandor truly thought it was that unbelievable for a woman to actually want him.
“You’re making this awfully hard on yourself for someone with a woman trying to sleep with him.”
There was a pause. It was his turn to be at a loss for words, and she let him. After a moment, he asked, “Is that what you want?”
The question had been turned on her. “To fuck you?”
“Yes.”
Unlike him, she could answer. “Yes.”
He was still for a long time. Silent, too, saying nothing. He was silent so long, in fact, that the vulture thought he may have made the decision to ignore her. But still the tension festered, growing stronger and stronger as that one single word, “yes,” hung between the two of them.
Sandor’s movement was so quick and hard that it was over by the time she’d processed what was happening. He brought one arm up and around her, pulling her body to his with fierce strength. Her chest to his, her head craned up to look at him. Instinctively, she parted her thighs and draped one leg over his as their bodies were pressed so tightly together, their legs entwining, one of his hands in her hair. She shuddered when his lips grazed hers, and again when she felt his thigh press hard and deliberately between her legs.
His hand tightened in her hair when he finally kissed her–really kissed her, hard and rough, passionate; he kissed her with the fervency of a man who had been meaning to kiss her for quite some time now, who had been looking at her and thinking of kissing her, with all the passion of a man who laid awake at night at her side and wondered what it might be like to hold her this exact way and kiss her this exact way in the darkness. She kissed him back, too, and with her arms pinned to his chest, she grabbed helplessly at his tunic, as if she could somehow pull him closer than he already was, or never let him go at all.
When he finally pulled away, she tried to force herself closer, never wanting the moment to end. Sandor was unpredictable, and the possibility that he’d never kiss her again was real. But she wanted him, she wanted him so badly. At least he wanted her too, if nothing else.
With his lips brushing hers, he murmured, “Yes.”
“Yes,” she repeated dreamily. She would have said or done whatever he wanted in that moment; her Hound, her knight.
“I want to fuck you.”
She did not hesitate. “Then do so.”
He was on top of her before she finished her sentence.
#sandor clegane fic#sandor clegane x reader#sandor clegane#game of thrones#the hound x reader#the hound#game of thrones the hound#game of thrones fic#game of thrones reader insert#romance#mywriting#the hound and the vulture
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Winter’s Dragonfire
chapter 1 - king’s landing
the hound/sandor clegane x targaryen female oc
roughly follows canon timeline (tv)
From a dinasty once defeated, a child with unmistakable silver hair was born in the frosted lands of the North. Her journey east awaits with a kiss of fire.
words: 3083
notes: short chapter! introductory! hope you all like it. also posted in AO3 (link below)
Tywin Lannister looked across the strategy table, and surrounded by his guards stood a scrawny looking young woman with a distraught look on her face. She wore simple riding clothes and was looking around frantically, perhaps trying to find a way to escape. The girl seemed to be in her late teens or early twenties and her skin was white as a ghost’s. She looked ahead with big pale green eyes, and an expressive face with strong features. What stood out most, though, was her hair: it was all the way long to her hips with uneven wavy ends, but above all, it was of silver colour, and it made her look exactly like a Targaryen.
— What’s your name, girl?
She jumped at the sound of his voice and locked eyes with Tywin.
— Rhaenys Snow. — she muttered, trying to stop her voice from shaking.
— So, Rhaenys Snow, what brings a young peasant woman riding alone straight into a war camp? — he looked intently at the girl with piercing clear eyes she couldn’t bear for long. Though there were guards and other men in the tent, it felt as if it was just the two of them.
— I was trying to get to the next port to the Narrow Sea when these men captured me. I have nothing to do with this war, I just happened to ride past this camp by accident. If I can get back on my horse I will be on my way immediately. — she said hastily, barely making one word from the other.
The Lannister men all scoffed. Rhaenys was starting to panic and could barely stand still.
— Do you believe yourself to be a Targaryen, girl?
She froze, that being the worst question the man could have asked at that moment. The simplest answer was: yes. But that was no simple situation, and she had no idea of what answer she could give that would decide between a bad and a horrible fate.
— If you really believe you are one, — Tywin did not wait for a response. — you must know what that means. You are certainly aware of what, or who, lies beyond the Narrow Sea in Essos where you were headed: a silver-haired girl just like yourself. Except she has true blood and will likely join in in the war for the iron throne. Think for a time and answer: do you still think you have nothing to do with this war?
Rhaenys stood silent. He had, somehow, seen into her mind in an admirable display of deduction. Though why else would someone so similar to a Targaryen be risking their lives to ride across Westeros in the middle of a war if not to get to Essos, where lived the only known Targaryen in the world? There was no point denying her intentions now. She just wanted that moment to end.
— Are you going to kill me now? — she whispered. That seemed like the only reasonable fate after such an awful interrogation.
Tywin scoffed.
— No, girl, I will not. Now that you’ve been seen here, the dragon woman will end up hearing all about you soon. Word travels, even I can’t stop that. There is no way of knowing if you truly are a Targaryen bastard, except from your silver hair, but when this reaches Daenerys’ ears, it will be as a fact. If she finds out you’re dead, gods know what she would try to do. Targaryens have a tendency for madness after all. — he put his hands on the table and stood. — Take this girl to the next messenger riding to King's Landing. — Rhaenys’ eyes met his. — You will be kept there until you can be of use, then we’ll see about this death of yours.
Within the small circle of people who knew her, Rhaenys had been dubbed the curse of the Mad King. Unknowingly to all, she had been a product of Aemon Targaryen’s last escapade from the Night’s Watch into Mole’s Town, before old age took his sight and disposition. All the whores in the pleasure house were horrified when a baby with silver hair was delivered by one of them, and that’s when the curse took place.
The mother, being ostracised in town after the birth, asked her sisters for guidance and some agreed she should have the baby killed. A child with such resemblance to a Targaryen during the Mad King’s reign could not have been a worse omen. The mother, whose name has already been forgotten, despised the infant girl, but couldn’t find it in herself to kill such a young thing. She then begged for a cousin, who was on his way to Winterfell, to take the baby away. And so he did.
From that moment on, all over the neighbouring towns, there was a rumor among the poor folk about a Targaryen child who had been born in Mole’s Town. The lords in the area made an unknown pact to not believe or entice such nonsense but Maester Ciaran, on the other hand, was entirely sure about that baby’s existence. That is because it had made its way from Mole’s Town right into his village near Winterfell, and when the townsfolk started whispering about the child who appeared with a traveler, the maester ran to his encounter and saw the baby for himself. She was identical to a textbook Targaryen with her silver hair, and Ciaran could see most people around were afraid or despised her.
News about the horrifying conclusion of the War of the Usurper had recently reached Ciaran’s ears. As a man with strong beliefs in the Targaryen royal line and right to reign, a Targaryen loyalist as they would say, he then decided to take matters into his own hands, and told the traveler he would keep that child and care for her. The mother’s cousin didn’t hesitate in giving her away and the maester returned home with the baby. He was overjoyed. He did not believe her to be a curse, but rather a blessing of the must unlikely nature.
He named her Rhaenys, a reference to prince Rhaegar’s only daughter who had been recently killed by the Mountain in the War of the Usurper. Maester Ciaran looked after Rhaenys in a loving and caring manner, and there was no doubt he played a fatherly role to her, but that was never spoken of explicitly due to his vows. He taught her how to read and do quite a few simple treatments a maester was required to know, so she was fairly educated considering the context of their small town.
Rhaenys was commonly frowned upon by the people who lived there, but the maester constantly emphasised how she should be proud of her hair and strong features. Even though she would constantly help the villagers as the maester had taught her, they mocked her and called her a cursed child. However, that only made her interest in the Targaryens grow, and she was always eager to learn more about them from Ciaran and his books. He was also always eager to teach her more about the family’s history, as he had no doubt in his heart that his adoptive daughter, or housemaid to the public eye, was in fact born to the House of the Dragon.
Rhaenys was, although considered weird due to her appearance, a fairly normal person, though she did act a little strangely sometimes. Rejection made her take medical duties as merely that, duties, and desensitised to the most gruesome parts of life and death. Although a little self-centred, the girl was overall polite and typically friendly and talkative towards those who didn’t treat her with disdain. The people who did, though, would often see outbursts of anger and cursing as Rhaenys was above all, very short tempered. That didn’t really help her social status, but also made some grow closer to her, since she could be quite amusing with her blabbering about the things that made her laugh and the things that made her mad. Sometimes it was hard to tell if they were laughing with or at her, but she had friends of some sort nonetheless, as well as a suitor or two with whom she could have a little fun.
By the time she was 18, an ever growing tension regarding the heir to the iron throne was erupting. King Robert Baratheon had recently died, much to Rhaenys’ excitement. Robert was the person she hated the most in all seven kingdoms for having treasonously overthrown the Targaryens with such brutality. Now that he was dead, there were multiple lords everywhere wanting to claim their right to reign. At that time, when Robert’s firstborn Joffrey had just been crowned, a rumor reached the girl and the maester’s ears about a Targaryen woman living across the narrow sea who was the mother of three dragons. Rhaenys had always been mocked and called a knock-off Targaryen bastard, a curse of the Mad King that had no family. Due to that, the news about Daenerys filled her with newfound hope to finally own that and make something out of it. Upon hearing this, maester Ciaran started making plans as to how she could go about that. There was no hard proof the girl was, in fact, a Targaryen by blood except for her appearance. But if the Mother of Dragons were to see her and believe her, Rhaenys could be destined to a greatness fit for one of the few remaining Targaryens in the world. That was what her father had always dreamt and wanted for her.
For some time Ciaran and the girl schemed a journey that would take her to meet Daenerys. She would have to lay low and attract as little attention as possible. They decided she would ride south to the Vale and cross to its port, one that should be easy to access relatively unnoticed. Then, she would get in a boat that would take her to Essos, and from there she would find her way to the Khaleesi.
It was a very dangerous plan, so Rhaenys spent a couple of months preparing. Maester Ciaran gave her every instruction and provision she might need, and the girl worked hard in a neighbour’s livestock farm for a few weeks to get a feeble and old horse they had in return. Every bit of time that wasn’t spent working, it was spent preparing for the journey east. The townsfolk all ended up hearing about their plans, and some were thankful to see the cursed woman leaving the town for once. Others were cautious and concerned, so would try to dissuade Rhaenys at every chance they got to speak to her, saying things about murder, rape and war. The girl could only pretend that it didn't scare her, but maester Ciaran could see right through it. One evening in their home, he sat her down and said, with his hand on her shoulder.
— My girl. — he sighed and smiled. His dark hair, the reason behind his name, had already turned gray, and his tired face was illuminated by the fireplace. — As you know, you and I have been working hard lately on getting you to our true queen. You should be with her when she comes to conquer the seven kingdoms, I believe that with all my heart. However, we both have to have faith that she can do it alone as well. I see how afraid you are. You are right to be, and I want you to know that if you change your mind at any point, it will be just fine. I will never stop cherishing you.
— I don’t want to leave you, father. — she sobbed and held the maester tightly, tears dripping down his chains. Being alone without him around was much more frightening than any raper and war that she may expect to find. — I need you with me, I can’t do it on my own.
— Of course you do, my dear Rhaenys. You’re stronger and brighter than anyone I’ve ever met. You are strong enough to conquer the seven kingdoms if you wish. — that was a thing he always said to her when she was feeling down. She laughed through the tears and looked at his aging face. — Don’t worry about me, my sweet girl. I need to be here to care for our people. They trust us and they need us. I will do my duty as I always have, and you will do yours.
Rhaenys looked down at her apron, which was wet with a few tear droplets. She was terribly afraid of leaving, but was even more afraid of disappointing her father and herself.
— I will do it. — she wiped the tears from her cheeks. — I will meet our queen and I will return to Westeros alongside her. Then we will meet again. Right, father?
The maester kissed her at the top of her head with a sad smile.
— Of course we will, my girl.
The day of Rhaenys’ departure came shortly after. Dozens of people in town came to see her off, both those who liked her and those who didn’t. Either way, that silver haired girl was pretty popular with the townsfolk. Those who came right before she got on her horse saw her bawling her eyes out in maester Ciaran’s arms as they said goodbye. She was known to be very emotional, so no one was surprised to see her cry like that. They saw the maester grab her by the shoulders and encourage her sternly, to which she responded by wiping her face and giving him one last hug. Rhaenys got up on her old little brown horse, packed with loads of bags, and looked back at everyone watching her. Her cheeks became red to see so many people there saying goodbye to her, even if some were glad to see her leave. She felt she meant something to all of them somehow. She waved at them, finding her friends in the crowd and smiling. The girl only faced away when she could barely see any person at all in the distance.
It had been two weeks from the day she left when Rhaenys found herself being almost raped and then captured in a Lannister war camp in the Riverlands. She lost everything she had taken with her; every useful item and every last piece of coin the maester had given her from his modest hidden stash, the little amount of money that saved her from getting brutalised. She was taken to Tywin Lannister and now, she had her hands tied while she rode in the opposite direction from her journey on the way to King’s Landing. In the meantime, lord Eddard Stark was beheaded for treason, and after another fortnight of uncomfortable days riding with unknown men and sleepless nights frightened by their presence, Rhaenys finally arrived at King’s Landing. She was baffled by the scale of the city and the grandiosity of its buildings, the biggest a village girl had ever seen. It smelled foul, but she was very interested in seeing the sept of Baelor in the sky and thinking about the Targaryens who ruled in that place for so many years. Even though she was excited about the sightseeing, the Lannister soldiers put a cloak over her head and told her to lay low. She was not allowed to have a single strand of silver hair visible until they entered the Red Keep.
There, she was lifted from the horse and put on the ground, hands tied still. Rhaenys looked around the patio to see rows of knights from the Kingsguard standing there, and felt a chill crawl down her spine as she realised what had really happened to her. Before arriving, she didn’t have a clear notion of where she was going, but now she saw it for herself. The girl watched with widened eyes the knights getting into a different formation as steps approached from the hall. She lowered her head as a blonde woman with very long hair in an exquisite dress walked up to her. They removed her cloak abruptly, and she saw the woman had a weird and uncomfortable grin on her face.
— Is this the bastard my father sent? — she asked one of the soldiers who had brought Rhaenys.
— Yes, Your Grace. That’s the one claiming to be a Targaryen.
The woman standing before her was none other than Cersei Lannister, the Queen mother. Rhaenys was terrified now, and couldn’t bear to look anywhere else than her feet and raggedy boots. Her heart was racing, but she tried her best to conceal her heavy breathing by clutching her hands on her shirt.
— Look at me. — Cersei took the girl’s face in her hands and pushed her head up by her chin. She examined her hair, grabbed her face by the cheeks and looked at the girl’s eyes and every feature with the same odd expression. Then she let go harshly and Rhaenys looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. She hated being touched by strangers.
— Take her down to the basement room. Give her the bare minimum care, nothing else. Go. — The queen said quickly, turned her back and walked away. As she did, the knights went back to their previous formation.
A septa appeared from the hallway and grabbed the girl’s arm roughly. Walking fast, she dragged Rhaenys around the castle, court members looking at her and whispering as she passed, so she turned her face away every time. But even through the pain and humiliation, she was mesmerised by the scale of the riches of that place. After a long walk and a few flights of stairs, the septa opened the door to reveal a small room with a bed, a little fire place and a bunch of old objects laying around the floor as rubbish. It was just as the queen had described: the bare minimum, nothing else.
Rhaenys gave the septa a death stare, but she seemed unfazed. She limited herself to leaving and locking the door behind her. The girl screamed with frustration upon realising she was now completely trapped inside that awful place. Tears formed in her eyes, she picked a piece of wood from the floor, the broken leg of a chair, and tossed it out the tiny window of the chamber. For hours, the girl alternated between fits of crying and bouts of depression. At night, some maid brought her a stale soup, probably leftover of the servant’s supper, and she ate it unwillingly. Rhaenys fell asleep purely out of exhaustion.
#sandor clegane#sandor clegane fic#sandor clegane x oc#game of thrones#the hound#game of thrones the hound#game of thrones fic#game of thrones oc#romance#mywriting#angst#winter’s dragonfire
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and for angst, on the table tonight we have, "i barely recognize you anymore" "you're not supposed to" with sandor clegane and sansa stark
words: 292
warnings: so this isn't a ship post or interaction it's just what i wish would have been said in this scene rather than the without my trauma i wouldn't be this strong speech
promptober masterlist!
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sandor spent his dinner glaring at anyone brave enough to make eye contact with him, before staring down at the table while he picked at his meal. unfortunately, without scaring everyone off, it only took a few minutes until someone stepped into the seat opposite him. a smile caught on his face when he looked up to see sansa stark, in all the glory that she had come into.
“you know, i barely recognize you anymore, little bird” he cocks his head thoughtfully, taking in her every detail. he can’t help the way his brain tries to fill in the gaps, make sense of what he had missed since the last time he saw her.
“you’re not supposed to.” she grins, leaning forward to grab his cup and take a sip. her gaze is calculating in a way it wasn’t before– a lesson or growth it’s uncertain. “i’m not a little bird anymore sandor, i went through hell and i’m on the other side. i’m not the person i was before.”
her words, despite showing a maturity that even he can respect, cause sadness to blossom in his chest. if there is anyone who deserved the softness the world had to offer, it was her. it was sansa stark.
“none of it would have happened if you had come with me,” he whispers, reaching out to take her hand where it lay on the table. “no littlefinger, no ramsay.”
“maybe that’s true, and maybe something worse would have happened. i don’t waste my time thinking about 'would's or 'should's. the only thing that truly matters, is that i’m here.” her hand squeezes his on the table and she looks up to meet his eyes before finishing with a grin, “and they’re not.”
#sandor clegane#the hound#sandor clegane fic#the hound fic#sansa stark#sansa stark fic#game of thrones#ezra writes#promptober!!!!!!!!!
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Sandor Clegane x Reader Insert Fics
Tumblr Recommendations
Disclaimers!
Stories and Gif are NOT mine.
Some contain mature content.
Readers are mostly female.
Note: if you read and enjoy any of these stories - please like, leave a comment and/or reblog original post!
In the North
Summary: they had a relationship before they had to part ways and so they get reunited when reader is sent with Jorah by Daenarys to get a white walker, Beric and Thoros is in disbelief that Sandor can be able of loving someone
Love?
