Chapter Text
It was her wedding night. All her life Sansa Stark had dreamed of this moment. Up until her father’s death that is. Then her fantasies of welcoming, protective cloaks and handsome princes had come to an end; they were boarded up and shut away inside her like so many other hopes she had once wasted hours daydreaming about.
No one had expected her to choose him. He was nearly as much of a social pariah nowadays as she. After the Battle of the Blackwater, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, had been found, passed out drunk, several yards down from her door with five dead men surrounding him, apparently slain by his hand. Enemies sent to pillage the ladies’ quarters. If he hadn’t stayed, and moved on as he had threatened to do, there was no telling what the men might have done to her. Instead of spending a night beaten and raped, Sansa had tossed fitfully inside the rough comfort of his cloak until the first light of dawn.
The Hound was an unlikely hero in that respect. He had kept her body and virtue intact; from both himself and the intruders. But once it had been found out that Winterfell was a ruined pile of rock and rubble her value decreased by the day. Finally bored with her, Joffrey had given her several options as to her future, each seemingly as vile and demeaning as the other. He was a just King, he boasted; he would let the Lady have her pick of what was to become of the remainder of her days.
A marriage to Sandor had been one of the choices meant to hurt and embarrass her. He was as gruff and mean as ever, though Sansa was sure there was something else after that night when he had come to her terrified, drunk, and reeling. And he still, never once, laid a cruel hand of harm upon her. In a peculiar sort of way, she trusted him as she did no other in King’s Landing. He was safe. That she knew for sure. There had been a blade at her throat once but it was as empty a threat as most of the garbage that poured forth from his mouth; harsh words used to isolate himself further. There was no longer any doubt in her mind over the wetness she had felt on his cheek. She had done that! Broken down a man as strong as he! Sansa was learning. He was made of something other than the shell of hateful armor he had forged to protect himself. Against what, she wasn’t sure, and maybe she would never know, but her odds of remaining safe and -dare she think it- one day happy lay with him. There wasn’t a soft center to be found within him. The very idea made Sansa snort through her nose. But he wasn’t an animal. He was a man. Troubled, it was true, though in a much different way from Trant, Gregor or Joffrey. Those men were sick. Sandor was . . . lost.
Sansa had been forced to watch him take a lashing two days after the Battle of the Blackwater. Once the flames had died off, and the dust had settled, it was determined the Hound’s sword and ferocity were worth more than a length of rope and the coin it would take to bury him. Insolence and the abandonment of his post could not, however, be ignored completely. Joffrey’s favoritism towards his loyal dog dimmed after it had been relayed to him all that Sandor had done towards the end of the battle.
Sandor -his name felt easier to speak after their night of strange intimacy- had been stripped of his Kingsguard status first. His armor had been removed, piece by piece in front of the court and he was made to kneel and shed his tunic. His wrists were bound and a wooden bench placed in front of him. Sansa had wondered what the bench was for. It became clear ten minutes later. One by one the remaining members of the Kingsguard had taken up a whip of corded leather and struck him seven times each on his back, a reminder of his lost place amongst them. During the second round Sandor had begun to grunt and grimace when he was struck. By the time the fifth man put down the whip Sandor was a sweating, swearing mess leaning heavily across the bench before him. Sansa’s eyes had begun to water almost as soon as it had all started but she dared not let her tears spill in front of Joff. That could spell disaster for her or perhaps even Sandor and she would not bring more pain upon him. She wanted to sob, though. She wanted to shout “enough” just as he had done for her. There was no Imp to come and rescue the Hound. There wasn’t anyone to put an end to it. The only speck of mercy it seemed was when Ser Jaime, the last to take up the whip, struck Sandor. His blows appeared weaker than the rest to Sansa. It was a chilling, warped consolation.
