[drabblestheclown]

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The Princess and The Hound - ongoing Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader long fic

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[drabblestheclown]

Sometimes all I can think about is how the people of Westeros would react to hearing Limp Bizkit

[drabblestheclown]

♡The Princess and The Hound♡

Chapter 12 - Aftermath

Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader

Chapter word count: 3,283

Chapter tags: slow burn • pre-canon GOT • will be canon compliant • no use of y/n • Canon-typical misogyny • Joffrey Baratheon being an asshole • Court gossip • Comfort? • Protective Sandor Clegane

Chapter summary: Word of your training has spread through the Red Keep, and everyone seems to have an opinion.

Everyone in the Red Keep knew now.

You could see it everywhere.

Conversations faltered as you passed. Ladies watched you over folded fans before politely pretending they had not been staring. Guards straightened a little as you passed them, their eyes drifting briefly to your leather armour before snapping dutifully ahead again. Even servants, who usually hurried about their work without a second glance, seemed suddenly fascinated by whatever whispered conversation awaited them once you had gone by.

Robert Baratheon's eldest daughter, learning the sword.

With the Prince's dog, no less.

They must have thought the King had finally lost his senses.

You had never considered yourself to care much for the opinion of the court. You would never be queen, and the nobility always seemed to have something to whisper about. Why should you care what they think of you?

Yet each time their whispers carried down the corridor, you felt your chest tighten all the same. No one ever dared say anything to your face. Whatever they thought of you was left to your imagination, and somehow that was far worse.

Ellyn had yet to comment on the matter to you either.

You had noticed her looking at you differently from day one. Long, lingering stares that she quickly averted whenever you caught her, that polite smile on her face the whole time. You hoped, at least, the expression was still genuine. You liked Ellyn. Certainly, you enjoyed her company more than almost anyone's in the keep.

You could handle a few stares from her, especially when she was the one helping you into your training gear each day.

Still, a week into it, she had yet to say a word. She fastened the final buckle of your jerkin with the same careful concentration she always showed, completely silent.

You stood patiently, arms held out as she worked. It was an odd feeling, to have her buckle you into armour instead of tying the laces of your dress. You were thankful for it—the leather was far more awkward to put on alone than the loose shirt and trousers had been—but it still felt odd. For a year, you had dressed yourself. You had put your hair up yourself. Perhaps you had looked a mess, but that did not matter. It never needed to be presentable.

You found yourself mourning the secrecy of it all. Pulling on your own clothes, fastening your own belt, wrestling your own hair into something that resembled a braid—it had all become part of the ritual. Something that was entirely yours.

At least Ellyn's braids stayed in place far better than your own ever had.

"What are people saying about me, Ellyn?"

She blinked at you, her hands pausing on the final buckle. "My princess?"

You offered her what you hoped was a reassuring smile. "I see them look at me in the hallways. Surely you must hear things."

"I…" She looked down, focusing on dressing you. "People have been talking, yes," she admitted carefully.

"I assumed as much."

Once the final clasp clicked into place, she gently steered you towards the vanity before gathering your hair behind your shoulders.

"What are they saying?" You prompted.

"They're surprised," she admitted carefully. "I don't think anyone expected… this."

"They think I've lost my mind."

"No!" She blurted out her answer, meeting your gaze in the mirror before quickly looking away again. She carefully brushed your hair. "No. They simply think it's… unusual."

You laughed. "A kinder way of saying the same thing."

She smiled a little, eyes still cast downwards. "I suppose."

She worked quietly for another minute, deft fingers dividing your hair into neat sections. Each time you caught her reflection watching you in the mirror, she quickly looked away again.

Finally, you turned in your seat to face her, ignoring her annoyed huff as a section of your hair fell from her fingers. "What do you think of it?"

"Oh… I…"

"You don't have to spare my feelings."

"I would never—"

"Please," you said. "No one will talk to me about it."

She sighed softly, her hands returning to section your hair. You turned back towards the mirror, convinced she intended to let the question die unanswered.

"I think it's nice," she said at last.

You blinked at her reflection. "You do?"

"It's different," she said, smiling a little sheepishly. "I heard your father is pleased."

You hummed softly, frowning a little. "I don't think a princess is supposed to be different."

She shrugged lightly. "I still think it's nice."

The room fell quiet again. The only sounds were the soft scrape of the brush through your hair and the muffled bustle of servants somewhere beyond the chamber door. You watched her reflection carefully. More than once she looked as though she meant to say something before thinking better of it.

As she got closer to finishing your hair, she finally spoke up.

"May I ask something?

"Of course," you said.

She glanced away again, blushing a little. It took a moment for her words to come together. "Isn't he…" She trailed off. "Well, they say he's quite frightening, don't they?"

"Clegane?" You couldn't help but smile. "He's not nearly as frightening as people make him out to be." You thought for a moment. "Though I wouldn't recommend giving him a reason to dislike you."

"He always looks quite intense when I see him with the Prince," she said. "And those scars…" Her brows drew together, her expression softening into something closer to pity than fear.

You nodded absently, your gaze dropping to the floor.

Everyone knew the story. They said his bedding had caught fire when he was a boy. That he had been fortunate to survive it at all.

Sandor never spoke of it.

In fact, he seemed to hate when anyone looked for too long. And people knew better than to mention the scars to his face.

And yet…

You found yourself thinking of all the little ways he hid them without seeming to. Whenever the two of you walked together, he somehow always drifted to your left. Whenever he sat beside you, it was his unmarked side he left facing your direction.

You were not sure he even realised he did it.

"Sorry," Ellyn cut off your thoughts. "I shouldn't have…" She trailed off, looking apologetic as she tucked the last strands into your braid. "I am glad you are enjoying it. You have seemed… happier, these past couple days."

"I have?"

"I think so."

You were not so sure. Did you look happier, really?

It was possible. You certainly felt much lighter since the training session a few days ago. Embarrassing as it had been, you were at least glad that it had all started to feel familiar again since.

Sandor spoke to you again now, too, if only in short corrections and the occasional muttered complaint. The silence between you no longer felt unbearable.

But nothing had truly been resolved.

You had not spoken about your little breakdown, nor the argument, nor the weeks of distance leading up to it. You had not spoken of the unexpected embrace that had somehow mended something which words had failed to.

Perhaps that was simply how Sandor Clegane apologised. Perhaps things really were back to normal.

But sitting here, with Ellyn talking about your alleged happiness, you were not so sure.

Still, you tried not to worry. There was little point fretting over it.

If nothing else, things were better than they had been.

For now, that would have to be enough.

Your father, at least, could not have been more pleased with the new arrangement.

Dinner had barely begun before he was looking your way, one hand already wrapped around a goblet of wine.

"So then," he started, "how goes the training?"

Conversation around the table faltered. You felt several pairs of eyes settle on you at once. Across the table, your mother's expression remained politely unreadable. Myrcella looked between you and father with quiet curiosity, while Tommen busied himself spearing a piece of meat with determined concentration.

Joffrey did not look up from his food.

You offered your father a small smile. "It goes well."

"Well?" Robert snorted, draining his wine. "That's all I've been hearing for a sennight. 'Well'." He waved his hand dismissively and leaned toward you. "Come now. You've got bruises yet?"

Heat crept into your cheeks. "A few."

"Ha!" He slammed the table hard enough to make Tommen flinch. "Good," he said, pointing the already refilled cup at you. "Means the Hound isn't going easy on you."

Your mother delicately set down her goblet across the table. "I still fail to understand why this is being encouraged."

Robert frowned as though she'd asked something ridiculous. "Because she enjoys it."

"It is hardly becoming of a princess," she remarked, her tone even.

Robert snorted, leaning back in his chair. "It'd do half the court some good to spend a morning getting knocked into the dirt."

Joffrey muttered something, but you couldn't hear what. Robert didn't even seem to hear at all, already turning back towards you with interest.

"So," he said, tearing a piece from the loaf beside him. There was a hint of humour in his tone. "You managed to land a hit on him yet?"

You hesitated. "…Once or twice."

Robert stopped chewing. "You what?" He stared at you a moment before bursting into laughter. "Seven hells, girl!"

"Well, it was only—"

"You hear that?" Robert interrupted, throwing an arm around your shoulders with such force it almost knocked you sideways. "My girl's managed to hit the bloody Hound."

"I—"

He gave your shoulder an enthusiastic shake. "That's true Baratheon blood," he boomed. "Too stubborn to know when she's beaten."

You smiled a little sheepishly. "He still knocks me flat more often than not."

"But you get back up."

"Of course."

"There," he said, pointing triumphantly around the table as if he'd just proven something of great importance. "That's all that matters."

No one seemed to want to reply to his words of wisdom. Myrcella looked between you and Father with a hesitant sort of admiration.

Joffrey's knife scraped sharply across his plate. "I don't see what all the fuss is about," he muttered. "She's probably lying."

The table went quiet.

Robert tried to ignore him, leaning back with his wine. "Gods," he muttered.

"She's not special," he spat. "I've trained too. I—"

"Yes, and how much practice have you put in over the years?" Robert countered.

"I—"

"Best master-at-arms in the realm you had, and little good it ever did you. You still found reasons not to show up."

"I showed up."

"When it suited you."

"It wasn't like—"

"Gods, boy," Robert cut him off, leaning forward and pointing a finger at him. "You spent half as much time actually swinging a sword as you did preening in front of a looking glass, you could have been halfway bloody decent by now."

Joffrey's face darkened. "I can fight."

"I've no doubt you think so."

You shifted uncomfortably in your chair. Every word out of your father's mouth seemed only to darken Joffrey's expression further.

A few compliments would have been one thing, but Robert never seemed to know where to stop. Every boast came at Joffrey's expense, and every laugh only seemed to make your brother angrier.

You could feel Joffrey glaring at you now, though you kept your eyes fixed firmly on your plate. Your father either did not notice or did not care. He nudged your shoulder again, attention fully returning to you.

"Give it a few months," he said, grinning. "I'll wager you'll be throwing half my guards on their arses."

You ducked your head into your cup, taking another drink and pretending not to notice your brother staring holes through you.

The corridors were quieter than usual.

You hurried along them anyway, awkwardly trying to gather your hair into a knot as you walked. You had lost track of the morning painting, leaving you with no time to sit at the vanity with Ellyn. Not if you intended to make it to your lesson on time, anyway.

Another strand slipped loose. You muttered under your breath, trying to catch it one-handed before it fell back across your face again.

Voices drifted from the corridor ahead.

You slowed.

Joffrey rounded the corner before you reached it, two Lannister guards following several paces behind. Their polished breastplates caught the afternoon light, though neither paid you more than a passing glance.

Your eyes flicked instinctively beyond them.

No Sandor.

You really were running late.

Joffrey noticed you immediately, his gaze travelling slowly from your untidy hair to the leather jerkin pulled over your clothes. The corner of his mouth twisted upward.

"Sister."

Your hands dropped to your sides, your hair tumbling over your shoulders. You slowed to a stop a few paces away.

"Joffrey."

"Off to play soldier?"

You glanced at the guards behind him. "I'm running late," you said, starting to step around him.

He moved into your path, hands behind his back. His head tilted as he stepped forward. "You seem rather proud of yourself lately."

You stood your ground, meeting his eyes. "I really need to be going."

"Father certainly seems proud."

There it was.

You had wondered how long it would take.

"Father enjoys any chance to brag," you said carefully. "He enjoys talking."

"He never talks about me."

The words slipped out of him too quickly, full of bitterness. For a moment, his expression dropped after he said them. He'd seemed almost surprised to have spoken them aloud.

You nearly found yourself feeling sorry for him.

The moment was gone almost instantly, his face hardening as a cold smile crept back across it.

"No matter," he said, his voice quiet. "You'll tire of it soon enough." He took one slow step forward. "The bruises." Another step. "The sweat."

You gave ground with each step he took towards you, your shoulders soon meeting cold stone.

His expression twisted with satisfaction. "I suppose that's all worth it if Father looks at you for five bloody minutes."

You stared at him, jaw tight. "I never asked for—"

"No," he cut you off. "You never ask. And he gives it anyway."

His eyes drifted deliberately over the jerkin.

"I wonder how long it will last. This," he gestured lazily towards you, looking you up and down. "Father pretending you've suddenly become a son." His smile widened. "Soon enough he'll remember what you really are. Then you'll be packed off to whichever lord he thinks will serve him best."

The words settled somewhere deep in your stomach.

You swallowed, then opened your mouth to answer. Nothing came.

The silence only seemed to please him more.

"One day," he said quietly, leaning in closer, "father won't be here."

Your composure slipped for the briefest moment. He noticed immediately.

"I wonder who'll protect you then."

For a long moment he simply watched you, satisfied. Then he took a step back and straightened the sleeves of his doublet as though nothing had happened.

"Try not to keep my dog waiting."

He brushed past your shoulder, the guards following without a word.

Only when the corridor had fallen quiet again did you lift your hands back to your hair.

By the time you reached the training room, you had managed to wrestle your hair into something resembling a braid.

As expected, Sandor was already waiting, standing in the centre of the room with his arms folded. Two blunted practice swords rested at his feet.

His eyes found you immediately.

"You're late."

You avoided looking directly at him. "…Sorry."

For a moment, his gaze lingered. Then, without another word, he collected the swords and tossed one your way.

You caught it automatically.

"Come on," he said.

Training began, but you couldn't quite get yourself to focus.

You missed openings you would have usually taken.

Your footwork became tangled.

Twice, you stumbled over your own feet.

