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”I'll steal you away, little bird. I'll take you for myself.”
She realises he means it as a threat, as she balances on the edge of the grave he's digging. His fingers are boring into her chin and cheeks. The dirt on his hand rasps against her skin.
He moves them into the pale light that throws the ruins of his face into stark relief. For the first time she doesn't flinch at the sight of his face, but her eyes water with her effort to return his stare. He still smells like death. Even though there's no blood on his hands and he's bound himself with novice white, he reeks like fire and violence. He doesn't look the penitent man, doesn't hold his tongue like one.
”When?”
The annulment of her marriage is still burning where the septa's wet fingers pried her open. Somewhere inside the holy buildings behind her, the man who wants her maiden's blood is waiting. He doesn't answer her.
“What have you done to your hair?” He's thrown the spade while she wasn't looking, and his free hand twines in her dark brown curls
“Peter Baelish's bastard has brown hair like her father.” She says without missing a beat.
---
His fingers takes away her highly priced hymen before the ink's barely dry on her annulment. There's hardly even a sting, but they both stare when his fingers come out spotted red. Peter Baelish has taken his trophy scroll of paper back to his room. The Hound smears a bloody thumb on her breast as he fucks her in the Septry. She stares at the Maiden's image until he shudders into her.
---
Alayne's father is in high zest when she breaks fast with him. He talks and talks about her virginity and about all the marriages he's considering. She smiles sweetly through all of his words, privately musing on the dull ache in her loins.
He circles her hips when she leaves, rounding on her buttocks. She looks at him politely, indifferently, as she thinks of the red stain in her small clothes, until he finally lets go.
“Good day, father.”
“Good day, sweetling.”
---
He presses down on the small of her back when he lifts her skirts. Her nose is almost touching the floor, her palms flat against the floor. She isn't quite ready, not quite wet enough. The first thrust feels like a jagged punch to her abdomen. She gasps and her hands turns to claws, scratching at the marble. Second thrust, third thrust, and it still feels too raw.
She grits her teeth on the fourth thrust, but the pain sweetens suddenly and violently, when his hand goes round her. While he pulls her in close, he rubs over the place where he becomes her, and she becomes him. She melts around him. On the fifth she's so soaked, it's running down the insides of her thighs.
The other hand is lost somewhere in the tangle of her dress, fingers trembling as they dig into her thigh where her silky stockings turns into soft, white skin. Her breath come in sharp little puffs, condensing against the cold stone floor. She can smell herself. She can smell him. It's all anger and vulgarity.
”Little bird,” he moans.
---
The drizzle hits her face in sharp pinpricks - the iron taste buzzes on her lips. She has soggy grass beneath her. She wonders vaguely how she's going to explain her ruined clothes and hair, when she returns to her rooms. Then the Hound spreads her legs wide, calloused finger tips skirting up her milky thighs.
He reaches inside of her, pulling each whimper out of her, and she digs her fingers into the roots of the grass. He forces her legs further apart. He can barely fit into the cradle of her hips. Her muscles fizz and pop with the strain, but she wraps herself firmly around him. His skin is burning fever hot against her, and she gasps and shudders when he sinks into her.
She closes her eyes against the rain, and for a moment she feels like she could take root and disappear. Then he tears her wide open, and she restitches herself around him with a breathless gasp. She clutches at his sweat soaked neck, her hips pulsing convulsively in turn with with his. Her heel grinds into his calf, and her nails tears at his scarred back while she moans.
There's no little bird, no sweetling, no my lady. And there's no Alayne.
”Sansa,” he grunts on a ragged groan, her name lost somewhere in the sweaty curve of her neck.
And Sansa burns.