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Sansa
Her lord husband’s hair was the color of a sandy shore, a hundred different hues of yellow that glinted brilliantly in the rising sun, and that of the man she loved darker than the waters that would rise on that shore in the deep of the night, an omnipotent force, inevitable.
Lord Harrold Arryn took her hand. “I’ll return in a moon’s turn, my lady.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, but that’s all it was – a meeting of skin, not a single ounce of affection behind the gesture. A second later, the kiss was over. With an insincere smile, he said, “I’ll miss your embrace.”
Sansa offered him her own false smile, only hers was better. Littlefinger had taught her how to do that, back when he was still alive.
“I’m sure you’ll find comfort in another’s embrace, my lord.”
Harry no longer denied it, nor did he so much as have the good grace to blush. He just turned around, joined his Winged Knights, and exited the Eyrie’s garden. On his way out, he turned to Sandor Clegane and said, “See that no one bothers my lady wife, Hound.”
Clegane gave a curt nod of his head, the sky-blue cloak of House Arryn’s household guard billowing behind him in the wind. The color complemented his dark hair, she thought. But Sansa would have thought that no matter the color.
As her lord husband and his knights made their long descent to the Gates of the Moon to go hawking (and whoring, no doubt), she and Sandor exchanged a glance. Four months it had been since he joined the household guard, and nine months it had been since she wedded the Lord of the Eyrie.
When she first saw Sandor Clegane, his wrists bound by shackles as Lord Yohn Royce ascended with him from the Gates of the Moon, she thought she was staring at a ghost. Sansa would have begged Harry to spare his life, but she didn’t need to. Harry wanted to keep Sandor, much like a child wants to keep a stray dog for a pet.
“You’re the Hound? The Hound?” Sansa still remembered the way her husband’s blue eyes lit up in amazement. He didn’t care about the fact that Sandor Clegane abandoned his king during the Battle of Blackwater Bay; any man with a brain would have done the same thing, her husband had said. Besides, if Harry had Sandor in his household guard, no one else could. If Sansa knew anything about her lord husband, it was that his image was everything to him. The stronger his guard was, the better he looked. Or so he thought.
Sansa truly hated Harrold Arryn (who once went by Harrold Hardyng before Sweetrobin’s death). And she had tried to get along with him, she really did. Sansa tried to beguile him, charm him, all the things Littlefinger told her to do; she did it well. Even after Lord Baelish’s well-deserved death and her wedding to Harry, she did her best at being a good, faithful wife, the sort of wife her late septa would have approved of. But it was never enough. Harry was never pleased, always bored, always wanting something different, something more.
And so did she.
It never felt right with him. Never.
Sansa hated him so deeply that she vowed to herself that she would never give him an heir. Every single day she drank moon tea, and every single day he’d remain none the wiser. Of course, that only made him all the more desperate for an heir, a true-born child and not a third or fourth or fifth bastard. Harry would subject her to taking his seed every night, and every night she’d lay there and spread her legs, not having a choice. Sometimes she even considered skipping the moon tea and letting the gods decide her fate. If she became pregnant, perhaps then he’d leave her alone.
Whatever she did, she would lose. The only winner here was Harry.
Even so, she remained a faithful wife, a good wife, an honest wife, not for him, but for herself. Sansa didn’t want to be like him, and she certainly didn’t want to be notorious for adultery like Cersei Lannister. It had always been easy, never a temptation, until he came back into her life.
Sansa stared at those grey eyes, so vastly different from her husband’s. As the yard emptied and the castle staff went about their duties, the Hound took a step towards her, and then another. He was going to confront her about what happened last night, what she did last night, and she was not ready for that; she would never be ready for that.
Sansa picked up her skirts, and ran.
She felt equal parts fear and thrill, but that did not last for long. Her feet hit the ground but four times, and then a giant hand boldly seized her arm and turned her around.
Sandor Clegane looked down at her, amused. “And where do you think you’re running off to?”
“I-I have things to take care of,” she stammered, shifting her gaze down to her feet.
“As it so happens, so do I.”
With the garden now empty, hopefully empty, Sandor pulled her into a nearby alcove that was lost in the shadows, pressed her against the stone, and kissed her.
Sansa made two fists and beat his chest with them, but all that did was remind her how large he was, immovable.
“Stop it!” she whispered harshly, turning her face to the side.
“You want me to stop, is that it?” He laughed, but did as he was told and pulled away. “I must have only imagined you sticking your tongue down my throat last night.”