The third time, Sandor caught your shoulder before you could hit the floor.

He let go almost immediately.

"That'll do for today."

You blinked at him, your heart sinking. "We just started."

Already, he was moving towards the weapon rack, attention away from you. "No point waving a stick around while your head's somewhere else." He didn't even look back as he spoke. "Shouldn't be training every day, anyway. Need to give your arms a rest."

He wasn't wrong. Daily lessons had left your muscles in a constant dull ache, and your sword arm now tired far earlier into each lesson.

That did not mean you were happy about the decision.

But the choice had already been made, so it hardly mattered what you thought.

"…Alright," you said quietly, disappointment settling heavily in your chest.

You returned your own sword to the rack, lingering there longer than necessary.

You weren't ready to go back yet. Not to your chambers. Not to wandering corridors and pretending nothing had happened. You couldn't. You did not want to be left alone with your thoughts of Joffrey and marriage and—

"Princess."

Sandor had settled himself against the wall, one knee bent, a wineskin hanging loosely from one hand.

He dipped his head towards the empty space beside him.

"You sitting or not?"

You blinked at him, hesitating only a moment before crossing the room. Carefully, you lowered yourself beside him, leaving a foot of space between you.

He offered the wineskin without looking.

You accepted it, your fingers briefly brushing against his.

"…Thank you."

He merely grunted.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You drank his wine in silence, the warmth of it spreading through your chest. It felt weirdly normal.

For the most part.

"…You're ending lessons early now?" Your voice was quiet, testing.

One eye cracked open. "When you need it."

"I'm fine."

"You nearly fell on your arse three times."

There seemed little point in arguing.

"…I just don't want to lose any progress," you said instead.

"You won't," he insisted. He reached over and took the wineskin from where it rested in your lap. "You need time to recover." He took a drink, then settled back against the wall. "Told you from the start. You train every day an' your arms will fall off."

A silence settled. You stared at your hands in your lap, picking at the rough patch of skin beneath your thumb.

"I like training every day," you said.

Another silence. He studied the leather flask in his hand for a moment.

"I know," he said at last, voice oddly quiet. "But you won't get any better if you can't even hold the bloody thing."

You gave a small nod. You did not like where this was going.

"So… I guess we won't be training every day anymore," you said.

"No."

You nodded again, unable to hide your disappointment.

After a moment, he nudged the wineskin gently back into your hands.

"I'll decide on the day," he said. "If your arms are done…" He shrugged. "…we'll sit."

"…Sit?"

"Aye." He settled more comfortably against the wall, one shoulder scraping lightly against the stone. "Sit. Drink." He shrugged. "Complain if you like." His eyes drifted shut again. "You're good at that."

You couldn't help but smile at that.

"I do like to complain," you said lightly.

"You do."

Your smile lingered as you looked down at the wineskin in your hands. You leaned back against the wall beside him.

"Okay," you said quietly.

Slowly, you finished the last of his wine, the remainder of the hour passing by in silence.

It was the best you'd felt in weeks.

[drabblestheclown]

Wanna make one of those fanfic trailers on TikTok for my fic so bad but idk how and I don’t want to make another TikTok account lol

[drabblestheclown]

♡The Princess and The Hound♡

Chapter 11 - Again

Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader

Chapter word count: 2,700

Chapter tags: slow burn • pre-canon GOT • will be canon compliant • no use of y/n • angst • emotional distance • miscommunication • protective Sandor • crying • Sandor doesn't know how to talk about this shit lol • comforting touch

Chapter summary: Sandor finally opens up about his feelings. Training becomes the last thing you want to do.

The new training room felt nothing like your abandoned tower.

It was larger. Brighter. Sunlight spilled through the narrow windows, filling the space in a way your old tower never had. Along one wall stood a rack of blunted practice swords, while a pair of battered straw dummies occupied the far corner. Any unnecessary clutter had been cleared away, leaving plenty of space in the centre.

Even your attire was not the same.

Soon enough, a proper set of armour would be made for you. For now, though, your father had insisted upon a fitted leather jerkin to wear over your old training clothes. It was far lighter than true armour, yet it still proved difficult to move in compared to the loose shirt and trousers you'd grown so used to.

How men could move so easily beneath layers of mail and steel, you were not sure.

You looked around the large space, taking it all in.

None of it was the same. None of it felt like yours.

And yet, despite everything, you found yourself smiling.

For the first time in a year, you had been able to walk the halls in your training gear without worry. For the first time in a year, you didn't have any secrets to stress about.

You had expected it to feel strange—awkward, even, to go to a space so… official.

Instead, it felt like a relief.

Perhaps, after everything, this was a chance to begin again.

For once, you had arrived before Sandor. Perhaps that should not have surprised you. Now that the lessons had your father's blessing, everything would be more structured. You could not imagine that Joffrey was making it easy for his dog to leave his side, either.

But it was not up to Joffrey. Sworn shield or not, the King's word was final.

How fortunate you were that your father's favour so often fell to you.

At last, the door opened. Clegane stepped inside, his eyes travelling over you for a moment before settling elsewhere.

You glanced down, suddenly self-conscious. The leather creased awkwardly whenever you moved, sitting stiff across your shoulders in a way that felt wholly unfamiliar. You imagined you looked more like a child playing at knighthood than a princess learning to fight.

Of all people, though, you hoped Sandor Clegane would not think so.

Without a word, he made his way to the collection of practice blades, grabbing one for himself before taking his place in the centre of the room.

You followed suit, and the lesson began.

It was quieter than ever.

Sandor said nothing.

Even after your nameday, even through the worst distance between you, he had still offered the occasional correction. A quiet 'higher.' A curt 'again.' Enough to remind you he was still teaching.

Today, there was nothing.

No instruction.

No criticism.

Nothing at all.

He met every strike with effortless precision. Steel rang against steel, each movement of his measured and controlled. When your guard slipped, he corrected it with nothing more than a sharp tap of his practice blade before resetting his stance.

It had barely been ten minutes when you could no longer bear the silence.

You lowered your sword, watching him a moment before speaking.

"What's wrong with you?"

He remained where he stood, expression unchanging.

"Nothing."

"It isn't nothing."

He tipped the point of his practice blade towards you. "Back in your stance."

"No."

His jaw tightened. "I said—"

"I heard you."

Silence settled between you.

You searched his face for some kind of hint as to what had happened.

"Is it Joffrey?" You asked. "Is he being difficult?"

A humourless scoff escaped him, his eyes drifting to the far edge of the room. "It isn't that little cunt's fault we're here."

Your brows drew together. You opened your mouth, closed it again. You spoke carefully. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothin'."

"Sandor."

His grip tightened around the hilt.

"You wanted this," he muttered.

You blinked at him. "What?"

"This." He gestured sharply around the room. "Daylight. Guards outside. Everyone knowing."

"I never wanted—"

"You just couldn't keep your mouth shut."

The words landed hard, bitterness dripping from his tone.

"You think…" Your voice came out quiet. Weak. "You think I wanted to tell them?"

His jaw worked. "You managed to keep it quiet for near enough a year."

"Why would I—"

"You were angry enough."

Your chest tightened.

He was being completely serious.

You stared at him, wide-eyed.

For so long now, he had been avoiding you, leaving you to wait for him to give some sort of indication as to what had happened. Some sort of suggestion as to what he was actually feeling.

Now, at least, you had an answer.

He thought you had told because you were upset with him.

He thought—

Gods.

You wanted, just for a moment, to wipe that certainty from his face.

"A servant found me," you said at last. "She came into the room while I was changing. She had seen you leave."

You had thought that might gain a reaction, but he said nothing. Gave nothing.

"My mother thought we had slept together," you said, the words coming out clipped and bitter.

The silence that followed was different.

Still, he would not speak.

Only then did you realise your hands were trembling, your fingers clenched so tightly around the hilt that they had begun to ache.

"You think she would have believed me after that?" Your voice was shaking now. "You think Cersei Lannister would have listened to a word I said once she'd already made up her mind?"

He wouldn't meet your eyes.

"I didn't have a choice," you said. "I thought the truth might at least keep you alive."

Another silence.

"…I didn't know that," he said at last.

"No," you said, voice finally breaking. "No, you just assumed that I had told to spite you."

You couldn't bear to look at him any longer.

Weeks he had been ignoring you.

Weeks spent wondering what you had done wrong.

Weeks spent hoping that if you simply gave him enough time, things might return to how they had been.

And this is what it had come to.

You turned, returning your practice sword to the rack with far more care than was necessary.

"I'm done for the day," you murmured.

Silence.

You hesitated, hoping that he might tell you to stay. That he might even say he was wrong.

He didn't.

You left without looking back.

The next day, you arrived first again.

You sat on the far side of the room, a sketchbook in your lap. Its pages were still crisp beneath your fingers, barely used. The charcoal left dark smudges across your fingertips as you worked.

When the door opened, you did not look up. You did not move.

The room remained quiet for a long while, broken only by the scratch of charcoal as you tried to capture how the afternoon light caught the edge of the blunted practice swords resting against the far wall.

Finally, heavy footsteps approached.

"Princess."

Sandor's rough voice carried easily through the space.

Still, you did not look at him.

"It's time," he said.

You gave yourself a moment to steady your voice. "I'm not training today."

Silence.

"Why?"

"I don't feel like it."

A quiet huff escaped him. "Then what're you doing here?"

You shrugged lightly, focusing now on darkening the shadows at the hilt. "I couldn't very well miss my second day," you said, forcing a lightness you did not feel. "My mother would have questions. As would Joffrey."

He stood there another moment.

You had half expected him to argue. Instead, he only gave a quiet grunt.

"…Fine."

The footsteps retreated.

You sneaked a glance as he lowered himself against the opposite wall, forearms resting across his knees. His head leaned back against the stone. After a moment, his eyes closed.

Your gaze fell back down to the page, but the lines refused to come together beneath your hand. By the time the hour ended, you had scarcely added more than a single stroke.

On the third day, you brought a book instead.

Sandor stopped a few feet away. "Again?"

You turned a page.

"Mhm."

He gave another quiet huff before returning to the opposite wall.

Neither of you spoke. Every so often, you thought that you felt his eyes settle on you from across the room.

You never looked up to find out if you were right.

The book had served its purpose well enough the day before, so you brought it again.

This time, when the door creaked open, there was no pause before the footsteps moved inward. Heavy boots crossed the room without hesitation, stopping directly before you.

"You're still doing this shit?"

You did not answer.

"You'll lose all your progress."

The words on the page blurred in and out of focus beneath you. Still, you did not look at him.

"Get up," he ordered.

"I'm not training today," you managed, voice steady.

"Get. Up."

You turned another page.

"No."

The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

"Princess."

Nothing.

"Look at me."

You weren't even trying to read the words anymore.

He huffed quietly through his nose.

Without warning, he snatched the book from your hands and threw it aside. You looked up just in time to catch him looming over you.

"What—"

Before you could finish, an arm hooked beneath you and hauled you effortlessly to your feet.

"Sandor—"

The protest dissolved into an indignant yelp as the world tipped sideways. In one swift movement, he had slung you over his shoulder, the room spinning in your peripheral.

You thumped an annoyed fist against his back, immediately regretting it as pain bloomed across your hand.

He ignored you entirely, your attempts certainly doing more damage to you than to him. Six long strides carried him into the middle of the room before he set you firmly back on your feet.

You stumbled back away from him, taking a moment to find your balance. "What is wrong with you?"

Already, he was moving again. Without a word, he crossed to the rack, took two blunted swords, and returned. He stopped in front of you, extending one out.

You stared down at it. "I don't want to train."

"Take it."

"No."

"Take the bloody sword."

His arm did not waver. He simply stood, jaw set, and waited for you to give in.

You hesitated only a heartbeat longer. Then, with a frustrated sigh, you snatched it from his grip.

Once the sword was in your hand, he finally withdrew, settling into a relaxed stance. His own blade rested loosely in his grip down at his side.

"Hit me," he said.

"…What?"

"Hit me."

You didn't move at first.

Then, you drew a slow breath and raised your sword.

Your first swing came hard. Steel rang through the room as he caught it without effort.

You swung again.

Blocked.

Again.

Blocked.

Every strike carried more weight than the last.

Every parry of his felt almost effortless.

It wasn't long before your arm grew heavy at your side, the muscle aching, sweat clinging to your skin.

Still, he refused to strike back. Every movement was another parry, another block, another measured step backwards.

You gritted your teeth, raising your sword arm high.

It was not the first time you had attempted a feint like this. Twice, maybe three times, you'd tried to catch him with the exact movement. Twice he'd punished you for it before you'd even finished the movement.

You tried again, anyway, waiting for him to move to meet you up high. At the last instant you twisted your wrist, driving the blade downward to meet his lower ribs instead.

The practice sword struck with a dull crack.

You both froze.

Your lungs dragged in another ragged breath that refused to steady.

Sandor glanced from his side to you and gave a small nod.

"Good."

Good.

There was a time you would have loved such simple praise from him.

Instead, something inside you snapped.

You came at him again, swinging your blade hard at his side. There was no thought behind your movements now, just an unexplainable need to strike.

Even taking him off guard, he met your swing with ease. Still, you kept going, steel ringing against steel again and again and again. Sandor's brows drew together, surprise flashing across his face before it disappeared beneath that practised indifference. He caught every strike you threw at him, giving ground one measured step at a time.

You had hardly seen him since your name day. Hardly spoken to him. He thought you had betrayed him and didn't even have the decency to acknowledge he was wrong and now—

Now he wanted everything to go back to normal. To continue training with you as if none of it had happened. As if that wasn't the exact thing you had so desperately been trying to achieve—failing to achieve—since he cut you off after your name day.