Sandor had to be dragged out of the throne room when it was over, unable to stand on his own. The room stank of blood. Sansa knew that smell well now. The Hound was thrown in a lower dungeon, to recover amid squalor and darkness. Sansa vomited as soon as she made it back to her room. There was no word the next day as to whether Sandor had survived and for weeks Sansa paced the halls anxiously. She ate little, slept less and cried most nights. By the time he was released, she was padding her dresses to make them fit correctly and using thick ivory pastes under her eyes to hide the rings of tired misery beneath them from Joffrey.
“You look like shit,” he told her the first time they were alone afterwards, high up on one the battlements. She had burst into tears, unable to express why the sight of him walking under his own power and goading her on once again was such a wondrous thing. Alarmed, he had shoved a torn piece of coarse linen into her hands. It made her cry all the harder. He stared off at the stars and shifted uncomfortably on his feet while she wept.
“You looked rather unwell yourself last I saw you,” she said wobbly, after blowing her nose in as lady like a manner as she could manage. “It is good to see you again. I think I should have suffered heartbreak if you had not recovered fully.” There, she thought, let him do with that what he would. He was clever enough to read through her courtesies. I was afraid for you. I missed you. I would grieve if your life ended and die alongside you.
In the fragile light cast by a nearby torch she could see him chew at his lip. He didn’t give her any words back; only a low, long growl, that perhaps was meant to be a sigh, before he offered his arm and walked her back to her room. It was the first time he had given her the choice to touch him and not taken her arm inside his hand to drag her along beside him. It was a small victory, but one Sansa took pride in achieving.
After that they would find one another along the stone battlements at night. She learned the path of his patrol and he took the time to linger in particular spots. They rarely spoke. Most nights it was only the wolves howling in the distance, the hoot of an owl, the far off din of the city settling for sleep and the sound of their breath. But there was something happening between them. One night, while he kept his gaze on the moon, she had placed her hand over top of his resting flat on the gray slabs in front of them. It was covered in cold metal; hard and unyielding but her hand soon warmed it, making the gauntlet seem more alive. He felt her. Even through leather and metal he felt her touch and inhaled deeply at the contact. He never stopped looking up at the sky above them. It may have been a disappointment to another woman but Sansa knew better than to fret at his lack of response. The truth of it was, he didn’t yell at her nor yank his hand out from under hers. That was as loud a signal of acceptance from the Hound as one could expect.
The routine continued for another month. Sansa wondered what it was exactly that was developing between them. She knew she was feeling a timid affection for the scarred warrior but his eyes and lips gave her no insight as to what he was thinking. Sansa would have expected him to kiss her, ravage her, something at some point, once she had taken the first step to show him his advances wouldn’t be spurned. Especially with his reputation. Sansa was no longer a child or a Lady held in high esteem. She knew what brothels were and what they were used for. And it was no secret amongst the handmaidens and kitchen staff that the Hound of Westeros had a thirst for whores greater than most men. Sansa had, at first, been appalled and dismayed at the information. But after a time the thought made her sad. She had never witnessed a woman on Sandor’s arm in court or at a feast. He was always alone. Terribly alone. Could a man be blamed for paying for something that was quite clearly never given to him?
Still, Sansa had hoped that after she had touched him the behavior would stop. It did not. She tried to reassure herself that there were other forms of entertainment to be had in the whore houses besides the pleasures of the flesh. There was gambling, drinking, cards and music. And Sandor had never claimed to be hers. There was no reason for her to feel such jealousy over a grown man’s personal life. Yet, she couldn’t help the sting that pricked her heart whenever she overheard one of the kitchen girls laughing at the late hour in which the Hound dragged himself back to the Keep once again.
Then, there came a time, when he pressed his hands down flat in front of him and Sansa saw he wore no gauntlets. No gloves of any kind kept his skin from the elements or from her. She had looked to his face, hoping he would give her some sort of clue as to how she should proceed. There was nothing but a blank stare off into the night. Then she saw his jaw clench several times. Gathering all her courage, Sansa placed her hand over top of his and tried hard not to react as he did. Five long, agonizing minutes went by before he turned his head to find her eyes.
“Little Bird, what have you done?” he rasped. The fingers underneath hers twitched.