And there it was, the confrontation; Sansa blushed all over. “I was drunk,” she lied. When she licked her lips, she could taste him, something salty, something earthy, and savored it. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”
He just snorted. Sandor Clegane never did believe her lies. “Nice try, girl, but I was standing behind the dais all night during your lord husband’s little parting feast. You had one cup of wine, and one sip from it.”
“Well, ser, a little wine goes a long way for someone as–”
“–small as you?” He smiled her favorite smile, if one could even call it that. It was a smile that spelled danger, frightening her, making her smallclothes damp. It took strength of will to not throw herself at him like she did last night. “You are small, girl.” His hand, thrice the size of her own, cupped her chin. “A tiny little bird.”
The menace in those words made her shudder. “Don’t talk to me that way,” Sansa forced herself to say. “It’s wrong.”
Sandor didn’t snort that time, he just frowned. “Then why doesn’t it feel wrong?”
It felt like her heart had been caught in a snare. It pinched, refused to let go. She had asked herself that same question all night, wondered why the only way she could stay wet for her lord husband was by closing her eyes and imagining that he was that very same man standing with her inside the alcove.
When she didn’t respond, Sandor Clegane released her chin and walked away.
Sandor
The Vale was the most beautiful of the Seven Kingdoms, and Sansa the most beautiful woman in them, by far.
All the beauty in the world, surrounding him, and how miserable he was. Because that beauty did not belong to him. It belonged to another, a Lord Harrold Arryn. It was all his: the snow-peaked mountains, the rich, dark soil, the meandering rivers, the hundreds of glittering lakes. And so too did the Lady of the Eyrie. Her long auburn hair, her button nose, her rosebud lips, and her eyes that were bluer than the cloak on his back. It all belonged to Lord Arryn – all of it and all of her – a glutton of beauty.
When the lord wasn’t with his knights or slipping into some serving girl’s bed, he was enjoying the company of his wife. And he was the only one enjoying that company, not Sansa, and certainly not Sandor.
He didn’t know why he tortured himself, but he did it every night. Every single bloody night. Before retiring to the guard’s tower, Sandor would walk to the lord’s chambers and stand outside the door, holding his breath, listening.
The first night, he nearly tore down the door. Sansa whimpered so miserably, she always did, her moans falser than any he’d ever heard before (and he had heard a lot). He could taste bile in the back of his throat, knowing she had no choice. It was a foreign sort of fury he felt, unremitting, one unique to the situation. And Sandor knew the situation, knew it the moment he first saw her.
He loved her. And every night he listened to another man treat the woman he loved like a broodmare.
Worse than the whimpering was the gagging, and worse than that was the lord’s moans as she sucked his cock. It was the strangest feeling, an anger that teemed with arousal. Sandor often wanted to take out his cock and get himself off right there. More than that, he wanted to beat down the door and cut off that pretty lord’s head. In those moments, Sandor would close his eyes and remind himself it was better to be alive and in her presence than to be dead. He’d never forgive himself for leaving her all alone in this beautiful, miserable place, not even while burning for an eternity in the seven hells.
But then she had to kiss him. She just had to kiss him.
Last night, Sansa had requested him to escort her to her bedchamber when her lord husband was acting a fool and fucking every serving girl who passed by with his eyes. But that was nothing new. Sandor had escorted her plenty of times to her chambers, beginning in King’s Landing when she was betrothed to another blonde-headed arse. What was different was the silence that passed as they walked, an unnerving silence. And just before opening the door to her bedchamber, Sansa turned around to face him, gave him this look that had his cock straining against his breeches within seconds, and stood on her toes.
Sansa kissed him, little pink tongue and all. She kissed him.
Sandor was ready to risk it all and fuck her in that same bed her husband used her all those times. But before he could lift her in his arms, Sansa let go of him, slapped him on the cheek like it was his idea and not hers, and ran inside her chambers, slamming and locking the door behind her.
He just stood in the corridor, smiling. That one happy memory, the kiss, the small tongue, the slap (especially the slap), served him last night as he laid in bed. It served him five times.
And today, nothing but denial from the little bird, though he couldn’t say he was surprised. Maybe she just felt sorry for him, or maybe she was so desperate to have one good fuck in her life that she turned to the only man she could trust not to tell Lord Arryn.
