Tavern's daughter
summary: after seeing the Hound protect the king during the riot at Flea Bottom, the tavern's daughter convinces Sandor to teach her to fight
pairing: sandor clegane x reader
word count: 13k
requests are open btw, so please ask me anything
Smoke carried on the air, sharp and thick, and the sound of voices rolled through the alleys of Flea Bottom like thunder. At first, you thought it was just another drunken brawl between neighbors, nothing unusual, but then came the crack of wood splintering, the scream of a woman, the panicked bray of some animal.
When you turned the corner, you saw the crowd.
Dozens of people surged through the market, a sea of sweat and rags, faces twisted with hunger and fury. Hunger had been ravaging Flea Bottom for weeks, months. Something had happened, something that pushed the people to their limit. They overturned stalls, snatched loaves from bakers, ripped meat off spits with their bare hands. A boy ran shoving you to the side, clutching a sack of onions like treasure. Behind him, a butcher swung his cleaver to chase him off.
Your stomach dropped. The tavern. Your parents.
You shoved your way through the press of bodies, ignoring the curses, the hands that shoved back. All you could think of was your mother working in the kitchen, your father at the casks, unaware that the streets had turned rabid. You had to get to them.
The crowd thickened near the main road, a swell of bodies all screaming one name: “Joffrey! Bastard! Usurper!” You tried to slip around them, but then the gleam of armor caught your eye. A wedge of guards shoved into the mob, shields up, trying to clear a path, one of them almost hitting you on the face. Behind them was the boy king himself, pale like a ghost, scared like a baby. He hid further behind his mother and uncle, and when the queen was taken by the guards to a different path, the boy king hid behind his sworn shield.
The sworn shield clutched the king closer, swinging his sword with the other hand. He was… towering, dark, terrible. You knew his name. Sandor Clegane.
You’d seen him before, of course. He came often to your family’s tavern, sitting hunched over his wine, scarred face hidden in shadow. People whispered about him, the Hound, sworn to the crown, killer of men, half a monster. But you had never seen him like this, and it made you freeze.
He was fury made flesh. His greatsword swung in wide, brutal arcs, a warning to anyone who came too close to the king. One man with a sharp rock dared get too close to the King, and Sandor hit him with the hilt of his sword, putting him down before he even finished his shout. Another tried to drag a guard off his feet, and Sandor kicked him so hard he flew back into the dirt.
The mob roared and screamed around him, but he didn’t falter. Joffrey screamed at Sandor, saying he wanted them all dead. Sandor yelled back, saying they wanted the same for him. But the other guards did not show as much mercy as the Hound did.
You should have turned away, forced your legs to move, but you couldn’t. Fear crawled hot and prickling over your skin, yet you were mesmerized. The man who slouched silent in your tavern corner now stood like a storm unleashed, each punch and kick of his was raw strength and precision.
Then someone screamed too close. You jolted back to yourself, pushing through the sea of people until you fell to a street empty just enough that you could actually breathe.
Mother. Father.
Your heart hammered as you ran your way free of that mess, nearly tripping on a body you couldn’t tell if was alive. You didn’t look to see if it breathed. You ran, lungs burning, feet slipping in the mud, until the narrow crooked streets of Flea Bottom swallowed you again.
At last, the tavern came into sight. The shutters were barred, the door shut tight. Relief made your knees weak as you banged on the wood.
“Open, it’s me!”
The door flew open just enough for your father to grab you and pull you inside. The smell of smoke followed you in, thick and choking. Your father dropped the heavy bar back across the door.
You stood there, chest heaving, ears still ringing with the roar of the mob, and saw your mother’s face pale with fear. She held you so tight it hurt, whispering prayers into your hair. You felt safe for now. But outside, the city burned, and the memory of Sandor Clegane’s blade flashing through the smoke was carved into your mind.
...
Hours had passed, but the streets had not quieted entirely. Shouts still echoed down the alleys, bursts of angry voices rising and falling like waves. Sometimes it was laughter instead, cruel and sharp, the kind that made your stomach twist.
The tavern shutters stayed closed, the door barred. No one in their right mind would open tonight. Your family had lit no candles in the common room, letting the fire burn low so the place looked dark, lifeless. Safer that way.
You had gone upstairs, to the little window above the tavern that overlooked the street. From there you watched the aftermath, at the dogs nosing at dropped scraps, a man weaving drunkenly through the mud, a group of women carrying baskets of stolen bread. The city was wounded, restless.
Then came the knock. A heavy, impatient fist.
Your father stiffened downstairs, muttering. “No.” He wouldn’t move to the door. Neither would your mother. They knew better.
You crept back to your window, heart thudding. The street below was dim, but you could make out the broad-shouldered shape standing at your threshold. Even with the blood and dirt, you knew him instantly.
Sandor Clegane.
You hesitated. You should stay quiet, pretend no one was inside. But something pulled at you, the memory of him cleaving through the mob, that scarred face you had seen so often shadowed over a cup of wine. Before you knew it, your feet were carrying you down the stairs.
You slid the bar back with trembling hands. The door groaned open just a crack.
“We’re closed.” you whispered.
Sandor’s eyes narrowed at you from the dark, glinting with irritation. “You’ve got wine.” His voice was rough, hoarse from shouting.
“We’re not serving.”
He leaned one hand against the frame, massive and scarred. “I’ll take it and leave. Two wineskins.”
You swallowed, glancing over your shoulder toward the kitchen where your parents waited in tense silence. Something in you decided it was better to give him what he wanted than to test his patience. You slipped back inside, fetched two wineskins from the back, and pressed them into his hands.
He didn’t thank you. Just uncorked one with his teeth, spat the cork aside, and took a long swallow. Some of it spilled down his chin into his beard.
“You swing a sword like no one I’ve ever seen.” you blurted before you could stop yourself. “Today… during the riot. It was…-”
“Ugly work,” he cut you off, lowering the wineskin. His gaze sharpened on you, dangerous. “Not worth remembering.”
“But you kept him safe. The king.”
Sandor scoffed. “Don’t mistake that for honor.”
The roughness of his tone made your breath hitch. You stepped back, suddenly aware how close he stood, how the air seemed heavier with him filling your doorway. He noticed. His mouth twisted into a frown. “Don’t waste your pretty words on killers, girl. You’ll only frighten yourself.”
He shoved the empty wineskin back at you, still holding the second. He gave you a few golden coins, then turned around and strode into the night without another glance.
You stood there clutching the sticky wineskin and the coins, heart racing, the echo of his presence lingering long after he disappeared into the shadows.
…
The morning stank of smoke. Even hours after the shouting had died down, the city reeked of scorched wood, burned flesh, sour ale spilled on the ground. The streets looked like a battlefield.
You picked your way down the lane trying not to stare too long at the broken stalls and the streaks of dried blood on the cobbles. A cart lay overturned in the mud, the half-rotted vegetables inside already picked clean by scavengers. A stray dog nosed at a man slumped against a wall, his jaw swollen and purple. No one stopped to help him.
Flea Bottom had always been cruel, but this was different. The city felt raw, wounded. Everyone’s eyes were sharper, hungrier, angrier.
The apothecary’s shop still stood, though one of its shutters hung crooked. You pushed inside and was hit by the smell of herbs. A few other customers in the room, all of them tense, snapping at each other if anyone brushed too close.
You asked for the bundle your father usually needed, herbs that helped with his throat when he’d cough too much, and the woman behind the counter gave you a long, tired look before naming a price nearly three times the usual, which was already expensive.
“That’s too much!”
“Then leave it.” she said flatly, not even bothering to argue.
The coins in your hand felt pitifully small. You had no choice. With a tight jaw, you slid them across the counter. The bundle was tossed into your hand without ceremony.
