#sandor clegane

[bighound-littlebird]

Sandor Clegane by ffrankfu

[raeggz-o]

"He never shared a bed with anyone. No one ever cuddled up to him in his sleep"

[moonpetal111]

So close to being done with my new sandor fic its about 2k words nearing 3k. Just need a good ending or just an ending at this point. My matt murdock fic ive been neglecting but i will complete both before the weeks done....

I hope.

[gabessquishytum]

Thinking about Sandor Clegane's dog headed helm from GOT. Again.

[rabidworld]

Taking a shower with Sandor Clegane and running your hands over his hairy chest. His large pecs curving warm and wet under your hands before you run them down his tummy -- also covered in a thick dark trail of hair -- before he spins you around and pulls your back to his front. You can feel the way the slight pudge of his stomach molds to the arch of your back and it sends a thrill down to your core.

[liderpag]

Sansan comics pt. 2/4

Previous part is in the blog :3

Don't even khow how to name it

[drabblestheclown]

♡The Princess and The Hound♡

Chapter 14 - The Road Ahead

Chapter index + tags • previous chapter • next chapter

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Baratheon Princess! Reader

Chapter word count: 3,881

Chapter tags: slow burn • pre-canon GOT • will be canon-compliant • no use of y/n • Canon-typical misogyny • Talks of marriage and children • Robert Baratheon • Arranged marriage • Angst • We've kind of actually reached ASOIAF timeline hooray • Family dynamics

Chapter summary: The death of Lord Arryn has sent the royal party North. For the first time, you find out that things might not always go your way.

The news of Jon Arryn's death spread through the Keep before the sun had fully set.

He had died in his sleep, taken swiftly by an illness that had left little time for anyone to understand how serious it was until it was already too late. By the time word reached the court, there was nothing to be done.

You had known Lord Arryn all your life, though you could not say you had known him well. He had always been there—a familiar face among your father's court, as much a fixture of Robert's reign as the Iron Throne itself. He had served as Hand for fifteen years, ever since your father had taken the crown.

Now he was simply gone.

The mood in the castle changed almost immediately. Lord Arryn had been well regarded, and his death was more than the loss of an old lord. Much as you loved your father, you were not blind to his shortcomings. Jon Arryn had governed the realm whenever your father had grown tired of it, which had happened rather often over the years. The Hand's death left a place beside the King that could not easily be filled.

Lady Arryn did not remain in the Red Keep for long. Within days, she departed King's Landing, taking what remained of her household with her and returning to the Vale.

You could not say his that the death of the Hand had devastated you, but it saddened you all the same. There was something unsettling about losing someone who had always seemed as though he would simply remain there, year after year, until you were old.

Your father had been far closer to the man than you ever had. You had expected the loss to weigh on him.

And yet, the King wasted little time mourning.

Within days, he had reached his decision. The royal party would travel north, and Lord Eddard Stark would be offered the position of Hand of the King.

The prospect of it filled you with a strange mixture of excitement and dread.

You had been to Winterfell only once before, though it had been so long ago that you scarcely remembered it. Only a few scattered images remained. A grey castle beneath a grey sky. Snow beneath your boots. The prickling cold against your cheeks. Someone wrapping you in furs after you complained about the cold.

The details were so faded that you could no longer tell which pieces you truly remembered and which had been filled in by stories over the years.

Now, though, you would see it properly.

The North.

Winterfell.

You found yourself thinking of it more and more, until thoughts of Jon Arryn's death began to fade behind them.

At night, you tried to picture it all in your head. The great castle the Starks had called home for generations. The godswood, with its ancient trees and old gods. Snow beneath your boots. You wanted, more than anything, to sleep beneath a mountain of furs and wake to a world turned white outside your window.

Most of all, you wanted to see somewhere that was not King's Landing.

There was only one thing that dulled the excitement.

Joffrey would be coming too.

You tried not to think too much about how many weeks you would be forced to spend in his company.

Still, Joffrey at least guaranteed you one thing.

Weeks with Sandor Clegane.

