
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/452467.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark, Joffrey_Baratheon/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sandor_Clegane, Sansa_Stark, Joffrey_Baratheon
  Additional Tags:
      Menstruation
  Collections:
      Game_of_Thrones:_Sansa/Sandor
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-07-06 Words: 6437
****** Always Find Me Here ******
by wildsky
Summary
     AU. Response to prompt by lenina20 for the sansa_sandor comment fic
     meme on LJ.
     Prompt: warning: dubcon. Joffrey makes them do it - again, and again,
     and again.
Notes
     Please be aware that this story is quite dark, explores sexual
     violence and if period sex squicks you, turn back now.
     If there's a soundtrack to this, it's "Always Find Me Here" by
     Transit, which was on repeat the whole time I was writing this.
Sandor stood outside the door with a white-knuckled grip on the hilt of his
sword. He could hear the little bird inside the king’s bedchamber, her cries
muffled, though by her own will or Joffrey’s ire he could not tell. The
corridor was empty at last, the stragglers from the bedding finally meandering
back to the feast, leaving the Hound to listen in grim silence as the Bastard
King took his Wolven Queen’s innocence.
Innocence, Sandor thought disparagingly. The girl had lost her damned innocence
long ago, whether the scrap of flesh between her thighs was intact or not.
Joffrey had done his fucking best to break Sansa Stark from the moment he
ascended the throne.
And tonight it seemed Joffrey might succeed. The little bird wasn’t chirping,
swearing undying love or eternal loyalty to please Joffrey and his entourage.
She was weeping, her hitched breathing and sharp grunts of pain carrying easily
to Sandor’s ears. He’d known the moment Joffrey broke her maidenhead – she’d
sobbed and the Hound had heard the sharp crack of the king’s open palm on his
new wife’s cheek.
I know you said you’d protect me from Joffrey when I become queen, Sansa had
whispered to him in a rare moment alone before the wedding, but please only
come if I ask. He’ll have you killed.
Not if I kill the royal bastard first, Sandor had rasped, fear and rage coiling
in his stomach at the thought of what Joffrey would do to her once he’d claimed
her for true. He’d seen what Joffrey had inflicted on the whores. He’d carried
one to the Tower of the Hand to lay her at the halfman’s feet.
Promise me, Sandor, Sansa had insisted, curling her fingers over his gauntlet,
all Tully blue eyes and earnest concern. Fuck him for a bloody fool but Sandor
had given her his word.
So there he waited, the obedient Lannister dog, still as a gargoyle and just as
useless. A wounded whimper echoed louder than it should and Sandor flinched,
grinding his teeth so hard he expected them to crumble to dust in his mouth. He
could hear Joffrey muttering obscenities, the rhythmic slap of skin on skin,
and a guttural shout as the king finally peaked.
The hush that descended stretched on, broken by Joffrey’s quiet snoring and the
tiny squeak of the hinges as the door opened just a crack beside him. Sandor
could make out the angry red of a handprint on her cheek and the thought of how
she’d received it frayed his fragile temper. Her wild tangle of hair and
crumpled silken bedclothes obscured the rest.
“I’m all right,” Sansa whispered to him but the trembling of her voice spoke
the truth.
“You’re a damn liar, little bird,” Sandor contradicted her bluntly and Sansa
glanced up to catch his gaze. Gone were the days when she feared to look at
him. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hands shaking as they rested against the edge
of the door.
“You’ll stay?” She sounded so young, so vulnerable that he wanted to punch
something. Preferably a golden-haired cunt who was sleeping off the wine and
exertion of his wedding night.
“Aye. I’ll be here.” It was all he had to offer her.
The door closed once more and Sandor bowed his head.
::
Sandor heard the whispers, as did every other buggering git in the court of
King’s Landing. Women tittered and men shook their heads, shooting stern looks
at the young queen as she passed them in the Red Keep.
A year had passed since the wedding – since the fucking gods-cursed night that
had sent Sandor diving into a keg of Dornish sour the moment his guard shift
ended – and not once had Sansa conceived. Sandor stood by that fucking door
time after time and willed her to call out to him, to let him intercede as he’d
said he would. She bit her tongue more often than not – he’d seen the teeth
marks on her lower lip often enough to guess the facts of the matter.