Sandor Clegane x Stark!Reader
Opposites Attract
Sandor Clegane x fem!reader
The Kennel Master’s Daughter
Sandor x female!Reader
Sandor Clegane x fem!nurse!reader
Warnings: none it's fluffy
Summary: Back at the time when Joffrey was king, the king's guard got into a fight with the people of flea bottom ending up with many of them injured including Sandor Clegane himself. What will happen when out of all the nurses only Y/N is brave enough to help him?
A Hound Will Die For You But Never Lie To You
Trigger warnings: NSFW, swearing, all the usual Game Of Thrones warnings.
Rating: M (It jumps right in there so if that’s triggering for you I’d suggest skipping it)
Summary: Imagine being the one to gentle the rage inside Sandor Clegane.
Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader (gender neutral).
Everything
Summary: A little drabble about Sandor’s feelings for the reader.
Scarred
Summary: Request from anon: I have a request! Sandor/Reader where the reader is being really lovey with Sandor and kissing him everywhere and she kisses his scarred side and he pushes her away but eventually gives in because she’s persistent that she will kiss him there and that he doesn’t have to worry because she loves his face.
An unexpected scene
NSFW Fic
Angered Beasts
Request: Hi can I request a drabble where the reader is one of joffreys playthings, like sansa is, and she runs into the hound after a beating? Something a little fluffy, please x
Warning: Mentions of violence and slight blood, female reader
Bathing in a tub with Sandor - drabble
Last Night
Fem!Stark!Reader
Request: Are requests still open? If so, please could I request a Hound x Stark reader where they confess their feelings for each other before they fight the Night King?
Good Dog
Warnings: Spoiler!,Fluff, swearing
Summary: Reader is found in the snow
Hounds and Gingers
Summary: a short, fluffy imagine
An Urgent Confession
(female reader)
Summary: A little story about the reader reminiscing of a moment between her and Sandor
A Hound’s Jealousy
Just a short little jealous!Hound request
Warnings: jealous Sandor, handsy guy
A Good Punishment
Summary: a handmaid is given to the King’s dog
Another Drink
Summary: rough smut with Sandor after he’s sees you with Bronn
Meeting at Winterfell
Summary: Imagine being a Stark and meeting Sandor Clegane at Winterfell
Imagine Sandor realizing that Tormund has a crush on you
Jealous Sandor…
Sharing a Bed with the Hound
Awkward Fluff!
To Break the Spell
Summary: Beauty & the Beast au
Imagine it’s you who Sandor takes away from Kings Landing during the Battle of Blackwater Bay
Series: More Than Our Servitude
Sandor Clegane x Fem!Reader
Summary: You lived your life as one of the washerwomen of the Red Keep, only seeing the Hound in passing. Still, when the madness of the Battle of Blackwater erupted, he came for you. The Hound is weary from battle, but you try and soothe what little you can.
Our Family
Sandor x wife!Reader
Summary: Sandor enjoys spending the day with his wife and son
His Queen
Sandor x female Reader
Sandor is soft with joffery’s wife
Sandor’s Secret
Sandor x fem!Reader
Summary: Sandor has a secret hidden away from everyone.
Series: Fox and the Hound
Sandor x Reader
Summary: Joffrey wants to send a message to your family after your brother embarrasses him, so he marries you off to his most unwanted man in his court, the hound. But will this marriage truly be a statement for an eyesore, or will it grow into something more.
Secret Wife (female reader)
Based on this request: Can you do something with Sandor secretly having a wife. Maybe they met when he was serving king Robert and they met when she was hunting and eloped after a few years. She left before the battle of Blackwater because Sandor didn’t want her getting wrapped up in that so They meet again in Winterfell and no one can actually believe it.
WITH THIS ADDED: Sandor and reader in a somewhat secret relationship. Tormund keeps hitting on reader in front of Sandor and finally his jealousy gets the better of him and he makes a loud declaration of their love.
#reader insert recommendation#game of thrones x reader#sandor the hound clegane#sandor x reader#sandor clegane x reader#sandor clegane imagine#got x reader#tumblr recommendation#tumblr fic rec#game of thrones fic recs#fic recs#the hound#hound x reader#arranged marriage#secret wife#tumblr fic recs#fic rec#game of thrones#got
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Here's no. 3 of 4 drawings for @tm-writes SanSan fanfic "Power Play"
Sorry for being m.i.a. the last two weeks. I caught a cold that knocked me right out. But I'm good now and I'm back with some new art. :)
Anyway, I will never tire of praising this fanfic, so go check it out if you haven't already.
#sansa stark#sophie turner#rory mccann#sansan#sandor clegane#modern au game of thrones#sansan4ever#game of thrones fanart#asoiaf fanart#fic: power play#writer: tm-writes#fanfic#fanfic fanart#digital art#fanart#myart#my artwork#sandor x sansa#sandor and sansa#sansa x sandor
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Kissmas Day 9
Prompt: Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead
Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader
CW: Female reader, lots and lots of swearing (It's Sandor c'mon now), reader is pregnant, some mentions of canon typical violence. If i forget anything please let me know!
A/N: Hello! This is a little different from the last few fics I wrote. I was going for like something cozy? So the pacing is a little slower and it's sort of a "not much happens but there's vibes" kind of fic. Hopefully you all enjoy it. I just really wanted to give my boy a story where he's safe, well fed, well rested, and doesn't have shit trying to kill him for like five minutes.
It was still dark when Sandor awoke, and colder than a wight’s arse. He could see the earliest light of dawn, though, through a nearby window. Pale yellow rays were starting to kiss the tops of the large, gloomy pines that encircled your cottage, and he knew it would be several hours yet before the sun would provide any proper warmth.
Grumbling and cursing under his breath, Sandor pushed back the furred hide that served as a blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He hissed when his feet touched the floor, the chill so fierce it bit at his soles, even through the two layers of woolen socks he wore. Everyone, from great Kings to common fools, knew that Winters in the North were bitterly cold. But it was one thing to hear the tavern stories and another thing all together when you were trying to live through it.
He wondered, as he tugged on his boots, why he didn’t make for the Free Cities and Dorne like the few remaining knights did when the whole world finally fell apart in flame and ruin. Yes, the stories of the fine wines and glimmering cities where even beggars could be Kings might have been exaggerated, but it couldn’t be any worse than here. At the very least, it might be nice to live somewhere your piss didn’t freeze midstream and your cock didn’t stick to your hand each time you used the privy.
Sandor turned the idea over in his mind, finding that its appeal grew with each passing moment. However, any thoughts of leaving vanished the instant he glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of your face peeking out from under the edge of the blankets. Your expression was peaceful, almost serene.
He leaned over you, his hair falling around his cheeks like a curtain, and placed a quick kiss against your temple. You stirred slightly in response, your eyelashes fluttering as a soft moan escaped your lips.
“Whassamatter?”
Sandor chuckled and reached out to deliver a gentle pat to your side before answering.
“Nothing. Gonna go cut some firewood. I’ll be back before you’re up.”
You mumbled something in reply, too faint for him to make out, before sleep’s embrace claimed you once more. He chuckled again and fondly shook his head.
At one point, nobody wanted to spend a night in his bed, not even when he'd gone to a brothel. Those girls had been too frightened of his face to give him more than a few hours at most, leaving him to wake to a cold bed and empty purse the next morning.
You, on the other hand, were comforted enough by his presence to stay through the night. You even claimed you slept more soundly when he was with you. It had taken a while before Sandor believed you, but after over a year of waking with you warm and content beside him, he was starting to see that you’d been telling the truth.
The bedroom door squeaked as it opened, which made the large, shaggy dog the two of you kept leap to its feet and growl deep in its throat. Sandor shushed the animal, which immediately bounded over from its spot by the fireplace, tongue out and tail wagging at the sight of its master.
“Stupid mutt.” Sandor said, as he began to rumple and massage the dog’s ears. “Good thing you’re loyal, or else what use would you be?”
The dog, which you’d so cleverly called Nameless because Sandor had refused to give it one, eagerly leaned into his touch and gazed up at him in squinty eyed delight. You’d found the poor beast roughly around the same time Sandor had been able to walk again, where he’d been left to die in some abandoned crofter’s hut.
At first, Sandor had wanted nothing to do with the animal. As far as he was concerned, you didn’t need another mouth to feed, what with him still half crippled and you were only able to set the most basic of rabbit snares. There had barely been enough food for the two of you, let alone a walking gut disguised as a dog.
He’s a big, black dog you’d insisted on just like your crest. If that’s not a sign from the gods, I don’t know what is.
Bugger the gods had been Sandor’s reply, but in the end, he’d yielded, if only to have some peace from your griping. Since then, Nameless had followed Sandor around like a second shadow. He’d cursed the beast and the bitch that whelped him each time he got underfoot, but eventually this gave way to begrudging acceptance and finally a quiet sort of affection.
Whoever left Nameless behind had, whether they knew it or not, forfeited a skilled hunting dog. Despite his sweet nature with people, he could catch rabbits and squirrels as skillfully as any wolf, which kept you and Sandor well stocked with meat despite the North’s unforgiving climate.
Once again, Sandor found himself questioning why he’d chosen to live in the frozen arse end of the world as he tried to open the front door. A thick layer of ice had settled over the tiny cottage you called home, a parting gift from last night’s storm.
Despite ample shoving and force, the door was refusing to cooperate. With each attempt, the aged wood groaned and creaked as though in protest, but wouldn’t budge. Though he couldn’t see it, Sandor had a feeling the damn thing had frozen shut in its frame, which was a much more common occurrence than he would’ve liked it to be. With a muttered oath, he threw his shoulder against the wood, swearing louder at the shock of pain that came after.
A thin sweat had broken out on Sandor’s brow when he finally gave himself a moment to breathe, half slumped against the bastard door and wishing agonies upon whichever fool god made ice to begin with. He stole a glance over his shoulder, hoping the racket hadn’t woken you, and was greeted with the sight of Nameless. The dog was sitting a few feet behind him and watching the entire process as though it was a Mummer’s show Sandor was putting on especially for him.
“Are you just going to look? Or are you going to be helpful for once in your sorry life?”
By way of response, Nameless rose to his feet, stood for a moment, squinted at Sandor, and then let out a quick, loud sneeze that sent forth a spray of drool and dust motes into the chilled air. Satisfied, the dog sat down again with a bump, and stared at his master. He cocked his head to one side, and spread his mouth wide in a lolling, doggy grin, as if two of them were sharing some sort of secret joke.
Sandor couldn’t help but grin back, albeit a little lopsidedly, before returning to the problem of the door. Once upon a time, he could’ve split the bloody thing in two with the heel of his boot and a well-aimed kick, but he had been a different man then. The Hound, with all his strength and rage, had died with Gregor the day they both went over the falls. Now, all that remained was Sandor, who had to huff and puff and struggle with frozen doors just like anyone else.
When the door finally gave way, it did so with a mighty crack, which shattered the morning air in a flurry of loose snow that tumbled off the roof and bits of ice that shimmered like diamond shards as they fell.
Sandor stumbled outside, shoulder first since he was mid shove when the door decided to open. Instantly, he was blinded by the sheer, sterile whiteness of fresh snow and sunbeams that cut like yellow knives after the dimness of the cottage. For a moment, he had little choice but to wait and lean against the door frame while his vision cleared.
Despite the early hour, the woods were already awake and teeming with life. Around him, Sandor could hear all manner of birdsong, as well as the chattering of squirrels and the far off call of a solitary deer.
From behind the cottage came the sounds of the sheep, small, squat, shaggy creatures with more wool than brains between their ears. They bleated mournfully from inside their little shed, hoping it would get them fed all the sooner, but their cries stirred no pity in Sandor’s heart. He could hardly stand the sight of the fool things, with their empty eyes and the way they ran in panicked, useless circles every time they were frightened.
When you’d first asked Sandor why he hated the sheep so much, he told you it was because he had no patience for anything, man or beast, that was too stupid to know how stupid it actually was. You’d laughed at that, a bright, musical sound that made warmth bloom in Sandor’s chest, but you hadn’t left the matter alone like he’d hoped.
As far as you were concerned, there was no point in wasting time hating something so pathetic and harmless and so you persisted. If Sandor was stubborn, you were twice as much, pestering him with that unfaltering cheerfulness each time you went you to feed the damn things. Eventually, he relented, the name and reason tumbling from his lips like rain after a drought.
Mycha.
From the ashes of Sandor’s rage, shame had blossomed, and with it a thin, choking vine that clenched a little tighter around his heart each time he’d thought of the boy. He’d lived what felt like a thousand different lifetimes since that fateful day by the river, and no matter how much he’d drunk, fought or fucked, he couldn’t seem to shake that one particular ghost. It was as though a small part of Mycha had always been there, slowly poisoning what little shreds of goodness Sandor had managed to grasp hold of, and for a while, he supposed that was what he deserved. Until you came along.
You, who had dragged Sandor out from the water when he was little more than a half drowned corpse. You, who had set every broken bone, stitched every wound and fed him spoonfuls of broth even when he’d cursed you after each one. With your constant, stubborn, infuriating cheerfulness, you had talked Sandor into talking, smiled him into smiling, and somehow loved him into loving you back. You had become the sun that rose and set on each day of Sandor’s life. You were what got him up in the mornings and kept him working until dusk. The thought of losing you, or worse, having you cast him aside, scared him more than dragons, others, and his cunt brother ever had.
That was why, in the end, Sandor had chosen to tell you the truth. At least then you’d hear it from him, instead of whatever exaggerated horseshit the village gossips would invent. Ugly as it was, Sandor knew honesty would be his friend in this matter, and he’d had more than his fill of liars after spending so much time in service to the Lannisters.
And so you came to know the whole sordid tale, one dreary morning in the sheep shed. He spared no detail, no matter how gruesome it was or how poorly it reflected on his character. If you were going to keep loving him, it was best you knew the sort of man you’d chosen, lest the truth curdle what little affection he’d earned.
At first, Sandor wasn’t sure how you were going to take things. He half expected you to try to brain him with the bucket of sheep’s feed, then drive him off in a hail of shrieking and chunks of dung. Tears were also a likely possibility, though you didn’t really seem the type. But learning that the man who you’d let into your home and bed had the blood of an innocent child on his hands could make anyone behave strangely.
When he’d finally got up the courage to stop staring at his boots and look into your face, you, as always, surprised him. You were smiling at him, that same warm, gentle smile that Sandor remembered from the moment he’d woken up in your arms.
I know is what you’d said. I’ve always known, and I love you anyway.
You’d reached for him after, setting aside your bucket so you could bring your hand up and caress his scarred cheek. Sandor had leaned into your touch, like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart into a million pieces. Of course you’d known, who in all the Seven Kingdoms hadn’t heard the stories about King Joffery’s rabid dog and the things he’d done? He should’ve given you more credit.
From there, it had been easy enough to tell you why he hated those sheep. Their cries, the sheer terror in their eyes each time he approached? They reminded him too much of that boy, and regardless of how you felt about it, he was not entirely certain he’d ever be able to forget. It was one thing to have your forgiveness and another thing entirely to be able to forgive himself.
Give it time is what you’d told him And let me worry about the sheep. You’ve got enough to do around here, anyway.
The sound of Nameless’ barking is what suddenly tugged Sandor from his memories and back into the here and now. Somehow, the dog had managed to squeeze past him without Sandor noticing, and he was now diving face first through the fresh snow, on the hunt for grouse tracks and anything else that would provide a decent chase.
Sandor watched for a moment, unable to hide the smile playing about his lips. The sight of the big dog, now sporting a healthy dusting of snow across his shoulders and muzzle, was enough to brighten anyone’s mood. He supposed, after almost starving to death on his own, the idiot creature was simply happy to be alive long enough to see another day.
The two of them would go and check Sandor’s traps later. With any luck, they’d snag a rabbit or two that you could roast for supper and have plenty of bones left for Nameless to enjoy. But, in the meantime, you wouldn’t be cooking anything if there wasn’t any wood for the fire.
It hadn’t warmed up any by the time Sandor walked to the woodshed. The snows frozen crust crunched under his feet as he walked, while his breath floated away in thick, white clouds that dampened his beard. His axe, stuck blade down in the stump a few feet away from the woodshed, was a welcome sight.
It was by no means half the weapon his greatsword had been, but Sandor found comfort in the way its worn, wooden handle fit snugly into his grasp and in its blade that thirsted for pine sap instead of blood.
Before long, the sound of logs splitting filled the air, mingling with the soft creak of trees in the wind and an occasional bark from Nameless. Sandor quickly found his rhythm, letting the weight of the axe guide his arm on the downstroke and pushing aside each long with his other hand to be stacked in the shed later.
He went on like that for a while, cut, push, another log, and do it again. The repetition of the work was soothing, almost meditative. It brought a sense of peace to Sandor the way only busy hands could.
Cut, push, new log, do it again.
It was like the axe was an extension of his arm, with the beat of his heart matching each thud of the blade and his breath moving in time as the axe swung through the air. There was most likely going to be a fresh tree fall after last night’s winds, no doubt with plenty of new wood for Sandor to haul home. It probably wouldn’t hurt to bring a length of rope and the sledge when he went hunting with Nameless later. If they didn’t catch anything, at least they wouldn’t be coming home empty-handed.
The young pine he was currently working on was halfway gone by the time you’d made an appearance. Sandor hadn’t heard you at first, too absorbed in what he was doing. It was only after you’d said his name for the third time that he’d finally stopped and turned to look at you over his shoulder, squinting at you as though he wasn’t quite sure who you were or where he was.
“What are you doing out here?”
His tone, like everything about him, was gruff. You smiled at him all the same, knowing that for Sandor, gruffness and worry were often interchangeable.
“Came to check on you. You’ve been out here for hours.”
Sandor glanced upwards and was surprised to find the sun sitting squarely above his head. A sheen of sweat had also broken out over his arms and forehead, and he could feel where it was pooling in the hollows of his back. With a sigh, he set aside his axe and removed his heavy woolen cloak, before turning back towards you.
“Have you been asleep this whole time?”
The slight tilt of his chin in your direction indicated your odd choice of garments. Born to a wilding father and shepherd’s daughter, you always swore the North in your blood kept you from ever truly feeling cold. Still, a sleeping shift, boots, and knit shawl tossed hastily about your shoulders was a questionable choice in midwinter, even for a Northern girl.
