Feathers & Fangs

“If he wasn’t burned, he could have been beautiful,” she thinks, staring at him through a thin veil of smoke. He must be cold. He keeps a distance between himself and the campfire, preferring to sit back against the trunk of a towering soldier pine instead of huddling close to the fire, fingers reaching for the warmth the way she sits now. In the half-light from the weak flames, she can barely see the destroyed half of his face, covered in twisted, red scars that have devoured his skin like hungry ivy climbing stone. Each feature: chin, cheekbones, brow, has been pulled down, but by bit, until his right profile is as much a ruin as the crumbling towers of Old Valyria.

He sharpens his longsword methodically, rhythmically, his black eyes cast down, jaw set, the steel of the sword singing with each stroke. Thick, dark hair falls into his face. His hands are huge, his shoulders as wide as a bull’s, his arms thick from swinging the weight of his sword down and into the skulls of smaller men.

He is no heroic Florian. He wears a battered leather jerkin and rusted mail, not gilded armor. He’d sooner take a whore in a back alley than compete to win the favor of a lady. He is eager to spill blood and needs no tourney to prove his mettle. He is bitter and angry, dark and jagged. He smells of sweat and smoke and a deeper smell that comes from bathing in the river- like sap and lichen and sage and stone. There are no ballads that sing his praises, yet every man, woman, and child knows and fears The Hound.

She is no fair Jonquil. Naked and wrapped in the fraying, blood-smattered white cloak, her red braid matted, her stained, torn dress and underclothes drying next to her on a fallen log, no traveler to stumble into their camp will believe she is Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, Lady of Winterfell. And here, in these cold, desolate woods, she isn’t a lady anymore. For the first time in her life, Sansa Stark is not her name or her title. He is the only one who addresses her now, and he only ever calls her “Little Bird.”

That night, when the Blackwater burned emerald green, he had been waiting in her chamber. He told her he wanted to take her away. He’d promised her safe passage north and home.

“I won’t rape you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” He’d rasped at her.

She’d recoiled when he’d taken her little face in his hands, stroking the soft milk-white skin with his stony fingers. He bent down until their faces were inches apart, his dark eyes shining. His breath was hot on her face and reeked of wine.

“I know you’re better than me, Little Bird. I wouldn’t bring you as low as I am.”

The moon had turned twice since that night, and, though he’d never touched her but to lift her on and off Stranger, his massive black destrier, sometimes she sees a hunger in his eyes. It is the look the hunting dogs sport when they trot back to their master with their prey. It is a look that means he wants to open her, to tear her apart. To rip into her with his teeth and make her bleed.

She feels a flutter in her lower stomach. She can see it clearly, him pinning her before the campfire, shoving her face into the earth, taking her from behind the way dogs do. Growling and gasping, cursing her through gritted teeth. A white-hot chill burns down her spine, a single shot of shame. She imagines his huge hands gripping her waist, bruising her ribs. If she tries to push him away, he’ll blacken her eye and chip a tooth. He’ll laugh a deep, smoke-addled laugh if she tries to fight him and will push deeper into her, excited by her pain. She feels wetness slip from her and reaches down to feel it. She’s felt this before- the night she saw Ser Loras ride in the tourney, she’d gotten wet as well. It’s impossible- that The Hound, vicious, brute-like, violent- would elicit excitement in the same way gentle, beautiful Loras had. She lets her hand cup her mound, the pressure within her builds.

She inhales sharply, and his head shoots up; his eyes lock onto hers.

“What? What is it?” He mutters, his hand tightening around the sword’s hilt. She pulls her hand away from herself and draws back further into the cloak. She looks away quickly.

“Hear something, did you?” He grunts as he finds his feet. He circles the fire until he stands next to her. He stops, listening. She can hear him rasping, each exhale like the breath of a bellows.

“You think it’s a fair knight come to save you, Little Bird? It’s just as likely to be a Lion as it is to be a Wolf. Wolves still rape and murder the same as Lions do. If it’s a pack of Wolves sent to kill me and say they do move fast enough to cut my throat, what’ll they do with you?”

“They’d know me.” Her voice is a little above a whisper.

“Even if they knew who you were, Little Bird, there are many who’d still like to taste a Lady.”

She grits her teeth, and a blush burns across her cheeks.

