
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/827671.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sandor_Clegane, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Kink_Meme, Cunnilingus, Oral_Sex, Canon_-_TV, Blackwater_AU,
      Masturbation, Underage_Sex, Age_Difference
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-10 Words: 3795
****** in the dark I can hear your heartbeat ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     The Hound didn't desert, Joffrey accepted the Tyrell betrothal,
     Cersei panicked, and now Sandor Clegane is married to Sansa Stark.
Notes
     For the sansan_got 2012 kink meme, prompt: "Sandor never flees Kings
     Landing. So when Joffrey publicly ends his betrothal to Sansa Stark,
     Cersei--knowing she needs Sansa until Jaime is safe and sound--pays
     off a high-septa to marry her to Sandor Clegane, her son's sworn
     shield. (Think: Shot gun wedding in order to keep Sansa at King's
     Landing.) 10 points if, consummated or not, Sansa spends most of the
     wedding night talking Sandor's ear off."
     WARNING: Underage oral sex (cunnilingus). Inappropriate thoughts,
     references to abuse and attempted rape.
See the end of the work for more notes
===============================================================================
"Will it hurt very much?" the little bird asks. Her voice quivers only the the
slightest. She is a braver girl than he used to give her credit for.

Not having to sit through a long, loud feast and then be pawed at and stripped
bare in front of the likes of Joffrey and Baelish and the Imp and any other
fuckers who would scramble to undress her probably helps.

'It is almost like we have run away,' she had whispered when the ceremony was
done; more to herself than to him. 'Run away and eloped. Almost romantic.' Her
eyes had been full of tears she had not allowed to fall.

"No, little bird. You won't feel a thing."

Sansa's shoulders shake briefly; he can hear her take a shuddering breath. She
refuses to cry, for which he's grateful.

He remembers her weeping after he found her trying to hide her moonblood. He
isn't sure how to handle it if she starts to cry now, more at his mercy than
ever before. As gently as he is able to, he brushes his fingers through her
hair - something he's always wanted to do but never before had the luxury.

"You don't have to lie," she whispers. "I know... I know that it hurts the
first time."

Sandor swallows and steps back, hands falling from her hair. He turns away to
pour himself a drink; he hasn't had a drop since the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

The soft rustling behind him makes it clear that his little bird - his little
wife, seven fucking hells - is disrobing down to her smallclothes.

"May I have a drink, as well, my lord?"

Sandor almost starts to correct her - the words 'I'm not a lord' are on his
tongue. And then it hits him that technically speaking, he is her lord husband.
Her lord. Her husband. He's been given Sansa Stark, to keep her bound to the
Lannisters.

The little bird belongs to the dog, the dog belongs to the lions.

Damn the bloody lions. Damn the bloody dog.

He pours her a cup and sets it on the table. "Drink a few cups, and you likely
won't remember a thing in the morning. Is that the plan, little bird?"

"No. I only-"

Sandor downs the rest of his drink. "I'm not going to touch you, girl. Have
your drink and get some sleep." He does not turn to face her, because that
might break his resolves to do right by her - or send him fleeing from her and
the too small room. That would only lead to whispers that would not do either
of them any favors. He wants another cup of wine, but he can't risk it. He's
had enough to take the edge off. Any more and he might not have the best
control over himself. He refuses to let himself do anything either of them will
regret.

"But..." The little bird trails off. After an awkward silence she comes over
and takes the cup he poured for her; one pale, slender arm moving into his
peripheral vision. Then the rest of her steps into his sight; beautiful, little
bird, stripped of her feathers. Her smallclothes leave little to his
imagination.

He's seen glimpses before; thanks to fucking Joffrey and fucking Trant and
those buggering peasants that tried to break her. But he never let himself
look, really look. And those glimpses were nothing compared to this.

Sansa Stark is more woman than child, least when it comes to her body. That's a
bloody problem.

"You want someone like me to fuck you, girl?" he snaps. He doesn't mean to, but
he's angry. At Cersei and Tywin, at Joffrey, at the little bird. At himself. He
grabs her chin and makes her look at him, her cheeks blushing bright red and
her eyes wide. "You want someone like me taking your maidenhead?"

For a moment she looks as though she might finally cry. Her eyes are full of
tears again, and she's trembling. But one hand reaches up, fingers laying over
his wrist - only touching, not trying to move his hand away. "Better than
someone like Joffrey."

Sandor can feel his shoulders slumping, the tension easing a little; all of his
anger and arousal fade. He had never really thought he would ever be the better
option, but he remembers the two whores Tyrion had bought for Joffrey,
remembers carrying the brunette's bleeding, broken body back to the Imp. "Aye.
But not by much, little bird. Now get some rest."

"I don't think I can sleep, my lord," she tells him as his hand drops and he
holds up her forgotten cup of wine.

"Then drink. One cup should help."

