Baby, I’m a Dog. I’m a Mutt [M]
Sandor Clegane X Velaryon Reader
Romance Trope - Fake Marriage (Happy Ending)
SUMMARY: Clegane is tired of the constant torture and ridicule from Joffrey, so he lies, he says that he betrothed to a beautiful lady. Only problem is… he isn’t.
WARNINGS: Nonexplicit Smut
Romantic Trope Series
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The Red Keep’s great hall shimmered under candlelight, but there was little warmth in the air.
Wine flowed like blood. The court was in good spirits, or so it seemed on the surface—laughter crackled like lightning across the tables, nobles and knights crowded together, picking at meats and gossip alike. The King, Joffrey Baratheon, sat perched on the Iron Throne as if born to it, his legs spread arrogantly, a goblet clutched lazily in one hand.
Sandor Clegane stood at the edge of the feast, not seated, not speaking. Always the outsider.
He didn’t drink.
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t belong.
The firelight played across his maimed face—one side scarred and melted, twisted and raw. His good eye glared through the shadows beneath his brow. He stood in his armor, as always. Guard, dog, monster. They never let him forget.
Nor would they tonight.
Lord Lannister’s cousin, some minor lordling fat on inherited power and richer wines, wiped grease from his chin and smirked across the room. “Tell me, does the Hound sit or sleep, or just lean against stone walls like a beast on watch?”
Chuckles followed. Another chimed in—one of the Reachmen. “He’s too big for the chairs. Wouldn’t want him breaking one and bringing the whole court down with him.”
“And the smell,” said Ser Hobber Redwyne, fanning his face dramatically. “Gods, no wonder his horse has a temper.”
A louder laugh broke free. Even a few of the small council members smiled behind raised goblets. Ser Meryn Trant chuckled, lips red with wine.
Sandor didn’t move. But his fingers twitched at his side.
“I think the Hound needs a wife,” Joffrey said suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter like a dagger coated in honey. “Every beast needs a handler, does he not?”
Cersei lifted an eyebrow, swirling her wine. “I doubt any lady in the realm is that desperate.”
Tyrion said nothing, eyes fixed on the table, jaw clenched.
Jaime sipped his wine slowly, expression unreadable.
Sansa looked up, startled, her pale eyes flitting from Sandor to the King.
Sandor Clegane stood still. But the hall could feel the simmer beneath his skin.
“I’ve made my decision,” Joffrey announced. “We’ll host a tourney. A grand one. The winner will receive the hand of the most fearsome creature in King’s Landing.” He grinned down at Sandor. “Assuming she’d have you.”
The laughter now was raw, unfiltered. The kind meant to wound.
The Hound’s voice came then, slow and dangerous: “Careful, boy.”
That silenced some.
But not Joffrey.
“Oh? Did the dog just growl?” He rose from his throne, steps echoing down the dais. “Do you bite now, Sandor? Or has someone finally trained you to heel?”
Sandor’s eye narrowed.
“I wonder,” Joffrey mused, circling now like a cat around a chained lion, “do you think yourself capable of love, Hound? Of being loved? Or are you simply too… grotesque for it?”
The word hung there. Grotesque.
No one defended him.
Not Jaime. Not Cersei. Not even Tyrion.
He was alone in it—as he always had been.
A few courtiers looked away in mild discomfort. But not enough. Not loud enough. Not brave enough.
Sandor’s mouth curled slightly—not into a smile, but a grimace that twisted his burned cheek further. His hands clenched, knuckles cracking.
Then, softly, “You think love is sweet, boy?” His voice was smoke and gravel, deep as a pit. “You’ve never known the taste of it.”
Joffrey tilted his head. “Oh? And you have?”
Sandor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He turned from the King with a grunt and started to walk away.
“Oh, don’t sulk,” Joffrey called after him, delighted. “I’ll throw you a feast! You may even bring your beloved, if you ever find one. Just make sure she’s housebroken.”
The final round of laughter swelled again, vicious and echoing.
