Chapter Text
It was the first time Sansa prayed for the Hound, but it would not be the last. One by one, she prayed for any and all she knew, even those that frightened her. The smell of smoke, the charred wood and cooking flesh, that sweet incense could not cover -it was war, and it was real. There was a nightmare outside the walls of the sept, and she did not wish that fate of fire and death upon anyone.
Her family came first, of course, and then those distant relatives she had only seen once or twice in her life. Friends and acquaintances, servants and their families. She prayed for every one of them, lacing her fingers together, as if she could hold each of their hands and try to comfort them, just as she yearned to be assured that all would be well. The fighting would stop. It had to.
A terrible scream came from outside, and cut through the singing. Women wailed and old men wiped the tears from under their eyes. Sansa had never seen so many frightened, weak and broken. None of them were soldiers. How awful it must have been for anyone stuck in the middle of all those swords and arrows, with wildfire burning their brothers beside them.
That’s when the Hound entered her thoughts and prayers. He was hard as the steel at his side, harsh and sometimes cruel with his words, but it wasn’t the same type of heartlessness that Joffrey exhibited. The Hound had never beaten her, or tricked her into betraying her own family. He wasn’t a knight, but Sansa was fast learning that neither were any of the other men around her. For all his savagery, it was the Hound that had covered her when she was naked before the court. It was he that used a gentle hand to move her when her own feet disobeyed her, and it was he that lied - a trait he’d admitted he hated in others- in order to save her skin.
Sansa shivered as she recalled the wild look on his face, as he cut the commoners down in front of her during the bread riots. He’d taken a hit to his arm, before hoisting her up first onto the back of her courser. Later, she learned no one had given him an order to come and save her. He’d bled for her, and no one had asked him to do so. She thought, perhaps, knights came in different shades; grays instead of black or white, but then she tried to thank him for saving her life, and he had put a blade to her throat and spat at her feet. He wasn’t a good man, but he wasn’t evil, and he deserved the Mother’s mercy far more than Trant or any of the other gold cloaks.
He is no true knight, but he saved me all the same. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.
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The hand that clamped over Sansa’s mouth, made her swallow a scream. Back in her bedchamber, she thought she was safe, but there was someone with her! The smell of blood and vomit made her gag beneath the man’s hand, and then a familiar rasp told her to be silent.
There was confusion, her fear and his anger locked together like the antlers of deer, each fighting the other for something neither one could voice. He was forceful and she was frail. Courtesies failed her, and her worry grew when she realized he was leaving King’s Landing -he was leaving her! Then her tongue rebelled, demanding answers from him until he laughed and told her she owed him a song. He swayed on his feet, and drank from his skin of wine, waiting.
The churning, sick feeling in her belly, made her want to wretch. What was she to do? He was stronger than her, he was drunk and she was alone. Suddenly she was in his arms, as he promised to take her home, to kill for her and keep her safe.
Part of her wanted to accept. To shout for all the kingdom to hear. Yes, yes, yes! This was the man she needed. This was the knight she’d prayed for. If only he would stop barking at her! Sansa shut her eyes tight, as he pulled at her hair. She went limp, certain he would force a kiss upon her, and braced herself. If this was the price for freedom. . .
She felt his breath against her lips, ragged and labored, as if he’d only just left the battlefield and was struggling for air. The awaited kiss never came. Instead, he shook her, and hollered at her, disgust dripping from every word he spoke, before he spun her and forced her down to the bed. Sansa’s head thumped against feathered pillows, scattered about from his earlier invasion of her space, while her knees bent to hang off the edge of her pallet.
The Hound was over her in an instant, settling between her parted thighs and moving far too quickly than a man in his state should have. A flash of silver caught Sansa’s eye; a knife being drawn and she would have screamed then if she hadn’t been so terrified. She couldn’t move or think, or speak, as cold steel pressed against her throat. She wanted to weep but her eyes remained dry. This was how it would end? The one person she thought would never harm her, would bleed her out in her own bed?
He spoke, his voice a fierce growl, and she couldn’t make sense of his words. There was a roar in her ears and her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might stop. Short gasps made her feel dizzy and the room began to spin.
“Sing, little bird” he told her. “Sing for your little life.”
Little bird. Sing.
Once, she had promised him Florian and Jonquil, but there was only one song she could remember, pinned beneath him. If he were going to take her life, she would pray for him one last time. Her voice sounded like a croaking toad to her ears, but the pressure on her throat eased, and so she continued, her voice gaining volume, though it remained gentle. She made it through two verses, before trailing off on the last note, unsure of the next. There was a thick, smoldering silence that fell over the both of them.
Above her, Sansa could see the green light of wildfire in his eyes, masking their usual gray. They had always simmered with anger and blazed with hatred, but now they burned with fire. The knife at her throat was removed and clattered to the floor. His empty hand replaced it, poised over the hollow space where her pulse beat strong and fast. He didn’t touch her, not fully, but Sansa could feel the slight quiver in his fingers and the heat from his palm. The delicate curtains of her window fluttered. A soft wind, warmed by the roaring flames outside, blew the Hound’s hair from his face, and, for a moment, the smell of blood was replaced with the scent of soot and ash.
Only a man who’s been burned knows what hell is truly like.