“I’m not certain,” she whispered, both frightened and thrilled in equal measure. He kept his eyes locked on hers for a minute more and then went back to his star gazing. Sansa let out the breath she’d been holding. There were no more gossiping giggles from the servants after that night as to the Hound’s nighttime activities. Sansa glowed from the inside out.
Three weeks after their first skin to skin contact, he married her. It wasn’t his doing, though he didn’t argue when the sentence had been proclaimed. He took it with his usual stoic grace that passed for an image of unconcerned rudeness to those who didn’t care or know how to look at it properly. Sansa had weighed each option set before her heavily. After all, hand holding hardly amounted to the promise of marital bliss she had once longed for. Perhaps he did hate her and was only toying with her. Perhaps he wanted only to boast one day he had bedded a Lady and once the deed had been done he would scorn her. Neither of those scenarios felt right in Sansa’s mind though. If he’d wanted a Lady’s name to pin to his belt, he’d had his chance the night of the Blackwater.
“I choose the Hound,” Sansa had announced the morning after Joffrey’s ultimatum. The throne room around her immediately burst into a buzz and hum of shocked mummers. Sandor’s eyebrows had risen to his hairline. It was the first time Sansa could ever recall seeing surprise register on his face. It took effort not to laugh.
The ceremony was brief. The cloak he gave her was yellow and softer than she would have expected. When they were told they could seal their union with a kiss she had looked up at him expectantly. He hesitated, took a step forward and placed a quick, chaste kiss on her forehead. Sansa was grateful he chose not to make their first kiss a public spectacle. She hadn’t had much experience with kisses and was sure she would have made a disaster of it in front of an audience. But there was also a part of her that moped over her husband’s lack of enthusiasm. Had she misread him entirely?
There was a dinner after. Not a feast. A traitor’s daughter and a dog that had defied its master didn’t deserve a true wedding feast but Joffrey couldn’t pass up the opportunity to try and make a mockery of the both of them, so a large crowd of peasants had been allowed into one of the servants dining areas to toast the newly wedded couple. All through the meal Sansa worried while Sandor gulped down wine and let his eyes seethe in anger.
Sansa pecked at her food and had two glasses of wine herself, to try and calm her growing nervousness. She was a maiden after all and there were certain activities that would be expected of her. Mistreatment wasn’t a concern, but she’d been told it could be a painful thing when her maidenhead tore. No one ever seemed to have a delicate word to place with the act. It was always something harsh like rip or tear. It certainly sounded painful and Sansa wondered if Sandor would be gentle with her if she asked.
Once a sufficient amount of time passed, Sandor stood and put his hand out to her. It was time then, she realized. Rising on feet that no longer seemed attached to her body, Sansa followed him to his quarters. They had slipped out of the dining room unnoticed; everyone was too drunk off the King’s wine and ale at that point to care if they were in attendance or not.
The walk was silent between the two of them. The echoing stomp of his boots seemed like lightening crashes to Sansa, each one bringing her closer to a storm. Would it be a raging, tree splitting hurricane or a breezy, summer rain that washed over her? At the end of the hallway he stopped at a door, the word “Hound” burned into it. Below someone had etched “deserter” with a knife. He put his hand on the knob but didn’t turn it.
“Why?” he asked suddenly, a harsh tone to his voice. “Before this door opens you’ll tell me why.”
Sansa gulped, willing her heart to stop pounding so frightfully against her chest. She couldn’t say that she loved him. He’d never stop mocking her if she professed those words, she was sure of it. Searching her mind for an answer, she jumped when he barked at her.
“Well, girl?”
“I . . .” she fumbled, starting over. “You didn’t leave me. I won’t leave you either.” It was the simplest answer she could offer. It was blunt, to the point and should please him. The words she spoke had their desired effect. She saw his tongue work under the skin of his cheek. Then he nodded and opened the door for her.
“Not a lady’s chambers,” he said gruffly. “No frills and fancy laces.”
