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The nights were growing colder as of late, and not just because the Hound was northern bound. The blasted Stark prophecy was coming true once again; Winter was coming. The thought of the House of Stark left a bitter taste in his mouth and rotting sensation in his stomach as he shifted uncomfortably in his bedroll.
You should have taken the girl, a voice in his head hissed and the Hound knew it to be true.
He should have taken the girl, even if force was necessary. Something so fragile would not be long in the world of King’s Landing, forged in the wreckage of wildfire. She’d have forgiven him eventually, if it meant breath still passed through those tender lips…
Sandor Clegane sat up with a groan. It would be a long and sleepless night if he allowed his mind to go down that path. He could not permit himself to think of the Stark girl anymore. Not her name, nor her copper hair, nor her frightful eye, nor the sweetness of her careful tongue…
“Damn the Seven Hells,” he swore and half rubbed, half clawed at his face.
The Hound cursed himself and his stupidity. He never should have gone to see the girl, never should have come close to laying a hand on her. And yet he had done much more than that. He had held her, kissed her, claimed her maidenhood for his own and while he had spilled his seed on the girl’s stomach, there was no guarantee that all of it remained outside of her. The idea of the Stark girl whelping him a pup after their tryst brought a brief smirk to his face before he shook his head and swore again.
Such stupidity knew no limits. The girl would be killed before she even began to show if that were the case.
And yet, had he not seized his chance, would he be cursing himself for a different sense of regret?
The Stark girl was little more than a songbird, so small that she could be easily snapped in two, and yet - bruised as she was - the girl still stood tall before anyone who raised their hand against her. She was not easily broken in the way people desired to break her. Frightful and naïve, sure, but the girl was not stupid, not weak.
Sandor…
The memory of his name sung so sweetly was near enough to make Sandor groan as he laid back down again. Though it was more than enough to set his blood aflame.
And set his blood aflame she did.
He could feel himself stirring between his legs as her moonlit skin glowed before his mind’s eye, memories of how soft she was beneath his callused hands. The same hands that now moved beneath the covers to see to the lust coursing through him.
“Sansa,” he whispered as he freed himself to the chill of the night, her name floating above him in the form of his crystalizing breath.
He thought her of girlish smiles, her large blue eyes constantly filled with tears, the way she had cringed away from him when she saw him and yet had held him close enough to draw blood from his back as he fucked her. She had gone so far as to beg him to stay in her bed and he had obliged. There was no way he could have remained in King’s Landing after what had happened but the thoughts of being summoned to see to the Young Lady Stark again made him grow stiffer in his hand as he stroked himself.
Call upon him again, she would. That much the Hound was sure of. She’d seek to apologize for clawing his back, for some made-up offense that would have caused him to leave before she woke. And he would challenge her again, daring her to accept him again. He would make her sing once again. And once more after that. Again and again until she begged him to stop and that is when he would fill her entirely. The girl would be his. Ruined for any others not because he had taken her, but because he would become the only one capable of pleasing her. Any sons she had would be his and his alone.
Sandor’s grip tightened around his cock, mimicking how tightly Sansa Stark’s cunt had grasped him, and still it wasn’t as tight as she had been when she had reached her climax.
He would fill her. And should his seed bear fruit, it would be claimed the offspring of the one she was wed to. If it worked for the Queen and that pompous brother of hers, it would work for the songbird and the Hound. Mutts would become wolves and that was what mattered most as Sandor Clegane fucked his own hand as he would the Stark girl, thinking of nothing else but the way she would cry his name as he took her.
The only bruises the girl would bear would be ones of his own making. Sandor would not allow any other man to lay a hand on Sansa so long as she was in his possession. Bruises only given to her by gripping her wrists, by biting her tender flesh, by holding her closer than anyone else deserved to be held. Anyone who else dared to raise a violent hand against her would seen it severed by the edge of the Hound’s blade.
Even the bastard boy king.
Especially the bastard boy king.
“Sing for my little bird,” Sandor groaned as he felt himself getting close to the peak.
Memories of Sansa’s moaned, the dig of her nails across his skin, mixed with the thoughts of slaying Joffrey Baratheon and Sandor tightened his grasp on himself. Lust for violence, lust for sex, it was all the same to a man such as him. But to truly conquer those who thought him leashed and take everything for himself…
“Mine,” he growled as he spilled over his hand, visions of Sansa’s orgasm dancing on the clouds of his heavy breathing as he came.
His breathing was heavy in the night air as he lay in his sweat soaked bedroll, feeling sated and tired at last. As sleep started to claw at him, Sandor now knew for true that Sansa would be the one thing that would bring him peace.
The songbird would be his.
Even if it was only at night for the time being.
She would be his.