Could you please write a fanfiction about Sando falling in love with his childhood friend (5-year age difference), who is Tywin Lannister's youngest daughter (Tywin doesn't like her because she's the reason his wife died, and despite her resemblance to Joanna, he hates her so much that he refuses to let her marry and be happy) and deciding that during the Battle of Blackwater they will run away, get married in secret, and start a family. pleaseeeeeeeee 🥺
If you could include how they consummated the marriage, I would be very grateful.☺️
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Pairing: Sandor x Fem!Lannister!Reader
Tags: SMUT, friends to lovers, daddy issues, marriage, very brief mention of having children at the end, battle of blackwater, pre and post canon, alternating POVs, hurt and comfort, sadness that is resolved lol, high born reader, The lannisters being the lannisters, married sex, swearing, PIV sex, fingering, very fluffy, a lot of kissing, everyone has an orgasm or two, frequent time skips
Summary: The youngest of the Lannister children grows lonely and forgotten under the thumb of her father, Sandor takes notice, and makes sure she will not feel abandoned any more.
Warnings: The reader is a Lannister and is described to resemble Joanna, I made her blonde but didn’t further describe her!! Also this contains NSFW content!! You have been warned
A/N: THIS WAS AN ASK THAT WENT MISSING AFTER I SAVED IT TO THE DRAFTS I AM SO SORRy!! I LOVED THIS CONCEPT. I wanted to explore even further, i think childhood friends with sandor is always so interesting, and I will try to include the concept in other fics maybe
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When you came into this world you clutched your mother’s soul between tiny fingers and pulled it out of her womb with you, leaving her to die slowly on the bed she delivered you on. Her body, a limp pale carcass, stuck in the motion of drawing breath to push the child out of her. Her eyes were glassy, wide and unseeing when the midwife held you to Lady Joanna to be looked at.
That day, with the passing of your mother, the chance to be looked at with the tender love of a parent was ripped away from you.
You grew, in beauty and in wisdom as all ladies in the Lannister family. You resembled your mother, more than Cersei or Jaimie ever did. Your hair grew thick and blonde, and your features looked as if they were traced from your mother’s fair ones. Not one thing about you ever reminded Tywin of himself, not your disposition, not your personality, nor your looks.
He had wanted to love you, so similar to the only love of his life that he recognized how precious you were. But the love never came, and in his heart soared an anguished resentment.
As you grew Tywin exercised his power over you in a stricter and more deeming way than he ever attempted with his other children. For long hours you remained stuck in your room under the watchful gaze of your father and his guards. Never to leave.
A strange balance between protection and scorn was nursed in the walls of Casterly Rock, and by the time you moved to King’s Landing with your sister and brother to live at court, each and every feeling in your stomach had turned rotten.
Joanna’s beauty still shone in your features, regular, a true Lannister, made to wear red and gold and braid your hair in complex nets of braids. Yet your soul always felt far away from the riches and the extravagance of court. You sat long hours by the windows, or in your room, embroidering, reading or staring into space.
A strange void of loneliness grew in your chest each year more, leaving you alone in rooms filled with thousands, like a ghost hunting a castle.
In those walls the only form of true understanding you ever nurtured came from a boy much taller and much uglier than any other you had ever met. Sandor Clegane, the youngest of his family, a scary boy who trained under Casterly Rock and often lingered by the training yards in search of a fight. When you were just ten and he was five and ten, he would often scare you, standing so tall and imposing near the fencing, despite his age.
You would spy him until he would notice and offer you a polite bow. He was not a boy you could play with, or ask to share your silk ball and dolls, too old and too hardened, but you found some comfort in recognizing loneliness in him. You were too young to name it but you knew both of you had something wrong and unfixable inside you.
You had always nurtured curiosity towards the strange young soldier, and found the sneer of his mouth and the crude words he would speak more interesting that fearsome. By age fifteen he was appointed as your personal guard, he was twenty then, and something bizarre grew between you.
In quiet and in silence, in those moments that haunted your in-between-existence, he would have kind words to say, despite his awful burns and the evil curve of his brow. Sometimes, in those small bits of wisdom he would spare you, you would find a spark of true friendship.
No one seemed to care that your closest friend was a lowly guard, one bent on refusing to take vows and better his station, and the object of so much speculation and gossip. No one had much attention to spare for you at all.
“If Cersei moves to the Red Keep, and father follows her often, will I be asked to stay here, or travel too?” You murmur, leaning on the windowsill and looking at the ocean beyond.