When you stepped back onto the street, your chest felt tight, not from smoke this time but from something heavier. If the price of herbs had doubled, the price of bread certainly did too. How long before the next riot?
You kept walking, trying to ignore the prickling on your skin. Every shout made you tense, every stranger’s eyes felt like they lingered too long.
Your fingers drifted down to your boot. The small dagger was still there, pressed against your ankle. You’d carried it for months, ever since your father told you a girl in the street had been dragged into an alley and never seen again. You told yourself it made you safer. But yesterday, when the mob surged, you hadn’t even reached for it. What good was a little blade against men twice your size? Against swords?
You clenched your jaw and sped up.
What were you going to do when the next mob came to your door? When they decided to push through your family’s door and take what little you had, or when some drunk soldier decided the tavern’s daughter looked worth the trouble?
What were you going to do to protect them, when you could barely protect yourself?
The question followed you all the way home.
…
Weeks passed. Slowly, people began to stitch things back together. The apothecary’s shutters were mended, bakers opened their stalls again, and even Flea Bottom found its way back to its old rhythm of noise and stench. Your father said it was because Lord Tyrion had taken the king’s hand and that the Imp was cleverer than he looked, or so people muttered. You didn’t know if it was true, but the streets no longer boiled with mobs, and that was enough.
At last, your parents unbarred the tavern doors. The first few days were cautious, with regulars slipping in like mice, speaking in low voices, drinking quickly before hurrying home. Then the flow returned: dockhands, sellswords, thieves. Arguments flared again, dice clattered across tables, and once more you carried trays and wiped tables, pretending nothing had ever changed.
But you had changed.
That evening, the room was loud with laughter and coarse songs. You balanced a tray on your hip as a man reached out to grab your arm. “Smile for me, wench” he slurred, ale heavy on his breath.
You forced a tight smile and pulled away, not even breaking stride. You were used to the small offenses, hands brushing where they shouldn’t, words you ignored. But tonight, the touch lingered in your mind, souring everything. Because now, every lewd word, every shove, carried the echo of the fear you couldn’t bear feeling anymore. The memory of doors splintering, of your father’s hands shaking on the fire poker.
You glanced across the room.
The Houd sat in his usual corner, a half-empty jug of wine before him. He looked as he always did, massive, hunched, scar hid from the firelight, one elbow braced on the table like he owned it. His presence alone bent the air around him; men muttered about him, always low, always behind his back. Never to his face.
You wondered, not for the first time, what it must feel like to walk into a room and know no one would dare touch you. To swing a sword and see everyone fall back. To never have to feel small or weak or afraid.
Your parents disappeared into the kitchen. The clatter of pots and chatter covered the sound of your footsteps as you crossed the room. That’s when you decided to walk to him. You set the tray down hard at the nearest table, breathing sharp through your nose.
Your heart thudded with every step toward him. When you reached his table, he looked up, his good eye narrowing under a heavy brow. “Want something?” His voice was gruff, flat, as though you’d interrupted a thought he didn’t care to share.
You swallowed, then slid into the seat opposite him before you could change your mind. His arm had flexed, corded muscle shifting under his sleeve when he lifted his cup. The way his fingers had dwarfed it, thick-knuckled and scarred, calluses split and healed a hundred times over… It all sent a shiver down your spine, not entirely from fear.
“I want to ask you something.” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You leaned forward, gathering every bit of courage you had. “I want you to teach me. To fight.”
The words hung in the smoky air between you, reckless and impossible. Your palms sweated against the table, your throat tight, but you forced yourself not to look away.
For a moment Sandor only stared at you, the faintest curl tugging at the corner of his mouth, something you couldn’t tell between cruelty and amusement.
“You?” His voice was low, rough, carrying easily over the din of the tavern. “Fight?”
Heat crawled up your neck, but you forced yourself to nod.
He leaned back, the bench creaking under his weight. His eyes dragged over you, slow and cutting, from your face down to your arms, your hands gripping the edge of the table, your small frame dwarfed by his shadow.
“You’ve not the weight to swing steel,” he said at last. “One blow’d break yer little wrist. You’ve not the strength to hold a blade, not the guts to use it. You think carrying a dagger in yer boot makes you dangerous?” His gaze sharpened, and you stiffened.
How could he know about that?
“All it makes you is a corpse waiting to happen. You’d have your pretty throat slit open before you ever got it out.” The words stung, sharp as glass. You pressed your knees tighter together beneath the table, but his brushed yours as he leaned forward, a reminder of the difference between you.
Sandor tipped back his cup and drained it in one long swallow. Then he set it down hard enough to rattle the table. “Mor’ wine.”
You rose on shaky legs and hurried to fetch another jug. On impulse, you added a slice of warm pie to the tray before carrying it back, setting both before him, but he didn’t even glance at the plate, just poured himself more wine and drank deep, ignoring you completely.
Not a word of thanks. Not even an acknowledgement.
You stood there a moment longer, the sting in your chest deeper than you cared to admit, then turned back toward the counter, his dismissal following you like a shadow.
…
The tavern was quieter than usual, the air still heavy with the stink of spilled ale and sour wine. Your parents busied themselves in the kitchen, and you found yourself watching the hulking figure at the corner table.
Sandor Clegane sat slouched against the bench, one arm draped over the backrest, the other curled around his cup. He was clearly drunk. His massive hand dwarfed it, knuckles scarred, veins rising like cords beneath the skin. He drank in silence, one of the good clients who didn’t cause any trouble while drunk.
You hesitated for what felt like forever before finally moving towards him, your palms damp.When you reached his table, he looked up, those pale eyes cutting through you like a blade. You swallowed hard.
“Please, Ser.” you breathed out, every other word vanishing from your mouth and thoughts.
Sandor let out a scoff, harsh and humorless. “I’m no Ser. Nor a professor.” He sipped on his wine again. “Piss off.”
The rejection stung on your chest. You clenched your fists, forcing yourself not to step back. “Is there… is there anything I can do to change your mind?”
For a moment, his expression darkened, unreadable. Then he sneered, baring his teeth.
“You think this is some fair trade, do you? You bring me wine and pie, I make you into a warrior?” He snorted, shaking his head. “You have nothing I want, girl. Leave.”
He tipped his cup again, dismissing you with the motion as if you were no more than a fly buzzing in his ear. And still, you lingered, your chest tight, heart hammering as you searched his scarred face for the faintest crack in his decisiveness.
You should have walked away. Every part of you told you to. But instead you dared take a seat on his table yet again, heart pounding. And yet again you were impressed with how much space he took up without even trying.
Sandor’s head turned slowly, his pale eyes narrowing at your nerve. “Seven bloody hells…” he muttered.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze, even as your throat tightened. “It isn’t some whim,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “I need to. You guard the king, don’t you? You protect him with that sword of yours.” your hand curled into a fist on the table “I’ve got people to protect too.”
For the first time, it seemed like he listened. He stared at you, the firelight now carving shadows across the ruined side of his face. Then he leaned forward, his hand closing around his cup.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for.” he said at last, voice low and rough. “None at all. You think it’s about swinging steel and looking fierce? It is not. You wouldn’t last a day.”
“I’d rather try than sit helpless.” you said stubbornly, the words spilling out before you could stop them.
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment you thought you saw something flicker there. Not pity, never pity, but something colder, something that measured you. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. He drained the rest of his wine and slammed the cup down. “You’ll never be a warrior.”
You met his gaze, not daring to flinch. “I don’t want to be a warrior.” Your fingers tightened around the edge of your bench. “I just… I don’t want to be vulnerable anymore. I want to be able to protect myself and protect my family. Teach me. Even if just a little. I want to know what it feels like to know I can handle myself.”
Sandor’s hand tightened around the empty cup, knuckles white. He didn’t speak for a long moment, just stared at you. The weight of him, the sheer presence, made your legs shaky even under the table.
