“The little bird still can’t bear to look at me, can she?" The Hound released her “You were glad enough to see my face when the mob had you, though. Remember?”
Request: “This request is for sandor of course!! I am all for angsty, yearning sandor clegane!! My train of thought is all over the place but heres a list of something I hope you could include in the one shot: •hozier level yearning •unrequited love/want •perhaps stark!reader or baratheon!reader •fleeting interactions like something small but it sticks with sandor •“im not a religious man but ill follow her” kinda vibe if that makes any sense!!"
CW: MDNI, ANGST, afab reader, alcohol consumption, unrequited love, yearning, misogyny, arranged marriage, violence, joffrey being joffrey, mention of death.
A/N: He’s pathetic and I love it
Word Count: 5K
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱
The girl was born a Baratheon, born to Robert Baratheon during a previous marriage. Her mother, born to some wealthy house. But her memory would be lost in time after she died in childbirth. Robert did not speak of her. Cersei despised the mention of her name. So not much was known of her. Though she must’ve been pretty, as the girl born to Robert Baratheon was a girl of beauty. And soon after her mother’s death, Robert married Cersei Lannister.
Either due to jealousy or embarrassment Cersei would treat the girl with malice, and hostility. But unlike the King's eldest son, the girl was kind and good.
The boy was born to a man who wanted nothing more than for his sons to be knights of the Seven Kingdoms. His ambitions blinded him, allowing his eldest son Gregor to commit horrid acts. So long as the boy was a knight, none else mattered. The man's youngest son was kind. He was just a boy, no more than six years old.
The little boy dreamed of being a knight just as his father did. Dreamed on the good deeds he would do in the name of his king and the Seven Kingdoms. Though those dreams would be dashed and discarded once the boy's older brother showed him the cruelty the world is capable of. The cruelty he was capable of. The cruelty the world rewarded him for.
The boy grew into The Hound, Sandor Clegane the second most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms. The girl grew into a princess, one hated by her stepmother and eldest half brother. But loved by her father, her half siblings, the realm, and by a Hound.
꒰ ୨୧ ─
The Hound and the princess grew alongside one another most of his life. He could remember when he and she were much younger. The Lannisters and the Baratheons were traveling across the Stormlands. It was a hard journey, soon food became scarce. Naturally the scraps of whatever the royals did not eat were left to the guards and any other member of the traveling crew. But the princess would offer a young hound the meat from her plate every night. He always hesitated, but was too hungry to deny her charity. She never held her charitable act over him, never even mentioned it.
He was not one to appreciate beauty, nor was he one to indulge himself in fantasies of love. But the princess’s beauty was one that haunted Sandor. His whole life he looked at her as though she were the maiden herself. And the princess did not look upon the Hound with grotesque curiosity. Nor did she flaunt his presence to others in a manner of threatening them. No, the princess was kind towards him, kind when she did not have to be. He often found kindness a weakness in people, but in her kindness he found a comfort.
The girl was different from her father, different from her brother. She was kind, she was honest, and he would follow her as if she was a God.
He could also remember the first time she bestowed her favor onto him.
Sandor never feared the tourneys he fought in. He did not fear the joust, he did not fear the competitors. What he did not like was the tradition of asking a noble lady for her favor.
Sandor never liked this tradition. Never liked having to speak to noble ladies much less ask them to favor him. Not only was it ridiculous to him, the ladies often grimaced at his gesture. But at this tourney, and every tourney after it, he would pick the lady he wished to have picked each time before.
As he rode his intimidatingly large black ill tempered stallion around the tournament pit. He looked up at all the noble ladies above him, looking down at him. They all sneered at his gaze, wishing not to be picked. The noble men all snickered amongst one another. But there was one person who looked upon him with indifferent eyes. The Baratheon girl’s eyes were not filled with pity, disgust, nor anticipation for the violence he was about to insight for the high lord's entertainment. She simply watched him with her same kind eyes.
He did not think much of it, it came naturally to him as he stopped his horse in front of the royal family's seating. “I ask the favor of the Princess.” He said begrudgingly.
The princess rose from her seat with a smile. She grabbed a ring of florals and silk. The flowers were yellow and the silk ribbon was black, the colors of both her house and his. As she approached him, she smiled upon him and placed the favor upon his joust. “I wish you good fortune, Sandor Clegane.” Sandor, he did not know she knew his name. Her voice itself was gentle and hushed, only for him to hear. Her smile was gentle and warm, one that he would have killed to see each night. One that he won the tourney for.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈
Once, Joffrey had decided that a servant boy had shot him a momentary disrespectful glance. If he had, it would not have been unwarranted, though who is to say if he even did. Joffrey, sometimes bored, would pretend small disrespectful gestures were made against him. Allowing him to justify any horrid act he found amusement in subjecting any poor soul to.
“I am sorry, my prince! Please if you would give me another chance-” The servant boy pleaded on his hands and knees. His cheek red from the blow Ser Meryn had given him moments before.
Sandor never liked being Joffrey's sworn shield. Never liked that blonde cunt at all. Whenever he wanted to feel powerful, wanted to hurt someone weaker than him for no good reason, it bored and irritated him.
Though it hardly ever embarrassed him, until she stepped into that room.
“Brother stop this!” The Baratheon princess commanded with a look of disgust. Sandor, though he’d not laid a hand on the boy, swallowed hard and stood straighter at her sudden presence. He worried how she’d look at him now, would her kind eyes fade for him?
“Why should I?” Joffrey asked her back with a raised brow.
The girl, bravely scoffed and took a few steps closer to her younger ‘brother’, “Because I commanded you to.” She said with angry eyes, an expression Sandor rarely saw from her. She looked beautiful even when she was angry.
Joffrey narrowed his eyes at her, “Who are you to command anything of me?” he stifled a laugh which only enraged her more. And only enraged Sandor more.
She took another step closer to him. Her hand gently trailed along the extravagantly dressed wooden table. “Your elder sister, the Kings first born-”
“First born daughter.” Joffrey finished her words for her. “Daughter. You are not heir to anything. I’ll be king one day and you, a princess for a lifetime.” He said laughing as if he were amused by some great jest. “And as your king, I could have anything done to you that I like.” He walked closer to her, with a threatening gaze. “In fact, as heir to the throne, I could do anything I like. I could have Ser Meryn hold you down and-” And with that the girl's temper got the better of her. She grasped a glass goblet from the table she stood by, and threw it with great force at her brother’s feet. The goblet shattered into a hundred pieces. Bits of it flew and cut Joffrey’s right hand. And some other bits cut Sandor’s cheek, not deeply but enough to bleed. “You cannot do that!” His shrill voice cracked as he grasped hold of bleeding palm.
“Clearly I can.” The girl said with little emotion. It would have made Sandor laugh if he didn’t have to worry about the other royal guards. He worried that they would put their filthy hands on you, or would be foolish enough to draw their swords.
Though none would. The guards were shocked by the scene. This princess had never done so much as raised her voice, and now she was assaulting their future kind. They had to think of defending one of the King’s children from the other. They stood, unsure of how to act.
Furiously Joffrey shouted, “I’ll tell my mother!” Knowing his father would do nothing but ridicule him.
The princess raised her hand, and slapped the boy across the cheek, “Tell her I did that as well.” She added.
Her slap was enough to leave a red imprint across the boy's face.
In a fit of anger, the young prince grabbed hold of his sword. Prepared to draw its blade and point it at the princess. Just before Sandor could grab the prince, a different Kingsgaurd stepped between the two royals. “Stop this!” the man commanded. Joffrey let go of the sword's hilt and the girl began to walk away, ready to face whatever punishment her step mother desired.
With her back turned, and the guards' attentions divided. Joffrey ceased his moment, and drew the thin blade of his sword and readied himself to strike the princess.
“Boy!” The princess turned back as the Hound’s loud voice boomed out through the dining hall. She was stunned by the sight before her. The prince’s attack was stopped by the Hound ceasing the blade with his bare hand. Blood from his hand trickled down the blade of the sword.
꒰ ୨୧ ─
Soon the two royal children were brought before their father the King.
“How the fuck did any of this happen? You are meant to protect my blood!” King Robert questioned the KingsGuard furiously.
“Never had to protect a princess from a prince.” Ser Meryn attempted to explain, “Or a prince from a princess.” He said in a lower tone that angered Joffrey.
“Shut up!” King Robert angrily shouted, sick of hearing whatever excuse they had. He sat back in his chair, and huffed loudly. He looked between his two children. “Well done, my girl.” He said in a gruff low tone.
Joffrey looked surprised his father would congratulate her on striking her brother. “But look what she-“ Joffrey began, holding up his cut palm.
Though Robert interrupted him, “How could you ever be a king if you cannot win a fight against a woman?”
“Father!” Joffrey’s shrill voice shouted,
“Leave!” Robert shouted back. With an infuriated huff, Joffrey left accompanied with two guards by his side. Though Sandor stayed in the room. “Girl, come ‘ere.” Robert commanded much softer to his daughter, waving his hand, beckoning her to come closer.
She did as her king commanded. Stepped closer to him with her head lowered. Robert stood before her, and held her chin up with his fingers. “You’re more of a man than your brother.” He said proudly. He meant it as a complement, it was a rare thing to receive as a child of Roberts. With a sigh he patted the girl on the back, “Go on then.” He said softly dismissing her.
She nodded and took her leave as her father requested.
As the girl left, Sandor turned to follow her out. Though the King’s voice beckoned out, stopping him in his steps. “Dog.” Sandor stopped, and turned towards the King, “If that yellow haired shit lays a hand on my girl you beat him.” The King commanded. Sandor needed no other instruction. He was quite content to do so. “Understood?” The King pressed.
Sandor nodded, “Aye.”
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈
As the Hound walked down the Halls of the keep, he saw the princess walking in the opposite direction. He tried to keep his eyes ahead, not looking at her at all.
Though his illusion of disinterest did not deter the girl, “I beg pardon, ser.” Her serene voice called out gently. It felt like a cool breeze on a hot day, a relief.
Sandor looked up at her, hoping she was not speaking to him. If she was, he knew whatever words she spoke to him would haunt his thoughts. As he looked at her, he knew she was speaking to him. He swallowed and then croaked out, “I’m no ser.”
The Baratheon princess shook her head, “No. You are more true than any knight.” He knew her words would haunt him, but now they would torture him. The girl stepped forward, making him almost flinch, “All the knights in that room were content to let my brother kill me. What you did today-“
The girl began but the Hound interrupted her, knowing if she thanked him, his stomach might turn. “It’s my duty to protect you.” He grumbled, attempting to not look the girl in the eyes. Her beautiful eyes.
“I’d call it brave.” She chimed, making him stop and turn to face her once again. He was about to tell her it was not brave but she continued, “But I know you’d not. You are a hard man with many scars. You needn’t courage, nor praise. But I thank you for what you've done.”
Fuck.
He was never thanked for doing his duty. Never thanked for anything. He was commanded and he did as he was told.
Her eyes wandered over the Hound’s face. It made him feel weak, for the first time in a very long time. “I am sorry-” She said, her voice sickeningly sweet. Sandor looked at her with confusion, “Are you hurt?” She asked as she reached her hand towards the cut on his cheek. Her sudden movement made him flinch.
