Iāve been dabbling in some Sandor nsfw stories and figured Iād share a bit of one. Credit to @olivianightingale for posting the gif.Ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā It had been a long day for The Hound, what with that greasy cunt of a king deciding to act especially cruel to the little Stark bird. It had mounted a large amount of annoyance on the large man to watch without the ability to do anything. If there were any worth that came from the Lannister name, not in the form of coin, it would be Tyrion. Only he had stepped in to do anything.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Still, Sandor Clegane found it hard to dismiss his frustration as he made his final lap to his room. There were few inhabited rooms in this reach of the castle. Most had begged to share a room rather than share a hall with the dreaded shield of the King. When the Starks had arrived in Winterfell they had brought the No-Born with them. Either out of Catelyn Starkās dismissal or some other fuck-all reason. The only thing that really mattered was that the little cunt now lived in his hallway.
I like this drawing so much and it gives me such a sense of serenity that I couldn't resist. I had to write something. And I just let the words flow <3 <3 <3
Fragment below the cut. 900 words.
**************************
It was very late.Ā
It had to be, at the very least, the hour of the owl. Yet each time you read that book, the same thing would happen. You devoured its pages with a smile upon your lips, until the candles burned low and stole away their feeble light. Or until exhaustion closed your eyelids, and the book, filled with tales of gallant knights and fair maidens, fell languidly upon your chest. It seemed to spill its stories there, for you always ended up dreaming of its chivalrous romances.
That night, moreover, you were waiting for him.Ā
You had not seen each other all day. A royal hunting party had ridden out at dawn, and Sandor, as the kingās sworn shield, had been bound to ride with them. What folly, to set out that day, with the ceaseless rain and the roads turned to mire.
For a moment, you gazed through the arched window. You liked to keep the curtains drawn back to see the sky. It seemed the rain had ceased, yet the night looked bitterly cold. You pulled your thick woolen blanket up to your waist, and it was then that a soft knocking came at your door.
āWho is it?ā you asked.
āItās me,ā came his rough, rasping voice.
āIt 's open.ā
A grunt came before the heavy door creaked open. The man entered, muttering under his breath that you ought not leave the door unlatched, that it was dangerous, that he had told you so a hundred timesā¦ But his ill-tempered mood faded as he looked up and saw you. His eyes lit with the brightness of a man beholding the most beautiful thing he had seen all day. The way your loose hair fell over your shoulders always made his stubbornness go weak.
With a clearing of his throat, he shook his head and looked away as he busied himself with taking off his leather jerkin. You picked up your book and pretended to read on, a half-smile playing on your lips as you tried to avoid staring at his barrel chest. When he sat at the edge of the bed to pull off his boots, you spoke again.
āRough day?ā
He grunted, finding trouble with his laces.Ā
āThe worst.ā
āDid you manage to catch anything?ā
āA boar,ā he muttered. āThe bugger was as stubborn as they come. Hard to bring downā¦ and of course the little brat took all the credit.ā
"And who actually brought it down?" You asked.Ā
Sandor turned and gave you a look in answer. A soft laugh escaped you, and you leaned back into the pillows, setting the candlesticks aside, for you knew he would be reluctant to draw near them. Then, you gave him a small gesture, bidding him rest upon you.Ā
The manās eyes lingered on you, uncertain. It was almost amusing how, even after all this time, he still felt the need to reconfirm your permission before laying his head on your chest. As if, each time he did, he feared he might stain your purity with the weight of his grim and sorrowful existence.
"Come here," you invited clearly, lifting the blanket with a soft pat upon you.Ā
At that, he did not hesitate. He laid the unscarred side of his face over your heart and let out a long, deep sigh.
āIām so tiredā¦ā he whispered.
His closed eyes bore a serenity seldom seen in him. Without a word, you raked your fingers through his dark locks. You were certain he had bathed before coming to you, for his curls carried the scent of fresh soap mingled with worn leather. A small sound of contentment escaped him at your caresses, and his too-large arms slipped behind your back, holding you tightly and nuzzling into your warmth, as though he had longed all day for it.
āI swear by the Seven buggers, one day Iāll steal you away, and weāll be gone from this wretched place,ā he then muttered.Ā You let out a brief little laugh, thinking he was jesting. But he was far from it. If only you knew...
Sweetly, you kept stroking his hair, while with your other hand you held up the book to go on reading. You barely noticed he was looking at the pages when he rasped again.
āFlorian and his cāā he caught himself, āJonquil again?ā
āI like this book,ā you defended, though you knew he was only pretending. You had spoken of this so many times that, by now, it had become little more than a gentle tease shared between the two of you.
āItās a load of nonsenseā¦ā
"You were the one who gave it to me," you tilted your head to find his eyes, only to see they were already closed once again.
āBecause I know you like itā¦ā his voice was barely more than a whisper now, weakened by exhaustion. āBut believe me, those romances donāt exist. Youāll never find a man like thatā¦ā
He exhaled again, a long and heavy breath this time, before falling completely into slumber. And so deeply did he seem to sleep, that he didnāt notice when you leaned forward and placed a soft, gentle kiss on his brow.
āBelieve me, Sandor,ā you whispered with a smile, āIāve found one far better.ā
Summary: The Hound takes you with him as he flees King's Landing. Exhausted, he decides to stop at an inn along the road to rest. The man seems to hate you with every fiber of his being. Or at least, thatās what you think until you see him trapped in a terrible nightmare. Is he dreaming about his brother?
Word count: 1350
Warning: lady f!reader x grumpy sandor clegane; nightmares; angst; fluff
English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes I might make. Constructive feedback is welcomed, I am here to share and learn <3
The flame flickers and trembles as you bring your lips close and blow it out.
You've always liked the smell of hot wax. The hints of honey and resin remind you of the warm, homely nights in the Red Keep. The comfort of your chambers, the soft safety of your bedroomā¦ A sad smile touches your lips as you think of how distant those luxuries feel now.
You blink a few times in the blackness before peering at the huge form sprawled across the bed. The man sleeps like a log, flat on his back with an arm draped over his forehead and his feet hanging off the edge of the mattress. Being so damn tall definitely has its drawbacks.
Barefoot, you tiptoe toward the bed and flinch when the wooden floor creaks beneath you. The woolen blanket smells of dust, and its texture feels rough against your delicate fingers. As you lift it, your eyes land on a white, rounded shape resting right next to the man's body. He has had the decency to place a pillow between you. A barrier, should you decide to lie beside him. "How thoughtful," you think wryly.
Everything seems like a cruel joke of fate.
You never thought the first time youād ever spend a night alone with a man would be in some rundown inn, lost in the middle of nowhere. You never thought it would be with a man who curses your presence at every opportunity he gets. And above all, of all the men in Westeros, you never thought it would beā¦ the Hound.
****
"Donāt even think about waking me unless itās life or death," he had growled the moment you stepped into the room. "The road ahead is full of bastards worse than me. Murderers, thieves, rapists. If I donāt rest, I wonāt be able to kill them. And if I donāt kill them, youāll have to deal with them yourself. Trust me, girl, you donāt want that. So donāt piss me off,ā he had said while undoing the buckles of his armor. You just nodded and watched him, squirming every time a plate fell to the floor.
The weeks before this had been a nightmare. Robberies, attempted kidnappings, ambushes, endless chases. The Hound hadnāt had a momentās rest in days. You, however, survived on brief naps, stealing what little sleep you could by resting your head against his chestplate as you rode. He never complained about that. What he did complain about was your constant whining. Your grumbling about the lack of comfort and the pitiful lamenting of your voice over your sorry state as a fugitive.Ā
"Quit your sniveling," he said.
"Shouldāve left you behind. Wouldāve spared me a whole fucking lot of headaches."
"Damn the moment I ever decided to bring you along..."