It was already late, the last of the drunks stumbling out into Flea Bottom’s filth. Your parents still in the kitchen, leaving you to bank the fire and bolt the door. But Sandor hadn’t moved, and neither had you.
A beat passed before he pushed himself up to his full height, the bench groaning under the sudden release of his weight. He loomed, broad, scar catching the firelight.
“You want a lesson?” His voice was gravel, his words slurred but sharp. “Fine. You’ll have one.” Your heart stuttered, a mix of triumph and dread.
His boots thudded heavy against the floorboards, and faster than you could blink, his hand shot out, his scarred fingers clamping around your arm. You gasped, struggling instinctively. His grip was iron, his thumb pressing against your skin. Pain flared sharp and hot.
“You’re small. Weaker than most. Any man could pin you down in a breath. What you do then?”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. You tugged, twisted, but his hand didn’t budge. Fear coiled in your gut but beneath it, something else stirred, something hard. It was pure adrenaline, and you liked it more than you’d ever admit.
“I… I don’t know,” you admitted, breathless.
His mouth curled in a frown. “That is not an option.” You swallowed. “That is what you are telling the enemy? That you don’t know?” With a sudden shove, he released you. Your arm throbbed, your pride stung, but your eyes stayed locked on him.
“You don’t want to know what it feels like to be weak.” Sandor said, voice like a blade scraping stone. “That’s what every man out there sees when they look at you. There's yer lesson. You'r prey.”
You straightened, breath shaky but resolve burning hotter now. “Then teach me not to be.”
For a moment, his eyes searched yours, but then he turned, taking out his satchel and leaving a few coins on the table. “Tomorrow, at dawn. Don’t make me regret this.” And just like that, he left, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving you alone in the empty tavern, your arm aching but your chest alive with a feeling you hadn’t ever felt before.
…
His grip still burned on you long after he left that night. You’d laid awake, staring at the ceiling, his words echoing in your head: That’s what it feels like to be weak.
When dawn broke, the city started to stir to life with clattering pots and the shouts of market workers. You hadn’t slept a moment. Restless, you pressed your forehead to the window, staring down into the narrow street below.
That was when you saw him.
Sandor Clegane, broad-shouldered and looming even in the pale morning light, striding toward your door with that heavy, unhurried gait. For a breath you thought he might pass by. Then his head lifted, and his pale eyes found you at once.
You froze, caught like a child sneaking sweets. “Out” he barked, the word carrying easily up to your window. Your heart hammered. Still, you slipped on your boots and crept down the stairs, careful not to wake your parents.
Outside, the air was sharp and cool, the streets not yet crowded. Sandor didn’t wait. He turned his back and walked, and you had to trot to keep up, your questions spilling before you could stop them.
“Where we going?”
“Somewhere quiet.”
“But what if people see us?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Do you always train with…-”
“Shut your mouth. Too early for chatter.”
You bit your tongue but followed, until he finally cut down an alley that spilled into a small, half-ruined secluded courtyard, forgotten, the stones cracked and weeds pushing through. A few minutes walk into the grass and trees behind it was a nice and calm clearing.
“This’ll do.”
He unsheathed the sword from his side with a fluid motion, the metal catching the first light of the sun. Even resting in his hand, it looked too heavy for you to lift with both arms.
Your stomach dropped. “Wait, we’re using real swords?”
He gave you a flat look, scar twisting into something crueler. “What else? You think men will come at you with sticks?”
You swallowed. “I thought we’d… at least some preparation. Stances, maybe?”
Sandor stepped forward without warning, the tip of his blade flashing toward you. The hiss of steel split the air as he stopped a hair’s breadth from your shoulder.
You yelped and stumbled back, your boot catching on a stone.
He snorted, lowering the blade but never taking his eyes off you. “Another lesson, prey… don’t wait for a fair fight. There’s no such thing.”
“But you didn’t even give me time…!”
“Neither will they.”
The words landed like blows. You stared at the length of steel in his scarred hand, at the ease with which he wielded it, and your mouth went dry.
Sandor tilted his head, the faintest spark of something not amusement, not pity glinting in his dark eyes. Then he lifted the sword again.
“On your feet, girl. Time to learn.” You tried to steady your breath, but it rattled in your chest. Sandor’s shadow fell across you as he shifted his stance, sword in hand as if it weighed no more than a feather. “On your feet.” he repeated, sharper this time.
You obeyed, brushing dirt from your skirts, and before you even blink, he surged forward. His steel whistled past your ear, close enough to stir your hair. You shrieked and stumbled sideways, heart slamming against your ribs.
He turned with you, relentless, driving you backward with heavy, precise sweeps of his blade. He never touched you, but each swing came close enough that you felt the air split beside your skin.
“Move!” he barked when you froze. His voice shook you almost as badly as the blade itself.
“I..- I can’t!”
“You can’t? Those’d be your last words. Try harder.”
He lunged again, and this time the flat of his sword cracked against your side. Pain bloomed sharp and hot, forcing a gasp from your lips.
“Too slow” he growled. “Do better.”
You staggered, clutching the sore spot, tears stinging your eyes. Fear clawed at your chest, squeezing until you could hardly breathe.
“Stop! Please!” But the Hound didn’t stop. His blade swung again, forcing you down to the dirt, knees scraping stone. He loomed over you, shadow swallowing you whole, dark eyes cold and merciless.
“Begging never saved anyone. Men’ll laugh in your face and take what they want while you cry and beg.”
Your tears spilled, burning your cheeks. You hated yourself for them, hated the helpless shake in your hands. He saw it all, and it only seemed to harden him.
He crouched then, sword tip pressed on the ground beside you. His scar glistened with sweat, voice so close it scraped like fire across your ear. “You asked for this, girl. Remember it. Every bruise, every tear. If you don’t want to feel it again, then learn.”
With that, he stood, sheathing the blade in one smooth motion as if he hadn’t just torn you open without even dropping any blood.
“You’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, already turning his back. “Or you’ll stay weak. Your choice.”
He left you there in the ruined courtyard, hands trembling, breath uneven, heart shattering and burning all at once.
…
The days blurred into the bruises you hid with long sleeves and skirts. By the end of the first week your arms ached, your knees were scraped raw, and your pride had been stripped to nothing. Every dawn he came, every dawn you returned, and every dawn Sandor put you back in the dirt. You hated him for it, for the merciless treatment that wouldn’t give a break even when you stumbled or cried, but you hated yourself more for letting tears come to your tears.
When the next week began, you walked to the ruined courtyard with frustration sitting heavy in your chest, knowing if the lessons didn’t change, then you wouldn’t change. The Hound was already there, leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest. Something bundled in his hand, and two swords. One on his belt, the other sheathed on the ground.
“Late.” he growled, though you weren’t. He shoved the bundle at you. “Put these on.”
You blinked down at it. Pants.
“I… what?”
“Skirts trip you up. You want to swing steel, dress for it.”
Your cheeks burned. “Here?” He did nothing but quirk a brow. “Turn around.”
“For fuck’s sake… be quick.” He muttered, his back turned at you. You took off your skirt and put the pants on, tying the cord tight around your waist. They hung loose on you, and you felt weird, but free in a certain way.
“Done.” You warned, twirling and jumping to test out the pants. When you looked back up, Sandor had his sword drawn, but this time he didn’t swing it at you. He jabbed the blade toward the ground.
“Stand.”
You hesitated, then stepped into what you thought looked like a fighting stance. He looked at you half amused, half offended as if you had slapped him. “Look like yer squatting to shit.”
He moved behind you, one massive hand gripping your shoulder, the other pushing at your hip. His touch was rough, impersonal, but the sheer weight of his hand made your breath hitch. He forced your feet apart, nudged your knees, shifted your balance until you felt strange, off center, and yet, steadier than before.
