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Little Bird.
As Sandor threw his saddle onto the back of his horse, he could only envision the look on her face as he made his offer. She had wanted to go with him, he was sure, but Joffrey had filled her with so much fear she dared not. Her eyes, her eyes the color of the Northern sky, spoke otherwise. In their depths Sandor saw something so rare, so precious, that he almost didn’t have a word for it.
Hope.
He hefted himself into the saddle, flames licking up the walls of the barn, his horse pawing at the ground. Sandor barely nudged the creature with his boot and off they went, away from the flames. They plunged through the screams of dying men, their burned and bloodied fingers reaching for him. He kicked them away, struggling to breathe through the acrid tinge of smoke.
This was no place for the lady.
He wanted to keep going – the castle gates were within reach. But Sandor was pulled back. For the first time in a long time he knew what honor meant. It was a chain that bound his sword to another, that pledged his life. No, not a chain, Sandor thought, but a tether. He was no slave, true honor was not Joffrey inspired. Sandor had vowed to protect the little bird, though he had sworn no oath. It shocked him really, but he couldn’t spur the horse out of the city into safety, away from the heat of the fire.
He couldn’t leave without her.
He whipped the beast around and rode back into the blaze. Fear coursed through his veins, crashing over him like the waves of the Narrow Sea. But he wasn’t afraid of the hissing flames upon his own person, he was afraid for her.
She thought Stannis would save her. Sansa’s hope would prove her doom. The man was just as likely to force her to kneel and rip away her innocence in the night. She meant nothing to him. All men were killers, Sandor just didn’t bother to hide it.
There were no guards protecting her door. They had either fled or were holed up with the sniveling snot of a king. She had deadbolted the heavy oak, but with a swift kick Sandor sent it crashing in.
Sansa yelped, scrambling off the bed where she’d been laying, atop his cloak from the day Joffrey had her publicly stripped. A flutter stirred in Sandor’s chest at the sight.
“What are you doing?”
She stood ramrod straight, fists clenched, ice in her voice. Her trembling chin gave away her fright.
“We’re leaving Little Bird.”
Sandor scooped up his cloak from her bed and tossed it at her.
“No. I said I wasn’t going.”
“You didn’t say a damn thing. I said I wouldn’t hurt you. You’ll die here.”
She marched forward, glaring up at him “And what? You think you can protect me – out there?”
“Aye Little Bird, I know I can. Get your things, we’re leaving.”
She turned on her heel, looking out the window at the burning city beneath, “I’m not going.”
Stubborn little wench. Sandor wrapped an arm about her waist and lifted her up, grabbing his cloak and the little coin bag he spotted atop her dresser. Sansa squirmed in his grasp, cursing his name to the seven gods. A few of her wild kicks hit their target, and Sandor winced, tightening his grip about her slender waist.
“Damn it girl, don’t make me knock ya’ stone cold.”
Sansa stopped her efforts, and Sandor thanked the gods. Then, she let out a wild scream.
“Damn it!”
He threw her over his shoulder, and she clawed at his cloak, beating on his armor. Tears streaked down her face. She had wanted to leave King’s Landing the moment Joffrey cut of her father’s head – but not like this. Not someone else’s captor, especially the prisoner of the beastly Hound.
Sandor easily knocked away the few battered men trying to steal his horse. He sliced one’s head clean off, the eruption of blood smattering across Sansa’s face. She could taste its coppery tinge, feel its warmth trickling down her cheeks. She spit it out, her stomach threatening to rebel at the sight of slaughtered men littering the grand. Limbs ripped off, others alive and crawling before being beaten down, yet others with burning flesh.
She rode in front, the Hound at her back. She could feel the warmth of his metal breastplate, the trembling of his hand as he held the reins. Sansa clutched the pommel of the saddle, praying to all the gods she wouldn’t die on this battlefield.