Alright, you got it. The man hated you. And you despised him just as much, probably more. All you both wanted was to put this whole damn journey behind you, reach your destination -whatever it was- and never see each other again. But to make it there alive, he had to sleep, and that meant no interruptionsā¦
****
You slide into bed, barely daring to breathe. The blanket beneath you is warm and softer than it looks, though the mattress seems like itās been there since Aegon the Conqueror. You cling to the edge of the bed with your back turned to him, fighting the pull of gravity that threatens to roll you toward him. The rhythmic breathing of the Hound turns into a soft snore behind you. Without thinking, you press your back against the pillow that lies between you. Your tired eyes flutter shut, gradually drifting into a light stupor.
The broad, smooth back of a giant black stallion rocks beneath you, metal gauntlets holding you steady, preventing you from tumbling offā¦
A gruff, annoyed grunt rouses you from sleep. Did you wake him? You donāt dare to look. You shrink into yourself, trying to take up as little space as possible, careful not to bother him. Thereās a moment of silence and you curl into the sheets, trying to drift off. But then you hear him again. A pained sound this time. Behind you, his massive frame shifts and writhes.
āN-noā¦ā he mutters, breathing heavily.
Confused, you turn your head to look at him.
Cold sweat slicks his furrowed brow, and his face is contorted in a surly grimace, but his eyes remain closed. You let out a quiet breath of relief, happy to avoid his furious temper for waking him. But just as you start to settle back into your position, you notice his head jerking side to side, struggling on his pillow.
Heās having a nightmare. And judging by how desperately his body moves, a bad one.
āNo,ā he mumbles again, and you canāt help but feel sorry for him as you watch his Adamās apple tremble with nervousness.
The Hound is a man haunted by his past. Youāve heard the stories about how his brother had shoved his head into a fire when they were kids, tales you can't quite tell if they are truth or mere legend. Gods know what horrible memories heās fighting offā¦
For a moment, you consider waking him, wondering if it might be worth the sacrifice of your own peace for his well-being. But before you can do anything, his voice shatters in his throat.
āGet away from her!āĀ he shouts in terror, fingers clawing at the sheets.
Your eyes go wide, and you sit up fully to face him. The Hound is awkwardly reaching for his left side, hand fumbling as if seeking the hilt of his sword.Ā
And then, he desperately calls out your name.
Your breath catches in your lungs.Ā
He is dreaming of you.
Dreaming of you in danger.
āYou wonāt have her, sheās with me!" he growls again, pleading for you to stay behind him.
You stand rigid, unsure of what to do, and then his body twitches violently with a broken, pained groan.
āNoā¦ let her go,ā he mumbles pathetically, legs kicking as though trying to run. āPleaseā¦ ā
He is begging. And you are witnessing it. You have to do something, and quickly.
Carefully, you push the pillow aside and slip your hand under his, settling it on his hip where his missing sword should be. His fingers entwine with yours in a grip so tight it hurts.
The gesture seems to calm him, but not enough. He keeps mumbling a string of words you canāt understand. You lean in a little closer, and your free hand hovers over his agitated chest for a moment before gently resting there. The rapid pounding of his heart thunders in the palm of your hand, and you press down, trying to ground him.Ā The warmth of his linen tunic feels so different from the cold steel of his breastplate...
āSandor, Iām safe, Iām here with you,ā you whisper. Itās the first time you call him by his name.Ā
His scowl instantly relaxes, and his breathing begins to even out into steady, slow breaths.Ā You stay there for several minutes, holding his chest and whispering softly until you feel his pulse thump more regularly beneath your hand. Then you slowly pull it from his chest and lie back in the bed, turning away from him and leaving the pillow barrier gone.
In his sleep, his hand searches for yours on his chest. When he doesn't find it, he rolls onto his side until his body is pressed against your back. His arms, strong as oak branches, wrap around your waist and fit your body against his, tucking the top of your head beneath his chin. Then his hands move to your belly and curl around invisible reins, caging you between his forearms and holding you tight, making sure you donāt slip from the saddle.
...............
Thanks for reading! <3
What do you think? A comment would give me life and encourage me to write more :)
ACoK Chapter 18: Sansa found herself thinking of Lady again. She could smell out falsehood, she could, but she was dead ...
four pages later: The Hound escorted her across the drawbridge. As they were winding their way up the steps, she said, āWhy do you let people call you a dog? You wonāt let anyone call you a knight.ā ... Sandor Clegane snorted. āPretty thing, and such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie ...ā
18+ explicit | fuck or die trope, loss of virginity, vaginal fingering, cussing, alcohol, angst if you squint, way too much exposition in between
Synopsis: To punish you rather than reward him, King Joffrey has imposed on you the task to make the Hound happy.
A/N: sorry for the wait y'all, wrote this on the phone from my hospital bed. so yeah this isn't as good as I wish it were
Dividers by @saradika-graphics, thank you very much!
Finally, this tedious fucking day is over.
The Hound marches towards his room with haste, you can hear the distinct rumbling of his firm strides in the hallway long before he arrives.
Upon entering, in spite of his usual sharp senses, he doesn't spot you right away, instead wearily starting to unstrap his armor right in the threshold.
You straighten up once he fully steps into the room, presenting yourself in a way you thought to be appealing to a man. Not that you had any experience spare for advice whispered among the other laborers.
"What the fuck is the meaning of this?"
Unimpressed by your obvious intentions, Sandor furrows his one good brow as he quickly eyed you up and down. Definetly no weapons on you, but maybe somewhere near to reach. Better not to drop his guard yet, especially with the innocent looking.
You were certainly a sight for sore eyes, that much he admits, wearing a thin gown that did absolutely nothing to hide what laid beneathe. It barely covered most of your delicately oiled skin, nipples tenting the fabric due to the slight breeze that crept through the castle walls.
But while your choice of clothing definetly left nothing to the imagination, your mere presence in his vincinity was so sorely out of place that it left the seasoned warrior on high alert.
And the longer he observes you, his initial confusion quickly shifted into his default emotion: anger.
"Welcome, Ser" you answer, humbly gazing to the ground yet carrying yourself with grace nonetheless. "I've been awaiting you."
"Spare me the false courtesies" the man spat, walking straight past you to grab the full pitcher of wine he urged some frightened servant to prepare for him in advance. Could be poisoned for all he knows, but it's not that he values his life over the sweet numbness of drunkenness.
If he had to choose, aside of falling in battle, that'd definetly be his favoured way to go out.
"Get lost" he grumbles lowy then, taking a huge sip straight from the source. His best guess is that Lord Tyrion was behind this farce, and that you were an unwilling whore sent to appease him. After all, that lil' fucker thinks every man is just one wet cunt away from being fixed. "And do tell the imp if he tries shite like this again, I'll cut off his cock and shove it down his throat."
Now it's your turn to look at him with meek bewilderment.
You had thought him - or any man, really - to take the offer without question. "I-I don't understand" you stammer, nervously tugging on the blanket. "Am I not to your liking?"
The Hound scowls at the ridiculous question, baring his teeth with barely veiled scorn - however the prominent bulge lining out his trousers speaks a whole different language.
"Yer' shaking like a leaf, girl" is all he says in response, voice oddly sympathetic. He may be infamous for many vile deeds, but not this. Never this.
Just because he's a killer doesn't make him a rapist as well. But people love to assume that one prone to violence would also indulge in manhandling others in more perverse ways, especially a man so repugnant that he wouldn't ever be able to court properly. Also, his brother having gained the men of House Clegane a certain reputation certainly didn't help.
Not biding you another look, he slumps down on a stool far away from the bed you are seated, wiping the crimson stains of liquor from his beard. "I don't like to repeat myself. So fuck off and let me sleep."
There was a long pause of silence, filled only with your frantic, shaky breaths - just that your fear was not caused by the man in front of you.
"I can't-" you finally admit, knees pulling to your chest in an attempt to soothe yourself. "The King, he-he told me to please you, or else..."
The air is heavy with your revelation, Sandor's impassive faƧade crumbling into utter shock before ire settled in every wrinkle of his face.
Why did he always have to be involved in the whims of that insolent little shit?
The Hound liked his position as kingsguard for the sole reason that it kept a roof over his head, his stomach filled and the ale flowing. Oppurtunistic was not quite the right word to put it, but he certainly wouldn't go out of his way to avoid harming someone if that's the easiest option.
