"Heart is Full and Hollow..." - Joni Mitchell

Every once in a while, the gods smiled upon the miserable, doomed souls. Just to remind people of how little they had, and how cruel the cunts could be. Today was one of these days, a day where Sandor had it all: as much wine as he could drink, all the food he could eat, a big fat bag of gold.

The best part? He got it all by fighting his brother. And winning. Technically.

The feast and the wine and the food were meant for the king to celebrate a tournament made for nothing other than spilling blood just for the sake of it, but if king Robert raised his goblet and cheered for him, than everybody else joined, even if they were all holding their breath over Sandor and Gregor’s fight. Or The Hound and The Mountain’s fight, and all the history behind it. Sandor knew the whispers and the twisted stories people liked to tell.

None of it mattered now that he was so drunk he barely stood up on his own feet. Sandor had stayed on the feast just long enough for people to stop coming to congratulate him, just long enough for the king to get drunk enough to forget about him, which was conveniently long enough for him to get drunk himself. Pushing the servant boy aside, Sandor got a wineskin full of the good wine they were serving and exited the room. He half remembered someone putting a flower crown on him, or trying to. Were he in his right mind, he would’ve growled at them, but his head was so drowned in alcohol he just slapped the crown away. He might have stumbled on a wall or two before pushing open the door to his chambers, only to find you, a maid, inside it. 

You were the same one from every other day, the one who swept his floor and cleaned the hearth. The one with the tight apron and the tits he wanted to suck on. Again. 

Sandor closed the door by leaning on it, then took yet another large sip of wine. His body felt too light for his many pounds, and he lacked all the discipline a warrior ought to have. To hell with it, he had just faced his brother, and won. Technically.

“You’re early.”you said, not even turning to see him. You recognized his heavy steps. “Was the feast not to your liking?”

He grunted, letting his weight down on a chair. “Fucking feast…” He muttered, not even himself understanding half the words leaving his mouth or why he was saying them. The sound of the gold bag being put on the table did not startle you who kept on changing his bedsheets, bending down, your ass drawing all of his attention.

“What?” You smoothed the sheets with your hands, then turned around to face him, your eyes getting every detail of it: his dirty armor, the bag of gold, his heavy eyelids, the petals clinging to his neck. “You won? I thought you were not even fighting today.”

“I’m a rich fucker now.” He sighed, sounding almost sober, almost resentful of his own words. No matter how many gold dragons he had, it was implicitly clear that coin, when possessed by people like him, was only meant for spending with whores, ale, maybe a good piece of fabric or shoes. His money did not mean much.

“Yeah? And what are you doing with it?” You went on cleaning, too used to him. It was no news to see the Hound drunk or covered in someone else’s blood. “You could buy anything. Maybe hire another maid? This here is too much work for a woman alone.”

“I’ll buy you a gag… noisy wench.” He rested his head on his hand, enjoying the silence and the darkness when he closed his heavy eyelids, then he turned his head just a bit, opened his good eye, looked you up and down as you went on cleaning. 

You chuckled, as if the Hound was telling you a joke. You knew the noises of the tourney and the feast were probably still ringing in his ears, so you let that pass. “You scowl harder when you’re drunk.” With a wet rag, you started cleaning the crumbs and dust out of the table, forcing Sandor to sit up straight to stay out of the way. 

“So, who did you fight?”

“My big brotha’.” Sandor scratched his beard, took another sip of wine, another look at your ass, then scratched his balls over his pants, which was not near enough. “He was going to kill the Tyrell boy.” 

“So you played the hero, mn?” You stopped, a hand on your hip, leaning against the table. “You’re a real knight, Clegane.” He narrowed his eyes at the small smile you dared give him, the simple allusion of him being a knight  making him disgusted enough to be repulsed by his dirty armor. 

“Piss off, woman.” He cussed you out as he started fumbling with the straps of his chestplate, paying no attention to what he was doing because his eyes were still on your mouth. Then on your figure, your hips, your tits again. “You should giv’ me yer favor.” 

“Favors are for knights… from ladies. And it should happen before the tourney, should it not?” You left the wet cloth over the table to come help Sandor with his steel. He just let you, shoulders slumped. 

Another sip of wine, another droop of his eyelids, another look at your hips, another throb of his cock, another grumble, another cuss, though he was not sure if he was grumbling and cussing out loud or on his mind.

“(...) shouldn’t have changed the sheets until you've had a bath first.” You sighed, one strap untied, a few left to go. “You’ll have to get up.” He did. You tell a dog to sit, he’ll sit. And he’ll wait for a treat, which in this case meant his hands went straight to your hips. He saw you looking up at him, smirked, squeezed your hips, brought you closer, so closer you could barely reach the straps of his armor. 

“What would you want as a token or favor, anyway? You should ask from ladies who have stuff to give away.”

That seemed to get him out of his drunken bliss. 

“I’d get your apron.” He steadied himself, his grip turning a bit rougher. You laughed, pushed him back a bit, getting some room. Sandor pulled you right back in. He wanted to hump your leg like a dog, lick you all over like a dog, sleep for fifteen hours like a dog, fuck you like a dog. “Tie you with it. Gag you with it.”

“You’re drunk out of your mind, Clegane.” You pulled away, hung a piece of his armor, came back to pull out his gauntlets. “So drunk you would probably pass out and crush me to death.”

He grumbled about not being drunk, and even though he did not remember closing his eyes, when they opened, he was sitting on his bed and you were kneeling in front of him. Your apron was still on, but his boots were coming off. He reached for your face, held your chin, pressed his thumb over your lips. He really just wanted his balls as empty as his mind was.

Eyes closed again. Just for a second. This time, he remained conscious as he said “Won’t crush you. I’ll fuck you against the wall.”

“You can barely stand up.” But he did, just to prove you wrong. “Well, you still stink.” You mirrored him, helping him out of his sweat-smelling shirt. “And you’re such a bad flirt.”

Sandor really needed some sleep. He wanted a warm bath first, and another sip of his wine, and the feel of you on top of him, and every time you worked another button of his shirt, he imagined your hands around his cock. Gods, he wanted to fuck you. 