“No.” He rasped quickly.
The girl however was scared of the Hound. She continued forward and placed a hand on the Hounds shoulder. Even though her hand was separated from his skin by his thick armor, he still felt a chill run over his body. “Oh but you are-” She began, concerned for him. A feeling that was new for him.
“It’s a scratch.” Sandor interrupted the girl.
She shook her head, “Still, I caused it.” The girl reached into the neckline of her gown, making Sandor almost blush. Such a strange thing, a man who had seen every part of a woman, and every sexual act no matter how deviant in almost every brothel in KingsLanding would blush at such a thing. She pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with her name, “Take this.” She said holding it out to him.
He could not take it. He could not, no matter how badly he wanted to. “Don’t need it-”
“I command you to take it, as your princess.” The girl said without hesitation. Reluctantly Sandor grabbed the cloth, “I am sorry.” She said once more before continuing on and walking past Sandor.
She did not know that he would worship that cloth. Keep it in his armor, and keep it in his rooms when he slept.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈
When Robert mixed drinking and hunting too often, a boar attacked him. Leaving him so injured he was on a deathbed.
The princess visited her father each day, morning, noon, and night. And when he died, she stayed confined to her chambers. Her only company she’d allow was her Septa. Though the girl was grown enough to be without a Septa, hers was closer to a mother. Since the girl never had one, her septa was there for all her girlhood. So she insisted on keeping around.
Sandor often checked on the girl, though of course she was not wise to this.
He would open her door, just a crack. He would listen in just to be sure she was alright. One day when he decided to open her door he heard her and her Septa speaking plainly.
“Do you think the boar was the Gods doing?” The girl asked as she stared out her window with a stoic and dazed expression.
“Hm?” Her septa responded, looking up from the needlepoint she mindlessly toyed at.
The girl did not look at her septa. Simply continued to stare out her window into nothingness. She paused for a moment, not speaking, “I’d a dream the Stranger came to those woods. He changed into a boar and killed my father for his deviance.” She spoke of such morbid dreams with no emotion attached to it at all.
“How awful.” Her septa gasped, throwing her needle point down onto the table in front of her. “No dear girl I don’t think it was.” She said more gently, “You dream too much.”
The girl shrugged, still not looking at the old woman. “I suppose I’m trying to find the Gods in everything I do.”
“Prayer is best for that. Not such morbid dreams.” The old Septa said, picking her needle point back up.
The girl did not respond for a moment, still simply staring out into nothing. “Do you think they’re real?” She asked softly and without shame. “Do you truly believe it? Never did you doubt it?” She asked, finally looking at the Old Septa.
“They are real.” She asserted sternly, “You believe they aren’t?”
The girl sighed, not wanting for a lecture, “I know the Gods are a necessity for people. Like food, water. I know they must exist. But I also know they don’t.” She said calmly. Her words stuck with Sandor like a knife driven into his back.
“What a terrible thing to say.” Her septa said shocked.
“Is it?” The girl's eyes narrowed in confusion, “It’s just my thoughts.”
The septa shook her head looking back to her needle point. “You think too much, dear girl.”
The girl sighed and went back to looking out her window, “Seems I do too much and not enough.”
Without many words at all, this lonely girl would consume Sandor’s every thought. She was smart and kind. Two things Sandor did not think of himself.
He did not believe in the Gods, because if there were Gods, why did they punish this girl? Perhaps she was his punishment. Perhaps he was hers. Perhaps it was the world that was their punishment.
This girl should be queen. She’d be a good one, a better one then her cunt brother. She’d be loved by the small folk and no doubt able to keep some kind of peace, even with the war. She’d not let her pride keep the seventh kingdom. If they wanted independence they’d have it. Clearly they could fight well enough on their own. But she was not queen. But she was his.
How her hair laid against the delicate fabric of her pillow. She was all too precious for his affections. He couldn’t help it really, he felt drawn towards her. Felt a stronger pull towards her than he felt towards anything, even food or water. But he’d never subject her to his presence.
He simply needed to see her, needed to know she was safe.
She slept sweetly, her breathing though loud was the calmest noise he’d heard. It was like the sounds of waves meeting the sands.
Sometimes, not often, but sometimes he would fantasize about what it would feel like to sleep beside her. For her to invite him into her bed. To sleep in his arms. He’d feel her heartbeat against his own. He’d smell her scent, and feel her chest rise and fall with each breath. He never slept well, but he believed if she was in his arms, perhaps he could.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈
As time went by, the royal family debated what to do with the girl. She was not a Baratheon Lannister, she was the reminder of Robert's first marriage, a reminder that Joffrey was not the true king.
Sandor stood guard by the small council’s chamber door as he heard the girl’s step mother Cersei say, “She’s as wild as the boar that killed her father. No man would want her, she is too difficult. So give her to the Tyrell’s, a poisoned gift.”
Overcome with a myriad of emotions, anger, sadness, and grief, Sandor rushed to the girl's chambers.
Sandor stood behind her door. His hand firmly grasped the door handle, and his forehead rested against the wood of the door.
He stood there for what felt like an eternity.
He wanted to open the door, ask- no beg you to run away with him. He wanted to tell you all the things he felt for you. Wanted to protect you.
But he was a second son, a kingsguard, he had no land, and no money. He had nothing to offer you, he didn’t even have a handsome face to bargain with.
And so, he let the handle of the door go, and he walked down the hall. He considered it mercy.
꒰ ୨୧ ─
Instead of subjecting that poor girl to his company he decided to subject tavern dwellers to him instead. That night, as her marriage was announced, Sandor sank into his cups.
Though even there he was not protected from talks of her betroval.
Beside Sandor at another table were four men,
“Say what you will, I think it’s a perfect match! Loras Tyrell loves a Baratheon!” Some oaf shouted as he slammed his cup onto the table laughing.
“Aye but she’s missin’ a cock now isn’t she!” A shorter guard shouted out.
Sandor wanted to break the fool's jaws for speaking of her situation with such amusement. “Too bad for Loras, and too bad for all the other men in the realm!” A bald guard added,
The shorter guard raised his cup, “Hear hear. I’ll miss seeing that girl… Miss seeing her bend over to pick flowers.”
The bald guard nodded in a facade of sadness, “Aye that ass will be missed-”
“No, her pair of tits will be missed!” The fatter guard spoke up.
“Nay her cunt! Ah and what a waste she’ll be giving it to a boy whore.” One of the men said, it was enough for Sandor to slam his cup onto the table in anger. He was trying with all his might to hold onto his restraint.
Though this did not go unnoticed by the men at the table. The oafish one spoke up again, “What of you Clegane?” He said getting closer to the Hound, “You guard that sweet stag so loyally. Surely you’ve thought of what her cunt tastes like-”
Without another thought, Sandor took the man by the back of his head and slammed it into the table. His nose broke and his teeth cracked. Sandor took his dagger out and stabbed it through the man's hand. His blade took one of the man’s fingers.
Sandor stood, taking his drink with him, “You speak to me like that again, I’ll take more than a finger.” He warned as he left the tavern in a huff.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈
Against his better judgment, that night Sandor checked in on that girl.
She was with her Septa again. He hoped that she were alone, if she were perhaps in his drunken state he’d have actually begged her to run off with him.
“My father would never have allowed this.” The girl said with a scared and sorrowful waiver of her voice, “Though I suppose it will be a relief to be gone from this place.” She sniffled, “I just don’t want to be forgotten.”
“You’ll not be forgotten, dear girl.” Her Septa said petting her hair.
“I suppose if I were to marry anyone in this city it would be him.” She shrugged, “But, I am unsure of how I could please him. You know of his nature. Know of his relationship with my uncle. I care not for any moral righteousness and I hold no judgment of it. But how could I ever make him happy?” She asked desperately, frightened by the prospects of her future.
Her Septa grasped the girl by her shoulders tightly, “You will make him happy by giving his children royal blood.”
“And how can I even do that?” The girl put her face into her hands,
“You are familiar with the act, I have explained it-”
The girl interrupted, “I won’t want it.”
Her Septa sighed, “A dreadful duty for some wives. Just lay there. Look at the ceiling and memorize the pattern of the trim. Count the seconds. Anything to let your mind wander away from your body.” She tried her best to comfort the girl, but clearly was doing nothing to help the girl’s fear.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈
As Sandor took leave of his duties. He threw off his armor without caution, and nearly ripped his clothing off himself. He was angry, no, he was enraged.
This girl did not deserve this. She deserved none of the shit those blonde shits put her through. And the words of ‘advice’ given to her by her septa only enraged him more. She should have told her to slip poison in his wine.
Sandor sat down on his bed in his small clothes with a huff. His weight made the bed creek and bow. He drank from a wineskin as he thought of it all. Soon his anger subsided, replaced with a defeated sorrow.
Naught could be done for her. This much he knew for certain.
So, after his wineskin ran dry he laid down. Finally allowing his body to rest even though his mind could not.
As he laid there, stripped of his armor and steel. As his sensitive skin laid against the rough material of his bedding he was reminded once more that he, and his body were punished. Punished by both too much, and not enough.
Too much combat, too much drinking, too many tourneys, too many cuts and bruises. So much he endured, and his body was punished for it. He ached and felt pains all over his body all the time. His scars were sensitive and hurt in warm bath water.
But as he laid there he was again reminded how he had not enough. Not enough gentle touches, enough love and care. Though of course he’d never admit it to anyone. His body felt truly alone in his bed. He wished he could have felt her around him. He’d fucked before, that would not shock anyone. But he’d never made love to anyone. And Gods did he need to.
He thought of it often, kissing her. He’d do it gently. He’d be gentle with her. She deserved gentleness. He’d kiss her while he held her face in his palms. Kiss her neck, press his lips against her skin and lick where she was most sensitive- wherever those spots were. Gods he wanted to know where they were.
He felt shameful for thinking this way, he really did. He was no better than those men in that tavern. But, he’d be good to her.
He’d make her his wife, in the eyes of The Seven. He’d build her a home. It wouldn’t be like the one she’d been brought up in. Not a castle, but a house made of stone and wood. He’d give her safety, love. And as his hand began to wonder his punished body he thought of how he’d give her children.
He wished to know how her body would feel in hands. How it would feel to have his hands caress her breasts, the curves of her body, the soft plumpness of her belly. He wondered how it would feel to be inside of her. How his cock would feel to slide in and out of her slick, warm, inviting cunt. He did not know, but he did know it would have felt oh so much better than his calassed hand that was wrapped around his length now.
Though his actions were vulgar and sexual, he did not think of it as that. He couldn’t think of her for long without feeling the need to have her. To be close to her. To please her. To hold her close and make her feel safe under his touch, to make her feel loved and desired with his body, his hands, and his mouth.
He thought of what her septa told her. That she’d have to lay down and take it. If she was with him she’d want it, she’d never be forced. Bedding would be a pleasure not a duty.
His groans loudened, and his breathing quickened as he thought of how she’d ask him for it. How gentle her touch would feel on his ruined skin.
Soon he was awoken from his day dream as the hot splash of his release jolted his mind back to reality.