Not like he ever knew anything else, violence was his only trade afterall, and also the sole thing that gave him a fleeting satisfaction. He did it without remorse, without care of whether the one at the other end of his sword was deserving of his brutality.
Maybe in his own twisted way he was saving those weaklings the pain of living in this shit world dominated by monsters like himself. After all, whatever followed after, if anything, can't be worse than this.
But the little honor he had left would never allow him to torment people in such deranged ways.
"Then stay" he grunts with a dismissive wave of his hand, tossing himself on the mattress and gesturing for you to sleep on the floor. How chivalrous. But he wouldn't trust himself being this close to such a temptation all night. He was but a man after all. "And tomorrow you'll go and whine to the King about how badly the Hound has mauled you. Understood?"
You do not move from where you're positioned on the bed, fists tightly balled in the sheets. "B-but Ser, the King...he will check, he said so."
For a fraction, the Hound was rendered completely stunned, not even correcting you adressing him with this loathed title.
"You're not broken in yet..." Sandor indignantly voices the obvious, and you nod with a pitiful snivel.
He looked like he was about to snap every moment. Jaw set, nostrils flaring, a vein on his temple seeming like it was about to burst. You started dreading that this whole predicament enraged him to the point where you'd be at the receiving end of it.
Some servants are kept pure so their virginity can be gifted. Not in marriage, far from it, but as reward to knights mostly, for a job well done.
This however was surely no gift for Sandor's oh so loyal work, no. It was a punishment. For you.
"What'd you do?" You flinch at his booming voice, a sight he is well used to. The man brings more distance between you as sign of goodwill. "Does it matter?"
"I suppose not..." he trails off, handling you the pitcher. You hesistantly accept, though only managing to take two or three sips, grimacing at the sour taste before handling it back.
Sandor however chugs the whole rest in one go, feeling his insides rise to his throat as he leaps up with an aggravated sigh.
"Fine" he begrudgingly declares, tossing his boots in some corner of the room before frantically working on his belt. "But we do it my way."
Get it over with quickly, he thinks, take you from behind so you can focus on the sensation rather than having to look at the grotesque monstrosity that is his face.
On the other hand, though, a woman like you deserved a proper bedding and not to be taken like a common whore.
Gods, Sandor wants to do right by you, he really does, even if he doesn't know what that means or how to proceed.
"...the other girls said it would be painful" you chime in a bit anxious, to which he merely scoffs. "Bullshite. They just haven't been fucked properly."
As if he knew anything about pleasing a woman.
His words were meant to calm your worries, but the bitter truth is his only experience was exaggerated tales of mercenaries when the young pup was still in training, and later venting off his urges on whores desperate enough to accept his coin, who'd still wince and retch at every move he'd make.
He ignores the insecure apprehension growing in the back of his mind as he pulls the bloodied black tunic over his head, leaving him in nothing but his briefs.
The Hound was as broad as an oak, a pile of muscle covered in scars of different size and origin. Dark hair was growing like fur on his chest and down his navel, matching his nickname. He had a belly, probably from consuming so much alcohol, but this did nothing to diminish his imposing form nonetheless. He might as well be a bear, it seems more fitting.
You cannot help but stare, biting your lip as he loomed at the edge of the bed, growing restless under your scrutiny. "Not the gallant knight you imagined to take your innocence, huh?" he asks with a dry, mirthless chuckle. You're probably disgusted enough as is.
"I think you're quite handsome, in a way." It surprised yourself how instantaneously you admitted this, but he didn't seem flattered by the notion.
"Careful, girl..." he warns at what he thinks is either cruel mockery or blatant lie, one massive hand lingering on your throat with his thumb over your pulse point. Not squeezing. Yet. "Don't push your luck. I can still just fuck you bloody and be done with it."
"...you wouldn't hurt me, would you?"
That gives him pause, seeing unwavering faith as you gaze up at a man able to break your neck like a twig. He might not have done much yet to earn it, but the choice between putting your trust in the Hound opposed to the horrors Joffrey would undoubtedly inflict on you was an easy one.
"...no." Sandor shakes his head slowly, remorsefull even, hand retreating from where it rested on your windpipe. "Not if you behave. So shut it."
Eventually, the man climbed onto the bed with you, bedframe creaking under his massive weight. He puts a firm hand behind your head as he carefully has you lie on your back, the other ripping that gauzy joke of a chemise right down the middle.
The Hound's touch was nothing like in the old tales and ballads of a knight's trembling hands, skimming in reverence across their lover's body. He wasn't exactly gentle, albeit there was leniency in the way he restrained his strenght while kneading and squeezing on every dip and curve of your exposed skin.
Sandor watches intently as you writhe beneath him, goosebumps prickling on your skin and small little gasps escaping you from just so little.
By the gods, this is absurd, an ugly old brute like himself being granted such a sweet little thing as you were one.
"Soft..." he murmurs absentmindedly, fingers digging at the inside of your thigh, wondering if you'd feel just the same wrapped around his cock.
You gasp as he lets his digits trail across your mound, parting it just enough to sink one of his thick fingers inside.
"Breathe..." he reminds you as another one joins to prepare you, fingers curling slightly around a spot that makes your walls clench around them. "You're doing good, so good..."
The Hound's unexpected praise makes your heart flutter, but you can't dwell too much on it as the sensation of him pumping in and out robs you of any coherent thought.
Such a beautiful sight you are, one he only ever allowed himself to dream about late at night while taking himself in his own fist: A woman to make those sweet sounds for him, who'd look at him as if he wasn't the most despicable man in the Seven Kingdoms.
But you don't. You lie there with your eyes closed, mouth slightly agape as all kinds of noises falling from your lips. Oh how he'd love to feel them on his mouth, his body, his cock, anywhere really.
Maybe he should just make you cum on his fingers, spare you the rest.
But then, wanting to make him feel good as well, you reach out to clumsily stroke the bulge in his briefs. Seven hells.
Sandor's hips move on their own accord, greedily bucking his hips into your palm like a damned mutt in heat. Can't dangle a bloodied steak in front of a starved dog and expect that he wouldn't sink his fangs into it.
Fuck it. Rarely anything good ever happens in his shit life, and certainly nothing remotely this good. Might as well enjoy this as it lasts.
"Dirty girl..." He groans in satisfaction, pulling out with an obscenely wet pop and you whine at the sudden emptiness. "Made a mess all over me."
"S-sorry" you hiccup, hiding your face behind your hands in embarassment. Cute.
"No need to be." Sandor licks his fingers clean with a wolfish grin on his face, humming contently as his tonge savours your taste. "Sweetest cunt I ever had."
"Do-on't be so vulgar!" you protest, softly flicking his chest which only makes him laugh more. It's hard not to join in.
All things considered, the Hound was not nearly like you expected.
According to his reputation, he should've pounded on you the second he entered this room, ravish you like a beast that'd only be incited by your suffering.
That you'd only leave after bleeding much more than just your virgin blood, if you were to get out alive at all.
But up until now he behaved mindful, caring and much more honorable than any 'real' knight you'd ever seen.
However that conclusion proves volatile as soon as Sandor rids himself of the last piece of clothing, his daunting manhood springing free in all it's glory.
"W-wait..." you stammer, eyes widening like a deer in front of a canine at his sheer size and width.
"Don't swoon on me already" the man teases as he aligns himself with your entrance, but your legs trash around skittishly. "Tha-at's not funny! You're gonna split me in half!"
"Tell me to stop and that I'll do." His voice is way softer now, as is his gaze, dark eyes locking with yours as his thumbs draw reassuring patterns across your skin. "I promise."
You want to believe that, and he didn't give you a reason not to. So you nod, hesistant but trusting, thus allowing him to proceed.
Soon his hand slide up either side of your thighs until they settle on your hips, keeping you in place without force. You squirm a little as he slides his member across your folds, coating it with your slick for easier entrance.
