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The sword against her throat didn’t scare Sansa as much as his eyes. The Hound’s eyes were pools of black, stormy, tumultuous, never ending, yet there was no beginning. They sucked her in and threatened to crush her, the only thing holding her feet to the ground was his raspy, irritated voice.
She lifted her head higher as he spoke of his first killing, baring her pale throat. Let him slit it, let her bleed. Her only hope of escape lay with Dontos, her Florian, and she feared with every breath it would never come, even if he gave her promises of soon. Always soon, never now.
As he lifted the sword away, Sansa felt another pang in her belly. She reached up, gripped it carefully, saw his eyes dart down to the motion. She tightened her lips and said nothing. Don’t let him see your pain.
“I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful. Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”
Sansa meant to run, to flee, but the pain came again, like a dagger twisting inside her guts. She clutched, stumbled, cursed silently because her pain was obvious. The Hound sheathed his sword and gripped her arm, catching her. She leaned against him, hating it, feeling the heat from his body, smelling the wine on his breath.
“Come on girl, I’ll bloody take you myself.” He guided her back towards her chambers, and Sansa hated herself for being grateful for his aid. Leaning on him made the pain tolerable. His warmth soothed her, but she couldn’t explain why. She must be ill.
Yes, ill.
The Hound must have said something to the guard at the door while Sansa was lost in her head, because her door was open and he was leading her into her chambers. Once the door shut he bent, and in one quick motion lifted her up and hoisted her over his shoulders. She cried out in shock, felt one of his hands steady her against her thigh.
“Hush little bird. Wouldn’t want you falling and scrapping your pretty little knees.”
Sansa stopped flailing and relaxed against him, felt his hand trace up her thigh and rest against her bottom. She bit her lower lip. Should she accuse him of the touch? What if he had not meant it? Would he only mock her further? With the ache in her tummy, Sansa didn’t feel she had the energy anymore to deal with it. Instead she closed her eyes, feeling the fight leaving her, relaxed and let his hand cradle her behind as he steadied her, then lowered her to her bed.
He didn’t speak, but Sansa saw a smirk on his face, and knew then she should have fought him.
She dreamt of blood and pain that night, of fear so palpable she could mold it around her neck, like a noose. She screamed and cried and let it gut her, bled enough for a thousand lives.
Come dawn she awoke sickly, feeling the stab in her belly, a stickiness on her thighs. She threw her blanket away and saw they were stained red, and for a moment she swore her dreams had been real. Slowly as her sleep faded, she realized it was not a wound, though she wished instantly it was. Terror stricken she rose from the bed, covering her mouth.
No, not now. Not now not now not now. Sansa looked around frantically, snatching up a dulling knife. She hacked into the bed, trying to cut the blood away, leaving it sticky on her hands and thighs still. She had to hide it, before anyone saw. If they did, the Queen would know, and she’d be forced into Joffrey’s bed. She’d be forced to spread her legs for that whore son and bare his ugly golden haired children. She’d be forced to love everything she hated.
She tore at the bed, didn’t hear the heavy footsteps coming to her door- didn’t hear anything until she heard voices. The door opened without a knock, Sansa heard her maid cursing to someone that it was not right to wake a lady such.
“I’ve been sent to get the girl, I won’t wait hours while you gently try to wake the girl.” The Hound loomed in the door, turning to look ahead of him, from the maid behind him he spoke to. He froze, stared at Sansa, at her bloodied hands and legs, at the bed she was destroying. She saw his dark eyes, a moment of realization, and then something she hadn’t expected to see. Fear.
He reached out with his arm to try and block the entire doorway, but before he could the maid rushed in, ducking under him. She stopped too, stared at Sansa, and without a word turned and scampered off, to the Queen, the girl knew.
Sansa sobbed the moment the girl left, taking the knife and flinging it across the room. Her heavy door shut with a bang, but she didn’t look. She wanted to cry into her hands, but they were sticky with blood. Frustrated, she tore into the bed with her hands, digging nails and fingers into the softness. She felt him looming close, crouching down, taking her chin in his hand and turning her to face him.
The rage she had seen the night before was gone. His eyes showed regret.
“Let’s clean you up, little bird.”
She washed her hands, her thighs, watched the water in the wash bin turn pink. The Hound stood close, but when she pushed her night gown up, he looked away. Sansa was silently grateful.
Her maid returned just as she finished, and shooed the Hound out. Sansa saw the way his lips twitched. He wanted to tear the woman apart, but he went. Only to the door though. She heard his heavy footfalls cease when it closed.
The maid dressed Sansa, helped her wrap a cloth for the blood, brushed out her hair. Sansa didn’t need to ask who she was being groomed for, she knew the Queen would be waiting for her. The pangs in her stomach turned to seizing butterflies.
It was the Hound who escorted her though, and no other.
“Thank you,” she whispered, daring only to shoot a quick glance at him through her auburn hair. He looked back at her, a hard, dark gaze.
“For what?”
“For cleaning me up,” she said, embarrassed. She couldn’t believe she had tried to tear her bed apart- it would have never worked. It was undignified. Even if she knew in the end she faced bedding Joffrey. “For escorting me to my room last night. It was most kind.”
He laughed then, a strong laugh from his gut to his chest, that made Sansa shiver. She stopped walking and stared.
“What’s so funny?”
“You, little bird.” He had stopped, and turned to face her. “You think it was kind? Aye, kind to myself to make sure Joffrey’s little play thing doesn’t go and hurt herself while I’m around.”
Her face flushed in annoyance. “Is that all I am? Joffrey’s play thing?”
“No,” the Hound said, taking a step towards her. “You’re a woman too.” Sansa stepped back nervously, her back to the cold stone walls. He pinned her there, dangerously close, engulfed her with his hulking frame. “I knew you’d be.”
“How?” Sansa asked. He couldn’t know of my blood before it came.
“I could smell the blood on you.” His voice, that harsh steel on stone, gave her chills. But the way he spoke, the heaviness to his voice made her chest tight, her belly heavy. She felt the air grow hot and stuff, found it hard to breathe. One of his hands had gripped her waist, tight like iron, and she found it made the skin around, under her dress, tingle. She didn’t understand.
She thought he might kiss her, with the way he was looking at her, how close he was to her. Or he might devour her, she could not know. She could not read a thing in his stormy eyes. She squirmed, and he only smiled. She feared he liked it. She feared, but part of her hoped as well.
What is wrong with me?
“That’s why I couldn’t resist.” His hand trailed down her hip, slipped between the stone and her body, caressed her bottom, her thigh. Sansa exhaled shakily. She should shove him away, by the seven she should push him away, but for some reason she couldn’t.
“So don’t tell me I was being kind.”
With that he released her, stepping back. Sansa saw something in his eyes, some amusement, playing at the corners of his lips too. Her blush deepened and she frowned, reminding herself this was no proper. He had no right to touch her. And she shouldn’t let him. She shouldn’t like it.
With no retort on her tongue, Sansa just stormed past him, feeling a bit better at the prospect of facing the Queen, while the Hound watched, a smile on his ruined lips. She had been more willing than he would have thought. He mused about when he could get to her again, under her sweet skin, as he followed her, eyes watching those growing, womanly hips rotate with her steps.