Sandor shifts in his new armor, his hair is carefully brushed over the disfigurement of his face. Despite that, you find him somewhat handsome. You blush at the thought and hide your face, you may be a Lannister, but a boy his age would never look at you twice. Adolescence made you awkwardly shaped and prone to stuttering and embarrassing yourself.
“You think your father will leave you here, on your own?” Says Sandor, so very used to being blunt with you. His tone is uncomfortably close to mockery. You blush.
“Older” He repeats, his eyes on the door at his side, the one he is supposed to guard. “Any lady would be glad to have a chance to see the royal court, let alone live in it, Lady Lannister” He says. You shake your head.
“It sounds like a great embarrassment” You say, “All nobles with so much time to indulge in gossip and judgment” You point out. It makes him smile, that, too, you find handsome.
“You should have nothing to be embarrassed about, my lady,” he says. You nod, smiling at him ever so slightly.
“If you say so, Clegane,” you say “You who are so terribly cynical, maybe I will believe it.” You add.
“You never truly will believe me, but I do not lie,” he says. It sounds as much of a promise as everything he says. You nod.
Perhaps your stay in the capital will not be so lonely with a good friend by your side.
Today you sit in your room catching very little of the fresh breeze coming from the sea side. Tyrion, your father’s second most hated child, sits on the padded leather chair in front of your desk. You sit by the windowsill, on your usual armchair. On days like these you feel particularly lonely.
Your father is in the Capital, he rode in this morning, and is yet to visit you or greet you. Even at court, under the grievous scrutiny of nobles, he refused to greet you and Tyrion the same as he did Jaime and Cersei.
“Ah, do not look so sad, my dear sister. Our father has always been a terrible, terrible egoistical wretch, we shouldn’t act surprised.” Says Tyrion, his words are light, but his brow is low over his eyes when he looks at the blood red wine in his golden cup.
“You shouldn’t speak this way” You comment. The vines flutter in the low breeze, where they grow on the arches of your balcony. You look at their swaying, feeling oddly out of place in your chambers.
Tyrion sighs “I think I, the Lannister imp, am far beyond any sort of courtesy,” he says, tone cynical. He sips his wine again.
He is the Lannister imp, but what are you then? A weeping, sad soul trapped in gold and velvets.
Your eyes lift slowly to the corner of the room, almost wishing for some sad nickname that would confirm you exist in the eyes of the world.
There, like a dark shadow stands Sandor Clegane, the Hound. He was recently taken out of his post guarding the children and given to you for protection, just so Ser Kettleblack could take his spot and please the king. For many years after Cersei’s wedding you had little to no contact with your dear Hound, he was taken from you and given to Cersei as if he was some sad addition to her bridal trousseau. You were appointed regular guards, and left to become worse in your loneliness.
You look at the Hound, finally given back to you, a column that keeps the ceiling of your chambers from falling over your head. If there is a sadder soul than you in this castle it must be the King’s dog, your best of friends. You can see it in the depth of his eyes, those times you speak to each other in true ernest when you are all alone, even when his words are crude and biting, his eyes are sad.
You can recognize that sort of sorrow very well, you two share it, deep in your heart, both of you are at odds with the seed who created you, with the house you wear the color of, with the name of your parents, your siblings, and your ancestors.
Years ago his heart was opened to you, when you were both young and whirring with passion. After a banquet and too much wine he had told you of how he was pushed against the fire, and your heart had flipped hard against your ribs, venom and pain polluting your blood. It felt like a misshapen love confession, when he held his heart in front of you, ripped straight from between his ribs and pulsating with a violent life.
Suddenly drunk on the connection blooming between you, you too shared that your father had never been kind, and despite him not being as brutal and unforgiving as Gregor Clegane, the Hound never scorned you, too intimately close to the Lannisters to downplay their sick games. He knew, of course, that you had been wrestled between possessive attachment and neglect since childhood, but hearing your say it so openly made that monstrous muscle between his ribs spasm.
He doesn’t move even when your eyes lift to him now, standing still and guarded as usual, not one inch of him shifting under the chainmail. His eyes burn into your frame, disguising hunger as protection. But you see them too clearly, you have gotten used to looking into them, unraveling the threads of his soul, until you can read them like any map of any territory, and he can stare back to do just the same. He has grown handsome with age.
Tyrion follows your eyes to you loyal Hound, and then looks back at you, something knowing in his gaze. “I have you figured out” say his eyes, “Do not seek more than what is freely given to you, my dear brother” says yours. He takes the invitation not to search further.
