Hello Nova! I'd love to read an explicit, romance + smut + drama, Sandor x reader where the reader is Jon's twin sister, and it's a forced/arranged marriage trope.
I think the plot where it's as a punishment by Joffrey, but that's kinda cliché, so how about:
Reader had been married before to some Northerner lord, but he died or had it annulled, and while discussing Sansa and Joffrey's marriage with Cat, Cersei comes up with the idea to marry her off to the Hound, so she could "breed" the next gen of the kingsguard, promising if she had girls they'd have a place in court or be married to worthy suitors.
Cat obviously wants her away, and Robert or Cat can convince Ned it's a good idea since nobody else wants to marry reader.
Idk if it's too crazy, but I can't wait to read it. I am obsessed with your writing. Keep up the good work! ♡
A Dog's Honor
Requests are closed
- Summary: You never belonged anywhere. Not in the North, not with your family. But you might belong with him.
- Pairing: snow!reader/Sandor Clegane
- Rating: Explicit 18+
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial
- A/N: This ones is fresh from the oven. I hope I've managed to write everything you had in mind. ☺️
The godswood had not changed in all the years since your childhood, nor had the bitter chill in its air dulled with age or memory. The red leaves of the heart tree still whispered above the quiet pool, still bled their sap in the likeness of weeping. You sat beneath it now, wrapped in a cloak of grey and white, your breath fogging in the cold as you tried to lose yourself in the old gods and your own thoughts. But they would not leave you be. Not when the castle was teeming with southern strangers, golden lions and oiled courtiers who eyed you with a mixture of polite disdain and open curiosity. You, a Snow, a widow with no remnant of a title save what had briefly been granted through your dead husband’s name, and a Stark only in blood and shadow.
Voices carried from the great hall beyond the trees. Loud, boisterous—Robert’s laugh, like the roar of a bear. Then Cersei’s cutting tone, low and biting. You flinched before you even heard your name.
“…And what would you have us do with her, Lady Catelyn? Leave her to become a silent sister? Or let her wither away here, haunting these halls like some northern ghost?”
You heard your step-mother’s voice, quiet and clipped, trying to hold firm against the lioness’s derision. “She is still mourning. Y/N’s husband died only last year.”
“Yes, and no new offers have come since, have they?” Cersei drawled, amusement coiling in her words like a snake. “Pretty enough, in a cold sort of way, but too Stark to tempt a southern lord. Too quiet. Too solemn. And now too old to dangle in front of a noble boy with his cock still wet.”
“Cersei,” Eddard said, warning thick in his tone, “That is enough.”
But the queen only smiled. You knew it without seeing. That smile was a blade sheathed in velvet.
“I have a proposal, if your northern honor allows some sense,” she said. “Let the girl be wed again. To one who will not care for her sharp tongue or her wintry silences. One who will breed loyalty, if not beauty.”
You felt it then—the pause. The cold hush of something heavy falling into place.
“To Sandor,” Cersei said at last. “My son’s dog. He is no knight, but he serves better than most who wear the title. And we’ve always spoken of what should come after. The next generation of the Kingsguard must be stronger than the last, especially if they are to serve Joffrey when he is king. A Snow and a Clegane—harsh stock, but strong. She would breed warriors. Sons for the sword, daughters for the court. Perhaps one might even wed a knight or a minor lord. It is more than she has now.”
Your blood had frozen. You rose from the godswood without a sound, the trees no longer speaking to you.
Inside, the hearth roared as if in mockery of the cold that had taken root in your chest. You stepped through the doorway as your father turned sharply, his face white with fury.
“She is not some broodmare to be bartered for steel,” Eddard snapped.
“No,” Cersei agreed sweetly, turning to you now. “She is a widow with no prospects. Unless you have a better suggestion, Lord Stark?”
Robert, red-cheeked from wine and the hunt, waved a hand. “It makes sense, Ned. She’s not likely to find better, and Sandor has served Joff well. Let him have something of his own at last. She’s your daughter by blood, not your name. And she’s of age. Let them be married before we leave for King’s Landing.”
You stood at the edge of the hall, every eye on you. Your breath shallow, your mouth dry. Sandor Clegane was there too, leaning against a stone pillar in the shadow of the firelight. His expression unreadable, though his eyes burned like coals beneath his brow.
“You’d marry me off to a dog?” you asked, voice low but steady.
Cersei tilted her head. “Better a dog than no master at all.”
“Enough,” Eddard said, rising now, voice as hard as ice. “You will not speak of her that way again, Cersei. She is of my blood.”
“She is of no house,” Cersei replied. “You know it. That is why it fits.”
You turned your eyes to your father, your true father, who had always loved you as his own. Eddard’s mouth was pressed into a grim line, his jaw tight.
“Y/N,” he said at last, soft and solemn, “It may not be what you wanted. But I would not see you waste away here. And Robert… is not wrong. There may not be another offer. Not one that protects you.”
You did not speak again until long after the feast, after the queen had smirked her way through supper, after Robert had poured more wine into his beard than his cup, after Sansa had clung to the idea of marrying her prince like a child with a doll. You found yourself in the stables, your fingers stroking the mane of your mare, trying to ignore the ache behind your eyes.
“You’re too proud for this place,” came a gruff voice at your back.
You turned. Sandor stood in the doorway, face half-shadowed, half-burned. His eyes flicked over you, not with lust or cruelty, but with something bordering on pity.
“I don’t need pity,” you said quietly.
“I didn’t offer it,” he replied. “Just telling you what I see.”
You studied him. He was not handsome, not gentle, not kind. But he had never lied to you, not once. Never dressed his words in honey.
“You don’t want this,” you said.
He gave a grunt of laughter. “What man wouldn’t want a Stark girl in his bed, hm? Pretty enough. Strong hips. But I’m not fool enough to think you want it either.”