And Sandor kept walking. Past the flickering torches. Past the gold-draped sycophants. Past the courtiers who only knew how to laugh when the King laughed.
His boots struck stone, hard and fast.
But something in his chest ached. Not with shame. Not with fear.
With rage.
He had endured worse. He would endure more.
But tonight, something inside him cracked.
And tomorrow, they’d all see what happened when a dog stopped playing tame.
The night stank.
Flea Bottom was crawling with its usual sickness—wine, sweat, spoiled meat, cheap perfume. Sandor Clegane shoved through it like a bear through smoke, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A drink. A warm body. Something to get through the night.
No. That was a lie.
He was looking for a woman. Any woman. Someone willing to pretend—for a fee, a favor, a kindness he’d never earned.
Someone to be seen on his arm come morning. Someone to laugh and smile at him as if she meant it, if only for a few hours. To fool that golden little cunt on the throne, and the whole court with him.
And not a single one would touch him.
He’d tried. Quietly. Bluntly. With gold in hand. One had recoiled the second she saw his face, like his scars were contagious. Another told him flat out, “I’d rather fuck a corpse. At least they don’t smell like burnt leather.”
That one he nearly backhanded—but he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to. Because her laugh reminded him of the court’s.
He stormed out of the brothel, steam rising from his breath. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her until he slammed right into her.
A soft body. Perfumed. Warm.
She gasped and stumbled back half a step, steadying herself with elegant poise, not so much as a wrinkle in her silks. “Gods—my apologies.”
Her voice. Clear, soft, not like the others. A voice made for poems. She looked up at him, eyes wide, not with fear—but surprise. Curiosity.
He blinked. He opened his mouth, and—
“Marry me.”
The words tumbled out like they’d tripped over his teeth.
Her brows shot up. A breath of a laugh escaped her. “What?”
He was already regretting it. Already burning beneath his armor. But fuck it. “You heard me.”
She laughed again, this time fuller, richer. “Is this your usual approach, Ser? Should I feel flattered or alarmed?”
Sandor scratched the back of his neck, his massive hand nearly swallowing it whole. “I’m not good at this.”
“Proposing?”
“Talking.”
She studied him, amusement curling at her lips. “You’re serious.”
“I just—” He sighed. “I need someone. For a few days. A week. I don’t know. To stand next to me at court and pretend they don’t want to vomit when I breathe.”
Her smile faded slightly—not gone, just softer now. She tilted her head. “You barely know me.”
“I’m not asking for your maidenhood,” he growled. “Just your time. Maybe a laugh if you’ve got one to spare.”
“And if I say no?”
He looked away. “Then I’ll go back to begging whores who spit at me.”
A silence stretched between them.
Then, her voice—gentle again. “Look at me.”
He did.
Her eyes met his without flinching. “Fine.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You may have my hand.”
Sandor stared, blinking once, twice, like he’d misheard.
She extended it—palm up, elegant and self-assured. “But only if you give me your name first, Ser.”
He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Clegane. Sandor. Ser Sandor Clegane.”
Her brows lifted, amused. “The Hound?”
He waited for the sneer. For the wrinkle of the nose. It didn’t come.
Instead, she bowed slightly, graceful and proud. “Lady Velaryon. House Velaryon.”
He blinked again. “A lady.”
“You don’t say,” she teased, looking down at her silks. “Was it the embroidery that gave it away?”
He coughed. Might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. “Meet me at the Red Keep tomorrow. You’ll know when.”
She tilted her head, watching him carefully. Then: “I look forward to it, Ser Clegane.”
She walked away into the darkness, the hem of her cloak whispering against stone.
And Sandor Clegane stood there, swaying just slightly, feeling like he’d just been hit in the gut and kissed on the cheek at the same time.
“Seven hells,” he muttered, touching his face like something might’ve changed.
Then he laughed. A dry, rough sound.
He’d either just met the cleverest woman in Westeros… or the cruelest.
But she said yes.
And that was enough—for now.
It had been thirty agonizing minutes.