“I wasn’t expecting them,” she answered as he shut the door behind them. It was a sparse space. There was a large bed to the left. His frame required it. Near it was a chest and small table with an oil lamp upon it that he lit. As she took in the rest of the room, he lit candles set within sconces recessed into the walls. Her chest had been brought to the room and sat in front of her, beside a table and a single chair. There was a hearth that looked as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. Wood, dry as parchment, sat stacked next to it. He caught her staring at it.
“You want a fire?” he asked, keeping his eyes from her.
“No,” she replied. The room did seem cold but she remembered a wild look in his eyes and the reflection of green flames within them. Another night they could try for a fire but she wouldn’t be cruel to him now.
The only other piece of furniture in his room was a bookcase beside a window in the opposite corner from the bed. It was overflowing with books. Sansa gasped and walked straight for it, brushing past her husband. All the hate he gave her over her stories and he had a finer collection then she! His were texts though, she realized, her eyes skimming over the titles on the spines. There were books stacked on top of books. Some shelves held two rows of them crammed together to form tight blocks of leather and paper. They smelled heavenly. Battle guides, butchering and hunting techniques, collections of maps, house histories, instructions on the proper treatment and maintenance of armor. On and on they went. Books on insects and horses and plants. She hadn’t thought him a scholar! He never let on. Her hand reached out to trace the length of one of the books reverently. There was much she had to learn about him.
She looked over to him, unsure as to whether she should comment or keep quiet. He shrugged at her, then seemed fascinated with removing dirt from under his nails. Sansa looked back at the books. It would take her years to read them all. If he allowed it.
Her heart skipped when she saw the title of one book. It was obviously old; worn and falling apart at the spine. But the title was still clear. It was a book of fairy tales. Sansa pointed at it but didn’t touch it. It was her turn to demand answers.
“Why?” she asked, keeping her finger near the book in question.
“It was my mother’s,” he said darkly. Sansa wasn’t sure why thinking of his mother should elicit such a response. “She’s dead,” he continued, only partially slaking her curiosity. “It’s all I’ve got left of her.”
“Oh,” Sansa said meekly. She hadn’t meant to upset him. Turning herself to the bookcase, she gave him her back while she blinked to remove the tears that had sprung up. She was sad for him but also joyous that he should share a bit of himself with her. The sound of buckles being underdone came from behind her. He was taking off his armor.
“Do you need help?” she offered. He shrugged at her again. It wasn’t a refusal. He wasn’t at all shy in expressing those. If he didn’t want help he would have told her so. Moving beside him, she knelt and pinched the clasps on his greaves. He tossed the pieces of armor onto his chair and she followed his actions. Her fingers weren’t used to the work. She’d only gotten one of the greaves off of him by the time he had finished with everything else. Struggling with the last clasp, his hands were suddenly on top of hers, pressing her fingers into the correct position to release the spring.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, craning her neck to look up at him. He tossed the last piece of armor onto the pile covering the chair and spilling onto the floor. Then he sat heavily on the bed. Sansa remained on her knees, fiddling with a ribbon on her dress and unsure as to what she should do next. She wasn’t the expert here and had expected him to lead. “Shall I undress?” she tired, nervous chatter tumbling out of her. “Or would you prefer to do it? Laurie, my handmaiden, used to help me. She said some men like to undress their wives. I suppose I won’t have a handmaiden any longer, will I?”
“Not with the King’s coin you won’t,” he remarked. “Does the Lady require one?” There was a hidden sneer in his tone. Sansa didn’t care for it.
“No,” she answered, “a Clegane doesn’t require the comforts of the high court. In fact, they seem quite unnecessary, don’t you agree?” She smiled despite her fear that her boldness would earn her a tongue lashing. They were partners now and she wished he would see their union as such.
Sandor didn’t yell or holler. He didn’t push her down or tell her she was stupid. Instead he threw back his head and laughed. Shocked, Sansa stayed locked in place until she cautiously laughed along with him.
