Work Text:
“Rape the little cunt!”
Jeers came from the other men, their grubby hands reaching for the silver cloth of her dress.
“Aye, we’ll fuck her like the fucking king never has!”
“No! Please!”
Sansa kicked at them, her legs tangling in her petticoats, snagging against the rough cobblestone biting into her back.
“Please!” she screamed.
“Shut the bitch up!”
A hand clamped over mouth. Sweat and grit choked her cries, silencing her pleas for mercy. Calloused fingers raked against the soft skin of her thigh, shredding her stockings.
This is how it ends.
She begged the gods, old and new, any to save her. Sansa hoped they’d kill her after – quickly. If not, Joffrey certainly will. And it would be slow.
Sansa screamed as her pale green bodice – chosen by Cersei – was ripped from her breast. Exposed, the men grinned down at her. She felt the grunting heat of the beast bearing down on her, tried to close her mind from their taunts and torments. Her flailing legs caught one man in the crotch, forcing him to his knees.
“What the fuck – ”
The whistling whip of steel slices through the air. A body following in its wake, and then another. The weight above her is flung aside like a ragdoll.
Sansa scrambles onto her hands and knees. Her arms shake right down to her fingertips, which touch the streams of blood sinking through the cobblestone cracks.
She can finally breathe – her first breath a cry of relief.
“Aye m’lday, you’re alright.”
The Hound.
She’d recognize his voice anywhere.
Joffrey used the threatening knight to strike her in his stead. But that didn’t matter now. The relief was overwhelming, and she rushed into his arms.
Sansa clung to the straps of his armor, the top of her head barely reaching the bristles on his chin.
His armor was cold against her cheek, its metal edgings imprinting into her skin.
Without a care for propriety, Sansa sobbed into his chest, clinging to the Hound like a lifeline. He stood rigid and stiff, and she could feel no heartbeat.
“You’re alright little bird, you’re alright.”
Without another word he removed his cloak and draped it about her shoulders.
It was then Sansa remembered her nakedness. A blush bloomed on her cheeks, but the Hound pretended not to notice.
Gruffly he slung her over his shoulders, as though she weighed no more than a sack of potatoes.
Sansa couldn’t help her trembling, especially as he pinned her legs against his broad breastplate to secure her in place.
“My Queen!” Sansa could detect the hint of disappointment in Joffrey’s voice.
“Thank you for bringing her back,” Tyrion muttered, his voice sounding so far below her, like the murmur of a river in a deep canyon.
“I didn’t do it for you.” He spared barely a glance at the dwarf, “The little bird’s bleeding, someone take her back to her cage.”
The Hound plopped Sansa to her feet. Joffrey strode towards her, sending a shiver of fear up her spine. Still draped in his cloak she looked up.
Thank you was on her lips, and she sought his eyes with her own, but he was gone.
--
She was sniveling at the bastard’s feet. Once a proud lady bearing one of the greatest names in all the seven kingdoms. Now she was reduced to…this. The Hound’s lip curled in disgust.
“Your Grace, please! My father was a traitor. I knew nothing of his plots, of his schemes!”
The boy king was enjoying this display of public humiliation. It glinted in his eyes, that thirst for power. The same look Sandor had seen in a hundred knights as they plunged their swords deep into the heart of another. Madness tainted this one. Cloaked him like the shadow of his true parentage. Sandor remembered the Mad King, and this one was proving to surpass him.
Joffrey slouched in his chair, leaning his brocade velvet arm on the Iron Throne.
“I think mylady has too much clothes on.”
Excitement was rolling off him in waves, the heat of a young lion in dire need to fuck. Sandor could feel the tension emanating from him, the way it seized the young king’s muscles. He remembered how it felt to be that…aroused. Passion was a dull thing to him now. A paltry flame that always flickered out at the barest breath. Whores barely served their purpose, getting the job done but without the hot flush of youth.
“Your Grace!” The little bird’s pretty eyes widened in shock, and she screamed as Ser Meryn put his blade to her bodice. With a swift motion – the steel singing – he slashed her gown from neck to back.
Joffrey shifted in his seat, his beady eyes trained on the curve of Sansa’s breast as she clasped the tatters of her dress.
Panic seized her. Tears welled in her eyes, whispering down her prominent cheekbones, dripping off her chin to fall on her clasped hands.
Another nod from Joffrey and Ser Meryn struck her back with the flat of his sword. Lords and ladies gasped as the breath was stolen from her shaking body. She lay sprawled on the floor, and Sandor could count each groove and dip of her spine. Trembling she raised herself to her knees. Her gray eyes churned into a storm, and icy resolve spread across her pale features.
Sandor recognized that look.
It was the same one she wore when she stepped towards Joffrey on the bridge, when the King forced her to look at Ned Stark’s impaled head. Sansa was scheming to push the bastard to his death, but Sandor had intervened.