That, you decided, was worth putting up with your brother.

You found your father by accident.

The castle had been in a state of controlled chaos since morning. Servants hurried through the halls with bundles of clothing and provisions, guards checked and rechecked the wagons, and every few minutes another voice called for someone who was already late. The royal party would leave for the North within the hour, and it seemed half the Keep was coming with you.

You had been making your way through one of the upper galleries overlooking the courtyard when you spotted him.

Robert stood alone at the open window, one shoulder resting against the stone beside it, a goblet dangling loosely from his hand. Below, the preparations continued in a constant stream of movement. Horses were being led back from the stables, carts loaded, and men in the King's colours moved back and forth across the yard.

Your father appeared to be watching it all.

Or, more likely, pretending to.

You slowed as you approached, watching him for a moment.

"Are you hiding?"

Robert glanced over his shoulder. His eyes travelled briefly over your training clothes and the cloak thrown around your shoulders before settling on your face.

"Resting."

You came to stand beside him, looking down into the courtyard. "From what?"

"People."

A quiet laugh escaped you. "I see."

You leaned against the stone beside him, unable to keep yourself from smiling as you looked down at the chaos below.

For a little while, neither of you spoke.

Then Robert sighed.

"Gods, we're really going north."

You offered a small smile. "I'm looking forward to it."

"You'll be less pleased once your toes fall off."

"I'm sure I'll manage."

"We'll see." His gaze dropped briefly to your clothes again. "You're riding?"

"Of course."

"Your mother won't like that."

You smiled. "She doesn't like anything."

That earned a laugh from him.

Quiet settled over you again as he stared back down at the courtyard.

"Ned's got a girl near Joffrey's age," Robert said eventually. "Sansa. Pretty thing, from what I've heard."

You watched him closely.

"You're thinking of marrying them," you said.

He shrugged. "It's a good match."

You nodded, then glanced away. "Strange punishment for the girl."

Robert barked a laugh.

"Careful. That's your future king you're talking about."

"I know."

"Do you?"

You smiled faintly.

He took another drink.

"Ned's got a son around your age, too."

"Robb."

"That's right." He refilled his cup from the pitcher resting on the wall. "Good lad. You'll like him."

You forced a smile, already able to see where this was headed. "Seems pointless marrying off two of your children to the Starks."

"You sound like your mother," he said, but he was grinning anyway. "No reason you couldn't marry him if you liked him."

You were quiet a moment. It was not often that your father broached this topic so directly with you.

"I don't think I will want to marry him," you said at last, the words coming out slow.

"You've not even met the boy."

"I don't think I want to marry anyone."

His smile faded just barely.

"You're still young," he said, sounding as unbothered as he usually did with this topic. "You'll change your mind."

"I don't know."

"You will."

"And if I don't?"

You looked at him, and the discomfort must have been evident on your face.

He laughed, clasping a hand on your shoulder.

"Gods, girl, don't look so terrified. You know I would never force you to marry someone you couldn't stand."

Some of the tension left your shoulders, though you could not fully relax yet.

"But you still want me to marry," you clarified.

He shrugged. "You think your mother and I were eager to wed?" He shook his head. "Doesn't mean nothing good came out of it," he said, nodding his head in your direction. "Look at you."

Despite yourself, you smiled.

"And how else am I to get grandchildren?" He grinned. "Gods know the other three will give me nothing but little Lannisters."

You gave him a look.

"Father."

He laughed, gave your shoulder an absent squeeze.

"I'm serious," he said. "You'll meet someone. Fall in love, perhaps. You'll have a family of your own. You'll see."

He sounded terribly confident.

You glanced away again, suddenly much less certain of yourself.

"I don't think I want children, either," you admitted quietly.

His hand stilled.

For a moment, he said nothing.

When you dared to glance at him, his lips had pressed into a thin line.

He took a drink.

"You will," he said at last.

There was something different in his voice now. A firm sort of certainty.

"But—"

"You'll meet someone. You'll marry. You'll have children. And you'll wonder why you ever thought otherwise."

"But what if I don't?"