“Aye, a Clegane now, for whatever that’s worth,” he said, his laughter dying and the brief hint of light leaving his eyes. Sansa swore then and there she’d do everything in her power to get that light to come back as often as possible. “You should have taken exile or the marriage to the squire.”
“I said I wouldn’t leave you,” she said briskly, the fact that he’d paid attention to her options and remembered, escaping her for the moment. “Exile contained a loneliness I couldn’t bear and the squire is simple and hideo . . .” she stopped short of uttering the word fully, realizing how backwards her thoughts would seem to him.
He was too perceptive to let the half spoken word go though. “Oh, aye,” he mocked, “a terrible sight that one is. It’s good you chose the more handsome option.”
The skin of her lip broke she had bitten it so hard. Sansa knew there was nothing she could say to make him believe he wasn’t hideous in her eyes. Not yet. Not with new born marriage vows between them. Later on perhaps, she might be able to convince him, but not in this moment with both their hearts becoming further exposed and questioning of one another.
“You’re bleeding,” he stated, leaning down to rub his thumb across her lip. “You ought to stop. I won’t force you. You know it?”
Sansa felt her whole world collapse in on itself and then, a second later, explode all around her at his words. She knew she could trust him. Knew it down to the marrow in her bones. She had made the right decision. He might not see it yet, but one day he would.
Nodding her head, she stood and pulled at the ribbons and buttons on the front of her dress. This one was easy to manage on her own. There were no ties in the back in hard to reach places. Sandor cleared his throat. “I said I wouldn’t force you,” he said loudly and more clearly than before.
“I heard you,” she told him. “You’re not forcing me. My own fingers are doing the work. I can’t sleep in my dress.” That was a fact he couldn’t argue. Facts were something straightforward to win him over with. Stepping out of her dress, she sat herself down on the bed next to him. His body visibly leaned away from her. Oh for heaven’s sake! She wasn’t that terrible of a bride was she? Then her stomach plummeted as she thought that maybe she was. He had been forced into this marriage just as much as she. Though she had assumed he wouldn’t mind she had never actually taken the time to ask him if he could live with her for all his days. Sansa felt an uneasy guilt coil up in her belly.
“I’m . . .“ –Sansa trembled while gooseflesh pebbled her chilled skin- “I’m sorry if I’m not what you would have chosen. I did you a disservice by forcing this upon you.”
His jaw worked mercilessly while she saw several thoughts flit over his features. Finally, he settled on one. “Go to sleep, Little Bird. You’re not a disservice and you know it. There’s only one disgrace in this room and you’re not it. You’re more than an entire pack of dogs deserves.”
It took her breath away. He did care! Somewhere inside him. And he didn’t know how to reach for it any more than she did. Her mouth opened to speak but he shook his head at her. “Go to sleep,” he ordered her again.
Sansa reached for the furs, to pull them back and crawl beneath them, but she paused when she heard a loud crash in the hallway. There were people coming! The heavy footfall of more than one man could be heard. Then came the sound of Joffrey cursing.
“Your Grace, perhaps your room would be preferable right now?” Trant’s voice boomed in the hallway. “The Hound will fuck her bloody. I’m sure of it.”
“I want to hear it,” Joffrey whined, his voice tipsy and slurred from alcohol. “I want to hear that bitch bay when he breaks her.” The sound of someone sliding down the Hound’s door was heard.
Sandor growled near her. “Fucking cunt,” she heard him say under his breath.
“What do we do?” Sansa whispered, true fear tainting her voice. Joff wouldn’t leave until he’d gotten what he wanted. One way or another. This was awful. She didn’t want her first time to be a show that would end in blood and tears for her. Silently she wept and looked at Sandor in misery. He looked almost as wretched as she.
“We give him what he thinks he wants,” he whispered back to her. Somehow, he could keep his voice low and still keep the growl. Her eyes grew wide and she nodded once. Was he going to have her after all? With her tormentor, of all people, listening? “Do as I say and you won’t bleed tonight,” Sandor told her.