“Feel the ground. Root yourself.” You nodded, heart hammering, more from his nearness than his words.
“Here.” He pushes one of the swords on your hand, flat side first. The weight nearly dragged your arm down at once, but you caught it with both hands. “Hold it like this.” He stepped in close again, huge hands wrapping over yours on the hilt, adjusting your grip. His fingers dwarfed yours, calloused and scarred, guiding yours into place. “Not so tight. You’re not strangling it. Let it move. Firm, not tight.”
You dared a glance up at him. His scarred face was close, unreadable, but for once his dark eyes didn’t look at you from above.
He grunted at last, releasing you. He stepped back, folding his arms again.
…
By the time you returned home, every part of you ached. Your arms trembled from holding the sword, your thighs burned from the stance The Hound had forced you into. Even your back felt raw from falling to the ground again and again.
Your mother noticed. “You’re walking like a crone” she said, half-teasing, half-worried. You brushed her off with a mutter about slipping on the steps. The tavern filled as the sun dipped. The stink of sweat, ale, and roasted onions thickened the air. You moved from table to table, sore muscles screaming with every step.
Sandor Clegane sat there, hulking in the shadows, wine in hand. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked your way, but his presence alone was enough. Later, when the rush died down, you brought another jug to Sandor’s table. He didn’t ask this time, but you set it before him anyway, and a warm slice of pie besides.
He looked at the offering, then at you. That pale, scarred face betrayed nothing, but his silence felt different. Then he reached for the plate as he grunted. Not a word, not thanks, just that low sound in his chest as he turned to his meal.
…
You slipped into the yard at dawn, the air still cool with mist. Sandor was already there, looming like a shadow against the broken wall, a pair of swords leaning at his side. He frowned when he saw you chewing.
“What’s that?” he growled.
“Breakfast” you said through a mouthful, tugging open a bag of biscuits. “My mother baked them. I brought extra if you want. Still warm.”
“Soldiers eat meat. Something that’ll put strength on your muscles.”
You straightened, stung by the dismissal. “Well, I’m not a soldier. And besides, you drink too much wine and beer. Doesn’t seem much of warrior’s food either.”
His good eye narrowed, dark and sharp beneath the heavy brow. “Piss off.”
But you only tightened your grip on the sack. “You should at least try one. They’re cinnamon and…”
Sandor cut you off by kicking one of the swords across the dirt toward you. The hilt of it hit your boot, the steel heavy and gleaming in the thin light.
“Enough. Pick it up.”
The biscuit turned to sawdust in your mouth. You dropped the rest of it back into the sack and bent to lift the blade. It felt heavier than yesterday, colder against your skin.
Sandor lifted his own with casual ease, swinging it once, twice, like it weighed nothing at all. “This time,” he said, voice low and cruel, “you’ll fight me with steel.”
“Steel? But I’ve yet to…-”
“Killers won’t come at you with wooden toys, girl.” he snapped. “If you’re going to hold a sword, it better be the one that can kill.”
The sword was too heavy. You knew it the moment you lifted it, your wrist already trembling under its weight, but Sandor didn’t care. He came at you with his blade, not a killing strike, but fast and mean enough to make your stomach drop. The first clash rattled all the way up your arm. You staggered back, nearly dropping the steel.
“Grip’s shit” he barked, swinging again. “Tighter!”
You adjusted, fingers slipping on the hilt, but he didn’t stop. Another blow, harder this time, and it still made your knees buckle.
“You hold a sword like that, you’ll be spilling your guts before you even piss yourself.”
“I’m trying!” you breathed out, barely lifting your blade to meet his next swing.
“Trying gets you killed.” He growled. “Stand wider. Knees bent.”
You shifted, clumsy, desperate, while he corrected you with every punishing strike. The lesson was endless: blow after blow, his attacks relentless, never giving you room to breathe. Your arms shook, your shoulders screamed, sweat rolled all the way from your forehead to your chin, dripping on the ground.
Finally, when your chest was heaving and your vision blurred, you cried out, “I need a break!”
Sandor didn’t even slow. “No breaks in a fight.”
You let the sword slip from your hands and drop on the dirty ground with a thud, dragging in lungfuls of air. Your hair stuck to your damp face. “Well then I’d be dead already. I don’t have your endless bloody energy!”
That stopped him. His blade lowered, but his glare burned hotter than the sun. “You’ll never be a fighter.” he spat. “You’ll always be prey.”
You tilted your head back, panting, lips cracked with thirst. “Fine. Prey needs water. I’m thirsty.”
With a snarl of frustration, he uncorked the wineskin at his hip and shoved it toward you. You blinked at it, then took it, taking a big sip.
But the liquid that touched your tongue was strong, cool wine.
Your eyes shot up to him in surprise. “It’s…” You made a face at the unexpected taste of alcohol.
“Don’ make a fuss” he snapped, turning away as if he regretted handing it over.
And maybe it was exhaustion, or the sting of his words, but instead of snarling back, you let out a shaky laugh. Sandor glanced down, brow furrowed beneath his scars. “What’s so damn funny?”
You wiped sweat from your brow, still laughing softly. “You. Do you ever drink water?”
His lip curled, but he didn’t take the wineskin back. He just muttered, “Break’s over. Get up.” before kicking your discarded sword toward your boots, but you didn’t move. The sword lay beside your boot, the weight of it mocking you. Your arms still quivered from the strain, every muscle screaming.
“I said get up.” Sandor barked.
“My arms burn” you muttered, not looking at him.
He gave a low, humorless scoff, the sound like mocking. “So what? You think your enemies will wait until you’ve had your little rest?”
When you didn’t reach for the weapon, he launched forward without warning. You felt his heavy steps, his blade whistling through the air and you yelped, scrambling for the sword. The steel jarred your hands as you lifted it just in time to keep from being struck across the face.
“That’s better.” he growled, driving you back with another strike. “Always fight, even when you’re ready to piss yourself with fear.”
You held the sword tighter, breath ragged, and blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Then what should I eat? If not biscuits and tea, what?”
“Meat. Roots.” Sandor pressed harder against your blade, the weight of him nearly buckling your knees again. “You’ll need strength in your arms, your back, your legs. Biscuits won’t do that.”
“And what will?” you ask, sweat dripping down your neck.
He shoved you back, lowering his sword at last. “Show up earlier tomorrow.” His good eye glinted, hard and unreadable. “I’ll show you.”
…
You arrived before dawn as told, the streets still wrapped in fog. Sandor was already there, stripped of his armor for once, down to a rough shirt that clung to his broad back. His sword leaned against the wall, while The Hound moved, lowering his massive frame to the ground, arms flexing, back rippling with every slow push-up.
You stopped in your tracks, staring. He was all mass and power, muscle built like stone foundations. Even half in shadow, the sight of him was enough to remind you of the sheer size you’d felt when your knee brushed his under the tavern table.
“Down here. Now.” He growled without looking up.
You hesitated, then lowered yourself beside him. You tried to copy the movement, arms trembling before you even bent halfway, then you collapsed face-first into the dirt.
Sandor scoffed a laugh. “Pathetic.”
You pushed again, fingers digging into the earth, but your arms gave way. You tried to hold a plank, but still ended up on the ground. Squats were no better, your legs wobbled, knees knocking. Every failure earned you another cruel mutter from him.
“Prey.” he said when you dropped back to the dirt. “All soft skin, no bone, no muscle.”
When he finally let you sit, you fumbled into your satchel, pulling out an apple. The crisp bite echoed in the quiet yard. Sandor’s sharp gaze flicked to you.
“No biscuits today?”
You chewed quickly, chin lifting. “An apple’s better. You said so yourself.”
For a moment, he said nothing, just swigged from his wineskin. Then he muttered, “Not completely daft, after all.”