He did not have her, and she for all he knew, did not want him.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈
And so the Hound was left with nothing to do but sit and watch as the love of his life was preparing to leave his life forever.
He felt his heart breaking as he escorted the royals to the docks with the rest of the Kingsguard. He felt his eyes water as she began to step onto the dock, and approach the boat that would take her away from him.
Naught could be done for her.
So without a word the Hound offered the girl his hand. She took it, gently. He helped her into the boat. Her gaze fell onto him, and Gods it felt warm. He wanted to cut through them all. Wanted to take her off that boat and ride her away on Stranger. He’d do all the things he thought of the night before. Build her a home, keep her safe, and he’d love her. But they didn’t live in that world.
The princess would marry that Tyrell. She’d have his sons, whether she wanted it or not. And she would never know how much her dog loved her.
The Hound watched as the boat sailed away with the girl he had loved all his life.
It’s the world that’s awful.
Thank you so much for your request! It was so much fun to write!!
⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!
Also this is 18+ ... we acting like grown ups.
ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ
𝑨 = 𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 (𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒙)
Sandor isn’t the softest man, but he does take care of you afterward, even if it’s in his own grumpy way.
If he sees you’re exhausted or sore, he’ll grunt, roll over, and pull you against him. "Tired, are ya? Hmph. Should’ve thought about that before beggin’ me for more." (Yet his rough fingers are already rubbing soothing circles on your back.)
He always stays, even if he doesn’t say much. His way of comforting you is holding you close, resting a heavy arm over you like a shield.
𝑂𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓: Sandor doesn't exactly...like his body. Well, that's not completely true. He does like how big and strong he is - he takes pride in it. But what he likes the most is his voice and its affect on you. With a few words, he can make you shiver.
𝑂𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢: He adores your thighs. Doesn’t matter if they’re thick, thin, or somewhere in between. He grips them possessively and worships them when he’s between them. ("These legs? Mine.")
𝑪 = 𝑪𝒖𝒎 (𝑨𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒄𝒖𝒎 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚)
He loves finishing in you; it’s primal. Watching it drip out of you? He nearly loses his mind. If you’re on your knees? He grabs your jaw and makes you look at him as he finishes. His voice is low, husky; "Fuck, just like that. Gods, you’re perfect."
He’s somewhat experienced. Most of his encounters have been rough, quick, and impersonal. But with you?
He learns patience. He learns what you like. And gods, when you whimper his name, he learns that he enjoys worshipping you.
Doggy style, always. He loves gripping your hips, watching your back arch as he fucks into you. But he also loves taking you against a wall, pinning you there, making you feel just how strong he is.
Sandor is not a smooth talker. He’s gruff, sometimes awkward, but his dry humor sneaks in.
"Yer gonna be the death of me," he mutters, staring at you sprawled out beneath him, breathless.
𝑯 = 𝑯𝒂𝒊𝒓 (𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍-𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚)
Very hairy; chest, arms, legs. Doesn’t care to shave much and he doesn't touch his pubic hair either.
Not great with words, but his actions say everything. He grips your hand in the middle of it, presses his forehead to yours, and when he’s feeling particularly soft, he kisses the crown of your head after.
𝑱 = 𝑱𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑶𝒇𝒇 (𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏)
If you aren't around ... he obviously does. But he does have patience.
𝑲 = 𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒌 (𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔)
Breeding; he wants to hear you say it. How much you want his pups. That one sentence makes him go completely and utterly feral.
𝑳 = 𝑳𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 (𝑭𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐)
Anywhere secluded—he’s not big on risks, but he loves the thrill of taking you somewhere unexpected.
Watching you submit to him, knowing you trust him. That makes him hunger for you like nothing else.
Grabbing him by the belt, and tugging him closer to you? Mhmm...mhmm
𝑵 = 𝑵𝑶 (𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒅𝒐, 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒔)
He would never hurt you. He may be rough, but he’s not cruel. Not to you. Never to you. And he will not share. The thought of another man touching you? He’d rather burn the whole kingdom down.
Loves receiving; seeing you on your knees, eyes pleading for his fat cock. But gods does he fucking love giving even more. He pins you down and devours you until you’re a trembling mess.
Fast and rough most times. He loses himself in the moment, grips your hips, pounds into you like a man possessed. But when he’s feeling softer? Slow, deep thrusts while he watches every expression cross your face.
Sandor wouldn't mind tying you up, especially when you've been a brat all day. He'd enjoy takng you to the edge, and then leave you there, left crying for more.
He might let you take control; if you can catch him completely off guard.
No, no experience with toys... I mean lets be real here - Westeros doesn't have them? But he wouldn't mind using them if they were created.
𝑼 = 𝑼𝒏𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓 (𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆)
Smirks when you beg, because he knows no matter how much you tease him; he can physically control every move you make. He's that much bigger, taller, stronger.
He wants you near pleading. But as soon as you whimper, he's undone.
The noises he makes are fucking filthy. Deep groans, growls, low grunts. And the first time you moaned his name? He growled so deep it made your legs weak.
Loves watching you sleep after. He’ll never admit it, but his eyes soften, his fingers trace your bare skin, he presses his lips to your forehead and takes in your scent.
Big. Thick. Heavy. Enough to stretch you open, make you feel every inch. And when you think he can't be any bigger, surely he's fully inside you, he pushes further.
𝒀 = 𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 (𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒙 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆?)
Sandor would never verbally say it but he is constantly yearning for you. He daydreams about your smell, the way you squirm beneath him, grabbing his arms, sucking on his fingers...he basically makes himself hard.
Could u something with Sandor Clegane x Princess Reader where shes Roberts first and only trueborn child with Sandor as her sworn protector and secret lover?
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MY LIFE WILL BE YOURS 😞💔
Sinful Decisions ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Sandor Clegane x princess!Reader
Context: Exactly what the prompt asked
Warnings: Heavy smut! MDNI please... Brief implications of sexual assault (not by the Hound)
a/n: My dear anon, 1000 apologies that I took forever to answer your request :') do forgive me and happy reading! PS I made this extra extra long for you so you had more to read after waiting so long for a reply...
Masterlist link
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Is there anything so undoing as a daughter? Your father would be a fine testament to this saying.
Ever since you were a babe, your father had doted on, spoilt and coddled you to death. Your mother had died when you were young, not long before Robert was made to take Cersei as a wife. But no matter that Cersei had given him sons to further the Baratheon reign, you were always going to be his firstborn child. His trueborn child. Joffrey may be favoured for the throne, but you were favoured in your father’s heart.
Naturally, your father had designated only the best of the best to be your sworn shield and protector. And the cream of the crop was none other than the one they called the Hound — Sandor Clegane. He was a brute who preferred the company of dogs over the company of the highborn. But your father had appointed him to be your guard nonetheless, instructing the Hound to show no mercy to whoever laid a hand on his daughter.
You were skeptical of this Hound at first. You had made a conscious effort to befriend all your prior bodyguards, and those knights had all become close confidants of yours during their service. But the Hound was different. You were both intimidated and offended by his stubborn silence and brooding nature. All your attempts at communicating with the giant were met with a sullen frown or, on a good day, the occasional hmph and scoff of acknowledgement.
But you never gave up. Days turned into weeks and months of you chattering away at the Hound as he had no choice but to follow you around the Red Keep. You inquired about his favourite flowers (he didn't have one), his favourite birds (he thought they all tasted the same), his favourite songs (he only laughed dryly in response to this question), and eventually the Hound had grown somewhat comfortable in your presence.
It surprised him to acknowledge how easy it was to converse with you. How intentional you were with your words, and how attentive you were when he actually spoke. No one had ever paid him this much mind before. And while he never asked you any questions in return, you noticed how he had stopped leaving your queries unanswered.
And so your relationship with the Hound slowly grew into something that resembled a friendship. But there was more than met the eye. Something else had bloomed between the two of you... Something sinful and addictive... A secret the two of you would have to bring to your graves...
Today was Joffrey's nameday.
The little gremlin was eager to dance and drink the night away, listening to Lords and Ladies alike adulate him for how much he'd grown over the year — how much you resemble our dear King, Prince Joffrey! Hurrah!
The dining hall was packed with nobles and servants, their chatter bouncing off the walls and mixing into an incoherent buzz of voices. You sat quietly to the right of your father at the head of the room, pecking at your dinner.
"Are you bored, sweet daughter?"
You turned your head and chuckled as your father offered you a sympathetic smile. He knew you held no love for big feasts and parties unlike your half-brother.
"Nonsense, father. I of all people am delighted to see my brother Joffrey make it another year into his adolescence. What a fine gentlemen he is becoming." Your words were dripping in sarcasm, and this made your father laugh heartily.
Cersei must have heard your little quip as she shot you a contemptuous scowl.
"Perhaps the Princess would be more cheerful if she danced a little with some of the Lords here tonight," Cersei suggested. You couldn't help but roll your eyes a little. Of course she wanted you to go mingle amongst the bachelors of Westeros. She wanted nothing more than to marry you off to some nobleman.
"Thank you for your suggestion, Queen Cersei. But perhaps the Princess is most happy where she is," you replied, flashing your step-mother a courteous smile.
Cersei opened her mouth to respond, ever the sharp-tongued woman, but your father quickly raised his hand and waved her off.
"My daughter will dance with whoever she pleases. If none of the Lords here tonight do not earn her fancy, then she will not dance."
Cersei nodded amicably and turned back to Joffrey on her other side, her training as a Lady Lannister coming in useful as she swallowed her pride. You looked off into the distance and noticed the oil lamps had dimmed down a fair bit. Almost two hours had past since the beginning of the feast.
"Father, may I be excused? I'd like to retire for the night," you said sweetly, patting your father's forearm discreetly.
The King was too engrossed in watching the jester's performance to hear his daughter properly. "Of course, sweet daughter. Take care."
And when he looked back to check on you, you had already slipped out of the dining hall.
You hurried down the corridors of the Red Keep, light on your feet as you climbed up many flights of stairs. You stopped only when you reached the castle turret. It was walled in on all around in a perfect circle, save a small opening in the cobblestone where you could stick your head out and feel the cool night's breeze. You leaned your elbows on the ridge of the opening, sighing as you felt the chilly air brush against your cheeks and chest.
There was a rustle of steps behind you. You smiled to yourself.
“You’re usually more prompt than — Ser!” You jumped back a step when you turned and realised it was Ser Meryn that had followed you up the flight of stairs. "Forgive me, Ser Meryn, you startled me.”
Ser Meryn bowed modestly, but there was an unmistakeable smirk on his face. A smirk that only a woman would recognise as sinister. He reeked of ale and you immediately felt your stomach drop.
The knight approached you gingerly, like an awkward schoolboy trying to appear taller and bigger than he really was.
"Chilly night, isn't it, Princess?"
You gulped and nodded, fidgeting at the hem of your dress. You had never liked Ser Meryn. He was an abrasive and pompous ass who thought too much of himself than he deserved. Not to mention he was a bit of a pervert who always stood too close to you for comfort.
"What are you doing out here all alone, Princess?"
Your mind began to race thinking of an excuse to coax him back to the dining hall. You had no intention of being alone with the knight any longer.
"I just needed a breath of fresh air. The smell of cooked deer never sat well with me. Shall we head back now?"