Sandor spews countless profanities under his breath as he sheathes himself inside of you, inch for agonizing inch. You arch your back as good as you can to endure the feeling of being stretched like no other man ever could hope to reach. He keeps circling the little bundle of nerves on the outside of your womanhood, the sheer pleasure of his touch easing you into accepting him fully.
"Taking me so well..." he praises, stilling when he is finally settled completely. One hand goes flat under your navel, feeling where his huge rod bulges you so neatly. "Ready?"
"Y-yes, do it...please."
Sandor lets out a shaky breath, leaning over your much smaller frame as he slowly begins to thrust his hips against yours. It doesn't hurt, on the contrary you feel an odd heat stirring your insides as he continues moving.
You're chest to chest now, feeling the bulk of his muscle and the heat radiating off of it. He buries his face in the crook of your neck as if to hide the ugliness he carries inside and out, still wary one proper look of yours would destroy everything.
You however cannot shake off the realization how oddly safe it feels to be in his embrace.
Not knowing what to do with your hands you put them on his body, nails softly ghosting across his back and up his neck, stopping just shy from where his skin blends into scars. Your touch is so foreignly tender, his instincts tell him to bark at you to keep your fucking hands to yourself.
But he couldn't bring himself to do it, instead growing even more ferocious in his methods.
"Good, so fucking good..." He grits between labored breaths, fanning the sweat-stained skin of your collarbone. "...too good for a dog like me."
Strands of his hair dance across your face as he ruts into you feverishly now, his hipbone grinding against your clit only adding to your pleasure. You rake your nails across his scalp, giving it a slight tug to beckon him into looking up from his trance.
"S-Sandor...?"
The Hound almost didn't stop, his real name being used so rarely these days it stopped felling like it belonged to him entirely. But the way you say it, it makes his heart soar. Frightening.
"What now, woman?!" he snaps unintentionally, ever the ill-tempered dog, yet for a change not hatred but dread has him react so visceral.
Are you hurt somehow? Gods, is he really that awful? He's trying, damn it!
"...kiss me."
The man looks at you completely forlorn, like that'd be his undoing, as if you'd just asked him to impale himself on his own sword.
Venomous words are on his tongue before he can mull them over, ready to be used not much unlike his blade. A force of habit that's hard to put down in such a raw situation, after helping him endure for so long. But then he lets out an aggravated groan, before his mouth crashes over yours in a desperate kind of passion.
The kiss is searing, a bit clumsy but no less impactful in his attempt to mark you completely. His lips are swallowing every sound of yours, his own moans vibrating against your throat as his tongue demands entrance.
He keeps reminding himself that you both are forced to do this, but the fantasy of you willingly giving yourself to him is simply too compelling.
Let him pretend to be wanted just for tonight.
It doesn't take much longer now, with the two of you so avidly entangled in each other and Sandor's relentless efforts to please the only person that ever treated him human.
He tenses as your walls tighten around him, finding that sweet spot that makes you sing like the pretty little bird you are. You cling onto Sandor for dear life, restless hands dancing all over him as countless begs and praise pour from your lips.
The Hound chases his own high not close after, finally having mercy on your sore quim when he pulls out and comes with a nearly animalistic howl, covering your belly and chest with an absurd amount of seed.
An incredibly satisfying sight, he shamefully realizes.
That image will be burned into his memory forever, to keep him company on lonely nights to come.
He mutely grabs his shirt in an attempt to clean you, the dried blood of today's victims on the fabric leaving stains as they mix with the fluids on your skin. "Sorry..." he mumbles almost ruefully, disillusion creeping into the back of his mind as he slowly comes back to reality.
Sandor had expected you to gather your belongings and run as soon as the deed was done, but as soon as he climbed off of you, you'd shuffle close enough to put your head on his shoulder, sheepishly playing with the hair on his thorso.
"Can- can we do that again?"
A low rumble is audible in his chest, still winded from the act but that won't stop his booming laughter from emerging. He can't recall the last time he ever laughed this genuinely, let alone out of happiness instead of spite.
"Gods, you're a greedy little minx, aren't ye'?" he notes with a crooked smile, the stiff scarring of his face not quite mirroring the other.
He wraps one strong arm around your waist , those hands that were good only for destroying now mellowy tracing along the curve of your spine with the utmost gentleness. "So, you gonna tell me what you did to earn the wrath of our royal brat?"
"I-I..." Sandor lifts your chin with an iron grip, careful nonetheless, but insistent in his urgency to have you look at him for a change. You don't, averting your eyes at the delicate topic. "...I defended the Hound in front of the court."
That seems to cause him even more dismay than the course of this entire evening. "You did what, woman?" he asks unbelieving, past experiences relentlessly spewing suspicion into his mind.
"They were speaking ill of you, as usual, and I-I don't know what possessed me. It's just...not once I had seen you be unnecessary cruel outside of duty or some harmless words. Such treatment was simply unjust." Sandor merely stared holes into your skull, eyes blown wide as you gush the most nonsensical idiocy he had ever heard in his entire life. And he had seen people lose their heads over less, cut them off himself actually.
"I didn't even say that much. Only that you'd been a loyal guard for many years and deserve some due respect. But the King thought it fitting to have 'the dog' himself punish me for speaking up in the first place." You chuckle awkwardly, and the adorable scene makes him smile despite himself. "Well, I guess I was proven right in a way? You're way nicer than you lead on."
Two branches of arms ensnare around your middle, pulling you flush against him. "Daft lass, you ought not to care for anyone but yourself in these lands..." He wants to be harsher, to drill a proper warning into your naive little head, but he mustn't. Not if you're all over him like that, and he might end up driving you away over some thoughtless words.
"Perhaps I shall misbehave more often..." you ponder jovial, forehead stubbornly touching his. "I don't regret a thing."
"Mhh..." Any objection was pushed back by your intoxicating scent invading his senses, and damn it all your beauty could make an unrepentant sinner like him believe in the gods again. Almost.
"Seems like I need to teach you another lesson, then..."
"The guards reported her to have left the Hound's quarters at dawn, bloodied and with torn garments."
Joffrey's expression bordered somewhere between callous indifference and sadistic glee, lazily swirling his goblet as he observes you. "And the Maester?"
"Confirms that her virtue is no more" the knight answers promptly.
You play the part well, almost too well, quivering stupor only dissolving into traumatized wails from time to time, flinching whenever someone dared moving too fast.
Truth be told, cowering in fear isn't all that hard to pretend if you're standing in front of the most wicked creatures of the Seven Kingdoms.
Who would've thought the true evil was but a frail blonde child?
Damn it all, Sandor almost believed it himself, shame and guilt seething in him whenever your glossed eyes met his.
It reminds him of a particular situation back when he started his duty of watching over the former crown prince.
The young Joffrey was already showing concerning behaviors back then, creeping out even the usually jaded Clegane. His younger brother, Tommen, had snuck a stray kitten into the palace, but wasn't able to enjoy it for long as Joffrey had taken on a pastime of tormenting small animals.
Sandor was always quick to relieve them from their suffering. And when he did, their look was eery similar to yours right now.
"Tell me dog, what did you do to her?" Sandor's fist clenches around the hilt of his sword, expression stern and unwavering with feigned neutrality. "...I gave her what she deserved."
Over the years, the seasoned fighter had become master of domesticating his anger, letting it amass to unleash lethally during battle. But right now, imagining ways to kill that malicious boy, one more violent thant he other, was the only thing that kept him from actually putting his blade to use.
"Seems you've suffered the consequence of your impertinence, wench. But..." Joffrey clicks his tongue as he muses you over, leering as he turns to his sworn shield. "...I think you went too easy on her, dog. How about another respite? You're scaring my guests either way. Begone."
The boy dismisses him with a wave of his hand, and the brooding giant obediently dips his head. "Make sure to break her properly this time."
Sandor roughly grips your hair as he drags you forwards, careful yet convincing enough for the spectators. It's just that your legs, still weary from yesterdays nocturnal activities, won't cooperate.