“I better take my leave” Says Tyrion, patting the desk idly.
“My dear sister, come to me if you are feeling sad– we can drink on it” He says, sliding down the chair with a huff. You look at him, smiling a sad smile.
“When am I not, my dearest Tyrion?” You say, hands folding on your lap. He grimaces, as if his usual grin has been cut short on his way to his lips.
“My dear, dear sister” He smiles “It is a shame you are the most tender hearted among our lot.” He says. You nod.
“A shame indeed.” you whisper.
“And what are the arrangements for my wedding?” The sun beats down on your head despite the veil you pinned to your hair, it is hot in King’s Landing, and the sun bothers your eyes.
Your father adjusts in his seat.
“There are no such things” He says, predictably. It has long been clear you are not allowed to marry. Your sister had been promised to a Targaryen, then to a Baratheon king, first of his name. A flower of beauty like her, with pockets full of the polished gold, can aspire to nothing less than the fairest suitors. She had children, all blonde and fair as her, and now rules the kingdoms.
No such luck for the youngest Lannister.
You look down at your rings, turning them side or side on your fingers. Your hands shake and you squeeze them to will away the tremors.
“Stop being so insistent, it does not fit a lady.” Scoffs Tywin, eyes hard as stone. You close your mouth, looking around the gardens without aim or purpose.
What are you living for? no position, nothing to do but sulk, no husband or children in your future, no finances to administer, not a place to stay. There is no purpose to keep you unmarried, only that strange hateful attachment Tywin developed towards you, an unreadable need to keep you caged in like an animal, to attract the scorn and ridicule of ladies your age. How is this meant to build any sort of legacy?
You turn to Sandor, where he stands, wearing his helm, the iron dog face covers his profile and makes it impossible to study his profile. You know it would be a jumble of terrible scars if you could see it, and uneven strings of hair draped over it like trickling blood.
It reminds you of painted wooden planks depicting the Warrior bleeding from his temples and his mouth, such as those that were hammered in the lower grounds of the great sept in Casterly Rock.
“If I am not to marry, what am I to do, father? Take vows as a silent sister?” you ask, suddenly itching for a confrontation. But as is typical of Tywin he does nothing. His jaws barely move under his beard and he looks forwards.
“You are to stay here, and not interfere with the plans I have for our house” he says at last, once enough silence passed that you stopped hoping for an answer.
It was always clear, any sign of your existence was a hindrance to be rid of. You could tell from the choice in fabric of your dresses to the activities chosen for you to the size of your chambers. Were you a nameless bastard daughter Tywin had with a servant girl he would have been more pleased.
Held tightly in his fist you truly disappear, and there is no doubt in your mind he knows just how much it pains you to be allowed nothing when your peers can hold the world in their palm.
“If I may be excused” You say, standing. Tywin doesn’t follow your retreat, but Sandor does, turning to trail after your skirt, not a word spoken.
When you are deep in the corridors of the Keep you turn to him, forcing him to stop his stride and peer at you through the teeth of his helm.
“I wish to be left alone,” you say. The space between breaths holds the truth, which is a test he is sure to pass.
Sandor shifts in his boots, getting even bigger.
“You are alone enough” he says. You look down at the golden hem of your skirt, clutching the stone doorway at your side.
“Please, Sandor” you plead. He grabs your arm, pulling you back into his bulk.
“I’ll walk you to your rooms, Lady Lannister,” He says, eyes hard on you. You nod meekly, hiding your face behind your veil. “That is my duty.”
“Isn't it your duty to listen to me?” you ask. He looks down on you, and you read honesty in each wrinkle of his face.
“Not anymore, now I do what is best for you, my lady.” He growls, mean, and now close to your face so that you can smell the iron of his helmet. Strangely you have never felt more looked after. Your shoulders draw up and you tremble, nodding, agreeing to be escorted back.
A white linen handkerchief is pressed to your cheeks where you wet them with tears, standing ugly as a giant and as chivalrous as Florian, Sandor wipes your face, then pushes you to continue in the direction of your chambers.
You think, deep in your chest, that you may never come to know anyone as you have known him.
Young Lady Lannister is a flower of beauty. Sandor knows, and he would know even if she were not a noble, daughter of Tywin or member of the court. There are very few ladies in Westeros who compare to his lady, and from the moment he was appointed as her guard he had time to look at her face, all day, everyday and confirm his opinion.
Hiding in the corners of rooms and in the shadow of curtains, he looked and looked at his only true owner, as she wept and sung her woes. Many times a day he would promise himself that he could do right by her, even in all his ugliness and his anger.