The little bird hesitates, then takes the cup from him and has a swallow. She
sputters the tiniest bit, wiping a drop from the corner of her mouth.

Sandor laughs. "Stronger stuff than you're used to, girl?"

"Yes." But she raises the cup to her lips and takes another gulp. Her eyes
clench shut, and she shudders, but she gets it down without a sputter or a
cough. "I don't think I can drink all of it." The little bird looks up at him,
almost sheepish.

"Then give it here. No sense in wasting it." Sandor takes the cup and downs
what's left - it isn't much, not enough to make him lose his wits.

Sansa walks over towards the bed. It's barely big enough for him, let alone for
two people, and she looks over at him, uncertain. "Do you wish to make yourself
comfortable first?" She sounds like a child then, though she looks like a
woman. The girl is taller than many men, tall enough that he does not even
dwarf her.

"I'm taking the floor, little bird."

Her eyes go round for a moment. "It is your bed, my lord."

"Would you stop calling me that?" He does not quite snap this time; almost
though.

Sansa bites her lip and then speaks, talking too fast, too nervous. "I beg your
pardon. I do not know what else to call you. I cannot call you dog, because you
are not a dog, nor do I wish to call you Hound. Yet you told me earlier never
to call you ser. And you are my lord husband-"

"I know," he cuts her off.

"Shall I call you Sandor?"

It is the second time he has heard his name today. It was easier to pay little
mind to it during the ceremony, but hearing his little bird call him by his
name is something strange and new. He can't even remember when was the last
time someone called him by that before today. It's always dog or Hound or
Clegane.

But Sansa Stark is different. So maybe it would not be so bad to have her call
him that. Every day.

Every day.

Seven fucking hells, every night is going to be like this.

"Yes," he finally agrees. "Now get in the bed." He grabs one of the blankets
and heads for the corner closest to his door. Far from the bed.

"Sandor?" His little bird chirps the moment he settles down. "What if they
check the sheets? For blood?"

"I'll take care of it."

Sansa studies him for a moment, and then slips into the bed, pulling the sheet
over herself. She lays on her side so that she is facing him, which is
unsettling for some reason. The girl oddly keeps watching him. "Thank you.
Sandor." She adds his name as though she wasn't certain it was proper but
decided to say it anyway.

He isn't quite sure how to respond. He isn't tipsy, but the wine was good, and
he's a little more relaxed at last. Except that everything is really sinking
in.

He is married to Sansa Stark. Sansa Stark has been married to him; him of all
buggering people. He is no longer part of the Kingsguard, his refusal to say
the vows leaving him free to carry out Cersei's demands, and now he's a husband
to a terrified fourteen year old girl, who in King's Landing is the daughter of
a traitor and up north the sister of a king.

So what in the seven hells is he supposed to do now? Still Joffrey's sworn
shield, still a Lannister dog. He's to keep Sansa trapped and bound; when the
Starks learn that Sansa's been wed to The Hound, oh, they'll be angry. But if
harm befalls Jaime, no doubt they imagine that like a good Lannister dog he'll
punish his wife for it.

Sandor gets up and storms over to the table, grabs the wine jug, and pours
himself another cup. There's a sick feeling in his gut at the implications; he
isn't Gregor.

He isn't his fucking brother. But there are only two Cleganes left in the world
- and who's fault is that? - and Gregor's made a reputation that's tainted the
whole of their house.

"I'm sorry," the little bird says.

Sandor can't supress a bitter laugh. "Bugger that, girl. You didn't do a damn
thing. You can't do a damn thing, except chirp your courtesies and lies. Nod
your head and smile and play along. So what do you have to be sorry for, girl?"
He looks over at her, now sitting up on his bed - the little bird in her small
clothes on his bed.

Sansa's jaw clenches, her glassy eyes narrowing into a glare - like the glare
she directed at him in the corridor when he threw her belated gratitude back in
her face. "What have I done to offend you so, Hound? I was sorry, because I
thought I had upset you somehow, and I am trying not to. I only want to be a
good wife-"

He strides over to the bed and covers her mouth with one hand, snarling; "No,
you don't. Don't lie, little bird. I hate liars. And this rat's nest is full of
them. You don't want to be a good wife to me, you don't want to be a wife to me
at all. Aye, I'm better than Joffrey, but how much does that really say about
me? It wasn't fear that made me marry you today. The Lannisters say 'kill' and
I kill. The Lannisters said 'marry' so I did. But you..." He pauses, drops his
hand, drops his eyes. He hates the way she looks at him - genuinely looks at
him - and how pathetic he feels. "You married me because you had no choice. I
know why you lie, girl. I know why when tomorrow comes, you will play the
dutiful wife. You will tell them you are grateful to be married to me. To not
be locked away like a traitor. But in here, in this room, don't."