Sansa didn’t cry out any more. She lay beneath her royal prat of a husband and
let him do as he pleased without a sound. Somehow that made it worse. At least
when she wept with pain he knew she was alive, that the king had not strangled
her to death in his frustration. He watched Joffrey rant and rave, listened
while he hurled insults and heaped blame upon Sansa’s pretty head as month
after month went by and her moon blood came upon her over and over again.
Your river-slut of a mother birthed five Stark brats, Joffrey raged, all but
frothing at the mouth. What in the seven hells are you good for if you can’t
whelp even one?
Nothing, my king, Sansa chirped serenely. Nothing at all. And Ser Meryn’s fist
collided with her side.
Later that evening, the Hound’s fist collided with Ser Meryn’s face and several
other parts of the man’s anatomy.
They called her a failure, the fucking nobles with their judgemental eyes and
pitying looks. They laughed and japed and made a mockery of her where Joffrey
couldn’t hear. She was reaping what her father’s legacy had sown, they said,
and for the sins of her family the Seven would not grant her a child. They
gossiped that Joffrey should have married Margaery Tyrell and damn it, Sandor
agreed on that point. At least the Tyrell bitch had the power of Highgarden at
her back. Joffrey wouldn’t have dared to treat Margaery with the same cruelty
he showed to Sansa. Lord Tywin would not have allowed it.
He found her alone in the queen’s bedchamber one night while Joffrey was
hunting in the Kingswood. She was standing before the mirror in her bedclothes,
running her fingers over a fading bruise on her upper arm. The imprint of
fingers was clearly visible and fury smouldered in Sandor’s gut. She caught
sight of his reflection and her lips thinned as he approached.
“They’ll be gone by the time he gets back,” Sansa sighed, looking for all the
world as if Joffrey were hunting her and not the five-point buck that had been
reported by his huntsman.
“He’ll only give you more, little bird,” Sandor pointed out and Sansa shrugged
her robe back up over her shoulders, whirling away from the mirror abruptly.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand over the opulent sheets.
“I can’t sleep,” Sansa admitted, her fingers fisting in the covers. “I keep
thinking he’ll come back early just to spite me.”
Sandor circled around the bed and hunkered down in front of her so that he
wasn’t towering over the girl like an aurochs. He saw her resignation, her
capitulation, for what it was: armour. Joffrey was no Robert. Though the latter
had not been a perfect husband by any bloody standard, he had not deliberately
tried to beat Cersei down until she shattered. Joffrey would accept no less
than submission and terror from his wife. The more Sansa distanced herself from
what Joffrey did to her, the harder it was for him to truly own her. At least
that’s what the little bird seemed to think.
Sandor found her reasoning pretty fucking flawed. He had a solution sheathed at
his hip if she would only live up to her side of the bargain and ask. Damned
buggering oaths.
“Call for me,” Sandor urged her, his voice a low taut rumble, putting a finger
under her chin and forcing her to meet his eyes.
Sansa gazed at him for a long moment and lifted a hand to cup his burned cheek,
her thumb stroking across the ruined skin. She shook her head, her vibrant hair
falling around her face.
“No.”
::
“Dog!”
Sandor forced his every muscle to relax just enough for him to move from one
side of the door to the other. He’d listened, tense as a bowstring, while
Joffrey railed against the injustice of having a useless, stupid, barren bitch
for a wife. It seemed that Sansa’s moon blood had made another unwelcome
appearance.
The sight that greeted him made his jaw clench and his hand yearn for the
freedom to wield his sword at the little shit who’d caused it. Ser Boros stood
to one side and Sansa was on the floor by the bed, her hair hanging out of its
southron stylings in wild chunks, her skirts torn apart to bare her legs to the
thigh. She looked up at Sandor with enormous blue eyes full of tears, her skin
pale as whey, and the ever-present knot of anger in his belly grew stronger.
“Your Grace.” Sandor bit the words out and they left a bad taste in his mouth.
“My lady is in need of a sharp lesson, dog,” Joffrey said in the oily,
unpleasant tone that the entire court was familiar with. “Ser Boros, leave us.”