The knight didn't seem to get the hint. Or if he did, he was blatantly ignoring it as he took a step further towards you.
“I hope it is not too bold of me to say, Princess, that you have grown to become a very fine young lady.”
You writhed in discomfort at his words, fighting with every ounce of will to flash him a dignified smile instead of punching him in the guts. “You are most kind Ser. Shall we return to the dining hall? I’m sure my father is wondering where such a valued member of his kingsgaurd has gone.”
Ser Meryn only chuckled dryly, as if amused by your urgency to go back to the ceremony. He took another step forward, his darkened sunspots and cracked lips illuminated by the moonlight. You instinctively stepped further away until your back was pressed firmly against the cobblestone walls.
“Why in such a rush to get back? Is it a crime for a knight to appreciate the beauty of the princess he has guarded for so long?”
“I am getting hungry again, Ser Meryn,” you asserted more firmly this time. “Let us go back.”
“The party can wait, Princess,” Ser Meryn said as he closed the distance between you two. “I think I have a better idea for us to pass time.”
You snapped and curled your fist into a ball. But before you could deliver a much-deserved blow to Ser Meryn’s face, there was a great thud of boots against the ground, and suddenly a firm hand grasped Ser Meryn’s shoulder from behind, spinning him around with such force that the knight let out an emasculating yelp.
The Hound barred his teeth and shoved a steel dagger against Ser Meryn’s jugular.
“One more word to the Princess and I will pierce this blade so deep into your skull it’ll take 10 men to rip it out,” Sandor growled, his grip on Ser Meryn’s tunic was so tight that he was almost lifted off the ground. Ser Meryn mumbled something incoherent, but the fear in his eyes was apparent.
“Now fuck off before I tell the king and he’ll have you beheaded in the town square.” Sandor released the coward who scrambled away like a dog with a tail between its legs.
You exhaled the tense breath you had been holding, finally relieved in the presence of a trusted face. The Hound turned to face you.
“What do you think you're doing? Running off like that?” Sandor barked, the lines of his brow creased with frustration. “Imagine what he would have done if I hadn’t shown up in time, huh? What then, Princess?”
You crossed your arms defiantly. “Well, I was waiting for you. Or might you have forgotten our little arrangement, Hound?"
Sandor was not amused. You could see the gears in his head turning as he tried to formulate a response, but to no avail. You sighed and rolled your eyes complacently.
"Oh well. I guess I'll just retire for the night then." You yawned, stepping to the side as you made your way to the stairwell exit.
But Sandor was quicker and he grabbed your forearm instantly, spinning you around.
"What a brat you are, Princess. I save you from a rapist and this is what I get? Not even a single word of thanks," he scowled. If you didn't know him so well, you would have thought that he was threatening you. But there was no anger in his eyes, only an unmistakable glimmer in his eyes that you've grown to recognise. A glimmer of desire.
Gently, you placed your free hand on his chest and looked up at him with an innocent smile. "What kind of thanks do you want?"
Sandor's chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm as he held onto your arm. A beat of silence passed between you two as neither of you dared to make a move. Many a time have the both of you shared this moment of stillness. The moment a decision had to be made; to walk away with one's honour, or to indulge in an unspeakable selfish sin. And the decision was the same every time.
Sandor released your arm and grabbed you by the waist. He pulled you to his body and crashed his lips into yours. He tasted like ale and sourleaf. His kisses were hungry. Needy. Devout.
Instinct kicked into both of your bodies as Sandor lifted you off the ground, pressing your back against the cobblestone wall. You wrapped your legs around his torso as your hands cupped his face, tracing the scars on his cheek that you knew so well.
"Sandor..." you whispered into his mouth. You could feel his hardness grow between your legs. Your body ached for him. "I need you."
For all the stubbornness and defiance that Sandor Clegane possessed, when his woman asked something of him, there would be no hesitation in his mind to give her whatever she willed. And you were his woman.
Sandor set you down on the ground and began unbuckling his breeches. His lips never left yours, and his tongue only grew hungrier for your taste. You were soaked just waiting for him.
"Turn around," he commanded. You obeyed immediately, turning to face the wall and pressing both palms against the stone. Sandor hiked up your long dress from behind, drooling at the sight of how perfect you looked.
"Come back a bit," he croaked, enormous hands gripping your hips as he pulled you further against the wall until you were fully stretched out. He pushed your feet apart a little more before lowering himself to the ground.
In the span of his life, the Hound had only ever knelt for two things. One was his king, purely out of duty. And the other was pussy, purely out of devotion.
You gasped as you felt Sandor's hot mouth against your heat. He ran his tongue across your slit, making you yelp as you dug your fingernails into the wall. He grabbed the back of your legs with ease, head tilted all the way back as he began to eat you.
"Gods Sandor..." You panted, already squirming as he flicked his tongue over your clit. He pressed his lips against your entrance and sucked hard, relishing in your juices as they dribbled down his chin. His burly arms kept your legs from buckling inwards as he coaxed more ungodly sounds out of you.
"Sandor! Please... Please I need more... Please," you begged, mouth agape as he grazed his teeth against your clit, sending shudders down your spine. You knew he was smirking as he rose from the floor.
"Tell me what you want, Princess." Sandor grabbed your ass and leaned over you, his massive body pressing down heavy on your back. "I'll give it to you, Princess. Whatever you want. Tell me."
You felt his cock press against the back of your thigh, precum leaking from the tip and dripping down your leg.
"I want you. Now."
That was all the reassurance the Hound needed. He guided his cock to your entrance, the tip swollen and hot as he rubbed it against your folds. You moaned and bucked your hips backwards uncontrollably. Sandor only laughed at how desperate you were for him.
With a low growl, Sandor pushed his cock into you and both of you gasped together. His thick cock stretched your walls so perfectly you could come then and there. As he began to move, one hand grabbing your hips, the other hand grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged it until your neck was craned upwards to the ceiling.
His grunts echoed throughout the turret as he thrust into you, each time with more passion than the last. This was his heaven. This was his prayer to the gods. Your core tightened as you felt every inch of him pulse through you.
"More... More Sandor, please..." You moaned, legs twitching as you closed your eyes in pure bliss. Sandor hummed and snaked his hand down from your hips to your cunt. His calloused fingers found your clit with ease and he pinched your sensitive bud teasingly. You cried out, tears brimming at your eyes as the sensation rippled through your body.
"Whatever you want, Princess... Whatever... Princess..." Sandor repeated in a quiet chant, lost in his own world of pleasure as he rubbed circles on your clit. Your walls squeezed around his cock so good and he felt every fibre of his muscles tense.
"I'm gonna come Sandor... Oh gods... Sandor!"
Sandor only growled lowly as he felt you pulse around his cock. He could read your body like no other. His thrusts became sloppy and his grip on your hair tightened, stinging your scalp in a way that brought only ecstasy to your brain.
"I'm coming Sandor... Oh!" Before you could scream, Sandor released your hair and clasped his gigantic hand across your mouth, muffling your desperate cry for pleasure.
Your entire body convulsed as you came, walls gripping around him and vision going blurry with tears. Sandor came with you, his thick, hot load shooting up into your womb. You bit down on his finger as you rode out your high, Sandor's hand still dancing delicately on your clit. You felt his cum drip down your thighs and spill onto the ground as he pulled out.
He turned you around and caught you as you collapsed into his arms. He steadied you with your back against the wall, his arms on either side of you, as you both caught your breaths. And in that moment, as the night breeze filled the air, with you in his arms, and his seed in your womb, Sandor thought to himself that if the gods struck him down there and then for lechery, he'd die a happy man.
SUMMARY: Clegane is tired of the constant torture and ridicule from Joffrey, so he lies, he says that he betrothed to a beautiful lady. Only problem is… he isn’t.
WARNINGS: Nonexplicit Smut
Romantic Trope Series
⸻
The Red Keep’s great hall shimmered under candlelight, but there was little warmth in the air.
Wine flowed like blood. The court was in good spirits, or so it seemed on the surface—laughter crackled like lightning across the tables, nobles and knights crowded together, picking at meats and gossip alike. The King, Joffrey Baratheon, sat perched on the Iron Throne as if born to it, his legs spread arrogantly, a goblet clutched lazily in one hand.
Sandor Clegane stood at the edge of the feast, not seated, not speaking. Always the outsider.
He didn’t drink.
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t belong.
The firelight played across his maimed face—one side scarred and melted, twisted and raw. His good eye glared through the shadows beneath his brow. He stood in his armor, as always. Guard, dog, monster. They never let him forget.
Nor would they tonight.
Lord Lannister’s cousin, some minor lordling fat on inherited power and richer wines, wiped grease from his chin and smirked across the room. “Tell me, does the Hound sit or sleep, or just lean against stone walls like a beast on watch?”
Chuckles followed. Another chimed in—one of the Reachmen. “He’s too big for the chairs. Wouldn’t want him breaking one and bringing the whole court down with him.”
“And the smell,” said Ser Hobber Redwyne, fanning his face dramatically. “Gods, no wonder his horse has a temper.”
A louder laugh broke free. Even a few of the small council members smiled behind raised goblets. Ser Meryn Trant chuckled, lips red with wine.
Sandor didn’t move. But his fingers twitched at his side.
“I think the Hound needs a wife,” Joffrey said suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter like a dagger coated in honey. “Every beast needs a handler, does he not?”
Cersei lifted an eyebrow, swirling her wine. “I doubt any lady in the realm is that desperate.”
Tyrion said nothing, eyes fixed on the table, jaw clenched.
Jaime sipped his wine slowly, expression unreadable.
Sansa looked up, startled, her pale eyes flitting from Sandor to the King.
Sandor Clegane stood still. But the hall could feel the simmer beneath his skin.
“I’ve made my decision,” Joffrey announced. “We’ll host a tourney. A grand one. The winner will receive the hand of the most fearsome creature in King’s Landing.” He grinned down at Sandor. “Assuming she’d have you.”
The laughter now was raw, unfiltered. The kind meant to wound.
The Hound’s voice came then, slow and dangerous: “Careful, boy.”
That silenced some.
But not Joffrey.
“Oh? Did the dog just growl?” He rose from his throne, steps echoing down the dais. “Do you bite now, Sandor? Or has someone finally trained you to heel?”
Sandor’s eye narrowed.
“I wonder,” Joffrey mused, circling now like a cat around a chained lion, “do you think yourself capable of love, Hound? Of being loved? Or are you simply too… grotesque for it?”
The word hung there. Grotesque.
No one defended him.
Not Jaime. Not Cersei. Not even Tyrion.
He was alone in it—as he always had been.
A few courtiers looked away in mild discomfort. But not enough. Not loud enough. Not brave enough.
Sandor’s mouth curled slightly—not into a smile, but a grimace that twisted his burned cheek further. His hands clenched, knuckles cracking.
Then, softly, “You think love is sweet, boy?” His voice was smoke and gravel, deep as a pit. “You’ve never known the taste of it.”
Joffrey tilted his head. “Oh? And you have?”
Sandor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He turned from the King with a grunt and started to walk away.
“Oh, don’t sulk,” Joffrey called after him, delighted. “I’ll throw you a feast! You may even bring your beloved, if you ever find one. Just make sure she’s housebroken.”
