Chapter Text
The blood is blue-black on Sansa's white silks. They don't sing about this part in songs: the part where a quarrel replaces an eye, and the liquid that spills out sparkles like sapphire in the soft forest light.
Joffrey shouldn't have hit its eye, but it doesn't matter now.
The head is heavy in her lap and she's glad she hasn't eaten for the entirety of the hunt, otherwise her breakfast would have landed in the unicorn's mane. Her hand is there now, trickling through the translucent strands like spun sugar. I'm sorry, she says soundlessly, it was either you or me.
And then,
I wish it were me.
The squires pull the beast off Sansa, but they don't bother to help her up from her seat of damp leaves. There is commotion: the thumping of hooves, the clatter of steel, Joffrey's shouting. Sansa has trained herself to ignore his shouts, unless they are accompanied by strikes. When he puts his freshly wound crossbow in her face, she listens.
"I have a new game to play."
Even his hunting greens are trimmed in gold, as if too much stag would kill him. His ruby-encrusted crown sits crooked on his curls.
"Mother says I can't have your maidenhead,” he fusses like a child. “But I have my unicorn now, and she didn't mention anything about the rest of my men.” When his lips curl to a full-fanged smile, he’s no longer a boy. He’s a monster grown.
“We're going to have a maiden hunt."
He presses the loaded weapon into the softness of Sansa's belly, and she meets him with watery eyes. She's not strong enough to hide her anger, not now.
"I'll give you an hour to run, shewolf." Then, to the rest of the party, "Whoever finds her first will win her maidenhead. You bring her to me, and we'll have a little show with our supper."
No one makes a sound until Joffrey kicks her square in the chest. "Run along, you little wolfling bitch. Run fast. My men are quite hungry."
Sansa is up, then. Her legs carry her away, faster than her thoughts. Go, go, go, is all she'll allow herself, as if it will drown out her fear. Her fear is her heartbeat, and her heartbeat is rapid thunder.
It isn't long until the pain of Joffrey's kick blossoms like a black flower beneath her ribs, her lungs stuck through with its thorns. Each breath is agony. Then the forest gets greedy with her. Branches nip at her dress. Shrubs come for her ankles. Roots reach for her flimsy silken slippers, and they win. Sansa crashes down into a bed of mud. For a minute, she likes it there. It's soft, warm from the late autumn sun, and her body can finally rest.
But the stabbing fear returns not long after.
Sansa stumbles out of bed, her entire front side caked in dark mud, plaits included. She wipes only her eyes and mouth before she moves on. Then she starts asking herself questions. Why? is the first one. Why do I even bother? She quickly runs through the list of men that had come on the hunt, trying to determine the worst possible fate.
The answer is so obvious: Trant. And after that Boros, then Ser Balon, and finally, the Hound.
The Hound is my best option.
Had things truly sunk so low?
The answer is yes, but Sansa doesn't necessarily have time to stew in her sorrows. She won't even know when the hour is up, so she runs, and runs, and runs. Joff will keep his word. Her maidenhead will disappear tonight. Perhaps things will be easier, then.
Perhaps she'll be ignored, like Lollys.
But Lollys isn't ignored, she's laughed at by the whole of court.
That's when Sansa decides to stop thinking again.
She stays upright for a while, but there comes a time when her body simply won't cooperate. Her legs have turned wooden and they burn like kindling. The sun is setting in fiery pinks and oranges, and it won't be long before the woods are full dark. Where will she go, then?
When Sansa spots a hollow in the sprawling roots of an oak tree, concealed just-so by a blackberry bush, she seizes the opportunity. She's small game after all, and she'll do better to hide. The brambles snag her skirts as she crawls through, ripping a good six inches off her hem. She collapses inside the hollow, tattered, bruised, frosted in black dirt and blood.
Finally, she can cry. She curls into a tight ball, cradled ever so gently by moist decaying earth. Her tears clean the mud from her face. She's careful not to sob, of course, so she shivers in place. She likes the hollow, she decides. Maybe the men won't find her. Maybe Joffrey will get too hungry and give up. Then Sansa can live in the woods, surrender to Stannis, and pray he wants to keep her whole.