It’s the fire, she thought, remembering the tale he told her, on an evening that seemed like many years ago. How the scars on his face came to be. The sadness Sansa had once felt for the Hound came crashing back down upon her, a thousand times stronger than before. It stole her breath, and brought tears to her eyes, as she understood why he had fled the King’s battle. He was frightened . Probably as terrified as she, and Sansa knew there had to be something more she could give than a song.
The Mother was a spirit, and she would be of no help to a mortal man that placed no value in Gods. Though the Hound might need her healing grace, she could not reach her hand out to touch his soul. She wasn’t made of flesh and blood, but Sansa was. Carefully, Sansa lifted her hand, holding it steady, halfway between her face and his. He was holding his breath, and the ropes of his dirty hair trembled in the darkness. When her fingers made contact with his cheek, a choking sound came from his throat. His skin was sticky, tacky with blood, but there was a hot trail of wetness that ran down his cheek. One trail became two, and soon a river flowed over her fingers.
This was how the Mother would reach him, Sansa thought. Through her own hands. If mercy and comfort were what was needed, she would give it. Raising slightly, she pressed her lips to his forehead, at the beginning of his hairline, and she heard a true sob escape him.
“You’re safe now,” she whispered, combing her fingers through his hair with difficulty. All the strength seemed to seep from his body, as he slumped against her, blood and tears mixing together as he wept against her neck. The Hound cried as she shushed in his ear, trying to hold his hulking form within her arms.
The world had changed. Everything shifted. The brute of a man she had once known, had turned into something else entirely. And she, a girl, was now the tool of the Gods, sent to save him this time. His arms wandered underneath her, wrapping her securely in an embrace. Her legs had gone numb with a tingling feeling, hanging from the pallet, and so she shifted to draw them up around his hips.
A different sound came from him, a sharp inhale and a curious sort of whimper behind his closed lips. Warmth spread within her, from her belly and out to her limbs, as the scruff of new whiskers scratched the skin above her breasts. She didn’t understand what was happening, but it felt right, as he moved his hips against her, followed by a long, low moan. Under her skirts she felt movement, and though she knew she should have been alarmed, the broken sighs of pleasure in her ear distracted her. Where had the hateful man of minutes ago gone?
“Please,” he begged. The rasp in his voice had disappeared, replaced by a tone full of yearning. When she didn’t respond, he lifted his face back up to hers, kissed her jaw and tangled his hand within her hair. “Please, please. Little bird?”
She thought she understood what he was after. And perhaps, she would have denied him, but he asked. He asked for her virtue and that’s when she knew the Hound was no longer in the room. A man wished to join with her. A strong yet broken man. One that wanted her, longed for her and -did she dare to think it- love her?
Nodding her head, she spoke before she could change her mind, “Yes,” she told him.
One massive hand moved between them, pulling at the strings of her smallclothes, as she looked to the open window. A sky full of smoke met her eyes and she clung to Sandor, shifting her gaze to the ceiling. She knew nothing of coupling -that was what was happening wasn’t it- and tried to quiet the shy voice inside her. He didn’t remove her clothing, nor his. He simply pushed past her skirts and linens with something smooth and hard and hot . It pressed between her folds and sank within her, making her gasp and clutch at his armored shoulders.
“Shhh,” he murmured, when she whined. “It won’t hurt, not for long. I’ll never hurt you. Shhh.”
It burned between her thighs, and when he slowly inched forward, there was pressure within her. It was strange and uncomfortable, though he moved inside her with ease. He hissed through his teeth, shuddering, before thrusting in earnest.
Sansa yelped at the unexpected sensation. There was something . Something behind the burn. A ripple, like a stone skipping over water. Something new and shocking that made her want more. A happy sigh passed over her lips.
“Little bird.” Sandor’s mouth was at her ear, teeth scraping against the shell of it. “Gods, little bird.” It sounded as if he were crying again, and then he lost his footing. He crashed down onto her, writhing between her legs, and shook so fiercely Sansa worried he’d somehow taken to a fit. He snorted and groaned, using his arms to push back off of her and then snapped his hips against the place they were joined three times before he let his back curve and his chin touch his chest.
He was still and Sansa lay silent. Had he spilled? Was that all there was to it? Had she done right?
She heard his teeth chatter, as he shook his head. “No,” he said, sharp gravel taking over his voice with each word. “No, no, no.”
He was gone from her, swift and without ceremony. The fullness within her was missing and she heard the rustle of cloth when he stepped back from her. Then he pulled her skirts from her waist, to cover her, as he cursed. Over her calves and down to her ankles, fabric trailed, and it was if those few precious moments had never happened. There came a sound -the rip of rent cloth- as he put more space between himself and the bed.
“Little bird,” he rasped. And then he was gone.
Sansa sat up from the bed, while her door shut firmly behind him. He’d left her after all! She wanted to follow him, to tell him it was all right. She loved him, in some way, just as he loved her, but her feet tripped over a bundle of cloth on the floor. Reaching down to free herself, she saw a blanket the color of cream and smelled blood once again.
His cloak. He’d left her his cloak. The symbol of knights. He’d torn it from his shoulders and left it at her feet.
“Oh, Sandor,” she cried, holding the cloth to her chest. He was no true knight, but he had saved her all the same.