You had to hold back a smile at the scrap of praise. You thought it was over, that he’d let you limp home with your sore arms and shaky legs, but then he rose, towering, and tossed your practice sword at your feet.
“Up.”
You blinked at him. “Now?”
“A fight doesn’t wait for you to be ready. Sword up. Time to see if you learned a bloody thing.”
…
The next day, you arrived at the training spot just as the sun was stretching pale fingers across Flea Bottom’s rooftops. Sandor was already there, slumped against a crumbling wall, eyes closed, his greatsword resting at his side.
For a moment, you stopped. He looked… different. Without the harsh glare, the snarling mouth, the scarred tension in his face, he seemed younger, softer even. No bitterness, no menace. Just a man, breathing in the cool morning air, the lines of his face eased in sleep.
You sat onto a big stone nearby, careful not to disturb him, and watched. The muscles in his arms marked with scars, his arms resting on his side, his hands on the ground, his long hair shadowing his face. The contrast with the relentless, cruel instructor you’d known was striking, almost disarming.
Eventually, Sandor stirred, blinked, and gave a low, gravelly hum. He opened his eyes, caught sight of you, and grunted.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“You’re late.” he said, voice rougher now, laced with his neverending grouchyness.
You tilted your head, letting a small grin creep in. “Who’s prey now?”
His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and dangerous. He muttered a curse, looking back down at the ground, pulling himself fully upright. His lips pressed into a hard line, and the scar twisted as he barked: “On the ground. Twenty push-ups.”
You gasped. “Are you ever in a good mood?"
“Fourty.”
You sighed and dropped to the dirt, palms pressed into the cold earth, arms trembling under your weight. You pushed, counting under your breath.
“One, two… three… four…-” Was all you could do before you collapsed flat onto your stomach, gasping for air.
Sandor’s shadow fell over you. “Pathetic.” he muttered, voice low and harsh. “You call that training?”
You wheezed, chest heaving, hands pressed into the ground. “I hate these. Give me something else to do.”
“Quit whining.” He pressed a foot against your back, forcing you down when you already struggled so hard to hold your own weight. “Start over.”
…
Days had turned into weeks. You moved with more confidence now, muscles stronger, breath steadier. Bruises still marked your arms and legs, but they faded quicker; your stance was surer, your step firmer. Mean clients still muttered or stumbled, but they no longer frightened you like before.
Sandor still came several times a week. You never charged him for the wine, and sometimes, if the tavern was quiet, you’d sit at his table for a moment, stealing glimpses at his scarred face as he drank. His presence was still imposing, but no longer paralyzing.
That until something you couldn’t escape happened to you: hormones.
You arrived at the training yard just as the sun rose, and your body protested in a familiar, unwelcome way. Cramps. Not the worst you’d ever had, but sharp enough to make your stomach twist. You sank to the ground, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped around them.
“I’ve got cramps.” you admitted, voice small and slightly embarrassed.
Sandor’s eyes turned to you, narrowing. “Why should I care?” You whimpered in response, feeling lazy and fatigued before you even started training. “The enemy will feast on your weaknesses.” The Hound said flatly.
You hugged your knees tighter. “I’m not in the mood today.”
He stepped closer, hands resting on his sword hilt, and glared at you. That familiar shadow of menace loomed over you, and for a heartbeat you wondered if you’d regret saying anything.
“On your feet.”
With a shaky exhale, you uncurl slightly and look up at him. “Take it easy today. Just… a little lighter, please.”
He studied you for a long moment, eyes sharp and unreadable. Finally, he gave a low, almost imperceptible grunt.
“You won't learn, will you? I can teach you but I can't use your brains for you.” You sighed, not in the mood to deal with his harness today.
“Attack me,” he said almost casually.
You froze. “…What?”
“Try it. Kill me” he said, voice cold and low, hands resting on his sword.
Your stomach lurched. You hadn’t done this before. Never aimed at him. Your hands trembled around your own weapon.
“How?”
“Just do it. Swing yer steel. Hit me.”
You took a hesitant step forward. Nothing happened.
“Now!” he roared, launching toward you with his sword when he realized you were not going to attack him. The first strike got the tip of his sword close enough to send your breath jerking.
You stumbled back, sword raised instinctively. “Why are you being such an ass?”
He growled, circling, eyes blazing. “Come at me! Am I wasting my time on you?”
Your protests went unheard. “Stop! Sandor, please!”
But he only got louder, harsher, striking toward you in relentless waves. Panic and adrenaline coursed through your veins. Somehow, with a desperate twist, you parried one of his swings and, almost by accident, your sword knocked his out of his grip. It flew across the yard with a clatter.
You froze, chest heaving, heart hammering in disbelief. You had done it. For a moment, the world was still.
Sandor didn’t move to retrieve his blade. “Your chance,” he said, voice rough, low, dangerous. “Hit me. Kill me.”
You stared at him, frowning. “…stop it! I don’t want to.”
“Then I’ll teach you.” he said, tone deadly, stepping forward as he reached for the knife on his belt.
You barely had time to raise your sword before he was on you again, unarmed but for a small knife, but moving with the lethal precision of someone who could kill with nothing but bare hands. You tried to protect yourself, stepped back, heart hammering.
And then, before you could react further, his feet trapped yours and it was enough for you to fall backwards, back hitting the dirt. Before you could do so much as whimper, the Hound was on top of you, his thighs straddling yours, one arm across you chest, forcing you on the ground, the other hand pressing the knife against your throat. You gasped, trapped beneath his weight, your sword clattering from your hands and long forgotten on the ground, out of reach.
His pale eyes bore into yours, sharp, unyielding. “This is what it feels like” he said, voice low and dangerous. “This is why you learn. So when someone comes for you, you know fear and you don’t let it kill you.”
You stared up at him, breath shaking, body tense, the weight of his presence overwhelming, unyielding, and his voice cutting through your terror.
“Fight back, stupid girl” he muttered, not loosening his grip, but throwing the knife aside. “I'm wasting my time on you.”
His fury pressed down on you, relentless, and your fear twisted into something hotter: anger. What was all that for? Just so you'd show some improvement? Hadn’t he seen any already, when you gave him your best every damn day? What did he think you was doing all that for?
Without thinking, your fist shot out, connecting squarely with the side of his face. The impact reverberated through your arm. For a heartbeat, the world went silent.
Sandor blinked, unmoving. You both froze. When Sandor rolled to the side, you gasped at the release of weight, clutching at your knees, and sobbed as you struggled to sit upright.
The anger collapsed into something heavier. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over uncontrollably. You were not sure if it was from fear, hormones, anger or humiliation. Or all of them.
“Stop it” he grumbled, but the edge on his voice was softer now.
“You… you scared me.” you admitted, voice trembling. “What was all that for?”
He didn’t answer, only watched as you wiped your cheeks and noticed the faint red mark from your punch on his cheek. Slowly, you raised your hand to him, giving him just enough time to stop you if he might, but he didn't. You reached up and rubbed his red cheek.
“I’m sorry.” You took a deep breath. “You asked for it, though.”
Sandor’s good eye flicked to yours. “You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”
You exhaled, then sniffed. “I don’t like it when people yell at me.” you admitted. “Don't push me around like that. Especially not when I'm… sensitve.”
He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “You cry like a little mouse.”
You laughed through your tears. A small, shared moment. Sandor’s lips quirked in the barest hint of a smile.
“Im not wasting your time. You know that.”
“Aye. But I had to see it.” You huffed, still half mad. “How long will you be sensitive?” he asked.
“A few more days. Three or four.”
“Right…” he said, finally pushing himself to stand. “You earned yourself a break.”
For the first time, you felt something shift, not softness, not for his scraps of kindness, but for the acknowledgment.
…
The morning was quiet, Flea Bottom still asleep as you settled onto the edge of the training yard, knees drawn up, munching on a biscuit while waiting for Sandor who appeared not long after, tall and imposing as ever. His good eye caught yours immediately.