“‘M not flirting.” He only registered what he was saying seconds after he already did. But the moment he got a handful of your ass, he felt it then and there. He felt himself lean in, closer, he felt your smell, he felt your lips on his, he felt you pulling back and he cursed. Maybe out loud, maybe in his head again.

“Sit down, Clegane.” He obeyed, hoping to get a treat this time. Eyes closed, open again, and you were having a sip of his wine. “Lay down. Close your eyes.” He did, grumbling about wanting to smell your cunt on his beard.

Sandor let out a big, deep sigh. When he felt you kiss him, he lifted his hand to pull you closer. Or maybe he just thought of it, imagined it. Or dreamed of it. When he woke up the next day, his room was clean, his armor hung on a corner, bag of gold safely tucked away on his chest, shirt hanging on the chair, boots by the bed… Everything in place, and you were not there.

He chose to have more wine as his remedy.

-------------------------------------------

You loved your family deeply, and though you understood each and every one of them, they didn't understand you. You were too quiet, too antisocial, too introverted that it often directed people away from you.

So when King Baratheon and his family visited after the death of Jon Arryn, you were front and center, wearing your nicest dress, a very perceivable frown upon your face as your mother firmly gripped your shoulders from behind.

"Smile, girl." She whispered underneath her breath and you rolled your eyes, glacing over at your brothers. Jon was busy laughing at you, his arm planted on Robb's who was sticking his tongue out at you while whispering something to Theon Greyjoy.

"Father, don't make me do this!" You begged, but your father ignored you, his hair blowing in the cold wind as the carriages made there way inside Winterfells walls.

When you realized you had no choice but to stand there like a fool, you mustered up the courage to plaster a little grin on your face, rocking back and forth on your feet anxiously.

As the King climbed off of his horse and greeted your family, you examined more interesting people. Queen Cersei Lannister had a familiar frown on her face as she looked over your family, her eyes glueing to yours quickly, and when you didn't immediatly look away, her eyebrow twitched before she turned away, coming up to the Kings side.

Jaime Lannister was a smug little bastard, and although you were only a child when you last saw him, he still looked the same: cocky and confident. He ran a hand through his golden hair and examined your family too, eyes on your brother, Jon, who'd began moving farther and farther from your family.

Joffrey was his usual stuck up self, his eyes adverting to your sisters and you scoffed when Sansa blushed.

You didn't see Tyrion Lannister anywhere, but before you could continue looking, a large black horse with a beast of a man passed by, a large, silver helmet covering his face.

You slipped away from your mother who was busy speaking to the King and you nudged Robb, "who is that?" You watched the man go over to the stables and jump off his horse, his feet landing hard upon the ground while he reached up to remove his helmet.

Robb grabbed your hand and tugged you closer, his lips pulled into a mischevious smirk, "sister, you don't know who that is?" Robb threw his arm over your shoulder, "that's the Hound, Sandor Clegane, sworn shield to House Lannister."

"She doesn't know Sandor Clegane?" Theon said with shock, eyes on you intently as you watched Sandor pull his helmet off and turn around.

When you saw the large scar covering his face you inhlaed deeply and rolled your eyes as Robb and Theon chuckled at you, "disgusting isn't it?"

You shoved Theon away from you and continued towards the castle, glad that the King had disappeared with your father. Robb and Theon followed you though, "I heard his brother did it when they were younger—shoved his face right into fire."

Theon slapped Robb against the back, "I heard he did it to himself when he found out he'd be working for the Lannisters."

"You don't have the looks to judge anyone, Theon." Robb gasped at your words, following you to your bedchambers while Theon rolled his eyes, "you must like him then, little mouse."

You slammed your door in their faces and huffed, hearing them continue to laugh outside your door as you peeled the heavy dress off your body, your skin wet from sweat.

Sitting at your window, you glanced out of it, seeing the Hound standing in the training yards near Joffrey who was swinging a practice sword around lazily.

Surely you could handle a sword better than him.

Robb and Theon were wrong though. You didn't think the scar was as bad as they were perceiving to be, in fact, you thought it was quite fascinating how Sandor could live through such a terrible wound such as that.

You examined the man as closely as you could, eyes glued to him through the window. He was large of course, an entire head taller than you with huge arms and legs that could crush a melon. A bit of belly rounded him, and he had a large beard that made his lips disappear.

Before you knew it, you'd been watching for at least thirty minutes, and suddenly Sandor's head angled towards your window, his eyes seemingly searching for your never-ending gaze, but you quickly ducked down, your eyes wide hoping he didn't see you.

"What the hell are you doing, sister?"

Jon had his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he pushed your door closed behind him. He sat at your vanity lazily, legs spread in front of him as you pulled yourself onto your feet.

"None of your business, Jon. A girl can't simply look out her window?" You sat on your bed, fingers running through your hair as you loosened the doezens of intricant braids.

"Not that intently. You didn't even hear me enter. Have you heard the news?"

You shook your head, watching Jon with confusion, reaching into your wardrobe to grab a simple gown to where to tonights dinner.

"Father will be the next Hand. He'll be leaving with the King in a fortnight."

Your eyes buldged out of your head as you gaped at your brother, hair a pile of messiness on your head. As you pulled it into a loose braid, you shook your head, sitting beside Jon, "what will we do without him? Robb will have to become the Lord of Winterfell in the meantime, right?"

Jon nodded, running a hand down his fuzzy chin, "Your mother is worried—I don't think she wants Father to go."

You let out a loud groan fingers covering your face as you rubbed your eyes, "what about you?"

Jon didn't answer you as he stood, "you don't worry about me."

❄︎

The great hall in Winterfell was perhaps one of the most overstimulating places you'd ever been. It was loud, smelly, sweaty, and worst of all, you could directly see King Baratheon feeling up a woman.

Jon wasn't around to soothe you or interest you with conversation, Robb was busy trying to prove he'd be a good future Lord, Arya was busy flinging food at Sansa, and Sansa—poor Sansa—was trading looks with the devilish Joffrey.