The throne room was a furnace of tension and gilded cruelty. Sunlight spilled through the high stained-glass windows in soft shafts of color, but no warmth touched Sandor Clegane. He stood stiff as stone in the shadow of a pillar, half-shrouded in the folds of his dark cloak, arms crossed over his broad chest.
He had never felt smaller.
The Red Keep’s courtiers were already whispering, like insects buzzing too close. Their silks rustled, their jeweled fingers fluttered as they leaned in with rehearsed sympathy and barely veiled amusement.
“I suppose she drowned on the way here,” one lord quipped dryly.
“Or perhaps she changed her mind. I know I would have,” a lady replied with a titter, her bracelets clinking like bells.
Cersei sipped from her goblet and tilted her head toward the King, voice lazy and amused. “You must admit, Joffrey… if someone were to make up a lady-love, claiming she’s from a powerful house would be the way to do it.”
“She’s not coming,” Joffrey declared, loudly enough for all to hear. He lounged in the Iron Throne like a bored vulture, golden hair gleaming, fingers curled in irritation. “No woman in her right mind would willingly claim the Hound. Let alone kiss him.”
A low murmur rippled through the throne room. No one dared laugh—yet—but the tension begged for it.
Sansa looked stricken. “Please, Your Grace—”
“Please?” Joffrey mocked. “Please, your Grace, don’t be cruel? Shall I give him a doll to cuddle in her absence, little dove?”
Her face flushed red, but she said nothing else.
Tyrion, ever perched like a cat at the edge of danger, gave a sigh and stood from his seat. “Perhaps the lady is simply delayed, Your Grace. Seas do not always obey your schedule.”
“Delayed,” Joffrey scoffed. “Or invented. I say we give the dog a bone and send him back to his kennel.”
Tyrion’s brow twitched. He glanced toward Sandor.
The Hound didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the weight behind his silence could flatten a castle wall.
He should have known better. Of course she wasn’t coming. Maybe it was a joke, or worse, a pity game. What had he expected? That a woman like her—a lady of elegance, sharpness, born of salt and silver—would really stand at his side before all of King’s Landing?
Then—
The great doors creaked open.
Every head turned.
Two knights pulled the towering iron doors aside, and warm sunlight spilled across the marble floor. A hush fell so quickly it was as though the entire room had been dunked underwater.
A herald’s voice rang out:
“Announcing—Lady Velaryon. Of House Velaryon.”
There was a pause. Audible surprise.
The name echoed, rippling through the nobles like a stone dropped in still water.
Cersei turned slightly, golden brows raised.
“Velaryon?” Joffrey repeated, frowning. “They said she was of House Velaryon?”
No one answered. No one could.
Because she stepped into the light like it belonged to her.
Her gown was sea-green and threaded in silver, the colors of the Driftmark coast. The silk clung to her body with practiced elegance, bell sleeves trailing behind her like mist over waves. She wore no crown, no heavy jewels. Just the ripple of wealth in her stitching and the way she carried herself—head high, shoulders regal, her walk deliberate and unhurried.
And her hair… it wasn’t braided in the old style. It fell loose, free down her back, with only a single pearl-pinned wave tucked behind one ear. A quiet rebellion.
The court murmured as she passed. No one seemed to know who she was.
But she commanded their silence all the same.
At the foot of the Iron Throne, she bowed deeply.
“Your Grace,” she said with a soft, velvet voice, eyes raised to Joffrey. She dipped her head again to Cersei, then offered Tyrion a gentle nod. The Queen Mother blinked. Sansa stared.
No one spoke.
Then she turned toward the shadows.
Toward him.
Sandor stiffened, suddenly aware of how large and dark and ugly he must seem compared to her elegance. He expected hesitation. Disgust. The reveal of the prank.
Instead, she smiled.
Soft, amused. Real.
She walked to him with grace that curled around every movement, her bell sleeves sweeping behind her, the scent of salt and sandalwood in her wake. The sound of her heels against stone echoed like a heartbeat.
When she reached him, she looked up.
And before he could say anything—before the doubt in him could open its mouth—she said brightly, “My dear, you look like a brute.”