A sob escaped you before you even realised you'd made a sound.

You swung again, your vision beginning to blur.

The sword felt impossibly heavy.

Another strike.

Another block.

Your arm finally gave out, the point of your blade sagging to the floor as your breathing broke apart into ragged, uneven gasps. You couldn't look at him anymore. All you could focus on was your blurred vision and your breathing that refused to calm no matter how much you willed it to.

Eventually, Sandor lowered his own sword. Silence settled over the room, broken only by your uneven breathing.

"Princess."

He did not make any move towards you, yet you stepped back all the same. Furiously, you wiped at your face with your hand, a whimper escaping you as it came back wet with tears.

"Princess," he repeated, the word coming softer this time.

Soft. Sandor Clegane.

You almost wondered if you'd imagined it.

"I'm fine," you said.

"You're crying."

"I'm not fucking crying," you snapped, turning away from him. You wiped at your face more fiercely, but it did not matter. The tears would not stop. Your heavy breathing filled the silence of the room, the embarrassment only making you want to cry harder.

"Look at me," he said.

You shook your head, still facing away.

Metal clinked softly behind you, warm fingers reaching round to your forearm soon after. He turned you to face him, and only then did you realise he had pulled a gauntlet free. You could not look him in the eye. You could not look anywhere but at the coarse hand at your wrist.

For a moment, nothing happened. He simply held you there, eyes searching your face while your stifled whimpers filled the silence.

Then, with a sigh, he stepped towards you. The hand on your forearm slipped away, settling gently against the back of your head. He drew you forward with surprising carefulness, your head meeting his breastplate. The cold steel pressed uncomfortably against your skin.

It was stiff and uncomfortable. It didn't matter. You leaned into him anyway, a weak sob escaping you. You let the blade drop from your grip, both arms coming up to clutch at his back instead.

Sandor said nothing. He simply stood there, one hand still resting against the back of your head. He did not mutter or huff or move away. He waited, and when your tears finally slowed to a halt, you were the one to step back.

Still, you could not meet his eyes. You were certain you looked a mess—tear-stained and blushing.

After a long moment, he stooped to retrieve your fallen sword. He held it out to you, and this time you took it without hesitation.

You shifted the blade awkwardly in your hand, staring at the scuffed leather wrapped around its hilt. Somewhere beyond the narrow windows, birdsong drifted faintly into the silence. You still could not meet Sandor's gaze, but you could feel him watching you closely.

Then, he retrieved his own sword from the ground.

"Come on," he said at last. "We'll go again."

This time, you nodded.

[drabblestheclown]

♡The Princess and The Hound♡

Chapter 10 - Secrets

Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader

Chapter word count: 2,819

Chapter tags: slow burn • pre-canon GOT • will be canon compliant • no use of y/n • angst • emotional distance • miscommunication • Cersei Lannister • Robert Baratheon • Joffrey Baratheon • reader is in trouble oof

Chapter summary: Secrets never lasted long in the Red Keep. For once, the truth proved less dangerous than the lie.

Sleep did not come easy.

You had spent the whole night trying to convince yourself that you were being ridiculous—that the servant had seen nothing and you were worrying for no reason at all.

The room had been dark. She could not have seen your training clothes, nor the blunted blades tucked away in the corner. The laces of your dress had been undone, but you had not been indecent. It was hardly a crime to wander the castle. It was your home. Besides, you had been so tucked away in the shadows that she had probably not even noticed the loose laces.

That had to be it.

She had simply been startled to find you there. Embarrassed, perhaps, that she had walked in on a princess without knocking first. Maybe even scared of punishment for it. That was why she had fled so quickly.

You were fine. Everything was fine.

Yet when morning came, the knot in your stomach had not eased.

The sun had only just started to rise as you lay there, staring blankly up at the canopy of your bed. Over and over, the events from last night replayed in your head.

The groan of the hinges.

The servant frozen in the doorway.

The look in her eyes.

You knew better than to believe she had been there simply by coincidence. Someone had to have sent her to watch you. The thought settled heavily in your chest.

Gods.

The feast. Your argument with Joffrey.

If a servant had truly been told to keep watch over you, then your secret lessons were the least of your worries.

If she had been sent to watch you, then she would have seen Sandor leaving.

The princess and her brother's sworn shield.

Alone in an abandoned tower.

And you, found moments later, half-dressed and hair dishevelled.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. You thought you might be sick.

Three soft knocks sounded at your door, startling you back to reality.

"Princess?"

You forced yourself to sit up, smoothing your expression. It was only Ellyn. No need to panic yourself.

"Come in."

She entered with her usual smile, a basin of warm water balanced carefully against her hip.

Everything about her was ordinary.

She smiled. She busied herself with morning tasks. She kept a relaxed focus, not staring or casting any sidelong glances. Everything was normal.

She paused midway through laying out your clothes.

"Is everything alright, Princess?"

You blinked at her a moment, snapping yourself out of your thoughts. You needed to learn to keep a straight face.

"Of course," you managed, offering a polite smile. "I didn't sleep well, is all."

"I see." Her eyes softened. "Shall I help you get ready?"

You hesitated, but you knew you would have to face the day eventually. Hiding in your room would accomplish nothing.

You nodded, and Ellyn began to move about the room with practice ease, helping you dress before brushing your hair with slow, careful strokes.

Normally, you found the routine calming.

Today, you could hardly even focus.

Hard as you tried, you could not tear your thoughts from last night.

Surely, though, if your mother or father had learned what the girl had seen, you would not be sitting here in peaceful silence. Surely, word would have spread. Servants always knew everything before anyone else in the keep, and if Ellyn had truly heard nothing…

The thought comforted you for all of an hour.

Then came another knock. This one louder, authoritative. It made your chest tighten.

"Enter."

The door opened to reveal one of the Kingsguard. One you recognised from his usual post outside your mother's solar.

He inclined his head.

"Princess," he said. "His Grace requests your presence."

There it was.

No explanation. Simply a summons.

Your father…

"Very well," you said.

The guard stepped aside without another word, waiting for you to follow after him. Each step pulled at your stomach a little tighter, your heart hammering in your chest all the way. Finally, you reached the King's solar, the two guards stationed outside ignoring you completely. Your escort knocked once before entering.

"Your Grace."

Robert looked up from behind his desk. There was no anger in his expression, nor disappointment. Only a deep furrow between his brows and the weary sort of concern that made your stomach twist all the more.

Across the room, your mother stood by the window with her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she watched you enter, her gaze never once leaving your face.

The door shut behind you, leaving you alone with the King and Queen regent.

You lowered your eyes and dipped into a curtsy.

"You wished to see me?"

Neither of them answered immediately, the silence eating at your anxiety while you stood waiting. Finally, your father let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand through his beard before nodding to the chair opposite him.

"Come here."

You obeyed, the room feeling impossibly quiet as you lowered yourself to sit.

Robert rested his forearms on the desk, studying you for a long moment before speaking.

"I've had…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "…a rather strange report brought to me."

Your stomach tightened.

Before he could continue, your mother stepped forward to speak.

"One of the servants saw you outside of your chambers last night."

You looked at her, and your expression must have betrayed you.

"So it is true," she said quietly.

Robert raised a hand, silencing her before she could continue. His eyes never left you. "The servant claims she found you last night in an old room, after witnessing the hound leave moments before." He watched your face carefully. "Is that true?"

You glanced towards your mother. She watched you with a cold certainty, her chin tilted up slightly. You were certain her mind was entirely made up. If you denied it now, she would only send another servant tomorrow. And another the day after that.

If you denied it now, she would believe something far more dangerous than the truth.

There seemed little point in hiding any of it.

"…Yes."

Silence.

Your father stared at you, brows furrowed.

"You were there?"

"Yes."

Your mother gave a sharp, humourless laugh.

Robert did not pay her any mind.

"So you confirm the servant's account," he said slowly.

"I—"

Your mother stepped forward. "She already admitted she was there."

"Cersei—"

"She was found half-dressed in an abandoned tower in the middle of the night," she hissed, then turned her attention back to you. She leaned her hands on the desk. "Were you alone?"

You hesitated. "…By the time the servant entered."

"And before then?"

"I—…" You cut yourself off. "No, I was not alone."

"With Sandor Clegane?"

"…Yes."

"At night, with no one else around?"

"Yes."

She stood up straight again, her words coming out measured. "Then tell me what conclusion I am supposed to draw."

"It isn't—." You cut yourself off, struggling to find the right words. "It wasn't like that."

"No?" Her voice sharpened. "Then what, precisely, was it like?"

You opened your mouth but nothing came. Your father leaned back, massaging his temples.

"You have disgraced this family," she continued.

"I didn't—"

"Do you have the slightest idea what happens if this leaves these walls?"

"I have not disgraced anything," you said firmly, standing up to look at her fully. "Nothing happened."

Cersei snapped towards you. "You expect me to believe you met a grown man for no reason?"

"No, I—"

You cut yourself off, looking between them. Their minds were already made up. Even your father's, thanks to your unhelpful reactions. However bad the truth might be for you, it was certainly better than them believing this.

You took a breath.

"He's been teaching me to fight."

Silence.

Your father's brows furrowed further.

"With a sword," you added quickly, the words tumbling out now they had begun. "Training swords. For almost a year."

Cersei's expression did not change, but there was an uncertainty that flickered in her eyes.

It disappeared as quick as it came.

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you truly expect us to believe that?"

"It is the truth," you said, your voice more certain now. If they were to believe it, you needed to be honest. "I wanted to learn. I used to ask when I was younger but you both said no."

"And you chose the Hound," Cersei said, her tone flat.

"I chose someone I trusted to keep it quiet."

"Your uncle Jaime is one of the finest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms," she said, voice dripping with disdain. "You mean to tell me you sought instruction from a kennel hound instead?"

"Uncle Jaime would have said no and reported back to you both within the hour."

That, at least, neither of them argued with.

Silence settled over the room once more.

While your mother continued to glare at you, your father had leaned back in his chair. His fingers tapped against the armrest, his free hand dragging through his beard. He was watching you very closely.

"You've been learning the sword," he said at last.

You looked to him, your chest still aching. "…Yes."

"For a year."

"Yes."

Your mother's patience finally snapped. "Robert, surely you do not believe this ridiculous story."

He did not answer immediately. He did not take his eyes from your face.

Finally, he called for a guard.

"Fetch Clegane," your father ordered.

Your heart stopped.

"Father—"

"If this is the truth," he said to you, "then he'll tell me the same."

The guard bowed.

"At once, Your Grace."

The room fell quiet again.

You settled back into your chair, ignoring your mother's unwavering stare. Your eyes remained fixed on the grain of the desk beneath your fingertips, willing your heartbeat to slow.

You expected another barrage from Cersei, but it never came. She only watched you.

Finally, another knock sounded at the door.

"Enter."

Sandor ducked in beneath the frame, still clad in armour. Immediately, his eyes found yours. You could not even tell who looked away first, your eyes snapping back downward as your chest ached. Perhaps you should have just lied. Denied everything entirely.

The doors shut behind him.

"You sent for me, Your Grace?"

His voice was as rough as ever, but it carried a formality you had never heard him use before.

"Clegane." Your father nodded towards the space in front of him.

Sandor obeyed, his face unreadable as ever, but you noticed the slightest tightening of his jaw.

He knew. He had already guessed what was happening.

Robert folded his hands on the table, waiting for Sandor to reach your side before speaking. "My daughter has made… an interesting confession," he said, letting the words settle. "She claims you have been teaching her the sword."

Still, Sandor said nothing. Robert watched you both carefully.

"Is she lying?"

"No."

There was no hesitation.

"You've been teaching her to fight?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Near enough a year."

Robert leaned forward slightly.

"Why?"

Sandor was quiet for longer, then, glancing to you for just a heartbeat.

"She asked."

Silence settled over the room. You watched carefully as your father leaned back in his chair, eyeing you both up.

Cersei was not buying any of it.

"This is absurd," she said. "You expect us to believe you've spent a year secretly meeting a princess in an abandoned tower out of simple charity?"

"I don't care what you believe."

"Clegane," your father warned.

Sandor fell silent again.

Cersei rounded on you. "You have been lying to us for a year."

"I never lied."

"You hid it."

"Not particularly well," you said. "Perhaps you ought to ask how your spies failed to notice such a thing for so long."

"You have—"

The doors burst open.

Joffrey strode into the room without announcement. "What is going on?"

His eyes swept across the room, lingering on you before finally settling on Sandor.

"What are you doing with my dog?"

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning forward on the desk. "This does not concern you, boy."

"It clearly does." Joffrey looked between you and Sandor. "Why is he here?"

No one answered.

His gaze narrowed.

"What happened?"

Robert sighed. "Your sister claims Clegane has been teaching her to fight."

Joffrey spat out a laugh. "You're serious?" He looked at you as though you'd announced you intended to become high Septon. "Since when?"

"For the better part of a year," your mother answered in a cool tone, eyes on you. "At night."

Joffrey stared, then slowly turned towards Sandor. "You've been wasting your time training her?" He looked to Robert. "Punish them," he said. "They've lied. They've deceived us. They've—"

"They've been swinging wooden swords," Robert interrupted. "Not plotting treason."

"But—"

"Enough."

The room fell silent. Your father looked between you and Sandor. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth twitched up.

"Can she fight?"

Sandor frowned. "…Well enough."