The only thing that kept your head on straight was the constant warning looks from your mother and Sandor Clegane standing near the prince.

He looked just the part of a strong, loyal dog, wearing his thick shiny armor, hand upon his sword. Occasionally, he snuck off to devour a bit of food and throw back wine, but other times he was examining the room as you did.

You could see the small bits of emotion in his face as he watched the King grope woman, but you also saw his little smirks at the Queen's face. You knew his fingers were itching for something to do besides stand there.

"Are you listening, mouse?" Theon knudged you in the arm, and you sighed deeply turning back towards Theon who was attempting to teach you a stupid card game.

"All you have to do is reorder the cards the quickest, it's quite simple, I'm surprised you don't understand." You snatched the cards out of his hands and rolled your eyes, "I understand wholly, Theon. It's just so boring I can barely pay attention."

It became worse as your brother ushered Arya out of the great hall, her face sad, but mischevious as Sansa wiped more splattered food off her face.

You wished Jon was around, but you knew he was either outside eating his food or busy sparrring.

"You could at the very least pretend to be interested." Your eyes had quickly adverted around the room once again, and you were busy watching the Hound again.

He was conversing with Tyrion Lannister, foot propped up onto his helmet whilst he leaned against the wall lazily. The height difference between the two men was a bit laughable, your lips rising into a light grin, your fingers picking at your curls.

You could hear Theon's voice speaking to you, but you continued watching, seeing Sandor erupt into a loud laugh, his head thrown back as he shoved the Imp, almost knocking him over entirely.

It was clear the Hound had had a bit too much to drink, but the King nor the Queen paid him any mind.

Just as you saw your uncle Benjen enter the great hall, you glanced back over to Sandor and he was staring directly at you, lips plastered into a straight line, eyebrows furrowed, fingers squeezing at the hilt of his sword.

You felt your entire body freeze as your heart started pounding in your chest. You popped out of your seat, eyes glued on your uncles figure near the door.

When you turned your head to see if Sandor was still watching, instead he was moving towards you, hands by his side as he slithered towards you.

You continued into a speed-walk, giving your uncle a quick hug and greeting, before you were pushing your way out the great hall, body rushing into a jog.

When you heard the doors slam open behind you, you continued running, weaving through the stables to get to the castle faster.

"Hey, stop!" Sandors voice was like a loud booming bell, but you continued running, scared of the confrontation and worst of all, a bit scared of him. In your defense, he was a six foot six tall man chasing after you.

Pushing your way into the castle, you tripped up the stairs and quickly pushed yourself onto your feet, but before you knew it, a hand had fisted the skirt of your dress and tugged you backwards.

You rammed into Sandors chest and he grabbed you by the shoulders and held you close, "who the fuck are you? I feel you watching me, you know? Maybe you should be a bit more inconspicuos if you're going to be obessed with someone!"

You were just quiet and staring at him, eyes examining every inch of his face; his scar, his eyes and the hardness of them.

When you didn't answer he scoffed and pushed you away, "do you know how to fucking speak, creep?" He leaned towards you a bit and watched your mouth open before you shook your head.

"Do you know how scary it is to be chased by a fucking giant? How did you expect me not to run?"

He stared at you for a few moments, then he rolled his eyes, "you must be that little mousy Stark girl." Your neck rolled back at his tone, but you didn't say anything as he spun around and continued walking away.

You'd never met that man before in your life, but somehow he knew of you? You rarely traveled outside of Winterfell, and when you did, you stuck close to your family.

So how in the world did Sandor Clegane know you?

❄︎

The next day you spent with Jon. After hearing he'd be leaving with Uncle Benjen to go to the Wall was full of deep dread. Jon was the only person out of all your siblings that you could sit in silence with.

The two of you could go hours without talking to each other, which was by far your most enjoyable past time: not talking.

While you and Jon shot arrows together in the training yards, Robb and Theon sparred a few feet away.

You couldn't stand their sweaty bodies or the obnoxious groans and moans as they hit each other, but you disregarded it all because you enjoyed using a bow and arrow.

You didn't consider yourself significantly gifted or anything, but Jon had constantly told you how good you were, and he encouraged you to continue practicing.

"That was good, sister!" Jon said as your arrow hit near the center. "Keep this up and you'll be better than Robb." When Robb heard his name he turned towards the two of you and smirked, "how about a friendly competition then?"

You agreed to it, a cocky smile on your face. As Robb readied his bow and arrow, Theon joined too, standing beside you and Jon. "Jon you know she shouldn't be messing with the weapons. She might hurt herself."

You rolled your eyes, "you're not my parent nor my brother, Theon."

Jon nodded at your words, "nothing's wrong with her shooting the bow, Theon."

After Robb shot the arrow in the middle ring, you stepped up and raised your bow, eyes ahead as you pulled the arrow taunt and let it loose.

When it hit the center, Jon whistled and Robb shook your shoulder as he jumped around, face skewed up sourly, "since when were you that good?"

You laughed in response, "been practicing with Jon."

Your brother waved off your praise, mucking it off to the fact that you were just good.

As you put your bow and arrow away, you saw the Hound standing with Joffrey near the entrance of Winterfell, watching you. When he realized you'd caught him, he didn't look away, his usually stoic expression on his face.

"What's up with the two of you?" Sansa suddenly appeared at your side, her hands poised on her hips and you smacked your lips, shoving her slightly.

"None of your business, Sansa! Why don't you worry about how miserable you'll be marrying that bastard."

Sansa gaped at you, following you inside the castle, "Joffrey isn't as bad as you think he is, sister! He's kind and sweet and cute."

You rolled your eyes, "I'd rather my husband love me than be cute, and I assure you that little monster will be disgusting to you. You haven't heard what he does to animals?"

Sansa froze andyou spun around to look at her, your finger curling towards her. She leaned towards you, "he chops them up and eats them for dinner!"

At your words Sansa rolled her eyes, "you're lying. Father!" Unfortunately, your father had just entered the room, and when he saw the two of you, he raised his eyebrow.