The Hound slashed at any man in their path, adding to the litter of bodies on the ground. The smoke was so thick they neither could breathe nor see, trusting the horse to guide them.
Even miles out of King’s Landing, Sansa could still smell the stench of burning flesh as it churned in the air, screams of the dying ringing in her ears.
They kept a steady pace, riding north away from the decrepit capital with all its deceit and death. The saddle shifted beneath her in a steady rhythm, lulling her frayed nerves. Sleep overcame Sansa with its welcoming embrace. She fell back against the chest of Sandor, safe, the horror of the world temporarily forgotten.
--
The damp ground seeped into her cloak, the chill in her bones shivering her awake. She scrambled to a sitting position, praying it had all been a bad dream. Stones bit into her palm and through the fog she could see the Hound, his scarred face half hid behind a shield of hair.
He said nothing as the tears collected on her lashes once more. She fisted them away, Sansa Stark would be damned if the bloody bastard saw her cry again!
“Take me back,” she demanded
“I can’t Little Bird.”
“Yes, you can,” she spit fire “Take me back and we can forget this ever happened!”
The Hound ignored her, checking the horse’s legs for injury.
“They’ll come after me you know, the Lannisters. Tywin will hang you for this!”
“And I’ve no doubt that would please you m’lady.”
“No, it wouldn’t. Enough people have died.”
“Ah, the Little Bird cares about my life,” Sandor mocked.
“I said no such thing!”
Sansa wrapped herself tighter in her cloak, the heat of the fire at King’s Landing seemed long ago. She watched him run his hands down the horse, checking for burns, for bumps. His tenderness surprised Sansa. She’d expected the poor creature to whinny in fear, but it kept on chewing the muddy grass.
“We better get moving before nightfall. We’ll freeze to death out here.”
“All the more reason to go back.”
He glanced at the heavens, wondering why in seven hells he had gotten himself into this mess.
“We aren’t going back. Get on the horse.”
Sansa folded her arms across her chest, lifting her chin like she had seen her mother do when she and Arya wouldn’t listen.
“I will not.”
The Hound straightened and stalked forward, and it took all of Sansa’s willpower not to back away at his towering form.
“You will girl or I’ll throw ya onto the horse sideways with your arse in the air!”
She wanted to slap him, to tell him she was the future queen and he didn’t dare speak to her so. But with the stench of the burning capital at her back, the open fields before her, the choice was made.
Sansa was a Stark through and through, she could – and would – never be a Lannister. Her homeland was calling, she could already feel the fresh winter air in her lungs. It was time to go home, even if this horrid beast of a man was her escort.
Her gaze fixed straight on the saddle before her, Sansa marched past the Hound and with all the dignity she could muster, launched herself into the saddle. Sandor muttered a few curses before swinging on behind her, his weight causing the horse to startle a bit.
He clucked his tongue and they were off.
--
Hours had passed and Sansa was still acutely aware of his chest at her back. The brush of the metal smoothed across her furred cloak, sending goosebumps down her spine despite the layers of clothing between them. Clegane emanated warmth, and she wanted nothing more than to lean back. Her shoulders drooped, and she felt herself leaning back ever so slightly.
--
“I want you to be my first.”
She had summoned him into her bedroom, a fact that would not go unnoticed had Clegane not been her bodyguard. Sansa had been plagued with fear for days at the thought of marrying Ramsay. Such a cruel, heartless monster. She knew what he would do, rip her apart from the inside out. First her womanhood, then her body, he would pick at her mind, toying with her, until there was little left. Then, he would decimate the Stark name.
Sansa wanted one good memory before her life succumbed to being his slave.
Sandor said nothing, his mouth agape, his breath barely stirring the whiskers on his cheeks. His eyes were wide, for he could not believe the angel before him had uttered such a commandment.
“Lady Bolton –”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped “I’m not Lady Bolton.”
“You soon will be.” The accusation haunted the air between them, she could feel its bitter regret clenching around her heart.