You shook your head and gestured back towards the cottage where steam had fogged up the windows.
“I started the laundry, wanted to make use of the sunlight while we still have it. I figured it didn’t make much sense to change until my other clothes were dry, and then I could wash these next.”
Sandor listened to your explanation, his face unchanging save for an arched brow. When you finished, he raised his arm and pointed back at the cottage with a thick finger.
“You should be inside, you fool, woman. You’ll freeze your tits off out here.”
You laughed before wrapping your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders and closing the space between you and Sandor with a few steps.
“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. I’m a Northerner. I don’t get cold. We’re not as pampered as you Southern city types.”
Sandor grumbled softly and shook his head, something about “tongue lashing harpy bitch.” There was no venom behind his words, however, only affectionate resignation. Instinctively, he brought his hand to rest on the curve of your stomach, a protective gesture towards the child you’d been carrying for the last five months. You reached up for Sandor’s face, cupping the scarred side as you usually did against the palm of your hand.
Sandor’s eyes fluttered shut in response to the touch, and for a moment, years seemed to fall away from his expression. He turned his head slightly to the side and pressed a kiss against the skin of your wrist. You loved seeing him like this, vulnerable and content. It was like a glimpse into the past, when he was young and full of hope. However, his eyes opened all too quickly, and he was back to being the Sandor you knew. Older, grumpy, and entirely done with your nonsense.
“Inside. Or I’ll sling you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and bring you there myself”
You rolled your eyes, knowing he’d do no such thing, not while you were pregnant, anyway.
“Fine. But I want a kiss first.”
There was more grumbling, but Sandor did as you asked, catching your mouth against his while his hands snaked down to encircle your hips. You leaned into the kiss, pressing your body as close to his as you could get while still keeping your feet on the ground. His beard was coarse against your cheeks, and he smelled faintly of the woods and sweat. The heat of him seemed to envelope you, like a familiar blanket.
You stood like that for a while, the two of you bathed in morning sunshine and kissing as though you’d never get a chance to do it again. When Sandor tried to pull away, you chased him, closing the space between your mouths by wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him downwards. This kiss was a little messier and rougher than the first, most likely due to Sandor’s surprise, but you didn’t mind. It was only when you nibbled at his bottom lip that he broke the kiss off in earnest, catching your two hands in one of his and trapping them against his chest.
“None of that. I told you, go inside.”
You stared up at Sandor and pulled your mouth into an exaggerated pout.
“One more? Please? And then I’ll go, I promise.”
Sandor swore softly under his breath and used his free hand to adjust the front of his trousers before leaning down to claim your mouth again. For a moment, it seemed as though you were going to get your way. Sandor had brought his other hand up to twine in your hair, which only served to deepen the kiss. You welcomed it eagerly, opening your lips and running your tongue against the seam of his mouth. He let out a groan in response, the hand that still held yours squeezing tight. You squirmed against him eagerly, trying to wrap one of your legs around his and haul yourself upwards, your hips seeking the friction they so desperately craved.
This, however, didn’t have the desired effect. Sandor began to laugh, and then placed his hands on your shoulders, gently pushing you back so you could no longer reclaim his mouth.
“I’m not a tree, you little minx, so stop trying to climb me. You said one more, you’ve had one more, and now you’re going to go inside or else.”
One look at Sandor’s face, and you knew there was no use in pushing your luck. With a long, suffering sigh, you stepped away, already mourning the absence of his mouth and hands on your body.
“Fine. But I better see you again before it gets dark. I’ll need to wash those clothes you’re wearing, and I’m not warming up your dinner twice.”
Sandor grunted, the noise vaguely affirmative enough that you took it as agreement. You turned to head back towards the cottage, only to stop mid step when you felt the familiar sting of an open hand strike your ass. You spun back around, your shawl spinning about your shoulders, and stared at Sandor, who grinned wolfishly back.
“That’s not fair!” you sputtered, your already pink cheeks flushing deeper.
“Nothing ever is,” came the reply.
You shook your head, turning once again to leave. Sandor let you do so without further torment, watching the way the sunlight made your hair glisten and the subtle swing of your hips as you walked. Nothing was ever fair, but sometimes things got close, even for an old dog like himself.
#kissmas 2022#sandor clegane x reader#sandor clegane#the hound#sandor celgane fluff#sandor clegane x you#got fic
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Fox and the Hound
Chapter 8
Previous chapter here
Sum-Joffrey wants to send a message to your family after your brother embarrasses him, so he marries you off to his most unwanted man in his court, the hound. But will this marriage truly be a statement for an eyesore, or will it grow into something more.
Cw for this chapter- mention of smut, mention of 18+ themes. Cussing, bathing together, mention of war, description of scarring, child abuse, sandors past, Joffrey being a little bitch, merryn trant.
Sandor stands next to joffrey in between him and cersi as a messenger has arrived.
“Your g-grace.” the man said out of breath hurrying into the great hall as he ran most of the way.
“Speak man!” jeoffry barks already annoyed.
“HIs late grace, the king's brother stannis barathion is planning to invade king's landing…and t-take the throne for himself as it is his birthright.” he says panting but talking as fast he can for the annoyed new child king.
“Where did you hear this?” cersi speaks. The man approaches cautiously, side -eyed sandor afraid of him. He hands her a piece of paper while bowing. She takes it from his hands. He backs up from the royals and waits as she reads the letter.
“Fuck..” she says under her breath.
“Mother?” Joffrey asks, looking up at her as she now stands.
“Ser merryn gathers as many men as you can to begin fortifying the walls. Tell the iron mages and blacksmiths to begin preparation for incoming weapons.” she says handing the letter to her handmaiden before ser merryn bows and begins to walk off.
“Go with him dog.” jeoffry speaks looking up at the hound as he grumbles and then follows ser merryn reluctantly. He'd much rather have his dick buried inside of you right now back in your shared chambers. Your soft body on his as your whimpers and moans echo off the stone walls of the room as you whine out his name telling him how good he feels, but no.
Hes following merryn fucking trant out to the kings gaurd and outside the castle walls to inform all of the soon to be burning kingdom.
“Don't be so silent now clegane. I know you're just jumping under that hard exterior.'' Merryn says.
“Shut the fuck up. Do you want me to beat you into the mud again? " Sandor speaks immediately, shutting the other knight up. Passing through the halls you and Sansa walk down a guard and two other ladies are waiting following behind you both. Your arms are linked and you both laugh.
You wear a light gray dress, with an off the shoulder bodice that's lined with fur, the golden and jeweled accents scattering the bodice no doubt a choice from the queen. Your skirt is held in place yet is flowy. Sansa wears something similar but in a light blue.
Sansa gives your arm a light squeeze signaling for you to look ahead and you are seeing sandor with ser merryn. You both meet at the hall as ser merryn and sandor both stop giving a quick bow before speaking.
“Princess, my lady.” ser merryn says.
“Where are you both off too you're never assigned together?” you speak.
“None of your concern my lady.” Merryn speaks you raise your eyebrows at his sudden rudeness
“Well..then I hope my beloved husband will enlighten me?”you say turning your head to sandor fixing your eyes on his.
“No. he will not.” Sandor speaks coldly before looking up at the other guard behind you both.
“You. Go with trant to the amory.” he gruffly speaks. The knight nod and bows to you before ser merryn and him walk onward to the journey they were set on.
“Sandor?” you ask.
“Stannis Baratheon is going to invade kings landing and take the throne in 3 days.” he speaks once ser merryn is gone from ear shot.
“What?” Sansa speaks. Before letting go of you.
“Excuse me.” she hurries off her maid following her and you and sandor and your hand maiden are left in the halls.
“Are you certain?” you ask.
“Yes. one of varys messengers sent the note.” he says
“I'll arrange for you and I to take a ship to Volantis then.” you say.
“Don't bother, I won't be on it with you.” he says, looking down at you.
“W-what? Why not?” you ask, stepping closer to him.
“I'm staying here, I have to fight on the king's orders,” he says. You scoff a sarcastic smile forming on your face.
“And since when have you carried what the boy king has to order?” you roll your eyes and cross your arms at his stupid notion.
“Since he married you to me.” he speaks plainly now, finding his notion no longer stupid as you drop your arms to your sides. You slightly bite your lip, a sheen of blush flowing to your cheeks as your eyes revert down quickly before looking back up at him.
“O-oh..” you stutter out.
“I'll have more guards posted outside your doors.” he says before moving around you and heading off down the hall to assign guards to be posted. You stand there watching as he walks away before he disappears past the corner.
“If it's not too much to mention my lady, but, I think the lord clegane may love you.” your maiden says. A small smile forms on your lips.
“I think you're right.” you say smiling at her before you both turn to continue your walk down the hall.
—---
You didn't see Sandor for the rest of the day after he informed you. He was outside the wall and in the knightstand training area. Watched out to the court yard as more troops of knights marched in but sandor was nowhere to be seen. You missed him.
You missed him until the night fell and you were in your room. He wasn't lying about having more guards posted outside the room, instead of the usual two three were now eight. Two on either side of the door and two across from your door posted on either side. Your handmaids scurried past them as they entered and exited.
“Will you draw a bath please?” you ask one of them. She nodded and left along with another to collect the contents for bathing. You sighed and undid the lacing of the back of the dress you wear. The stretch of reaching behind you a much needed one as the ache of your muscles from your night with sandor last was still lingering.
The doors open once again making you turn your head in confusion as to why your hand maidens were back so fast. But you were met happily with the sight of your husband. He sets down his sword on the side of the door against the wall. He groans annoyingly as he does.
“I haven't seen you all day. Are you alright?” you ask, walking up. You meet him and place your hands on his cheeks; he slightly leans into your soft touch. Your palm resting on the scarred part of his face.
“Bunch of cunts.” he grumbles.
“I have the maids drawing a bath ... .would you ... .would you like to join me?” you ask. Sandor goes quiet bringing his hand up to yours keeping it placed on your cheek.
“Okay.” he simply says. Your heart jumps at his answer.
“I'll need something from you first.” you say.
“Mm.” he answers.
“Can you unlace my dress?” you ask. He lets out a soft chuckle and nods. You take your hand from his face only to catch his hand in yours and lead him to the bed.
“When you ask me to unlace your dress, little fox…” he trails off as you sit him on the bed.
“I mean unlace my dress.” you say turning around standing in the space between his legs. You move your hair to the side as he had come up feeling the fabric on your waist making you shiver before he truly moves to the back of your dress and begins to unlace the dress.
You feel it becoming looser and looser with each segment of lacing until it's loose enough to slip off your body. You step out of it as you bend down, picking it up and laying it on the space next to him on the bed. Left in your underclothes sandors hands find your waist again, turning you around to face him.
He pulls you closer to him leaning his head up but not too much as even as sitting he's still comfortably level with you. His lips catch yours in a kiss feeling the softness he was deprived of all day. You moan into his mouth as his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips and your arms around his neck. The kiss is only broken when the doors open once again your hand maids arrive with bathing materials and begin to fill the tub in the corner but not before apologizing for intruding on the two of you.
You admire the features of your husband, his scruff already growing back from shaving it thank goodness on your behalf. You sit on his lap, the hot water warming you both. His arms rest on either side of the bathtub as his eyes search you. No matter how many times he will view your body nothing will ever compare to its beauty. The moment calms him but the focus is to keep the blood rushing to his cock while your breasts are virtually centered in front of his face. His knuckle tightens the side of the tub as he closes his eyes.
“S-sorry.” you speak, causing his eyes to open again and his grip to cease. He looks up at you in confusion. Your hands are now resting on his collar bones.
“It's not that..” he says realizing you pulled away thinking he closed his eyes due to you touching his scars. He takes your hand bringing it back to his face somehow finding a sort of comfort in you tracing his marks.
“Does it still hurt?” You ask him as you move his hair out of his face, your fingers brushing against his scar.
“No.” He says
“Good…what happened?” You ask
“I’m sure some servant has told you the gruesome story.” He says slowly.
“Yes…but..I’m asking you. What happend?” You ask again.
“Like you’ve heard little fox, I was pressed into the fire like a nice juicy mutton chop by my brother.” He says gesturing to his scar.
“Why.” You ask.
“Though I stole one of his toys, I didn't steal it, I was just borrowing it…playing with it. I was 6 or so.” He says you tilt your head slightly brushing your thumb over his cheek.
“The pain was bad, the smell was worse…but…” he sighs before continuing.
“The worst thing was that it was my brother who did it. My older brother. My father who protected him..told everyone my bedding caught fire. And my mother…wouldn’t even look at me said i was too ugly to love.” He says eyes averting from yours. It's quiet, the only noise is the crackling of the fire and the light swishing of the water.
“I can look at you...” You say moving closer to him. His eyes make contact with yours like before.
“...And I love you, Sandor.” You say he lets out a relieved sort of sigh before pulling you to him placing a much need kiss on your forehead.
chapter 9 here
Tag list- @stephyshadows @germansarechill
#sandor x reader#sandor the hound clegane#sandorclegane#sandor clegane#Sandor clegane x reader fic#got x princess reader#Sandor x princess reader
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The Caged Bird and The Leashed Dog
Sandor Clegane x reader
+:✿ Chapter - 2 ✿:+ White Mare
previous chapter | next chapter
Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it.
CW: slow burn, MDNI, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, alcohol consumption, mention of parent(s) death, mention of arranged marriage, mention of prostitution, mention of NSFW themes
Word Count: 3037
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Ever since that day in the stable you filled your days with reading, sewing, mindless activities to keep yourself busy. Anything to relieve your mind of the horrors of Kings Landing and your shameful thoughts of the giant who roamed the halls. Loras and you grew distant since you rejected his hand in marriage, in turn you spent your time with the Starks. It was hard at first to be without your only friend but you were determined to get your cousin out of this city. But it wasn’t hard when Sansa clung to you like a scared beaten dog. You were treated no better of course. But at least you knew how to handle such cruelty with a stepmother like Lysa.
“Don’t let them see you cry,” You’d repeat holding her face “Don’t let it show. Don’t you see how much pleasure he derives from seeing you like this?”
Arya would teach you small things she learned during her sword training, and in all honesty it was the most fun you’d had in years. You found yourself becoming more and more invested in those little girls' well being.
It seemed as soon as Nedd arrived in Kings Landing his time ended.
That day seemed like a dream. You were summoned by Cersei to her Chambers.
“Has Lord Stark mentioned anything to you about the nature of your fathers death?” Cersei questioned you calmly as she poured wine into her gablet.
“My fathers?” You asked genuinely confused, she nodded as she sipped her wine “No, your grace.”
“Good. It would be cruel of him to spark paranoia in the mind of a grieving daughter.” She said as she paced the room with her goblet of wine in hand.
“Paranoia?” If you weren’t before you would be now.
Cersei interrupted you once more “Lord Stark will be arrested for treason today. Somewhat unrelated but it would seem that Lord Stark’s head is filled with paranoid thoughts.”
You didn’t understand why your uncle was on trial for such a crime. You were just a girl to these men, they didn’t speak of such things with you, that is yet. “Little bird, you are a clever and strong girl. I know you are loyal, loyal to the Starks, they are your family. But it is important to be loyal to your allies just the same. Sometimes family will only drag us down, allies however can make us stronger.” Cersei not so subtly threatened you.
You nodded politely, as soon as you could leave you tried to find your little cousins.
You found Arya by the stables. You noticed the men lying dead on the ground with the Stark girls baggage. You saw Arya holding her bloodied sword after pulling it out of the stable boy.
She was horrified, you approached her slowly and quietly.
“Arya” You spoke gently but that didn’t stop Arya from jumping and pointing needle at you. “Arya, you need to run.” You said softly, almost a whisper.
She ran to you dropping needle, she wrapped her arms around you. You held her close but kneeled to her height.
You held her face with both your hands and your eyes bore into hers. “Your family is not safe here. You are not safe here.” Your grasp on her head did not waver. “You have to find a way out, get to the city, find a way out of the city, get to the north.”
“I can’t!” She began to whine as she cried
“You can!” you stroked her hair trying to keep her attention “You killed those men?”
“Just the stable boy” she cried softly
“You killed a man. That's more than most women will ever kill.” You pulled her face closer trying to make sure your words reached her “Listen to me those men will come and they will kill you. Don’t trust anyone, never tell them your name, never tell them your house. Lie, and get good at it. Kill if you need to.” You said as you grabbed needle and put it in her hand, “Now go.” You say as you let go of her and she runs off.
‘Good’ you thought as you watched her run away. As you watched you didn’t notice the tears that had fallen from your eyes.
Soon enough you were summoned by Cersei to witness Nedd’s verdict.
She didn’t anticipate what came next, and neither did you, watching the death of your uncle.
You held Sansa through it. As she screamed and cried, you tried your best to conceal her eyes.
Your eyes however dodged from your uncle to The Hound behind him. You hoped he would do something to stop it, but he didn’t
And so, it happened.
The second hand of the king died.
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He thought of it every night.
The moment he touched you, your skin, the moment his rough hands caressed your throat.
He rolled the thought over in his mind millions of times. Gods’, it tortured him to no end. He tried to bury himself in his duty, bury himself in any woman who looked the slightest bit like you on the Streets of Silk, even taking himself in his hand at the thought of your scent…. More than once.
The thought of you sparked resentment and anger in his chest. He was Kingsguard now, he had no use for a woman, had no use for these emotions he felt.
He hated you for it. Hated you for the way he wanted to rip Loras’s head off anytime he saw you and him in the garden. Hated you for the way he thought of your eyes everytime he closed his eyes. Hated you for the way his mind would wonder at you at any turn even on duty. Hated you for the way his chest tightened anytime he caught even a glimpse of you around Kings Landing. And he hated you for the way your eyes caught his. Each time it was like a deadlock, those eyes, they were a bow and arrow and they shot through him each time.
He grumbled under his breath anytime you were near. Purposefully look away from you as if you didn’t exist. You pretended not to care, but you fought hard just to catch a single glimpse of his face. The burns that draped across the right side of his face like the sheer lace curtains you had in your room in the Eyrie that distort your view from the window.
Neither of you had much time to think about these emotions during the following days. You were spending your time mothering Sana as she grieved her fathers death. The Hound was now King Joffrey’s personal bodyguard now that Robert was gone. A terrible task truly.
