Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1: SANDOR 1
Sandor Clegane tossed and turned on the uncomfortable straw pallet of his small cell in the cloister of the Quiet Isle.
Fuck him, but he just couldn't bloody sleep again.
It had been well over three months since he'd overheard the freakishly tall woman, Brienne of Tarth, tell the Elder Brother that she was searching for an auburn-haired highborn maid of ten and sixteen. Since then, he'd barely slept at all.
All his thoughts were turned to the little bird.
Sandor knew Sansa Stark had escaped the clutches of that ugly shit of a dwarf she was obviously married to against her will, Tyrion Lannister. But until Brienne of Tarth’s visit, Sandor had tried not to dwell on any of this; he’d tried not to dwell on her.
It had been bad enough when he first learned of her marriage to the Imp. His precious little bird had simply been given away to another Lannister lion just like a bone tossed to a hungry dog and Sandor felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest. Learning she had thankfully escaped brought him a certain amount of . . . relief, but he also bitterly realized that Sansa was probably lost to him forever. “The little bird flew away, did she? Well, bloody good for her. She shit on the Imp’s head and flew off,” he’d said. But at that moment, Sandor also simply stopped caring whether he lived or died as his heart broke into a million tiny pieces.
First, he'd started by drowning himself in a sea of wine, drinking his way into a drunken stupor much like he used to do almost every night in King's Landing. And then he found himself in a vicious brawl with his brother Gregor’s men while he was at the Inn at the Crossroads with the younger Stark sister, Arya.
Oh, they'd won the fight against his brother's men alright, no matter how drunk he was; Sandor killed Polliver, and the Stark girl killed the squire and the man they called the Tickler. He had to admit, the little she-wolf definitely was a killer; so very unlike her older sister Sansa, with all her ladylike courtesies and her head filled with songs and gallant knights. “Fuck the knights, they can all go bugger themselves with a hot poker for all I care, bloody hypocrites the lot of them,” Sandor almost growled out loud.
But that wasn’t before he got himself seriously injured during the fight, and when his wound festered, he was left to die alone under a bloody tree by the banks of the Trident by the little wolf girl after trying and failing to get her to kill him, to get her to end his bloody misery.
Sighing deeply in exasperation, Sandor tossed and turned again in his bed, tugging impatiently at his blankets, his mind reeling at the flood of memories overwhelming him. Finally tossing the bed sheets roughly aside in pure frustration, he slowly sat down on his bed, swinging his strong legs over the side and massaging his wounded thigh. The wound had healed well enough, thanks to the Elder Brother's 'healing hands,' but the puckered scar would remain and Sandor knew he'd probably walk with a blasted limp for the rest of his miserable life.
Throwing his brown-and-dun brother’s robes over himself – not even bothering with smallclothes – he decided to wander over to the stables and see Stranger. His huge black stallion was at the far end of the stable in the last stall, well away from the other animals. The silent brothers barely kept half a dozen mules on the Quiet Isle and no horses. None of his fellow silent brothers with any wits about them had dared approach ‘Driftwood’ again ever since his warhorse kicked Brother Rawney in the shin and broke the plump man’s shinbone in two places and bit off Brother Gillam’s ear off.
Sandor snorted at the thought. Try to rein in a man’s warhorse and harness him to a plough and that’s what you get: Blood. “A warhorse is for fighting, not bloody field work,” he warned the Elder Brother while this one had simply smiled back at him. Bugger him. No one would geld his horse while he still had breath left in him. So no one had even tried to approach Stranger again, not even the Elder Brother.
He picked up an apple and approached his courser, feeding him the ripe fruit while he patted him on his flank, talking to him, soothing him. Stranger seemed happy enough to see him and took the offering from his master’s large hand in one bite. Sandor sat beside him on the stall floor while Stranger whinnied softly after he’d finished chewing and swallowing the offering.
Then Sandor turned his thoughts back to Sansa Stark.
Sandor Clegane was well aware that he'd already failed to save his little bird even before she was married off to that whore-loving Imp. Fact was, he'd failed her back in King's Landing when he allowed Joffrey's creatures to beat her bloody time and time again; the worst part was being unable to do a damn thing about it, or Joffrey would have had his head on a spike right next to Ned Stark’s rotting one.
And then he'd failed her again, on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater.
The worst part came later when he was suddenly hit with the sickening realization that what he had felt for Sansa Stark had been more than the need to protect the girl from Joffrey's constant abuse. That maybe it was much more than that. “You'll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when you're queen, and I'm all that stands between you and your beloved king,” he'd sneered at her days after he'd saved the girl from being raped during the bread riots when she crossed his path in the Red Keep and thanked him – essentially pledging himself and his sword to her above that little shit of a king Joffrey. But she’d just walked away while his gaze had followed her longingly as she left.
Sandor shook his head at the memory while he rubbed the back of his stiff neck. Just like a bloody squire lovesick with his first kitchen wench, you pathetic dog.