The court gasped.
She reached up with calm hands and cupped his face, one palm resting against the burned side of his cheek like it was made of porcelain, not scarred ruin.
“Smile,” she added, her voice dropping. “Why don’t you?”
He blinked, stunned. Her hand was warm. Gentle. Real.
And for the first time since entering that gods-damned room, a low sound escaped his chest.
A laugh.
Rough and brief—but real.
He turned away, lips twitching against a grin, cheeks flushing beneath the scar. “You’re late,” he muttered.
“I know.” She smiled. “But I came.”
The King stood, face souring. “Kiss him,” Joffrey commanded. “Kiss your mutt. If this so real!”
Cersei said nothing. Tyrion narrowed his eyes.
“You don’t have to,” Sandor mumbled, pulling back slightly.
But she leaned in with a grin, loud and warm and confident.
“Well,” she said to him, voice lifted to the court, “kiss me, mutt.”
He froze.
Gasps again. Whispers.
Then she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his—rough, sudden, heated. His lips parted, and it was awkward, but she didn’t shy away. Her hands braced against his chest like she meant to stay. When they broke apart, her thumb brushed over his chin.
“You don’t have to be so rough,” she whispered, eyes twinkling. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The court was in chaos now—half-shocked, half-horrified.
“This is a joke!” Joffrey barked. “I demand proof—bedding ceremony, this very night!”
The room went dead still.
Cersei looked mildly intrigued.
Tyrion groaned under his breath.
But she turned back to the throne, smiling sweetly. “If that’s what you desire, Your Grace,” she said without blinking. “It would be no hardship. Making love to my husband isn’t a problem.”
Her voice didn’t waver.
Gasps erupted.
Tyrion stepped forward quickly. “That’s quite enough.”
But she wasn’t done.
“We will wed tomorrow,” she said, smiling now. “If Your Grace would be so gracious as to host.”
The court didn’t know whether to bow or faint.
But Sandor?
He just stared at her, a thousand questions screaming in his chest.
And all of them quieted when she reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his.
The chambers were smaller than hers at home.
That was the first thing she thought when the door closed behind her with a soft thud. No open arches to the sea. No breeze to sweep through silk curtains. The walls here were heavy with tapestries, stone cold beneath her bare feet. A single window let in slanted light from the courtyard torches below. The fire was already lit in the hearth, but it did little to warm the quiet.
She walked slowly across the room, her bell sleeves dragging behind her, her sea-silver gown whispering secrets to the stones.
At home on Driftmark, her chambers were open and wide. Her bed had no curtains. The ocean could be heard in every breath. She missed it. The salt. The freedom. The space.
The door creaked open.
She didn’t turn, only smiled faintly at the window as the familiar heavy steps moved inside.
Sandor.
His presence always came before the sound — a weight in the air, a pull behind the ribs. He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. He never did things gently.
“You’re alone,” he said gruffly, like it offended him.
“I prefer it,” she replied.
There was a beat of silence behind her. She could hear his breath — short, sharp. Pacing. Boots scraping faintly against the stone.
“You’re a stupid girl.”
She turned now.
He was tense, jaw set, the torchlight throwing gold across his burn-scarred face. His hands were clenched at his sides. His voice shook with something like anger, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—they searched her like he needed an answer that could unmake him.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Why would you—this is just supposed to convince them.”
She stepped toward him.
Elegant. Calm.
“Relax, I said yes remember.” she said, as if reminding him.
He blinked, like he still couldn’t believe it.
“You’re playing some game ,” he said. “I’ve seen better men ruined by court women and their pretty lies.”
“Do I lie?” she asked gently, stopping in front of him. “You asked me to marry you. Now I am accused of playing games.”
He didn’t answer.
She tilted her head, one brow raised. Then, in a whisper, like she was teasing the sea, she added, “Kiss this stupid girl goodnight.”
His lips parted.
His eyes narrowed, searching her face. She wasn’t mocking him. Not playing. Just standing there, daring him, velvet and salt and moonlight.
When he didn’t move, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
Not softly.