Even worse one when your stubborn and rebellious tongue didn’t obey your better judgment around the new king. The Hound tried to convince himself he hated it, but it turned him on even if he didn’t want to admit it. He tried to keep you safe, as safe as he could. Whenever you shot an annoyed glance, a cleverly concealed insult Joffrey's way, the Hound would simply divert Joffrey’s attention to something else. But if you ever got on Joffrey's bad side he couldn’t do much, far be it from him to question a king. On Joffrey’s name day you tested his patience. Joffrey had you and his lady Sansa accompany his side during his Name Day celebration. However you felt a slight sting of joy knowing you’d be so close to him once again. But more so your stomach turned in on itself. Joffrey no doubt invited you for the explicit challenge of trying to elicit some kind of reaction from you in some way. This became clear once he continuously asked for your input on the celebratory fighting. You’d had a small fascination with combat at first. It was like a dance but with blood and swords. but soon you’d grow bored of it.
As The Hound had beaten a man to a whimpering submissive pulp the fight was over. Joffrey clapped and cheered as The Hound removed his dog helmet.
Still you were stunned by him. You wanted to hate him for not helping your uncle. You tried to hate him but in all honesty you knew he couldn’t do anything to stop it. He’d no real power, no real way of stopping it.
“Well struck, Dog!” Joffrey shouted, and snapped you out of your trance.
Joffrey turned to you and Sansa “Did you like that?” he asked, taunting you and her.
“It was well struck, your Grace.” Sansa replied, stoic.
“I just said that.” Joffrey said, his eyes narrowed, his tone deepened.
Ser Meryn looked over in Sansa’s direction. You knew what that meant,
“I found it boring.” You chimed in, your eyes just as narrow as his.
“You did?” He asked with the same threatening tone
“Mm” you nodded
“And what man did your house bring to fight?”
“Brought no man.” You shook your head
The Hound returned to his station by the Kings side. He pretended not to listen but he was, intensely.
“You brought no man to my name day tournament?” He questioned further, you knew he would have taunted you further. To state it was for lack of good men or perhaps your dead father’s power died with him, that your house was to die with it.
“Not one.” Your head whipped towards Joffrey, gaze sharpening. “Not one man wished to celebrate your name day it would seem.”
“Ser Meryn.” Joffrey commanded.
You noticed the Hound's head tilt in your direction as Ser Meryn walked towards you and slapped you across your face, cutting your lip with the armor of his glove. As Ser Meryn walked away you turned your head back towards Joffrey.
“You are a pretty girl, a little more plump than I would like, but still a pretty girl.” Joffrey said “You should be more agreeable in tone, or you might find you won't be so pretty.” He smiled as he threatened you.
“Hm?” He waited for your response as you wiped the blood from your lip.
As you looked up, “Do you wish for me to cry, your Grace?” you asked almost mocking.
Joffrey began to dryly chuckle at your remark, probably about to order another hit for you as Ser Dontos Hollard stumbled onto the tournament drunkenly. The Hound cleared his throat, getting Joffrey to shift his attention towards him and not you. With his attention shifted you were safe once more.
Your eyes stayed on the Hound however. You knew what he had done for you, however subtle it was, you noticed.
✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚
You found yourself spending more and more time near your mare. The moon shined on her just right for her coat to shine almost like metal, and your candle light shined on her just perfectly for her to glow like the sun. Lika, she was the only thing left you had from your home. You’d begin to yearn for the times you’d be furious with your fathers decisions and his useless attempts at comforting you. Because at least if he’d seen you were struck the way you had been, he’d have taken you home. He’d have helped you. But for now, you had Lika.
As you sat in front of Lika’s stable, you read some book you’d stolen from Tyrion at some point. It was hardly interesting, infact you’d almost fallen asleep but Lika nuzzled her snout into your neck and sniffed you deeply, jolting you awake before you smiled and wrapped your arm around her head. You began to stroke the side of her head as you heard a low and deep voice beckon from the entrance of the stables.
“Fuck are you doin’ girl.”
Your head snapped towards him, relief befell you once you saw it was him, the Hound.
You looked back towards your book, “Reading, or I was anyway.” You replied softly
“Read in your room,” He said gruffly as his large hand opened the doors to the stable wider. He was so tall he ducked into the doorway as he walked inside.
“I’ll decide where I read.” you said defiant as always.
With a dry chuckle he began to walk towards you, “Words like that are the reason you got that cut on your lip.”
“You don’t have to remind me of it.” You thought to yourself how this is exactly how you must sound to Sansa.
“Fuck-” He hissed under his breathe “You don’t want my help? Suit yourself.” He huffed “But don’t scream for me when you need it.”
“I won’t want it.” You say softly “Anyways, you can’t help me.-” You began as he cut you off
“I helped that Tyrell you love.” He said with venom in his voice and a softness in his gaze.
You furrowed your brows, stood up and faced him head on “And I have thanked you for it.”
“I know you helped that Stark girl escape.” He said matter of fact
You huffed “What do you want from me?” you asked pained
“I want you to stay away from me.”
“You seem to forget you came to me.”
“You should run from me, you should tell me to go.”
“I don’t run.”
“That’s the fucking problem with you, girl. If you’d any sense you’d think of yourself. Change that tone of yours. Change those eyes, the way you look at people… like you want to gut them.”
“I do want to.”
“Stubborn” he chuckled darkly “Stubborn will get you beaten.”
“Why did you come for me?”
“I saw the light-“
“No. If it were anyone else you’d’ve gone on your way by now.”
“Fuck does it matter?”
“Sandor-”
“Don’t call me that.” He hissed
“Tell me,” You say, raising a hand to his scarred cheek. He flinched and backed away quickly. His scowl deepened. He moved away from you, he turned to face outside the stables. “You wrapped your hand round my throat, and you won't let me touch your cheek?”
“It’s different, you’re not ruined.” He said whilst he stared into the nothingness outside the stable doors.
“Am I not?” You asked, your words felt sharp.
“No, no you are not.” His words felt gentler.
“I’ve no one, I’ve only this cage I sit in.”
“You’ve got someone,” He scoffed over his shoulder at me, my eyes looking up at him widening against my will. “You’ve got that Tyrell,” You huffed, “That stark child that follows you like a bloody shadow.” He looked back into the night, “I’ve got no one,”
“You do,” You say without noticing how bold it was until he turned to you, “Or you would, if you’d let them.”
“My brother.” he mumbled, his head hung low as he walked closer to you. “Pressed my cheek to the fire.” He finished, unwilling to give anything else. “I know you’ve heard the story, Baelish, that cocksucking rat, no doubt told you.”
“Course he did.” You didn’t lie, you never could to him. “But I asked you.”
He smirked slightly, his head still slightly turned away from you not wanting you to see.
Your hand rose to caress his cheek, you did it slowly. He flinched his head away slightly and in turn you pulled your hand back slightly. As his head came back, moving closer towards you. You moved your hand to his cheek once more, slowly. He grabbed your wrist before it could make contact with his face.
“Look at me,” He hissed “I’m a killer, the things I’ve done-” He thought back on those things “You don’t want this girl.” His grip on your wrist did not loosen, as if he was genuinely trying to protect you. “You’ll wed some lord, you’ll have his sons, and you’ll be far and gone from this shit city.”
“I don’t want to wed a lord.” Your eyes now are not so hateful but sad.
“World, doesn’t give a fuck what you want.” His hand reached out, slightly cupped the back of your head, hardly touching. He ran his hand down the length of your hair. Once he reached the end of it he held a lock of it in his hand to examine the color in the candle light. His deep, rich brown eyes reached yours once more. He could swear yours sparkled in any light.
“I’ll walk you to your chamber.” He said gruffly, peeling his eyes away with yours. He grabbed the book in your hand and walked towards the doors of the stables.
You let out a staged huff as you followed him.
As he led you through the halls you realized that you were doing just that, following him. He knew where your chambers were and knew how to get there swiftly.
The thought lit a fire in your chest.
As he arrived at your door he stopped, as you opened it you turned to look at him.
“You stole this from the imp.” He grumbled as he held up the book you did in fact steal.
Your eyes went from the book to him, “Are you going to report me to the Queen.” You said, you smiled slightly with your eyes. Testing him and his loyalties. He growled under his breath and walked off.
The way you tested his patience stirred something in him.
He’d definitely be taking himself in his hand that night again.
Is love the death of duty. Or is duty the death of love?
#sandor clegane x reader#Sandor clegane#got x princess reader#sandor x reader#sandor the hound clegane#game of thrones x reader#sandor clegane#got x reader#got hc#game of thrones#the hound#got#sandor headcanon#sandor#sandor clegane fanfic#the hound fanfic#sandor fluff#sandor fanfic#sandor clegane smut#sandor clegane fic#sandor clegane x you#sandor clegane fluff#sandor fic#game of thrones fic#game of thrones fanfic#sandor clegane angst#sandor angst#sandor smut
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Excerpt from my fic "Wolfswood"; Sandor climbs a tower to meet Sansa in her room [Sansa pov]
His grey Stark cloak was dancing in the wind like a proud banner. He looked up at her and rasped lowly, “Hush, girl, you want to rouse the whole castle?!”
“You might just fall!”
“I won’t. You go inside and wait if you can’t bear to look.”
She couldn’t. She climbed off the window and paced the room, her heart beating madly. She was worried sick, but strangely, there was still a certain appeal to what he was doing for her. It was like a song and thinking about it made her blood run faster. When he finally stepped into the room and closed the window, she rushed to his side.
#asoiaf#sansa stark#sandor clegane#post canon#song of ice and fire#wolfswood#my fic#winter#winter vibes#maiden in the tower#sort of#love#sansan
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“The Hound That Lies” (Sandor Clegane x Original Female Character)
SUMMARY — The hour of the wolf comes and a certain chambermaid still cannot fall asleep. She goes out for a walk to cure her insomnia and runs into none other than the Hound. Drunken confessions and deep introspection ensue.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — This is the "Upstairs, Downstairs" of the Red Keep that nobody asked for. Told from the perspective of another person, but very Sandor-centric. It's mostly written due to my deep adoration for him as a character. English is not my first language so if you spot any mistakes that is my fault alone.
WORD COUNT — 5,032
Masterlist
My days as a palace servant in King’s Landing started before dawn and stretched late into the night, sometimes well past the hour of the bat. The servants of the royal palace all had their place and duties and nobody stepped one toe out of line; not unless they wanted to be subject to strict punishments–or a fate even worse than that.
The royal household of king Robert Baratheon, first of his name, consisted of the usual army of servants. Aside from us, the household staff included the royal guard, the captains, the marshals, the grooms, the pages, and the Kingsguard. Those, however, stayed in the barracks and in their own palace quarters. Truth be told, we rarely saw them at all.
The army I belonged to was an army of another quality, though those in charge of it still drilled and ruled their subordinates in a way no lesser than the most sadistic of the captains.
The first layer of those closest to the king, and therefore to gods themselves, were the seneschals, the chaplains, the stewards, the cupbearers, and the chamberlains. Then there were the wardrobe masters and the raiment mistresses, who ruled the realms of the royal garments. Under them was the head maid, who held her own regiment of nearly a hundred chambermaids that scrubbed floors, mended clothes, stripped the beds of the dirty sheets, delivered sheets and clothing to and from the laundresses, and did everything else under the sun expected of the servants of the highest quality and the lowest breeding.
The kitchen staff I knew very little of and they equally knew very little of us, the waiting staff, but we all uniformly hated the lady’s maids. They were the nobility of the servants and rarely deigned to acknowledge us, the chambermaids, for anything more than lowly serfs.
Ever since I came to King’s Landing, there was hardly any disturbance in my daily routine. As the servants we had very little money and very little spare time to spend it. Most of us lived in the servants’ quarters in the lowest parts of the keep–those that had their own families and lived in the city were considered lucky.
Most nights, if I could allow myself the luxury, I tried to fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. But that night, the night when I met Sandor Clegane, sleep just would not come to me. I tossed and turned until the hour of the wolf, when finally I was too fed up with myself and I went outside to the palace gardens to take a walk.
Most of the time, even the foulest of guards would leave us serving girls well enough alone, but still I took a sharp dagger with me and hid it beneath my skirts. As I wandered the gardens alone, I tried to be as silent as possible. Taking in the air as a cure was one thing, but being an airhead would be another. And I have lived too long to allow myself to be stupid.
“Walkin’ around at night, girl? Are ya that reckless or that stupid?” A gruff voice startled me and when I turned around, a half-burned face of Sandor Clegane was right there before me, looking down on me with a sneer.
I swallowed hard and my hand went straight to the hilt of my dagger. I felt it underneath the fingertips and it made me feel marginally safer. But the man in front of me was huge, at least two feet taller than me; his presence dark and frightful.
“Oh,” I said, trying to make my voice sound normal. “It’s just you.”
“Just me?” He scoffed and took one step closer. The smell of wine immediately hit my nose. He had a bottle with him and now paused to take a swig from it. “Now, I ain’t arguably the worst you can meet in those gardens at night, girl, but what in seven hells do ya mean by ‘just’?”
“I meant…”
“Hm?”
I took a deep breath and forced myself to look him right in the eye. The Hound and his menacing presence in the keep were just one of those things that one had to get used to while working for the royal family. The Baratheons and the Lannisters were united as one family now and all of us had to get used to the change of regime.
Not that serving under the Targaryens and the Mad King had been such a privilege.
But the fact of the matter was, I have served under the Mad King’s rule and survived. I was not about to let a Lannister dog push me around.
“Nothing. What are you doing here?” I asked.
Clegane scoffed again and for a second I thought he would try to hurt me, but then I noticed he was swaying a little and I exhaled. Most of the household staff knew that a drunk Sandor Clegane was much less menacing than a sober one. And because Clegane was never sober, usually he would release his anger in the training yard–not on the serving girls. Which was still more than what could be said about the noble Kingsguard.
“Same as you,” Clegane grumbled. “Can’t sleep. Too much to drink, too many voices, too many memories.” He looked away from me then and I thought that would be the end of our conversation, but it would seem we must have found each other on one of his chattier nights. “You get nightmares, girl?” he asked, his attention back to me.
“I do,” I replied before I could help myself.
But that was why I was there, wasn’t it? I doubted he would remember that conversation the next day, let alone in an hour, so I decided to talk to him a little. Maybe we would bore each other to tears and then I would finally fall asleep.
“What kind?” he asked.
“What?”
“The nightmares.”
“Oh,” I sighed, “Most nights I just lay awake, full of fear, before the nightmares even happen. So most nights I just take a walk instead.”
“Does it help?”
“No.”
He laughed at that, if his particular kind of bark could even be called a laughter, and nodded as if he knew exactly what I was talking about.
“So you go out and you find me here.” He looked at me more closely and leaned forward. I did my best not to cower before him. It was not his face that frightened me. It was the height and the sheer bulk of the man that did it. Even dressed in a lighter dark surcoat instead of his usual heavy armour, Clegane could strike fear into the hearts of men with little effort.
“What do your nightmares tell you, girl?” Clegane asked and I frowned at the forwardness.
“I do not wish to say,” I muttered. “I do not know you.”
What I meant was, I did not trust him at all. Just like the Grand Maester, Clegane was a Lannister creature. It was known. After what the palace household had lived through during the sack of King’s Landing, I would never trust a Lannister with anything.
“But that is my point, isn’t it?” Clegane took a long drink from his bottle. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. So. You can tell me anything. You have a secret,” he pointed to me, “I have a secret.” He touched his own chest, swaying a bit once more. “I won’t tell another soul, but I know you won’t, ‘cause I’ve seen you here before, girl. No one who’s lived in this bloody place half as long as you have could survive by spilling secrets.” His half-burned lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “Or am I wrong?”
I thought about what he said and then I thought about what I saw after the sack. I only survived because I was small enough to hide in the cupboard in the pantry where the head maid stored the cleaning supplies. “Mouse” is what some of the other chambermaids called me, because I would scutter from place to place, always quick and always silent. Being a mouse had saved me that day. Mostly it saved me from the Mountain That Rides and his men.
But Sandor Clegane was not his brother, this much I knew. Just like the current king was not his horrible son. Most household staff avoided both, if they could help it–the crown prince and his horrible shadow were always together, but if you looked closely, you learned quickly that they couldn’t be further apart. I have never seen the younger Clegane hurt or kill a girl, but I have scrubbed the floors in the royal apartments where the Mountain did the unspeakable to the poor Princess Elia.
“You are not wrong,” I admitted. “I think… It sounds about right.”
I was grateful that the gardens were shrouded in darkness, because the memories of that day brought tears to my eyes that were now threatening to spill.
“So spit it out.” Somehow, Clegane’s voice made it easier to control myself. “Do ya want to sit?”
He walked past me then, quickly and remarkably quietly for a man of his size. He sat down on the grass and I followed his lead.
“The night is dark, girl. No one will see you, no one will see me, no one will hear us.”
My blood ran cold then and I scolded myself for being so foolish. Was he…?
My hand went back to my dagger. I looked at his neck, then to his armpit.
It must have shown in my face, what I was thinking of, because he sneered again and took another swig of his wine, before adding:
“I meant for a conversation, fuck’s sake. If I wanted to, I could’ve killed you ages ago. Why would I bother now?” He paused. “Oh. It ain’t the killin’ you’re thinkin’ of. No, I don’t do that either, girl. I’m no raper.”
‘Unlike my brother’ hung right there in the air above us, unsaid.
I sighed and I settled on the grass beside him. Clegane took another long drink from his bottle, then passed it to me.
“No, thank you. I must refuse.”
“You must?” He scoffed. “A proper little thing, ain’t ya…”
I pursed my lips in distaste at being called that. It felt too familiar for the chance acquaintances we were.
“I used to drink a lot,” I said, finally brave enough to make my tone as harsh as I really wanted it to sound. “But I do not, not anymore. I used to drink to hide my troubles. But the problem with drink is, your troubles remain just where you left them and they haunt you the next day.”
The Hound frowned and when he spoke next his voice was heavy with surprise, but devoid of judgement:
“You used to drink a lot?” He raised a dark brow. “I’d have never thought to picture that.”
“Why, because I’m not a soldier like you?”
I knew better than to call that man a knight, but I was tempted just to show my lack of regard for the Lannister dog.
“Nah, I suppose that doesn’t matter.” He looked away then. “So what stupid things did you do to finally make you shake the habit?”