The final round of laughter swelled again, vicious and echoing.
And Sandor kept walking. Past the flickering torches. Past the gold-draped sycophants. Past the courtiers who only knew how to laugh when the King laughed.
His boots struck stone, hard and fast.
But something in his chest ached. Not with shame. Not with fear.
With rage.
He had endured worse. He would endure more.
But tonight, something inside him cracked.
And tomorrow, they’d all see what happened when a dog stopped playing tame.
The night stank.
Flea Bottom was crawling with its usual sickness—wine, sweat, spoiled meat, cheap perfume. Sandor Clegane shoved through it like a bear through smoke, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A drink. A warm body. Something to get through the night.
No. That was a lie.
He was looking for a woman. Any woman. Someone willing to pretend—for a fee, a favor, a kindness he’d never earned.
Someone to be seen on his arm come morning. Someone to laugh and smile at him as if she meant it, if only for a few hours. To fool that golden little cunt on the throne, and the whole court with him.
And not a single one would touch him.
He’d tried. Quietly. Bluntly. With gold in hand. One had recoiled the second she saw his face, like his scars were contagious. Another told him flat out, “I’d rather fuck a corpse. At least they don’t smell like burnt leather.”
That one he nearly backhanded—but he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to. Because her laugh reminded him of the court’s.
He stormed out of the brothel, steam rising from his breath. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her until he slammed right into her.
A soft body. Perfumed. Warm.
She gasped and stumbled back half a step, steadying herself with elegant poise, not so much as a wrinkle in her silks. “Gods—my apologies.”
Her voice. Clear, soft, not like the others. A voice made for poems. She looked up at him, eyes wide, not with fear—but surprise. Curiosity.
He blinked. He opened his mouth, and—
“Marry me.”
The words tumbled out like they’d tripped over his teeth.
Her brows shot up. A breath of a laugh escaped her. “What?”
He was already regretting it. Already burning beneath his armor. But fuck it. “You heard me.”
She laughed again, this time fuller, richer. “Is this your usual approach, Ser? Should I feel flattered or alarmed?”
Sandor scratched the back of his neck, his massive hand nearly swallowing it whole. “I’m not good at this.”
“Proposing?”
“Talking.”
She studied him, amusement curling at her lips. “You’re serious.”
“I just—” He sighed. “I need someone. For a few days. A week. I don’t know. To stand next to me at court and pretend they don’t want to vomit when I breathe.”
Her smile faded slightly—not gone, just softer now. She tilted her head. “You barely know me.”
“I’m not asking for your maidenhood,” he growled. “Just your time. Maybe a laugh if you’ve got one to spare.”
“And if I say no?”
He looked away. “Then I’ll go back to begging whores who spit at me.”
A silence stretched between them.
Then, her voice—gentle again. “Look at me.”
He did.
Her eyes met his without flinching. “Fine.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You may have my hand.”
Sandor stared, blinking once, twice, like he’d misheard.
She extended it—palm up, elegant and self-assured. “But only if you give me your name first, Ser.”
He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Clegane. Sandor. Ser Sandor Clegane.”
Her brows lifted, amused. “The Hound?”
He waited for the sneer. For the wrinkle of the nose. It didn’t come.
Instead, she bowed slightly, graceful and proud. “Lady Velaryon. House Velaryon.”
He blinked again. “A lady.”
“You don’t say,” she teased, looking down at her silks. “Was it the embroidery that gave it away?”
He coughed. Might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. “Meet me at the Red Keep tomorrow. You’ll know when.”
She tilted her head, watching him carefully. Then: “I look forward to it, Ser Clegane.”
She walked away into the darkness, the hem of her cloak whispering against stone.
And Sandor Clegane stood there, swaying just slightly, feeling like he’d just been hit in the gut and kissed on the cheek at the same time.
“Seven hells,” he muttered, touching his face like something might’ve changed.
Then he laughed. A dry, rough sound.
He’d either just met the cleverest woman in Westeros… or the cruelest.
But she said yes.
And that was enough—for now.
It had been thirty agonizing minutes.
The throne room was a furnace of tension and gilded cruelty. Sunlight spilled through the high stained-glass windows in soft shafts of color, but no warmth touched Sandor Clegane. He stood stiff as stone in the shadow of a pillar, half-shrouded in the folds of his dark cloak, arms crossed over his broad chest.
He had never felt smaller.
The Red Keep’s courtiers were already whispering, like insects buzzing too close. Their silks rustled, their jeweled fingers fluttered as they leaned in with rehearsed sympathy and barely veiled amusement.
“I suppose she drowned on the way here,” one lord quipped dryly.
“Or perhaps she changed her mind. I know I would have,” a lady replied with a titter, her bracelets clinking like bells.
Cersei sipped from her goblet and tilted her head toward the King, voice lazy and amused. “You must admit, Joffrey… if someone were to make up a lady-love, claiming she’s from a powerful house would be the way to do it.”
“She’s not coming,” Joffrey declared, loudly enough for all to hear. He lounged in the Iron Throne like a bored vulture, golden hair gleaming, fingers curled in irritation. “No woman in her right mind would willingly claim the Hound. Let alone kiss him.”
A low murmur rippled through the throne room. No one dared laugh—yet—but the tension begged for it.
Sansa looked stricken. “Please, Your Grace—”
“Please?” Joffrey mocked. “Please, your Grace, don’t be cruel? Shall I give him a doll to cuddle in her absence, little dove?”
Her face flushed red, but she said nothing else.
Tyrion, ever perched like a cat at the edge of danger, gave a sigh and stood from his seat. “Perhaps the lady is simply delayed, Your Grace. Seas do not always obey your schedule.”
“Delayed,” Joffrey scoffed. “Or invented. I say we give the dog a bone and send him back to his kennel.”
Tyrion’s brow twitched. He glanced toward Sandor.
The Hound didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the weight behind his silence could flatten a castle wall.
He should have known better. Of course she wasn’t coming. Maybe it was a joke, or worse, a pity game. What had he expected? That a woman like her—a lady of elegance, sharpness, born of salt and silver—would really stand at his side before all of King’s Landing?
Then—
The great doors creaked open.
Every head turned.
Two knights pulled the towering iron doors aside, and warm sunlight spilled across the marble floor. A hush fell so quickly it was as though the entire room had been dunked underwater.
A herald’s voice rang out:
“Announcing—Lady Velaryon. Of House Velaryon.”
There was a pause. Audible surprise.
The name echoed, rippling through the nobles like a stone dropped in still water.
Cersei turned slightly, golden brows raised.
“Velaryon?” Joffrey repeated, frowning. “They said she was of House Velaryon?”
No one answered. No one could.
Because she stepped into the light like it belonged to her.
Her gown was sea-green and threaded in silver, the colors of the Driftmark coast. The silk clung to her body with practiced elegance, bell sleeves trailing behind her like mist over waves. She wore no crown, no heavy jewels. Just the ripple of wealth in her stitching and the way she carried herself—head high, shoulders regal, her walk deliberate and unhurried.
And her hair… it wasn’t braided in the old style. It fell loose, free down her back, with only a single pearl-pinned wave tucked behind one ear. A quiet rebellion.
The court murmured as she passed. No one seemed to know who she was.
But she commanded their silence all the same.
At the foot of the Iron Throne, she bowed deeply.
“Your Grace,” she said with a soft, velvet voice, eyes raised to Joffrey. She dipped her head again to Cersei, then offered Tyrion a gentle nod. The Queen Mother blinked. Sansa stared.
No one spoke.
Then she turned toward the shadows.
Toward him.
Sandor stiffened, suddenly aware of how large and dark and ugly he must seem compared to her elegance. He expected hesitation. Disgust. The reveal of the prank.
Instead, she smiled.
Soft, amused. Real.
She walked to him with grace that curled around every movement, her bell sleeves sweeping behind her, the scent of salt and sandalwood in her wake. The sound of her heels against stone echoed like a heartbeat.
When she reached him, she looked up.
And before he could say anything—before the doubt in him could open its mouth—she said brightly, “My dear, you look like a brute.”
The court gasped.
She reached up with calm hands and cupped his face, one palm resting against the burned side of his cheek like it was made of porcelain, not scarred ruin.
“Smile,” she added, her voice dropping. “Why don’t you?”
He blinked, stunned. Her hand was warm. Gentle. Real.
And for the first time since entering that gods-damned room, a low sound escaped his chest.
A laugh.
Rough and brief—but real.
He turned away, lips twitching against a grin, cheeks flushing beneath the scar. “You’re late,” he muttered.
“I know.” She smiled. “But I came.”
The King stood, face souring. “Kiss him,” Joffrey commanded. “Kiss your mutt. If this so real!”
Cersei said nothing. Tyrion narrowed his eyes.
“You don’t have to,” Sandor mumbled, pulling back slightly.
But she leaned in with a grin, loud and warm and confident.
“Well,” she said to him, voice lifted to the court, “kiss me, mutt.”
He froze.
Gasps again. Whispers.
Then she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his—rough, sudden, heated. His lips parted, and it was awkward, but she didn’t shy away. Her hands braced against his chest like she meant to stay. When they broke apart, her thumb brushed over his chin.
“You don’t have to be so rough,” she whispered, eyes twinkling. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The court was in chaos now—half-shocked, half-horrified.
“This is a joke!” Joffrey barked. “I demand proof—bedding ceremony, this very night!”
The room went dead still.
Cersei looked mildly intrigued.
Tyrion groaned under his breath.
But she turned back to the throne, smiling sweetly. “If that’s what you desire, Your Grace,” she said without blinking. “It would be no hardship. Making love to my husband isn’t a problem.”
“We will wed tomorrow,” she said, smiling now. “If Your Grace would be so gracious as to host.”
The court didn’t know whether to bow or faint.
But Sandor?
He just stared at her, a thousand questions screaming in his chest.
And all of them quieted when she reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his.
The chambers were smaller than hers at home.
That was the first thing she thought when the door closed behind her with a soft thud. No open arches to the sea. No breeze to sweep through silk curtains. The walls here were heavy with tapestries, stone cold beneath her bare feet. A single window let in slanted light from the courtyard torches below. The fire was already lit in the hearth, but it did little to warm the quiet.
She walked slowly across the room, her bell sleeves dragging behind her, her sea-silver gown whispering secrets to the stones.
At home on Driftmark, her chambers were open and wide. Her bed had no curtains. The ocean could be heard in every breath. She missed it. The salt. The freedom. The space.
The door creaked open.
She didn’t turn, only smiled faintly at the window as the familiar heavy steps moved inside.
Sandor.
His presence always came before the sound — a weight in the air, a pull behind the ribs. He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. He never did things gently.
“You’re alone,” he said gruffly, like it offended him.
“I prefer it,” she replied.
There was a beat of silence behind her. She could hear his breath — short, sharp. Pacing. Boots scraping faintly against the stone.
“You’re a stupid girl.”
She turned now.
He was tense, jaw set, the torchlight throwing gold across his burn-scarred face. His hands were clenched at his sides. His voice shook with something like anger, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—they searched her like he needed an answer that could unmake him.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Why would you—this is just supposed to convince them.”