She yanked him to her.
And he broke.
Sandor kissed her like he had waited his whole life for someone to choose him. It was not gentle. It was fire licking through storm, rough hands grasping her waist, mouth crushing hers, his breath hot and uneven. She gasped against him, and he took it, deepened it, hands sliding into her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.
But she didn’t.
She held him right back. Firm. Certain. Her fingers gripped his tunic, her lips moved with his, slow and hungry and sure.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead fell to hers.
They stood there, breathless.
He hadn’t meant to lose control. But she didn’t seem to mind.
She smiled softly, still catching her breath. Her hands slid down his chest until they rested just over his heart.
“Good night, my dear,” she whispered, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sleep well. For me.”
She turned and walked toward the bed, slowly beginning to unlace her sleeves, unhurried.
And Sandor Clegane, who had known fire, war, blood, and scorn—stood in the glow of the firelight, utterly wrecked by the way she had said my dear.
He didn’t say good night.
But he watched the whole time.
And he didn’t leave until the fire burned low.
The bell only rang once.
Not the high, rolling peal of a royal wedding, nor the trumpets and fanfare of noble procession. Just one solitary ring from the Sept tower—a sound more solemn than celebratory. It echoed over the courtyard like a final breath held in reverence, and drifted away like mist over Blackwater Bay.
Sandor stood alone near the altar, stone still, arms rigid at his sides.
The red of the Sept bled around him—candlelight flickering off tall marble columns, golden pools dancing on the polished floor. Above, the Stranger loomed down from painted glass, its expression unreadable. If Sandor noticed it at all, he gave no sign.
His leathers were brushed. His beard had been trimmed—poorly. A new surcoat had been thrown over his shoulders, black with the faintest sigil of House Lannister sewn into the hem, as was custom now, though he wore it like a man wrapped in old wounds. Sweat clung beneath the cloth. His hand opened and closed once, fingers flexing like he might rather have a sword than a wedding band.
He expected jeers. Or silence. Or worse—Joffrey’s laughter.
What he did not expect was honor.
The first to enter were the Velaryons. The banners of sea-green and silver unfurled behind them like ocean mist rolling in. They did not slink like defeated guests, nor storm like insulted nobles. They walked with the slow, regal confidence of people who belonged anywhere they stepped, salt-touched and sun-warmed, like they had brought the very sea with them.
At their head walked her father.
Tall, proud, and carved from the bones of ships. His cloak was pinned at the left shoulder, fastened over a neatly wrapped stump where his arm had once been. The stories had spread in whispers: a kraken, they said, rising from the depths during a storm when his daughter was just a girl. He had shielded her with his own body. His arm had not survived—but she had. And that, he always said, was the trade he’d make again.
When he reached Sandor, there was no scorn in his eyes. No fear. Just a long, steady look, as if weighing not the man’s title, nor face, but his spine.
Then the old sailor placed his hand firmly on Sandor’s shoulder.
“She laughs like her mother,” he said in a low, rough voice. “And she’s got my fire. Keep her laughing, and she’ll forget to set the world alight.”
Sandor couldn’t speak. Only nodded once, mouth slightly parted, startled by the warmth in the gesture.
A beat later, her ladies-in-waiting filtered in, all of them cloaked in the sea tones of her house—dusted jade, pale green, glistening silvers like salt crusting over pearls. One of them, younger than the rest, blushed furiously when Sandor glanced her way and whispered behind her palm, “He’s not as beastly as they say.”
And then she arrived.
The entire Sept seemed to still.
She didn’t just enter. She filled the room. Like light. Like tide. Like something ancient and elegant walking barefoot from the sea.
Her gown was soft seafoam green with long bell sleeves that whispered when she moved. The silk clung to her body as if the dress had been sewn straight to her skin. Her hair was not braided as tradition demanded. It fell freely in soft waves, the only decoration a pair of silver combs at her temples that caught the candlelight as she passed. Every inch of her was noble, but she carried herself like someone who had never once doubted her place in the world.
She did not stop at Joffrey.