A cluster of mushrooms share her new home—speckled white with blood red gills. Are these the poisonous kind? She plucks them up regardless and clutches them to her breast like a noxious babe. Just in case.
Just in case Trant finds her first.
Or Boros, or Balon, or the Hound.
Death would be a better fate than any of them.
The sky is black when the thumping of hooves sounds out at a distance. At first they're fast, but then they slow. A searching pace. Then they come close.
And then they stop entirely.
When heavy boots land on the other side of the bramble, Sansa's bladder lets go. She doesn't even care, because a worse fate awaits her than a soiled gown. Now she sobs.
"It's time to come out, little bird."
The words are so gentle that the next wail sticks in her throat. The Hound.
She doesn't move.
The Hound won. He'll have my maidenhead.
The sobs come back, and she's screaming by the time a fierce arm hooks around her waist and rips her from the hollow. She thrashes and kicks, but the Hound is much stronger. She's nothing more than a scared rabbit to him. Worse, she's a little bird. She'll be in his jaws soon enough.
"Don't make it harder than it has to be, girl."
He's grappling with her. Sansa decides to put up a fight, because he's being too gentle again. None of his touches will leave a mark. She bites down on his bare hand, hoping it will leave a mark. He howls and drops her to the ground. Her ribs land on a gnarled root, and it poaches the air straight from her lungs.
She gives up, then.
The Hound scoops her like a ragdoll into his big arms. He mutters a fluent string of curses under his breath as he carries her to his stallion, but his harsh words aren't directed at her. They're for the king.
There isn't enough space for the two of them in the saddle. The Hound holds her tight between the reins, pressed against his smooth leather jerkin. Somehow Sansa's sobs turn to sniffles. She listens to his heart and she's surprised at how fast it beats. He's afraid too, she thinks momentarily.
Or he's excited.
Sansa whimpers, then realizes she still has a mushroom curled tightly in her fist. This is her last chance. But as soon as she opens up and brings the poison to her lips, the Hound tears it away. It disappears into the darkness behind them.
"Not today, little bird," is all he says. The way he breathes makes it seem like there's more coming, but he stays quiet. He somehow knows the way back to the lodge.
Sansa doesn't care. They could end up in Dorne, it didn't matter. As she lays there, limp in the Hound's lap, she makes up her mind. She won't be a frightened rabbit, she'll be a ragdoll. She'll lay perfectly still and accept her fate. She'll do as he told her.
She'll make it easy for herself.
The hunting lodge is a great stone monster lanced with heavy timber spears. Torch flame licks at Sansa's puffy face as they draw closer, and she buries herself deeper against Sandor's rigid chest. He's still breathing funny, like he might say something, but he never does.
He drops from the saddle and carries Sansa inside.
Joffrey waits for them at the head of the table, on his stupid oak chair draped in musky boarskin. His crossbow is in his lap, ready. No else is there but the unicorn. It sits in the center of the long trestle table, quarrel in eye, white coat crusted in black blood. Overflowing platters of meat lay untouched. Everything buzzes with flies.
When Joffrey perks up at his post, he sounds more petulant than angry.
"Finally," he moans. "I was worried I'd have to dismiss the whole sorry lot of you."
The other men have followed them, born from the shadows in the woods. They file in and take their places on the benches. The Hound drops Sansa at the far edge of the table, but she's too weak to hold herself upright, and ends up slumping back against his chest. She's safe when she's here.
"I'll have what's mine, then," the Hound rasps.
Sansa regrets her sympathy immediately when he rips her bodice open, spraying the floor with all the pretty pearls that had been stitched into the silk. She wants to weep again but the tears won't come. Be a ragdoll, she reminds herself.
So she doesn't make a single sound as he hitches her stained skirts around her hips. The men are silent, and so is Joffrey. They might have been eating, or simply watching, but Sansa's eyes are on the Hound. He fumbles with his belt, then the laces of his breeches, and then he's holding himself. This time a whimper crests her lips, despite how fiercely she tries to bite it back. She has never seen a man's staff before, not one so swollen, red, and angry.
And big. It's as big as the rest of him. She should have guessed.
His eyes are the only light as he stoops over her, a great dark hound come to devour his little bird. His half-burnt lips drop to her ear.