Wordless, he swiftly throws you over his shoulder while you scream and plead, weakly thrashing against his back as you are taken away. Mostly pitying and horrified eyes follow you into the hallway, no one daring to speak up against such injustice out of fear that the King's - or rather it's dog's - wrath could strike them next.
The court's scnadalized murmurs drowned out by the King's merciless laughter following you, calling gloatingly after the pair and wallowing in your misery that's soon to be forgotten when replaced by his next victim.
An eternity passed until Sandor would slow down, bringing as much distance between you two and anyone else as humanly possible. Neither courtiers, nor servants or - hopefully - Lord Varys little birds would get lost in this abandoned ward.
You had dropped the act a while ago, yet neither of you dared to break the silence, mingling breaths the only thing befalling the air around you.
Gently, cautiously, Sandor lifts you onto the ground once again, his burnt half moving away faster than you could lay eyes upon. "...you alright?" He tries to make himself appear harmless, but it's an impossible feat for a man of his calibre, his giant shadow obscuring you completely even while hunched like this.
"All is well" you retort without hesitation, hands already finding the back of his head to pull him down to your height for a rather chaste kiss. You're almost timidly placing your lips onto his, conveying much more than could be put into words with just that single gesture.
When your lips part again, your cheek still nuzzling against his marred one, Sandor forgot to breathe as the only thing that mattered left in his mind was you.
This is fucking pathetic. He knows you for what, a few hours, not yet a whole day?
And yet heart is practically clawing against his ribcage, greedily urging him to stake claim after being denied and long since stopped allowing himself to hope for something remotely like this.
"Got me worrying you were really afraid..." he mutters ruefully, doubt still eating away on his hope.
Who could truly know what parts of it were genuine, and whose you played just to survive?
He wouldn't blame you for it.
"I was." Your hands run down to his chestplate, solemny halting right above his sternum. "But not of this. Not of you."
"Maybe you should be." Maybe he should.
"...need to knock some sense into you, woman..." he trails off, hands stopping just inches away from closing the gap, as if asking permission.
And you gladly granted it, wrapping a leg around his waist which invited him to drive one knee between them, parting your thighs as he lifts you up against the wall. He raises your skirts, silently cursing the gloves he is wearing as he eagerly kneads his way up to find purchase on your behind.
Sandor's head is hidden away in the curve of your neck, shamelessly rutting his hips against your stomach as his tongue ran down to your collarbone, before dipping his mouth right at the curve of your breasts.
"You really are a dog!" You chuckle like some bashful maiden, playing coy in front of a man so starved of affection, he sought to gnaw at your flesh and lick your bones clean if it meant to keep you close.
"Stop fussin'..." His rasps are muffled against your skin, but you just keep teasingly flail against his advances in mock reprimand. "Or I'll have the King make you my wife next..."
"Don't threaten me with a good time..." you jest and yet there's no disapproval in the way you speak about the prospect, only meek wonder.
Based on this request:Ā Best wishes for your wedding - what exciting times! Would you possibly be able to write a Sandor x reader where the reader is younger (around 18?) and basically Sandorās opposite (short, kind, affectionate, soft-spoken and quite shy). She is perhaps the Starkās ward from her own house and they meet when Ned takes her to Kingās Landing with his daughters. They could fall in love but Sandor hides it from her until Joffrey attacks her and they run away? Do whatever you want! Sending hugs your way!ā” from @huntingthefire
Here you are, lovely! I apologize for the wait! I was in a bit of a writing slump for a while. I do not own Sandor, Joffrey, or Meryn Trant. They belong to George R.R.Martin.Ā
Warnings: Violence and a bit of fluff. Joffrey being Joffrey.Ā
Pairings/Characters: Sandor Clegane x fem!reader, Joffrey Baratheon, Meryn Trant
You were his opposite in every way. You were small, shy and soft spoken. You were kind and generous as well as affectionate to those you were closest to. You were everything he wasnāt and everything he knew he couldnāt be. So why in Seven Hells did Sandor Clegane feel the way he did about you? Why did you have him so enthralled? And why did Sandor want to take you in his arms and never let you go?
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā When Sandor first met you, he didnāt think anything of it. To him, you were just another lady of the North. Another pretty woman in silk gowns Ā with your hair done to perfection. But after a while, Sandor saw you as far more than that. He saw that you had a good heart, but you were strong. You werenāt niave about the ways of the world, but you didnāt let it get to you. Sandor liked that. He also liked that, despite the fact that you were only a ward of Ned Stark and not his actual daughter, you still treated all the Starks like they were your real family. And, you were kind to Sandor too. You didnāt look at him with disgust or even pity. You spoke to him as a human being and not a dog.
Chapter index + tags ā¢ previous chapter ā¢ next chapter
Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader
Chapter word count: 2,700
Chapter tags: slow burn ā¢ pre-canon GOT ā¢ will be canon compliant ā¢ no use of y/n ā¢ angst ā¢ emotional distance ā¢ miscommunication ā¢ protective Sandor ā¢ crying ā¢ Sandor doesn't know how to talk about this shit lol ā¢ comforting touch
Chapter summary: Sandor finally opens up about his feelings. Training becomes the last thing you want to do.
The new training room felt nothing like your abandoned tower.
It was larger. Brighter. Sunlight spilled through the narrow windows, filling the space in a way your old tower never had. Along one wall stood a rack of blunted practice swords, while a pair of battered straw dummies occupied the far corner. Any unnecessary clutter had been cleared away, leaving plenty of space in the centre.
Even your attire was not the same.
Soon enough, a proper set of armour would be made for you. For now, though, your father had insisted upon a fitted leather jerkin to wear over your old training clothes. It was far lighter than true armour, yet it still proved difficult to move in compared to the loose shirt and trousers you'd grown so used to.
How men could move so easily beneath layers of mail and steel, you were not sure.
You looked around the large space, taking it all in.
None of it was the same. None of it felt like yours.
And yet, despite everything, you found yourself smiling.
For the first time in a year, you had been able to walk the halls in your training gear without worry. For the first time in a year, you didn't have any secrets to stress about.
You had expected it to feel strangeāawkward, even, to go to a space soā¦ official.
Instead, it felt like a relief.
Perhaps, after everything, this was a chance to begin again.
For once, you had arrived before Sandor. Perhaps that should not have surprised you. Now that the lessons had your father's blessing, everything would be more structured. You could not imagine that Joffrey was making it easy for his dog to leave his side, either.
But it was not up to Joffrey. Sworn shield or not, the King's word was final.
How fortunate you were that your father's favour so often fell to you.
At last, the door opened. Clegane stepped inside, his eyes travelling over you for a moment before settling elsewhere.
You glanced down, suddenly self-conscious. The leather creased awkwardly whenever you moved, sitting stiff across your shoulders in a way that felt wholly unfamiliar. You imagined you looked more like a child playing at knighthood than a princess learning to fight.
Of all people, though, you hoped Sandor Clegane would not think so.
Without a word, he made his way to the collection of practice blades, grabbing one for himself before taking his place in the centre of the room.
You followed suit, and the lesson began.
It was quieter than ever.
Sandor said nothing.
Even after your nameday, even through the worst distance between you, he had still offered the occasional correction. A quiet 'higher.' A curt 'again.' Enough to remind you he was still teaching.
Today, there was nothing.
No instruction.
No criticism.
Nothing at all.
He met every strike with effortless precision. Steel rang against steel, each movement of his measured and controlled. When your guard slipped, he corrected it with nothing more than a sharp tap of his practice blade before resetting his stance.
It had barely been ten minutes when you could no longer bear the silence.
You lowered your sword, watching him a moment before speaking.
"What's wrong with you?"
He remained where he stood, expression unchanging.
"Nothing."
"It isn't nothing."
He tipped the point of his practice blade towards you. "Back in your stance."
"No."
His jaw tightened. "I saidā"
"I heard you."
Silence settled between you.
You searched his face for some kind of hint as to what had happened.
"Is it Joffrey?" You asked. "Is he being difficult?"
A humourless scoff escaped him, his eyes drifting to the far edge of the room. "It isn't that little cunt's fault we're here."