I was surprised by the question; by the suggestion of kinship between us. But I realised there was one, whether I liked it or not.
“My mother,” I hesitated, and the Hound’s dark eyes were on me again. “My mother was a mean drunk. But when she did not drink, she was even meaner.”
Clegane looked at me then and I saw a glint of recognition in those dark, angry eyes. But then, the hour of the wolf was the darkest part of the night. I might have been mistaken.
“‘D ya fuck any strangers?”
“Not enough wine in this keep to make me fuck you, if that’s what you’re after.”
He let out a laugh. The hoarse sound of it was grating like a crunch of broken glass.
“Yeah, that ain’t what I’m after, don’t flatter yourself.”
“Well, I am glad to hear we understand each other.”
“That what you were looking for when drinking, little one? Understanding?”
“Sometimes.” I sighed. “Sometimes I drank just to feel something. You know how it is. Everyone is drunk in a tavern, everyone pretends to be each other’s friend. But that isn’t so. Strangers are not your friends, they could not be farther from it.”
“Aye, they care about nothin’ and no one other than themselves.” The Hound nodded. “Drink and pleasure, little one. That’s what the world is to ya when you ain’t careful.” He took another swig from the bottle. The smell of wine hit me again and I turned my head away.
“And you said awful things, too, did ya?” he asked.
“Hateful things,” I whispered. “That is why I stopped. It did me no good.”
“Hateful things…” The big man rolled the words on his tongue like he was curious. “Pretty little thing like you, eh?”
“Pretty things can still be poison.”
He smirked darkly at that.
“Yes, they can. You have the truth of it, girl.”
He was silent for a while and I turned my head towards him to check if he was still there. He was. He was looking at the guard standing beside the closest entry to the garden. The guard looked young and utterly exhausted. He swayed from time to time and Clegane seemed very amused by that.
“Yeah, usually it’s knights and us soldiers drinkin’ to forget.” He pointed at the guard. “Like him there. The men that drink too much and go around lookin’ for fights. We drink our cheap wine and our ale and then we go around lookin’ for nothin’ but trouble. Sometimes fightin’ people we’re not supposed to. Sometimes… Other things.” He took another swig.
“Sometimes I would even lay with strangers to feel better. To feel something.”
I did not know why I said that, but that got me his attention, so I decided to throw caution to the wind and say it all:
“To feel something other than my feelings. Other than dread and sadness. But that did not happen. In the morning, my nightmares were still present.”
“I understand,” he replied and it was my turn to be shocked. “Wantin’ to feel the warmth of someone’s touch.” He said that so bitterly that I almost felt the bile in my own throat. But there was sympathy in his voice, even though it was hard to read his face, half-covered with the burn scars.
“Aye, someone to take away your pain, even if for a night.”
“Yes,” I said, surprised. “That… That was it. How…?” But then I hesitated. Of course he would understand what that was like. He wore the worst thing that had happened to him right out there on his face. There was no hiding from it, no covering it. He had to wear it every day and live with others looking upon it always.
I felt like a fool for even asking, but the question hung there in the open. Finally, Clegane spoke:
“I know it. You thought someone would care about you, keep you warm, but in the end they never did. Did they?”
“No.” This time my answer came easier. “They never did.”
“Aye, nobody cares about people like us, little one. We are the servants. We’re here to serve.” He chuckled darkly and pushed the empty bottle away. “People don’t care a lick for ya, only for what you can give them. And when you give it… Well, then you’re no better than those slaves in Essos.”
“Is that how it feels for you?”
He turned to me so quickly that I flinched and for a second I was afraid he would attack me. But all he did was look into my own eyes; long and intently. His eyes were ones that must have seen much, but mine own had turned hard over the years, too. They no longer belonged to the girl who came to King’s Landing with songs in her head.
“Yeah.” Finally, he leaned back. “What of your family? Do they care so little about you?”
I was not always a palace maid and I had not always worked in a household as grand as the royal palace. I was born as a Rivers, in a poor hovel in the Riverlands; a ghastly place north of another village that most likely no longer existed. My mother was a drunkard, a local busty tavern wench, and due to her reputation I also had two older half-sisters. They despised me as much as I despised them.
Scrubbing floors and mending clothes had been my daily bread since the moment I could walk and take care of my own needs–that was the day I finally became useful. That usefulness took me out of that gods’ forsaken village, until little by little I travelled from the Riverlands to the Crownlands, moved from house to house in search of my own destiny, and from dusk till dawn I scrubbed and cleaned the nobles’ messes. From a lowly laundry maid at the age of seven, I worked my way up on my hands and knees, until the skin of my hands perpetually blistered and cracked from soap and lye.
“No,” I replied, my tone harsher. “There is no one.”
The Hound still looked at me like he was trying to read my face for lies. But there were none. I had no reason to lie to him. I told myself once more that he would not remember we ever had this conversation come morning.
“I have no family either,” he said grimly. “No family to speak of.”
I knew the Mountain was not dead, otherwise we all at the palace would have heard of it long ago. To now hear the admission from Clegane’s own mouth that the brothers despised each other was striking.
“So no one cares whether we live or die,” I concluded. “I imagine that is why we accept whatever people give us. It is either that, or…” I think on it. “That, or the emptiness.”
“Aye.” His voice was softer now. “But people do bad things all the time. It ain’t the end of the fuckin’ world. Not even the end of your life. So you’re still allowed to want things.”
I frowned, trying to piece together the confusing shreds of that thought. The wine must have finally run to his head.
“Are you saying even monsters deserve to be loved?”
He laughed darkly and there was little joy in that bitter sound.
“Aye, little one. Mayhaps you are a bad person, I don’t know ya. But all of us are, in a way.”
The truths he gave me struck something within me.
“By the gods, you are honest.” I sigh.
“I’m a lot of things, girl. Honest, for all my faults, is one of them.” He paused briefly. “A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face.”
We sat in silence a while, but then the big man had more questions for me:
“Don’t you ever have any desire to drink again? There must be a time when you think to yourself, just one, just to forget, just to numb the pain, just for tonight?”
I considered that. Then decided to remain truthful:
“Yes. I do sometimes, yes. But then I remember how miserable wine made me feel the next day and how much pain it caused me. And how much shame it brought me. The things I did… Remembering helped me not to drink again.”
I looked up and there was a strange, wistful look in Clegane’s eyes, as though he were remembering something.
“But it did feel good while it lasted, did it not? At least, for a time, you had no aches, no hurts, you did not feel. You could forget your pain for a while, did that not feel good?”
“Ah,” I smiled sadly. “But that is why the drink is so treacherous.”
“Aye,” he agreed with a smirk. “A cruel mistress.”
I nodded.
“But it did make me forget,” I admitted. “Then I felt ashamed I forgot. And then it ruined me and I had let it, gladly. But in the moment, when you drink, yes, that is true. You forget the bad things. That does feel good. It is a perfect poison for those in pain and misery.”
I realised then that it was the sense of no judgement I was getting from conversing with the Hound that really drew me into this talk. He did not judge and he repaid me with honesty. That was so much more to offer than the monstrous kinds of misplaced affection I had found in King’s Landing over the years.
“Is it too much to ask that you tell me your name, girl?”
The way he asked seemed like a taunt, but there was a strange tenderness in that scarred face that made me feel at ease, even as his dark eyes studied me so intently.
“Laina Rivers.”
“Laina Rivers.” He seemed amused by that, a faint smile playing on his scarred lips. “A pretty name for a bastard.”
I gave him a sharp look.
“There is a sad irony in that,” he said, obviously not afraid of my silent threats in the slightest.
He smiled and there was no humour in that half smile, but the anger in him had settled at least.
“So who was your father?” he asked. “What great lord fathered you and left you in the world to fend for yourself?”
“I do not know.” I stumbled through my words a little, because his bluntness struck me once more. “But I hate him sometimes. For doing so.”
The Hound nodded and then the anger resurfaced in the unburnt half of his face. The other still showed nothing. But there was another layer to his anger now; as though there was just a touch of sadness underneath it.
“You never sought after him? You don’t even know who he is?”
“No.” I shook my head. “My mother told me very little. And she was always angry when I asked. So I stopped asking. I was a skittish child, always desperate for her to love me. I wanted to please her, to be a good daughter. Especially since I had two sisters to compete with.”
“And did it work?” He sneered. “Did your mother love you?”
“Not the way I wanted her to,” I replied, my voice barely louder than a whisper. What was that strange power he possessed that made me want to confess to him so easily?
“She loved me in her own way, I believe. But she was not kind. I think she despised having bastard daughters, despised us for being bastards. Even though that was not our fault.”
“No, it is not your fault,” he agreed and hearing that almost brought the tears back to my eyes.
There was sadness in his voice, I could hear it for true. The masks were starting to come off.
“It is never the fault of the child,” he continued. “Yet they have to suffer. That just shows how this fuckin’ world is, ain’t it?”
I remained silent, but he still expected me to say something. And I was too interested in the conversation to leave now.
“What about your own parents? Did they love you?”
For a long moment, Clegane remained silent, as though he wanted to give me a different answer; considered it, to avoid giving the real one. But it did not seem like his heart was in it. Finally, he spoke, with some hesitation:
“No, my father did not love me. And my mother, well – I do not know if she hated me, loved me, or just did not bother to see that I existed at all.”
It was so hard to hear that I could not speak for a long while.
“When did you get these scars?” I asked carefully.
“I was seven.”
He knew I knew then, or at least that I suspected, and now had my suspicions confirmed. I straightened my back and he waited for me to say something, but I would not. I would not intentionally harm him with my words now, I refused. Even if he was a Lannister creature.
“But you are true-born, are you not?” I said instead, frowning, and tried to reconcile what he said with my own conviction.
His laugh was like snarling dogs in a pit.
“That does not guarantee a parent’s love, little one. My father was a lord, you know. And a cruel, bitter man.”
That was not the moment to remark on his own bitterness and so I held my tongue.
“No, I suppose being a lord’s son does not guarantee it,” I muttered. “But for the longest time I thought… I thought that if only I had a real name, if I was true-born then maybe my mother would be kinder. Maybe she–”
“No, if she cared, she would have loved you no matter what.” The Hound sighed. My mouth nearly gaped at that answer.
“There are many bastards who are not high-born and who still have good parents,” he said. “It is not about your name or birthright. It is about whether there is hatred in a person’s heart. And by your account, your mother did not have much love in hers.”
I sat there in shock at the profound truth that came from this man’s mouth.
“I misjudged you,” I admitted and immediately felt my face grow hot with embarrassment.
“Aye.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I am used to it.”
“But,” I said, “that is also why I left the Riverlands. I went from place to place, finding work and getting good at being a maid. I was looking for something to replace that love. And when I came to King’s Landing… Well, now I work in the palace.” I laughed bitterly. “A lot of fucking good it got me.”
He laughed then with me, a deep and harsh guffaw.
“Aye, King’s Landing. The place where every man and woman goes when they think their talents would amount to something. So many people lie and die in this stinking hell, so many more become lordlings and queens and kings… Aye, they all think they’re something special. Something more.” He pauses and looks at me with a mixture of bitterness and amusement. “Did you fall for their lies, too?”
“I did.” I nodded. I felt ashamed for having been so naive.
“You are not alone,” he said, almost like he was mocking both of us. “This place chews people up and spits them out like they are nothing. It’s the worst of men, the biggest of fools, the lowest of scum that the Seven Kingdoms have to offer. All gathered here for the pleasure of the royals.”
I wondered then how come he was not afraid to say what he thought; why did he said it so openly. All my life I had obeyed every rule and strict guidance of my superiors. I received a lashing once and I still bore the scars of it on my back. I vowed never to let my tongue waggle ever again.
Any palace chambermaid found gossiping, or behaving in a way unbecoming of a decent lady, would be punished–or worse, thrown out and left without income, forced to leave His Grace’s employment with a stained reputation and no way to fend for herself.
So I decided to ask:
“How is it that you are not afraid to just speak your mind? This place is crawling with whisperers. Don’t you have a lord or a master that would punish you for speaking so?”
The Hound smiled, almost as though he was amused at the thought.
“Why should I be afraid? They are all afraid of me.” He shrugged. “Who cares what these nobles think? The people who know me already know I speak my mind, and the ones who don’t have heard stories. And as for my master, I have none. I have no one to answer to besides the king, and he doesn’t care a lick about the likes of me.”
“I think I have heard the stories,” I admit.
“Aye. A famous man, me.” He leaned towards me, his voice hard again. “You know why they call me the Hound?”
I shook my head, though my eyes went to his chest where the sigil of his house was plain as day on his surcoat – three black snarling dogs on a yellow field.
“It is because I hunt down their prey for them. Anyone they ask me to, I ride them down. Criminals, traitors, even children… I have cut down many in my life and only some of them were monsters.”
We were silent then, until he spoke again:
“Many different names they call me, but I mislike that one the most.”
“I understand.”
“Do you now?”
“I do. Of course I do. A hound is a dog used for hunting and it is an animal, not a person. The man sitting here with me is just that, a man. Not a dog.”
He is rendered speechless after that and we look at each other for the longest moment.
“How old are you, girl?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You speak with the knowledge of someone older, yet you are small and slight and so I wonder…” He reached towards me and I forced myself to stay in place. For some reason, I knew he would not harm me.
Clegane touched my shoulder and it was as if to check that I was real.
“I am old enough,” I said, slightly amused. “And I hope to talk to you again sometime. But it will dawn soon and I must go back to my duties.”
“Aye.” Clegane smiled at that and I smiled back. “Fare-thee-well, Laina Rivers.”
“Fare-you-well, Sandor Clegane.”
#Sandor Clegane fic#Sandor Clegane x reader#Sandor Clegane fics#Sandor Clegane fanfic#asoiaf fanfic#Sandor Clegane x ofc#Sandor Clegane x original characters#game of thrones fanfic#game of thrones fic#sandor clegane fanfiction
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「The Hound and The Vulture 」
Part 1
Third person reader-insert! A wandering widow and a wanted warrior. They're no "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," but they're close enough, right? After saving his life, the scavenger is half tempted to sell him out and half tempted to have her way with him. The dog is half tempted to throw her in the Trident and half tempted to throw her in the Blackwater Rush.
You know they're going to fall in love somewhere along the way.
I shouldn’t be here, she thought when she saw the first handprint of blood on the rocks. I should run.
But she didn’t run. She shouldered on, her cloak drawn tightly around her small frame and her hood up. The smear of blood on the first rock she’d passed had been a handprint, then she found more dripped into the path of the small game trail. Someone had staggered through here recently, and that someone was likely going to die. At least, they were going to die if the amount of blood they were losing was any indicator of their condition.
If they’re going to die, they won’t need their coin purse, she told herself. There was the possibility that whoever it was would not, in fact, be dead, or that there would be more than one of them and she was walking into trouble. She was light on her feet and quiet, though, and she told herself that at the first sign of trouble she could be gone before they knew she was there.
She found the man who had bled sprawled out in the grass further down the trail. He was much too dead to have heard her coming. At first she thought he might be unconscious, all stretched out in the evening sun. She sidled closer inch by careful inch until she could see that his eyes were open and unblinking and staring back at her. Open, empty eyes. Dead eyes, and dead eyes meant he could not hurt her. She nudged at him softly with her boot for good measure, then much less softly just to be sure. He did not stir, even when kicked. The dead soldier was hers for the taking.
In her big black cloak and black dress of mourning, she was sure she must have looked like a vulture every bit as much as she felt like one. How did my life come to this? she wondered as she turned the pockets in the man’s cloak inside out. Within she found a paltry lot: one silver stag and six copper pennies, and a small iron chain of no great value.
His armor could be worth something, she thought. A dead man has no use for armor. She hated thinking it, but it was true. Looters had been flocking to battlefields as of late, stripping the dead soldiers of the armor they no longer needed. They’d load it into wagons and take it to the nearest market, where it could be sold at market for a few stags or handfuls of pennies. It wouldn’t be much, but it wouldn’t be nothing, either. She’d sold a dead man’s helmet at Maidenpool a few turns of the moon ago. True as it may be that she wouldn’t dare double back to Maidenpool, there may be someone along the road willing to buy it from her, or somewhere she could set up a stall and sell it.
There was a hole in his breastplate where some sort of weapon—maybe a halberd or an iron spear—had punctured right through it and into the once-living man’s chest. In its current state, the breastplate was worthless. She didn’t feel like carrying an armful of greaves and gauntlets with her everywhere she went, so she left him. She took his wine skin and his helmet, though, and cursed him for having nothing further of use to her on him. Stupid dead man.
Down the game trail she continued. It was as good as any road, she supposed. If it was good enough for the deer and the rabbits and the wolves and the many unseen creatures that called the wildlands of Westeros home, then it was good enough for her.
It was a matter of moments before she found more blood. Had the first man come this way and then doubled back to die? That wasn’t very likely, as it made little to no sense. That man had staggered from the road, collapsed, and never stood again. This was different blood from a different man. Warily, and with her dagger in her hand, she continued down the game trail. The trail disappeared into a thicket of trees, the waist-high grass giving way to elm trees with their great thick branches and leaves of gold and orange and red. The forests of Westeros were beautiful in the autumn, making it all the sadder that winter was coming to choke out the beauty and replace it with cold, white death instead.
It was not uncommon to find a stream in a forest, but what was unusual were the markedly massive bootprints in the soft mud on either side of the bank. The sheer size stopped the vulture in her tracks. What kind of monster did this belong to? She compared the size of her own foot to the ones in the mud, brow furrowed. Frightened, and morbidly curious, she crossed the stream by passing from one stone to another. When she climbed the embankment, she saw the man who had left the massive prints in his wake.
The dead soldier was slumped against the base of a tree. He was a giant of a man, monstrous to behold, with a tangle of dark hair and a cropped beard. The soldier was easily double her size, and the helmet that laid at his side was fashioned in the shape of either a wolf or a snarling dog. A helmet of that level of detail would fetch a pretty penny. The horse—a magnificent black courser—hitched to a branch nearby would, too. The vulture inched forward slowly as she had with the last man. With gentle, lithe hands, she reached forward and pulled the helmet from beneath his arms.
When she moved the helmet, he groaned.
When he groaned, she screamed.
Startled and screeching, she reeled backwards and onto her haunches. Dead bodies made noises sometimes, but they don’t open their eyes and watch you. Well, maybe they did in stories, but this was no story. This was a living man.