Already, your father was standing. "Then let's see."

You blinked.

"What?"

Robert called out to the guard again. "Fetch two practice blades from the yard," he ordered, then turned back to face you. "If your story is true, then we will see soon enough."

Your eyes widened, and you couldn't help but glance at your brother. "…Here?"

"Aye."

"Robert," your mother intervened, "you cannot possibly be entertaining this."

"It's quicker than arguing," he said simply.

Already, the guard had returned with the blades. Your father threw one to Clegane, then handed the other to you as you stood. Automatically, you adjusted your grip until the sword settled naturally in your hand.

Sandor faced you, practice blade resting loosely at his side. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

He dipped his head once.

Instinct took over. You settled into your stance before you'd even realised you'd moved.

The first few exchanges were slow—far more so than usual. Joffrey's eyes burned into you, but the more time that passed the easier you found it to drown everything else out. Your skirts caught around your legs, making you miss the freedom of your training clothes. Still, your feet knew where to go.

Gradually, Sandor increased his pace. Not enough to overwhelm you, but enough to test you.

For the first time, you realised how much easier it was to track his movements when you weren't relying on simple torchlight.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere for your own mistakes to hide anymore.

One block came a heartbeat too late, the blade striking your side.

"Elbow in," he instructed.

You corrected yourself without thinking.

The fight continued.

Parry.

Strike.

Block.

Again.

Finally, he stepped back.

Your breathing had quickened, but only slightly. Your stamina must have improved more than you'd realised over the past year.

Then, Robert began laughing.

A genuine, booming laugh.

He crossed the room in three strides and clapped a heavy hand onto your shoulder. You flinched, just barely, not having expected the sudden positive reaction.

"Look at you," he beamed. "My little fighter."

You couldn't help the smile that flickered onto your face.

Joffrey stared at you in horror. "This is ridiculous," he spat. "It's pathetic. She's a girl. She—"

"Enough," Robert snapped, shooting a glare that stopped your brother in his tracks. When he turned his attention back to you, his expression was serious again. He took a breath, glancing between you and Clegane. "This ends now," he said. "No more secret training."

You glanced down, the smile fading. "…Yes, Father."

He gave your shoulder another pat before moving away from you completely. "If you're going to learn, you'll bloody well do it properly."

You blinked at him, then looked to Sandor. Even with his ever-unreadable expression, you could tell he had not expected this.

Your mother stepped forward, her voice sharp. "Robert—"

He held up a hand.

"I'll have a room cleared," he said, keeping his attention firmly on you and Clegane. "You will train in daylight. Same time, every day at noon."

"He is my dog," Joffrey snapped. "He is supposed to be guarding me."

"You will survive an hour," Robert said, voice firm.

Joffrey did not argue. He stepped back, folding his arms and glancing away.

Robert turned his attention completely to Clegane, his expression hardening. "You don't keep secrets from your king again. Understood?"

Clegane dipped his head a fraction. "Yes, Your Grace."

"And you," Robert added, turning to face you and stepping forward. His expression softened, just slightly, as he rested a hand on your shoulder. "No more sneaking about the castle after dark."

"…Yes, Father."

He nodded once, patted your shoulder, and stepped back. "Right," he said. "Out. All of you."

You bowed your head, unable to help but feel a small victory.

The secret was out, and somehow you had both escaped almost entirely unscathed.

Perhaps, everything might finally be okay.

[drabblestheclown]

♡The Princess and The Hound♡

Chapter 9 - Focus

Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader

Chapter word count: 1,393

Chapter tags: slow burn • pre-canon GOT • will be canon compliant • no use of y/n • angst • emotional distance

Chapter summary: You had stopped trying to reclaim what was lost. It should have made things easier, but it seemed fate had other plans.

You did not consider yourself to have any friends. Not truly.

Tommen, perhaps, and Myrcella. Though you knew they did not count.

It had never bothered you before. You generally preferred your own company, anyway. Reading. Painting. Wandering the gardens with a sketchbook tucked beneath your arm. You enjoyed spending time alone. More importantly, you trusted it.

You wished now that you had a friend. Someone to talk to and laugh with. Someone you could trust would not be spying on you on behalf of your mother or the Spider or whichever other schemer in the Red Keep wished to use you for information.

You had been painting more often of late. Paint, not charcoal. It helped occupy your mind whenever it wandered where you did not want it to.

Training had settled into its own routine as well.

You had given up trying to engage with The Hound. No more complaints about Joffrey. No more teasing remarks, or questions about his day. There was little point, and you were tired of embarrassing yourself.

You simply trained.

Annoyingly, you'd been performing better than ever.

Without the distraction of trying to mend whatever had broken between you, your focus had returned in full. Your stance was steadier. Your blocks came quicker. The ache in your arm no longer distracted you.

One evening, you caught his sword cleanly, knocked it aside, and landed the edge of your practice blade against his shoulder before he could recover.

You both froze.

Clegane looked down at your blade, then back at you.

He gave a small nod.

Despite yourself, your lips curved into a smile.

You wanted to say something. A joke about finally becoming a worthy opponent. But the words died in your throat. Already, the Hound was settling back into his stance, the flash acknowledgement being replaced by his normal, hardened expression.

"Again," he said.

You settled back into your stance, ready.

Your brother was the first to notice that something was different.

Not Tommen.

Joffrey.

Your father had thrown yet another feast. What for, you could not recall. At least, you could not remember the official reason given. You knew the real reason—another excuse for the King to eat and drink and force people to listen to stories of his good old days.

You were not in the mood for any of it.

You had spent the better part of an hour pushing food around on your plate, half-listening to your fathers booming tales of the past. The noise faded into the background, and for once you were grateful to not be the intended audience. Thankfully, your mother was on the other side of him, sparing you from yet another conversation about your future.

Unfortunately, that meant you were sat beside Joffrey.

"You look miserable," he muttered, wrinkling his nose as he leaned back in his chair.

You did not bother looking up from your plate. "I didn't know you cared so much for my well-being, brother."

"I don't care for you at all," he snapped. There was a beat of silence between you, broken only by the continued scrape of your fork against your plate. Joffrey reached over and snatched the fork from your grip. "It's distracting. Why don't you go mope in your chambers so I can have some peace?"

You let him steal your fork without protest, instead slumping back in your seat and staring towards the group of lords surrounding your father. He was grinning, throwing his arms around as he spoke and taking breaks only to drink more wine. The lords laughed and nodded and leaned in to listen closer.

Going to bed early was not the worst suggestion you had heard all evening.

"Do you think I could sneak out without anyone noticing?"

The question slipped out before you could think better of it, spoken with a sincerity that had no place in a conversation with your brother.

Joffrey didn't answer. It took so long that you finally looked back, finding him staring at you with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.

"You're behaving odd lately," he commented, the words coming out slow.

"Am I?"

"Yes," he said, leaning his arm across the back of his seat. "You've been all miserable. It's boring."

You looked back down at the table.

Just beyond him, you knew, Clegane stood against the wall as he always did.

You were not sure if he could hear your conversation. You had spent the entire evening pretending not to notice him at all.

You intended to keep it that way.

"I know what this is," Joffrey announced.

You very much doubted that, but you met his eyes anyway.

He leaned in close, a smug grin plastered on his face. "You're upset your little celebration's over and father is no longer fussing over you." He leaned back again, wrinkling his nose. "It's pathetic.

You held his gaze for a long moment.

Then, to his obvious disappointment, you smiled.

"You're probably right," you said, rising from your chair and smoothing out your skirts. "I think I will retire early."

Joffrey scoffed behind you.

You ignored him, just as you ignored the man standing guard behind him.

The silence had grown comfortable again.

It was not the same as it used to be—perhaps it never would be—but since you had stopped waiting for things to return to how they were before, you had found a different sort of comfort in the quiet.

If Clegane had overheard your conversation with your brother at the feast, he gave no sign of it. He made no mention of your brother calling you miserable, nor of the difference in your behaviour of late.

How horrifying that Joffrey had been the only one to comment on it.

Even The Hound's habit of leaving immediately after each lesson had begun to feel routine, though you could not say you were fond of it still.

"Two days," he said.

He didn't look back as he disappeared through the doorway. You waited until the sound of his boots had faded down the stairwell before moving.

Your boots came off first, then your trousers.

Your shirt clung unpleasantly to your skin, damp with sweat. You peeled it over your head with a tired sigh, reaching for your dress where it sat neatly folded on the floor.

Fresh bruises bloomed along your forearms.

The Hound had always held back, but that did little to stop the occasional strike from leaving its mark. Perhaps it was finally time to ask for something sturdier than an old shirt to train in. A padded gambeson, if he could get you one. Or if you could find a way to sneak one yourself.

You slipped your dress over your head, smoothing the skirts into place while the laces remained loose behind you. Your hair tumbled free as you removed the pins, falling in tangled waves that stuck to your shoulders.

The hinges gave a quiet groan from the other side of the room.

Your fingers paused against the loose laces of your dress. For the briefest moment, excitement fluttered in your chest.

A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it.

"Forget something?" You asked, still fumbling for the ties.

When no answer came, you turned.

The smile vanished.

A servant stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock and fixed entirely on you.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

"Forgive me, Princess," she blurted, dipping into a hurried curtsy and dropping her gaze to the floor.

Before you could even answer, she turned and fled.

You stared at the empty doorway a long moment, unmoving.

Your first thought was the room. The swords. The discarded training clothes.

Had she seen them?

You looked towards the corner.

No. They sat in shadow, untouched. The servant had scarcely looked beyond you. She was too distracted by—

Shit.

Your stomach dropped.

Your dress. The stupid laces.

She had walked in on you dressing yourself in an old, abandoned room.

Shit, shit, shit.

You jerked the laces together with clumsy fingers, fumbling the knot twice before finally managing something that would hold.

By the time you reached the corridor, she was already gone.

You looked one way.

Then the other.

Nothing.

The knot in your stomach tightened.

Something told you she had not gone back to her duties.

[drabblestheclown]

Just found out that my chapter breaks weren’t pasting into tumblr properly and so some of my scene transitions were probably super confusing lol (I’ve fixed them now!!)

[drabblestheclown]

♡The Princess and The Hound♡

Chapter 8 - Reset

Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader

Chapter word count: 2,455

Chapter tags: slow burn • pre-canon GOT • will be canon compliant • no use of y/n • angst

Chapter summary: Training resumes, but nothing feels quite the same. As Sandor grows more distant and Cersei reminds you of the future waiting beyond the Red Keep, you find yourself reaching to old routines for comfort.

You did not know what to expect when you arrived for training the following night.

Half the day had been spent convincing yourself that everything would return to normal—that Sandor had simply been in a bad mood, and whatever had possessed him would have passed. The other half had been spent wondering if he would even come at all. If your time together had truly come to an end.

But when you arrived, Sandor was already there waiting.

You lingered in the doorway a moment, the silence settling uncomfortably between you. Neither of you said a word. After a beat, he jerked his head to where your training clothes sat in the corner before turning away, giving you the same privacy as usual.

You complied, swallowing the greeting that had been sitting on your lips. The silence settled around you as you changed, making your chest heavy in a way it never had before. For months now, this had been routine. Arriving, getting changed while Sandor waited quietly. It should have felt normal. Instead, it just felt strange. Every rustle of fabric was too loud. Every movement too slow. You found yourself rushing through the motions just so you could get past the silence.

"Ready," you said, the word coming out quieter than intended.

He turned to face you, already waiting in the centre of the room with his practice sword in hand. Your own still rested against the wall. He made no move to pass it to you. After an awkward beat, you crossed the room to retrieve it yourself. Only then did he settle into his stance.

The first few exchanges were almost familiar.

Strike.

Block.

Block.

Again.

You found yourself settling into the rhythm, loosening whatever knot had built itself up in your chest.

Then the next swing came.

You caught it a fraction too late, the impact jarring up your wrist.

"Faster," he directed.

You nodded and reset your stance.

This time, you managed to meet the blow cleanly, his sword crashing into yours. Before you could prepare yourself, though, another strike was already on its way. You just barely blocked it.

"You're recovering too slow," he said.

You grit your teeth.

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

Reset.

You were struggling, now. Your arm felt weaker as you blocked each hit, just about managing to catch them.

"Keep your arm up," he instructed. "You can't meet me in time like that."

Your grip tightened slightly, an annoyed huff escaping you.

"You've told me before my arm was too high at rest."

"Now it's too low," he said. "Move it."

You took a moment, jaw clenched, then did as you were told.

"Higher," he instructed.

You lifted it higher.

"Not that high."

You lowered your arm completely, letting out a noise of frustration. "Can't you just show me where you want it?"

For a moment he just looked at you, silent.

"Shouldn't have to."

You felt like hitting him. Instead, you raised your arm again. You weren't sure that it was any different to before, but he nodded and settled back into his stance anyway.

More instructions flowed out as you went on. He was talking more now than he had the whole evening.

"Eyes up."

"Don't watch the blade. Watch me."

"Faster."

"Arm up."

Every correction came in a low tone, the words clipped and matter-of-fact.

By the end of the session, you were more than ready to call it a night. You sat on the floor, your heavy breathing filling the silence that you no longer found comforting. Sandor regarded you a moment before moving to collect his wineskin from the wall.

That, at least, relaxed you. There was little you enjoyed more than the quiet drink you shared after a tough training session. Perhaps that was all you both needed— a return to routine. You could keep quiet for a time if it meant you got to stay here.

He turned towards the door. You hadn't even caught your breath yet.