Robert looked at you.

"You will."

You swallowed.

"I don't know if I'll want that."

"You will," he repeated. "I know you. I know my daughter."

He looked back towards the courtyard.

"And I want children from you."

The words settled between you.

He seemed to realise, a moment too late, how firmly he had said them.

His expression softened.

"Not now," he added quickly. "Gods, girl, I'm not saying you need to rush off and find yourself a husband tomorrow."

You said nothing.

"You've got plenty of time," he continued. "Years, if you want them."

You kept your eyes on the courtyard below.

"You don't have to think about it now."

Still, you said nothing.

Robert watched you for a moment.

"You'll meet someone eventually," he added, quieter now. "You'll know when you do."

You nodded absently.

"All right," you murmured.

It came out flatter than you intended.

He either did not notice or chose to ignore it.

"And when the time comes, you'll have a family of your own," he continued. "You'll see."

Your fingers tightened against the stone.

He was trying to make it better. You knew that. He was giving you years, telling you there was no hurry, insisting that he would not force you to marry someone you hated.

But none of that changed what he had just said.

He wanted children from you.

Not if you wanted them. Not if you changed your mind.

There was no choice in it. He could try and make it appealing as much as he wanted, say you would change your mind as much as he liked. It did not change that fact of the matter, which was that this was his decision for you. And nothing you did or said could seem to change that.

For the first time, you were beginning to understand that there were some things he would not bend on.

Robert gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"You'll see."

You nodded again, not trusting yourself to speak.

Below, servants called out to each other in rushed voices. It would soon be time to leave.

"I should go," you said quietly. "I need to see to my horse."

Robert glanced towards you.

"Aye. All right."

You pushed away from the stone. "I'll see you outside."

"You will."

You managed a small smile, then turned and walked away before he could say anything else.

You did not look back.

Your father did not travel lightly.

The courtyard felt busier once you were amidst the chaos. Nearly three hundred men made up the royal procession—guards, knights, servants, cooks, grooms, stablehands and all manner of others required to keep the king comfortable on the long road. There were wagons laden with provisions and baggage, dozens of horses, and enough tents and supplies to make it seem as though the entire court intended to abandon King's Landing permanently.

Even your uncle Tyrion had joined the party.

You did not mind Tyrion. You rarely spoke to him, but whenever you did, he was usually pleasant enough. He had a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind, and you found his company far more tolerable than most of your mother's relatives.

Your mother did not share your opinion.

Whenever Tyrion was near, something in Cersei seemed to tighten. Her voice became colder, her patience shorter, and you had learned that it was usually best to leave the two of them alone. If you were lucky, they would mostly avoid each other in the weeks to come.

You were halfway to the stables when your mother found you.

"Surely you do not intend to travel dressed like that," she said, her eyes shifting pointedly over your gear.

You glanced down. "Well, I can't very well ride in my dresses."

Cersei stared at you.

"You're a princess."

"I know."

"Princesses do not ride North in armour."

"I—"

"You will ride in the wheelhouse."

"No."

Her lips tightened.

"That was not a question."

You held her gaze, resisting the urge to argue. You knew that look. "The King has already agreed to it," you said simply.

Cersei's mouth tightened. For a moment, she looked as though she might argue further. Instead, she drew a slow breath.

"Very well. If you insist on making a spectacle of yourself, at least try to behave appropriately while you do so." Her gaze lingered on your armour one last time before she turned towards her carriage. "And do not make your father regret agreeing to this."

You waited until she had disappeared into the crowd before making your way to the stables. Your horse was already saddled and waiting, the reins held by a groom who hurried to hand them over.

You mounted and made your way towards the main procession.

Across the courtyard, Joffrey was already being settled into his carriage, looking thoroughly displeased with the world. His eyes found yours almost immediately as you rode towards the waiting procession.

You met his gaze.

His expression soured. A moment later, the carriage door slammed shut.

Sandor was already mounted beside him.

Of course. Even surrounded by hundreds of men, your brother's dog could never stray far.

His eyes found yours, too.