“Still with the biscuits?” he asked, voice low, but edged with his usual roughness.
“My mother baked those for me, so I’ll eat them.” You bit into it, the crisp sweetness filling your mouth. You held one out to him. “You want one?”
He scowled but didn’t refuse. For a moment, the two of you sat quietly, sharing the satchel of biscuits.
“About Stannis…” you ventured, glancing up at him. “There’s fighting for the throne, right?”
“Couldn’t care less” he muttered dismissively.
“But… there's a war. And with you guarding the king…” you started, curiosity and concern threading your voice, but still unsure where you're headed.
He shrugged, and it was enough. No stories, nothing but casual indifference that reminded you he lived in a world different than you did.
When the food was gone, he leaned down and picked up his sword. You mirrored him, hefting your own. The yard was quiet, the morning mist curling around the stones.
And then, as always, it began.
Sandor moved first, launching forward, sword arcing through the air toward you. You met his strikes, blocking, twisting, trying to remember every lesson, every painful correction. The dance of steel began again, the rhythm familiar and yet as merciless as ever.
Each clash of blades rang sharp in the quiet yard, the tension and energy crackling between you. You swung, ducked, pivoted, felt the weight of the sword in your arms, the burn in your muscles, and even though Sandor’s movements were relentless, you could fight back and you took pleasure in it.
You raised your own blade, heart hammering, every muscle alert. Sandor’s stance was perfect, coiled and dangerous, a predator waiting to strike.
Without warning, he lunged again. The steel met yours with a ringing clash, sending vibrations up your arms.
“Faster!” he barked, voice harsh and commanding, teeth clenched. “Move! Think faster!”
You gritted your teeth, pushing back, swinging the sword in a wide arc. He met it with an almost casual block, then forced your blade aside with a hard shove. You stepped back, tried again, sweat everywhere, muscles screaming.
Strike after strike, parry after parry, your arms ached, your legs burned. He forced you to move constantly, not giving you a single second to rest, his blade striking close enough that every contact of steel made your stomach flip.
“You’re sloppy!” he yelled, advancing again. “Tighter guard! Feet planted!”
You lunged, miscalculating your distance. He sidestepped, drove you toward the nearest tree. The bark scraped against your back, cold and rough, and you froze as he pressed forward, his body just inches from yours, his sword pressing against your neck..
Your breath hitched. You couldn’t look away from him, his face, his eyes, the way the morning light caught the scars and shadows that made him so impossibly real and intimidating.
“Break?” you managed a breathless whisper, half suggesting, half begging, chest heaving, trying to escape the closeness.
“Sword up.” He said flatly, voice low and hard.
But you couldn’t lift it, not properly. Not with him so close, with his heat sinking into your skin, his scarred face inches from yours. Your pulse thundered in your ears. And before you thought it through, before you thought at all, you got on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his.
A peck, clumsy and quick, the feeling of him messing with your brains and heartbeat. Sandor’s dark eyes widened slightly, looking even darker, but he didn’t pull away. You pulled back, heart slamming in your chest, waiting. For some kind of reaction: anger, scolding, anything. But he didn’t move. He just watched you, unflinching, unmoving, unreadable.
Your pulse raced, but still, you leaned in again, pressing another yet longer kiss to his lips, and this time, he responded. His lips moved against yours, his hand gripping your waist like iron. The world disappeared under the fire of it. The tension that had always been between you, the fear, the respect, the frustration… it all ignited something that made your stomach flutter. His hands found your waist, steadying you, pulling you closer, pressing you against him with an iron grip.
The world narrowed. The fight, the yard, the training, everything else felt so, so far away. It was just him and you.
But just as suddenly as it began, it ended.
Sandor shoved you back, hard enough that your back slammed the tree trunk, bark digging into your skin. You gasped, staring at him wide-eyed.
“Don’t.” he snapped, the word cutting like a blade.
“I… I just…-” you stammered, your voice breaking, heart tight as if someone were squeezing it, words failing you.
He turned, already walking away.
“Sandor!” you called, pushing off the tree to follow, your boots crunching on the dirt.
He didn’t slow.
“Wait, I-”
“Fuck off.” He barked, the words hitting you like stones.
The yard fell silent but for your pounding heart. You stood there, rooted to the dirt, staring at his back as he disappeared out of the clearing. The sword hung heavy in your hand, and it felt utterly useless.
You walked home with your fingers ghosting over your lips, the phantom heat of his mouth burning into you. No matter how you tried to banish the memory, it returned. The roughness of his beard, the way he’d kissed you back with such hunger, and the brutal force with which he’d shoved you away.
You still couldn't get it. None of it.
Your head spun, caught between shame and something dangerously like yearning.
By the time you reached the tavern, your hands trembled. You smoothed your hair back, wiped your palms on your skirts, tried to shake the thoughts from your mind. But your parents noticed.
Your mother looked you up and down as you entered the kitchen. “What’s got you floating about like a ghost?”
“Nothin’” you said too quickly, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the already clean counter.
Your father raised a brow but said nothing, simply watching you with those sharp eyes that saw more than you wished they did.
The day stretched endlessly. You served bread and wine, endured the jokes and jabs of the usual drunks, forced a smile when you had to. But your ears kept straining for heavy boots at the door, your eyes darting toward the shadowed corner where he always sat.
Sandor never came.
With every hour that passed, disappointment sank deeper into your chest, gnawing at you.
When the last client left and the shutters were bolted, you tried to slip upstairs to your bed. But your parents intercepted you before you could reach your door.
“You’ve been strange.” your father said, folding his arms.
“Strange.” your mother echoed. “Like you’re hiding something. Tell us the truth… are you seeing someone?”
Your heart jolted. Heat rose to your cheeks. “No!” you blurted, too loud, too defensive. “Seven hells, no. I’m just tired.”
They exchanged a look, unconvinced but decided not to press further.
You fled to your small room, shutting the door with a soft click. Your lips still tingled. You touched them again, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.
You wondered if he'd be at the training yard tomorrow. And if he was, you couldn’t tell whether you'd apologize or kiss him again.
…
The yard was quiet when you arrived, dew still clinging to the grass. As most of the times, Sandor wasn’t there waiting for you. You paced for a while, restless, then dropped to the ground and began your conditioning.
Push ups. Your arms trembled with the effort, but you forced yourself through each one, whispering numbers under your breath. Sweat rolled down your temple, the burn in your shoulders distracted you just enough.
The crunch of boots made you glance up. Sandor headed towards you, massive and imposing, his shadow swallowing the pale morning light.
“Guard up.” he said flatly, as though no day had passed, no kiss had happened.
You got to your feet but didn’t lift your sword. Instead, you drew a sharp breath. “We need to talk.”
His expression didn’t shift. “Guard up.” he repeated, already unsheathing his blade.
“I’m apologizing. Or trying to.” you said quickly, hands trembling as you gripped the hilt of your own sword.
Sandor lunged. Steel rang as you scrambled to block, but instead of parrying, you threw your sword on the ground and shoved him back with both hands against his chest.
“Did you hear me?” you snapped, breathless. “I said I’m apologizing!”
“I heard.” he growled, lowering his blade only slightly.
You stared at him, heart racing. “And that’s all?”
“That’s all.” he said, cold as stone. “I’m not going to feed your delusions.”
Your mouth hung open, and you scoffed. “I’m not delusional!”
He frowned, his scar twisting with the motion. “I won’t marry you, girl.”
The words stung, harsher than any strike he’d landed on you. You swallowed hard, chin lifting. “I’m not proposing. I’m attracted to you, that's all.”
His eye narrowed. “Is that some kind of joke?”
Before you could answer, his hand shot out, rough and calloused, clamping around your face. His palm engulfed your cheek and jaw, forcing you to look up at him.