Your brows drew together. You opened your mouth, closed it again. You spoke carefully. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothin'."
"Sandor."
His grip tightened around the hilt.
"You wanted this," he muttered.
You blinked at him. "What?"
"This." He gestured sharply around the room. "Daylight. Guards outside. Everyone knowing."
"I never wantedā"
"You just couldn't keep your mouth shut."
The words landed hard, bitterness dripping from his tone.
"You thinkā¦" Your voice came out quiet. Weak. "You think I wanted to tell them?"
His jaw worked. "You managed to keep it quiet for near enough a year."
"Why would Iā"
"You were angry enough."
Your chest tightened.
He was being completely serious.
You stared at him, wide-eyed.
For so long now, he had been avoiding you, leaving you to wait for him to give some sort of indication as to what had happened. Some sort of suggestion as to what he was actually feeling.
Now, at least, you had an answer.
He thought you had told because you were upset with him.
He thoughtā
Gods.
You wanted, just for a moment, to wipe that certainty from his face.
"A servant found me," you said at last. "She came into the room while I was changing. She had seen you leave."
You had thought that might gain a reaction, but he said nothing. Gave nothing.
"My mother thought we had slept together," you said, the words coming out clipped and bitter.
The silence that followed was different.
Still, he would not speak.
Only then did you realise your hands were trembling, your fingers clenched so tightly around the hilt that they had begun to ache.
"You think she would have believed me after that?" Your voice was shaking now. "You think Cersei Lannister would have listened to a word I said once she'd already made up her mind?"
He wouldn't meet your eyes.
"I didn't have a choice," you said. "I thought the truth might at least keep you alive."
Another silence.
"ā¦I didn't know that," he said at last.
"No," you said, voice finally breaking. "No, you just assumed that I had told to spite you."
You couldn't bear to look at him any longer.
Weeks he had been ignoring you.
Weeks spent wondering what you had done wrong.
Weeks spent hoping that if you simply gave him enough time, things might return to how they had been.
And this is what it had come to.
You turned, returning your practice sword to the rack with far more care than was necessary.
"I'm done for the day," you murmured.
Silence.
You hesitated, hoping that he might tell you to stay. That he might even say he was wrong.
He didn't.
You left without looking back.
The next day, you arrived first again.
You sat on the far side of the room, a sketchbook in your lap. Its pages were still crisp beneath your fingers, barely used. The charcoal left dark smudges across your fingertips as you worked.
When the door opened, you did not look up. You did not move.
The room remained quiet for a long while, broken only by the scratch of charcoal as you tried to capture how the afternoon light caught the edge of the blunted practice swords resting against the far wall.
Finally, heavy footsteps approached.
"Princess."
Sandor's rough voice carried easily through the space.
Still, you did not look at him.
"It's time," he said.
You gave yourself a moment to steady your voice. "I'm not training today."
Silence.
"Why?"
"I don't feel like it."
A quiet huff escaped him. "Then what're you doing here?"
You shrugged lightly, focusing now on darkening the shadows at the hilt. "I couldn't very well miss my second day," you said, forcing a lightness you did not feel. "My mother would have questions. As would Joffrey."
He stood there another moment.
You had half expected him to argue. Instead, he only gave a quiet grunt.
"ā¦Fine."
The footsteps retreated.
You sneaked a glance as he lowered himself against the opposite wall, forearms resting across his knees. His head leaned back against the stone. After a moment, his eyes closed.
Your gaze fell back down to the page, but the lines refused to come together beneath your hand. By the time the hour ended, you had scarcely added more than a single stroke.
On the third day, you brought a book instead.
Sandor stopped a few feet away. "Again?"
You turned a page.
"Mhm."
He gave another quiet huff before returning to the opposite wall.
Neither of you spoke. Every so often, you thought that you felt his eyes settle on you from across the room.
You never looked up to find out if you were right.
The book had served its purpose well enough the day before, so you brought it again.
This time, when the door creaked open, there was no pause before the footsteps moved inward. Heavy boots crossed the room without hesitation, stopping directly before you.
"You're still doing this shit?"
You did not answer.
"You'll lose all your progress."
The words on the page blurred in and out of focus beneath you. Still, you did not look at him.
"Get up," he ordered.
"I'm not training today," you managed, voice steady.
"Get. Up."
You turned another page.
"No."
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
"Princess."
Nothing.
"Look at me."
You weren't even trying to read the words anymore.
He huffed quietly through his nose.
Without warning, he snatched the book from your hands and threw it aside. You looked up just in time to catch him looming over you.
"Whatā"
Before you could finish, an arm hooked beneath you and hauled you effortlessly to your feet.
"Sandorā"
The protest dissolved into an indignant yelp as the world tipped sideways. In one swift movement, he had slung you over his shoulder, the room spinning in your peripheral.
You thumped an annoyed fist against his back, immediately regretting it as pain bloomed across your hand.
He ignored you entirely, your attempts certainly doing more damage to you than to him. Six long strides carried him into the middle of the room before he set you firmly back on your feet.
You stumbled back away from him, taking a moment to find your balance. "What is wrong with you?"
Already, he was moving again. Without a word, he crossed to the rack, took two blunted swords, and returned. He stopped in front of you, extending one out.
You stared down at it. "I don't want to train."
"Take it."
"No."
"Take the bloody sword."
His arm did not waver. He simply stood, jaw set, and waited for you to give in.
You hesitated only a heartbeat longer. Then, with a frustrated sigh, you snatched it from his grip.
Once the sword was in your hand, he finally withdrew, settling into a relaxed stance. His own blade rested loosely in his grip down at his side.
"Hit me," he said.
"ā¦What?"
"Hit me."
You didn't move at first.
Then, you drew a slow breath and raised your sword.
Your first swing came hard. Steel rang through the room as he caught it without effort.
You swung again.
Blocked.
Again.
Blocked.
Every strike carried more weight than the last.
Every parry of his felt almost effortless.
It wasn't long before your arm grew heavy at your side, the muscle aching, sweat clinging to your skin.
Still, he refused to strike back. Every movement was another parry, another block, another measured step backwards.
You gritted your teeth, raising your sword arm high.
It was not the first time you had attempted a feint like this. Twice, maybe three times, you'd tried to catch him with the exact movement. Twice he'd punished you for it before you'd even finished the movement.
You tried again, anyway, waiting for him to move to meet you up high. At the last instant you twisted your wrist, driving the blade downward to meet his lower ribs instead.
The practice sword struck with a dull crack.
You both froze.
Your lungs dragged in another ragged breath that refused to steady.
Sandor glanced from his side to you and gave a small nod.
"Good."
Good.
There was a time you would have loved such simple praise from him.
Instead, something inside you snapped.
You came at him again, swinging your blade hard at his side. There was no thought behind your movements now, just an unexplainable need to strike.
Even taking him off guard, he met your swing with ease. Still, you kept going, steel ringing against steel again and again and again. Sandor's brows drew together, surprise flashing across his face before it disappeared beneath that practised indifference. He caught every strike you threw at him, giving ground one measured step at a time.
You had hardly seen him since your name day. Hardly spoken to him. He thought you had betrayed him and didn't even have the decency to acknowledge he was wrong and nowā
Now he wanted everything to go back to normal. To continue training with you as if none of it had happened. As if that wasn't the exact thing you had so desperately been trying to achieveāfailing to achieveāsince he cut you off after your name day.
A sob escaped you before you even realised you'd made a sound.
You swung again, your vision beginning to blur.
The sword felt impossibly heavy.
Another strike.
Another block.
Your arm finally gave out, the point of your blade sagging to the floor as your breathing broke apart into ragged, uneven gasps. You couldn't look at him anymore. All you could focus on was your blurred vision and your breathing that refused to calm no matter how much you willed it to.
Eventually, Sandor lowered his own sword. Silence settled over the room, broken only by your uneven breathing.
"Princess."
He did not make any move towards you, yet you stepped back all the same. Furiously, you wiped at your face with your hand, a whimper escaping you as it came back wet with tears.
"Princess," he repeated, the word coming softer this time.