She stepped toward him.
Elegant. Calm.
“Relax, I said yes remember.” she said, as if reminding him.
He blinked, like he still couldn’t believe it.
“You’re playing some game ,” he said. “I’ve seen better men ruined by court women and their pretty lies.”
“Do I lie?” she asked gently, stopping in front of him. “You asked me to marry you. Now I am accused of playing games.”
He didn’t answer.
She tilted her head, one brow raised. Then, in a whisper, like she was teasing the sea, she added, “Kiss this stupid girl goodnight.”
His lips parted.
His eyes narrowed, searching her face. She wasn’t mocking him. Not playing. Just standing there, daring him, velvet and salt and moonlight.
When he didn’t move, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
Not softly.
She yanked him to her.
And he broke.
Sandor kissed her like he had waited his whole life for someone to choose him. It was not gentle. It was fire licking through storm, rough hands grasping her waist, mouth crushing hers, his breath hot and uneven. She gasped against him, and he took it, deepened it, hands sliding into her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.
But she didn’t.
She held him right back. Firm. Certain. Her fingers gripped his tunic, her lips moved with his, slow and hungry and sure.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead fell to hers.
They stood there, breathless.
He hadn’t meant to lose control. But she didn’t seem to mind.
She smiled softly, still catching her breath. Her hands slid down his chest until they rested just over his heart.
“Good night, my dear,” she whispered, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sleep well. For me.”
She turned and walked toward the bed, slowly beginning to unlace her sleeves, unhurried.
And Sandor Clegane, who had known fire, war, blood, and scorn—stood in the glow of the firelight, utterly wrecked by the way she had said my dear.
He didn’t say good night.
But he watched the whole time.
And he didn’t leave until the fire burned low.
The bell only rang once.
Not the high, rolling peal of a royal wedding, nor the trumpets and fanfare of noble procession. Just one solitary ring from the Sept tower—a sound more solemn than celebratory. It echoed over the courtyard like a final breath held in reverence, and drifted away like mist over Blackwater Bay.
Sandor stood alone near the altar, stone still, arms rigid at his sides.
The red of the Sept bled around him—candlelight flickering off tall marble columns, golden pools dancing on the polished floor. Above, the Stranger loomed down from painted glass, its expression unreadable. If Sandor noticed it at all, he gave no sign.
His leathers were brushed. His beard had been trimmed—poorly. A new surcoat had been thrown over his shoulders, black with the faintest sigil of House Lannister sewn into the hem, as was custom now, though he wore it like a man wrapped in old wounds. Sweat clung beneath the cloth. His hand opened and closed once, fingers flexing like he might rather have a sword than a wedding band.
He expected jeers. Or silence. Or worse—Joffrey’s laughter.
What he did not expect was honor.
The first to enter were the Velaryons. The banners of sea-green and silver unfurled behind them like ocean mist rolling in. They did not slink like defeated guests, nor storm like insulted nobles. They walked with the slow, regal confidence of people who belonged anywhere they stepped, salt-touched and sun-warmed, like they had brought the very sea with them.
At their head walked her father.
Tall, proud, and carved from the bones of ships. His cloak was pinned at the left shoulder, fastened over a neatly wrapped stump where his arm had once been. The stories had spread in whispers: a kraken, they said, rising from the depths during a storm when his daughter was just a girl. He had shielded her with his own body. His arm had not survived—but she had. And that, he always said, was the trade he’d make again.
When he reached Sandor, there was no scorn in his eyes. No fear. Just a long, steady look, as if weighing not the man’s title, nor face, but his spine.
Then the old sailor placed his hand firmly on Sandor’s shoulder.
“She laughs like her mother,” he said in a low, rough voice. “And she’s got my fire. Keep her laughing, and she’ll forget to set the world alight.”
Sandor couldn’t speak. Only nodded once, mouth slightly parted, startled by the warmth in the gesture.
A beat later, her ladies-in-waiting filtered in, all of them cloaked in the sea tones of her house—dusted jade, pale green, glistening silvers like salt crusting over pearls. One of them, younger than the rest, blushed furiously when Sandor glanced her way and whispered behind her palm, “He’s not as beastly as they say.”
And then she arrived.
The entire Sept seemed to still.
She didn’t just enter. She filled the room. Like light. Like tide. Like something ancient and elegant walking barefoot from the sea.
Her gown was soft seafoam green with long bell sleeves that whispered when she moved. The silk clung to her body as if the dress had been sewn straight to her skin. Her hair was not braided as tradition demanded. It fell freely in soft waves, the only decoration a pair of silver combs at her temples that caught the candlelight as she passed. Every inch of her was noble, but she carried herself like someone who had never once doubted her place in the world.
She did not stop at Joffrey.
She did not bow.
Her smile did not falter as she walked straight to Sandor.
He couldn’t breathe.
She was real. She hadn’t fled. She wasn’t some joke the gods were playing. She walked to him with a smile like moonlight over calm waters and placed a kiss—a real kiss—on the burned side of his cheek.
“Steady,” she whispered against his skin, her breath warm. “You’re not dreaming.”
He felt the words in his bones.
The ceremony moved on without pause. The septon droned about sacred unions and the joining of souls, while courtiers whispered behind hands, the Queen sneered from her seat, and Joffrey sat cross-legged, eyes rolling at every mention of duty. He sighed loudly, exaggerated and boyish.
“Let’s move it along, old man,” Joffrey muttered. “Before the dog chews his own leash.”
But the septon continued. And when it came time to speak, she did not hesitate.
“I do,” she said clearly.
Sandor’s voice was hoarse when it followed. “Aye.”
Then, soft-footed and without fanfare, the maester stepped forward.
It was the law, after all. The King had requested confirmation of her purity. And she, raised by the salt and waves, did not flinch at customs steeped in rot. Her maid followed her from the Sept with quiet dignity. And when she returned, her head held high, her cheeks a little warmer, she looked not like a woman humiliated—but like a queen who had simply walked through fire untouched.
“Untouched,” the maester said aloud to the gathered court.
Joffrey raised a brow, unimpressed. “Well then,” he said with a sneer, “go and make it true.”
They left to jeers. Laughter. Betting whispers from the back of the hall.
But none of it mattered once the doors closed behind them.
The room was heavy with candlelight, thick with the scent of fresh linens and rosewater, though neither masked the storm rising in Sandor’s chest. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the last whispers of the court like a stone dropped into deep water. At last, they were alone.
He didn’t look at her
Not at first.
His boots thudded against the floor as he paced once, twice. Then, with a growl barely audible, he began unbuckling the leather strap across his shoulder, the motion sharp and practiced. He didn’t savor it. He wasn’t unwrapping a gift — he was bracing for the blow. The pity. The disgust.
He didn’t want her to see.
When he finally turned, she had already shed her veil, fingers toying gently with the combs in her hair, letting them fall one by one onto the low table. Sea-colored silk clung to her body like a second skin, the long bell sleeves dragging as she stepped out of her slippers and walked toward him without hesitation.
He avoided her gaze, hands moving too quickly now — to the belt at his waist, the buckle of his trousers. Get it done, he told himself. Get it done before she changed her mind.
“Stop.” Her voice was stern.
Sharp as the edge of a broken shell.
He froze, his fingers stiff above the leather. Slowly, his eyes flicked to hers — searching for mockery. For hesitation. For that look they all wore eventually: one glance at his face and the soft recoil, the twitch of revulsion, even when they tried to hide it.
But it wasn’t there.
Only stillness. Power. Patience.
And when she took a step forward, he took one back, his lips parted like he’d just taken a blow to the stomach. “I knew it,” he muttered hoarsely, the words slipping out of him before he could stop them. “Thought maybe you—maybe you looked at me like I wasn’t—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
She chuckled.Softly. Slowly. Like it had bloomed in her throat and poured through the room like warm wine.
“My Hound,” she said, her voice no longer sharp, but velvet-wrapped and thick with promise. She stepped closer again, her bare feet silent against the stone. “Please. Be gentle. Be slow.” Her hands slid up his arms, her palms steadying him. “I want to feel every bit of you.”
Something in him unraveled then.
Something tight and wound and aching that had never loosened, not once in all his years.
She kissed him slowly, her lips brushing his like she’d waited her whole life to know his mouth. His first instinct was to take it — to devour — to grab her hips and shove her down, take her from behind like he was used to, like it was easier not to see. His fingers dug into her waist before she pulled back, whispering a quiet “No.”
She climbed into his lap, straddling him with gentle precision. Her thighs spread over his, her skirts pooling at their hips. She cupped his scarred face between her hands and guided his mouth back to hers. The kiss deepened — not rough, not wild, but aching and tender and full of every unsaid thing that had built since the moment they met.
He tried to speak, but it came out coarse, needy, unfiltered. “Fuck… you feel so warm.”
Her smile curled into his mouth.
“Tell me,” she whispered against his lips, “tell me what you want.”
“To give you my seed,” he rasped, breath ragged, “a son, if you allow me.”
“Yes,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him with sinful grace. “Yes, my love. Give me your heir.”
He groaned, head dropping into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses into her skin as she guided him in, inch by slow inch. Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she cupped the back of his neck, holding him there, whispering praise as his hands trembled on her hips.
“You’re inside me,” she murmured, voice thick and heavy, “so deep, gods, I feel you in my bones. That’s it. My good, strong husband…”
And he lost himself.
He moved with desire now, each thrust slow, drawn out, his forehead pressed to hers as she rode him to completion. When she felt him start to shake, she kissed him harder.
“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words rasping up from some deep, unused place inside him.
She pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you too.”
He held her until the candle guttered out, until sleep dragged him down with her body curled against his chest and his arms locked tightly around her waist, like he feared she might vanish come morning.
The next day, the air inside the Red Keep hung thick with anticipation. Court was assembled early, robes gathered, wine poured, mouths whispering.
Joffrey lounged lazily in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm, smirking. “Well? Was the dog house-trained?”
A lone voice cleared his throat. One of Sandor’s sworn men — red-faced, eyes darting to the floor. He bowed low.
“It was… consummated, Your Grace.”
Joffrey scoffed. “He probably mounted her like a stray. Gods, I pity the girl—”
“She was on top,” the guard mumbled quickly.
The room went still.
He swallowed thickly. “She said—uh… she said, ‘My Hound, please… be gentle and slow. I want to feel every bit of you.’”
Silence.
Then a loud, cracking laugh from Tyrion, who nearly choked on his wine.
Sansa turned sharply, her cheeks burning, though the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.
Even Cersei narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight, as if trying to decide whether the embarrassment or the scandal was greater.
Joffrey slammed his palm down against the arm of the throne, face twisted in rage. “Summon her!” he shouted. “I want her brought to me. Now.
The Red Keep’s throne room was cold in the morning light. Not cold in temperature—though the stone still held the chill from the night—but in presence. It was the way the light filtered down like judgment, the way the Iron Throne sat jagged and too high, the way silence clung to the walls like it was listening.
The doors creaked open.
She walked in alone.
No guards. No fear. Just the sound of soft silk brushing the floor, her sea-green skirts gliding like mist over stone, bell sleeves floating at her wrists. Her hands were clasped before her, posture straight, unshaken. Her silver hairpins caught the light as she bowed her head, not too low, not too long—just enough to be respectful, not submissive.