Boros bowed crisply and walked out as if nothing were amiss, head held high
like a fucking peacock. Sandor glowered at him, mentally adding yet another
mark to the large tally of affronts the man would one day have to answer for.
The door closed with a resounding thud.
“My queen thinks to mock me,” Joffrey declared, staring down at Sansa with eyes
full of contempt.
“No, Your Grace,” Sansa said desperately. “I would never –”
“She uses moon tea to stop my seed from taking root. Is it not so, my lady?”
Joffrey continued harshly, his blue eyes like ice. “She conspires to thwart me,
to rob me of an heir.”
“Your Grace –” Sansa tried again.
“You will be silent!” Joffrey snapped and Sansa obediently shut her mouth,
shoulders hunched against his wrath. “You shall be punished.”
Sandor’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, a motion that Joffrey, in
his arrogance, completely mistook.
“Oh, you’ll not be needing your sword for this punishment, dog. Not that sword,
at any rate,” the king sneered and Sansa blinked up at the king, startled. The
Hound stood frozen, only the discipline of long practice giving him the
strength to remain still as the implications sunk in. The king had to be out of
his fucking mind.
“M-my l-lord?” Sansa stammered uncertainly. “I-I don’t understand.”
Joffrey stepped towards her, forcing Sansa to crane her neck to look up at him.
“You will whelp for me, my queen.” His tone was deceptively soft. “And until
you do, you will play the bitch to my Hound every time you bleed.”
Sansa’s eyes went wide and she looked to Sandor with panic written plainly
across her face. Her frightened expression cut Sandor to the core. After all
this fucking time, after he’d promised to slay a king for her, the Hound was
still more of a monster in her pretty eyes than the noxious brat who had just
said he would share her with his dog.
“B-but... Joffrey, my moon blood... you can’t...!” Sansa protested, struggling
to her feet. She looked like she might be sick and Sandor swallowed down the
impulse to commit regicide as Joffrey slapped her with enough force that she
fell back on the featherbed.
“You will do whatever I command, sweetling,” Joffrey told her with deadly calm,
“but not on my bed. We wouldn’t want to make a mess now, would we?” He grabbed
her roughly by the arm and dragged her over to the stone floor by the
fireplace. Joffrey looked her over with a considering eye. “Take your hair down
properly.”
Sansa lifted shaking hands and did as he bid, removing pin after pin from the
mess Ser Boros had made of her hairstyle. Finally the auburn mass spilled
freely over her shoulders. She was breathing fast and trying not to show it
when Joffrey turned to the Hound.
“Fuck her.”
Sandor shifted uneasily. “Your Grace, the queen’s honour –”
“I don’t care about the queen’s honour,” Joffrey cut across him ruthlessly. “I
care that she is a traitor, that she betrayed my sacred trust and she must be
punished for it. Do you understand?”
And there it was – the bare bones of the matter. He was a fucking punishment to
be inflicted upon her and one the girl didn’t welcome if her trembling was any
indication. Sandor had done many things to the little bird. He’d frightened
her, threatened her, tried to strip the blind idealism from her eyes by
force... but he’d never physically hurt her.
His grip tightened on his sword yet again and over Joffrey’s shoulder he saw
Sansa shake her head at him with pleading eyes.
“T-the king is right, d-dog. I should be punished,” Sansa blurted out, hugging
herself and looking every one of her fifteen years. So damned young and still
chirping in the hope of mitigating Joffrey’s hunger for blood and humiliation.
Ask, Sandor mouthed over the top of Joffrey’s head as the king smiled
maliciously at her. Only when Joffrey looked back at the Hound did Sansa shake
her head yet again. Always no. Sandor couldn’t understand it any better now
than he had that first night. It would be so simple. His blade would slash
across the king’s throat and Sandor would spirit her away from this buggering
nest of vipers. He’d take her home, take her north to what little remained of
her family.
He wasn’t supposed to take her like this.