"When I push into you, scream. Do you understand, little bird? Can you manage that much?"
She doesn't answer, because she doesn't know what he's asking. If he puts himself inside her he'll rip her in two, and surely she'll scream at that, no matter what promises she's made for herself.
The Hound lingers, his breath hot against the nape of her neck. It's shallow, the kind of breath you use to gather courage. He must have found it, because he grabs one of her plaits, close enough to her scalp to command her entire head.
Then he thrusts.
But there's no pain.
His length slides beneath her buttocks like a warm snake, and there's no pain. Was that all it meant to lose your maidenhead?
The Hound growls—it's a warning.
With the next thrust, he yanks her plait fierce enough to rip it clean off, and this time, she screams. She screams so loud the aching flower in her chest blooms all over again.
"Good," he whispers. "That's a good little bird."
Why was that good? she wonders. There is nothing good about this, about being bare chested before half the Kingsguard in soiled silks, with a disfigured giant between her legs, deflowering her.
But hurting her scalp, mostly.
He moves again, pulls again, and Sansa screams again. "Stop," she whines. It's a ghost of a word.
"I'll stop if you learn to scream proper,” he snarls at her ear. “It's supposed to hurt. He wants it to hurt. You put on a sweet show, and it'll be over that much sooner."
She meets his eyes for a split second. There's too much behind them for Sansa to comprehend—more than anger and lust. She knows those well, and it isn't those. The way the Hound looks at her now is the same way he looked on her during the riot, when he came tearing through the crowd to rescue her. It's a wicked desperation.
Longing, tinged with greed.
He wants her to be a rabbit. He's begging her.
So Sansa nods.
When his manhood works it way behind her buttocks again, she wails and clutches at his jerkin. He makes a satisfied grunt, and his grip on her hair loosens. It's a reward.
Sansa learns fast, despite what the Queen says of her. So while the Hound goes on plunging beneath her, huffing and panting at her neck, she puts on a show. It's supposed to hurt. She knew that, which is why she was surprised at first. But she learns to pretend.
She screams and whines until her throat bloodies. She lashes out at the Hound, twisting fistfuls of supple leather, striking the stone-hard muscles below. His hand is still in her hair, but it's soft there. It steadies her, so his thrusts don't launch her across the table.
They get closer as he works, somehow. His arm braces along her spine, keeps her upright, forces her body against his. Something about his chest is comforting. When her cheek is flush against it, she can feel his heart again. She can smell the sour spice that clings to his armpits. All his heavy muscles are taut around her. He could certainly crush her.
So why doesn't he?
All that brute strength at his disposal, and he treats Sansa like the finest porcelain. He's never struck me, she thinks between gasps. But why? She shouldn't look up at him, but she does. His ugliness is the first thing she notices, but his warped face is tight with restraint. He doesn't want to hurt me.
Why?
He has no reason to be gentle. He has every right to plunder her virtue, as if she were nothing but a Flea Bottom whore.
His thrusts come faster suddenly. "Little bird," he says under his breath. "Fuck, little bird," and she may have even heard a fraught, "Please," but the rest of it is a jumble. She receives all his words as best she can, with extra cries and the kind of nervous trembling that prey ought to do. She wonders how it feels for him. How much he enjoys slipping from beneath her. How diligently he searched for her in the Kingswood to win his dinner, her.
Sandor isn't a terrible lover, despite being a beast.
He truly is her best option.
Then he's gone from her. He drops her to the table, and with a shallow grunt, empties warm seed all over her flower. She doesn't like his face as he does it, or the way his hand chokes his own manhood, and she starts to despise him again. He ruined me, and shame topples down on her like heavy fruit from high branches. Caught with juice running down my chin.
And she is. Next thing she knows, the Hound spins her around. Then she's staring down the table, directly into the unicorn's dead black eyes, and the Hound isn't even finished. He pries her thighs apart to show Joffrey everything.
"There," he spits. "It's done."
Joffrey doesn't say anything at first. His pouty lips are twisted into a grimace, his emerald eyes restless as they take in Sansa's shame, all her wanton juices. She hates all of them now. Her eyes grow hot with tears again, and she wishes she had eaten those mushrooms when she'd had the chance.