He wasn’t just looking at her, he was seeing her, watching her. He was awake and conscious, though his face was pale and sunken and the bags beneath his eyes were black. Half of his face was badly burned, a gnarled ruin of scars that had never healed properly. He blinked slowly, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back again. The wound that was doing him in was between his neck and his shoulder, perfectly on his collarbone. Rotten blood, black and brown rather than red, was crusted around shards of the armor that had been shattered into his skin. It was festering and killing him.
She turned her dagger in her hands, a nervous sort of uncertain fiddling. “Can you hear me?” she asked. He did not speak in response, but instead just opened his eyes again. The knight looked up at the sky rather than at her. “I can help you,” she offered, though where the kindness was coming from, she could not say. “I can clean the wound and hope for the best, or I can give you the gift of mercy. Do you have a preference?”
The soldier’s eyes closed. She wasn’t sure if they were like to open again. Mercy, she decided, is the kindest thing I can give him. Again she crept forward, less fearful than the first time. She would do it, she would give him the Mother’s Mercy. Yet, when she brought the blade forth to give him the relief he needed, she couldn’t do it. Instead, she stood. “I’ll be back,” she promised.
She gathered dried sticks and heaped them into a small but neat pile, and she struck her flint and steel until she had a fire. The vulture had learned how to survive if nothing else. She placed the dead man’s helmet in the flames and poured half of his wineskin into it. The plating of the helmet was thick, and by the time the wine boiled the sky above was as orange as the trees below. She wrapped her hands in her cloak and lifted the helmet away from the flames.
“This will hurt,” she warned him. “This will hurt like a bitch, but try not to scream. Screaming calls the wolves, of four legs and of two.”
He screamed when she poured the boiling wine onto the wound. He threw his head back against the tree with such force that she feared he’d killed himself then and there, but a second wave of screaming let her know he was not, in fact, dead. Not yet. When she dabbed at the wound with a rag of the dead man’s cloak the huge man did not scream; he whimpered like a babe, so pitifully that she couldn’t help but whisper words of comfort to him. She cooed and hushed him and made promises that the pain would go away soon. He did not answer. When she poured the wine the third time, he did not scream. He blacked out from the pain instead.
The burned man was much easier to deal with once he was unconscious. She wasn’t entirely sure he would wake up again, and the odds weren’t in his favor, but if he didn’t, at least she could say she’d tried. It was dark and this man was strange, and she needed to leave him before wolves came along. She needed to find some place better to hide, she needed to…
“No one would fuck with you, would they?” she asked of his sleeping form. In the black of the night, in the dim light of the fire, you could scarce see the wound. If bandits and robbers and rapers came along, the sheer size and obvious strength of the knight might deter them. I may be safer sleeping by this dead body than beneath a ramshackle roof, she considered. So she laid at his side, curled up beneath her cloak, and hoped the mountain of a man would be enough to protect her.
For the most part she slept through the night, save for one time when wolves howled just a little too close to their small camp—if one could call it a camp. She fed the fire and laid back down, near pressed up against the sleeping giant for warmth and safety. Even unconscious, he somehow made her feel safer than she’d felt in…in a long, long time.
When she woke the second time, the sky was pink with the rising sun. The man’s eyes were open, and they were staring at her. Alarmed, she bolted up right and backed away from him. He said nothing.
“You made it through the night,” she observed. “Are you okay?”
For the first time since she’d found him, the giant knight spoke. “It fucking burns,” he told her through gritted teeth. His voice was intensely deep and gravely, so powerful and commanding. A strong voice, and it sent a shiver through her. Had he not looked like he was dying…maybe she would have…
“Better burning than dead.” She refused to be distracted by her own thoughts.
“Is it? Fuck off.”
The vulture shrugged. “I can kill you, if you’d prefer.” She had to pretend she wasn’t afraid of him, even if it was only to try and convince herself. Not sure of what else to do, she stood up and brushed herself off. “You need to drink,” she told him. She pulled the wineskin from where she’d placed it on the opposite side of the tree and brought it to him. “It’s wine, not water, but it’ll do.”
“That we can agree on.” His hands were shaking too badly to take the wineskin himself. All of him was shaking, she realized, likely from the fever.
“Here,” she offered, lifting the wineskin to his mouth, “I’ve got you.” When she went to steady his face with her free hand, he jerked away.
“Fuck off,” he said.
“You fuck off. You want wine or not?” He must have wanted the wine, because he didn’t object when she helped him the second time, and he managed several swallows. When she pulled the wineskin away, he closed his eyes again.
It was a long time before either of them spoke. The warrior drifted in and out of consciousness; sometimes sweating, sometimes shaking, sometimes snoring. The vulture didn’t wander too far, but boredom bested her and she ventured around a bit. She found plenty of ripe blackberries and a handful of morel mushrooms nearby, and again she ventured to the stream. She filled the helmet with water so they could boil and drink it, as she’d heard the maesters do.
The sun was going down before they spoke again. “Can you eat?” she asked, offering him a handful of berries. He didn’t answer, but he did accept the berries and ate them slowly, one by one by one until there were no more.
As they sat in the creeping dusk, the small woman asked, “What is your name, if you’ll share it?”
The knight just shook his head. It was a mutual sentiment; she didn’t want to share hers, anyway. So they sat there in silence, the dying man and the woman who’d intended to loot his corpse. If she had a horse or a mule or a cart or maybe even an oversized sack, she would have knocked him unconscious and taken everything he and the other dead man had. She didn’t have those things, though, and she didn’t have anywhere else to go, either. Though she considered stealing his helmet and his horse, she was a looter, not a robber. Dead men held no grudges.
Even out in the farmlands where she grew up, she heard talk. Travelers on the road talked, and merchants, and storytellers passing through. They’d talked a lifetime ago about the king’s dog; a great beast with a scarred face, the meanest dog in all the Seven Kingdoms. The Hound, they’d called him. He was cruel and vicious as they came, with a reputation preceded only by his brother’s. She didn’t know the name of the man beside her. She just knew he had a hound’s head helmet and that he was a great mean beast with a scarred face. The vulture sat beside the hound. If he dies, I will have that horse and that helmet. Don’t tell me your name, dog. I already know it.
It was another full day before he had strength enough to stand. It fell on the vulture to keep the hound’s wound clean and to find food enough for the two of them. He had no appetite for blackberries and she was miserable at catching fish, so they ate little enough. They ate little and talked less, and by the time a day and half had passed she gave up on trying to talk to him. The thought of stealing his horse, though, was becoming ever more tempting.
She woke on the morning of their third full day together to the sound of armor jostling about. Cold and confused and barely awake, it took her a moment to realize what he was doing.
“You’re leaving?” Her bewilderment was outmatched only by his audacity. He was sitting ahorse, and he would have ridden right off without her had the sound of him mounting not woken her. He said nothing as he reined up. “I’m coming with you!”
“Fuck you are,” he grunted. “You’re dead weight, that’s all you are.”
“Dead weight!?” The woman was aghast. “You’d be the dead one if I hadn’t found you!” His shadow passed over her as the big gray horse sauntered past. “Don’t leave me here! Please!”
He never responded, and he was getting further and further out of reach. With no rocks nearby, she grabbed a chunk of charred wood from the evening’s fire and hurled it at him. She missed, mostly, as it just struck the horse in the haunch. Neither rider nor steed looked back, and then they were gone around the corner.
Cold, and poor, and terribly alone, her frustration mounted and all she could do was sit down on the ground and cry. She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat by the blackened remains of the fire and wept, but by the time she was done the sun was up and her face was sore, all puffy and swollen from the tears.
It was not in vain, though. It was through the tears that she’d sorted out a plan. He’s a wanted man, she realized. Someone will pay for him, and they will pay with gold. He will pay, too, for leaving, and he will pay with blood. She followed the game trail and the horse’s prints back out to the road from which she’d came nearly four days prior. The hooves turned left—which was north—and followed the road. It was perfect; the same direction she’d been going. The Hound, which she’d decided he indeed was, had a brother. It was the brother who had given him the kiss of fire, the brother they called The Mountain. The Mountain worked for the Lannisters, and those lions were made of gold. The gold was the fire that kept her burning.
The skies were grown grey by midday, and the vulture was tired and sore regardless of her spite-fueled path of war. She oft sang to keep herself alert and steady on the road, even at the cost of being seen, but today the songs would not come. Not even The Bear and the Maiden Fair or Seasons of My Love.
The Rains of Castamere, though…that one crept into her seething mind. She hummed as she drove forward, hoofprints of the Hound’s steed never out of sight. In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws. And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours.
The rain came when the day was nearly halfway over. It beat down hard and relentless with no end in sight, a cold autumn rain that soaked the vulture to her core. Worse, it washed away the hoofprints she’d been so diligently following when the road turned to mud. It sucked at her boots and slowed her pace by nearly half, but still she carried on. I know what direction he’s headed, and that’s enough. At least, it had better be enough, or she was like to throw herself into the Green Fork.
When riders came around the corner, there was little she could do to hide herself. They were too close and she was too slow to run from four—no, five—mounted men. They reined up around her in a sort of circle.
“What have we here?” said one rider. The rain had slicked his oily ginger hair to his face and dripped into his matted beard.
“A little lady, it seems,” said another. He was bald save for a few whisps of hair left clinging miserably to his scalp.
“Just passing through, sers,” answered the vulture, though it was plain these were no knights and did not deserve to be addressed as such.
The first rider dismounted. He was barrel-bodied with bandy legs, and a neck too thick for his shoulders. She backed away, but found she was trapped between horses. “Miserable looking thing, ain’t you?” He laughed. “Why don’t you sing us a song and might be we’ll let you go?”
She held open her hands. “Not much of a singer, tragically. My father told me once I had the voice of jackass.” The men laughed, but they were laughing at her in a cruel fashion that did little to assuage her growing unease. “I can sing you a different sort of song, though. For coin, that is.”
“And what sort of song might that be?” The red-haired man inched closer.
“One of a runaway hound,” she said. “A big beast. No doubt its master is looking for it.”
She hadn’t noticed the rider behind her had dismounted until it was too late. Suddenly he had her by the arms, and all of the men were talking at once, talking and laughing and jeering, and everything was happening so fast. She was being pulled away from the road, away from any hope of anyone else finding her. The trees were closing in around them. “Help! Help me!” she screamed to no one in particular. She screamed it again and again, until the man dragging her clapped one hand over her mouth and put an end to it. And when she couldn’t speak, she prayed it. Help me, Warrior, she thought. Help me Mother, Maiden, Crone, Smith, Father, Stranger. Help me whoever can hear. Help me Lord of Light, Black Goat. Someone, anyone, help me.
With no warning, the ground rose up to meet her. It was soft with mud and slick with fallen leaves, and she hit the forest floor with a wet thud. The men were laughing still. One of them knelt over her and attempted to tear at her dress.
And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours. She raked at his face with such fury that it left her hand aching. She dealt one swift hit, but it was as hard as she could manage and her untrimmed nails caught the skin of his face, leaving long, red ribbons in their wake. He did not expect the second blow from her other arm. She dropped her weight off of the elbow she was propped up on and shoved her hand upward at his face. In hindsight, she wasn’t sure what she had been hoping to accomplish, but she went for his eye. Maybe she’d meant to hit him, or maybe to scratch him. She did not intend to hit him so sharply that her nails and fingers punctured his eye.
The man howled, the woman screamed. He reeled backwards, clutching his bloodied eye. It was now or never; she shoved him off of her and scrambled to her feet. She had to go, she had to run, she had to…
The forest floor was slick with rain, the same rain that was pounding all around her and drowning out the cries of the men who chased her. The same rain that muddied the embankment; the same mud her boots kicked at helplessly, slipping and sliding as she tried her hardest to climb away from them. But the world was wet with rain and there was no escape. Halfway up she came down on her hands and knees, and try as she might to claw her way up, she was not fast enough. No sooner had she grabbed hold of a root than a man’s hands were fisted in her skirts, pulling her down again.
“No, no!” Her hands and feet left the ground entirely as she was lifted away. “Help me!” she screamed, moments before the wind was knocked from her. Her assailant tossed her haphazardly to the ground as if she were a child’s doll. Then there was a man holding down her arms, then another on top of her, then one was laughing. They were all laughing. The rain was in her eyes and the world was blurry.
Time slowed, then it crawled. She thought of her stupid husband and his stupid mother. She thought of the first man whose body she’d found discarded along the Kingsroad and the coin purse she’d taken from him. She’d said a prayer to the Stranger for him. The second body she’d found a day later, and she’d taken his cloak of black, the same cloak she wore now in the mud. After that they all blended together, all bloated in the sun and from the rain, with their eyes pecked out by crows. She thought of the fact she’d found the wanted man they called The Hound, and that she’d spent three days at his side. For some reason she’d nursed him back to health; maybe it was the same reason he’d left her there. I felt so safe at his side, she thought bitterly. Even when he was dying, even when he couldn’t stand. She thought of the nights she’d spent pressed at his side listening to wolves. I wanted to be safe with him.
The man on top of her looked away suddenly. “What the fu—”
Blood sprayed over her, red and hot and thick. Inches from her face, horse hooves thundered past in the mud, then they were gone just as quick as they’d come. The men were shouting. The one on top of her was up and standing before he ever had a chance to defile her. The vulture wasn’t sure what was happening. The man who had been holding her down lay in the mud, blood pouring from his now-cracked skull, his eyes open but unseeing. It wasn’t until she turned and saw the great black courser rearing in the rain that she realized. The Hound.
One of the men ran at him, slashing wildly. He’s still hurt, she realized, remembering the black wound on his neck. Another man grabbed at the courser’s reins, just out of the Hound’s reach. They’ll overtake him.
The same instinct that had taken the first man’s eye found her again. It seized her and made her grab hold of the dead man’s discarded dagger. Women did not often pray to the Warrior for strength for themselves; just for their sons and husbands and men who went off to war and were like to never return. Warrior give me strength, she thought nonetheless, and if the Warrior cannot, then I hope the Stranger does, so that I may send this man to you. She grabbed the redheaded man by the hair. Her fingers fisted in his oily red curls, and when she pulled back with all her might, the pale white flesh of his neck was there for the taking. The steel of the blade—the glittering, beautiful steel—found his throat in what would have been one clean sweep had her hands not been shaking so badly. Instead it cut him sideways, puncturing deep into his skin. She pulled it out and pushed it in again, then again, then again.
Then she was not sure what had happened. It was still raining, and none of the five men were living. The Hound was not on his horse, he was standing over one of the still-warm bodies. The vulture was standing at the edge of the embankment. Perhaps she’d hoped to climb away with better luck than she’d had the first time.
The Hound kicked at the body with his boot and grunted. The woman watched. When he turned to face her, it was plain he was in pain, that his wound was still raw and burning. The new wound on his leg wasn’t helping, either.
“Are you alright?”
His words took her by surprise. “I’m fine,” she said, though she hadn’t realized until then that she was crying. “Are you?”
The Hound half-nodded in response. When the vulture looked around, she noticed one of the dead riders had a wineskin at his hip. She knelt and took it. Old habits die hard, she thought when she pulled it from his belt. “You’ll need this,” she started.
She never got to finish. The Hound took the wineskin from her hands mid-sentence. “Damn right I will.” He took a long pull from it, wine dripping from his mouth and into his beard. Had he not been so large, she might have tried to stop him. Instead she just stood and watched the spectacle.
When he was done, she told him, “You could have boiled it for your wounds.”
“Piss on the wounds,” he told her. “Find more wine.”
By the time they’d stripped the bodies of anything of value, they had eighteen silver stags, a handful of coppers, and two more wineskins. One of them was empty, to the Hound’s disdain, but the other had enough for him to take a Hound-sized swig with some left over to boil.
Two of the riders’ horses who had not bolted from the fray remained. The vulture approached one, cooing and shushing and making all matter of silly noises to soothe it. It was a pretty, young thing, piebald and bright-eyed.
“Can you ride?” the Hound asked.
“I can.” She balled the reins in her hand and gently edged towards the other horse, a chestnut mare with a mane of black. Though it whickered and pawed at the mud, it otherwise put-up little fight. She stood between the two horses, securing them to one another.
“The fuck are you doing?” The Hound watched her with a furrowed brow.
“They’re both young and in good health,” she said, checking her knots. They were nice and secure. “This one here might fetch a pretty penny in the next town.”
The Hound considered that a moment. “It’ll slow us down.”
“Us?” The vulture looked at him. “I wasn’t aware there’s an us.”
“Bugger that. I’m leaving you at the first hole of a village we find. You want to get left to the rapers and raiders again?”
She smiled. “Weren’t you the one that left me in the first place?”
They rode until they found a barn that could at least halfway pass as a shelter. Neither knew whose land the barn was on, or whether or not anyone would care that they were there. Judging by the weeds that grew up around it, though, no one had been there in a while. And if they do care, the Hound will kill them, she thought to herself.
She dabbed at his wounds with strips of cloth boiled in wine. The whole damn thing was shades of purple and black and fierce reds, but it seemed somewhat improved at the very least. “If we can keep it up like this, you might not die,” said the woman.
“I wasn’t aware there’s a we,” was his answer. Could it be? Was he joking with her? Though she laughed, he did not. It didn’t matter. It felt good to laugh, so she laughed and laughed and laughed until surely he thought she’d lost her mind.
They supped on strips of salted pork they’d rummaged up from one of the rider’s bags, and they boiled rainwater to drink. “Why bother collecting it in the helmet?” As the sun went down the Hound sat with his back to the wall, looking sodden and sick and miserable but pretending he was none of those things.
“How else should we drink it?” she asked. “Do you propose I go stand out in the rain with my head to the sky and my mouth open like a turkey?”
That marked the first time she saw him smile. His mouth twitched up at the corners for the briefest of seconds and his eyebrows raised. “I don’t know, why don’t you go try?”
“Piss on that,” the vulture told him, and sat down to boil their water.
The fire was warm, but the night was cold. Bitter cold. Even when she laid down to sleep, the rain had not let up. The rain was making the air damp and heavy til the chill settled into their very bones. She wished she was a proper lady, then, safe and sound on a featherbed with furs all around her, with a fire in the hearth and fresh rushes on the floor. She was the one on the floor, though, and it was a floor of straw and dirt. There were no furs, and instead she laid beneath a sodden cloak that didn’t seem to dry no matter how much she held it by the flames or how close she laid to the small fire. It would go out soon, and then they’d be utterly, miserably cold.