Joffrey looked at her like one might a puzzle that refused to be solved.
She was far too calm.
Far too lovely.
Far too untouched by the cruelty he had come to expect from the world he bent beneath him.
“You,” he said, voice sharp and uncertain. “You can’t possibly mean it.”
Her head tilted slightly, smile warm, unbothered. “Mean what, Your Grace?”
“That you’d lie with him. With a dog.” His voice rose. “You expect me to believe a lady of your name and standing would lower herself to that?”
She offered him a gentle shrug, silk whispering as she moved. “Do you take me for some fool?”
He snapped upright in his throne, jaw clenched. “Yes! I—”
“I take you for a king,” she said, cutting in with soft authority. “Whether you are a fool or not… is up to you.”
The throne room froze.
Even the guards glanced at each other, uncertain if they should breathe.
Sandor had been standing stiff and silent beside the dais—let out a short, amused breath. A low rasp of a laugh he didn’t bother to hide.
Joffrey’s face twisted. He rose, nearly knocking his goblet from the arm of the throne. “You—”
But she didn’t flinch.
Instead, she turned to Sandor, her voice kind but sure, as if they were alone.
“I would like to take him home with me. To Driftmark. My home.” She turned back to Joffrey. “I will leave twenty guards behind. And gold, if that is your price.”
Joffrey scoffed, lips curling. “I don’t need your coin for that pity of a man.”
The words hung, suspended.
“So be it,” she replied. Calm. Clean. Final.
And they turned to leave.
Her chambers were already being packed when they returned.
Her maids worked in silence, folding fabrics, fastening trunks. The air was warmer here, filtered through gauzy curtains that fluttered against the stone window frames. She moved through it easily, barefoot, shedding the tension of the court like a cloak left behind.
The door to her chamber clicked gently shut behind them. A servant had lingered to bow, then gone without a word. Outside, the keep still moved like a stirred anthill — talk of the Velaryon bride, the dog-husband, the Driftmark exit. But in this room, time had slowed.
The warmth hit Sandor first — the difference. The air inside wasn’t the cold stone of the barracks or the reeking stalls of the city. No, this smelled of orange blossom and salt, of soft powder and faint perfume. The sea lingered on her belongings, like her homeland refused to let her go.
His boots sank into a thick woven rug, seafoam green, surely imported, and he felt out of place already. He lingered at the threshold like a soldier returning to a battlefield, stiff and unsure. Her back was to him, delicate fingers unfastening a silver clasp at her collar.
“My rooms at home are bigger,” she said softly, not looking back. “Higher ceilings. Open air. You can hear the gulls and smell the tide. And my windows… you could lean right out over the cliffs and let the wind wrap you like a shawl.”
Her voice was wistful. Not bragging. Just remembering. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the silk of her gown. Sea-green, again — the color suited her. Or perhaps she suited it. She belonged to it.
She wasn’t made for stone walls and whispers.
She turned slowly.
The dress had loosened at the collar. Her hair had fallen a little, tendrils slipping over her collarbone. Her eyes searched his face—those bruised, stormy eyes, too clever for their own good.
“You’re quiet,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “Did Joffrey’s venom sink that deep?”
“No.” The word was low. Hard. “It ain’t him.”
Her brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly.
Sandor’s hands moved toward his pocket without thinking. His fingers fumbled against the worn leather pouch at his belt, callused fingertips scraping the seam. It felt heavier than usual. Wrong in his hands. Like it wasn’t meant for this.
Still, he pulled it open. The sound was loud in the silence — the coins inside shifting like bone dice.
Her eyes dropped to it.
“I should… pay you.” The words scratched at his throat like gravel. His eyes burned. He didn’t look at her. “For pretending. For being kind. For making me feel like—like…”
His voice cracked, the rest lost to the air.
“I thought I could walk away,” he muttered, jaw tightening, “but… fuck, I don’t want to.” She watched him. His face was turned half away, his mouth a grim slash of regret. But his hands were trembling, white-knuckled around the coin pouch.
Her chest ached.
She crossed the space between them in silence. Each footstep was soft — not because she was afraid, but because she was deliberate. She moved like water: graceful, slow, unable to be stopped.
Her hand touched his, gently, just enough to still his fingers.
“Sandor,” she whispered.
He glanced down at her, face unreadable — except for his eyes. His eyes were wide, helpless.
She took the pouch from him and set it on the low table beside them without breaking his gaze.
“You can still be sworn to my father,” she said softly. “Still serve my family, if that’s what you want. No shame in that.”
He exhaled hard through his nose. His shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for the goodbye.
“But you’re still my husband,” she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You still hold that title. And if you want it, my lord—” she reached up, cupping his scarred cheek with one warm, steady hand “—you may keep it.”
His breath caught. His hand twitched at his side. “Don’t mock me,” he muttered hoarsely
She stepped closer. Pressed her body against his.
“Your brute charm…” she smiled, voice like silk against his throat, “…has worked on me.”
He made a broken sound—half breath, half laugh—and then she felt his arms come around her, not forcefully, not desperate, but like the closing of a door against the cold. His head lowered into her shoulder, resting there a moment as if he didn’t quite believe she was real.
Her hand moved through his thick, dark hair. “You’re mine,” she whispered.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.
imagine Sandor and his lady standing at court of King's Landing together, attending some formal event and him whispering all sorts of obsceneties to her ear. to anyone it'd just look like he's taking a protective stance, shielding, or simply occupying space but in reality... cw: utter filth
You stand near one of the massive marble columns, your posture a perfect example of a highborn lady—serene, untouchable, beautiful, and sweet. The Hound is a shadow behind your back, as he always is in public, the word spreading that the Lannisters have their attack dog guarding the pretty ones now.
The court drones on as some minor lord petitions the throne, and Joffrey waves his hand dismissively. You, of course, keep your eyes wide and forward, your face a mask of polite interest, tilting your head occasionally to imitate brain function. Then, just as you're about to doze off, you feel it—a gush of hot air licking the shell of your ear, the subtle shift of his weight as Sandor leans in. It's barely noticeable; he takes a small step, maybe half a step, but it's enough for you to feel his massive frame against your back.
"See that lord with the piggy eyes and the red doublet?" His voice is a gravel rasp against the tiny hairs on your nape.
"... What about him?" Your pulse quickens. What's he up to now, of all times?
"He's been looking at your tits for the past half-hour. The way he's sweating, he's probably thinking about putting his fat mouth on them."
The heat treacherously spreads all the way to your ears, hairline, and chest, and you pray for people to think it's the midday sun getting to you. Maybe if you faint, you'll be spared...
Your breath hitches audibly and your cheeks ignite. Another noble lady standing next to you gives you a questioning look while flapping her fan, and you shake your head with a tight smile. She turns away.
"He has no idea soft they are, does he? How they fit in one hand. How you gasp and moan when I suck on them instead."
Then again, lower, more insistent, "Aye, that's it. That pretty pink I love... Just like you go when I put my mouth on your sweet cunt."
You clench your jaw, willing the tremor that goes through you away, but it's no use. You're shivering, and he notices. He always does, like a dog that smells blood. You hear a silent groan of approval behind the droning buzz of the lordlings.
"Ah, yes, I'm sure that's very interesting, but the lord here is talking about—"
His gloved knuckle brushes over the small of your back and lower until it reaches the expanse of your rear under layers and layers of clothing. So fleeting that no one else can see, but it nearly makes you jump out of your lace slippers, his touch searing through your very bones.
You stomp on his foot. He doesn't even blink.
"What would they say if they knew? All those fine lords and ladies, if they knew how you scream up to the gods when I split your cunt open on my cock? Looking all prim and proper while my cum's still warm, trickling down your legs."
You notice Sansa Stark staring at you from across the hall, an unsure grin on her pale face. Her blue eyes shift elsewhere once they land on the Hound. You suck in a breath. Who else is looking?
"Sandor—" you let out a shaky breath, your voice a fine tremor now. Digging your manicured fingernails into the skin of your wet palms, you pray—you don't know for what.
"Shut up," he whispers into your ear, and his scarred lips nearly brush the side of your face as he shifts closer. "Last night you begged me not to stop, the little proper lady you are, bent over that oak table of yours. Bet you can still feel me inside. Bet you're wet just from that."
His words are filth, crude and obscene, and they send a bolt of pure, aching want straight to your core. You worry your lower lip between your teeth now as you feel his massive hand creep up your arse, right under the folds of your gown. He squeezes the sensitive flesh and tugs at the globe just like he does when he has you on hands and knees underneath him. Images of his calloused hands and mouth on you—grabbing your breasts, your belly, biting your bare thighs, licking your—they have your legs wobbling. Sandor grips your elbow as he continues.
"When this farce is done, you'll wait for me, door unlatched." He pauses, letting the instruction sink in. "Gonna fuck you every way I can think of. Hard and deep, the way you like it. On your feather bed. Against the window. On that soft fucking rug in front of the fire, from behind. Until you're crying on those furs and dripping with my—"
"My lady, are you unwell? You look flushed."
The voice is like a bucket of ice water over your head. Sandor's hand jerks back to his side, yanking your rumpled skirt over your behind. A young knight is looking at you with polite concern. You open your mouth, but only a dry whine comes out, so you nod vigorously like a fool. He mumbles an apology and retreats into the crowd.
"Fucking knights, always sniffing around."
When the king finally rises and the court begins to disperse, you simply walk away. You don't look back; your knees are shaking, madly so, your eyes don't leave your own feet on the stone floor. Sandor tracks the shape of your hips as you turn around the corner in the direction of the private chambers.
Summary: You've always been a little soft. Almost too sweet for a place as dirty as Kings Landing. Turns out your softness has rubbed off on the great and fearsome Hound of House Clegane. (wc. 2.7k)
Warnings: Possibly OOC Sandor (he's soooo soft for reader it isn't funny). Reader is fem-body coded, she/her pronouns, called 'woman'/'lady'.
Listening to: 'Mary On A Cross' by Ghost - "And the truth of the matter is I never let you go, let you go... Your beauty never ever scared me, Mary on a, Mary on a cross."
Love Confessions || Masterlist || AO3 link
You knew how foolish it was to dream. Living in Kings Landing could strip even the sweetest of birdsongs away, you knew that all too well.
But you were a fool.
Though your days of work were hard, and nights of rest too short, you still dreamt that somehow, some way, something wonderful could happen to you. You still saw the darkest, the worst things the world had to offer, but you hoped that it wasn’t all that bad.
Days like this, they weren’t so bad, so long as you got home before the men took their drink away from the tables. For now though, with the daylight still new, banners flapping in the warm breeze, fresh wine flowing, and the chatter before the events began, life was good.
You remember the first tournament you went to, in the first months after your arrival. It could be called being naive or foolish or self-centered, but you tricked yourself into thinking you’d be asked for a favour. You never had been asked before, but you reasoned that a bigger tournament meant more knights and lords, which meant you might finally be asked.
However it meant more ladies too, much more highborn ladies. Baratheon’s, Tarley’s, Frey’s, Lannister’s, Hightower’s, and many more. You blended into the crowd and weren’t even looked at twice. You went to your room that night and cried into your pillow until your tears ran dry. Same at the tournament after that too. And the one after.