"What is it, Sansa? You should be packing for Kings Landing—so should you, little mouse."

You gaped at your father, "what, I'm going too? I thought you needed me to stay behind with Robb, Rickon and Bran!" Ned shook his head, walking past you and Sansa, who was busy smirking mischeviously at you.

"Your sisters will need you in Kings Landing, mouse."

❄︎

Hearing the news of your future departure was even more souring to your mood. It was like your entire family was breaking up into tiny pieces.

But as soon as you'd heard the news of your brother, Bran, falling from the walls of Winterfell, you were utterly devestated. Of course your mother was by his side endlessly, but continuing to pack afterwards felt all the more disgusting.

You spent a lot of the week at his side too or with Jon at the training yards. Somedays you tried to speak more sense into Sansa's mind and other days you watched the Hound from afar.

It seemed the looks between you two were beginning to increase, and you caught him more and more as the days went on.

One night at the Godswood was different though.

You were sitting under the base of the tree, a weaving project on your lap while you stared up at the starry sky. There was a lantern to your right, illuminating the surrounding area, but when you heard the crunch of sticks and leaves your heart stopped.

"Who goes there?" You said standing up, your lantern raised to light the area, but it was far too dark out to see anything else.

As the figure came closer, you were creating a plan in your head to scream and escape. But before you could inact it, Sandor Clegane appeared.

He was wearing normal clothes this time; just a simple brown tunic and pants, his sword still attachd to his side while he moved closer towards you and sat on a large boulder.

"Calm down, Stark."

"And why should I? Perhaps the Baratheon boy heard me speak ill about him and now you're here to kill me."

"What have you said about that little shit? Nothing I haven't said before, I assure you."

Your eyebrows raised in surprise as he nodded, picking at scabs on his knuckles, "he's a stuck up little bitch, and everyone knows it, but says nothing because they're scared of the Lannisters."

You nodded slowly in agreement, placing your lantern down, "my sister's to be wed to him. She's nothing like him—she's sweet and naive. I'm sure she doesn't even know how babies are made."

Sandor laughed and you managed to smile along with him, your body still a bit tense.

"You've still been staring lately."

"And so have you. Why is that?"

"Never seen you in my life, mousy. Heard your name, heard the stories, but never thought you'd be so...odd."

"Is there something wrong with being odd?" Sandor scratched at his cheek and blew a raspberry, "people think I'm odd too. A monstrosity of this world, disgusting, ugly, plenty of things."

You wanted to be honest and say he wasn't ugly, but you were afraid so you didn't. "Does that bother you?"

Sandor shook his head, "I've spent too much of my life caring about what people think. Instead I remember I'm one of the most desired sworn shields in Westeros."

It was quiet for a long moment after that, just the two of you staring into thin air, fingers fidgetting and picking.

"What have you heard about me?"

Sandor glanced at you, lips raised into a humorless smile, "its best you don't worry about it."

After that night, it became a bit of a routine. The two of you would corral at the Godswood in the dead of night and speak about simple things.

Sometimes the simple things would turn difficult and the two of you couldn't bare looking at each other.

It wasn't anything more than conversations though, neither of you spoke outside of the Godswood and the lengthy staring stopped when you realized he wasn't so mysterious as he seemed.

When the final day arrived and you were set to leave Winterfell with your sisters and Father, you felt the worst you'd ever felt in your entire life.

Jon was quiet and timid as he hugged you goodbye, arms wrapped so tightly around you that it hurt, but you couldn't bear pulling away, because you had a feeling you wouldn't see him again for a long while.

Robb hugged you tightly too, his lips buried against your temple as he whispered to you. "Speak up for yourself, don't let anyone mistreat you, little mouse. Do you understand?"

You nodded, roughly wiping your tears from your cheeks as you moved to Rickon and hugged him tight. After you said your goodbyes to your mother and Bran, you pulled yourself atop your horse and said not a word the rest of the day.

❄︎

Sandor's tent was near a large tree, his horse tied to it while a warm light shone from within.

You'd snuck out of your own tent to get here, your body cold and wrapped in a spare blanket, your eyes impossibly heavy from pending sleep, but you felt like something was missing.

When you stuck your head into the tent, Sandor was sitting at a small table sharpening his sword and when he saw you he hummed gruffly and pointed to the chair across from him.

"Couldn't stay away from me could you, mousy?"

You rolled your eyes at his words, pulling your feet up onto his chair. Sandor raised his eyebrow at you but ignored your antics nonetheless as he hilted his sword and placed it aside.

"It's become some sort of habit, I guess." You muttered, your head resting against your arms as you closed your eyes. You could feel Sandors gaze on you and you shivered, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself.

"Cold?" Sandor stood then grabbed a thick wool blanket from his cot and covered you with it, his hands grazing your jaw as he pulled away and sat down again.

"it's weird to see you with no armor."

"They rarely give me a fucking break. Joffrey is so damn scared of everything its ridiculous."

You chuckled, eyes rolling shut again, "is the coin good at least?" Sandor nodded, an approving look on his face, "that's the only reason I stay. You should lie down, mouse. Clearly you're tired."

You accepted his invitation easily as you pulled your self up then sat on his cot, the blanket pulled over your head like a cacoon.

As you faded off to sleep, you could feel Sandor sit at the foot of the cot, his hands gently grabbing your feet and pulling them onto his lap.

❄︎

As the weeks went by in Kings Landing you saw less and less of Sandor. You spent majority of your time with your sisters and father while watching the Stark legacy build to the possibility of future queen and Hand of the King.

Although you wished you were back in the freezing cold of Winterfell with your brothers and mother, you did enjoy your time. You walked the castle grounds with your sisters, continued your bow and arrow practice, slept in a nice large bed with beautiful clothes and amazing food.

The dinners with the King and Queen were always awkward and tensely polite as they asked you questions about yourself, but that was about the only time you could see Sandor so you embraced it wholly.

He'd been looking different in the past few weeks—tired and tense like things were looming in the horizon, and of course you were oblivious to the rising problems behind the scenes with your father and the Lannisters.