He stands there for a moment, leaning over the bed and unable to look at her.
Then he sits on the edge, head in his hands. He hadn't meant to do that, but
Sansa Stark, his little bird, is his wife. And deep down he knows that he won't
always be able to protect her from Joffrey, and he knows that he won't always
be able to protect her from himself.

Seven hells.

Sandor cannot live with himself if he becomes Gregor. He cannot.

"No," she whispers. "I do not want to be married to you. I do not want to be
married at all, I think. But I am. And, I am grateful that it is you, and not
Joffrey. Or some other Lannister, or some stranger that I do not even know that
they picked. You... while you can be awful, you have, at times, shown me
kindness. I know that you lied that day, at Joffrey's name day tourney. And I
remember when you wiped my lip and gave me your handkerchief. And when you
covered me with your cloak. I still have it, I still have both of them. I
thought of those moments, and when you saved me the day of the riots; all
throughout the wedding, I thought of those moments.

"I may not want to be married, but I am. And I may not be what you would have
wanted in a wife, but you have been kind to me. I will...I will try to be a
good wife for you."

Sandor almost snorts in disbelief that the girl could think for a moment she
isn't what he wants in a wife. But then he has not given her much reason to
believe otherwise, has he? His kindness has been minimal, and carefully done so
as to not draw too much attention.

He remembers giving her the handkerchief. And draping his cloak over her, for
once almost grateful to the Imp. There is a strange sensation in his chest at
the thought that she has kept both, that she might touch them with fondness.

"You said you would stand between me and Joffrey when I became queen. I will
never become queen now, but I am your wife. I know that Joffrey could still
hurt me, any of the Lannisters could." The little bird moves closer to him, and
places her hands on his shoulder.

Sandor lowers his hands and lifts his head to look at her. His wife. He curses
the Lannisters and himself and the girl's too honorable father, because someone
as lovely and good as her shouldn't be bound to a brutish fool like him. But
she is, so he swallows and nods. "I'll protect you, Little bird. I'll keep you
safe."

Sansa smiles. A real smile. It's small and weak, but it reaches her eyes all
the same.

It's almost impossible for Sandor not to groan when that has an unfortunate and
unwelcome effect on him. He rises from the bed and grabs the wine jug to take
with him back to his corner. "Try to sleep now, little bird." The sooner she
sleeps, the sooner he can take care of his needs. He wishes he could leave the
room, but he doesn't want to be seen by one of the Spider's fucking "birds"
flitting about.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

The girl is not making this easy for him.

"I don't think the drink helped much. I still don't feel tired."

Sandor blows the lantern out, leaving the room in near darkness, save for a bit
of moonlight streaming in through the tiny window. "Lay down, close your eyes,
and you'll feel tired soon enough." He sits back down in his corner while
listening to Sansa moving on the bed. He isn't a praying man, but he's half
tempted to pray that she falls asleep quickly. He's rather uncomfortable at
this point.

"How are you going to take care of the blood?"

Sandor groans. "I'll cut my arm and let it bleed onto the bed. Go to sleep."

"What about when we...if we ever do..."

His dick twitches at the thought. "We won't, little bird."

"But we're married. And I...one day, I might..."

Sandor takes a swig of wine and closes his eyes, teeth grinding. Fuck, when she
gives him hope like that... "Then if we ever do and our sheets are still being
spied on, Joffrey can simply believe that I'm rough with you. It would probably
put him in a good mood. Go to sleep, girl."

"...I still can't," she whispers apologetically.

"Still not tired?"

"No."

An idea comes to mind, and he tells himself no. But the wine is starting to go
to his head now, and he can still smell his pretty bird's scent lingering on
him."Do you trust me, little bird?"

There is a moment's hesitation, but then, "Yes."

"Undress," he instructs while rising. He leaves the wine jug near the corner
and easily finds his way back over to the bed. He can see her a little in the
dark - paler in the dim moonlight, awkwardly fumbling out of her smallclothes.
He's tempted - and he hates himself for it - to shrug out of his tunic and
breeches and claim her tonight. He could be gentle, he thinks. Horseshit, he
knows. Instead he slides his hands under her once she's still, and moves her so
that she is sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Sandor?" She sounds so innocent. Her arms are folded across her breasts, legs
closed together while she fidgets. "Are we...?"

"No, little bird," he reassures her, stroking her hair. He leans in and kisses
her temple. It's an awkward gesture, but he feels more awkward when he kisses
her mouth. "Lay back and spread your legs. You want to talk? Then talk to me.
Tell me what feels good. Tell me what doesn't." He kisses her again and then
places his hands on her shoulders.

She lets him guide her to lay down, though her hands still cover her breasts.
Her breath is coming in erratic pants. Her legs spread only a little.