She did not bow.
Her smile did not falter as she walked straight to Sandor.
He couldn’t breathe.
She was real. She hadn’t fled. She wasn’t some joke the gods were playing. She walked to him with a smile like moonlight over calm waters and placed a kiss—a real kiss—on the burned side of his cheek.
“Steady,” she whispered against his skin, her breath warm. “You’re not dreaming.”
He felt the words in his bones.
The ceremony moved on without pause. The septon droned about sacred unions and the joining of souls, while courtiers whispered behind hands, the Queen sneered from her seat, and Joffrey sat cross-legged, eyes rolling at every mention of duty. He sighed loudly, exaggerated and boyish.
“Let’s move it along, old man,” Joffrey muttered. “Before the dog chews his own leash.”
But the septon continued. And when it came time to speak, she did not hesitate.
“I do,” she said clearly.
Sandor’s voice was hoarse when it followed. “Aye.”
Then, soft-footed and without fanfare, the maester stepped forward.
It was the law, after all. The King had requested confirmation of her purity. And she, raised by the salt and waves, did not flinch at customs steeped in rot. Her maid followed her from the Sept with quiet dignity. And when she returned, her head held high, her cheeks a little warmer, she looked not like a woman humiliated—but like a queen who had simply walked through fire untouched.
“Untouched,” the maester said aloud to the gathered court.
Joffrey raised a brow, unimpressed. “Well then,” he said with a sneer, “go and make it true.”
They left to jeers. Laughter. Betting whispers from the back of the hall.
But none of it mattered once the doors closed behind them.
The room was heavy with candlelight, thick with the scent of fresh linens and rosewater, though neither masked the storm rising in Sandor’s chest. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the last whispers of the court like a stone dropped into deep water. At last, they were alone.
He didn’t look at her
Not at first.
His boots thudded against the floor as he paced once, twice. Then, with a growl barely audible, he began unbuckling the leather strap across his shoulder, the motion sharp and practiced. He didn’t savor it. He wasn’t unwrapping a gift — he was bracing for the blow. The pity. The disgust.
He didn’t want her to see.
When he finally turned, she had already shed her veil, fingers toying gently with the combs in her hair, letting them fall one by one onto the low table. Sea-colored silk clung to her body like a second skin, the long bell sleeves dragging as she stepped out of her slippers and walked toward him without hesitation.
He avoided her gaze, hands moving too quickly now — to the belt at his waist, the buckle of his trousers. Get it done, he told himself. Get it done before she changed her mind.
“Stop.” Her voice was stern.
Sharp as the edge of a broken shell.
He froze, his fingers stiff above the leather. Slowly, his eyes flicked to hers — searching for mockery. For hesitation. For that look they all wore eventually: one glance at his face and the soft recoil, the twitch of revulsion, even when they tried to hide it.
But it wasn’t there.
Only stillness. Power. Patience.
And when she took a step forward, he took one back, his lips parted like he’d just taken a blow to the stomach. “I knew it,” he muttered hoarsely, the words slipping out of him before he could stop them. “Thought maybe you—maybe you looked at me like I wasn’t—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
She chuckled.Softly. Slowly. Like it had bloomed in her throat and poured through the room like warm wine.
“My Hound,” she said, her voice no longer sharp, but velvet-wrapped and thick with promise. She stepped closer again, her bare feet silent against the stone. “Please. Be gentle. Be slow.” Her hands slid up his arms, her palms steadying him. “I want to feel every bit of you.”
Something in him unraveled then.
Something tight and wound and aching that had never loosened, not once in all his years.
She kissed him slowly, her lips brushing his like she’d waited her whole life to know his mouth. His first instinct was to take it — to devour — to grab her hips and shove her down, take her from behind like he was used to, like it was easier not to see. His fingers dug into her waist before she pulled back, whispering a quiet “No.”
She climbed into his lap, straddling him with gentle precision. Her thighs spread over his, her skirts pooling at their hips. She cupped his scarred face between her hands and guided his mouth back to hers. The kiss deepened — not rough, not wild, but aching and tender and full of every unsaid thing that had built since the moment they met.