Once you'd heard your brother had woken up and your mother had shortly left Winterfell, you felt more and more displaced as you wished to talk to someone—anyone about the things that were happening to soothe your mind.

One day as you were exploring the castle, you ran right into Sansa and Joffrey, who were sitting in a small tea room talking. The Queen was sitting far off in the room, the Hound by her side as she sipped tea and stared through a window.

When you entered, everyone greeted you and you sat near the queen. "How have you been?" She asked you, her eyes still far away, but you answered meekly, your eyes straying to Sandor who was already watching you, a certain look in his eyes that you couldn't decipher.

His lips were screwed up into a hapless frown and when you glanced away, he grunted disdainfully causing the Queen to glance at him. "Are you well, Clegane? As I assume you've been working nonstop, and we both know Joffrey is much to handle. Take a day off."

It was obvious she wasn't saying it to be nice, but rather to get him and his disdainness away and Sandor took the invite easily as he left the room, not sparring the young prince a glance.

You wanted to make an excuse to leave too, but you couldn't be too apparent so you made moves to speak to your sister, who obviously had no means to want to talk to you, so you excused yourself.

Sandor was waiting around the corner and your saw him visibly loosen when he saw you. "You look unhappy, mousy." You didn't respond, continuing to walk the halls, your hands picking at loose threads on your dress.

"What exactly makes me look unhappy, Sandor?" You said his name with a soft drawl, as you paused to turn and look at him. Before you knew it, he'd taken your jaw in his hands as he angled your face left and right.

His eyes fluttered over your face as he leaned closer, "you don't like being here. You miss your family and the way things were."

When your eyes started tearing up, you pulled away and continued walking, arms crossing as you picked at strands of your hair. "The oldest boy, Robb is a Lord now, and you wish you were there to speak some sort of sense into him. Your other brother is a cripple and perhaps has a fate such as mine."

You scoffed, "we both know you're doing fine, Sandor. And my brother will be fine too. He's just—he just has a disadvantage."

Sandor laughed at you, "the world will chew him up and spit him out worse than he was before. And you won't be there to help him."

"Why do you insist on saying such horrible things?" You spat out hatefully, stopping once again in the hallway, wishing to divert to your bedchamber, but you knew Sandor would accuse you of avoiding your issues.

"Because you act like a careless woman! You try to ignore everything and stay in this little ice cold bubble that you developed in Winterfell," Sandor grabbed you by the wrists and pulled you close, eyes boring into yours, "this is Kings Landing, sweetheart. People hate you and they will fuck you over so I suggest you listen to me."

You sneered at him, a little tear slipping down your cheek, but he wiped it away for you, "you're not my damn father, Sandor! I don't need you to lecture me."

Sandor chuckled, hand suddenly wrapping around your throat loosely, "I'm definetly not your fucking father, mousy. Your father surely wouldn't look at you the way I do."

You didn't say anything as you stared up at him, your hand squeezing his wrist, your other hand pressed against his armor-covered chest.

Before you knew it your father had twisted around the corner and you shot away from Sandor, his hand pressed against the small of your back.

When Ned saw the two of you he hummed, "hello, little mouse. How have you been?"

You stuttered out a quick reply, slapping Sandors hand away from you as you grabbed your fathers awaiting arm, "Sandor was just walking me back to my room. The Queen requested it."

Ned raised his eyebrows in surprise, "Cersei Lannister, looking out for my daughter? What a surprise."

You ignored your fathers words, kissing him goodbye as the two of you split off and you were left with Sandor once more. He didn't attempt to touch you again, just simply pulled your bedchamber door open and closed it politely shut behind you.

You expected him to have slipped in, but when you turned around, it was just you, and you were surprised at the disappointment you felt.

❄︎

At the next dinner things were tense. It seemed your father had made an enemy of every single person in the room besides King Baratheon, who was deep into his cups and spewing much nonsense about the upcoming hunt.

You felt Sandors neverending gaze the entire time and it seemed your sister noticed because she was constantly looking at you too, her foot knudging yours underneath the table.

"Why is he staring at you like that, mouse?" She said with a violent whisper, hovering over your plate, "is he bothering you?" You shook your head stiffly, glancing over at your sister.

"Sansa, just eat your food." She rolled her eyes at you, turning to her other side and telling Arya to sit still because she was busy reaching across the table to scoop more food onto her plate.

You kept quiet the rest of the dinner, wishing to get back to your bedchambers, but as soon as you decided to split from the great hall at the end of the dinner, you heard someone following you down the hall.

It was dark and late, the only source of light being the candles lit along the walls to guide your step.

You could smell his scent though so you felt no sense of fear as you continued walking, speeding up just to taunt him. Sandor continued following you loosely, and as you diverted in the hall towards the castles godwood.

As you broke into a loose jog, your dress gathering around your knees, you felt your heart start to pound as Sandors footsteps lingered behing you.

As soon as his fingertips touched you, he had you wrapped up in his arms, you feet lifted momentarily off the ground before he set you back down and spun you around, hands gripping your waist.

"Why do you run, mousy? Are you scared?" Sandor pushed away from you, sitting ontop of a large root beneath the godswood, hands loosening straps and ties in his armor.

"Don't you have to find Joffrey soon?" Sandor shook his head, stuggling to unstrap something on his back. You climbed behind him, one of your knees pressed into his thigh while you worked at the straps and ties, then pulled his breastplate off and set it aside, your legs latching around his waist as you sat behind him.

Sandor ran his hands up your legs and grunted to himself, rolling his neck every which way. "I'm off duty for the next day. Free to fall deep into my cups and forget my past for a few hours. Or at least that's what I'd usually do."

He muttered the last bit to himself and you shook your head, "we shall do something instead." Sandor scoffed in response, allowing you to press your fingers into the muscles of his back.

"And what should that be, little mouse? Dress shopping or needling? Maybe a bit of joust-watching?"

You rolled your eyes, "you don't know me at all, Sandor—"

"—not true."