Sansa cried out when he lifted her up bodily and dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed. There was an audible thump and the head board of the bed smacked into the wall. Sansa gasped. She trusted him but she wasn’t sure of his intentions and it frightened her.
“You wanted this. Remember that, girl!” Sandor shouted, his head facing the door. “You’re going to be one sore piece of arse in the morning! You want me to fuck you in that petty little hole?” He was looming over top of her, one knee on the bed and his arms around her. But he wasn’t holding her down. She was free to move out from under him at any time. She was silent and he looked at her meaningfully, poking her sharply in the rib.
“N-No” she said shakily, catching onto the ruse. “No, please! Don’t!” she shouted when he nodded at her encouragingly. Joffrey giggled from the other side of the door.
“Too late for regretting my Lady,” he said forebodingly. Scooping her dress up off the floor, he ripped part of the skirt in two while she continued her false cries and tears. Joffrey cackled from the hallway and Sansa’s heart burned with anger. Who was he to take this night from them and turn it into a mummer’s farce? She hated the worm!
“Stop! Stop! It hurts!” she screamed. Sandor shook the headboard with his arms, banging it against the stones behind it. There was a solid crack every time and Sansa wondered why he was doing it. He ducked down to put his mouth near her ear.
“Sing a high note. Short. A few times over,” he instructed. She did as he asked, all the while confused at what they were playing at. After her burst of careless music, he stopped the headboard suddenly. “Fuck!” he bellowed, before going still. After a few moments he made sure to tell the door, “I’ve had better.”
There was applause from the doorway. “Well struck dog!” Joffrey shouted. “Well struck indeed. The little bitch has learned a lesson. I might see fit to put you on the Kingsguard again some day if you keep her miserable.” Then the footsteps from before retreated; Joffrey’s howling laughter mixing with Trant’s vulgar comments and the echo of clanking armor.
Sansa stayed where she was on the bed. Sandor’s form was above her but he kept his face turned from hers. He waited until the footsteps could no longer be heard. Then he roared in rage and flew across the room to fling the chair, armor and all, at one of the walls. Sansa sat up and covered her ears, shaking in the shadow of his wrath. Had she done wrong? He was shouting, cursing at the pile of armor on the floor, kicking it and going red in the face.
“Please,” she cried. “Please stop!’ He froze at the sound of her voice. It was if he had suddenly been reminded that she was there. Sansa watched him swallow several times, out of breath and squinting at her. Then he turned on his heel, picking up the over turned chair and forcefully sitting down in it.
“Go to sleep,” he barked viciously. He was furious, but not at her.
“I’m frightened,” she said brokenly, wiping at her eyes and trying to stop her tears.
“He’s gone. I’ll sleep here,” he told her. His voice was brusque. Not completely uncaring, but short and curt none the less. Sansa wanted her father’s arms desperately in that moment. She’d just been more or less forced to act out a rape on her wedding night and there were only cold furs to comfort her instead of the warm embrace of a husband who loved her. She couldn’t stop her next move. She was driven to feel something other than the anger and hollowness inside her.
Getting to her feet, she trembled the entire way across the room to him. Sandor eyed her with suspicion. Standing in front of him, they were almost eye level though he was sitting. Carefully, she brought her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead down into the dip in his collar bone. The last of her tears collected there. He sat stiff and unmoving as stone, but when Sansa turned her head she saw the knuckles that gripped the edge of his seat were white. Drawing back, she gave his cheek a light kiss.
“Thank you,” she murmured, trying to back the simple words with love and sincerity. She was grateful. He had once again done the best he could for her considering the circumstances. His eyes bore into hers, seeking out lies or weakness. When he found none, he turned her around and gave her a gentle push at her shoulder, sending her to bed.
In the morning he was gone before she woke. Her ripped dress was hanging over the back of his chair with strong thread and an assortment of needles nearby. A plate of fruits and dainty, pink frosted cakes were on the table. Sansa’s vision blurred. Hounds could be cruel, pitiless creatures, yes, but they could also be remarkably kind towards those they felt were a part of their pack.