He didn’t know why – it was no loyalty to the king. More than half his traitorous court wanted the little bastard to rot in hell. It was for Sansa. A kingslayer lived no life, save the golden-haired Jaime Lannister. But with her name and house reduced to dust, it would be the executioner’s sword for Sansa. Or worse.
The Hound had seen men rip women apart, each hungry to have a piece of the softness between a woman’s legs. They had beaten and raped women bloody. It had never been Sandor’s preference. Sickening to watch men behave like the beasts they were at the core. No armor or crown could defy what men truly are, monsters.
The Hound embraced it. He could slay without blinking, be it a woman, man, or child. But rape? He still remembers the screams of his own mother.
Joffrey’s snickering banished his thoughts.
“What do you say, my lady? Shall we start the bedding ceremony right here, right now? My mother said to put a son in you.”
Joffrey leaned closer, the pulse at his neck quickening. The little bird stood on trembling legs, chin lifted defiantly.
“What are you going to do? Traitor.”
Another flick of his wrist and Ser Myrn kicked the back of her knee, sending her once more tumbling to the floor.
To catch her fall she let go of her bodice, revealing soft white breasts.
Sandor shifted uneasily, unable to look away. He could look – everyone else certainly was. She was lovely underneath all those clothes. Well, if Sandor was being honest with himself, he thought her lovely even with clothes. She had an innocence about her. Fresh-faced beauty. A wild rose grown in the North. But she was withering under the Lannisters’ unforgiving hands.
Angry tears streamed down her face, doing little to cool the flush of a fight that flickered over her features. She tried to stand once more.
Good gods girl, don’t you learn? The Hound swore under his breath, but he knew the Starks were a proud folk. This one had tried to play by Lannister rules, but Joffrey was merciless. The white cloaks of the Kingsguard rustled next to Sandor, and he knew the foolish boy enough to know that what was coming would render this public stripping mere child’s play.
“Your Grace.”
Sandor’s gruff voice severed the thickening tension of the throne room. Sansa’s eyes met his, but he couldn’t hold her glare. But dare he say, did he see relief in her eyes? Nay, hope? The look defeated men had the moment before their heads were cut from their shoulders. As though the gods themselves might intervene and spare their pitiful lives.
“What? Dog.” The spat still bristled.
Sandor was no court man, raised with a lie and a silver spoon. He couldn’t play Varys’s games of secrets and plots. Nor could he match Tyrion’s clever mind, but he knew better than to let the insult show. Sandor liked two things – staying alive and killing. And ale. So, three things. He hadn’t had a good whore in a while…
“Perhaps you can continue this with a less public eye, your Grace?”
“Oh?” Joffrey could rarely see when he was being played, but suspicion slithered across the sneer on his lips. “and why would I do that?” Sandor held his gaze,
“A king shouldn’t,” he didn’t know how to finish that sentence along the lines of court etiquette. He searched for the right words, each thick in his mouth like strong ale.
“Well?” the blonde demon cocked an eyebrow, fingers dancing on the edge of the dagger that sat across his knees.
The double doors crashed open and Tyrion marched in, seeming a giant. All heads turned to the little man. “What is the meaning of this?” he waved a jeweled hand.
“Uncle.” Hatred pooled in Joffrey’s eyes, Sansa momentarily forgotten.
“This is no way to treat your future Queen! Someone clothe the girl!”
Ser Meryn retreated, unwilling to anger his master. The other men stepped back, fearing the girl like the plague.
Without hesitation Sandor stepped off the dais, yanking the cloak from his shoulders. The little bird couldn’t look at him, as he draped the thick material about her. The fire in Sansa’s eyes had faded to ash, exhaustion weighing more than the Hound’s cloak. She clutched it like a lifeline, thanking all the gods, old and new, for Tyrion’s entrance. Who only knew what that wretched Hound was going to suggest. He likely meant for Joffrey to take her on the floor in the hall, where the court could hear her screams for mercy but wouldn’t see the weakness of their pitiful king. The Hound was at her back, hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Get the lady safely to her room.” Tyrion commanded, his voice thundering in the vastness of the Iron Throne room.
Tyrion’s men moved in, a half circle of advancing knights readying to pounce. Sandor grabbed Sansa’s arm, hauling her to her feet. Tyrion’s men dared not contest, with the exception of Bronn, who was focused on Joffrey. Sansa squirmed in Sandor’s grip as he dragged her out the room. The doors behind them shut, and Sansa turned toward them, as though desperate to be back in there at the mercy of the monster Joffrey. The Hound was revolted by the thought.
“Hush little bird, I won’t hurt you.”
The tears on her cheeks had dried, adding a shimmer to her face.
“You’re his dog.” She spat, the waver barely detectable. Hearing that insult from her lips stoked the rage that was ever burning beneath the surface.
“I saved you,” he snapped.
“Saved me!” she wrenched herself from his grasp, “You tried to get Joffrey to, to”
“No.”