"I would like to go hunting, like the men do. Spend some time in the nearby forests to practice my archery. Besides, you'll keep me safe, right?" You pressed your chin against his shoulder, and Sandor raised his eyebrow and simple grunted.

The next day you made an excuse to your father and sisters that you'd be busy and for them to not come looking for you. Sandor met you in your room soon after, wearing simple hunting clothes which was still a bit odd to see him in.

When he entered, you were still packing your belongings, and although the two of you would only be gone for a few hours, you wanted to be prepared just in case anything happened.

Of course Sandor thought you were over doing it a bit. "This is too much shit, mousy! We'll look like the fucking deer if we carry that huge bag around with us."

You rolled your eyes, giving in and taking a few things out of it, "fine! You'll be the one carrying it anyways."

Once you arrived in the forest after an hours horseride, Sandor immediately went into action mode. He started marking the areas around you so the two of you wouldn't get lost and he set out bait for the deer.

In the meantime, you drew a makeshift target on a tree and began practicing.

"Who taught you?" Sandor said, sitting against a boulder next to you as he sharpened a blade.

"My brothers, ever since I was little. Arya too. I want her to be able to handle herself—fight for her life if she needs to. Sansa on the other hand...," you shook your head with disappointment, not even wanting to think about the possibility of your sisters fate.

Sandor hummed in response, eyes cast on the ground.

"You rarely talk about your family, Sandor. Tell me something." He inhaled deeply and stood, moving behind you, his fingers tickling at your arm as you pulled the arrow taunt.

"My father was a kennelmaster at Casterly Rock, got lucky one day and saved a Lannister bastard from death. It got him land and riches. Mother—don't know her."

It was clear he didn't want to speak on his family, but he stuck it out for you, continuing to inform you of his life before he was squired to the Lannisters.

Of course the story was a long sort of something that made you frown up at times and wish to hug him, but his story was quickly interrupted by the sound of growling.

The two of you spun around and there it was: a large brown bear standing on its hind legs, large and tall, drool dripping from its wide open mouth and its face scarred and ripped from past battles.

Sandor immediately moved into action, shoving you to the side. You fell into a pile of bushes, scrapping your knees, "stay there!" Sandor spat and you could see him reach for his sword as the bear shot towards him.

You were a mess of nerves and fear as Sandor fought the bear, sticking it in the belly multiple times while also gaining gashes to his arms and face.

Blood was everywhere by the end and your horse had been scared away long ago. When you crawled out the bushes, your arrow raised and you saw Sandor crouched at the foot of the bear, sword burried into its heart, your entire body relaxed as you rushed towards him.

"Damn it, Sandor, are you okay?" You ran your fingers over his arms, mushing around blood, but you didn't care, standing up to look for your bag which had wraps and ointments in it.

Sandor let out a sigh of relief as he collasped onto his bottom, lying backwards as his chest heaved and he stared up at the sky.

"The things I do for you, mousy. Fight off a fucking bear? Gods what the fuck is wrong with me?"

You ignored his words, wiping away the blood on his arms then applying the wraps and ointment. When you reached up to touch his face, Sandor flinched away, eyes widening as he sat up and glared at you.

You flinched in response, eyebrows furrowing as Sandor snatched the stuff from your hands and cursed at you, "don't fucking touch me with asking, Stark."

"You've never had any problem before, Clegane." You couldn't deny the hurt you felt at his agression, but you sat a little ways away on a stump, watching Sandor patch himself up while muttering words to himself.

He didn't speak to you the rest of your time there. Even as you shot a deer and he skinned it. Nor when he wrapped the meat up and threw it over the retreived horses back.

When it was time to leave, Sandor helped you up onto the horse and climbed behind you, hands resting against your thighs as he gripped the reins and started the journey back to the castle.

"If I knew you were sensitive about me touching your face, I would've never done it."

Sandor ignored you, his hands fisting the reins and you shook your head and scoffed, "stop acting like a child, Sandor! Just because I touched your face doesn't mean I think any less of you."

He grunted this time.

"I'm not some stupid woman who thinks looks are everything, besides, I've always thought you were quite—"

"Stop talking, mousy. It has nothing to do with you anyway."

It was silent for a bit then you continued talking, "then what does it have to do with?"

"The fact that I don't want you and the worst parts of myself involved. I'd rather keep you seperate, but this scar is the exact fucking reminder."

"But, that's what makes you who you are: the worst parts of yourself."

"Maybe you are right."

"I know I'm right." Sandor pinched you in the side and you laughed, "let me prove to you that you don't have to keep things seperate."

He hummed to himself, "fine."

❄︎

That night the two of you sat in your bed facing each other, just staring silently, eyes examining, him looking suspiciously at you while you just simply grinned to yourself, fingers squeezing his.

"Will you freak out this time?" You said with a whisper and Sandor shook his head, "I will not."

You raised your eyebrow, "are you being honest?"

He nodded.

As your fingers ran up his chest, Sandor closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh. You could feel his heart beating fast, but you continued running your fingers up his body, pressing against the muscles in his neck then finally pressing your fingers on his jaw.

As soon as you felt the rough, scarred skin on his face, Sandor flinched, body tensing up and you stopped, fingers hovering over his cheeks, "do you want me to stop, Sandor?"

He shook his head, inhaling your scent deeply. Your hands landed against his cheeks and your fingers ran over the skin, "I think you're pretty, Sandor. So pretty sometimes it hurts."

Your hands spread over the back of his neck as you hugged him tightly, legs wrapped around his torso. Sandor held you close, fingers digging into your back.

When you lifted your head from his neck, the two of you were watching each other, faces inches apart, scents blended together, then Sandor kissed you.

His beard scratched against your skin, but his lips were soft and his hands were firm against your body. One of his hands wrapped around your neck loosely, your back pressing against the bed as he lowered you down, lips devouring your own.

You could feel your body tingling all over, but then Sandor ran his kisses down your throat and you were exploding within. He squeezed at your thighs and nipped at your skin, teeth creating light marks that throbbed after.