At first Sandor had told himself he was simply infatuated with the little bird because she reminded him so much of himself as a child, before his brother Gregor burned half his face into a twisted ruin in the burning coals of a brazier. Back then, before he was burned, his own head had been filled with knights and songs, just like Sansa. And then a deep dark part of him also considered that the girl reminded him of his own beloved sister who’d been so full of life and hope and songs too; before she’d mysteriously died.
But there was no real mystery there, Sandor thought bitterly. Gregor killed her, just as I should have killed him . . . But that too was denied to him, was it not? Just like Sansa was.
Sandor rose again to make his way back to his cell, but not before patting Stranger on the neck again. The horse neighed softly as his master slowly left the stables. Outside, the night was still dark but the sky was speckled by a multitude of tiny shining stars while the moon was hidden somewhere behind a cluster of dark clouds. Sandor looked at them thoughtfully. Was she looking at the stars too? Was she alright? Was she safe? Fuck he was desperate, and he felt completely foolish. Looking at the stars now, dog? You never cared about them before – are you turning into a love sick puppy again? Well, bugger me.
And then it suddenly dawned on him, to his complete and utter horror, that everything he'd done for Sansa – standing between her and Joffrey, protecting her to the best of his ability at every turn, stopping her from committing regicide, even lying for her (and oh, how much he hated liars) – was done because he'd fallen hopelessly in love with the silly, chirping woman-child. How the fuck did that happen?
Sandor was fully aware he had lusted after Sansa Stark ever since King's Landing. Perhaps even before that. The first time he’d seen her in Winterfell, might be? Could be. But he well remembered the shameful pangs of lust the Stark girl had started to awaken in him when he'd started following and trailing her on Queen Cersei’s orders.
How many times he’d caught himself with his eyes flickering over her chest, feeling his breeches getting uncomfortably tight over his hardening member because of the little bird's growing curves? He had noticed how the northern dresses she’d brought with her from Winterfell were getting too small for her, and how her perfect white breasts were now almost spilling out of those too-tight gowns, begging to be cupped and gently sucked on.
Seven buggering hells! Sansa Stark had unknowingly tempted him at every turn.
Sandor remembered that particular time when he had caught the girl returning surreptitiously from the godswood in the night, when they'd bumped into each other on the serpentine. Fuck. He'd been so drunk that night. But in order to protect the frightened girl from another beating from Ser Boros Blount or Ser Meryn Trant, those fucking shining paragons of knighthood, he'd taken it upon himself to accompany the little bird directly back to her cage.
And, of course, he had to open his stupid fucking mouth, carrying on about her teats and her womanly curves, even though his mind was screaming at him not to say a fucking word. She was, after all, still a child.
But the copious amount of wine he'd drunk that night cut his inhibitions – and what was left of his wits – short, and Sandor did open his mouth. Not only that but he’d openly leered at the girl too. “You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you're taller too, almost . . . ah, you're still a stupid little bird aren't you? Singing all the songs they thought you . . . sing me a song, why don't you? Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids. You like knights, don't you?”
No wonder Sansa had been terrified of him then. “T-true knights, my lord.” She had answered back, fear palpable in her small voice and in her Tully-blue eyes, while he noticed that a deep blush had crept over her cheeks, sending a sharp stab of arousal through him.
Sandor remembered how he had mercilessly teased Sansa with her true lords this and her true knights that, until he almost saw tears in the Stark girl's eyes – to his shameful satisfaction – before he'd brought her right back to her bedchamber in Maegor's Holdfast. Then he'd scared her even more with his talk of all that a man needed was a flagon of sour red, dark as blood, or a woman. Stupid, stupid Dog. You could never keep your bloody mouth shut around the girl now, could you? Seven hells, why in the Maiden’s teats did Sansa Stark have such an effect on him?
The girl had simply stared openly at him with eyes becoming as big and as round as saucers, her beautiful enticing pink lips opening in a perfect O.
Sansa's shocked reaction didn't help matters when Sandor got hit with the sudden vision of his little bird's enticing lips opening wide to take in his aching cock, getting the girl to stop her incessant bloody chirping by having her slowly suckle on his hard member, imagining her head bobbing up and down while she bloody well pleasured him . . . Gods! He'd had to painfully dig his nails into his palms until he almost drew blood to stop himself from thinking – or even acting on – those thoughts.
She was still a child, still unflowered, he'd tried telling himself over and over again, disgusted by his growing desire for the girl. The Others take me.
When Sansa Stark had finally finished with her usual courtesies and he'd brought her safely back to her bedchamber, she’d quickly disappeared behind her bedroom door, closing it shut in his face. Sandor recalled how he had run back to his own chambers with his breeches straining painfully over his hard cock, all the while hoping the little bird hadn't noticed the massive bulge swelling just below his tunic.
As soon as he'd found himself alone in his small dark room, he'd laid back heavily against the locked door, fumbled against his laces, and released his aching member.