She awoke shivering in the middle of the night. The fire had mostly burned down to embers, so she fed it and stirred at it until the flames took. Not even the wolves howled into the wretched, rainy darkness. Fuck the north. She rubbed her hands over the fire as a chill took hold of her. Why’d I go north? Why not to Dorne? Her cloak would be dry in Dorne, no doubt, and she could be eating oranges and swimming in the Greenblood river.
“Are you that fucking cold?” The Hound’s voice startled the vulture so badly that she near instinctively went for her knife.
“Aren’t you?” Her heart rate steadied again.
The Hound scoffed. “It’s only going to get colder.”
All she could do was shrug. He was right. “It’s not so bad without the rain,” she said at last.
“It could rain for fuckin’ weeks. Has before. You gonna sit by that fire for weeks?”
The big man was irritating her. She began to wonder again exactly how much of a reward was offered for him. Maybe the king would marry me to a knight, she dreamed dramatically. Instead, she just said, “No. But it’s tempting.” Whether it was tempting to sit by the fire for a week’s time or sell him back to the king, the vulture could not say.
The Hound stirred, moving closer to the fire. With a theatric huff, he stretched out. “Get over here,” he growled in that gruff, raspy voice of his.
The woman was caught off guard. “For what?”
“What do you mean ‘for what?’ What the fuck do you think?” When she just stared at him, confused, he said, “Do you want to warm up or not?”
The act of kindness was startling. She went to him, though, and curled up at his side, close enough for warmth but barely touching. Almost begrudgingly, he tossed half of his cloak over her. He didn’t speak again, so they laid there in a silence that was somehow neither awkward nor entirely comfortable. He smells like a man that’s been dying for a week, she thought, and the thought made her smile to herself.
“The fuck are you smiling at?”
“You smell like a man who’s been dying for a week, maybe longer.”
“Fuck off.”
#sandor clegane#the hound#game of thrones#got#got the hound#sandor clegane x reader#sandor x reader#sandor clegane/reader#reader insert#romance#sandor clegane fic#mywriting
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Winter’s Dragonfire
chapter 3 - blackwater
the hound/sandor clegane x targaryen female oc
roughly follows canon timeline (tv)
From a dinasty once defeated, a child with unmistakable silver hair was born in the frosted lands of the North. Her journey east awaits with a kiss of fire.
words: 4080
notes: +18 content! a very interesting chapter that i’m really proud of 🤭 these first three chapters are my beloved, and the next to come also have doozies for you all. also posted in AO3 (link below)
Inside of Rhaenys’ new chambers, she sat in the sunlight and contemplated the beautiful view from the big window of the room she had been put in. It was not at all the same kind of space reserved for lords, ladies or royalty, but certainly the fanciest bedchamber the girl had ever been in. Though the days were just as empty and dull as before, she had more resources to entertain herself there, like staring out the window and listening to gossip in the corridor by sitting next to the door. Now she realised she was probably eating at least the same as the servants rather than the scraps of their meals, and it was good enough for her. She had a bath every few days and wasn’t in any place to complain except for an overwhelming sense of solitude. She longed to see another person, anybody, to walk somewhere again and talk to those whose voices she could hear in the dead of night. Whenever she heard heavy footsteps in the halls, she liked to imagine it was the Clegane man walking through the corridor. But no one ever summoned her again.
It wasn’t until one fateful night that the girl would finally push herself out of that room as she heard a loud commotion going on all around the castle. People were running through the halls and talking loudly, some were screaming and every voice was hasty and afraid. It wasn’t long until Rhaenys was afraid, too. She glued her ear to the door and tried to make out at least something that could indicate what was going on as people ran by.
— … blackwater — she heard.
— … Stannis..
— … women to the basement..
Rhaenys was nothing if not quick witted, at least enough to conclude: Stannis Baratheon. He’s invading Blackwater Bay.
The girl had done enough research and read enough messages from her father’s ravens to know that that invasion had only been a matter of time. It seemed that now the time was over. Her heart started to race. The Baratheons were the head behind the usurping of the Targaryen dynasty, and their hatred towards them was well known. Even though Robert Baratheon was dead, Rhaenys feared getting in Stannis’ hands could be just as bad, maybe worse than any plan the Lannisters had for her. This is the time to flee, she thought. No one would bother guarding her or making sure she couldn’t escape during an invasion. She looked around trying to figure something out, but the door was always locked and the window was well above any sort of ground.
She picked up a metal chair that stood near a little table on the opposite side to the bed with some effort. Physical strength was definitely not something she had been blessed with, but it was still worth trying. She grabbed it hard and slammed the chair’s legs into the wooden door with a loud bang. It didn’t even bulge, of course, and so the girl repeated the effort several times. After her arms ached and she could barely hold the chair anymore, she let go of it and analysed the door to see that some of the metal parts had been slightly damaged. Rhaenys kicked it several times until her legs were painful and itchy, but nothing happened.
The girl sat on the floor in front of the door and growled in frustration. Tears formed in her eyes and she sobbed angrily, grabbing on her face and hair tightly until she accidentally touched one of her burns. It hurt like hell, but the scream she let out was one of anguish and anger rather than pain. Rhaenys got up and paced around the room, often times looking through the window and briefly considering taking the risk of climbing down of even jumping. But she considered that even she managed to the ground without getting hurt, outdoors on the Red Keep it would be much more likely she would bump into soldiers. And that was not something she could risk. It would be better to remain imprisoned. She paced slowly to the bed and laid facing away from the door and sobbed, grabbing the sheets in her fists.
After a long time, enough for the tears to have passed and a slight sleepiness to come creeping to her head, the girl heard two loud bangs on her door that jolted her awake and made her roll out of the bed to the opposite side. She covered her ears and closed her eyes tightly in fear. Now it’s the time. Now it’s over, she thought.
— Dragon girl.
Rhaenys jumped at the sound of a deep voice coming from the door. She looked over from behind the bed and saw the Hound standing in the doorway, staring at her. He had, somehow, broken the door and it was almost falling off the wall. Her eyes widened looking at the door, then at him, and she got up. That was the last person she was expecting to see. His face was covered in blood and sweat, and for a moment Rhaenys wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or frightened. The man stepped into the room and she stood still as a rock.
— I’m leaving this fucking city. I can take you and the Stark girl back to the north. — he growled after a moment of silence that felt much longer than it had actually been.
— Oh gods — she let out a gasp, relief choking her as she realised what he had said. — Thank you sir, of course I will come.
— You wait here. — he turned her back to her — Don’t call me sir.
Rhaenys waited nervously by the bed, her mind racing as she struggled to gather the few belongings she still had. Contrary to the man’s orders, she left the chamber and crept around the nearby rooms and took every small item of value she laid her eyes upon. She was not thrilled to go on another journey without supplies and no money.
After a while the girl heard heavy steps coming in her direction, so she scurried back to her door. She had concocted a small bag with her old clothes and rags in which she placed the valuables, and was holding it in her arms when the Hound appeared before her again.
— Where’s the girl? — she said confused, looking out to see if Sansa was anywhere near.
— She wouldn’t come. Let her. — he said, and started walking away. Rhaenys followed.
At first the girl was doing her best to make as little noise as possible, but soon realised that was not the case for the Hound. He had a wineskin in his hand and walked fast with his usual heavy steps Rhaenys had to almost run to keep up with. They walked a long time through halls she had never seen, but that he knew quite well, up until the stable where horses stood restless and loud. She observed Clegane going up to a huge black horse that she saw him stroke for a second before pulling himself up to the saddle.
— Get up here. — he growled.
— I should get one for my own. — she said without hesitation and looked around to pick one. She didn’t want to ride the same horse as him just in case things got sour in their endeavour.
— Fuck off, girl. These are bloody war horses.
She didn’t answer and simply glared up at him in disapproval.
— Go on then. I won’t fucking wait for ya.
Rhaenys hastily looked around for some horse that wasn’t as overwhelmingly big as most of them. Thankfully, due to the battle they were already saddled, though they were not being used and the stable was empty and silent. She finally picked a shorter one with pretty white pelt, and filled the saddlebag with the valuables she had stolen. She looked to the side to see Sandor riding away already. The girl rolled her eyes and put her horse to motion while still climbing up the stirrup.
— What now? — she put herself next to him.
— Now I’ll get far away from this fucking castle full of cunts.
Rhaenys and the Hound rode north for a good two hours before stopping at a big grassy field with a few sparse trees. Riding a war horse was no joke, and quite difficult to handle, but she tried to seem steady and stayed behind him so he wouldn’t see her struggling. The moon was up high in the sky when the both of them got off their horses. She saw him take his saddlebag and place it on the ground and did the same. The girl sat next to it on the grass, with her chin on her knees.
— So what of the battle? — Rhaenys was interested in why he had fled in the first place and wanted to make a bit of conversation.
— Fuck the battle. — he rasped. But she didn’t want silence, not anymore. She had had enough of it.
— I understand why Stannis Baratheon wants the throne, since he’s the older brother and it seems that Joffrey’s a bastard and all. — she pondered out loud — But they’re all usurpers, be it Baratheon or Lannister, so in the end it doesn’t matter.
— What the fuck do you even know about these people? — Clegane had taken the wineskin again.
— I know who everyone is. I studied the houses before coming down south.
— All clever, aren’t you? Bet ya didn’t fucking know who I was.
— I think father forgot to mention Joffrey's big dog. — she smirked — I do now, though. I asked lord Tyrion about you.
Sandor scoffed.
— And what did the Imp have to say?
— I learned your name. — she said shyly.
None of them talked for a while. Rhaenys played with a strand of hair while he drank from his wineskin. She wanted some, too.
— Is that wine?
— Aye. — he handed it over to her begrudgingly.
— Thank you. — they were facing one another, a few steps apart. She knelt and crawled a bit in his direction to grab it from his hand. — Don’t like it really, but I’m dying for a drink.
— Bet you like some sweet dogpiss like rum — he snarled.
— I don’t. — she gave him a side eye — I like ale best. Sweet drinks taste like vomit.
— That’s a sight to see, a girl like you drinking ale.
— I’m not a highborn, you know. But maybe you’re starting to believe me. Also, I’m 19. Not really a girl anymore. — Rhaenys took a big gulp of wine.
— Not a proper woman either. Old enough to drink properly but not to know yer way around.
— I’ve seen a lot of ugly things. — she said, a little annoyed. — Blood, corpses, disease. I’m not a bloody coward.
— For such a brave woman, ya sure do a lot of fucking crying.
— And even still I always get what I’m after. I can do both just fine. — she took a sip and didn’t say anything else, but also didn’t look away.
The Hound was sitting on a tree root looking at the field around them. He had his armour on from the battle, which made him seem even bigger than he was. His face had smears of blood all over it, and with the haze of the wine getting to her brain, Rhaenys didn’t even try and pretend she wasn’t staring. Her eyes wandered through his broad shoulders, the detail of his armour and his boots, how he seemed almost serene in the moonlight, and she couldn’t help but get a little flustered about the things she began to think next.
Clegane noticed her with the corner of his eye. He was used to being stared at, but even with custom, it still annoyed him. He turned his head to curse at her, but saw the stare was not the kind he had imagined. Rhaenys’ head was tilted slightly to the side, exposing her neck a little, and she was stroking her hair delicately. She had her mouth slightly open, with an expression such as if she was dreaming. Without saying anything, he stared back at her until she finally noticed.
— Here. — she said timidly to break the tension — I saved you the last bit.
The girl got on her hands and knees to give him the wineskin back. She crawled closer, and stopped in between his legs, with her hand next to his foot. She looked up at Sandor, and he was staring right back still. He picked up the wineskin from her hand and drank the rest of it in silence. Rhaenys had sat down again and looked at her legs. They were a little shaky as she felt a pulsing force propelling her and her cheeks flushing from the alcohol and timid excitement. She was sitting on her knees right in front of him, and thought about getting a little closer.. but that thought was suddenly interrupted by Sandor getting up.
— Wineskin’s empty. Go to sleep.
— …right. I’ll go gather some firewood. — the girl got up too, a little disappointed.
—You won’t light no bloody fire. — he rasped sharply.
Rhaenys lifted her head and looked at him with furrowed brows.
— Why?
— I don’t wanna look at any fucking fire right now. — he growled and turned his back to her.
The girl felt a slight annoyance at his behaviour. He had a full armour, but she only had a feeble wool dress on to last the cold night. She opened her mouth to complain, however deep down she thought probably he wasn’t doing that to mean any harm. He must have seen something he didn’t like tonight. He smelled like smoke, anyway. Also, she had another fire going already inside her body, and it was enough to keep herself warm. But still, only herself.
— Won’t you be cold? — she said quietly.
— Shut up, dragon girl. I said no fire.
— No need for fire. — she said, and the Hound heard the light thud of clothes falling behind him.
He was facing back to her, then turned around to see Rhaenys taking off her last piece of clothing, leaving her only in her underdress. She was standing in the cold grass, looking up at him with a straight face and wide eyes. Sandor stared at her, genuinely surprised, and Rhaenys could see that in his face. She had no idea how he would react from that point on, thus hadn’t finished undressing. Neither of them moved a muscle; a long moment passed of dead silence, in which the girl could hear every chirp and buzz in those woods. She wasn’t ashamed, but was struggling to sustain the glare they were sharing.
Suddenly and without a word, the Hound lunged at her, making her squirm just enough for him to notice it and stop. She had shut her eyes and when she opened them, his were just as wide. Rhaenys didn’t mean to frighten him, but he was so hard to read she wasn’t ever sure what his intentions were, and was taken by surprise when he came close. He stood still hesitantly, so she took a step towards him and touched his armoured chest so lightly she could barely feel the cold metal against her fingers.
She could see how wide his nostrils were, how fast he was breathing. She thought maybe he wasn’t sure if he should play along. Had it been long since the Hound had laid with a woman if not a whore? A woman who willingly wanted him? She stroked the studs on his armour and looked up at him with doe eyes. She wanted him, she really did, but if he didn’t respond to that, there was still time to take it all back.
Sandor was also unsure. The look in her eyes was much different from a whore’s who was trying to fuck around for money, a look he knew quite well. Rhaenys’ stare was of an almost innocent lust he had a difficult time not responding to. That girl wasn’t worth anything to him, no ransom money was in sight for this common woman who had nothing but silver hair. It could be a bad idea to fuck her, as there was no telling what she would make of it all after the wine had worn off. But she was making her way into his body just through her big eyes and humble hints of lust, and if his mind could resist, the strain in his breeches was saying otherwise.
In a split second, he grabbed Rhaenys by the scruff of her neck and pushed their faces close together. He looked into her eyes very intently to again make sure that wouldn’t be a mistake, that she wasn’t just doing that to earn his favour. She had the same expression in her watery eyes, an inviting one that was not easy to refuse. Rhaenys looked away from Sandor’s eyes and to his mouth, his beard still wet with wine. Their breaths were a haze of alcohol and the Hound's face smelled of blood and smoke. She didn’t want to wait a second longer, the fire in her hips had grown into wildfire. She grabbed the metal plate on his chest and pulled him to herself in a kiss. It wasn’t a soft one; their lips pressed on one another harshly and she forced her tongue into his mouth, biting his lips. He reciprocated just as roughly, pulling her hair and holding onto it tightly. She held his face in her hands firmly, feeling his scarred leathery skin and pushing him into herself when he tried to pull away. When she had let go slightly from her tight grip, the Hound also let go of her and pushed her to the ground on her back. He knelt before her breathing heavily, grabbed her underdress by the collar and ripped it apart with no effort at all. Now the girl laid bare on the ground, her silver hair all over the grass and her face.
The Hound stared at her for a long time, Rhaenys staring back at him and seeing his eyes go through all the parts of her body. She didn’t have the body of a lady, and neither that of a whore, just ghostly white skin burned and scarred flushing with excitement. Her legs were trembling, so she was holding them together, but he grabbed her knees and spread them widely. Rhaenys whined and the man contained a smirk of satisfaction. She thought she had been winning that game, but it was much on the contrary. She had gotten what she wanted, but they were going to play by his rules. She watched as Clegane put his hands on her thighs and made his way from her hips to her chest. He grabbed her breasts and pulled her nipples hard, sucking and biting them, making her let out loud gasps. He paid no mind as to what could hurt her. The Hound then pushed her further back and grabbed her legs, so hard the skin turned red. He lowered his head in between her thighs and touched his lips on hers. The girl was not expecting that and covered her eyes for a moment from coyness. Her legs shivered when he started properly sliding his tongue all over her, and she felt she couldn’t do anything about it other than cover her mouth while she whimpered. She started breathing faster and making high pitched sounds she couldn’t control, until she let out a big gasp and her legs began to shake. The girl contorted into herself and opened her eyes to see Clegane lifting his head and standing on his knees. Without saying a word, he undid his belt and slid himself into her slowly all the way through.
The Hound grabbed her hips and pulled them up to his, and she squirmed when he started moving, his hands pressing on her skin tightly, even pressing down on one of the burn wounds in her arm. She squealed in pain and her eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t let go right away, and rather pressed tighter for a second before letting go. He lowered his head into her and bit the skin above her breast hard, making Rhaenys scream. She gave him an angry stare, but didn’t back down and rather forced her hips against his more at each stroke. He grabbed one of the girl’s legs and lifted it from under her knee, bit her again, at her inner thigh, and started to thrust harder into her. Rhaenys whined and twisted from the pain and pleasure from her insides that were still tight and sensitive. Sandor hadn’t taken any clothes or garments off, so his huge armour was clanging with each movement, dripping blood on the girl’s white skin. She looked at the red drops and then at him. She noticed his eyes wandering through the droplets and slowly reached her belly with one of her arms to smear them all over her body, mixing enemy’s blood with her sweat. The Hound saw that and this time couldn’t conceal his reaction. He grunted and grabbed her face by the cheeks with one of his hands, annoyed at how she could have pulled such a lustful move that could get to his core like that. He felt like a mad dog. He pulled himself from her and flipped her to her back, holding her still in all fours.