When he pulled away, he collasped beside you, lips pressed lazily against your wrist.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊✮‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

The scent of grilled meat and aromatic spices fills the air of the inn. It's evening, and after days of travel the warmth of the fire in the fireplace feels almost like a luxury. Sandor sits across from you, a bowl of stew in his hands, the scar on his face illuminated by the flickering flames of the candle on the table.

He eats in silence, as always, his gaze downward and his broad shoulders as if he's trying to shield that small space from the rest of the world. You speak little as you dine, but the weariness of the journey melts away as time passes, and when a group of travelers enter, laughing and making a racket, you feel that old longing for company reborn within you.

Among them is a mercenary, young and with an easy smile "I'm going to make some friends," you say, grinning broadly at Sandor before rising from the bench and approaching the counter to chat with the boy. He offers you a drink: after all it's not the first time you've stopped at an inn, and a little lightheartedness can't hurt.

Sandor looks up only once... the look he gives you is fleeting, but there's something rough, restrained inside. He continues eating, his jaw clenched and his fingers gripping the metal bowl "S-so you're the one travelling with the Hound, huh?" the mercenary says, amused.

At the sound of his wavering voice, you look away from Sandor "What, excuse me?" you ask confusedly "I-I was saying, so you're the one travelling with the Hound... i-it must be quite a challenge keeping up with him!" you smile slightly at the sight of him already so drunk, and Sandor feels that smile like a pang in his chest.

He would never say it, but since travelling with you, something has cracked inside him "It's not as bad as it seems" "Oh, I bet not... b-but a woman like you should be with someone more... handsome." the mercenary winks at you as he reaches out a hand lightly towards your thigh.

He's drunk and clearly thinks he can have his way with you, then you hear the sound of a bench being pushed from the corner of the room, and before you know it, Sandor is already there beside you. Sandor's fist lands sharply, a thud that silences the room in an instant. The mercenary staggers backward, bumps into a stool and spills a jug of beer on the floor.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Sandor growls, his voice hoarse, deep, like that of an angry mastiff. The young man holds his bleeding nose, his eyes wide "I-I didn't mean to-" "Didn't mean to what, huh? to bother this woman?" Sandor points and looks at you before turning back to the boy.

He approaches him, his steps slow but heavy, and the boy steps back until he bumps into the counter "I-I was joking!" the mercenary stammers, his tongue thick with alcohol. Sandor grabs the collar of his tunic and lifts it with one hand, as if he weighs nothing "Does it look like I'm laughing?" the inn is silent, only the crackling of the fire filling the silence.

You rush closer, your heart pounding "Sandor, stop!" you say, trying to grab his arm, but he pulls away and doesn't even look at you: his eyes fixed on the boy, two dark pools burning with anger "Apologize to her, right now."

The mercenary gasps, his legs shaking "S-sorry..." he stammers, spitting out a bit of blood and looking in your direction with one eye now black. Sandor lets go of him, and he collapses to the ground, gasping "Next time you try something with her," Sandor spits, "I'll make you swallow every last tooth you have left."

He looks around the room, implying this as a warning to everyone. He takes a step back, his chest rising and falling as if he's holding back a beast inside. Then he turns to you, his gaze brief but filled with something more than just anger "Let's go" you cast an almost pitying glance at the boy, before turning to Sandor "Where?" "Outside."

his voice leaves no room for discussion. You step away from the counter and feel the eyes of everyone on you as you follow him toward the exit. The air outside is cold, the moon splitting the night in two; you cross your arms over your chest to retain some warmth.

You remain silent for a few seconds, then he speaks, his raspy voice scratching the air "Do you like making small talk with every idiot you see?" you bite your lip, annoyed by his tone "There's nothing wrong with talking to someone, Sandor... what's wrong with you?" you ask.

He lets out a low sound, almost a growl "I didn't like that guy" "Oh, no? And why?" "Because he looked at you like you were a whore" you smile bitterly "And you think you're so much different?" he stares at you, and something dark shines in his eyes "I'm not like them."

"Really?" you tease him softly "Because sometimes it seems the other way around" he takes a step closer, the height difference forces you to look up. His breathing is hot, heavy "You don't scare me, woman," he murmurs "Then why are you so angry?"

He inhales slowly, as if searching for words "Because I don’t like seeing other people hit on you... because every time I see you smile at someone else, I want to punch their face... and I don’t know why I fucking care."

Your heart skips a beat. The anger in his words isn’t violent - it’s hurt, almost confused. You take a step closer, feeling the soft ground beneath your boots "Maybe because you really care," you whisper "Don’t be stupid," he growls, but his voice trembles slightly.

"Sandor" you say his name like a prayer "You can pretend all you want, but you’re not just The Hound anymore… I know who you really are." his face hardens. For a moment, you think he’ll turn and walk away, but instead he closes his eyes, and the voice that comes out is lower, more human.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what I am. I’ve done things that would make your stomach churn" you lean closer "And yet I'm still here." he opens his eyes, and that fire inside is almost frightening.

"Go back inside, go to sleep. I'll be with you shortly." and with that he cuts the conversation short, probably it's something much deeper than you imagined. You look at him for one last moment before turning and going back into the inn.

© Xoshize 2026

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Every once in a while, the gods smiled upon the miserable, doomed souls. Just to remind people of how little they had, and how cruel the counts could be. Today was one of these days, a day where Sandor had it all: as much wine as he could drink, all the food he could eat, a big fat bag of gold.

The best part? He got it all by fighting his brother. And winning. Technically.

The feast and the wine and the food were meant for the king to celebrate a tournament made for nothing other than spilling blood just for the sake of it, but if king Robert raised his goblet and cheered for him, than everybody else joined, even if they were all holding their breath over Sandor and Gregor’s fight. Or The Hound and The Mountain’s fight, and all the history behind it. Sandor knew the whispers and the twisted stories people liked to tell.