“There, you see? Perhaps she’s not as stupid as I believed,” Joffrey chuckled,
pushing Sansa’s hair back over her shoulders. She didn’t look at the king’s
face as he found the ties of her ruined gown and unlaced them, stripping the
garment from her with little ceremony. Her eyes were on the Hound, her hands
flying up to cover her breasts as she stood in front of the fire in her silken
smallclothes.
She seemed small, breakable and afraid compared to a rough brute like him.
“Well, dog?” Joffrey prompted him, his lip curling. “You can hardly fuck my
queen in your armour.”
Sandor cleared his throat and turned away from the little bird’s gaze to begin
stripping, ashamed to realize his cock had twitched at the image that had
jumped into his mind of Sansa writhing beneath him. If he refused, odds were
that Joffrey would take it into his blasted head to call Ser Boros back or give
her to Ser Meryn. Gods knew the rest of the fucking Kingsguard had never been
gentle with her in the past. They would not be inclined to start now.
Without a squire it was awkward work and it wasn’t until Joffrey snapped at
Sansa to assist his dog that Sandor could bring himself to look at her again.
She touched him tentatively, her hands fluttering between shielding her breasts
and doing as she was told. Fuming at the entire situation, Sandor chose a spot
on the wall to stare at and tried to think of the Blackwater as it blazed
against the night sky for nothing would cool his blood faster than that. Upon
realizing he was not ogling her, Sansa made short work of what remained,
dropping each piece onto the floor until he was in only his breeches. He could
feel her hands trembling all the while.
“In front of the fire, both of you,” Joffrey commanded and seated himself in a
sumptuous high-backed chair that gave him an excellent view. His crossbow lay
beside him on a small table, a quarrel already loaded.
Sansa was pink to the tips of her ears, the blush creeping down her neck,
shivering – in fear or disgust Sandor couldn’t tell. Both, most likely.
“Take her from behind like the bitch she is,” Joffrey instructed and Sandor
wished the young king into every one of the seven hells for that. Sansa had
tears in her eyes as Sandor put a firm hand on her shoulder and pushed her down
towards the cold stone. A sob escaped her lips and Sandor cursed his oath to
her yet again.
Let me kill him, damn you!
He wanted to tell her he wouldn’t hurt her. He wanted to tell her that her
sadistic shit of a husband was not the standard against which other men should
be measured, but he didn’t dare with the king in earshot. Sandor got down on
his knees before her, his hungry eyes raking over Sansa’s perfect form for a
split-second before he turned her away from him and pressed on her back until
she was on all fours. Her breath hitched miserably and he saw tears splash onto
the floor, her whole body quaking.
Then it hit him. He could smell her – not just the scent that clung to her day
after day but the metallic tang of her moon blood tinged the air now that she
was down to her smallclothes. The thought of what he was about to do made
Sandor faintly ill. One of the first lessons a boy was taught was that a woman
was not to be touched while she was bleeding. Even Gregor wouldn’t cross that
line.
“Get on with it, dog,” Joffrey said impatiently.
Sandor wanted to throttle him, to watch his eyes bulge and his lips go blue.
What part of this was he supposed to find arousing? The all-too-obvious
distress of the little bird or being watched by the king while he essentially
raped the fucking queen?
He stripped the remaining covering from Sansa’s body, letting it pool around
her knees and the moon-soaked cloth fell from between her thighs with it. He
could see her mound, the pink flesh moist with blood, and through the hand that
still rested on her hip Sandor could feel the tension in her. Sansa was as taut
as the crossbow Joffrey was stroking and despite himself, the thought of
fucking her was enough to make his cock jump. He unlaced himself with his free
hand, stroking reassuring circles on her hip with the other.
Sansa looked over her shoulder, careful to make sure she twisted away from
Joffrey, and gave Sandor a tiny, tremulous smile. He could see humiliation in
her eyes and yes, there was trepidation there as well. The first he could do
nothing about but the second he might be able to alleviate. He ran his hand
over his dick, once, twice, three times to get the blood pumping and guided the
head until it rested against her opening.
“Try to relax, little bird,” Sandor murmured as quietly as he could manage and
slid into her in one long, smooth thrust. Sansa stiffened against him, a tiny
mewl escaping her lips as he bottomed out inside her. It felt strange – the
blood was thinner than a woman’s natural wetness but just as slick and when he
withdrew his shaft was coated in it, the crimson glistening in the firelight.