He tried to speak, but it came out coarse, needy, unfiltered. “Fuck… you feel so warm.”
Her smile curled into his mouth.
“Tell me,” she whispered against his lips, “tell me what you want.”
“To give you my seed,” he rasped, breath ragged, “a son, if you allow me.”
“Yes,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him with sinful grace. “Yes, my love. Give me your heir.”
He groaned, head dropping into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses into her skin as she guided him in, inch by slow inch. Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she cupped the back of his neck, holding him there, whispering praise as his hands trembled on her hips.
“You’re inside me,” she murmured, voice thick and heavy, “so deep, gods, I feel you in my bones. That’s it. My good, strong husband…”
And he lost himself.
He moved with desire now, each thrust slow, drawn out, his forehead pressed to hers as she rode him to completion. When she felt him start to shake, she kissed him harder.
“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words rasping up from some deep, unused place inside him.
She pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you too.”
He held her until the candle guttered out, until sleep dragged him down with her body curled against his chest and his arms locked tightly around her waist, like he feared she might vanish come morning.
The next day, the air inside the Red Keep hung thick with anticipation. Court was assembled early, robes gathered, wine poured, mouths whispering.
Joffrey lounged lazily in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm, smirking. “Well? Was the dog house-trained?”
A lone voice cleared his throat. One of Sandor’s sworn men — red-faced, eyes darting to the floor. He bowed low.
“It was… consummated, Your Grace.”
Joffrey scoffed. “He probably mounted her like a stray. Gods, I pity the girl—”
“She was on top,” the guard mumbled quickly.
The room went still.
He swallowed thickly. “She said—uh… she said, ‘My Hound, please… be gentle and slow. I want to feel every bit of you.’”
Silence.
Then a loud, cracking laugh from Tyrion, who nearly choked on his wine.
Sansa turned sharply, her cheeks burning, though the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.
Even Cersei narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight, as if trying to decide whether the embarrassment or the scandal was greater.
Joffrey slammed his palm down against the arm of the throne, face twisted in rage. “Summon her!” he shouted. “I want her brought to me. Now.
The Red Keep’s throne room was cold in the morning light. Not cold in temperature—though the stone still held the chill from the night—but in presence. It was the way the light filtered down like judgment, the way the Iron Throne sat jagged and too high, the way silence clung to the walls like it was listening.
The doors creaked open.
She walked in alone.
No guards. No fear. Just the sound of soft silk brushing the floor, her sea-green skirts gliding like mist over stone, bell sleeves floating at her wrists. Her hands were clasped before her, posture straight, unshaken. Her silver hairpins caught the light as she bowed her head, not too low, not too long—just enough to be respectful, not submissive.
Joffrey looked at her like one might a puzzle that refused to be solved.
She was far too calm.
Far too lovely.
Far too untouched by the cruelty he had come to expect from the world he bent beneath him.
“You,” he said, voice sharp and uncertain. “You can’t possibly mean it.”
Her head tilted slightly, smile warm, unbothered. “Mean what, Your Grace?”
“That you’d lie with him. With a dog.” His voice rose. “You expect me to believe a lady of your name and standing would lower herself to that?”
She offered him a gentle shrug, silk whispering as she moved. “Do you take me for some fool?”
He snapped upright in his throne, jaw clenched. “Yes! I—”
“I take you for a king,” she said, cutting in with soft authority. “Whether you are a fool or not… is up to you.”
The throne room froze.
Even the guards glanced at each other, uncertain if they should breathe.
Sandor had been standing stiff and silent beside the dais—let out a short, amused breath. A low rasp of a laugh he didn’t bother to hide.
Joffrey’s face twisted. He rose, nearly knocking his goblet from the arm of the throne. “You—”
But she didn’t flinch.
Instead, she turned to Sandor, her voice kind but sure, as if they were alone.
“I would like to take him home with me. To Driftmark. My home.” She turned back to Joffrey. “I will leave twenty guards behind. And gold, if that is your price.”