None of it mattered now that he was so drunk he barely stood up on his own feet. Sandor had stayed on the feast just long enough for people to stop coming to congratulate him, just long enough for the king to get drunk enough to forget about him, which was conveniently long enough for him to get drunk himself. Pushing the servant boy aside, Sandor got a wineskin full of the good wine they were serving and exited the room. He half remembered someone putting a flower crown on him, or trying to. Were he in his right mind, he would’ve growled at them, but his head was so drowned in alcohol he just slapped the crown away. He might have stumbled on a wall or two before pushing open the door to his chambers, only to find you, a maid, inside it. 

You were the same one from every other day, the one who swept his floor and cleaned the hearth. The one with the tight apron and the tits he wanted to suck on. Again. 

Sandor closed the door by leaning on it, then took yet another large sip of wine. His body felt too light for his many pounds, and he lacked all the discipline a warrior ought to have. To hell with it, he had just faced his brother, and won. Technically.

“You’re early.”you said, not even turning to see him. You recognized his heavy steps. “Was the feast not to your liking?”

He grunted, letting his weight down on a chair. “Fucking feast…” He muttered, not even himself understanding half the words leaving his mouth or why he was saying them. The sound of the gold bag being put on the table did not startle you who kept on changing his bedsheets, bending down, your ass drawing all of his attention.

“What?” You smoothed the sheets with your hands, then turned around to face him, your eyes getting every detail of it: his dirty armor, the bag of gold, his heavy eyelids, the petals clinging to his neck. “You won? I thought you were not even fighting today.”

“I’m a rich fucker now.” He sighed, sounding almost sober, almost resentful of his own words. No matter how many gold dragons he had, it was implicitly clear that coin, when possessed by people like him, was only meant for spending with whores, ale, maybe a good piece of fabric or shoes. His money did not mean much.

“Yeah? And what are you doing with it?” You went on cleaning, too used to him. It was no news to see the Hound drunk or covered in someone else’s blood. “You could buy anything. Maybe hire another maid? This here is too much work for a woman alone.”

“I’ll buy you a gag… noisy wench.” He rested his head on his hand, enjoying the silence and the darkness when he closed his heavy eyelids, then he turned his head just a bit, opened his good eye, looked you up and down as you went on cleaning. 

You chuckled, as if the Hound was telling you a joke. You knew the noises of the tourney and the feast were probably still ringing in his ears, so you let that pass. “You scowl harder when you’re drunk.” With a wet rag, you started cleaning the crumbs and dust out of the table, forcing Sandor to sit up straight to stay out of the way. 

“So, who did you fight?”

“My big brotha’.” Sandor scratched his beard, took another sip of wine, another look at your ass, then scratched his balls over his pants, which was not near enough. “He was going to kill the Tyrell boy.” 

“So you played the hero, mn?” You stopped, a hand on your hip, leaning against the table. “You’re a real knight, Clegane.” He narrowed his eyes at the small smile you dared give him, the simple allusion of him being a knight  making him disgusted enough to be repulsed by his dirty armor. 

“Piss off, woman.” He cussed you out as he started fumbling with the straps of his chestplate, paying no attention to what he was doing because his eyes were still on your mouth. Then on your figure, your hips, your tits again. “You should giv’ me yer favor.” 

“Favors are for knights… from ladies. And it should happen before the tourney, should it not?” You left the wet cloth over the table to come help Sandor with his steel. He just let you, shoulders slumped. 

Another sip of wine, another droop of his eyelids, another look at your hips, another throb of his cock, another grumble, another cuss, though he was not sure if he was grumbling and cussing out loud or on his mind.

“(...) shouldn’t have changed the sheets until you've had a bath first.” You sighed, one strap untied, a few left to go. “You’ll have to get up.” He did. You tell a dog to sit, he’ll sit. And he’ll wait for a treat, which in this case meant his hands went straight to your hips. He saw you looking up at him, smirked, squeezed your hips, brought you closer, so closer you could barely reach the straps of his armor. 

“What would you want as a token or favor, anyway? You should ask from ladies who have stuff to give away.”

That seemed to get him out of his drunken bliss. 

“I’d get your apron.” He steadied himself, his grip turning a bit rougher. You laughed, pushed him back a bit, getting some room. Sandor pulled you right back in. He wanted to hump your leg like a dog, lick you all over like a dog, sleep for fifteen hours like a dog, fuck you like a dog. “Tie you with it. Gag you with it.”

“You’re drunk out of your mind, Clegane.” You pulled away, hung a piece of his armor, came back to pull out his gauntlets. “So drunk you would probably pass out and crush me to death.”

He grumbled about not being drunk, and even though he did not remember closing his eyes, when they opened, he was sitting on his bed and you were kneeling in front of him. Your apron was still on, but his boots were coming off. He reached for your face, held your chin, pressed his thumb over your lips. He really just wanted his balls as empty as his mind was.

Eyes closed again. Just for a second. This time, he remained conscious as he said “Won’t crush you. I’ll fuck you against the wall.”

“You can barely stand up.” But he did, just to prove you wrong. “Well, you still stink.” You mirrored him, helping him out of his sweat-smelling shirt. “And you’re such a bad flirt.”

Sandor really needed some sleep. He wanted a warm bath first, and another sip of his wine, and the feel of you on top of him, and every time you worked another button of his shirt, he imagined your hands around his cock. Gods, he wanted to fuck you. 

“‘M not flirting.” He only registered what he was saying seconds after he already did. But the moment he got a handful of your ass, he felt it then and there. He felt himself lean in, closer, he felt your smell, he felt your lips on his, he felt you pulling back and he cursed. Maybe out loud, maybe in his head again.

“Sit down, Clegane.” He obeyed, hoping to get a treat this time. Eyes closed, open again, and you were having a sip of his wine. “Lay down. Close your eyes.” He did, grumbling about wanting to smell your cunt on his beard.

Sandor let out a big, deep sigh. When he felt you kiss him, he lifted his hand to pull you closer. Or maybe he just thought of it, imagined it. Or dreamed of it. When he woke up the next day, his room was clean, his armor hung on a corner, bag of gold safely tucked away on his chest, shirt hanging on the chair, boots by the bed… Everything in place, and you were not there.