"Same time in two days," he said.

The door swung shut behind him.

You had grown to enjoy your moments of silence with Sandor over the past year. They felt comfortable, just a moment of two people existing and not needing to fill every second with noise.

The silence of your last session had been nothing like that.

It had been suffocating, and the thought of spending a whole evening like that again was something you could not stand. You wondered if the tension had been entirely in your head—if the quiet was really no different to usual and you were simply overreacting.

It was not as if you could exactly blame Sandor for it, either. He was hardly a talker to begin with, and whatever was causing his temper these past days clearly wasn't helping. If you wanted the gaps to be filled with conversation, then you would have to be the one to initiate. After all, how could you expect things to go back to normal when you had barely spoken to him?

Besides, you needed someone to complain to.

"Joffrey's been in a foul mood these past few days," you said, tugging at the laces of your dress. Sandor stood somewhere behind you, waiting for you to finish changing. "Poor Tommen told me he threatened to skin one of his kittens."

There was a beat of silence. You wondered if he might not reply at all.

"The prince is always in a bad mood."

You smiled despite yourself, tugging on your training gear before going to retrieve both swords from the side. "That's an understatement," you joked, making your way to where he stood in the centre. You tapped him lightly on the arm with the tip of your blade, smiling as he turned to face you. "I do hope my brother isn't being too insufferable."

A beat of silence. His arms folded.

"No more than usual."

You grinned. At least your brother could be useful for something.

"Good," you said. "I would hate for him to scare you away."

Your tone was kept light, joking. But he didn't reply. His gaze dropped to the second sword you carried, waiting a moment before holding his hand out expectantly. He didn't say anything, simply waiting for you to hand it over.

You did, your smile faltering just slightly.

"Ready?" He asked.

You nodded and settled into your stance. You did not try to converse again. You did as you were told, and at the end of it all you watched from the floor as he made his leave.

"Two days," he said.

You wondered if he might never share a drink with you again.

The conversation you'd been expecting from your mother came the following day.

The summons arrived late into the afternoon, taking you away from an otherwise pleasant day of painting in the gardens. A servant guided you to the Queen's solar, where the two guards stationed stepped aside without a word. They pulled open the large oak door, nodding as you walked past.

Your mother sat behind her desk, a goblet of wine in her hand as she looked up from the parchment before her.

"My dear."

The corners of her mouth lifted into something that resembled a smile. You returned it politely.

Only then did you notice Myrcella seated by the window, diligently working at a piece of embroidery under the watchful eye of a Septa. She looked up, offering a small, hopeful smile that you mirrored without thought. It lasted only a moment before the septa cleared her throat, sending your sister back to work.

You did not miss having to spend so much time under a watchful eye.

"Come," your mother said, pulling you from your thoughts. "Sit."

Without asking, she poured a second goblet of wine and slid it across the desk towards you. Carefully, you took your seat, the silence suffocating as you both drank from your cups.

"So," she began slowly, setting her wine down on the desk. "I trust you have recovered from your name day."

"I believe so," you said. You forced a weak smile and allowed yourself a moment of honesty. "I don't quite think I'm built for such extravagant events."

She quirked a brow. "Well, I'm sure we can arrange something smaller next year."

"I don't think father would allow that."

"No," she said. "I suppose not."

The silence that followed lingered just a beat too long. You sipped at your drink, hoping she would just get on with whatever it was she wanted to talk to you about. You had the distinct feeling that she had not summoned you to merely discuss your name day.

"Lord Tyrell inquired after you."

There it was.

"Did he?"

"He spoke very highly of you," she said.

You resisted the urge to sigh.

"That was kind of him."

"He has a son of an appropriate age," she added.

"How delightful."

Her eyes narrowed a little at your barely-contained sarcasm. She regarded you a moment before speaking again, her tone a little harder this time.

"It is time you began giving these matters the consideration they deserve."

As far as you were concerned, these matters deserved no consideration at all.

You looked to the window again, your shoulders slouching a little. Myrcella was still hard at work, her lips curled into a soft smile while her eyes narrowed in focus. She did not appear to be listening to your conversation.

"I still have time," you said.

You could see your mother nod out of your peripheral, but your gaze was still stuck on Myrcella. You wondered if the queen would be trying so desperately to send her away if she was in your place.

"I was younger than you when I married your father," she pressed.

You glanced down at her wine cup, your plastered-on smile having long since faded.

Much as your father loved you, you were not blind. You saw how he acted with Cersei; how she looked at him. There was no such love there. No happiness founded in their marriage.

The thought of spending the rest of your life like that made you want to scream.

"Is that truly what you wish for me?" You asked quietly.

For the first time, her expression softened—just barely.

"It has very little to do with what I wish," she said, folding her hands neatly atop the desk. "When the time comes, you will marry. It is your duty, as mine was before you."

You didn't look up. There was no argument to make against that.

You wished, not for the first time, that you had been born a man.

The solar door opened without ceremony.

Your father wandered inside without waiting for an invitation, his eyes immediately catching yours.

"What gloomy business is this, then?"

Cersei opened her mouth to speak, but you beat her to it.

"Mother was telling me I ought to begin taking marriage more seriously."

Your father barked out a laugh.

"Gods, woman. Leave the girl be," he said, waving a dismissive hand and grabbing a pear from the desk. "She's got plenty of years yet before she needs to concern herself with dreary husbands."

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Your mother's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"You indulge her," she said.

"Aye," he answered, grabbing the pitcher to fill your cup back up. "I do."

You had been gifted another bottle of Arbor gold for your name day.

There was once a time when you'd have kept it hidden away until your mother or Joffrey finally drove you to your wits' end, and then happily taken it to the gardens to enjoy your evening alone.

The thought no longer held much appeal.

Without giving yourself a chance to think on it, you tucked the bottle beneath your arm and made your way to the abandoned tower for training.

Clegane was already waiting when you arrived. His gaze drifted to the bottle as you approached, lingering only a beat before returning to you. Neither of you acknowledged it. You simply set it down to the side and made your way over to the pile of clothes in the corner.

Training passed much the same as the last.

You were still struggling. Whether Sandor had become less forgiving or your focus had simply deserted you, you could not say. Every mistake earned a curt correction. Every opening you left was swiftly exploited. By the time he called an end to the lesson, you were sat on the floor, your arm burning too fiercely to lift your sword again.

"That'll do," he said.

You let out a relieved sigh, slumping forward where you sat. He gave you a once over before dropping his blade to the side.

"Two days," he said.

Already, he was moving to leave, and you realised that this was it. This was the new routine for you.

Train.

Leave.

Nothing more.

You pushed yourself to your feet, your legs wobbling a moment.

"I brought wine," you said, the words slipping out before you had quite decided to say them. Your voice pitched up slightly.

He stopped at the door, still facing away. You hurried to retrieve the bottle from the edge of the room.

"Arbor Gold," you said, flicking your gaze from the bottle to his back. There was no response, so you kept going. "I thought…" The words caught in your throat. "I thought we could have some."

Like we used to, you wanted to add.

You didn't understand how months of routine could be erased so easily.

Finally, Sandor turned, his gaze drifting to the bottle before lifting to your face. For one fleeting moment, something softened in his expression, and your chest ached at the sight of it.

It didn't last long.

"Another time, Princess."

You managed a smile, anyway.

"It doesn't have to be much," you said, taking a slight step towards him. "We could just—"

"No."

The word was quiet, but it cut you off all the same. You stared down at the bottle in your hands a moment, forcing the smile to stay on your face.

"More for me, then," you joked, but it sounded hollow even to your own ears.

The silence stretched uncomfortably between you.

When you dared to look back up, he was still watching you, his arms folded and jaw clenched. For a moment, you thought you might have convinced him. That he had changed his mind already.

He hadn't.

He huffed out a sigh, turning to leave once more.

"Don't drink too much," he warned, his voice softer than before.

Then he was gone, leaving you to stand alone with a bottle of wine you no longer wanted.

[drabblestheclown]

♡The Princess and The Hound♡

Chapter 7 - Breakfast

Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader

Chapter word count: 2,164

Chapter tags: slow burn • pre-canon GOT • will be canon compliant • no use of y/n • angst • Joffrey is still a little bitch lol

Chapter summary: The morning after your nineteenth name day, you woke to a pounding headache and hazy memories. As the day unfolded, you found that not everything had returned to normal.

Pain woke you before the sun did. It sat in your skull as a relentless companion, pressing down against you without mercy. Around you, your limbs sprawled outward with an impossible heaviness, protesting as you moved to curl in on yourself. The world felt far from your reach, and you found yourself wishing you could simply stay in bed forever, tucked away under a mountain of blankets.

That dream was quickly cut short by knocking at your door.

"Princess? Are you awake?" Ellyn, your handmaiden, called through the door with a tone that should not have made you wince as much as it did. She waited a moment before calling again. "The Queen wants you at breakfast."

Of course she did.

There were few things your mother enjoyed more than than gathering the family after a feast, and your nineteenth name day would no doubt provide fresh opportunity to remind you of your duties.

Marriage.

Children.

Honouring the family legacy.

You had no strength for any of it.

But it did not matter if you had strength for it. Sooner or later, you were going to be cornered by your mother and forced to listen to a lecture on it all. Better she did it over breakfast, where Tommen and Myrcella might at least be there to soften her mood.

"I'm awake," you called miserably.

She was in your room in an instant, the door clicking shut softly behind her.

You forced yourself to sit up, wincing as the light hit you. You squinted to watch her busy herself around your room, your head throbbing all the while. Perhaps feigning ill would be worth your mother's anger, if only you could hide in bed a while longer.

"Did you enjoy the feast, Princess?"

"It was a delight," you answered dryly, voice croaking slightly in the middle. The room blurred as you rubbed at your eyes.

"You were beautiful," she gleamed, offering a kind smile as she gathered up clothes from the floor. Your eyes stuck to the gown as she added it to the bundle, the gold embroidery shining in the sunlight.

You couldn't remember undressing, nor throwing your clothes into such a scattered mess. You remembered the feast. You remembered trying hard to avoid the Lords' attempts to court you. You remembered your brother's anger and leaving the hall with Clegane and…

Gods, your head hurt.

"Would you like me to brush your hair, Princess?"

You blinked at her a moment, your mind struggling to catch up to reality, then gave a gentle shake of the head. "No. Thank you, Ellyn. You may leave."

"Of course," she said, dipping into a curtsy before scurrying off with your clothes.

Maybe you should have just stayed asleep.

No. Better to face reality and get it over with.

Slowly, painfully, you dragged yourself out of bed.

The morning air was nice and cold against your too-warm skin, and yet you shivered as you stood up. Ellyn had already stoked your fire, a gesture you were certain you'd be grateful for later but could not bare in the moment. You watched it as you stood, allowing the dancing of the flames to ground you.

You could not shake off the dread of breakfast. You were past used to you mother's expectations of you, but that did not make listening to them any easier.

And nineteen…

You had largely avoided marriage prospects thus far by relying on the affection of your father. You were the first born, his favourite, and you used that fact to your advantage whenever possible. More than once, he had bolstered that his daughter would not marry unless she wanted to.

Surely, though, that could not last forever.

Much as your father loved you, there had to come a time where even he would think you must marry. And with your mother's concerns growing ever deeper each year, it was surely only a matter of time until he gave in to her perspective. Even if—

Something crunched under your foot.

Hair pins. And ribbon.

You stared down at them a moment, tucked away beside the foot of your bed.

You must have been too drunk to put them away correctly last night. You could hardly even remember removing them. All you remembered was drinking by the fire, feeling warm and tired and then—

And then you had leaned into him. You…

Oh.

Oh. Gods.

You fell asleep on him.

Clegane was here, and you had fallen asleep on him.

Is that really true? Surely, he would not have let you. Surely, Sandor Clegane - The Hound - would have shoved you off in an instant and muttered an insult of some kind. Surely…

Gods. You could not remember. All you could think of was the warmth of him against you, a memory which brought heat to your face in an instant. You were certain he'd have no shortage of insults waiting for you.

Foolish girl.

Unsurprisingly, you were last to arrive to breakfast.

You had half expected to find your mother alone, ready to seize upon your lateness as yet another lesson in decorum. Instead, you were met by the entire royal family. Even the King, who you were certain you'd never seen wake before noon after the night of a feast, was present.

The Seven truly did work miracles.

Your father looked up as you entered, a broad grin spreading beneath his beard.

"There's my girl," he boomed. "Thought the wine had done you in."

You gave him a sweet smile, though his voice did little for the pounding in your head.

"Not quite," you said, bending to kiss his cheek before taking your seat.

Myrcella gave you a polite smile from across the table, while Tommen grinned with a mouthful of bread to your left.

You returned the gesture to each.

Perhaps this morning might not be so dreadful after all.

Perhaps, if Joffrey had not been glaring at you since the moment you'd walked through the door.

"My dog never returned to me last night."

You looked at him over the rim of your cup, forcing a polite smile. "I appreciate you lending him to me, Joff."

"Lending him?" His lip curled. "He was gone half the night."

"He was escorting me to my chambers."

"They're hardly far."

"I suppose not," you agreed.

He didn't have a response for that, a silence settling over. For a foolish moment, you thought the matter had been settled.

Then, your mother cut in, her voice smooth as silk.

"What delayed him?"

It was the first time she'd acknowledged you all morning.

Had Clegane truly been with you for so long? The memory was so hazy, you couldn't even be sure. You'd asked him to share a drink with you. You remembered the warmth of the fire. The warmth of him beside you. Then…

"I couldn't say."