He remembered how the clear fluid had already started leaking at the tip of his cock so he'd rubbed his thumb over it to spread the wetness around his cockhead before sliding his hand down his length to squeeze the stem of his rock-hard shaft, sending some wonderful shivers down his spine and making him groan. Then he'd started stroking himself slowly with his eyes closed shut, while a sharp mixture of shame and arousal brought forth by mental images of the little bird's teats playing in his head both disturbed and excited him.
Thoughts of her heaving breasts overflowing the top of her too-small dress; of her perfect pink lips opened in a perfect O in that perfect small heart-shaped face of hers; of her beautiful Tully-blue eyes and long auburn hair had all been enough to make him pump himself harder and faster. His climax came hard upon him while he'd fucked into his hand, grunting and groaning Sansa's name while he felt his cock pulse and his seed spilled wildly in white hot spurts over his hand, his breeches, and his tunic, making him shudder in overwhelming pleasure while sweat covered his brow.
Then he had promised himself he would never think of the little bird like that again.
But on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, when he'd panicked at the sight of the fires and the green death that surrounded him everywhere and abandoned the battle and his men after he’d lost half of them, Sandor fled directly to Sansa's chambers in a bid to take her with him and away from that cunt of a king. He'd even told Joffrey to go fuck himself, to his intense satisfaction. “Fuck the Kingsguard. Fuck the city. Fuck the king,” he’d told both the half-man and Joff under the cold, pouring rain, while Stannis Baratheon’s men were knocking at their gates.
So he'd waited in her room covered in the blood and gore and sweat of the battle with only his wineskin for company, drinking deep from it until his little bird had finally shown up.
At first, his intentions had been purely honorable. He wanted to take the girl home to Winterfell and to what was left of her family. He wanted to keep her safe.
But Sansa fucking Stark had barely even looked at him when he asked her, almost shyly, if she wanted to come north with him. The whole time his heart had pounded hard as a drum in his chest. He'd actually been so nervous about asking her he almost felt sick: After all, why would a beautiful, highborn lady like Sansa Stark leave a besieged city with an old, scarred, ugly Lannister Dog?
To make things worse Sansa answered that she preferred to take her chances in the Red Keep and that Stannis wouldn't hurt her; all the while pointedly averting her gaze. That harsh rejection made Sandor Clegane feel as though his insides had been set on fire.
So he'd snapped and snarled at his little bird, bringing his scarred and blood-covered face only inches away from hers.
“Look at me!” he'd barked at her while taking her roughly by the arm. She then fearfully raised her eyes to meet his gaze and he glowered at her.
The Hound decided that he would give the girl another harsh dose of reality whether she wanted to hear it or not.
“Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters are killers. Your father was a killer. Your brother is a killer . . . ” He looked away for a second before returning his eyes to hers as he continued his rant, his voice now thick with something akin to regret, “your sons will be killers someday.” Sandor had then swayed on his feet a bit before finishing, “The world is built by killers. So you better get used to looking at them.”
Sandor bitterly knew that he'd been talking about the sons he had sometimes dared to imagine he’d have with his little bird. What a fool he was.
You're a stupid dog, Sandor had thought. She doesn't want you or love you. Why would she leave with you? But she had angered him, and he suddenly thought about pushing her down onto that feather bed of hers and just fuck her roughly, no, slowly, he wanted to fuck her slowly, then and there.
But then she raised her beautiful face and looked at him, really looked at him, as though she were seeing him for the first time. She spoke with a certainty Sandor had never before seen in her, reflected in her clear blue eyes.
“You won't hurt me.”
And in that cruel instant, Sandor knew his little bird was right, and that he would never hurt her.
Because in the depths of his scarred and brutal heart, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, the burned and fearsome warrior truly wanted just one thing: For Sansa Stark to look on his face without fear, to spread her long legs for him, to be wet and willing for his touch, and to moan his name in desire.
“No, little bird, I won't hurt you,” was all he said, was all he could say, sadness and disappointment painfully etched across his face; and so he'd turned around, walked out of her room and seemingly out of her life forever.
And so he left her behind in King's Landing; for the Lions or the Stag he hadn't known.
Sandor had tried to make his peace with everything that had happened to him ever since that night, before his arrival on the Quiet Isle when he took on the guise of a simple novice digging graves. Turning his thoughts to digging graves in the lichyard, to the tides of the river which swept in the rotting corpses to be buried, to the endless labor of shovelling earth day after day, until each night he’d fall asleep free from thoughts of her. Of his little bird. Of Sansa Stark.
He'd even considered becoming a Brother of the Faith so he could leave behind what had made him the Hound, since the Elder Brother had buried his armor and left the Hound’s snarling dog helm on that false grave on the shores of the Trident, where he had once been left to die.
The Hound was dead now, but Sandor Clegane lived on.
And so for a time he'd found a certain contentment with his new life as the gravedigger. A certain kind of peace, until the ground would freeze over, and winter would come.
But that was until Brienne of Tarth arrived on the Quiet Isle, and all of Sandor's old warrior instincts had roared back to life. Once again, all he could think of was his little bird, to somehow find her, and to finally keep her safe and bring her back home.
Right now, he just didn't know how in the seven hells he was going to manage to find her in the first place.