Curse your soft foolish dreamer heart.
You were prepared for it now, with all the tournament’s the king likes to put on you had plenty of time to learn to deal with it. Still, an ember of hope lingered.
Sandor Clegane had never met anyone as annoying, as gullible, irritating, soft, doe-eyed, or heart-achingly sweet as you. It drove him mad. You drove him mad. You thought of him as a friend, weaseled your way into his semi-good-graces and left lavender and rosemary in your wake.
Worst of all - how much he liked it.
He was big and scary. Scarred, ugly, people saw him coming and went the other way. He was The Hound, the Lannister’s dog, the cruel Prince Joffrey’s shadow. No one liked him, no one wanted to be his friend. But you always greeted him with a smile.
Which is how you became the only person Sandor had a genuine soft spot for. Which he was now hating. He thought perhaps he loathed you just as much as he yearned for you.
Right now he was fixing up his gauntlets with a clenched jaw. Stuck in disbelief that he was coerced into parading around today of all days. You didn’t know he was going to be joining in the tournament and competing, but it was still your fault.
Barely a few days ago you’d mentioned how you’d never been able to give a favour to a competing ser or lord. The tug in his chest at the way your voice sounded - a resigned disappointment in one of the most lighthearted tones he’d heard in his whole life - told him immediately that he was going to be competing at this tournament just for that sole purpose.
Besides, it turned out that getting time away from the cruel boy-prince's side was easy when the temptation of blood being split was on the table.
And so he, the idiot, was going to go out and prance around like a court fool for the entertainment of all the lords and ladies of Kings Landing - all just to make you happy.
Sandor turned out of the tent and cursed your soft foolish dreamer heart, and he cursed how much he liked it.
You never got to sit close to the king and queen, even though you were one of the ladies who kept Queen Cersei company most days, you were still too lowborn for such a thing as the best seats. You got to stand, instead, closer to the far end, near the back, if not at the back like you were today.
That aside, usually you could see Sandor from your seat nonetheless.
It was easy to seek him out in a crowd, he stood a head above most men, and even easier as of late, since he was more often looking at you already than not. But today he was missing from your sight.
You were halfway to bringing your almost empty cup to your lips when you felt a sharp tug at the back of your dress. The look on your face could've killed as you turned to the culprit, but it softened when you saw who it was.
It was him.
He looked a little bit different though. Odd almost, compared to how he usually presented himself. The thing that stood out the most to you was how his armour looked more polished, his cape traded in for a clean yellow one, and he had that dog-fashioned helmet tucked under one arm.
“Sandor, what are you doing with your helm?” you asked.
He shifted back slightly now he had your attention, and for a moment he looked something akin to fed up. Based on his personality, you knew you probably weren’t his favourite person, but you figured being kind never hurt anyone.
Not much anyway.
“I’m competing,” he said simply. Little did he know, that explained nothing to you.
“What?” you said, stepping closer to him so you both moved away from the prying ears of the crowd. They weren’t paying much attention to you anyway, since a horn blew announcing the first jousters. “You’ve always said you’d never be caught dead in a tournament."
He sighed.
“Are you feeling okay?” you asked, laying a hand on his lower arm, “You aren’t in trouble are you? Oh no, this is some bet, right? How much coin will you get?”
He sighed again, this time gently prying your hand off his armour, and your questions slowed to a halt.
“No, woman. None of that nonsense. Just give me your favour and get it over and done with.” he said.
“My - my favour?” you gawked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, you were complaining about it a few days ago.” he said, “Just give me your pretty little token so I can win and give it back.”
“You’d win? With my favour?” you asked, head tilting.
“Yes.”
“You hate tournaments.”
“Yes.” He repeated, then after a few beats of silence, “What’s your point?”
“Why?”
“‘Why?’ I don’t need to tell you why. Besides, all the other prissy ladies wouldn’t want to waste their favour on me, and you want to give your favour to someone. So shut up and give it to me.”
You watched him as he spoke, waiting for some sort of catch. An admittance or hint of any kind that this was a cruel joke. None came, instead there was nothing in his eyes but honest truth, and something else you couldn’t place.
“And you’ll give it back when you win?” you asked softly.
“Aye.” he replied. You smiled up at him with a small hum.
You pulled the handkerchief from up your sleeve, and folded it neatly into a smaller square before placing it in his hand. You saw how his fingers curled around the silk before looking up, just to find his face inches away from yours.
“See, that wasn’t so hard now was it?” he said, wine-tainted breath fanning over your nose and cheeks. You shook your head, unable to resist the giddy smile that broke across your lips. “I’ll see you when I win.”
He turned to walk away, tucking the handkerchief into the front of his gorget, but you grabbed onto his arm again. Yanking at the ribbon in your hair, it fell free and you efficiently tied the - ironically - yellow ribbon around his gauntleted wrist. When you caught his eye after stepping back to admire your work, he raised a brow at you.
“So all those other 'prissy ladies' know someone spent their favour on the man who won the tournament today.”
Sandor could smell you.
More accurately, the handkerchief you gave him. The lavender and rosemary cut through the smell of steel and horse and dirt, reminding him though his sneer of the reason he was doing this stupid thing at all.
Though if he was being honest, the look on your face when you realised he was serious about taking your favour was plenty of a reward already.
Stranger was restless under him, a warhorse unused to being in the lists and among the crowds. The big black beast couldn’t stand still, was acting how Sandor felt. And he was starting to feel like he wanted to run his sword clean through the poor bastard at the other end of the field.
He didn’t want to shock your little beating heart to a stop with the cruelty he usually wielded. The bloodlust could wait for another day. You required something more gentle.
You deserved it, he thought as the grip on his lance tightened. You deserved it and more.
The sun just started to sink behind the treeline to mark the start of sunset, and the day had ended as it always did on a tournament day; in victory. No one’s cheers were louder than yours.
Sandor had won.
You’d thought it would be so as soon as you started thinking about who would come out on top. With the few who could best him unavailable or unwilling to compete, you doubted you were the only one to think he’d win.
You weren’t any less excited when he finished his final pass having laid his opponent flat on their back.
And, even better, you managed to push to the front row despite the crowds. How? You had no idea. Everyone was so excited to see the Lannister Dog you called your friend face each opponent successfully.
You cupped your hands around your mouth, cheering loudly over the roar of the crowd as Sandor turned his horse on the spot. Even under his helm you could feel his grey eyes fall on you.
He came closer, you barely noticed as he scooped up the wreath of white roses into his palm. The circlette looking more like a bracelet than a headdress in his hand. Only when he stopped his horse in front of you did you realise what was happening.
That little display of flowers was meant to crown the tournament’s queen of love and beauty, and honor given to the victor to give out to the lady of his choosing. A lady who was his wife, his lover, someone who he wanted something more from.
Sandor was giving it to you.
Your head tilted up to catch his eyes as he looked down at you. Stranger shifted under him, liking even less how close they were to the crowds. Then the wreath was gently laid on your head. A featherlight touch brushed along your hair for a threadbare moment before he pulled away.
The Hound couldn’t be seen as tender, even if everything about what just happened told you that was exactly what he wanted to be.
But everyone, and you mean everyone, was watching. Today, the day Sandor Clegane took out the title of tournament champion, and the day he crowned a low-born lady-in-waiting as the queen of love and beauty, would be a day people would write pages about.
Later, with the people having followed the King to the feast that marked the end of the day, you snuck away. You had to find Sandor, and much like earlier he was not among the crowds.
You went to his tent, and found him there instead.
“Is there enough wine in here for two?” You asked, peering through the entrance to find him back in his old armour.
“No,” he started, “You were too slow.” He turned to you as you stepped in.
If he didn’t want you around he wouldn’t have said you were slow. It would’ve sounded harsh, if you knew him less, but you knew him more. If he didn’t want company he wouldn’t have talked so much, you knew he knew that’s how it worked between you. Despite his comment, he made no protest when you leant over and snuck a sip from the goblet on the small table nearby.
When you turned back to him, intent on starting a conversation about how well he did that day, he was already standing barely a foot away, and with what looked like a scrap of cream fabric thrust into your nose.
“Here,” he said, waving the handkerchief at you. You just shook your head, reaching out your hands to curl his fingers back around it with an almost shy smile.
“If you meant it when you gave me this crown, then you can keep it. A token for a token.”
He looked down at you, eyes flicking to the favour before back at you again. He huffed, much like a tired dog, and started stuffing the fabric under his breastplate.
“I want you to know you’d better be the only person who knows I’ll be carrying around a handkerchief." he grumbled when he finished.
“I sure hope so.” you said, stifling a laugh. “If anyone else knows you that well I might kill them myself.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed a laugh. “I’d like to see that.” For a moment everything went quiet. Neither of you spoke. There was a loud laugh from a group passing outside and your gaze fell to your feet.
“So did you mean it?” you asked quietly.
“Mean what?”
“Do you want to court me?” You said. You looked back up at him through your lashes. He was already looking down at you, with something soft and almost loving in his eyes. That realisation, that you’d drawn a look of love from Sandor Clegane, made your heartbeat flutter like a bird in a cage.
His hand raised to your face, a finger trailed gently across your jaw to your chin. It took everything in your soft foolish dreamer heart not to melt on the spot then and there. No one would ever believe you if you told them how nice Sandor was to you, not in the past and certainly not now.
Oh, but you were so close to swooning right into his arms. He’d hate that.
“Yes. I think you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to.” he replied, taking your chin in his hand. “If I didn’t I would’ve made my horse stomp the stupid thing into the mud.”
“So romantic.” you said. The way his eyes focused on your lips didn’t go past you unnoticed. Ah, you thought, so he probably was feeling as soft and gooey as you.
“You got your silly favour, I won, and you got your pretty crown. I’ve been romantic enough for one day.”
“I know, and I’m so ever grateful for it that I could kiss you.” You replied.
“I like the sound of that.” he said, grinning almost from ear to ear as he lent down and kissed you.
His hand was tight on your chin, calloses caught on the skin, and his lips were rough but by the seven - you could tell he’d been waiting for this as long as you had. His tongue flicked out to yours, tasting of spiced apple wine. Your hands slid easily around his neck as he crouched to wrap an arm around your waist.
It felt like he was everywhere, and yet suddenly he didn’t feel close enough at all.
Very briefly your mind fluttered to the thought that this wasn’t proper - if you were caught like this with anyone it would spell nothing else but trouble. He wouldn’t care, you could hear him say ‘fuck them’ even though his tongue was shoved halfway down your throat.
You did care a little more than him though.
Reluctantly you pulled away, easing his chasing lips with a few shorter softer kisses. You could feel his hand clench into the back of your dress, it felt so big resting there.
You could get used to this.
“Tease,” he grumbled, grey eyes honed in on yours.
“I don’t think you mind though.” you replied. He stood up, but kept you close with that arm around you. All you got in reply was a grunt of affirmation. “You’ve gone all soft on me, haven’t you, Clegane?”
“For you. Don’t tell anyone.” he said, almost looking like he was going to lean down and kiss you again. You just smiled.
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