She would accept no explanation, and none came to mind. His words were lost, so focused was he on the goddess in front of him. Her fiery hair cascaded from that ridiculous updo, framing her proud cheekbones, coaxing the fire from her eyes. Draped in his cloak, in his smell, he felt his manhood tighten beneath his belt.
“Then I guess you have this all figured out my lady.” He gave her a mock bow and turned on his heel, leaving her gaping at his departure.
Sansa heard the rustle of armor from the watch points in the alcoves. Thought she smelt the tang of fresh steel. She gripped the cloak tighter, hating that it was his. It seemed shadows were leaning in, eager to snuff her out.
Sandor watched from behind a pillar as she turned on her slippered heel and scampered down the hallway. He followed at a distance, his towering form sending men slinking back into their hideaways.
The little bird was shaking so badly she couldn’t fit the key into her door. It did little to keep out the Lannisters, who possessed keys to every nook of the castle and cranny of the prison, but it offered peace of mind.
Hurry, hurry, flooded through Sansa’s mind, coloring her vision with hazy tears.
She cursed her trembling efforts, throwing the Hound’s damned cloak from her shoulders – propriety be damned – to better maneuver the key. Safety lay just on the other side, if only she could get there. Like wolves closing in on a frightened rabbit, she could sense Joffrey’s men on her scent.
“Good gods woman.” She jumped at the growl, letting out an undignified yelp.
She spun to see the Hound sheathing a sword slick with glinting red blood. Her breath caught in her throat, and all she could think of was death. She prayed it would be quick. Sandor stooped to pick up his fallen cloak, his eyes never leaving hers, the burnt side of his face menacing in the shadows of gathering dusk.
“I said I wouldn’t hurt you little bird.”
He covered her again, but she shrunk at his touch, backing up until the rough wood of the door bit into her back. Sansa forced herself to meet his eyes. She would be brave in her last moments. Enough of the sniveling girl she was now, forced to plead with a sadistic king, beg for mercy and lie about love. Sansa Stark would meet death in the face. And if her killer was the Hound, he would make it a clean death.
Or so she hoped.
He stalked closer, the metal of his breastplate whispering against the rosebuds of her breasts.
“There are men out there who will.” He reached around her and she stiffened as the callous of his hand brushed her skin.
Sandor grasped the doorknob, slowly turning it, enjoying the quickening rise and fall of her against his chest. The ache beneath his belt throbbed now. It had been years since he’d felt such a feeling. He’d have to kill something later, release this tension. Whoring wouldn’t do. And he wanted to remember this moment.
Her lips parted as she stared up at him, eyes blue as ice. He longed to touch her hair, to press his face against her fiery strands. She smelled of roses and…innocence.
This was dangerous territory for him, unknown. It was an enemy he knew nothing of, save from drunk bards and lewd stories.
The click of the lock unraveling stirred him from his reverie, and he pushed open the heavy door. Sansa stepped back, keeping a wary gaze on the frightening figure before her. He pushed it open wider, stepping in tandem with her. He drank in the flush of her cheeks, the curve of her lips, the feel of her fists against his chest as she clasped his cloak in front of her nakedness.
He dared not recall what lay beneath.
Her silk shoes slipped on the fabric of her pooled skirts, and for a brief moment she was falling. Quick as a cat the Hound caught her, a hand at her waist, another against the smooth skin of her back.
Good gods.
He closed his eyes. He knew he was destined for hell, all the people he’d slaughtered, but touching her felt like salvation. Her fingertips burned through his armor, sending a rush through his veins. It was akin to the thrill of battle, except this ran deeper, slower. It sank in to every part of his body, igniting his skin. He could think only of her against him, the little bird with the touch of a goddess.
“Tell me,” her voice was breathy, and he opened his eyes to see her leaning in, a hand sliding over his breastplate, up to his neck.
She traced the collar of his armor, “what did you mean you tried to save me?”
Sandor knew he was no wordsmith, but he was rendered mute, captive to her touch. He licked his lips, scrounging for words, “I, I”
He felt a fool. A little bird indeed! He was nearly caught in her talons, almost beckoned into her gilded cage. She was learning from Cersei, clever girl. Woman, his pulsing manhood corrected.
He backed away from her scorching touch. Sandor towered to his full height, keeping his gaze at a shitty painting of flowers across the room.
“I was getting you out of there by encouraging Joffrey to wait.”
“Why did you follow me?” She demanded
“It’s a dangerous world out there, my lady.”
Sansa eyed his sword, thinking of the drying blood.
“Yes, it is. Thank you, Ser Clegane.”
“I’m no Ser.” In a blink he was gone.
Sansa collapsed to the ground, placing a palm against her pounding heart. So that was what Cersei had meant? But it came so naturally with The Hound… To avoid finishing that thought she stuffed his cloak into a chest and called for a bath. She was going to wash away every memory of this day.