“My brother would kill them. He’ll kill you too once I tell him what you’ve done to me, dog.” She speaks before she can stop herself. He grasps her chin between thumb and forefinger, tight enough to shatter her jaw. He sinks to his knees before her.

“And what have I done to you? I’ve treated you like your storybook knights would. Kept you sheltered, watered, fed. I could have hit you or fucked you bloody, but I haven’t, have I? There are other things I could do to you, though, things that won’t leave a mark.”

“You’re hurting me.” Her words catch in her throat.

Even when on his knees, he still towers over her, blotting out the firelight. He is a shadow, only his eyes burn, animal-like, primal.

“I’ve wanted to hurt you a few times, it’s true. When you wash yourself in the creek, I lean back against the rocks and take myself in hand, thinking of how I could push you into the cold water and fuck you. When you go to the woods to make water, I think of finding you squatting and taking you. Seven hells, when we ride and your ass slips back onto me in the saddle, I want to lift your skirts and shove into you. And now, knowing you’re naked under that cloak, knowing all I would have to do is pull it aside and I could see you and feel you and fuck you-“ 

His sentence dies and his hand slides down to her thin throat.

“I told you I wouldn’t rape you, so I’ll give you the choice, Little Bird. I can either fuck you hard right here and ruin you, or I can pull my cock out and finish on you and then take you north to your brother- honor intact. Either way I get a reward. A little thanks for all I’ve done.” His hand is so big and so hot on her throat. At each word, he seems to press down harder until her breath comes in little gasps. Her head swims, and the stars overhead wheel.

He lets go of her, and she sprawls backward, the cloak slips from her naked shoulders. She looks at him with fear, the way all women, even the ones he’s paid for, look at him. There’s something honest in that fear, he thinks.

“Tell me, how do you want it? You can wipe my cum off with that cloak after, and I can take you on to the King in the North and collect my gold, or do you want me to ruin you right here? Your knight isn’t coming for you, Little Bird. I’m the best you've got and I’ve done my best to keep you safe, but you’re fucking ungrateful.”

She tilts her chin up at him defiantly. He hasn’t seen that from her before, only fear or shame.

“I won’t choose.” Her voice is lower than the one he knows. Deeper, closer to her core.

A strangled laugh overwhelms him and pushes past his scarred lips. He feels his cock pressing against his breeches, twitching. He grabs at himself and begins to pull where the head and shaft meet, feeling himself through the fabric. She stares up at him, her face twists in shock, the defiance melting away.

“I can choose for you, but we both know what I’d pick, don’t we? You know I’ll break your wings to get what I want. I can be gentle with you, but only if you let me be. Just tell me. What punishment do you pick, Little Bird?”

Her body burst into flames, crackling and sizzling, so hot it hurts. She bites back a gasp, afraid he’ll see the want on her face. He leans forward, grabs the back of her neck while still pawing at himself. He pulls her face toward his as they share strained breaths, lips inches apart.

“Speak.” His lips meet her neck, and a shudder rips through her. She reaches up, her fingernails tearing into the leather-like skin on the burnt half of his face. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react. If he is in pain, she cannot tell.

“No-“ she arches away from him. He pulls her closer and bites her shoulder so hard he tastes blood. She screams, and he twists his cock hard, jerks upward. The pain is good. This is what it must feel like when the faithful repent.

“No?” He challenges, one hand pulling the cloak away, baring her small breasts to the moonlight. Her pink nipples are hard, and when he touches them, rolling them between thumb and forefinger, he feels goosebumps rise. She shudders. 

From the would-be queen to the dog’s dinner. If he could still feel shame, perhaps he would push her away, cover her little body up again, retreat to his spot on the other side of the campfire and wait for her rain-sodden clothes to dry. Instead, his blood is hot with something akin to the rush he feels after he kills.

“You’ve sang for me once before, Little Bird. I want to make you sing a song sweeter than you’ve ever known. Choose or I will.”

“Mmmm-choose.” Her voice is breathy, each inhale a shudder. Her hand moves from his cheek and tangles in his hair. Her blue eyes are wide, staring up into his. Her mouth is open, and strands of hair stick to her forehead. Her brows knit together. One of her hands is shoving at his shoulder in an attempt to push him away, while the other grips his hair hard, pulling him toward her.