Soft. Sandor Clegane.
You almost wondered if you'd imagined it.
"I'm fine," you said.
"You're crying."
"I'm not fucking crying," you snapped, turning away from him. You wiped at your face more fiercely, but it did not matter. The tears would not stop. Your heavy breathing filled the silence of the room, the embarrassment only making you want to cry harder.
"Look at me," he said.
You shook your head, still facing away.
Metal clinked softly behind you, warm fingers reaching round to your forearm soon after. He turned you to face him, and only then did you realise he had pulled a gauntlet free. You could not look him in the eye. You could not look anywhere but at the coarse hand at your wrist.
For a moment, nothing happened. He simply held you there, eyes searching your face while your stifled whimpers filled the silence.
Then, with a sigh, he stepped towards you. The hand on your forearm slipped away, settling gently against the back of your head. He drew you forward with surprising carefulness, your head meeting his breastplate. The cold steel pressed uncomfortably against your skin.
It was stiff and uncomfortable. It didn't matter. You leaned into him anyway, a weak sob escaping you. You let the blade drop from your grip, both arms coming up to clutch at his back instead.
Sandor said nothing. He simply stood there, one hand still resting against the back of your head. He did not mutter or huff or move away. He waited, and when your tears finally slowed to a halt, you were the one to step back.
Still, you could not meet his eyes. You were certain you looked a messātear-stained and blushing.
After a long moment, he stooped to retrieve your fallen sword. He held it out to you, and this time you took it without hesitation.
You shifted the blade awkwardly in your hand, staring at the scuffed leather wrapped around its hilt. Somewhere beyond the narrow windows, birdsong drifted faintly into the silence. You still could not meet Sandor's gaze, but you could feel him watching you closely.
A year had passed since the death of Lord Andor, when Hand of the King passed as well. Saige knew very well it hadn't been a fever that took Jon Arryn, but that her elder siblings with quite questionable tendensies had panicked.
It felt as if the whole court was holding it's breath waiting for the political moves to unfold. There were whispers of a royal visit to up north, Winterfell.
Saige cared little of the Sirs or Lords coming and going from the capital. She had her ear on all that was going on, just as precaution, just to have some power. Helplessness was a feeling she had vowed to leave behind. Loneliness had made her reserved and distrustful.
"What do you make of it? Will Lord Stark agree to come down to this hell hole?", Saige pondered, her eyes tightly locked on her sister across the hall. Cersei was speaking to the King, occasionally glancing at the younger woman and Master of Coin standing and observing the situation.
"He is a loyal man, Lord Stark, but that may not be of use to us. He is careful and quick witted, not easy to sway", Baelish mumbled, keeping his voice low. Saige let out a long sigh before laughing bitterly: "I have no interest in the affairs of the crown, let the whole place crash and burn."
"But what fun would that be?"
"What fun is any of this?"
The conversation died down as Cersei started to stride her way to them. She had a sour look on her face, eyebrows furrowed and nose squished in a way that looked as if it felt uncomfortable.
"Fuck, I'm going with them, aren't I?", Saige blurted out, sinking into devestation. "Well that's fun", Baelish smirked.
"Is my misery a joke to you? You truly are a horrible person."
"The feeling is mutual, have fun with the wolfs!"
Rest seemed impossible on the way to Winterfell. The roads were bumpy, leaving Saige to prefer riding to the carriages. The camps were loud, whether it was from screams of pleasure from the King's tent or the royal children being insufferable. Whenever Saige's head started feeling to small for her brain and fists little too clenched, the woods drew her in.
Narrow paths squirmed through the trees, which stood as if they had always been there. What kind of creatures had paved these ways, where to were they going? Saige found herself loosing herself in daydreams. What could have been, or should have been.
Maybe a boy, with stars in his eyes, dashing through the bushes and laughing. And a girl, just as wild as Saige was in her youth. Sweet or meanspirited, the kids would be free. Happy and safe. They could have been. A sting on her chest would bring her back from her dreams. A sharp pain, knowing it was all just what could have been.
"The Queen's looking for ya. Seems mad, but I think it has more to do with your brother wandering off", Sandor had appeared out of nowhere. How could a man that big be so quiet, or had Saige just been so deep in her thought? He stood leaning on a tree, his eyes attentivily on her. For a moment Saige feared he could read her mind.
Then came the tought that truly stratled her; she wanted to share, to open up and show her grief. After all, Sandor had know her husband too. Torvin had talked of him often. He had shared stories of their childhoods, of when they were young. How they had been on adventures, played knights and shared secrets.
"I miss him, terribly. I find myself thinking of him too often that I should. Not that it is so bad to think of one's late husband, but that it pains me. The hurts so, so much", she blurted out.
The Hound stared at her, his eyes big and round, brows up at his hairline. Sandor found is head blank. The usual swear words got stuck on his tongue and nothing came to fill the void.
The silence was disconcerting, leaving Saige to look at Sandor with just as confused look. Neither had seen the other in this kind of light. Unready and bewildered.
Something started welling up in Saige's chest, hot and burning feeling, that kept on pressing. As the shock abrupted, she screamed and cried: "BY THE SEVEN I HAVE GONE CRAZY! WHAT HAVE I DONE TO HAVE THIS BE MY FAITH?!"
And as if by lighting, Sandor was back from his thoughts. He darted forward and swept Saige into a hug, placing his other palm on her hip and other over her mouth.
"Fuck woman, stop screaming! You're fine!"
Saige dropped, as if her body weight had doubled and the ground was reeling her towards its' self. Sandor tried his best to get a better grip of her to keep her up, while she continued silently sobbing.
"Good gods I knew you had hips but how can you make yourself this heavy to handle", the man wondered out loud. Saige whipped herself to face him with a trembling lower lip.
"You calling me fat?!"
"Ay, well your hips and bosom could very well make up half your weight, so I think your Ladyship is doing good for yourself", Sandor hummed while slowly letting go of the woman. She furrowed her brows with her hands on her hips, about to answer something. Hurried steps snapped sticks in half, alerting both Saige and Sandor to the figures approaching from the forest. Sandor's hand moved to hold his sword, ready to unsheathe it as needed.
When the first King's knight came to view the tension evaporated. After him came Jaimie with more knights in tow.
Jaimie look at the pair in front of him with a puzzled look, trying to uncover what was happening. "We heard you scream, are you alright?", he laid his hand on Saige's shoulders, looking over her face to see if she had been harmed.
The scene truly was peculiar, the queens sister sporting red cheeks after screaming her lungs out and the giant knight with his hand on the sword.
Tension seemed to slowly creep up once more, with Jamie's eyes glued to the Hound. Saige acted quick; placing his hand on top of her brothers. "A SNAKE!" She howled.
"There was a snake, big one. Truly terrifying my dear brother. It seems Clegane scared it away as he came to my aid", Saige swiftly lied, throwing her hands theatricly over her chest. She could swear Sandor rolled his eyes, but the others seemed to buy the explanation.
"Well seems you've been a good dog", Jaimie sneered at Sandor while already turning towards the camp.
"A great one, yes. Thank you Clegane", Saige gazing at the man infront.
ā¢Ā° pairing: oc!lannister x oc!husband, future oc!lannister x sandor clegane
āā¢ notes: had to get this starting out of my head. sandor my love... <3. !!! mention of illness and death !!!! older men ;)
āĀ° word count: about 1k
Saige Lannister,
a woman of thirty years of age, cunning little fox whose moral compass was some how more intact than that of her siblings'; Jamie, Cersei and Tyrion. She still was far from perfect. Mean little beast as a child, Saige grew to be more reserved. Her outward attacks were replaced with sly little moves; an ill rumor about a young lady with eyes for the same genteleman as Saige or a missing necklace in the posession of a knight that dared to laugh at her.
Her father with already much on his plate, married her off quick. The plan was to get her somewhere she wouldn't cause such chaos. The unknowing victim was a Lord quite a bit older than Saige. Lord Torvin Andor had been born about a sun cycle before her. The title had been his for two dacades already, as his father had died young. Same fate had followed Torvin's first wife, who was buried with their new born child.