“I don’t,” you whispered. “But I won’t be caged here like a relic.”
He stepped closer. The scent of leather, of horse and steel and smoke clung to him like a second skin. He loomed, tall and scarred and brutal, but not cruel.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, voice low. “Not unless you ask for it. And I won’t chase you in your bed. Not until you tell me to.”
You stared up at him, and something inside you shifted. Not surrender, but a kind of grim acceptance.
“I’ll never love you,” you said.
“Good,” Sandor muttered. “Love’s for fools and bards.”
And when he turned and left, leaving you alone in the silence of the stables, you realized you didn’t feel quite so cold anymore.
The wedding had been cold in all but weather. The gods had not smiled, though the sun had shone brightly over Winterfell’s courtyard where Cersei Lannister presided like a vulture draped in silk, offering venomous smiles and mocking toasts. You had worn silver and grey, a gown stitched with direwolves and lined with pale fur, but it might as well have been a shroud. The words were said quickly, without warmth or joy—your father’s voice strained, your hand stiff in Sandor’s gloved grip. When the maester had called for a kiss to seal the vows, Sandor only dipped his head and let the edge of his mouth brush your temple. He had not touched your lips, not claimed you with the hunger you half-expected. Just a brush, a breath, and a step away.
Catelyn had watched it all with a tight, triumphant smile, as though your removal from her household had been a long-awaited purge. She had hugged Sansa too tightly afterward, whispering too loudly that "your sister will be fine, she was never meant for the North." You had seen the way her eyes avoided yours during the feast, heard the way her voice grew more cheerful the further you were from her sight. And Jon—gods, your twin had looked ready to throw his goblet at the queen when the toasts began, red-faced and shaking, but he had no power to stop it. No title. No name. Just a bastard like you once were, before widowhood had offered you a different kind of prison.
The bedding had been skipped, at your insistence, and for once even the queen had relented. "Let her scurry off with her beast in peace," Cersei had murmured with false kindness. "We’ve had our amusement for one day."
Now, inside the old bedchamber the servants had hurried to prepare, you stood with your back to the heavy door. Sandor had not lit the hearth yet, but the faint light from a cluster of candles painted your silhouette across the stone wall. You could still smell wine and pine needles from the feast, the ghosts of winter mingling in your lungs as you breathed slowly, deliberately.
He stood near the window, half in shadow, unfastening the black surcoat that had been brushed clean for the wedding. You watched his scarred face from the side, the way the firelight licked the ruined skin, how his eyes were darker than you'd remembered, full of watchfulness instead of hunger.
"You don’t have to be afraid," Sandor said finally, voice rough like gravel, but quieter now. Almost hesitant.
“I’m not,” you replied, turning to face him.
His eyes flicked to you, then away. “I told you before. I won’t force you. You’re not some whore the Lannisters threw at me.”
You didn’t answer right away. Your hands moved to your waist, untying the laces of your gown with stiff fingers. The fabric sighed as it slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your feet like mist. Beneath it, your chemise clung to your skin, thin and silken, more southern than northern in its cut. You saw the way his gaze shifted—his jaw clenched, his fingers flexed—but he didn’t move toward you.
“I know you won’t force me,” you said softly. “That’s why I’m not afraid.”
You stepped out of the dress fully, baring yourself to the cold and to him. Your hair hung loose down your back, the ends brushing your hips. You shivered, but not from fear.
“Let’s just get it over with,” you said, lifting your chin. “Isn’t that what’s expected?”
He made a sound in his throat, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. He crossed the room slowly, each step heavy, until he stood before you. Not touching. Just looking. You wondered if he would be cruel, if the roughness in his voice would translate to violence in his hands—but instead, he touched your wrist, just a brush of callused fingers. Then your collarbone. Then the slope of your jaw.
“You think I want to hurt you?” he asked, not quite a question.
“I think you know how,” you replied, staring up at him.
He barked a laugh at that—harsh, humorless. “Aye. I know how. But I won’t.”
His hands were large, the palms broad and scarred, but when they cupped your waist, they were gentle. Almost reverent. You let yourself lean into him, closing your eyes as he lowered his mouth to yours. His kiss wasn’t practiced, not soft or sweet like a bard’s tale. But it was real. Earnest. Solid. You clung to him with surprising desperation, your breath caught in your chest.
He undressed slowly, letting you see every inch of him—the fire-scarred skin on his shoulder, the crisscross of old wounds, the strength in his arms and chest. When he took you to bed, it wasn’t hurried or brutal. He laid you down carefully, the mattress creaking beneath your bodies. The cold didn’t seem to reach you anymore.
There was pain at first, yes. But he murmured something against your ear—low and gruff, but soothing. One of his hands tangled in your hair, the other braced beside your head, never pinning you, never pressing too hard. And when he moved inside you, slow and careful, it was more considerate than you had ever imagined him capable of. You bit your lip, breath hitching, but you didn’t cry out. You didn’t need to. He read the tension in your limbs, the way your fingers gripped his back, and adjusted to you without a word.
After, you lay half-covered by the furs, staring at the timbered ceiling, heart still beating too fast. He rested beside you, eyes half-closed, one arm slung across your waist.
“You were gentler than I thought you’d be,” you murmured.
He snorted, but there was no scorn in it. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
You turned to face him. “Why’d you agree to it? The marriage.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Because they would’ve married me off to some court lady otherwise. Or given you to some fat old fool with gout. I figured if we had to be used, might as well be by each other.”
You blinked, stunned by the rough honesty. Then he shifted closer, his heat wrapping around you.
“I’ll keep you safe, girl,” he said against your hair. “You and any babes that come from this. No one will touch you, not while I live.”
You believed him. And for the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to exhale.