Cersei raised a brow at you over her cup of wine. "You don't remember?"

You gave a small, apologetic smile. "I had rather a lot to drink."

Your father barked out a laugh. "That's my girl."

"I remember him walking me to my chambers," you said, reaching for your cup. "After that, I'm afraid the wine won."

"And The Hound?" Your mother prompted.

"I suppose he must have guarded the door to my chambers for some time."

Your mother regarded you for a long moment. "You didn't see him leave?"

"I fell asleep."

That, at least, was true.

Joffrey let out an impatient scoff. "He was supposed to be guarding me."

"Gods," your father muttered around a mouthful of bread.

"He's my sworn shield."

"And he did as I asked," Robert said flatly.

"But—"

"Enough," your father's voice bellowed, fixing your brother with a look that could have silenced a battlefield. "Your sister has already thanked you. I will not spend my morning listening to you whine."

Joffrey's jaw snapped shut, but you could see his grip tightening on his knife until his knuckles turned white. He stared down at his plate, refusing to look at you.

You hid your smile behind your cup.

Your father caught it anyway.

He winked, and you had to bite your cheeks to stop yourself from laughing.

Embarrassment aside, you were looking forward to your training session. You always enjoyed them, tiring as they were, and you were hopeful that the return to routine would be good for you. At the very least, the normalcy of it might do well to wash away whatever mess you had made for yourself last night.

Sandor was already there when you arrived, steel catching torchlight as a whetstone rasped against his blade. He sat against the far wall, one arm resting against a raised knee.

But something was different.

Normally, when you found him up here, he'd be stripped of most of his armour, leaving only his mail and gambeson. Tonight he remained fully clad, even still wearing his gauntlets.

Perhaps your brother had kept him later than usual.

His gaze dragged over you as you entered, his expression unreadable.

"What are you doing here?"

Your brows furrowed a little. "Training," you answered flatly.

"No training tonight," he muttered, returning his focus to his weapon.

"Yes there is," you said, frowning a little as you took a step forward. "We missed yesterday."

"You missed yesterday."

"It was my name day."

"Not my concern."

You stared at him a moment, unsure if he was joking.

"Can we not just train today, anyway?"

Another scrape of the whetstone.

"We'll train tomorrow," he said.

"But—."

"No."

He looked at you, then, just briefly enough to give you that hardened expression. Then he was glancing away again, throwing his wineskin back before returning to his sword.

"Alright," you said slowly, giving your weight an awkward shift. "We'll train tomorrow night, then."

He didn't say anything, so you figured the evening might as well not go entirely to waste. You wandered towards him, reaching to steal the wine from his side. He blocked you from it, covering it with his hand and moving it behind him. He returned to his whetstone once more.

You forced a teasing smile. "Not fancying sharing tonight?"

"Busy," he said.

"Doing what?"

"Being busy."

You breathed out a disbelieving laugh, ready to sit down beside him anyway. But the look on his face stilled you.

The whetstone stopped, a silence settling over you both.

You couldn't take it any longer.

You shifting you stance, staring down at him with your arms folded. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"You're acting strange."

His jaw tightened. "Already spend my day following around one Baratheon brat. Don't need another one spoiling my night."

The words landed harder than they should have. Your body slackened from the hit, your expression collapsing. The roughness of his tone felt different than usual; colder than the usual gruffness you'd grown so fond of.

You shook your head. "What? I don't—" You cut yourself off with a huff. "Is this about last night? Did I say something?"

He didn't answer. Didn't look up.

"Did I do something?"

More silence. You took a step back as he pushed himself to his feet, securing the blade back in its scabbard.

"No damn peace," he muttered, snatching up the wine from the floor. He didn't look at you as he made his way to the door.

You watched a moment, unmoving, before forcing yourself into action.

He couldn't just ignore you like this. Not without explaining what was going on. Not while acting as though this was the norm between you two.

You stepped after him, hand halfway reaching out to grab his arm. "Sandor."

"Enough of that," he snapped, finally turning to meet you.

You flinched your hand back, meeting his gaze. Your heart hammered in your chest. It took a moment for you to find your voice, and even then the words came out quiet.

"Enough of what?"

"That. The whining. Getting too close. Using my damn name all the time."

"But—"

"No," he cut you off. His voice had lost its edge now, though, sounding more tired than harsh. "I am not your friend, Princess. I am your brother's shield."

You had never felt so small around him. You could hardly even hold his gaze, your eyes drifting to the floor.

Had you really overstepped so much? You did not think you'd acted much differently than you always had with him. He was the one who had rescued your sketchbook. He was the one who had given you a gift for your name day.

"You're being cruel," you said quietly.

"I am cruel."

The words hung between you. For the first time in a year, you had no response.

No clever comment.

Just silence.

After a long moment, he exhaled through his nose, his shoulders slouching just a bit.

"Tomorrow," he said, tone quieter now but still rough. "Don't be late."

You watched as he walked away, leaving you alone to wonder what had just happened.

[drabblestheclown]

Thinking of getting a tattoo of 3 hounds as a somewhat subtle reference to Sandor Clegane but idk wha other little elements I could include as a reference 👀 (It’ll be woodcut style, so not the same style as the Clegane banner)

[drabblestheclown]

♡The Princess and The Hound♡

Chapter 6 - Laces

Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader

Chapter word count: 4,596

Chapter tags: slow burn • pre-canon GOT • will be canon compliant • Drinking • no use of y/n • Reader's name day yay! • Tommen is a sweetie • somewhat soft Sandor at times • Drunk! reader • Yearning • I'm bad at tags lol

Chapter summary: In the days leading up to your nineteenth name day, you were filled with an endless dread. Turns out all you needed was a fuck-tonne of wine and your brother's dog to keep you company.

A few more months into your training, and Sandor Clegane was no longer going as easy on you as he once was. Of course, he was still holding back a great deal. You were smart enough to know how good a fighter he was, even if you'd never seen him at full tilt yourself. Still, he was going faster, harder. He parried your hits with more ferocity.

It was a thrill to spar with him at such a quick pace, and you revelled in the feeling of it. The sound of steel against steel, the burn in your chest. You could see why men enjoyed fighting so much.

Even still, it wasn't good enough. You weren't good enough. You were too slow, too weak. You struggled to find openings and struggled even more to hide your own tells. By the end of each session, you were far past spent, hardly managing to keep up. He never let up on you, though. If anything, you found he was tougher towards the end, taking advantage of your increasing exhaustion. More often than not, you were left collapsed in a heap on the floor, your arms burning and your skin glazed in sweat.

"You're getting too confident," he said, towering over you as you sat catching your breath. The training sword hung loosely at his side. "Some confidence is good. Too much will get you killed."

You took a moment to catch your breath, your own sword discarded off to the side. "You could go a little easier on me every now and then."

"I always go easy on you," he grunted. He gave you a once over and then moved away, swapping the sword for his wineskin. "That'll do for tonight."

Relief flooded through you, though you did your best to hide it.

You didn't waste much time sitting on the floor, then. You'd settled into a solid post-training routine in the past months, and you had no intention of idling away time that could be spent drinking at Clegane's side. That, you enjoyed almost as much as training. More so, even.

You no longer bothered checking on him while you gathered your gown in the corner to dress. There was no need. He was used to it, and you trusted him not to look.

A bittersweet feeling tugged at you as the silk flowed over your body. You'd always loved your pretty dresses. You still did. But it always felt strange changing back into them after fighting; like shedding a part of yourself in favour for what was expected of you.

Those were thoughts you could dwell on later. For now, you folded up your training clothes and fixed up your hair before walking over to where Clegane stood leaned against the wall. You appeared in front of him, wordlessly taking the wineskin from his grasp. You managed a few sips before realisation hit you.

"Oh, I can't do the next session."

Clegane looked you over, his arms folded. "Your name day," he said flatly.

You smiled into the wineskin, a warm feeling blooming in your chest. You weren't sure why it made your heart flutter so. Everyone in the keep knew your name day was approaching. Everyone in the city, even.

You hoped the warmth in your cheeks didn't surpass the redness you'd garnered from training.

"Nineteen," you remarked, hoping you could distract yourself by talking. "A whole day of food and wine and avoiding whatever Lords my mother has invited to court me."

"Sounds miserable."

"I'm trying to be optimistic." You smiled, holding the wineskin out to him.

He didn't reach for it, instead keeping his arms folded as he stared downward. His shoulders tensed, worrying you.

"Suppose I should give this to you now, then."

You quirked a brow as he moved away, leaving the wineskin hanging in the air. He spent a moment moving around his cloak that had been sitting on the floor in the corner. When he turned back around, it was with a long, thin object, wrapped in cloth. His body weight shifted awkwardly as he approached and held the item out to you.

There was a short silence as you tried to understand the situation. Then, slowly, you asked, "you got me a present?"

His eyes narrowed, his jaw tensing. "Just take it."

You did. There was a weight to it, though it wasn't too heavy. It took only a moment to unravel the cloth, which you carefully placed on the floor with the wine. What remained was a rough, leather scabbard, a hilt peaking out at one end. Clegane's expression did not change as you looked to him. He just stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

Carefully, perhaps more careful than you'd ever been with anything, you pulled the sword from the leather casing. Though similar in size, it felt lighter than the blunted steel you'd been sparring with. You held it up to examine, tilting it in the torch light. The edges were sharp, the end pointed. This was no training sword.

It took a moment for you to find your voice. When you looked to Sandor, it was with a feeling of awe. "You got this for me?"

His arms remained crossed, his eyes switching to the sword when you tried to meet his gaze. "Thought it only made sense you have one."

You smiled wide, a breath of disbelief leaving you. The metal reflected the light, and you couldn't take your eyes off it. There was nothing special about this sword; nothing special other than the fact that it was yours, and he had been the one to give it to you.

"Just be careful with it," he gravelled. "Don't need you hurting yourself. Or someone else. This is to be kept in your chambers only."

You were still grinning. "I know," you said, allowing one more moment of marvel before slipping the steel back into the leather. "It's perfect. Thank you. Really."

He shifted his weight, eyes anywhere but you.

"Just don't get caught with it," he muttered.

"I won't."

"Your mother would have my head."

You smiled. "I'll keep it safe, Sandor."

He looked at you, then, shoulders stiff. You'd come to realise that he did not like you using his name. It did not stop you from using it.

He grabbed his wineskin from the floor, busying himself with drinking.

"Go to bed, Princess."

For once, you were fine with leaving early.

On the morning of your name day, you woke up at dawn for your handmaiden to fuss over your appearance. For hours, you sat in front of your mirror, watching as she tugged and pinned your dark hair into an intricate crown of braids. She helped you dress, adding layers upon layers of clothing. Your gown was of gold silk, embroidered with a floral pattern all over. The material clung to your waist, fastened tightly with laces at the back. When you moved, the layered skirts held their shape, flaring out from your hips.

You looked every bit the Baratheon Princess.

If you could focus only on your pretty gown and jewellery, perhaps you would be excited.

But you were old enough now to know what your name day involved, and old enough to know it was never your taste. You did not mind dressing up, as much as you did not mind receiving gifts and spending time with your father. But it was always too much. Too long, really. Each year, the King insisted on throwing some extravagant tournament, topped off with a magnificent feast. Worst of all, you had to endure the countless lords trying to gain your favour—possibly the only reason your mother tolerated the festivities so well.

By mid morning, you were sat in the throne room, forced to look pleased as you were presented with countless offerings. Jewelled necklaces, embroidered gowns, rare wine; the gifts were fine indeed. If you could have received them in the privacy of your chambers, away from the watchful eye of whatever wealthy families had given them, you wouldn't mind one bit.

By the time the tournament began, you were already exhausted. Father insisted you sat beside him, drinking and cheering and leaning into your side to share stories of the knights taking part. You had hoped you might appreciate the fighting this year, now that you knew how to wield a weapon yourself, but that didn't make much difference. It's difficult to take enjoyment in anything when your focus must be entirely set on looking the right way and giving the right reaction.

Still, your name day had it's moments. Quiet conversations between the chaos. The sincere wishes you received from certain servants. Your little siblings' smiles at breakfast. Sweet Tommen, coming to find you before the big feast to present you with a drawing he made of the family.

It was your favourite thing you'd received that day.

By the time evening rolled around, you were far passed ready to retire. But, at least, you could survive the feast. The hours went by a lot faster when you could drunkenly sit and listen to your father's old stories. It just about made up for the embarrassment of his very loud declaration of love he gave as his yearly speech.

There was, unfortunately, the problem of there being no escape as the Lords came to your table. You could hardly pretend you did not notice them and, until the dancing started, you had nowhere to hide. Luckily, you'd long since realised that if you could keep your father reminiscing on his old battles, there was little time for anyone to interrupt to try to court you. You managed a long while of sitting back and drinking while he rambled on.

That could not last forever, though. Soon enough, your mother was leaning in, her voice tight.

"Robert, Lord Tyrell has been waiting to pay his respects for the past ten minutes. Let the girl breathe."

Father waved her off with a dismissive hand, his focus still on you. "He can wait! I'm at the best part."

Cersei did not look pleased, and you spoke up before she could respond.

"Mother's right. We're being rude," you said, your tone sweet as you placed a hand on his forearm. You made a gesture to the few people lingering near the high table. "I'm sure everyone else would love to hear the rest of your story, too."

Robert let out a loud, barking laugh and stood up, throwing his arms wide to welcome the surrounding crowd. "Hear that? My daughter is more polite than any of you lot! Come on, then."