Sandor wouldn’t tell, he’d never tell. He’d become a liar, for her. He’d let her ride his face, use his cock, do whatever she needed and wanted him to do to get her off, and not one word would ever be said to Harry the Arse (Lothor Brune coined that; Sandor just borrowed it). However, Sandor couldn’t promise he wouldn’t give the lord a I’m-Fucking-Your-Wife-Bloody smirk from time to time. And he would fuck her bloody, as bloody as she liked, as bloody as she deserved, if only she’d let him.
For the rest of the day, he gave her her space, begrudgingly. If she wanted him to ‘stop it’ because ‘it’s wrong’, so be it. He was used to the suffering, although being in the same castle with her and having to avoid her was far more painful than when they’d been leagues apart after the Blackwater.
Dusk fell, the longest day of his life, and he was about to break. But luckily he didn’t have to.
Maester Colemon found him and said, “Ah, Clegane. Would you mind giving this to Lady Arryn on my behalf?”
A parchment. And the son of a bitch was too lazy to walk up to her chambers himself.
Good.
Without a word, Sandor took the parchment and headed to the Moon Tower.
Sansa
A knock came at the door, two of them. Maester Colemon always knocked four times.
“Yes?” she sniffled, wiping the tears from her face.
No response. It could only be one person.
Sansa was already dressed in a thin bedgown for the night. A good, faithful wife wouldn’t open the door for another man in such a state of undress. So Sansa quickly slipped on her robe before walking to the door and taking a deep breath.
She opened the door just enough to poke her head out, then lifted her chin to meet the gaze of the man who towered above her. His eyes were a darker shade of grey.
“My lady,” said Clegane, holding out his hand. The parchment looked so small in his grasp, most things did.
Sansa took it, wishing he’d make a game of it.
He didn’t.
“Is that all?” she asked.
“That’s all.”
“I mean, is that all you’re going to say to me?”
His face was carved of stone. “What else?”
“Are you not going to call me a little bird?” Sansa asked, so shyly. She knew she chided him for that earlier, but he always called her a little bird. There was nothing wrong with wanting that, was there? She sighed. “You know, a tiny little bird?”
He didn’t so much as blink before saying, “It’s wrong,” in a mocking tone. He turned around. “I’ll be out here.”
“What, all night?” Sansa wanted him outside her chambers, selfishly, but this was not King’s Landing. Harry never had a member of his Winged Knights shield their chambers, let alone a member of the household guard.
Sandor shrugged, with his back facing her. “Your lord husband said to see that no one bothers you, Lady Arryn.”
He was mocking her, again. She hated when he did that.
“Stop calling me that, ser.”
“Do you not like that, Lady Arryn?”
“Stop it!” she snapped.
The shout, as unintentional as it was, got him to turn around. The whole castle might have heard that.
Clegane laughed, crossed his arms. “Stop this, stop that. ‘Don’t kiss me, Sandor, don’t talk to me that way.’ What would my lady like, then?”
I do want to be kissed. I do want you to talk to me that way, any way you want, she thought. But Sansa could only look at him, speechless, the parchment growing damp in her clammy hand.
He smiled that smile, her favorite one. “Does she want to be kissed?”
“You’re absurd.”
Sandor leaned in close and whispered, “Or would the tiny little bird like it better if I fucked her instead?”
Sansa’s mouth fell open.
Hastily, she tried to close the door in his face, in that big, cruel face, but he placed one massive hand on the door and pushed it open, so seamlessly. Sandor entered her chambers, as she backed away, then closed the door, locking it for good measure. And then it was only the two of them inside the lord’s chambers atop the Moon Tower, alone.
Yet it was right, so right, the soft candlelight and the sound of Alyssa’s Tears pouring outside told her so.
“I have a husband!” she thought out loud, needing to remind herself, needing to care.
“A husband,” he scoffed. His swordbelt came off and was tossed to the side, landing on a pair of Harry’s boots. “A husband you don’t love, a husband you can’t bloody stand. You may be able to fool him, girl, you may be able to fool everyone in this buggering castle, but you can’t fool me.” Sandor took a step towards her, but she didn’t move. She didn’t want to. “You know, I come by here and listen to you every night. I stand right outside that door and listen to him fuck you. That's right. I hear your little whimpers, your tiny forced moans. I watch you smile and kiss him, I see you run your fingers through his pretty hair, but don’t think I don’t know.” He grabbed her jaw firmly, bent down to place his face directly in front of hers, their noses touching. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, girl, just like the mummers use in their fancy shows. Smoke and bloody mirrors, obscuring the truth. You hate him, little bird. I know it, and you do too.”