"I suppose—" Joffrey starts, shifting in his oaken throne. "I suppose I ought to have her as well. King's rights. Mother said I couldn't take her maidenhead, but she's no maiden now. Yes, I should have her too."
"No. "
The word stings like Valyrian steel. The Hound puts Sansa back together, slides her to him. "Look at her. She's a mess.” He lifts all her tattered scraps and loose ends to prove his point. “Covered in mud, and she's pissed herself too. Stinks something fierce. All sour with fright. No, a king can do much better than this. Have her washed up and take her on the morrow, but you deserve much better than a dog's leftovers, Your Grace."
The air is ice until Joffrey clears his throat. "You're a clever dog, aren't you. Well go on, take your bone and clean her up for me. You'll watch her tonight and see that no one else takes a bite. I'll have her in the morning before we set out. Put her in something pretty for me."
"As you wish, Your Grace."
"Good boy. Everyone else, eat."
The eyes go away from her, all but the Hound's. He undoes his white cloak and wraps it around Sansa's shoulders. He's soft when he says, "Come on, little bird, the show's over," then he bundles her up in his arms, and carries her down the corridor.
The room he takes her to is small, and he is so, so big. It’s more than his height, more than his great swollen muscles, it’s the very air around him. Dark as his mottled skin, with a stench like a knight who’s just fought a battle.
He’s not even a knight.
He hates knights.
Gregor is a knight.
It doesn’t matter. The Hound commands all the air inside, and Sansa suffocates.
It’s only when he says, “Wash yourself, girl,” that she realizes he’s been staring at her, because of course he has. Perhaps it's his steel eyes that needle away her breath. She doesn't want to move. She stands there, a defiled ragdoll.
"Do you want me to do it for you, is that it?"
It only takes one broad step before he's in her face again. He snatches up the pitcher from the washstand and lets it hover above her head. When Sansa finds words, they aren't the ones she expects.
"You should be ashamed of yourself."
It's enough to make him yield. He drops the pitcher and it shatters in the rushes, five clean pieces. Sansa doesn't flinch. She's even stopped shivering.
The Hound mutters again, rubs at his blackened jaw. He can't seem to stand still, even though there's hardly anywhere for him to go. He talks to the walls. "Ashamed she says. You should be thanking me, girl. You should be on your pretty knees, kissing my fucking boots. I spared you."
"S-spared?"
"Yes, little bird." He turns to her now, eyes glinting in the torchlight. "I spared your pretty little maidenhead." He fingers his cloak, the part Sansa has coiled up to her chin. "We could go hunt another precious unicorn right now, and it would come to you all the same. I wouldn't kill this one either. We could just give it a sweet kiss and send it on its way."
Gooseprickles rise up on her skin. She can't look away from the rough hand idling at her cheek. "But why?" she asks.
The Hound laughs. It cuts deep, and Sansa stumbles back against the cool stone wall.
"Why?" he mocks. "What, were you hoping for Trant? Or perhaps the noble Ser Boros? Seven fucking hells. Gods only know what one of those gallant cunts would have done with you."
He evaded her question, but Sansa can't think beyond the anger that simmers so readily beneath his ruined skin. It's breached the surface, and she's frightened.
Eventually the Hound quiets. "Take off your gown, girl. Whatever’s left of it. I'll go get you another." With a cursory glance to the broken pitcher he adds, "I'll get another one of those, too."
Sansa stays frozen in place. She does nothing while he's gone, not even rejoice in her unscathed maidenhead. She doesn't believe him. He had no reason to spare her, even if he truly did.
But a dog never lies.
He comes back with a bundle of wool under one arm and a wooden bucket in the other. There's silence between them as they both acknowledge the fact that Sansa has ignored his commands to strip, again. She matches his stare this time. She can be angry too, just as angry as him. She decides she isn't a rabbit or a ragdoll.
She's a wolf.
The cloak drops to the ground. With one tug to her girdle, the rest of her clothing follows.
Sansa picks up the rag from the washstand and goes to the bucket. Sandor hasn't even dropped it. The handle is tight in his fist, the water trembling almost imperceptibly. Good. She doesn't want him to move. He's dangerous when he moves. She begins to wash herself, because what does it matter?