“Look at me.” he snarled, voice low and dangerous.
Your breath hitched, his grip unyielding, his presence overwhelming. You couldn’t look anywhere else even if you wanted to.
His hand tightened the grip on your face, his eye burning into yours. For a long moment, it felt like he could crush you with nothing but his grip and the weight of his stare. Then his lip curled in a cruel way, but you knew it wasn't towards you. “You’ve knocked your head or something,” he muttered, voice dripping with contempt. “No one dares look at me twice.”
Your pulse thundered, but you didn’t flinch. “And yet here I am.”
His eye narrowed.
“I’m not scared of you,” you said softly, every word deliberate. “And I don’t think bad of you either.” You swallowed, forcing the lump in your throat down. “Even if you don’t get it… I like you.”
His jaw tightened. For a breath, you thought he might kiss you, even. Instead, he shoved your face away, disgust flashing across his scarred features.
“Piss off.”
“Sandor…!”
“Enough.” He snapped, stepping back, sword raised again. “Sword up.”
You hesitated, lips parting with another protest, but the look on his face stopped you cold. There was no room for argument. He was already on you, blade striking fast and hard. Reluctantly, you lifted your blade just in time, but his strength shook your bones. Again and again, he pressed, his blows merciless, your arms screaming from the effort of keeping upright. Words died on your tongue, replaced with the clash of steel, the snap of twigs beneath your boots and the sound of your own labored breathing.
For the first time, the training passed in silence. No growled corrections, no scornful remarks, no mocking laughs. Just steel clashing against steel, the heavy rhythm of his strikes battering against your guard, your own panting breath filling the spaces where his words should have been.
You fought until your muscles burned, until every movement was driven by instinct and sheer stubbornness. When finally you stumbled, he bore down harder, driving you back against the border of the clearing until your legs gave out and you collapsed into the grass.
He dropped beside you with a groan, both of you panting like beasts after a hunt.
Sandor dragged his wineskin from his belt and tipped it back, throat working as he drank. After a long pull, he held it out to you without a word.
Your hands trembled as you took it, the leather warm from his body. The wine burned as it slid down your throat, and you gave back the wineskin, pressing it back into his palm.
He drank again, and this time you didn’t look away. You watched the flex of his throat, the rough line of his scar catching in the sunlight, the way his hands wrapped around the wineskin. Everything about him should have repelled you. Instead, he looked unbearably appealing, so much it had you pressing your thighs together.
You didn’t dare say it, not now. So you lay back in the grass, chest heaving, stealing glances at him while he drank. The line of his throat as he swallowed, the flex of his jaw, the rough curve of his scar… it all kept your eyes tethered.
Sandor lowered the wineskin when he noticed. His dark eyes cut to yours, sharp even in exhaustion.
“Stop that.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even think of obeying. “Stop what?”
He scoffed at the top of his moodiness. “You fucking know what.” He frowned when you sat up. “Don’t.” he said again, firmer this time, like a warning.
“Was it so bad?” You asked, your voice hesitant but steady.
His mouth twisted into an ugly frown. “Piss off.”
Your chest tightened, but you didn’t relent. “You kissed me too!”
He muttered something low and harsh, half growl, half curse, the sound of a man who wanted to bite his own tongue out.
“Then why?” You pressed, leaning forward, your pulse thrumming.
Sandor glared at the ground, avoiding you, his scar hidden from your sight. “You know why.”
You shook your head, fierce now. “No. I want to hear it from you. Say it.”
He didn’t. His silence grew thick. He just breathed, heavy and rough, like a war drum inside his chest.
“Say it.”
Still nothing.
So you shifted, heat building in your stomach. You crawled the small distance across the dirt until you were sitting in front of him, your knees brushing against his. His whole frame went rigid, like he was trying not to exist at all.
You tilted your chin up, eyes locked on his as you reached forward to grab his hand. He looked at your hand, small when compared to his, then looked back up at you, half disgusted, half in disbelief.
“The hell you’re doing?”
Warmth and blush crept up your neck to your cheeks. “I’m trying to seduce you.” You admitted. You’d learned not to overstep his boundaries.
“You look ridiculous.” He almost chuckled, but you didn’t look away. “Like you gon faint.”
You chuckled too, but not once thought of stopping. You got on your knees, moving even closer to him, standing in between his legs. He had to tilt his head backwards to keep his eyes on yours, and you felt like you were indeed about to faint.
“You’re not stopping me.” You stated the obvious. The hint of humor on his face died, but still he didn’t move, waiting. Maybe he’d never be the one to make the first move, but you wanted him too bad to care. “Prey.”
His gaze wandered over your face, slow and heavy, burning holes through you, hungry and hunted. His jaw clenched. He shook his head once, rough, like he was spitting out a bad taste.
“Seven hells… you’re dumb.” he rasped.
But he didn’t move you. Didn’t shove you. Didn’t even breathe right. He muttered something under his breath, something that sounded like a curse, and one of his huge hands finally lifted. Not to push you away, but to grip your hip, firm and possessive, tugging you closer.
The air seemed to crackle between you. His other hand came up, cupping the back of your head, dragging you forward until your mouth met his. It was no soft peck this time. His lips crushed yours, all hunger and fury, like he’d been starving.
And he didn’t stop.
His mouth claimed yours, harsh and hungry, and for a moment you almost forgot how to breathe. There was no gentleness in him, though he was far from the brute he was when you first met. Now there was only heat and demand.
You gasped against him, and he took the chance to deepen the kiss, tongue touching yours. His beard scraped your skin, his breath hot, his hand fisted tight in your hair.
You shifted, getting even closer, your thighs between his, and the growl that rumbled low in his chest made you dizzy and weak on the legs. He muttered against your lips, curses tangled with your name, like he hated himself for pulling you closer.
When his hands left your hips, they were everywhere at once, dragging down your back, gripping on your butt, sliding up your ribs with rough, callused palms. He was so big you felt consumed by him, every touch swallowing you whole, every touch of his hands felt feverish.
You broke the kiss, breathless, staring at him. His face was shadowed, torn between fury and want, scars pulling tight with the snarl on his lips. “Girl…” he rasped, but this time it sounded more like a plea than a warning.
“Stop me if you must.” you whispered, even though it was him leading you, not the opposite.
He didn’t stop either way.
Instead, he pulled you into his lap, hands on your thighs. You could laugh at the irony of it. He’d hide his scars and his eyes from you, but then he’d get you on his lap just so you could feel how hard you got him. He wanted you, and that he would not hide.
You kissed him once more, just as fierce, just as desperate. His hands were rough, fumbling, but there was no doubt, no turning back. For once, Sandor didn’t hold anything back.
Your hands, that were resting on his chest, traveled down to feel the bulge on his pants. Sandor was startled, and he pulled back to grip both your wrists with a hand.
“You have no clue what you doing, do you?”
“Never said I did. I want to feel you.”
And so you did. Your fingers traced the hard line of his jaw, his rough beardscraping against your fingers. You felt the heat of his skin, the thrum of his pulse beneath your touch. His eyes, dark and heavy, watched your every move, a strange mix of apprehension and raw desire warring in their depths.
You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his scarred mouth, then traced his lips with your fingers. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound that vibrated through you, making your small clothes uncomfortably wet. The hint of chest hair peaking through his collar was just killing you. You unbuttoned his shirt slowly, just slow enough that he’d be able to stop you, but praying he wouldn’t. Sandor was ripped, but not in the way you expected warriors to be. His chest was puffy, he had just a bit of belly, not only muscles. The sight got you salivating. You touched his chest, your fingers playing with the dark thick hair in there. His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between your bodies.
"Seven hells, girl..." he rasped, his voice thick with a hunger that mirrored your own. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth found yours again, hotter, deeper, more demanding than before.