He launched immediately back into his tale, the surrounding lords surging forward to listen in with exaggerated looks of interest. You leaned back, sipping at your wine and enjoying your work. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Clegane looking your way from the perimeter, not far from where your brother sat. He quirked a brow, holding your gaze as you smiled into your glass.

Your mother, however, was less than pleased.

That's fine. You leaned back in your chair and hid from her glare behind your the King.

Still, it was only a matter of time before your mother would interrupt again. Instead of waiting for that to happen, you quietly excused yourself and found your little siblings at the end of the high table. You grabbed Myrcella's hand first, then Tommen's. They didn't argue as you pulled them away to dance near the musicians at the other end of the hall.

You managed only a few dances before the night started taking it's toll. Much as your siblings loved you, they could only fight off exhaustion for so long. Soon enough, Tommen started rubbing at his eyes, yawning throughout the dance. Myrcella did better to hide her tiredness, but she could only manage so much.

As the music faded, a guard appeared at your side. "Princess. Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella are ready for bed."

Tommen looked ready to complain, but he cut himself off with another yawn. You nodded reluctantly, reaching out to give your siblings' hands a squeeze and wish them goodnight. Myrcella excused herself with a curtsey.

There was no more avoiding it. Your mother was already at your side, a hand on your arm.

You spent the rest of the evening trapped in a blur of rehearsed conversations and forced smiles, the wine in your system barely enough to dull the monotony of the lords' flattery. By the time you thought it late enough that you could excuse yourself without a lecture, you felt as if you'd not slept in weeks.

You excused yourself from your current suitor, giving a quick curtsy and returning to the high table. You leaned down to speak to your father in a hushed voice.

"I think I'll have to retire early," you said, a sweet smile on your face. "Too much wine."

He waved his hand, a grin on his face as he downed his drink. "Go on then, my girl. You get your rest."

You kissed his cheek and stood straight, lingering a moment as you scanned the room. Two guards stood near the main doors, ready to guide you.

You did not head to the main doors.

You placed yourself in front of Sandor, your hands clasped behind your back as you smiled up at him. You felt yourself sway slightly, and thought the drink must finally be doing its job.

"Clegane," you greeted. "Would you escort me to my room?"

His eyes narrowed at you, but he did not get a chance to respond before your brother was interjecting.

"What's this?" Joffrey snapped, rising from where he sat only a few feet away. "Since when do you require the services of my dog?" He placed himself at your side, his lip curled into that angry sneer he so often wore. "He's my sworn shield. Get some other guard to escort you."

You didn't let him rattle you. "Apologies, brother. I did not realise how unsafe you might feel without him."

Joffrey's cheeks reddened, his arms tensing. "You—"

Your mother cut in, stepping forward to Joffrey's side with a cool tone. "Your brother is correct. Clegane's place is by The Prince's side."

She placed her hand on your shoulder to steer you away, but a loud, booming voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Oh, for the love of the Seven, let the girl have her guard," Father interjected, twisting in his chair to look at you all. He turned his attention to Cersei. "You're too soft on that boy. I'm sure he can survive a moment without The Hound at his side. Gods know we have enough guards around if he needs them."

Your mother pursed her lips. "Robert, perhaps—"

"Enough! If my daughter wishes to be escorted by The Hound to feel safe on her name day, then she will be."

Your brother's face turned a deep, mottled purple. He looked from Father to you, his eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. For a moment, you thought he might snap back, but he simply stepped away, his arms folded as he muttered something under his breath.

You bit back your smile, returning to face Sandor.

"Clegane," you repeated. You did not wait for his response before turning to leave. There was no hesitation in his following, the heavy thud of his boots immediately settling behind you.

As you left the hall together, he fell into step by your side. You couldn't hold back the smile any longer, your face beaming as you made your way down the hall. The wine had finally settled into a warm, dizzying hum that buzzed away in your chest.

"That was stupid," Sandor grumbled. "Made a scene. Gave the boy a reason to hate you more."

A small giggle slipped out of you, and you covered your mouth to stifle it.

"Did you see Joff's face?"

He made a low noise in his throat. "I saw it."

"I thought he was going to explode," you beamed. You stumbled a little and tried to cover it up. "Best gift he could have given me."

Sandor didn't reply, and it wasn't long then before you reached your chambers. You leaned back on the door to steady yourself. Joff's face kept appearing in your head, and each time you had to bite back a laugh.

"Get to sleep, Princess."

"Wait," you blurted, standing up straight. You needed to focus. "Just a moment," you said, slipping into your room and returning to the doorway a few seconds later, wine bottle in hand. You held it up to him. "Share a drink with me?"

He looked down the hall, his jaw tight.

"You're drunk," he said.

"I'm celebrating," you corrected. Already, you were wearing that sweat smile that so often worked on your father. "Please? It is my name day, after all."

He looked you over, arms folded. For a moment, you worried he might say no.

"One drink," he said, sternly. "Then you get some sleep."

You grinned up at him, already eagerly making your way back into your room.

The hearth was still burning, a nice warmth spreading through your chambers. You sat on the floor opposite it, resting your back against the foot of your bed, and opened up the wine.

You took a drink before holding it out to Clegane, who remained standing near the closed door. You gave a teasing smile as you waved the bottle at him.

"Are you planning to stand there all night?"

He waited a moment before joining you, snatching the bottle from your grip and swinging it back as he sat to your side. You stifled a laugh as you watched him.

For a long while, you sat in silence, passing the bottle back and forth as you had done so many times after training. The fire danced ahead of you, flames curling around. Your mind felt fuzzy.

"Today didn't go as bad as I thought it might," you said softly.

Sandor huffed out a breath beside you. "Worried you might not get enough pretty dresses?"

You glanced at him, eyes narrowed slightly. "I know you're not actually stupid enough to think that of me."

He grumbled, keeping the drink to himself. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. Then, lowly;"Smart, keeping the King talking like that." Another pause. "Loud bloody mouth, he has."

"Yes," you said. "That's my father. Loud and obnoxious and drunk. But a terribly good distraction, when needed."

"Aye."

The fire danced on. Carefully, you started taking the pins out of your hair, the tightness having long since started to hurt. You'd grown adept at undoing the extravagant styles your handmaidens gave you, preferring to do it yourself at the end of a long day. Your fingers were clumsy from the wine, but you managed, setting the pins and ribbons off to the side in a pile on the floor. You brushed your fingers through your hair, the braids having left it a wavy mess. As you let it fall over your shoulders, you started to realise just how tired you'd become.

Sandor watched as you worked, his gaze burning. Once you finished, he held out the drink, your fingers brushing in the process. Your cheeks reddened a little, and you took a swing of wine to try and hide it.

There was little drink left, now, and your chest ached at the realisation.

Once the wine was gone, he would be too.

You held the bottle in your lap, away from him. The fire burned in front of you as you sat in silence.

"Don't pull that shit again," he said out of nowhere, his voice low. "You made a scene."

You blinked at him as the words settled over you, a little taken aback by the seriousness in his tone. Your head was far too fuzzy for this.

You relaxed a little as you realised what he was talking about. "Oh, with Joff?" You didn't understand why he was bringing it up again. "I said already, I'm not scared of my brother."

Sandor's eyes narrowed. "Your brother will be King one day," he said, slow. "Better to not rile him up before then."

You watched him a moment, mind buzzing, but he was already speaking again.

"Besides, it wasn't the prince I was warning you for. Your mother, or any other hundred cunts in this keep will have noticed and be wondering why you're so keen on spending time with the prince's dog. It was stupid."

You stared down at the bottle in your lap. It all made you feel a bit ill. Of course, he was right. It was stupid. Even if no one else paid it mind tomorrow, your mother would certainly remember. Perhaps, if you were lucky, she would think you only wanted to rile up Joff. Even still, it was no good having eyes on you like that.

Sandor let out a sigh, and you realised you'd been quiet for too long.

"I'm heading back."

You reached out to grab him before he could stand, grasping onto his inner arm where the plate didn't reach. The chain was cool on your skin. He stilled, his head turning slow to look at you.

"Can't keep me here forever, Princess."

"Just a little longer," you pleaded. "Joff will have gone to bed by now. Another guard will have taken him. And you promised me a drink." The mostly empty bottle remained in your lap, steadied by your free hand. Clegane's gaze dropped to it, and you could already picture him swinging it back in one go and using it as an excuse to leave. The thought made your chest ache. "Please. Just a little longer," you said. "It's my name day."

He looked you over. He didn't say anything, but he settled back where he sat anyway.

You relaxed a little as the silence returned. He was closer now, you realised. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, and it was difficult to focus on much else. You hardly noticed when he took the bottle from your lap, finishing its contents and putting it aside. He leaned his head back against your bed while you continued to watch the fire, your eyes struggling to stay open.

You had drunk too much, you were sure, because all you could focus on was his heat pulling you in. Slowly, you relaxed, letting your body lean against him. The plate on his elbow dug into your arm, and he stiffened at the touch.

"You're too close," he muttered.

You could hardly keep your eyes open now, and you leaned more heavily into him. Your head ached as the armour on his shoulder dug into your check."You're warm," you said tiredly.

He didn't move. "You're drunk," he grumbled.

You were. You didn't answer, instead just humming softly and letting your body sink further. Already, you could feel yourself drifting. Your body relaxed against him as you slipped in and out of consciousness, wondering if you could stay like this forever. If you were good, maybe. If the Gods felt you deserved ut.

At some point, and you truly could not tell when, you felt him nudging you awake with his shoulder. You barely thought as you curled up against him, your tired mind murmuring in protest. Again, though, he nudged you. This time you sat up, blinking sleepily at the fire. You didn't realised he'd moved again until he was standing in front of you, a hand out in offering.

"Up with you. Unless you mean to sleep on the floor all night."

Quietly, you took his gauntlet-covered hand and let him pull you up. The world span a moment, your body swaying from the sudden movement. A hand sat at your shoulder to steady you, and you watched as the room blurred back to normality.

"Too much wine," he muttered. "Shouldn't drink so much if you can't keep your head."

You forced yourself to focus, trying desperately not to fumble your words. "I can hold my drink perfectly well, thank you." Your legs swayed beneath you. "I'm just tired."

He made a low rumble that you thought might be a laugh. "If you say so, Princess." His one hand still sat on your shoulder. You wished he was not wearing the gauntlets. "To bed. Now."

You let him guide you, almost stumbling on the short distance there. He let go as you sat on the edge of the mattress, and you tried not to mourn the loss of his touch. If such a thing is the reward for drinking yourself to a stupor, then you thought you must do so more often.

But, first, you needed to sleep.

Clumsily, you reached back, trying and failing to untie your dress laces. The bodice was so tight, and it suddenly felt suffocating.

You struggled a long moment, the laces refusing to cooperate, before giving up and throwing yourself back on the bed. The canopy span above you in a spiral of embroidery. Vaguely, you were aware of sounds of movement as you felt yourself teetering at the edge of sleep—some shuffling, the sound of something heavy being set down.

"Get up."

Your body refused to cooperate. Sandor muttered something under his breath, and a moment later you were being hauled up to your feet, his grasp at your wrist. His grip was firm, steady enough to keep you from collapsing in on yourself. Only then did you notice he'd stripped off his gauntlets. His hand was warm, the calloused skin rough against you.

The world took a moment to steady, and when it finally did you found he had turned you away from him. For a moment, nothing happened. Then you felt his fingers at the laces of your bodice.

He worked clumsily at first, certainly more accustomed to sword belts than gowns, tugging once before finding the knot. You could feel his irritation building in the sharp exhale of his breath, but his hands never stopped. One lace slipped free, then another. Slowly, the tightness that had become so bothersome began to ease away.

Finally, the dress loosened, and you just about managed enough focus to hold it up at your chest. Sandor's hand steadied you instinctively, broad and warm against the small of your back. His thumb grazed your skin, the touch feather-light, and it stole the breath from your lungs.

His warmth was intoxicating, his touch even more so, and you found yourself praying he would not move.

The silence stretched.

You couldn't help yourself.

You glanced over your shoulder, and the moment collapsed.

He stepped back at once, his hand snapping away as if burned. His jaw tightened. He would not look at you.

You took a second to steady yourself and turned to face him fully.

He'd put a careful distance between you now, standing rigid with his gaze set on the far side of the room.

You opened your mouth.

You weren't sure what you wanted to say. A thank you, perhaps, or some terrible attempt at a joke to break the tension. You did not know. You only knew that you didn't want him to leave you yet.

But he beat you to it.

"Get some sleep, Princess."

His voice was rough, almost impatient. He did not look at you again as he grabbed his gauntlets and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

You should have just stayed still.

[drabblestheclown]

Doing my final read through of the next chapter for my Sandor Clegane x Baratheon princess! Reader fic and it’s gonna be around 4,500 words woooooooo

[drabblestheclown]

♡The Princess and The Hound♡

Chapter 5 - Portrait

Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader

Chapter word count: 1,451

Chapter tags: slow burn • Sandor is a grumpy old man • reader lowkey a little spoilt • pre-canon GOT • will be canon compliant • Drinking • no use of y/n • Reader does art • I love my sad old man • Just realised I'm like the same age as this sad old man canonically lol

Chapter summary: You needed a place to clear your head, and who better than The Hound to keep as company?

Months had passed since you started training, and you thought that you'd certainly gotten better. Clegane must have thought so, too, because it was around that time that you graduated from wooden blades to steel. Blunted still, of course; it was still only a training sword. But it was closer to the weight of the real thing. Closer in feeling.