He’s seen her change before. He's seen her breasts. He's held her when she was wearing naught but a wisp of silk.
And now, he's fucked her.
His monstrous man's staff has been inside her, one way or another. His seed is sticky between her legs.
So her nakedness is laughably tame by comparison. Better yet, the water feels good on her dirty skin. Sansa pretends Sandor isn't even there as she scrubs away all her sorrow. When the mud and soil are gone from her body, she undoes her plaits.
That's when Sandor drops the bucket with a slosh. He backs against the door.
Clearing the grime from her hair is an undertaking, but Sansa is in no hurry. She uses her fingers, the rag, and an occasional dunk in the bucket to get all of it off. She's happy when it's gone. Joffrey wants her clean, but she wants to be clean too. She doesn't want the Hound to call her sour ever again.
When she looks back up, she notices straight away—he's hard. Sadly, she knows what's below his belt. She knows how big and angry it gets.
When it wants something.
But Sansa is a wolf now, so she has no choice but to face him.
"Can I have my dress?" she asks, putting her bare toes between his boots. "Please. "
There isn't even a struggle. The Hound surrenders the garment without a word, and Sansa pulls it over her head. It's an underkirtle, a boring dun thing, but it's warm. It won't be nearly pretty enough for Joffrey, but the Hound likes it.
Sansa's eyes stick to the stiffness in his breeches. She's forgotten how to be afraid. She's forgotten that he could tear her limb from limb, and not think twice. He loves killing.
But he never said anything about raping, not that Sansa could remember.
"You wanted me more than the other men." The words are not her own; they belong to the wolf. Sandor shifts, but says nothing. "You always have. You're always watching me. You're always there. But you never struck me. Why?"
"I'm on the Kingsguard, girl. It's my duty to watch you."
Is this what it's like to stalk prey? She has Sandor pinned in place. There isn't any room to step closer, but she does. He had no right to call her sour, because he smells much worse. His breath reeks of wine, and the odor that wafts from beneath his tunic is like ripe garlic. It's not truly garlic, it's just the way grown men smell after a day's ride. Even father had smelled that way, sometimes.
Thinking of father makes the smell less bad. Suddenly Sansa is on his saddle, tucked in his arms, breathing him in on a warm summer evening. It's a welcome scent, she realizes. It smells like coming home.
Now she's scared herself. Her heart patters against her sore ribs. Still, her fingers reach out. She doesn't know why. Maybe she wants to take it back, whatever he took from her out there on the table, with Joffrey, the unicorn, and a half dozen rotten men looking on.
She doesn't get far.
The Hound erupts. The roar comes first, then the snapping up of her wrists, and then he throws her onto the straw pallet so forcefully she severs the tip of her own tongue. He's fuming when he stands over her. His burns smolder like hot coal.
"What are you playing at, little bird?" She scrambles to the far corner of the bed, but the Hound is much bigger. His body drops down on her like a dungeon. "You want more of me, is that it? Got a taste of something you liked?"
He thrusts a hand up her skirts; he's coming for her. Sansa mewls. "You won't." It's almost a sob. Tears sit heavy behind her eyes. "You won't hurt me."
"Like hell I won't. It doesn't matter what I do now. They all think I've had you." A coarse palm slides up her thigh. "My seed is right here, little bird."
She gasps.
His thumb is there, on her flower, in it. Fire bursts inside of her.
"You won't," is all she can get out. Her throat has closed up. She tries to close her thighs too, but only succeeds in trapping the Hound's hand inside her. She needs him gone, desperately, but she's too weak to fight. Her limbs are soggy straw.
She gives him all she has left. It's a mote of a whisper.
"You care for me."
It works.
He recedes, but he's still angry. He kicks the over the bucket with a grunt and sits on it, as far away from the bed as their cramped quarters allow. Sansa uses all her strength to pull her knees to her chin. She has played with fire, and gotten burned.
But she has learned something, too.
He didn't lie.
She knows the fire between her legs. It bloomed alongside her moonblood. Sometimes she can’t distinguish the two. They both ache from somewhere deep inside her, and that’s just it. The Hound wasn’t deep inside her.
He spared her.