She was tight as he plunged in a second time, her muscles gripping him so hard
it almost hurt.
Sandor was acutely aware of the crossbow in Joffrey’s lap as he found a rhythm,
starting out as slowly as he could manage with their audience and building up
speed as the minutes ticked on. He felt Sansa begin to settle into the cadence
of it, her hips rocking back against his tentatively as the friction built and
he kept his hands firmly on her hips to make it look as if he were guiding her
movements. It wouldn’t do to let Joffrey think she was actually participating.
Better that he saw what he wished – his queen being dominated.
He dared not explore her body as he desired, couldn’t cup the teats that
bounced with every roll of his body against hers. He wanted to map out her
curves and learn what felt good to her but that was folly. Sandor was breathing
hard as he snapped his hips forward again and again, gritting his teeth against
the exquisite pressure building in his cock.
A strangled noise was torn from Sansa’s throat and Sandor froze for a moment,
registering for the first time that Joffrey was frowning. Sansa went rigid,
realizing her mistake at the same moment Sandor did. It lasted only a heartbeat
before Sandor started moving again, needing this to be over quickly. He was
supposed to be her punishment, her penance, yet that had been a cry of pleasure
rather than pain. He reached out and fisted his hand in her mass of auburn
hair, dragging her upright so that her back was pressed against her chest.
“If you value your head, don’t make another sound until it’s over,” Sandor
grunted in her ear. “Get ready to start crying, girl.”
Sansa’s fingernails dug into the meat of his thigh in answer and Sandor picked
up the pace yet again, thrusting relentlessly until he lost his rhythm
completely and spilled wildly inside her with a snarl of triumph. He was
breathing hard as he came back down from his peak and with a heavy heart and
stoic expression he let go of her hair, shoving Sansa away from him. He slipped
out of her, his now-flaccid manhood covered in the same blood and seed that
painted the inside of her legs, his knees protesting being subjected to hard
stone.
The little bird collapsed onto the floor facing the fire and curled in on
herself, dissolving into tears as Joffrey watched with his lip curling in
satisfaction.
“Well done, dog,” the king declared, his eyes following the line of his wife’s
shuddering body in the firelight. “Well done indeed.”
::
Sansa wouldn’t acknowledge him when other eyes were on them. He understood her
reasoning. Joffrey expected her to hate him for being the tool that dishonoured
her, to resent him for degrading her, but that didn’t ease the sting of
rejection that Sandor felt at being so thoroughly ignored. Once upon a time he
could have taken her chin in his hand and demanded that she look at him. That
was impossible now. Joffrey watched him when he was in Sansa’s presence,
delighting in the way the queen shrunk away from him.
On one of the few nights that Joffrey let her be and barred her from his
presence, Sansa wandered the halls after everyone else was abed and found him
at the base of the stairs that led to Joffrey’s chambers. Sandor knew there
were fresh marks beneath her dress. He could picture them more vividly than
ever having seen and felt and fucked what was underneath those silks.
“Sandor,” she greeted him quietly. “I was hoping I’d find you.”
“I don’t think the king would be pleased to hear that,” Sandor rasped, keeping
his voice low so that they wouldn’t be overheard.
“Were you planning on telling him?” she asked with genuine curiosity.
Sandor met her eyes and after a moment he shook his head. “No. Your secret’s
safe.”
Sansa’s lips curved upwards slightly. “I wanted to thank you for...” She broke
off and blushed furiously, leading Sandor to wonder how far down the colour
went. She looked terribly uncomfortable. “For being gentle.”
“Don’t thank me for fucking you on command, little bird,” Sandor warned her
softly. “The king said I was to do so every time you bled until you give him an
heir. Knowing his tastes, how long do you think he’ll let me be kind to you?”
Sansa’s face fell and she wrung her hands together. “I...” She licked her lips.
“I didn’t know that it could...” She hesitated yet again and dragged in a deep
breath, meeting his eyes. “It felt good... when you were inside me.”