“I’m Lady Stark,” her chin lifted, and she held the water in her crystal eyes at bay.
“Aye, and you will always be Lady Stark to me.” He gave a solemn bow, before straightening to his full height, taking a quiet step towards her.
“I told you we could leave this fuckin’ place.” His brown gaze pleaded with hers, searching for the yes he desperately yearned for. Sandor had half a mind to throw her on his horse and ride North, as far North as they could go. He could protect her, more than this castle she called home ever had.
“We can’t.” her voice cracked a little, and despite his better judgement Sandor got on his knees like the knight he was not, and took his lady’s hand in his.
She didn’t shrink away from his touch like he had expected. Her small hand held his tight, and he could feel the tremors of sobs wracking her slight form.
“We can’t. This is how I get my revenge, this is how I take back what is mine. Winterfell.”
“I can help you do that.” The words were out before he knew it. Sandor, in his heart of hearts, had pledged his sword and his life to Sansa Stark. He had known it, but never voiced it, for that would mean admitting to more than he was capable of.
“What? One man with a sword?” it was a sad, bitter laugh.
“I am more than one man.” He growled, thinking of the countless he had slain, the tales of the dreaded Hound women told their babes at night, how men whispered his name in fear around flickering campfires.
“I know.” She touched his cheek, letting her fingers trail down the scarred side of his face.
The Hound no longer startled at her touch. It was like cool water running down his broken skin, quenching the disgust, and soothing his pain. His eyes fluttered closed, and he turned to place a lingering kiss on the palm of her hand.
“I have to stay here. I am staying here.”
The finality of her tone snapped Sandor from his bliss. He cast aside her hand and rose to his feet.
“Then you have made up your mind, Lady.”
It was a sneer, one he couldn’t help. All this time he had protected her, and now she was walking – willingly – into the Devil’s arms. His sword clanked against his hip as he strode toward the door, already thinking about the next man he would slaughter. The next dozen, to erase this pain.
He would become a sellsword, a mercenary. He would kill and drink and eat chicken every day until the end of his days, which would be near enough considering how the world was going to shit.
“I didn’t give you leave.”
Ice sharpened her tone, stopping him in his tracks.
“Then what do you want from me?”
She didn’t tremble at his shout. Like the wolf with its eye on the rabbit, she stalked toward him.
Her silken skirts rustled across the floor with each slow step. The intense blue of her gaze entranced The Hound. He moved toward her, called to the rightful Queen of the North.
When she was flush against him, her breast brushing his beating heart, she looked up and whispered
“I want you.”
They were the words Sandor had dreamed about. Nights he had woken up in sweat, his cock so hard he felt it might fall off. He had her figure imprinted in his mind. The sashay of her lithe hips as she walked, how her thighs clenched the belly of a steed, the swell of her breast whenever they argued, how her cheeks turned as red as her hair when she was flushed with anger.
Sansa’s beauty had captivated him from the start, but it was her determination that bound him. He had never met such a headstrong woman, one so brazen in what she wanted, one so clever enough to seize it. She was a queen in her own right, and Sandor would know he had been her first. If he were to die tomorrow, it would be in peace.
He scooped her in his arms, pulling her tighter against his body. His cock was already straining against his breeches, and they were just beginning.
She kissed him like a woman knowledgeable in the art of lovemaking. Her fingers tangled in his hair, his tongue teased his. She tasted like sweetness, like rage. Like a wine so rich and intoxicating he thought he would beg for another sip of her pink lips.
Sandor swept her to the bed, tearing the front of her blouse easily, ripping through stiff stitching like it was a mere thread.
“By the gods,” he breathed.
She was perfect, and he drank in the sight of her.
“Clegane,” she whispered, hips moving against his in desperation, one hand wrapped around the headboard above her head.
Sansa felt herself tightening, a hint of pain overcome by a desperate need.