That's the shock that keeps her lips tight, her arms locked firmly around her knees. He spared me. It’s a silent exultation. She has the urge to run back into the woods to find another unicorn and prove it to herself. She stays in place, because she thinks of something else.
Why?
Neither the rabbit or the ragdoll know the answer. She’s a Stark when she whispers, “You care for me. I remember everything—the day on the parapets, the courtyard, the riot. You told me of your scars, even though no one else knows, because you care for me. You always have. Since—since—” The day you first caught me, but she doesn’t say that, because it’s a terrifying realization. So she simply repeats, “You care for me. ”
She should have expected the bitter laughter that erupts from the corner of the room. Its savagery brings Sansa back to life. She peels up from the bed to watch him, eyes wide. She has never seen anything so fearsome as the Hound when he laughs. It’s a barking laugh, cruel and rough as a saw on stone. His eyes aren’t happy when he does it. He looks as though he could kill.
“You’re awful.”
She’s told him before, but she needs to say it again. At the very least, he goes quiet.
“That I am, little bird. What do you expect of me? Poetry? Song? I’m no Florian. I’m not a fucking knight. Bugger that. You’ll have no pretty little confessions from me.”
She feels stupid, because maybe that is what she expects. Still. After all her time trapped at the Red Keep, she still wants her Symeon Star-Eyes. But the Hound isn't Symeon. It’s enough to break her.
“Gods,” she laments, her voice a crag. “The Queen is right. I’m so stupid. I’m stupid and I hate it. I hate all of you, every single Lannister, and you especially. You’re the worst, because you don’t even have the courage to hit me. You’re a terrible dog. You can’t pretend otherwise. I remember. The day he had me stripped and beaten, I remember what you said. Enough. That’s what you said, in front of everyone, in front of the king. Enough. That’s not how dogs behave. You’re supposed to obey, you know that? You’re a coward, and worse. You’re a liar. You told me dogs don’t lie, but you lied to the king. You pretended to take me in front of everyone, but you didn’t. And now you’re lying to me, the same way you always do—by laughing, and cursing, and never answering my questions, not truly. You’re a liar.”
The Hound sits unmoving on his too-small perch, a white knuckle grip on his knees. “Truth, is it? That’s what you’re after?”
His stare is a lance, and she’s a quintain.
Slowly, Sansa nods.
“I’ve told you the truth plenty of times, but you never listen. There is nothing good in life, nothing pure, or pretty, or sweet. Not for me, and not for you. Knights are killers. Kings are monsters, and queens their courtesans. I’m no better or worse than the rest of them, and you’d best remember that."
Sansa frowns, because he’s done it again. He avoided her question, and they both know. She sees it in his face. His mouth twitches, and his grey eyes turn glassy. Dense columns of muscle bulge from his neck.
He can’t hold himself still.
He’s shaking.
Sansa has him.
“Why did you lie?”
The question lands softly. Sansa scoots to the edge of the bed. A delicate threat.
She’s a gentle girl, so she repeats herself. “Why did you spare me?”
She stands. She pads to the Hound’s pitiful seat and looms over him. She’s the shadow now. He has to look up to meet her eye. She’s not frightened by what she sees in him, not anymore.
But his voice is still poison. “You’re right, girl. I’m a liar, like the rest of them, but being a dog was a nice little show, wasn’t it? You can’t deny that.”
“If you're not a dog, then what are you, really?”
“A man. A monster, maybe.” He sighs, but it comes out as a growl. “I’m no one. Nothing. Same as everyone else.”
“Sandor….” She’s never said his name aloud. It tastes like ash on her tongue.
He knows what she’s asking.
He breathes like he has been all night long, like he's treading cold black water too far out in the God's Eye. But eventually, he speaks. His words are soft and acrid as smoke.
“Aye, I’m cruel, but the world is crueler, and the Gods are the cruelest of all. Do you know why, little bird? It’s because they don’t care. They don’t feel. They put green boys to the sword, innocent men to the gallows, and unbled maidens to bed. They took your dear old father up those steps, and they’re the ones who sent his head tumbling back down. The Gods. Not because they’re cruel, but because there’s nothing. No Gods, no order, no justice. It’s chaos, little bird. It’s black as night. So where does that leave me?” He comes up for air, briefly. “The Gods abandoned me the day I earned my scars. It’s blackness ever since. Blackness in the daytime, and flame to haunt my sleep. It was always black. Until—” his eyes flick to hers, but only for a moment. He looks at his crumpled cloak instead.