Sandor’s guts clenched at her admission. He’d known that. He’d heard the noise
she made as he pumped in and out of her, the one that had made Joffrey’s face
darken. In that moment Sandor had realized she’d given him something she’d
never given to the king and it had struck him to the heart.
“It’s supposed to feel good,” Sandor said in a gravelly voice, though strictly
speaking he’d never been terribly concerned with satisfying the whores he’d
paid to ignore his face and ride his dick. This girl had no way of knowing it
could be different. Her only experience of sex had been with Joffrey and she’d
been taught all her life that it was her duty to be bedded, not a pleasure. No
wonder she sounded surprised that it could be enjoyable.
“Will you try to... could you try to make it feel good again?”
Sandor stared at her, at a loss for words. He wanted to say yes but he knew
Joffrey would not want his wife to find gratification in fucking his Hound. All
it would take was one ecstatic moan, one willing thrust of her hips against his
and the king would know that Sansa’s chastisement had gone quite badly wrong.
They’d gotten away with it once but Sandor wouldn’t count on luck again.
His indecision must have shown on his face because her eyes sparked crossly.
“Would you have me go to my grave knowing only Joffrey’s twisted idea of what
ought to happen in a marriage bed?” Sansa challenged him, glancing about the
corridor to make certain they were still alone.
Sandor’s grey eyes hardened.
“How is this notion of me getting you off in front of your husband when I’m
supposed to be punishing you any less twisted, little bird?” Sandor rasped in
return and watched her shoulders droop in defeat. “I’ll get a crossbow bolt in
the neck and you’ll end up under Payne’s blade for treason just like your
father did.”
Sansa turned and walked away from him without another word.
::
The queen had already been stripped naked the next time that Joffrey demanded
Sandor’s presence in the royal chamber. She was sitting facing the fire with
her knees drawn up to her chest and her hair falling about her like a curtain,
the stone stained scarlet with the moon blood leaking from her body.
She didn’t even glance at him when he walked in.
Joffrey smirked as the Hound closed the door. “My lady has already had one
lesson tonight from Ser Meryn,” he chuckled. “Time to begin the second.”
Sandor’s lips twisted angrily as he moved to look more closely at the little
bird. Her arms and belly were marked with weals where she’d been struck
repeatedly with the flat of a sword on bare flesh. Sansa’s gaze finally moved
to meet his but her face was expressionless, her eyes red-rimmed from crying.
Seven buggering hells, Sandor cursed inwardly as her words floated back up to
haunt him.
Could you try to make it feel good again?
He knew in that moment that he would. He’d do anything to erase that fucking
dead look from her eyes, to make her forget some of the pain that Meryn and
Joffrey had dealt out.
“You’ll look on his face tonight, my queen,” Joffrey taunted her, leaning down
to let his hand encircle her throat like a necklace that could squeeze the life
out of her at any given time. Sansa flinched at his touch. “You’ll look on the
Hound’s ugly face and every second he’s inside you you’ll wish you carried my
child rather than endure his touch again.”
“Yes, my king,” Sansa replied, her voice rough from weeping.
The Hound had known he’d be summoned. Every time the queen bled anew the word
spread like wildfire. He’d worn no armour this time – it would serve no purpose
lying discarded on the ground. Only his sword adorned his person as he waited
for the king to give the order.
As before, Joffrey took his seat and cradled his crossbow lovingly, as if it
were a pet. “Punish her for me, dog. Make her scream.”
Sandor wondered if the little blond bastard had any notion of how that last
phrase could be interpreted as he stripped down to his breeches again – the
same ones that had been stained with her blood the last time because he hadn’t
thought to disrobe entirely. Sansa watched him closely, her teeth worrying her
lower lip. Her eyes were on his lacings and he realized with a jolt that even
though he’d fucked her before, she’d already been on her hands and knees when
he’d gotten his cock out. She’d not seen him but she’d certainly felt him. He
knew he was bigger than the king just from looking at the brat, though being
larger than an adolescent boy was nothing to boast about.
Sandor advanced on Sansa until she scrambled back so that he wouldn’t step on
her, leaving a bloody trail behind her. Better to give Joffrey a show of
intimidating her. He stared down at her, taking in the teats that heaved with
every breath she took and the thatch of curly auburn hair that guarded her
sweetness.