She screamed his name in a hoarse whisper as he bent above her breast, taking one rosebud in his mouth. Sansa had never known the touch of a gentle man, and though Clegane seemed far from one, he had – in his own coarse way – been with her.
He twirled his tongue and sucked, pulling upwards, adding a bit of sting to the flowering pleasure. His hand cupped her other breast, covering it entirely. his fingertips grazed her skin, tweaking and pulling ever so slightly on its peak.
A primal urge drove her to wrap her legs about his hips. The Hound moaned and Sansa smiled at the effect she had him, how the rhythm of her against him caused shudders throughout his body. He returned nature’s oldest dance, thrusting against her, the bulge of his manhood only emboldening her.
Sansa tugged his face to hers, deepening the kiss as she pulled his shirt off.
“Get this fuckin dress off” he gasped between kisses, leaving a trail of fire on her skin as he slid the skirts off her legs.
One leg was over the bronze of his shoulder, and he bent down to lap at the core of her hot womanhood. Soft, supple, Sandor’s mouth worked magic inside her tight flower. The stinging sensation rose higher and higher, like the towering waves that roiled in the ocean.
She grasped at him and thrusted higher. Desperate, yearning for the sweet release that had to come. His hands encircled her thighs as he plunged deeper into her. Sansa would have bruises tomorrow, but they would be marks of passion, not the pain she was so accustomed to.
Just when she was on the verge, he pulled out. In an undignified manner, Sansa cursed at him.
Clegane chuckled, his chest rumbling and pressed his wet lips to hers. She teased her fingers down his taut body, trying to reach her core, but he was too quick, seizing her hand in his, pinning it to the pillows at her side.
“Not yet, Little Bird.”
Before she could protest, he nipped at her neck, trailing hot wet kisses down to her collarbones and beyond.
She felt his touch blooming a passionate red on her snow white skin, but she only reveled in how they would become memories of her last night of happiness.
His kisses trailed further down until he was once more at the juncture of her thighs. Then, he put his hands to work too. Quicker and quicker, he thrust, the dance of his tongue matching the tempo. Sansa felt ice and fire rip through her veins. The flames ignited her blood, the ice searing throughout her body. With the last rush Sansa gripped his hair and pressed her heels deeper into back.
“Sandor” she gasped, the first time she had ever uttered his true name.
In a daze, she went limp. The aftershock tingled in her body, and she couldn’t yet rise.
“Sandor,” she breathed again.
“Little Bird,” he replied, kissing her fully and deeply on the mouth for many, many moments.
When they finally broke away, the sweet smile of bliss on her face, cheeks flushed the red of her hair, Clegane asked “How was that my lady?”
In lieu of a response, she hesitantly touched his manhood. It pulsed through his breeches, straining at her slightest touch. Sandor’s breath quickened and he pressed into her palm.
“Woman,” he panted.
She smiled at the power she had over The Hound. As she found her way further into his breeches, he tightened. The muscles of his arms strained as he hovered over her, his hair curtaining their flushed faces. Sansa marveled at how the candlelight danced across his chest and back, highlighting his scars, shadowing his tan skin.
He was stiff in her hands, and with each touch she felt the rush of blood pumping through his veins.
Sansa knew only what gossiping maids giggled about as they worked. Something about caressing a sword before plunging it into the sheath. With this limited advice in mind, she stroked his length. He groaned and his arms quaked as she quickened her pace. Soon his breath was coming faster and faster, and his manhood grew and grew until she thought it might burst through his breeches.
When he could handle no more, he yanked her hand out and crashed his lips onto hers. He moaned into her mouth as he came, and she tasted the remnants her own wetness.
The Hound rolled onto his back, bringing her to lay atop his chest. Her breasts pillowed beneath her, and he traced their curves as he floated back to earth.
“Lady Stark,” he whispered.
She shushed him with kisses until the moon began to descend from its throne of stars. Then, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Tomorrow, she would become Lady Bolton.