“Until it wasn’t. Because the Gods are indifferent, and they like jest as well as slaughter. They’re like to make a mock of me, so they put flame in my guts again. Waking fire, a nightmare come to life. A fire that flares up at my masters. Makes me question them. Makes me feel the sick twist of sorrow when a maiden witnesses her father’s death. They put the fire back in me, all so I could watch blackness seep into the purest, whitest thing there is—the foolish heart of a child.
“And I watched, aye, I fucking watched it happen. I watched the light fade from your pretty blue eyes as the Gods abandoned you. Same as they did to me. You’re right, little bird. I’m awful. A true knight would have severed the King’s ugly head on those very steps. A true knight would have swept you up, ridden from the city, and returned you to your kin. He doesn’t just think those things. He acts. But I’m no knight. I laugh, I kill, I swear, and all so the flame doesn’t boil up to the surface. Because what happens then? What happens when the thoughts become actions? Tonight happens, that’s what. I lied all over you. I spared you. I had no other choice. If I—” his voice ruptures like ice, a loud, broken gasp.
He picks up the pieces and carries on, quieter. “If I had to watch the last pure thing in this godsforsaken kingdom go to ash, that would be the end. I’d kill, little bird. I’d slide my dagger straight through your heart before letting any of those cunts inside of you, and I’d do for myself just the same, but only after bleeding the whole sorry lot of them. Aye, I spared you, but I spared all of us. So there’s your knight, pretty girl. There’s your little song. I pretended to put my cock inside you because I didn’t want to give anyone else the pleasure. Because I wouldn’t. Is that gallant enough for you?”
It is, but she doesn’t know why. Her fingers are out before she can stop them, reaching, and he lets it happen. He lets her put aside his lank black hair to expose the equally dark flesh beneath. She touches him there, on those hot coals. He shuts his eyes while she learns all the crimson fissures that run through the charred black planes of his skin. She traces his jaw. She touches bone.
“You care for me.”
His eyes open again. They’re sad, grey stars.
“I care.”
Their mouths connect. This is what you do after a song: you kiss. All those words fell from Sandor's lips, so now Sansa swallows them up. They taste like stale wine and soot. They feel warm and wet and rough, but only half-so. Mostly Sandor is soft. So soft that Sansa doesn't notice herself falling to the rushes. Two gentle hands trap her waist and guide her down, then he's over her again.
Did I surrender? Sansa can’t remember, but Sandor’s kisses become more urgent. His heavy breath spills from his nose to her face, a smelly fog. His hands are everywhere: her cheeks, her hair, her chest, her waist. His hands are lower, hoisting her hem. Mighty palms meet bare thigh, press them apart. He’s coming for her.
His hardness pushes against her belly through layers of wool, a threat. Sansa whimpers into his mouth and takes up two handfuls of rushes. Her nails sink into the dirt, softened to mud by the overturned bucket. Water seeps through to her skin.
It can’t happen here. Not like this.
“Bed,” she asks in a small voice.
Sandor’s answer is a grunt. He tosses her onto the straw mattress and straddles her; he’s busy. Sansa likes it here even less. The mattress is lumpy, the straw sharper than the rushes. She counts the jagged points in her backside. Two-and-thirty, she thinks, as if it’s an accomplishment. It helps her forget about Sandor for a while, though.
When she comes back to herself he’s still there. He’s working at something below his belt. Sansa frowns. His man’s staff isn’t a staff, it’s a worm. A sad, pink worm, soft in his brutish grip. He seems frustrated. His grunts are borderline feral. Sansa shouldn’t be watching this, and yet she can't take her eyes away. When Sandor meets them, her heart spurs.
“What?” he hisses.
Sansa shakes her head. She doesn’t know what she’s witnessing. It must have been the end, because Sandor falls back. He fills up the lower half of the bed.
“Is it over?”
That makes him scoff. His hand is still there, stowed in his breeches. Then Sansa realizes—it never even began.