He untied his laces slowly, lifting his half-hard dick free of its prison.
Sansa’s blue eyes went wide, yet another blush suffusing her features as she
stared at his length.
“I... I can’t... Your Grace, please, no!”
“You can and you will, as your king commands,” the Hound interrupted her, his
voice cold as the stone beneath his feet, and Joffrey snickered. He made no
move to take the breeches off. He wasn’t interested in giving the king an
unimpeded view.
Please, little bird, understand what I’m doing and why, he thought as he went
to his knees and grabbed for her, dragging her beneath him. Sansa squeaked in
fright, scrabbling for purchase on the unforgiving floor as he parted her
thighs and settled himself over her, his cock sliding against her wetness.
Sandor dipped his head and let his teeth scrape over her pulse point. “Ask me,”
he begged her again, his voice harsh in her ear.
“No,” Sansa sobbed in reply and Sandor’s heart clenched at the sound. It was an
answer that sounded like a plea for mercy to Joffrey, whose cruel smile only
became wider, his eyes bright with anticipation.
“Take her, Clegane.”
Sandor obeyed like the dog he was, sinking into her all at once, the king’s
eyes burning into his back. He felt Sansa’s thighs twitch as she tried to lie
still beneath him for both their sakes, her hands flat against his chest where
Joffrey couldn’t see them. The muscles of his stomach flexed and bunched under
her touch as he withdrew almost completely and filled her again, drawing an
almost inaudible murmur of encouragement from Sansa’s lips.
Seven hells, he wanted to kiss her when those same lips parted on a silent
exclamation and she hid her face against his neck so that Joffrey wouldn’t see.
On and on it went, the tempo increasing with every thrust until Sansa was
panting as she fought every instinct her body possessed. Her thighs were
shaking from the strain of resisting the urge to wrap them around his hips.
“Weep, damn you,” Sandor snarled in her ear when her breathing fractured
dangerously.
Sansa let out a sob of sheer frustration, genuine tears leaking from her eyes
with no other way to relieve the building pressure. Sandor began grinding
against her, seeking the sweet spot and Sansa’s fingernails clawed at his
chest, catching in the dark hair there. She was biting her lower lip so hard
that it bled, scrunching her eyes shut in an effort to control what came out of
her mouth.
Sandor was so close he could taste it, teetering on the gods-damned edge of one
last crescendo, but Sansa was not quite there yet and he didn’t want to leave
her behind. He slipped the hand furthest from Joffrey’s view between them, his
fingers sliding through the tangle of his hair and hers, and after a few
experimental strokes found that spot that made her hips jump and coaxed her
into climaxing.
Sansa threw her head back, a broken keening erupting from her and in a last
ditch effort to save their skins, Sandor reared up and clamped the same hand,
coated in blood, over her lips. Sansa wrenched her head away and sank her teeth
deeply into the side of his hand, the pain making him grunt as she shuddered
beneath him. Sandor was distantly aware that Joffrey was laughing, thinking she
was biting him to hurt him as he released inside the little bird at last.
Sandor collapsed atop her, utterly spent, and felt her stroke the side of him
that Joffrey couldn’t see.
“Thank you,” Sansa whispered as she tried to catch her breath and Sandor
gathered his remaining strength to roll off her. She was still quaking where
she lay, her mouth smeared with the blood from his fingers and tear tracks
staining her skin.
Sandor swallowed down bile when he heard Joffrey choke and gasp his way through
his own peak a few feet away.
::
Sandor didn’t know how much more he could fucking well take. His hand throbbed
for days, the imprint of teeth clearly visible where Sansa had drawn her own
measure of blood. Once again she was treating him as if he didn’t exist,
averting her eyes whenever he was in the vicinity, while the king took pleasure
in making her squirm with veiled taunts and quiet threats.
Sandor’s temper grew more volatile and he found himself snapping and snarling
at anyone who looked at him sideways. The Hound sent servants scuttling away in
fear and squires shook in their boots in the face of his rage. He tried to
drown himself in Dornish sour, losing hours here and there and waking up
winesick with bruised knuckles, black eyes and torn clothes only to discover
that the men he’d fought were far worse off.
