“well, i heard that the boy didn’t fall off that tower,” sandor, sated and feeling more indulgent than usual, hums, wordlessly encouraging you and your affinity for gossip. you like to talk, and he likes you, thus he’s keen enough to stomach it. “they’re saying he was pushed.”
“oh, is that what they’re saying?” he tugs lightly at your hair, his nose bumping yours as you’re made to look up at him, sprawled across his chest like a lazy house cat. he’s missed you, though he won’t admit it. gods forbid your ego gets any bigger. still, his recent trip to winterfell was as long as it was tiring, and knowing that you were here, in king’s landing, waiting ever so patiently for his return, had him squirming all the while.
you must’ve been terribly lonely. and bored, without cersei around to command you, or your hound to keep you company. it’s a miracle you didn’t set the red keep ablaze in their stead, if only for some means of entertainment.
“well?” you demand, brows pinching in that petulant way they do. he finds it endearing, as he does most things about you — you’ve ruined him. “you were there, surely you know how it went,”
“i don’t care how it went,” he scoffs, to which you scowl. perhaps he’s being callous, it’s true, but the last thing he wants to think about now is the stark boy. not when he, finally, has his lover in his arms, after so long. “the mother herself could’ve flung him from that tower, and it’d make no difference to me. and you,” he kisses you roughly on the soft skin of your cheek, as if to soothe the sting of his scold. “oughta mind the business that minds you.”
you like to toe the line, nosing about where you shouldn’t, taking risks too great for your station. he dreads the day it’ll inevitably come back to bite you. this relationship in itself is proof of your carelessness. you devote yourself to him, scorning any chance you had at a half-decent future. and he lets you, because he’s selfish like that. but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t consider the consequences. there’s a possibility you will both burn for your indulgences in the end.
you pout but you don’t take his attitude to heart. instead, you nose at his cheek, the gnarled, waxy skin that would revolt most. but not you, the foolish creature you are. yes, he adores you. he’ll have the time to regret it whilst he rots in hell for it—but, for now, he chooses to enjoy it.
“i missed you,” you tell him, so easily, like the truth doesn’t cost you a damned thing. how freeing that must feel, he muses.
“mm, i’m sure you did.” you pinch him for that, and he smiles, despite himself. the sun’s rising now, and reality dawns with it. soon, he’ll don his armor and return to his post, trailing after that beastly little prince, longing to crawl back to you. and you’ll be busied with the queen, and whatever it is she has you do all day long. if he’s lucky, your paths will cross at some point.
“you gonna behave yourself today?” he prompts, prodding you lightly in the ribs, remembering how you rolled your eyes at joffrey last night and nearly got yourself beheaded.
to be fair, he was being a right little cunt. sandor can hardly hold your impertinence against you. he, too, fantasizes about crushing him like a bug underfoot. he imagined that you would probably cheer him on.
you lean back, huffing in faux-offense. “when do i not?”
he chortles at that, wrapping his thick arm around your neck, yanking you back into his embrace. “fuckin’ brat.” that, you are, but you’re his fuckin’ brat, and he wouldn’t have you any other way.
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