Clegane grabbed the girl’s silver hair and pulled it tightly, making her arch her neck. He spread the lips on her parts aside and went inside her once more. This time his thrusts were even harder and reaching deeper, which made Rhaenys whimper and gasp at every movement. The girl took one look behind at him, and was surprised to see how vicious his expression was, with bloody sweat dripping down his forehead. He now looked as if he was in a fight and was so enticed by it he couldn’t keep a straight face anymore. That was how he felt, too. Soldiers tend to agree that a good fight asks for a good fuck, so maybe the two things aren’t all that different. He grabbed her hips and dug his fingers into her skin, leaving marks that would soon turn into bruises. His movements started getting more erratic and Rhaenys felt him lowering his body towards her, until his cheek was touching her head and his mouth was right above her ear. She heard his breath getting faster and he grabbed her shoulder with one of his hands, biting down on it harder than he had before, while he pushed himself deep into her for a few final times. Rhaenys leaned her head into his face and heard a deep growl from him when he eventually stopped moving. The Hound let go of the tight grip on her shoulder, slowly pulled himself from her and then buckled his belt in silence. The girl laid on her side on the underdress below her with a deep sigh of exhaustion. Sandor looked at her for just a moment before standing up; she was panting and flushed, with blood and fluids and his bite marks all over herself. Seeing the dragon silver haired girl lying there after having his way with her like that made him feel slightly that she had been more worth rescuing then he had thought at first. He stood up at last, and Rhaenys watched as he got up and fetched her clothes.
The girl picked them up from his hand and saw him go over to his saddlebag and lay his head on it on the ground. He clutched his hands together in his belly and closed his eyes without another word. Rhaenys got up and put on her clothes, then crawled to her own bag, a safe distance apart from where he was sleeping. She bundled her torn underdress and held it in her arms for comfort on the cold ground. She could feel the soreness from her legs, the wet and sticky feeling of her thighs rubbing together and the lingering feeling of where he had touched her. She thought she was having her way with him, but the opposite seemed to also be true. She stared at him sleeping, at his scarred face, only closing her eyes once she couldn’t keep them open anymore.
#angst#game of thrones fic#game of thrones the hound#game of thrones oc#romance#sandor clegane#mywriting#game of thrones#sandor clegane fic#sandor clegane x oc#winter’s dragonfire#the hound
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Sleigh Ride
Merry early Christmas @gefionne <3
Sansa Stark x Sandor Clegane
18+ MINORS DNI
WC: 3,3k
Warnings / Tags: fluff, christmassy theme, canon times, massage, sex, breeding king, pregnancy, no beta reads no checks no nothing im sorry
The bells on the horses' harness collars jingled merrily as they kept their calm pace, puffs of hot steam coming out of their nostrils. The sleigh continued its peaceful journey through the snow-covered forests of the North. Sansa snuggled deeper into her furs, sighing contentedly. Despite the bitter cold, she felt warm and safe next to Sandor. He kept his eyes fixed ahead, guiding the horses along the narrow path. Sansa studied his face in profile, the ruined side she once feared now so dear to her. She smiled, remembering how reluctant he'd been to don the red Father Sevenmas hat she'd playfully plopped on his head before they set out.
"Bloody hells," he'd grumbled. But he wore it still - if Sansa asked, who was he to say no to his little bird?
Up ahead, the trees opened up into a wide clearing. "Look!" Sansa gasped. A snow castle rose in the center of the field, its turrets shimmering in the dimming light. As they approached, the gates swung open and a jubilant group of children streamed out, bundled in furs and warm fabrics. They were all from Castle Cerwyn, and as the Lady of the North, Sansa had made a promise to her people to bring joy to their lives after enduring war, harrying, and famine.
Sansa beamed at Sandor. "Your little admirers await."
He harrumphed, but she caught the twitch of his mouth that meant he was pleased. When the sleigh halted, the children swarmed forward, young voices rising excitedly.
"Father Sevenmas! Father Sevenmas!"
Sandor's eyes softened as he reached into his bag and began handing out gifts - simple things such as nuts, dried fruits and small mittens and scarves. Sansa's heart swelled watching him interact so gently with the babes. Despite his gruff exterior, he had much goodness in him. She took his hand and squeezed it fondly. This was a perfect Sevemmas, indeed. It wouldn't be long until he could be their child's father chrismas, she thought with a smile.
Sansa gazed affectionately at Sandor as he handed out gifts to the delighted children. She placed a hand on her still-flat belly, imagining him one day doing the same for their babe.
After the gifts were distributed, the children begged for a story. With a gruff chuckle, Sandor obliged, his raspy voice spinning a tale of adventure and heroism. The children listened, enraptured, as if Sevenmas had come early. Too soon, the short winter day faded into dusk. Sandor wrapped up his story and helped the sleepy children back inside the gates of their snow castle. As the gates closed behind the last child, he turned to Sansa with a rare, soft smile.
"Well, little bird? How did I fare at playing Father Sevenmas?"
Sansa wrapped her arms around his broad chest. "Wonderfully. I owe you something."
He stroked her hair, his touch infinitely gentle. "No, Sansa, I... I did it for you, you don't owe me anything."
Reluctantly, Sandor helped Sansa back into the sleigh and flicked the reins. The horses began the journey home, back to Winterfell. Sansa nestled against Sandor's side, thinking of the life growing within her.
Sansa gazed up at the night sky as they traveled, the stars twinkling like a thousand candles. She thought of all she and Sandor had endured to find their way here, to this place of quiet contentment. The path had not been easy, but she had no regrets.
"What are you thinking about, little bird?" Sandor asked in his raspy voice.
Sansa smiled. "The future. Our future." She took his hand and brought it to her lips.
Sandor's brow furrowed. "Sansa..."
"I have news," she blurted out. "Wonderful news. I'm with child."
Sandor froze, staring at her. The sleigh slid to a stop. "Truly?" he finally asked.
Sansa nodded, her eyes bright. Sandor let out a shuddering breath and pulled her into his arms.
"You've made me the happiest man in the seven kingdoms," he said gruffly. He tilted her chin up and kissed her deeply.
When they finally broke apart, Sansa laughed. "I believe you were already the happiest man before."
Sandor's eyes shone. "Aye. But now..." He placed a gentle hand on her belly. "Now I'm the luckiest bloody man in the world."
The bells on the horses' harness collars jingled merrily as they kept their calm pace, puffs of hot steam coming out of their nostrils. The sleigh continued its peaceful journey through the snow-covered forests of the North. Sansa snuggled deeper into her furs, sighing contentedly. Despite the bitter cold, she felt warm and safe next to Sandor.
As they glided past towering pines and old oaks draped with icicles that glistened in the setting sun, the soft crunch of snow beneath the skids filled the air. The scent of fresh evergreen needles and frosty breath hung in the frigid night, mingling with the spiced cider from a flask Sandor passed to her earlier; she took a sip, feeling it warm her insides.
"I love you so much, there's nothing I would've loved doing more today than this, seeing children having fun and... well, telling you about our little one. But it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise, seeing as we... did enjoy ourselves a lot as of late," she said contentenly, resting her small, gloved hand on his muscular thigh. Gods, she thought and blushed, how nice it had felt to sit on top of him, their bare bodies touching each other, his thick member buried deep within her heat.
Sansa watched her big, rough-looking protector – but he was so much more than that now – as he kept his eyes fixed ahead, guiding the horses along the narrow path as he blushed and cleared his throat. "Don't tease me, little bird, or soon you'll have a second, third and fourth babe on the way."
To this, Sansa blushed as much as he did and grinned happily.
Sandor looked over at Sansa and couldn't help but smile when she rested her hand on his thigh. He'd always loved the way she blushed when they talked about their intimate moments together. It made something inside him warm up and he felt protective of her, like he always had.
He squeezed her hand gently, his own rough calloused one contrasting with her soft gloved one. "You're an absolute flirt, you know that?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."
As they continued down the path through the snow-covered forest, the air was filled with the sound of jingling bells and the crunch of shifting snow beneath the sleigh runners. The trees towered above them, their branches heavy with ice and snow that clung to every bough. The sun was setting fast now, casting long shadows across the landscape as they traveled deeper into the woods.
The sweet scent of pine needles filled the air as they rode along, occasionally a gust of chilled wind rustling them, sending a shiver down Sansa's spine. She looked up at the starlit sky and leaned against Sandor, enjoying the warmth of his arm around her shoulders. The crunching sound of snow under the horses' hooves was like music to her ears. The warmth of his hand holding hers was a welcome contrast to the icy air nipping at her cheeks.
Suddenly, Sansa noticed a small cabin in the distance, lit up by a single candlelight flickering through the window. It was nestled amidst towering evergreens and snowdrifts that reached almost as high as the roof. "Is that our destination?" she asked softly, feeling her stomach grumble with anticipation for some hot food after their long day.
Sandor nodded, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "Aye, Little Bird. We'll rest there for the night and get some hot food inside us." He guided the horses towards the cabin, their hooves thundering on the frozen ground beneath them. They stopped outside a small hut, its door creaking open as they approached.
A faint scent of smoke wafted out, filling their nostrils with warmth and comfort.
Sansa's eyes lit up as she gently took a step closer. "Sandor... I... That wasn't necessary!"
He, in turn, gave her a small smile and gently kissed her forehead. "Merry Sevenmas, my dear."
As Sansa entered the cozy cabin, she shivered slightly from the cold that seeped through her thick coat. The warmth of the fireplace instantly enveloped her shivering body, and she let out a sigh of relief as her cheeks became rosy from the heat. The scent of wood smoke and freshly baked bread filled her nostrils, making her mouth water. It was soothing to her senses after their long day traveling through the frosty night.
Sandor helped Sansa remove her gloves and coat, hanging them by the door, before leading her over to a small table where a steaming pot sat. There was fresh bread, drizzled with honey and some sort of sweet preserve she didn't recognize, and a bowl of steaming rabbit stew. The juices sizzled and popped as he dished out two big helpings onto plates for them both.
"This is lovely," Sansa breathed out, taking a mouthful of the warm food that melted on her tongue like velvet. She closed her eyes in contentment at the taste – rich broth with tender pieces of meat infused with aromatic spices and vegetables. Sandor watched as she savored every bite, his eyes glowing with pride.
"I'm glad you like it," he grunted between mouthfuls of his own meal. "The old caretaker left some provisions for us." He gestured to a basket near the fire, which looked like it had been brought over by one of Winterfell's servants rather than an old caretaker, yet Sansa didn't care.
As she sank into a worn wooden chair by the fireplace, her fingers lazily tracing the carvings on its backrest while Sandor took his own seat across from her, she let out a contented sigh. She watched as he tore off chunks of warm bread and dunked them into the hearty stew, his cheeks hollowing as he savored each bite. The crackling fire cast dancing shadows on his rough-hewn features, turning them almost angelic in their playful dance. The smell of smoke and wood mixing with the savory scent of the soup made her stomach grumble appreciatively.
"Sandor, this is delicious," she murmured between bites, her voice soft and reverent. "I can't believe how good it tastes after such a long day." Each spoonful filled her mouth with warmth and comfort, melting away any lingering chill from their journey. She leaned back in her chair, watching as he did the same, thinking that perhaps this was their best Sevenmas yet - warm food, a cozy cabin, each other's company.
He nodded in agreement, wiping his beard-stubbled chin with the back of his hand before reaching over to take her smaller one in his large palm. "Aye, Lady Sansa. It's been a long time since I've enjoyed a meal like this." His eyes met hers for a moment too long before looking back down at their empty bowls. "Go lie down on the bed, my sweet, I've something for you, something I think you'll love even more than the stew."
As Sandor spoke, Sansa's heart began to race with anticipation. She placed her spoon down gently and stood up from her chair, swaying a bit as she walked over to him. Her stomach churned with both excitement and fear, wondering what he could possibly have planned for her next. He escorted her to a small bed in the corner of the cabin, made up with soft furs that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and evergreen.
She felt his warmth behind her as he helped her undress, feeling his calloused hands move up and down her skin, sending shivers through every inch of her being. She could feel the heat radiating from his body as he undid the ties on her bodice, letting it fall to the floor. His fingers brushed against her bare skin slowly, teasingly, causing goosebumps to form in their wake.
Her breath hitched as he pulled off her stockings and pushed her down onto the bed, watching as he collected some sort of thick oil from a small chest near the fireplace. The crackling flames cast dancing shadows on his rugged features as he walked back over to the bedside. Sansa bit her bottom lip nervously, not sure what was about to happen but ready for whatever it was.
Sandor poured some of the hot oil into his hands and began to massage Sansa's shoulders, kneading out the tension she hadn't even realized was there. The scent of spices filled the air and made her moan softly.
As Sansa lay down on the soft furs, feeling the warmth seep into her bones, she felt Sandor begin to massage her tense shoulders. His big hands moved with a deftness that belied his rough exterior, kneading away the knots and kinks that had built up during their day-long journey. With each passing moment, her body relaxed more under his skilled touch. The scent of spiced oil filled the air, mingling with that of sweat and leather from his clothes.
Her heart raced as he trailed his hands down her arms, his fingers digging into her flesh in just the right way to relieve all the tension. He moved lower, kneading her stomach and hips before slowly working his way back up to her thighs. A soft gasp escaped her lips when she felt one of his rough hands glide between them, teasingly brushing against her folds beneath her shift. He paused for a moment, looking into her eyes as he saw the desire there.
She parted her legs slightly, inviting him in, feeling a hot pulse of arousal course through her veins as he rubbed small circles over her most sensitive spot. His touch was feather-light at first, but grew bolder by the moment. The fire crackled and popped in the background, echoing their deepening breaths as he expertly worked his magic on her nerves.
Sansa arched her back into his touch, moaning softly as he continued to pleasure her, his warm, oily hands making her feel things she's rarely ever felt before. Every stroke sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her veins, making her arch back into him and gasp for breath. His rough fingers teased and prodded until she couldn't help but whimper for more.
"Please," she whispered hoarsely, her voice catching in her throat. "I... I want you to bury yourself in me, oh..."
Sandor moved his hands to the buttons of her dress as he knelt between her spread thighs, eyes hungrily devouring her body. The sight of her supple flesh in the soft light of the fire sent a shiver down his spine. His rough fingers fumbled with the buttons, undoing them one by one until they fell open, revealing her creamy white skin to his greedy gaze.
She was breathtakingly beautiful in this moment, her nipples standing at attention under the thin fabric of her shift. He gently pushed it aside, exposing her perfect breasts to the warmth of the firelight's caress. He took one in his mouth, sucking on it hungrily as he ran his free hand down to cup her slick folds.
Her pussy was wet and ready for him; she was soaked with desire, begging to be taken. He rubbed her clit as he sucked harder on her nipple, causing shivers to race through her body. Sansa moaned loudly, her legs shaking as she felt the onslaught of pleasure coursing through her veins.
Sandor couldn't believe how much he enjoyed hearing those sounds escape from her perfect lips, how she trusted him enough to let him touch and taste every inch of her beautiful body. It drove him wild with love and lust.
Without further ado, he lifted himself up and positioned himself at her entrance, his cock already hard as a rock. Nodding needily, Sansa rubbed her soaked heat over the tip of his cock and gasped as he quickly inserted it, filling her up to the brim. Lifting her perfect, delicate legs over his shoulders, he groaned as she rolled back her eyes and squeezed herself around him.
As their hips met and he slowly began to move within her, Sansa's back arched off the bed, a primal cry escaping her throat. The roughness of his skin against hers only made the sensation more intense, and she felt herself grow wetter for him with each thrust. He was pumping into her steadily now, hitting her sweet spot with each powerful stroke.
She reached up to clutch at his shoulders, digging her nails into the toughened flesh as he took her harder and faster. His growls of pleasure echoed in the small space as he took what he wanted; it turned her on more than anything else. Lifting a leg to wrap around him tighter, Sansa dug her heel into his side, begging for more friction.
The cabin filled with their moans and grunts as they moved together, lost in each other's rhythm. The scent of sweat and sex mingled with that of the firewood, creating an intoxicating aroma that fueled their passion. Sandor's rough hands roamed over her supple body, feeling every curve and indent as he slammed into her from behind. He leaned down to capture one of her nipples between his teeth, sucking hard as she cried out in delight beneath him.
As Sandor slammed into her with a growl, Sansa's head thrashed back and forth, her long hair spreading out behind her like a waterfall of fire. Her eyes were slits, filled with desire and need, as she looked up into the his reddened face. She felt him hitting her deep and hard, drawing out exquisite moans from deep within her. His rough hands roamed over her body, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake.
One hand found its way between them, rubbing her clit just right as the other cupped the weight of one of her plump breasts. She arched her back, pressing herself against his hand while his cock pounded into her from above. The bed groaned beneath them as they moved together in perfect unison. It was raw and primal, driving each other to new heights of pleasure they had never experienced before.
The oil they used earlier on their skin slickened their bodies as they moved together; it created an almost musical symphony that echoed throughout the tiny space.
Sandor's mouth found its way to her neck, his teeth scraping gently against her skin while he thrust harder and faster inside her. He growled low in his throat, "That's it, my sweet girl," he breathed against her skin. "Take it all from me."
His hips bucked fiercely against her and just as he felt her cunny fluttering and clenching around him, he felt his own release nearing. Sandor's muscular body tensed, and his lips curled into a sharp snarl as he felt his imminent climax approaching, a low growl rumbling from the back of his throat.
His hips jerked violently against Sansa's tight, wet cunny, his cock pulsing with the force of his desire for her. Her walls clenched around him, milking the last drops of pleasure from his rigid shaft, begging him to fill her completely. He bit down on her neck softly, just hard enough to leave a mark, claiming her as his own.
Sansa whimpered softly, arching her back as she felt him pulsing inside her, filling her up with his seed. She clenched around him one last time, milking what remained of his orgasm before he pulled out with a harsh groan.
Their sweat-slicked bodies slid against each other, their breaths still ragged and fast. He stayed buried deep inside her for a moment longer before pulling out and collapsing beside her on the small bed. She lay next to him, their chests heaving in unison as she let out a shaky sigh.
"You're mine," he murmured against her neck, planting a kiss there with a roughness that made her shiver in delight. "You always have been. Merry Sevenmas, my little bird."
#sansansecretsanta2023#asas fics#sansa stark#sansan#sandor clegane#sansa x sandor#sansa stark smut#sandor clegane smut#sansa stark fluff#fluff#sandor clegane fluff#the hound#got#asoiaf#game of thrones#a song of ice and fire
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