Then one day he roused with a throbbing head and a roiling stomach and Sansa’s
form solidified as his vision came into focus. He had no idea where in the
seven hells he was – he didn’t recognize the room – but the little bird was
sitting beside him on a bed of rushes, a heavy cloak drawn about her shoulders.
Her hair was down, a handful or two drawn back in the Northern style, but the
rest floated freely around her shoulders.
“I need you to stop doing this to yourself, Sandor,” Sansa told him, holding
his eyes with concern on her beautiful face. She covered one of his hands with
hers, exploring the hollows between his knuckles and circling the place where
her teeth had left their mark. “You’re beginning to scare me.”
He looked away, unwilling to admit how much he hated the idea that they might
have backtracked into old territory. “Nothing fucking new about that,” Sandor
rasped, his throat raw and he surmised that he must have thrown up before he
finally passed out.
This time, it was Sansa who grabbed him by the chin and forced him to look at
her. “I’m afraid for you, not of you, Sandor,” she corrected him, honesty
shining in those too-blue eyes of hers. “I care what happens to you, whether
you believe me or not.”
Damn him, he did believe her. Part of him wanted to hate her for it. He’d spent
so many years using his scars as a shield, frightening people into staying
away, and all it had taken was one naive slip of a girl with stars in her eyes
to get under his skin.
“Fucking hells, little bird, ask me,” Sandor beseeched her. “Do it and put us
all out of our damned misery. I don’t understand why you won’t.”
“Soon,” Sansa said softly, stroking the hair away from the burned side of his
face so that she could trace the scars with delicate fingers. Her lips followed
the path her hand had followed, brushing across his temple, his cheekbone, the
corner of his mouth. “I promise.”
Then she was gone.
::
“I’ve never tasted moon tea.”
Sandor had been in his chamber when there had been a knock at the door. He’d
opened it expecting to find someone bearing an order for him to go to the
king’s apartments where he would be required to humiliate the queen for a third
time. The last few days had been torture, waiting for the inevitable command.
Yet it had never come.
Sansa was standing there instead, glancing about as if she expected to be found
at any moment.
He let her in quickly, silently swearing to disembowel the bloody fool who
tried to run his mouth about the queen visiting the Hound’s room at twilight.
Her confession had surprised the fuck out of him, to say the least.
“What the buggering hells are you talking about, little bird?”
“He softens if I don’t cry when he hurts me,” Sansa admitted and Sandor
clenched his fists at the picture of Joffrey trying to bed her, hitting her,
hurting her. “He needs me to weep or whimper or scream. So I don’t... and he
can’t finish. He blames me because I have not given him a child and he’s right.
It is my fault.”
Sandor’s temper flared. Of course the buggering cunt would blame Sansa for his
own shortcomings, for his inability to fuck her like a normal man.
“Why are you telling me this?” It was agony to listen to it and know she
wouldn’t let him do a damned thing to stop it.
“Because my moon blood hasn’t come. It always comes; it’s never late... except
this time.”
Sandor stared at her, trying to decipher what she was telling him. “Do you want
that royal bastard’s offspring growing in you, little bird?”
“No.” Sansa’s eyes were hard with determination. “Never. He can beat me all he
likes. I’ll not give him an heir so long as it’s in my power to deny him.”
“He’ll kill you if you don’t,” Sandor cautioned her.
“He’ll kill me anyway when he learns that the moon blood my maids found on the
sheets this morning came from a slaughtered aurochs.”
And just like that, it all fell into place in Sandor’s head. I’ve never tasted
moon tea, she’d said. “You said he can’t...?”
“Can’t... and hasn’t,” Sansa replied anxiously. “If I am with child, it isn’t
his.”
Sandor felt like he’d taken a mailed fist in the belly when Sansa reached up to
cup his face in her hands, her fingers stroking gently over his skin. She
kissed him then, a long soft press of her lips to his, and gazed deeply into
his eyes.
“Sandor?”
“Aye, little bird?” he rumbled, a slave to her will in that moment.
“I’m asking.”
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