Sandor had heard all about about the princess, but hearing and seeing are two different things he finds out very quickly

Warnings: Baratheon Princess!reader, reader is described as having Baratheon features (raven hair, stormy eyes), reader is Roberts true born daughter, unrequited love (at first), reader is of age (I won’t have any pedophile!sandor on my blog)

A/N: Girldad Bobby B truther 💯💯

When he had first been told or rather ordered to defend his new post he did not think it would be the spoilt rotten daughter of the king and queen.

He had heard other knights rumouring that you were his only true born daughter hence why he lavished gold and gems upon your raven-haired head so often while he looked down on your blonde-headed ‘siblings’.

No one could deny the stark differences between yourself and your kin. Even just between you and Joffrey, his golden hair and emerald eyes contrasted your dark locks and stormy eyes. When nobles from other lands visited the capital they openly discussed your future as their queen — Not Joffrey — quickly assuming you were the heir. Your father never shut them down however no matter the glare your mother sent his way, trying to convey by sheer expression that he should reprimand them. Yet he never did, whether it was from sheer spite or consideration of naming you his heir, no one knew.

Sandor had never seen much of you, flashes of your hair and your marigold yellow dresses with a golden stag tucked neatly in your hair.

But he had heard, he knew better than too shape someone based on feeble gossip but he couldn’t help but conjure the image of a prissy, poofy stuck up royal, stamping her way through life with gold plated shoes.

He was skeptically surprised when a humble and kind lady peeked her head out of the door instead, asking him if he wanted something to drink before he started his watch.

At first he had thought it was a jest, made to make him feel humiliated and belittled, the feeling was familiar now, it doesn’t bother him as much as it did when he was still a boy in a man’s armour.

But he had been in service of jesting nobles and spoilt princes long enough to recognise the venomous glint in their eyes when they were trying to cow him, it always made a deep seething hatred curl it’s way into his chest and bubble up into sharp words from his tongue.

Yours however, only held a kindness that nearly made him flinch with uncertainty.

You disappeared back behind the doors but they remained open, a silent invitation.

He had noticed two things when he had stepped into your chambers, something he never thought he’d do.

One, that on a furry rug near the fireplace lay a big black dog, a hound. One that he recognised from the kennels, a brute of a beast with a snarling maw and a burly body now lay with its head nestled on its front paws, sleeping soundly with its yellow collar perched on the mantle above it.

Two, that your chambers didn’t hold chests of gold and gemstones that you only stared at and to show off to visiting nobles, your chambers were instead filled with tapestries, art, poetry, tea-sets with flowers painted delicately on them. wether by nobles had gifted these to you over the years or this was just from an average shopping trip for the king, he wasn’t sure.

He was never in the chamber for long but it had told him all kinds of things about you as every day before he started his watch, you would invite him in for a drink —something different every day. Tea one day and wine the other, it made no difference to him—these meetings were never filled with the usual laughter and smiles your presence usually brought but it was a comfortable silence…well he was silent atleast, you chatted away to him about all kinds of things.

He knew that you preferred to wear Baratheon yellow over Lannister red, he knew that you hated when noblemen would kiss your left hand instead of your right because your handmaidens always placed your signet ring on the right and you hated the feeling of particularly greasy lords lips touching your hand.

All these little things that formed the person you are that meant nothing to the lords and heirs betting for you hand but they did to him as he slowly came to realise.

He had found himself peeking his head slightly every time a flash of yellow would pass by his peripheral as he stood watch over your wing of the castle, you spent most of your days in the gardens or at the galas your father often hosted, flashing your bright smile that made even the most stoic lords lip twitch upwards.

But it made him seethe, he couldn’t shake you from his mind and it made the black beast — alike to the one lounging on your rug — sink it’s teeth into his ribs and make him scowl at your niceties.

He doesn’t do love, he would repeat in his head like a mantra, the fluttering of hearts was never made for him. The gods had made sure of that a long time ago when his brother had charred his face, you were beautiful and kind and fair. He was simply a hound.

He couldn’t deny the way his hand would drift almost automatically upwards to help you down from the carriage nor the way his eyes would focus just a little longer than normal on lords walking towards you, scanning them for anything out the ordinary, sucking his teeth when they kissed your hand and made you blush with their praise. No, he doesn’t do love.

He doesn’t do love.