Sandor rubs her sides, not quite lost but not exactly confident either. He
isn't used to tending to a woman's needs, let alone a frightened girl's needs.
So he keeps rubbing her sides and her hips. His thumbs brush over her stomach,
just under her breasts, then down to her thighs.

"That feels pleasant," she tells him after a minute. Her body is starting to
relax more. "Your hands are warm."

He hopes that makes up for how rough he's sure they feel. But he keeps rubbing,
starting to move his fingers over her thighs more, thumbs stroking near her
cunt. He can feel her curls against the edges of his fingers.

She starts slightly, her hips giving a little jerk.

"Ever touched yourself there, girl? Or is that too improper for a lady?" He
leans down and kisses her, just above her curls, and chuckles when she gasps
rather loudly.

"Of course it's improper!"

"Aye, but you have done it before? What a wicked little bird," he rasps,
kissing her navel. He grins when she lets out a scandalized whimper.

"No! I have never!"

"But you only said it was improper, not that you never touched yourself."

"I meant that I hadn't!"

Sandor chuckles again and gently moves Sansa's hands from her breasts, moving
up enough to kiss her. One hand covers her left breast, and the other he lays
over her cunt, letting her get used to his presence there. "You are a married
woman now, little bird. Married to a dog. Not much is improper anymore."

Sansa starts to say something, but whatever it is turns into a little squeak as
Sandor lightly pinches her nipple. "Oh! That..."

"Good?"

"I think."

He moves his head to her other nipple and licks.

She squeaks again, and her body shudders.

"How about that?" He licks her nipple again, pinches the other. His hand down
between her legs rubs a little, fingers moving to find her damp. He licks
again, and she mewls; this time her chest arches towards him and stays there.

"Good. I think. I don't know." She's breathless.

His dick twitches, and he closes his eyes for a moment, struggling to keep a
hold over himself. His little bird's skin is on fire now, and he feels hot as
well, but he can't undress, can't risk it. He suckles on her nipple until she
whimpers over and over, gasping out words here and there - 'Warm' and 'good'
and 'Sandor' and perhaps a few others but most of it is unintelligible.

The little bird spreads her legs more, her fingers on his shoulders, curling so
that her nails scrape against him lightly. "I...please..."

"Please what, little bird?" he groans, kissing under her breast, down her
stomach. He strokes a finger against her cunt, shuddering at how wet she's
become - how wet he's made her.

"More?"

Sandor moves his hand at her breast down to his breeches. He kisses above her
curls, his fingers trying to please her, trying to find that sweet spot. He
hates not knowing exactly how to please her. "You have to tell me what feels
good and what doesn't, little bird."

"I will. Please."

Sandor groans and unlaces his breeches enough to stroke himself as he moves his
mouth to Sansa's cunt. Technically, he's done this before - once - but it's
been years. He licks up her slit, feeling her shudder and writhe, until his
tongue brushes over her clit and she cries out. His fingers tighten for a
moment around his cock.

Seven fucking hells, the little bird tastes good.
Seven fucking hells, the little bird is his wife.

Seven fucking hells.

"Please, that feels good. That feels very good," she moans, her hips wriggling
towards him.

He would tease her for forgetting all about propriety except he only wants to
come and to make her come, too, so he licks her again, and again, growling at
the way she whimpers, the way she arches up and towards him, the feel of her
legs writhing against his chest.

Sansa is back to the incoherent attempts at speaking, her fingers brushing over
his hair. She might be saying his name, or asking for more, or confirming that
it still feels good. One of her feet brushes against his thigh, near his hand
on his cock.

Sandor groans and grips her hip with his other hand. His hand at his cock moves
faster, he suckles on his little bird's sweet spot and licks faster; he's
almost there. He thinks the little bird is, too, the way her body seems to be
tensing up, the higher pitch of her cries.

His pretty bird. His pretty wife.

Mine.

Sansa lets out a cry that is almost like a sob, and her body shudders, legs
pressed tightly against his shoulders. She clutches at the sheet and cries; he
thinks he hears her say his name again.

He comes grunting against her, still licking at her while she quivers. For a
moment he looses control and just presses his face to her abdomen, clutching
her hip tight enough that she might wear bruises for a short while. He closes
his eyes while her fingers clutch at his hair and her breathing begins to calm
down.

When the fog clears, he realizes that he is the one that is shedding tears
after it all, not his little bird. He curses the wine and kisses her stomach.

"Can you sleep now, little bird?" he asks her, cleaning his hand with the edge
of the sheet.

"Yes," she murmurs, already sounding half passed out. "Will you lay with me?"

Sandor pauses for a moment and then crawls onto the bed, pulling his pretty
wife on top of him. "Aye, I'll lay with you, Sansa."
End Notes
     So this is rather fluffer and pornier than originally intended, but
     it was written not long after Blackwater aired, and I guess I needed
     to write band-aid fic. Feedback appreciated! :)
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