His hands move to her upper thigh, and he feels the slick spots where her wetness has dripped. He stops an inch from her opening, his hand gripping her leg tightly. She rolls her hips and gasps. His fingers slide up, and he gently touches her lower lips, applying only a bit of pressure at the opening.

She moans then- a sound high and so sweet- her birdsong. Her hand slips from his shoulder and down his chest, tracing down his rough shirt past his stomach and to where his other hand encircles his cock. She slides her fingers up his own until she touches the head, his precum soaks through the cloth and onto her fingertips. “Ahh,” he chokes a gasp into her neck. He collapses onto her. She tries to pull down his breeches, but he grabs her wrist.

“If a hound fucks a bird, the bird will break.” He is shaking now. Fuck, this is madness. He’s done many a horrific thing but he’s never done this. Never taken a girl this way. She is so young, and she fears him, and why wouldn’t she? He swore he wouldn’t hurt her. He swore he would take her to her brother. And then something snapped. He is more beast than man, a hulking, towering monster, his cock the size of her forearm. He would rip her apart. He would be her ruin.

Her hot breath is in his ear, one hand still in his hair, the other grasping his twitching cock through his breeches.
She squeezes softly.

“You choose.”

She lets go of him. He growls gutturally and rocks back onto his heels. He pulls out his member, thick and veiny, pulsing, and a string of precum dribbles down his closed fist. She lies back and spreads her legs; her pussy pink and shining, crowned in a tangle of fiery curls. Her hands slide down her body slowly, lingering on her nipples. He strokes harder and spits on his dick to wet himself. She gasps. He grunts, thrusts into his palm, his balls aching with want for her. 

Her fingers slide down, and she places a finger on each side of her lips, opening herself to him. Her maidenhead glitters, a precious jewel in a perfect cathedral of pale flesh. With the moonlight and fire glow on her hair, she is burning bright and he cannot help to seek her warmth.

“Fuck” he murmurs. Seven hells. She’s wet for him. She’s watching him toy with himself, and she’s biting her lip and lifting her hips. “She wants me in her. She’s never had anyone in her, and she wants me.” The thought sends a spasm of pleasure through him.

“I don’t know how-“ she begins, cheeks flushed and full lips parted, mouth wet and gasping.

He strokes harder and leans over her. “Slide over the outside. I don’t want you to put a finger in. I want my cock to be the first thing that goes into you.” 

She slides a finger up her slit and shivers. A tiny cry issues from her. Her eyes roll in pleasure. 

“Good girl. Again.”

She follows each command and watches his long cock turning an angry red from the friction of his palm.

“Sandor-“ she whimpers, her eyes meeting his. He takes his hand from his cock and sticks a wide finger into her mouth, shoving far into her throat until she chokes. He pulls out a string of thick saliva and moves his wetted hand to his cock, pumping anew. She is panting now, her skin hot and beaded with pearls of sweat.

“Be still, Little Bird.” He gasps. It takes everything in him not to push into her. He imagines her tightness, her wetness, the way she’ll cry out, the way she’ll hook her legs around him when he thrusts, the way he’ll fuck his seed into her. The face she’ll make when she squirts onto his cock.

He leans forward and takes her nipple in his mouth and rolls his tongue across it. She grinds up and into him as she moans loudly, sweetly, the most beautiful birdsong in the seven kingdoms. Her hot, wet pussy brushes the head of his cock, and he gently pushes forward. She screams, clawing down his back, willing him into her.

He pulls back quickly. “Fuck- fuck-“ he cums into her thigh in a rush of heat and pressure. He collapses and grips her in his arms, rolling onto his back so she is lying on his chest. He grabs the cloak and pulls it roughly over them, covering her nakedness. They both breathe raggedly, and, despite himself, he kisses her forehead gently. She sighs, and he feels her relaxing against him.

There are many moons between these woods and the north, and he knows he won’t be able to stop himself from going farther. Her hand slips down, groping at him again. She moans a sweet little moan and he feels himself begin to stiffen again. “By sunrise, I’ll have Sansa Stark against a tree, or bent over a log, or with her pretty face pressed down into the dirt, and I’ll fuck her hard like the dog I am. There’ll be no payment for me when I return her to her brother, maybe there will be a sword sharpened and waiting to separate my head from my shoulders. It will be worth it, for I’ll have had her, my Little Bird.” He thinks, a slow smile spreading across his half-burnt face.