Joffrey scoffed, lips curling. “I don’t need your coin for that pity of a man.”
The words hung, suspended.
“So be it,” she replied. Calm. Clean. Final.
And they turned to leave.
Her chambers were already being packed when they returned.
Her maids worked in silence, folding fabrics, fastening trunks. The air was warmer here, filtered through gauzy curtains that fluttered against the stone window frames. She moved through it easily, barefoot, shedding the tension of the court like a cloak left behind.
The door to her chamber clicked gently shut behind them. A servant had lingered to bow, then gone without a word. Outside, the keep still moved like a stirred anthill — talk of the Velaryon bride, the dog-husband, the Driftmark exit. But in this room, time had slowed.
The warmth hit Sandor first — the difference. The air inside wasn’t the cold stone of the barracks or the reeking stalls of the city. No, this smelled of orange blossom and salt, of soft powder and faint perfume. The sea lingered on her belongings, like her homeland refused to let her go.
His boots sank into a thick woven rug, seafoam green, surely imported, and he felt out of place already. He lingered at the threshold like a soldier returning to a battlefield, stiff and unsure. Her back was to him, delicate fingers unfastening a silver clasp at her collar.
“My rooms at home are bigger,” she said softly, not looking back. “Higher ceilings. Open air. You can hear the gulls and smell the tide. And my windows… you could lean right out over the cliffs and let the wind wrap you like a shawl.”
Her voice was wistful. Not bragging. Just remembering. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the silk of her gown. Sea-green, again — the color suited her. Or perhaps she suited it. She belonged to it.
She wasn’t made for stone walls and whispers.
She turned slowly.
The dress had loosened at the collar. Her hair had fallen a little, tendrils slipping over her collarbone. Her eyes searched his face—those bruised, stormy eyes, too clever for their own good.
“You’re quiet,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “Did Joffrey’s venom sink that deep?”
“No.” The word was low. Hard. “It ain’t him.”
Her brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly.
Sandor’s hands moved toward his pocket without thinking. His fingers fumbled against the worn leather pouch at his belt, callused fingertips scraping the seam. It felt heavier than usual. Wrong in his hands. Like it wasn’t meant for this.
Still, he pulled it open. The sound was loud in the silence — the coins inside shifting like bone dice.
Her eyes dropped to it.
“I should… pay you.” The words scratched at his throat like gravel. His eyes burned. He didn’t look at her. “For pretending. For being kind. For making me feel like—like…”
His voice cracked, the rest lost to the air.
“I thought I could walk away,” he muttered, jaw tightening, “but… fuck, I don’t want to.” She watched him. His face was turned half away, his mouth a grim slash of regret. But his hands were trembling, white-knuckled around the coin pouch.
Her chest ached.
She crossed the space between them in silence. Each footstep was soft — not because she was afraid, but because she was deliberate. She moved like water: graceful, slow, unable to be stopped.
Her hand touched his, gently, just enough to still his fingers.
“Sandor,” she whispered.
He glanced down at her, face unreadable — except for his eyes. His eyes were wide, helpless.
She took the pouch from him and set it on the low table beside them without breaking his gaze.
“You can still be sworn to my father,” she said softly. “Still serve my family, if that’s what you want. No shame in that.”
He exhaled hard through his nose. His shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for the goodbye.
“But you’re still my husband,” she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You still hold that title. And if you want it, my lord—” she reached up, cupping his scarred cheek with one warm, steady hand “—you may keep it.”
His breath caught. His hand twitched at his side. “Don’t mock me,” he muttered hoarsely
She stepped closer. Pressed her body against his.
“Your brute charm…” she smiled, voice like silk against his throat, “…has worked on me.”
He made a broken sound—half breath, half laugh—and then she felt his arms come around her, not forcefully, not desperate, but like the closing of a door against the cold. His head lowered into her shoulder, resting there a moment as if he didn’t quite believe she was real.
Her hand moved through his thick, dark hair. “You’re mine,” she whispered.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.
“Say it again,” he rasped.
“You’re mine.”