She crawls towards him. She didn't mind the closeness. It's that thing that scares her, the oversized worm, but only when it's hard. It's useless now, inoffensive, pitiful even. It can't hurt her when it's soft like that. So she wonders about it as she settles between Sandor's trunklike thighs. She suddenly wants to know everything about it.
She runs her finger down Sandor's forearm to where his wrist is buried. There's nowhere for him to go, so he stays put. His breath is jagged rock. When Sansa puts her hand beneath his laces, it snags.
"What are you doing, little bird?"
She pushes his hand aside so she can touch him. His breath catches again, but he lets himself into her care. His manhood is just as soft as it looks, warm as she remembers. It's flopped over in her palm. Pitiful.
Why would she let something so feeble frighten her?
She could crush this.
But she doesn't.
She curls her fingers around it. She slides her fist along its length, to the pink hood that covers the tip of him. It hardens. Blood pools beneath her hold. It fills out her fist, and then some. It only takes a few more strokes before he's big again. The purple end, the angry end, pokes through. Even then, Sansa isn't scared.
She's taking back what he took from her, all those times he stood by and watched her get bloodied. She'll have her answers now.
"Why did you let them?" It's a venomous croak.
"Let them what?"
"Hurt me."
Sansa squeezes hard and he groans. "I'm sorry, little bird. I shouldn't have."
She likes the apology, even if it doesn't answer her question. She gives him more pressure, he likes that. The more merciless she is, the harder he throbs. She adds another hand. This one combs through the dark curls at the base of his manhood, or fingers the slick tip of him, depending how generous she feels.
"Will you let them do it again? Will you give Joffrey my maidenhead?"
His next exhale is a growl, low and rumbling. But he doesn't use his words, so Sansa stops moving. That gets his attention.
"I won't," he rasps. "I won't let the boy near you."
He's looking at her that way again. He always looks at her like this, and Sansa can't believe she hasn't realized it before. Only now that they're so perversely entangled does she finally understand. He wants to devour her. He wants to suck the marrow from her bones and leave them for the crows.
But he won't. He would never.
She put the flame in his belly. The flame that tells him to disobey, to preserve her purity. He was thinking those things, and then he started to do those things.
He pretends to be a dog, but he's really a knight.
When she starts stroking him again, she withholds nothing. She's so angry at him. She hates him for being so ugly and so cruel, for laughing at the wrong things and calling her that stupid name. But mostly, she hates him for lying. He should have helped her. If he truly cared, he would have given her Joffrey's head.
That's when the tears start. They dribble from the point of Sansa's chin to where her hand glides up and down Sandor's swollen staff. He doesn't notice. He's shut his eyes, and his breath is so loud it drowns out the sound of Sansa's weeping. The harder he breathes, the harder she cries, until she can't even see. She tugs, and tugs, and tugs, hoping she's gripping him hard enough to make it hurt.
But she knows each squeeze only brings him closer to his moment of pleasure, because he starts talking again, like he did at the table.
"Little bird," he sputters over and over. "Sansa, please. Forgive me."
His manhood quakes in her fist, and warmth spills over her knuckles. She doesn't know to stop. She keeps stroking, sobbing, pulling on him until he's soft again. She's falling too, wilting into Sandor like a sad flower. He takes her hand away, wipes away the stickiness with rough wool.
He bundles her in it and sets his mouth to the crown of her head.
"Little bird,” he whimpers. He’s so gentle that Sansa sobs harder, but strong arms stay her, rock her. Their breath makes a sad song together. Sansa reaches for his face and finds the wet dark of the Gods Eye on his skin. Perhaps the hollow of his arms is the lake's black, bottomless expanse. Perhaps they’ve both sunken to its depths.
Or perhaps the hollow is a different shelter. A shelter for a wolfling pup, bruised after a long day of play. Sansa knows this embrace. She knows these arms, this chest, this scent. Sandor has been here all along. He saved her from falling since the moment they first met, and he's saving her now, whispering, "Little bird, shhh, little bird. Hush now. I've got you. You're safe here. No harm will come."
Eventually their sobs fade to steady breath.
Into the quiet, Sandor softly says, "I'm taking you away, little bird. Tonight."
And so they go.