His fingers left your hair, roaming down your shoulders and chest, and down further, pulling at the laces of your breeches, pushing them down to your thighs. A gasp escaped you as his calloused fingers brushed against your cunt, sending a shiver through you. He muttered curses against your lips, words you couldn’t quite decipher but understood nonetheless.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, eyes glazed with a desperate need. “Sandor…”
His gaze was fierce, raw, almost primal. "This what you wanted, hm?" he warned, his voice a low rumble.
You only nodded, unable to speak, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, shame making your face burn. His other hand found your hip, steading you, his big fingers rubbing your clit slowly like torture, making you arch into his touch.
You whimpered, a small sound lost in the growing heat between you. He pressed harder, stroking with a deliberate slowness that drew a gasp from your lips. Your legs trembled as you fought the shaming urge to grind against his fingers.
When Sandor leaned forward, you thought he was about to kiss you again, but he didn’t. His hand went from your naked hip to your breast, pulling down your blouse just enough to free them, then touch them, almost kneading it before he took one of them into his mouth. It was so unexpected you had to cover your mouth with both hands to muffle a gasp and a moan.
His thumbs brushed your nipples, the sudden sensation was almost too much, a sweet agony that made your head loll back. You whimpered again, a low, needy sound that you barely recognized as your own. Sandor’s eyes, dark and heavy lidded, watched your reaction. He leaned in closer, his hot breath ghosting across your ear. "You’re desperate." he rasped, his voice a low, rough growl that sent shivers down your spine.
“I want more.” As soon as the words left your lips, you felt one of his fingers sliding inside of you. And another. You nodded, letting him know that was enough for now. And you shamelessly rode his fingers. “I feel like… I’m…-”
“I’ve got you, girl.”
He watched you, every single thing about you, as you rode his fat fingers until you came on them. You arching into his hand, every nerve ending firing, the pleasure the most intense you had ever felt. His thumb worked a relentless rhythm against your clit, milking every secpnd of your orgasm, his fingers a sweet pressure deep inside, your body shivering with a release that stole your breath and emptied your mind. You clung to him, gasping, light-headed, the aftershocks rippling through you long after the peak. When you came down from the high, you saw his face, still shadowed, but his eyes were on you, raw and hard, and for a terrifying, exhilarating moment, you knew he had seen everything. All of it. And still, he hadn’t looked away.
“Sandor…” You started, but it died down. He eased you down on his lap, and it didn’t help at all. You couldn't think straight, not after all, not while he had that look on his eyes.
“Still want mor’?” You wanted to say yes, a thousand times yes, but the words wouldn’t come. You could only nod, your throat tight with a desperate plea. His gaze, still fierce and raw, seemed to devour you.
Sandor rolled to the side, easing you on the ground, one hand on the back of your head. It was not the most comfortable place, but you could not care less. Sandor chewed on his lip after taking off your breeches and small clothes completely, even your boots were now lost somewhere you didn’t care to look at. And you, obviously, ogled shamelessly while he finished taking off his shirt,your eyes traveling everywhere on his chest, shoulders, arms… everywhere, as if you were scared he'd change his mind and leave. But he didn’t. He went ahead and undid the simple lace of his pants.
“Yer shameless.”
“Don’t care.” His hands were big, just like the bulge on his pants. You propped up on your elbows to get an even better view. “Take them off.”
…
The door to your room closed with a soft click, shutting out the sounds coming from the kitchen and salon downstairs. You leaned against the door for a moment, your hair still wet from the bath, still tasting him in your mind. Your fingers brushed over your lips unconsciously, heat rushing to your cheeks as memory after memory replayed, sharp and vivid. If you were to touch every part of your body Sandor had put his lips on…
You shivered when you thought of his hands on you, rough and commanding, and the way his body had pressed against yours. Some muscles ached pleasantly, reminding you of every thrust, every grasp, every heated kiss and bite. Others pulsed with soreness that made your skin tingle in the best way, proof of what had happened.
Your thoughts drifted to the future. Training wouldn’t be the same anymore. You already suffered with the awareness of his strength, his presence, and now also with the memory of how close you had been. Your pulse quickened just remembering it.
You climbed into bed, pulling the covers up yourself, trying to calm the fluttering inside. And even as your body relaxed, your mind raced. How would you face him tomorrow? Could you focus on the sword, or would your attention betray you again? Still, a small, mischievous smile touched your lips.
…
The days blended together after that morning. Training no longer began with silence and ended with sweat, now there were hands against hips, kisses stolen between swings, his growl in your ear when you dared linger too close. Sometimes he pushed you against a tree and training would be done, giving place to something else. Other times, in the thick of sparring, he would catch your wrist, twist your blade aside, and instead of shoving you into the dirt, his mouth would be on yours, hot and demanding. There was no part of your body the Hound hadn’t kissed, bitten, licked, gripped or fucked.
You started getting late at the tavern. At first, your parents scolded you, worried you were getting reckless. Then they noticed the hickeys on your body, the exhaustion that clung to you. You brushed their questions off with talk of “long walks” and “supplies,” but the truth was that every morning you ended up on top of Sandor, or under him.
When you lay in bed after training, body sore and warm, you caught yourself wondering. Was this what sins were supposed to feel like?
The thought frightened you almost as much as it thrilled you.
Sandor still came to the tavern most nights. When there weren't many customers, you'd sit with him and talk. That night, the tavern was strangely empty, but you didn’t care for any of it. You carried your cup of wine straight to his table, slipping into the chair across from him. He leaned back, one arm draped over the chair, his scars deepened by the flickering firelight.
You sipped slowly, savoring the burn. It had become a quiet ritual between you, stealing moments after the training, after the sweat, after everything.
“You look too damn pleased with yourself.” Sandor muttered, eyeing you.
“Do I?" you played dumb, lips curling. But you were. Your body didn’t ache like it used to, your arms and legs felt strong. Every morning you woke eager, knowing he’d be there, knowing the way his gaze lingered on you, the weight of being wanted.
But Sandor shifted, leaning forward, voice lower. “No training tomorrow.”
The words caught you off guard. “Why not?”
“Stannis.” he grunted, spitting the name like bile. “He’s bringing his ships to Blackwater Bay. Whole city’s about to lose its head.”
You blinked, the warmth in your chest cooling. “So… I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, then?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the wine in his hand, jaw working, but no words came. The silence pressed down between you, heavier than steel, and it followed you to bed, hours later, heavy on your shoulders.
The tavern had gone still. The whole city had. Your family huddled inside, lanterns dim, the smell of ale and smoke heavy in the air. You couldn’t sleep. All you did was, once again, sit on your window, peering out into the dark.
An hour dragged by. Then two. Dawn came, and even though Sandor had not confirmed he’d be at your training spot, you decided to go. You needed to. Every step you took, you hoped Sandor would be there when you arrived.
He wasn’t. Not all of him.
His Hound helm sat on the hilt of his sword, resting against the big rock you’d sit on top of to watch while he trained. You took it, the iron cold on your hands, and it dawned on you that last night was the last time you saw him, and that it’d stay like this indefinitely.
The silence on the clearing was unsettling, worse than the Sandor’s mean words.
You set the hound helm on top of the rock, watching you. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” You muttered. Then you dropped to the ground, the motion already familiar by now, your palms against the dirt as you pushed your own weight up and started counting.
“One, two, three…”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
open ending, i knowwww
ive wrote and thought of many endings but every one ended up with sandor surviving gregor or something alike and then coming back to reader and ive just posted something very similar so i didnt want them to be alike, sorry
i really like to think reader (shortly after sandor leaves) finds out shes pregnant and raises his baby girl till he comes back a few years later
also like to think sandor didnt come to the tavern the day they first kissed because he was jerking off to it somewhere else
pls buy me a coffee byee