Her quivering breath betrayed her. He could always see the truth, always, the wisest person she knew. And she was thankful for it. Because even when she couldn’t speak the truth, couldn’t voice what it was that she wanted to say, he’d know. He would always know.
Sansa closed her eyes and wept, and then the hand that seized her jaw was pulling off her robe.
She just let him, no longer a faithful wife, because this is what she wanted. “Harry will kill you if he finds out.”
Sandor laughed and said, “He can try.”
He pulled her bedgown over her head, and the cool air inside the bedchamber embraced her sudden nakedness. A soft, drawn out moan escaped her, as she felt her nipples stiffening, begging to be touched. And she needn’t say a word, because he knew. He knew everything.
Sandor took one into his mouth, sucked it until she squealed, and then the whole breast. He wanted her to know how small she was, how big he was. How, if he wanted, he could consume her. Sansa loved that, feeling so small, yet so powerful, watching him lose himself to his desire for her. How strange, she thought, that a tiny little bird would be the Hound’s undoing.
She could feel it pressing against her thigh, his largeness, just like she could feel the wetness inside her smallclothes and the pulse drumming inside her ears, violently.
When his mouth left her breast wet and cold and moved up to her collarbone, she ran her fingers through his dark, thin hair and caressed the coarseness of his scars.
The three words left her in a desperate breath. “I hate you.”
Sansa knew that he knew it was a lie, but all he said to that was, “I hate me too,” before moving his mouth to hers.
His tongue was big in her mouth, unlike Harry’s. Sansa loved how it tasted, how it twirled around her own. His hands explored her body, large hands, unlike Harry’s, finding her breasts and pinching her nipples that were swollen from his suck. He moaned heavily in her mouth, and she in his. Even his moans were harsh, akin to a snarl, so inherently beastly. Nothing about him was soft, unlike her husband. He was nothing like her husband.
Those big hands left her breasts, and then her smallclothes fell to her feet.
He pushed her onto the bed, knelt down in front of her, and then grabbed her thighs with an iron grasp, pulling them apart.
Sansa sat up on her elbows, hastily. Her chest was crimson in the dim light as she looked down, her breasts heaving and jiggling with every quick beat of her heart.
“Sandor!”
His breath was hot against her sex as he spoke. “Seven buggering bloody hells, this beautiful cunt.” One thick finger traced her slit, beginning at her aching bud and stopping at her entrance. “And wet,” he observed, almost in a groan. “So bloody wet.”
When he leaned forward, she gasped and tried to close her thighs; they didn’t move, he was too strong.
“What are you doing?” she asked, insanely.
Sandor looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Does he not…” He trailed off with a mirthless laugh. “I’m going to kiss you, little bird.”
But what he did was more than a kiss. It elevated her, took her somewhere new. Lips that were not fully there pressed against her aching bud, and then a tongue as wide across as her sex lapped up her fluids. He dug his nose in her maidenhair, sniffed it like a bloodthirsty dog, licked her, sucked her, hummed into her, and a hundred other things that made her twist and squirm and buck her hips wildly.
All of her blood rushed to the spot being feasted on between her legs, leaving her numb everywhere else. Unable to close her thighs, knowing she’d receive no mercy, she cried, again and again, “Oh gods! Oh gods!” The castle would hear her, even from the Moon Tower. She covered her face with her hands, dug her nails into her scalp. “Oh gods!”
The sensation was enough to make her come, but his moaning, those uninhibited growls that rolled in his throat and gave her goosebumps, made Sansa feel like a victim, like prey, and that was as pleasurable as the mouth tugging on her nub.
“Ah! Sandor!” She arched her back and clawed at his scalp, coming. Then words she’d never uttered to any man came out. “Oh, gods, I want you to fuck me!”
He was so cruel, making her cry and beg for it for minutes, not once coming up for air. By the time he finally stood up, Sansa’s throat was raw. She could scarcely imagine what she looked like at that moment, but she didn’t care, not once she saw the way he looked at her, so ravenous.
He unlaced his breeches, dropped them, and Sansa felt like a maiden again. His cock was twice the size of her husband’s and so thick around she doubted it would ever fit in her mouth.
But she’d try.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sansa took it in her right hand and smiled to herself demurely when he shuddered. The Hound’s undoing, she thought again. He was the perfect height, so tall. All she needed to do was lean forward, guide the bulbous red tip in her mouth, and slowly move her tongue in a circle.
His knees almost gave out underneath him, as she caressed his veins, accompanied by another of one his nasty moans she loved so well. A giant hand cupped the back of her head, gently.