Saige fell for him quickly. It was quite easy, Torvin was sickeningly handsome. He was kind and scholarly, carrying himself proudly. The ladies adored him but he had eyes for only Saige.
By all accounts they would have been happy for decades to come. Fate had other plans, as Torvin fell sick. That's when they traveled to King's landing, to be in care of the best maesters.
Ā°
Saige rarely left her husband's side, spending her time gently tapping his forehead with a damp towel. Tyrion often sat with her, swirling red wine in his cup, trying to find words of comfort. A uncomfortable silence hung in the hot air, the room slowly seeming to choke up everyone inside.
Her siblings had not seen her like this, it came as quite the shock to see how Saige truly loved Lord Andor. Feeling were not the family's forte.
"You should go spend time outdoors. Be mean to the King's guards or go bother your siblings", Torvin smiled, caressing Saige's hand softly, "lay in the sunshine."
Saige rolled her eyes huffing in annoyance. "I do not wish to leave your side", she remarked.
"But at some point you'll have to."
The days were long and nights seemed to drag out even longer. Saige lived in a trance, quietly waiting for a miracle. One afternoon the silence was broken by the door slowly creaking open. The Hound entered the room, visibly trying to make himself smaller in respect.
"My friend, I have missed you", Torvin sang out while pushing himself to sit upright. "Lord and Lady Andor", Sandor Clegane bowed tensely before moving to close the door behind him.
Saige sat up and gestured for him to sit down on her chair as it was the biggest in the room; "Sit down Clegane, my husband has been waiting for you to visit. I will leave you two alone to talk. But be sure to call for a maester and me if anything goes amiss"
"Don't worry darling, he can shout even louder than you, though you'd think it impossible", Torvin laughed and was met by a sharp, angry stare framed by furrowed brows. The door opened and closed once again, leaving the two men alone. A soft silence fell over them for just a moment, before Lord Andor opened his mouth again: "It has been too long. Twenty years or so, yes?", getting a smile from Sandor as well.
"I was at your wedding, you looked better then", the Hound grinned remembering the lavish party. Tywin Lannister had put quite the pretty penny into his youngest one's big day. The dress had been adorned in gold and luxurious red fabric, the color of which had matched Saige's lips. Deep, dangerous and tempting red.
"You sound like my wife, it seems the sickness shows on my face", Torvin teased. Sandor's face twisted into a mean sneer. "She's a cruel one, how do you deal with living with her?"
The room was filled with laughter, Torvin couldn't control himself. His laugh was melodic and loud, long enough to make him loose his breath. Sandor looked puzzled, wondering had his friend gone mad. This made Torvin even more ecstatic. "She might look tough and mean, but her heart is, surely fiery but warm and passionate", He assured, behind his eyes glew a evident pining for the woman that had not been away for even ten minutes yet. Fuck me, his friend was a fool, Sandor thought.
"You will learn to love her too", Torvin said, sounding as if he had seen the future. The taller man scoffed. The Lady had non the less lived in the same castle as him for years before getting married and escaping into the sunset with her husband. Sandor remembered her as impatient and spoiled girl, maybe not as egotistical as her siblings, but there was no doubt Saige was a Lannister.
"Sandor, you will have to look after her. I know I don't have long left, I can feel it. It is as my father died, he spoke of how his bones ached and the blood in his veins felt like it bubbled", the fear in Torvin's voice was evident, "When I'm not here, keep Saige close. Be there for her, my friend"
"Stop it! You stupid fucker, she won't want nothing to do with me, better that way"
"No she will like you, she will need someone to trust"
"Why the fuck would that be me? She has her family, bunch of lovely ladies in the court"
"I like you, you are my friend, a good one at that. She is much more like us than you realise. Just stay by her side, keep an eye at her", Torvin pleaded. Sandor looked at his friend, finally opening up to the idea that the marriage of the Lord and Lady Andor had been a happy one. Full of love.
"Aye, I'll try"
There was a smile, for a while two of them. Old friends taking a moment together, for what both knew to be the last time. The air tasted bitter sweet, warm wind blowing in from the outside.
"You have my blessing"
"You fucker, stop with that"
"I know you and I know my wife, it's just a guess. But I thought it would be nice to say it's ok. I won't haunt youā¦ or maybe I will. Haven't decided yet"
keeping warm || sandor clegane (the hound) x gn! reader
hey besties i know basically no one asked for this but i love him so i don't care here's just some little fluff about cuddling for warmth
words: 600+
ao3 link
gif credit: @glambertclegane
āSeven Hells, are you shivering?āĀ
His gruff voice cuts through the chatter of your teeth and the howling wind and you turn to glare at the man to your right. Even leaned up against the stone wall heās bigger than most men youāve ever seen, heād be scarier than them too, if you didnāt know him. Fortunately for you, despite his appearance, and bitter attitude, Sandor Clegane is a soft and kind man. Not that you or him would ever dare speak the words into the world, too much of him is safely encased in the fear of others to break it.
āYes, Iām fucking shivering Sandor, itās colder than tits out here.ā Your personal inability to fear him lends itself well to snarking at him day and night until he throws empty threats at you. To leave you behind if youāre going to be this ungrateful, to smother you in your sleep just to get a moment's peace, even to smack you upside your head until you learn to fear him. Like thatās really what he wants, like he doesnāt bask in your candor and glow under your affection, no matter how much he might try to hide it.Ā
The hard ground below you is cold, even curled under your cloak and the fur blanket Sandor carries around for you, you can feel it in your bones. The temperature continues to drop dangerously as you travel north, soon there will be snow covering the ground and heāll have to build fires to keep you both from freezing. Heās tried to avoid it as long as possible, not willing to risk your safety by making you too visible to any passing parties, but the choice wonāt be his for long.
āYou complain a lot for such a little bird.ā Sandor grumbles, already shifting from his place on the straw covered floor, until heās able to curl one arm under your waist and pull you up into his lap. He drags the furs with you, pulling them around you both as his arms encompass you, warmth radiating off him in waves and soaking into you and your shivering finally subsides.Ā
You can feel him lean back against the wall, and you rest your head against his shoulder, ignoring the grunt of irritation when you press your cold nose into the skin of his neck. Your hands find their way under his cloak, pressed up against the fabric of his shirt on his chest, voice barely above a whisper when you respond, āyou love it, donāt lie.ā
āI absolutely do not love it.ā You open your eyes to peek at him, noting the rosey blush that dusts over his cheeks, almost entirely hidden by the dark brown facial hair that runs down his neck. He tightens his hold on you, nudging your face back to his shoulder with his chin so that you stop studying him. āGo to sleep, Iāll keep you warm.ā
You turn your face further into him to try to mask the yawn, letting your lips hesitate on his collarbones in a soft kiss that only furthers the red that now trails down to his scarred and hairy chest.Ā āAnd safeā donāt forget safe.ā
āAye, Iāll keep you safe too, little bird.āĀ
Sandor leans down to mirror your kiss, onto the top of your forehead just below your hairline, his voice uncharacteristically soft, and his lips even more so. You can hear the smile in his words, small and hidden from you where you lay, but itās there nonetheless. Itās rare for you to be able to pull them out of him, even more rare that you actually get to see them, and a part of you is sad that youāre missing this one. But itās too hard to not follow the directions, he runs hot, and it warms you to your previously frozen core. The low hum that comes from his chest as he speaks is even more relaxing, lulling you further into sleep until you finally drift off entirely.
At some point in your life, you were taught that being slightly annoying is an unforgivable sin. Maybe it was by your parents or a teacher or a friend or a bully or an older sibling. But someone taught you that being slightly annoying is a crime punishable by death.
You must unlearn this.
You must accept that all people will be annoying at some point or another in their lives, maybe all of their lives, and that this is okay. It is okay for strangers on the bus, it is okay for children in the grocery store, it is okay for people on social media, and it is okay for you.
If you ever want to truly love your fellow humans, if you ever want to truly love yourself, you must have forgiveness for being annoying.