You held his gaze for only a heartbeat before looking elsewhere.

You felt strangely out of place.

Normally, you would take the opportunity to ride near your father. You might have spent the first few hours listening to him complain about the cold, boast about his horse, or ask whether you thought he could still outride the younger knights. You could have asked him about the North.

Instead, you found yourself wanting to avoid him.

You had spent your entire life believing that, if you wanted something badly enough, your father would eventually give in.

You had been wrong.

He had not shouted or threatened you. He had barely even raised his voice.

Somehow, that made it worse.

You will marry. You will have children.

It played in your mind over and over.

You briefly considered riding near Sandor instead, if only for a distraction. But that meant riding near your brother, and you had no desire to spend the day listening to Joffrey shout orders and complaints at the world.

Besides, you were not even sure you wanted Sandor's company. Not with your father's words stuck in your mind.

So you chose solitude.

Or what solitude could be granted to a princess.

You rode several lengths away from the main cluster, surrounded by a loose scattering of guards and riders. Far enough that no one expected you to join their conversations, close enough that no one could accuse you of wandering off.

Slowly, the Red Keep disappeared behind you.

For the first time in years, you were leaving King's Landing.

And despite everything, despite your father's words and your mother's disapproval and Joffrey's ever-present glare, a small thrill of excitement stirred in your chest.

You were going North.

You were going to see Winterfell.

And for a little while, at least, you could forget about everything else.

By nightfall, the royal party had made camp.

The journey had been less exhausting than you had expected, though your legs ached from hours in the saddle. Fires dotted the clearing, their smoke drifting lazily into the darkening sky. Men gathered in small groups around them, eating, drinking, talking, and tending to their horses.

You ate with the rest of the royal household, though you barely noticed what was on your plate.

Your father was telling some story about the road—something about a horse he had once ridden in the Vale—but you found yourself listening only in fragments. Every few moments, your thoughts drifted back to the conversation again.

Marriage. Children.

You pushed the thoughts away and forced another bite.

Across the table, Robert laughed loudly at something one of the guards had said. You glanced at him, but his attention was already elsewhere.

Even Cersei seemed to notice your quietness, her eyes flicking towards you once or twice. She said nothing.

When you had eaten enough to satisfy the ache in your stomach, you set down your fork.

"I think I'll go train."

Robert barely looked up from his wine. "Go on, then," he said.

Cersei's expression tightened immediately. "You've been riding all day."

"I have."

"And you're tired."

"I'll manage."

Her lips pressed together.

Your father waved a dismissive hand. "Let her go, woman. She's been sitting on a horse all day. If she wants to swing a sword, let her swing a sword.

You nodded, avoiding eye contact with both of them. "Thank you, father."

You did not wait for any further responses before turning on your heel and leaving.

Sandor sat among several of the Kingsguard, though there was noticeably more space around him than around the others. He was eating from a wooden bowl, half-listening to some conversation beside him.

You hesitated only briefly before approaching.

He noticed before you even reached him.

"Princess."

You held your hands behind your back and ignored the curious looks from the other guards. "Are you busy?"

"Eating."

You peered over into his bowl. There was not much left.

"I want to train."

He scrunched his brows together. "Now?"

"Now," you repeated, impatience creeping into your voice. Perhaps riding had tired you more than you had realised, but sitting around the camp with nothing to occupy your mind sounded unbearable.

He sighed, scooped up the last of his meal, and jerked his head towards the camp.

"Go get the swords, then."

The clearing Sandor chose was some distance from the camp, far enough that the noise of the fires had faded into the background. It was your first time sparring outside.

You had expected to find it exciting.

Instead, you were just frustrated.

The ground was uneven, scattered with stones and patches of dried grass. Your footing was nothing like it had been on the smooth floor of the training room. Every attempt to dodge left you having to account for both the ground beneath your boots and the sword coming towards you.

The first time you stumbled, Sandor stopped his strike.

The second time, he didn't.

You barely managed to twist away from the blow.

By the fourth, you were thoroughly fed up.