“Good girl,” he told her, and she moaned too, her jaw popping when she opened it wider. “Let’s hear you choke on my cock.”
Sansa always gagged when her lord husband insisted that she pleasure him with her mouth, but she was so willing to do it for Sandor that her throat took him eagerly, wanting him to go deeper. Eventually the sheer size of him choked her. He cursed obscenely, stole a handful of her hair, offered more praise. Eyes closed, she thought, this is right. This is perfect.
He tasted so much stronger than her husband, saltier, earthier, but not unclean. This was how a man was supposed to taste, thought Sansa, how a man was supposed to smell. His odor was the sweetest incense to ever fill her nose, better than crisp autumn air. Before she could smell more of it, taste more of it, run her nose through the coarse hair around the base of his manhood, he lifted her up.
As if he’d read her mind, he said through gritted teeth, “I bet I smell worse than your lord husband, don’t I?”
Breathless, she answered. “You do.”
“And I’m uglier.”
“You’re bigger.”
Sandor laughed darkly. “A big, ugly, reeking monster. That’s who you want to fuck you while your pretty husband is away?”
A trickle ran down her thigh. “Yes,” she moaned.
He turned her around so quickly the room spun long after she was on all fours, clutching those same sheets her husband slept in that very morning.
Sandor Clegane stood behind her, his cock prodding her entrance. Her jaw was already sore from taking him, and Sansa knew she’d feel that same soreness between her thighs later tonight. It would be the sweetest reminder that this moment was real.
He mounted her, slowly at first, but lost his patience and thrust himself inside her.
“Ah!” she squeaked, unconsciously running away from him.
“Get over here!” he growled, her waist fitting perfectly in those massive hands, as he pulled her to him.
And how she loved it, his gruffness, and being truly taken from behind. Her walls stretched to accommodate his girth, but there was only so much of her, and his length made her squeak every time. Sansa bit the bedsheets to muffle her cries, as her cheeks slapped against his skin, quick quick quick quick. He slowed down for a moment, wanting to last, she knew. The bedchamber was full of moans and whimpers, spanks and squelches, praises and curses. It was raw, mean, nasty and unforgiving. And right. So right.
This was the man who should have taken her innocence, giving her the beating she never knew she needed. This was the man who inspired the lust she’d buried for so long, and the intimate tenderness she only ever felt for him.
Sandor took a handful of her hair, yanked her head back as he bludgeoned her from behind. “Your husband doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?”
She could see stars, a hundred of them, on the brink of blacking out.
“Let me hear you say it,” Sandor Clegane rasped.
Her lungs were empty. She filled them enough to say, “H-he doesn’t fuck me like this.”
“No, he fucks you like a lordling. And I fuck you like a–”
“–monster.”
He lifted the hand not pulling her hair and spanked her, hard enough for her to bruise. Not a punishment, but a reward. Sansa cried out, wanting another.
“A monster,” Sandor repeated. “That’s right, girl.”
He flipped her onto her back, not once removing his cock. Sandor leaned forward and placed a hand on either side of her head. His dark hair dangled in front of his face, brushing her skin. Sansa gazed up at him, gasping for air.
He was beautiful.
His thrusts were slower, but harder. “Who does this pretty cunt belong to, my tiny little bird?”
“You,” she answered at once.
“Are you going to sneak behind your husband’s back to fuck me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Are you going to kiss him after sucking my cock?”
“Oh, gods! Yes!”
He grinned devilishly. “Maybe I'll come here and fuck you while he’s asleep. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
She squeezed his strong forearms, his muscles like stone, thicker than she was used to, thicker and wider and bigger all over. Her brain rattled in her head, as he thrust again and again and again.
“Sandor...”
“Or maybe he’d like to watch.” He laughed a breathless laugh, his pace quickening. “Your husband looks like the type who’d want to see his wife getting fucked by a monster.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, as the pressure continued to build, desperate for the release. “Oh gods! I can’t!”
“Seeing you carry my bastards instead of his highborn whelps, that’s what I’d like.” The bed groaned, as he pumped into her, faster and faster. “Watching your belly swell after I fuck you bloody!”
Sansa could taste blood from biting her lip, and then it came. “Sandor! I’m–”
Coming, she would have screamed, but that last word was trapped in his mouth. He swallowed the word, as he spent himself inside her, then fed it back to her, with a long, coarse moan.