More often than not, you lingered around now after training. You never spoke much, and when you did, it was more akin to a monologue. Sandor Clegane was not much one for words. You enjoyed his company regardless.

Tonight, however, was your first night sneaking off to the abandoned room without a training session scheduled. You weren't even sure if you would find him there. It didn't matter. After a long day of your mother's lecturing and match proposals, you needed the time away from your room. Time to clear your head.

Your footsteps echoed up the cold walls, your shadow flickering in the torchlight. You'd brought a candle of your own, this time, hoping it would provide better lighting for your drawings. The smell of saltwater still lingered on the leather of your sketchbook, reminding you of the man who'd saved it for you all those weeks ago. You held it tight against the bottle of Arbor Gold you carried in the same hand.

When you finally pushed open the door at the top step, you were only a little surprised to find Clegane already there. His brow furrowed as he took you in from where he sat, leaning against the wall, his eyes dragging over you. He held his wineskin loosely in one hand.

"No training tonight," he muttered slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly.

You stepped in, letting the door shut behind you. "I just wanted to get out of my room," you said, offering a smile as you held up the bottle. "I brought wine."

He didn't say anything, but he let his gaze return to the window, and you took that as a welcome. You settled yourself on the floor beside him, carefully placing everything down. When he held out his hand towards you, you handed over the drink without argument. He didn't waste time in getting it open.

Admittedly, it wasn't the best lighting to draw in. But it was enough. As you flicked through the old book, you felt his eyes on you again, watching intensely as you found a blank page to use.

"Don't know why you still have that old thing," he muttered. "It's half ruined."

You shrugged, settling back against the wall so the book could rest on your knees. "The pages are still useable."

"It's a wreck," he insisted. "It stinks of saltwater."

You didn't let his persistence bother you. "Well, I'm using it anyway."

He stared at you a moment, the lightness of your tone seeming to irritate him. Or maybe he really did just hate the smell. Still, he settled back again, leaving you to it so he could return his focus to the wine. He didn't offer you any. You didn't mind.

Finally, you brought charcoal to paper. But as you stared down at the blank page, your hand stilled. You were used to drawing outside, finding joy in capturing the gardens with the dappled lighting from the sun. You were not used to drawing in secret, abandoned rooms. Perhaps you could practice textures by studying the stonework of the old walls, or use the candle or torches for a light study.

You tapped the charcoal on the edge of the page as you looked around, waiting for inspiration to hit. The tapping stilled as your eyes settled on the man beside you, an idea bubbling up inside. You didn't think you'd stared for long, but he noticed anyway.

His eyes narrowed in your direction. "What?"

"Can I draw you?"

The words blurted out before you'd even given them time to think through, and his response was immediate.

"No."

You didn't look away. Just watched, waiting, the slightest of smiles on your lips.

The silence held only a few moments more before a long, weary sigh escaped him. He leaned his head back on the stone, arms folded as his eyes shut. "Do what you want, Princess."

Your smile widened as you immediately turned to face him properly, charcoal ready. As usual, he had the unmarked side of his face towards you, and you shuffled over a little so you could get a better angle.

He kept his eyes closed as you drew. You focused on the general shapes, blocking in the shadows and leaving space for where the light hit. You got down the shape of his jaw, the wide set of his shoulders. The way his hair fell, covering part of his eye. It had gotten longer, you thought, and you wondered how often he cut it.

It was the first time, you realised, that you'd been able to get a good look at him uninterrupted. Certainly, it was the first time you had the chance to watch him at rest for so long. It was odd. He looked weirdly peaceful, almost, sitting there with his eyes closed. Younger, too. The usual bitterness that radiated off of him seemed kept at bay.

But there was also something about the slight knit of his brows. The way his mouth curved downward. Not peaceful, you corrected yourself. Something else. A sadness.

You realised that you'd stopped drawing some time ago. He peeked an eye open, startling you a little as you came back to reality. You tilted the page away from him, not sure how much he could see from his angle.

"You still not finished?"

"It takes time."

He grumbled out a sigh, already settling back again. You stopped him before he could relax completely.

"Keep your eyes open," you said. He shot you a glare, so you smiled and added a quiet, "please."

He worked his jaw a moment, arms folded as he looked you over. He didn't say anything, but he kept his eyes open, letting his gaze drift over to the window. You didn't bother hiding your victory smile.

The silence returned, but the calmness you'd noticed in him before seemed to leave. He drank some more of the Arbor Gold, holding the bottle in his lap once it was empty. He shifted his weight, his armour creaking. You weren't sure how long you'd been drawing for, but you were starting to get the feeling that you'd outstayed your welcome.

Finally, you were satisfied enough to set the charcoal down. You didn't bother saying anything, instead just holding out the sketchbook until he looked at it.

You wanted him to take it, but his hands remained clutched around the bottle. He stayed quiet a long while, working his jaw as he stared at the page. A small, expectant smile sat on your lips as you waited for his reaction.

"Well?" You prompted.

He glanced up at you for a moment, the same hardened expression still on his face. "Well, what?"

"What do you think of it?"

"Fuck does it matter what I think?"

You huffed out a breath, returning the book to your lap. It looked good, you thought. You'd captured him well. You got the texture of his scars right, the deep shadows under his eyes. Maybe the beard could use some work.

"You spend too much time looking at ruins," he said gruffly. "That's what I think."

You ignored the roughness of his tone, instead grabbing the charcoal to fix the side of his nose. You kept your focus on the drawing as you spoke up. "Is it so difficult to just say it looks good?"

"You get enough bloody praise from your father," he snapped. "Don't need me feeding your ego, too." You could feel his eyes still on you as you worked. He was quiet for a moment, then looked away. "It's alright," he muttered.

Your lips curled up into a smile, perhaps the most happy you'd ever felt from such mediocre praise. You glanced from him to the drawing, already wondering how you could improve it in your room. Maybe you could even draw him again, now that you had this down as reference.

"You look like a damn fool", he rumbled, then inclined his head. "Get to bed, Princess. You've taken up too much of my peace for one night."

You didn't argue, standing up and tucking the sketchbook close to your chest. "Are we still training tomorrow?"

He nodded.

You smiled, turning to leave. You lingered at the door a moment. "Goodnight, Sandor."

He didn't say anything back, but he gave a low hum. That was enough.

[drabblestheclown]

Recently discovered that turning off endless scrolling on tumblr means I can use it on my laptop without it have a damn asthma attack 😌

[drabblestheclown]

Just realised my links in my Sandor x reader posts aren’t working 😭😭 I feel so silllyyyyyy

[drabblestheclown]

♡The Princess and The Hound♡

Chapter 4 - Artist

Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader

Chapter word count: 1,459

Chapter tags: slow burn • Sandor is a grumpy old man • reader lowkey a little spoilt • pre-canon GOT • will be canon compliant • Drinking • no use of y/n • Joffrey is a little shit • reader does art • Sandor does something nice for once

Chapter summary: Joffrey is a little shit. You realise The Hound might not be as heartless as he lets on.

King's Landing had been particularly blessed with its weather in recent weeks—blue sky, bright sun, and the slightest breeze to cool you down. More often than not, you found yourself wandering the gardens, enjoying the sights. On days like these especially, you couldn't resist the urge to sit out with your sketchbook in hand.

You'd found a particularly nice view at the edge of the gardens. It was quiet enough, with a gentle breeze and sunlight that warmed your skin. You spent hours lost in the charcoal and paper, sketching the way the light hit the leaves. It was peaceful; a rare moment in the keep where you could remain completely undisturbed.

For the most part, at least.

"Still scribbling in that little book, sister?"

Jofftey's voice cut through the serenity you'd so carefully garnered, his lips curled up into a smirk as he strolled towards you. He wore a doublet of crimson and velvet and gold, making him look every bit the prince that people thought he was.

Behind him, towering and silent, was The Hound.

Your brother stopped in front of you, peering down at the sketch with a look of simulated interest. He huffed out a laugh, shifting his weight back with a smugness that made you want to slap him.

"What a waste of time," he sneered. "Really. You spend all day daydreaming while I have actual duties to attend to. I don't even know why father bothers catering to your silly little hobbies. They're quite tedious."

You didn't look up again. You hoped that if you just continued drawing, he would get bored and leave you alone. Still, you couldn't help your response.

"Don't let me keep you from your important duties, Joff."

You could practically feel the shift in the air. His jaw tightened, a flush of anger creeping in. You tried to keep your eyes downward.

"Do not call me that," he hissed, his voice losing any of the fake sweetness from before. He stepped forward, invading your space until you finally looked up at him. "My duties are the duties of a future king. Things which you couldn't possibly understand, tucked away in your little world of useless paints and pencils."

You kept your face neutral. "The King quite likes my drawings."

Joffrey's face contorted, his eyes flashing with a sudden, visceral rage.

Without another word, he lunged forward, snatching the sketchbook from your lap. He walked backwards, holding it in front of himself as you took a careful step towards him.

"Father is a drunk who likes pretty things because they're easy," he spat, flicking through the pages with rough, careless fingers. He gave a sneer, waving it at your face. "This is pathetic. You're nothing but a distraction. A little pet that makes him forget he has a real son to train."

You reached out for the book but he took another step back, holding it high above his head. Despite being a few years younger than you, he had been growing rapidly.

A sudden, cruel smile crept onto his face. Before you could even register what was happening, he moved over to the wall and flung the book over the edge. You moved just fast enough to watch it vanish to the rocky shore below.

Joffrey gave a triumphant grin, his tone arrogant as you stared down into the abyss.

"There," he said, walking away from the edge. "Now you can spend your time on something actually useful."

You didn't think. You just spun around, a sudden, hot surge of rage eclipsing the shock. You wanted to tear into him, to slap that smug look off his face and tackle him right into the dirt with your drawings.

You managed one step forward, your arms stiff at your side, before a massive hand clamped at your wrist and stopped you in place. The grip was heavy and cold, but it didn't hurt.

You looked up. Clegane stood there, his face a wall of scarred indifference. Your heart hammered in your chest. When you finally looked back at Joffrey, you caught a brief flash of shock before the smug grin returned to his face.

"Look at that," he said, grinning. "The Dog's finally been given a chance to do his job." He stepped forward, looking down at you. "Go on, sister. Hit me."

Clegane ignored him completely, his gaze entirely fixed on you. His eyes were hardened in warning; reacting to the Prince's taunts would not end well.

You looked back and forth between them, the rage still twitching on your face. Joffrey looked so damned pleased with himself, standing as though he'd conquered a kingdom and not just thrown his sister's book away.

For a moment, you thought you might not be able to control yourself. That you might finally tear into your brother the way he deserved. But then the tension drained out of you all at once. You didn't say anything. You shrugged your wrist away, and Clegane let you. You could hear your brother's laughter as you walked away.

Clegane didn't say anything about what happened when you got to training that night. Not even when you swung at him with more vigour than usual, or when your attacks kept missing, and your footwork became sloppy. He didn't mention it at all.

But he didn't tell you to leave when you finished, either. He let you drink from his wineskin again, both sitting in silence as you passed it back and forth. It didn't take long to drain it dry, and he let you stay even then.

The night after, though, you got a knock at your door.

It came through as a couple of harsh rasps—certainly not a servant's call. Perhaps one of the Kingsguard, you thought.

Slowly, you opened the door, your brows furrowing as you saw who it was.

Clegane stood in your doorway, his jaw tight. Before you had the chance to ask what he was doing, a bundle of cloth was thrust in your direction. Hesitantly, you took it, moving back into your room and leaving the door open for him. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you carefully unwrapped it, your hands freezing as they unveiled a ruined, leather-bound book. It was damp, the cover warped and stained a dark, muddy brown.

You looked up at where Clegane was standing, the door now closed behind him. Your voice hitched a little as you spoke.

"You found it?"

He worked his jaw, avoiding your gaze. "Fisherman found it."

"A fisherman," you repeated, slow.

"Aye."

You looked down at the book again, not quite believing him. A brief silence settled over you as you opened it up.

"Most of the pages are ruined," he said, eventually. "But a few of the back ones stayed dry. The one you'd been doing in the garden. And the… whatever the stony thing is."

You flipped through them, fingers brushing the running lines. It felt heavy and cold, and the majority of your work had been destroyed, but a smile tugged at your lips regardless.

"The Prince is a spoiled brat," he added, his voice hardening again. "You're a fool for letting him get a rise out of you. Need to learn to keep your face still."

His criticism washed over you. You were far too busy staring at the book, a giddy warmth spreading through your chest.

"You found it for me."

Clegane stiffened. He let out a sharp, irritated noise—something between a growl and a scoff.

"You're delusional," he muttered. "I told you. A fisherman found it." He shifted his weight, his armour creaking. He was avoiding looking at you again. "Just keep it in your room. He'll only throw another fit if he sees you drawing in it again."

You had no intention of letting your brother get his hands on this again. It would stay in your chambers, nice and safe.

You couldn't stop looking at it.

He nodded once, seemingly taking your silence as his cue to leave, and then made his way to the door. "Tomorrow night. Try to actually focus instead of just swinging around uselessly."

He reached for the handle, and you spoke up just before he could leave. A genuine smile settled onto your features—one you usually saved for your father or Tommen.

"Thank you, Sandor."

He tensed up, his hand freezing in place. He stayed still a moment, not looking back at you, and you wondered if he was more focused on the gratitude or the use of his name.

When he finally spoke up, his voice was tired. He kept his eyes on the door.

"Get some sleep, Princess."

He didn't look back as he left your room.