Your foot slipped beneath you. Sandor's blade caught your shoulder, and you let out an aggravated noise before throwing your sword into the grass.

The expression he watched you with was the same you might have given a child throwing a tantrum.

You stalked towards a nearby tree and retrieved your waterskin, leaning your back against the trunk as you drank.

For a moment, you said nothing. You stared down at the ground, replaying the last few exchanges in your head. Your footing had been wrong again. You knew that. You knew exactly what he would tell you if you asked.

You took another drink instead.

Sandor let the silence stretch a while.

"What's eating at you?" He said at last.

"Nothing," you muttered, still staring down at the ground.

"You've been sour all day," he said. When you didn't respond, he added, "Your brother again?"

"No," you murmured. You looked away, watching the darkening edge of the clearing rather than his face. "My father."

That seemed to catch him off guard a little.

"Your father?"

You nodded.

"What'd he do?"

You scuffed some dirt off your boot, finding any excuse to avoid his gaze. Perhaps you should have sneaked some wine out.

"He thinks I should marry."

There was a beat of silence.

"Ah."

"And he wants me to have children," you added, your voice now carrying a faint bitterness. "Didn't want to hear otherwise. Just kept saying that I would change my mind."

Sandor grunted.

"He's probably right."

Your head snapped up. "What?"

He shrugged. "You're young."

"I'm nineteen."

"I know how old you are."

Your grip tightened around the waterskin. "Do you know how many girls are married by nineteen?"

"Plenty."

"And nobody tells them they're too young."

Sandor frowned.

"That's not—"

You cut him off. "If I'd wanted to marry at sixteen, would Father have told me I didn't know what I wanted?"

He didn't answer.

"No. He'd have found someone suitable and called it a blessing." You pushed away from the tree, frustration spilling into every word. "But because I don't want it, suddenly I'm too young to know my own mind." You let out a sharp breath and looked to the floor. "How is that supposed to be fair?"

"You're a princess," he said. "It's different."

"He has three other fucking children to give him grandkids," you snapped.

Sandor shot you a warning look, and you immediately lowered your gaze. You'd let yourself get too loud.

You took a slow breath, forcing your fingers to relax around the waterskin.

"Thought he would understand," you muttered. Your thumb traced absently over the leather. "Thought you would understand."

"Understand what?"

You shrugged. "Me."

He gave a short, humourless laugh.

"I'm your brother's dog," he said flatly. "What would you expect me to understand about princesses?"

You looked up, then. "You've known me for a year."

"Doesn't mean I know what goes on in the bloody head of yours."

"But I told you." Your voice was quieter now. "From the beginning."

It had been your first real conversation with him, while you had been hiding from your mother.

It seemed he had forgotten.

Or simply never understood to begin with.

You looked away. "Doesn't matter."

You set the waterskin down beside the tree and walked back towards the discarded sword. Your eyes remained fixed on the ground, and you were almost within reach when Sandor's boot came down on the blade.

You stopped.

Slowly, you looked up at him.

His arms were folded across his chest.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. He worked his jaw, but still he said nothing.

Finally, you huffed, impatient. "What—"

"The King will come around," he said, the words sounding as though they had been dragged out of him. "If that's really what you're wanting."

The anger in you faltered.

You glanced away, shoulders sinking slightly.

"You weren't there," you murmured. "I don't think this is like usual."

A pause.

"You'll convince him," he said. "You always do."

There was something almost gentle about the words, despite the gruffness of his voice.

You weren't convinced.

But you suddenly felt guilty for dismissing what was, perhaps, his attempt at comforting you.

"Maybe," you said quietly.

He watched you a moment, then nodded and bent to retrieve your sword.

"Come on."

You looked at him. "What?"

He offered the blade out. "You wanted to train."

There was something almost grateful in the simplicity of it. He was giving you an escape from the conversation, and perhaps taking one for himself.

You drew a slow breath and forced yourself to let the rest of your frustration settle.

Then you stepped forward, took your sword, and settled into your stance.

Sandor lifted his own blade.

"Again," he said.