He grew still, eventually, as her legs hung languidly at his sides. They stayed like that for a moment, sharing the air, catching each other’s sweat, kissing once, breathing, then kissing again. Even as his cock softened, he filled her more than husband. And the sheer weight of him, the sheer size of him, the smell and the taste and the sounds, everything about him was so different, so right.
It made her sob.
“I wish it could be like this,” Sansa sniffled, “always.”
Sandor inhaled deeply, as if he were waking from sleep, his elbows still supporting the bulk of his weight. “It can be like this tonight,” he told her, softly. “And the night after.”
“But what about when he comes back? I’m just supposed to smile and kiss him? It’s not fair, Sandor. I hate him!”
He shushed her with a kiss, so deep she could feel it in her eyes and witness those same stars from before. When he lifted his face, he said, “Smoke and mirrors, little bird.”
She understood; obscure the truth, and it could be like this, always.
Her crying stopped.
“Smoke and mirrors,” Sansa whispered, making it a promise.
Sandor
The Lord of the Eyrie returned with his Winged Knights, the fastest month of Sandor’s life.
He’d been dreading the day, but he would be a liar if he said he wasn’t looking forward to continuing his forbidden love affair with the Lady of the Eyrie now that her lord husband was around. It’d be a game, a dangerous one. Sandor could hardly wait.
There would be a scalding spot awaiting him in the seven hells, but he was damned either way. Might as well spend the last of his days fucking the most beautiful woman in the most beautiful castle in the most beautiful kingdom in the world.
And Sansa...she was unlike anything he’d ever seen, a real wolf, if there ever was one. The way she rode him, relentlessly, her perky tits bouncing so sweetly – now there was a beautiful sight. So was watching her head bob up and down on his cock, her auburn strands resting on his belly as she choked and gagged and spit.
Just beautiful.
Every night after they finished, Sandor had no idea how’d he get his cock up the following day after what she did to him. But all it ever took was for her to answer the door nude, or, even better, in her wedding gown.
He got off on it, fucking another man’s wife, and Sansa got off on fucking a man who wasn’t her husband. The wedding gown was her idea, and what an idea it was, his clever little bird.
After bending her over the bed and tossing up her skirts, she had mewled, “Oh no, ser, please! I’m to be wed to the most handsome lord in all of Westeros in an hour’s time. Please don’t take my maidenhood, it’s the only gift I have to give him.”
Sandor would have roared with laughter, had his face not been buried between her arse cheeks. Sansa loved when he did that, loved when his nose nuzzled against her ass as his tongue gathered the juices that flowed freely from her. His favorite wine, and the most intoxicating.
Unreal is what she was. Always so clean, so wet, so pale, so pink, with a hearty little cunt that could take a bloody beating.
He spilled inside her cunt every time, save for the few times he couldn’t hold it in and splashed the back of her throat. She liked that too, the naughty little bird, moaning as she swallowed it down. And as charming as that was, he preferred to watch his seed drip from her cunt. Sometimes after he finished, he’d place his head between her thighs and just watch it spill from her swollen, beaten flesh. Another beautiful sight.
But the moments that followed were his favorite, resting beside her in the Moon Tower, sleeping with her in that large canopy bed, as the soft sound of Alyssa’s Tears came in through the open window. For a moment, Sandor could pretend that she was his, that all of it was. All the beauty in the world, sleeping quietly on his arm. And for a month, it was all his. The best month of his life, and fleeting.
Upon the lord’s arrival, Sansa entered the garden alongside Maester Colemon, dressed in a sky-blue velvet dress with her hair billowing behind her. His cock was still wet from their tumble earlier that morning. And here came her husband with a stupid, satisfied smile.
“Well met, Hound,” Lord Arryn said to him, squinting from the late-morning sun. Before Sandor could give him that I’m-Fucking-Your-Wife-Bloody smirk, he walked on by and greeted his wife with a kiss on the cheek.
Maester Colemon looked at Sandor and then at the lord, a small, reluctant smile on his lips. No one said anything, but the castle knew. Either they all hated Harry the Arse as much as he did, or they were all too afraid of what he, the Hound, might do to them should they utter one bloody word.
“Lord Arryn,” the skinny maester greeted him, queerly. “I am pleased to inform you that the lady is with child.”
Harry beamed his usual charming grin and thanked the seven gods. Sansa smiled sweetly at her lord husband and kissed him, but only Sandor caught that swift glance in his direction.
More smoke, more mirrors, Sandor thought, eyeing her belly. And my bastard, the heir to the Eyrie.