No matter how sad, how downturned her eyebrows and unhappy the width of her eyes, she always stuns with her beauty, beyond even Cersei, maybe for her disposition and the kindness in her gaze, which her older sister lacks.
There was a time where she was nothing but a brat in his eyes, no different than any other noble child. He had been envious of all of them, in his youth, when he still wanted to find anyone but Gregor to blame for what had happened to him. But he was wrong, as they grew together another realization came to him, that she was not much different from him. although she bore no visible disfigurement.
As things are among nobles, your monstrousness is not always about your appearance, as much as it is your blood.
And even now, when the green splashes of light set the chambers afire, and her face grows pale and frightened, staring at him in terror, she looks like a vision of beauty, a nymph from a pond, ready to wash away the sins of a lifetime and turn the water into gold.
“What are you doing here?” she sobs.
He is covered in blood, Stannis’ men gushed red when he emptied their bodies of their guts, but no matter how much he swung his sword, there were too many, and the water of the bay had caught on fire. That was the worst part of the fight: a vision straight from hell, an entire bay covered in a thick carpet of green fire, an unnatural vision that seared itself in the back of his mind, scarring him all over again. The bad part of his face hurts and pulls at the memory of the heat, and to dull the pain he downs more wine.
It is a time of uncertainty, and Sandor feels the need to make true to old vows. Such as that he would make her happy, and that he would keep her safe, and that he would do what no one was able to thus far and give her peace.
That is all she had been begging for, his dear dove, she begged for peace of mind, away from the sweltering heat of the Crownlands and the richly furnished cage her father built for her.
“We can leave” He says “I’ll take you away, I will keep you safe, my lady” He says. Lady Lannister stands there, legs trembling under her fine dress.
“Where to?” she asks, and there is something of the lioness in her when she says those words.
Sometimes he sees it, between the sadness, in moments of quiet she finally seems like a Lannister, defensive, and more proud, with her chin held higher and her voice firmer. If given the chance, Sandor will allow her to nurture those secret parts of her soul too. She will have to ask for nothing and have everything. Except, perhaps, a handsome man at her side, which he is not and will never be.
“Somewhere far, in the country, where no one will ask of us” He says “I’ll make sure of it” His breath smells strongly of wine. The floor rumbles, and the fire outside surges up violently, causing the screams to increase in the crowd. Lady Lannister scares, clutching her own arms.
“Do you promise? Sandor Clegane?” she asks him, like he was on trial in front of the royal court. He nods.
“That is my duty” He barks, spitting, wine and blood alike, on the floor.
She agrees, taken by folly just as much as him, without the wine or the fear but filled with a need to disappear that has never been greater. If there will be a family to miss her after Stannis seizes the city, they will get over her quickly. All but Tyrion perhaps, but her desperation suddenly hinders her capacity to feel bad for her brother. Sandor can see that desperate plea in her gaze and he holds out his hand for her to take. When she does, he pulls her into himself, burying his face in the blonde hair at the crown of her head.
“You will have nothing to fear,” he promises her.
The inn on the road stinks of manure, the smell slips in from below the door connecting the main hall to the stables. Sandor is too tired to care, but your face pulls in an unhappy frown.
You hang to his sleeve, clutching the slip of fabric that escapes his vambrace between your pointer and your thumb. You follow him when he barks at the inn keeper to give him a room and bring stew to the room.
“Sandor” you murmur, keeping your hood drawn over your head. The road has been difficult, traversing impossible paths to keep away from the bigger roads and out of sight. You are not as sure as Sandor that there is a price on your head, but there may be on his, after he fled from battle.
You follow him to the room, a small square carved under the low sloped ceiling. The haybed would have looked unappealing to you in any other season of your life, but after sleeping on a bedroll in the wilderness for days you can’t help but be thankful for it. You lower yourself on it and slip your cape off your hair.
“They did not recognize us,” Says Sandor, undoing his belt with quick movements. The sight makes you squirm in your spot, and lower your gaze. You stopped denying what is happening between the two of you long ago. When he entered your chambers on the night of the battle he kissed you before whisking you away, although you thought it was some strange dream, your mind taken by fear and folly alike.
You card your fingers through your hair to clean off the debris. You do not feel as if anyone could recognize you. You are wearing a green hemp dress that Sandor stole from a farm on the way here, grey stockings held with rope above your knees and an overdress made of rough wool. Your hair is a mess, and your face has not lost its weird redness since you escaped. You look like some feral creature, there is no Lannister left in you.
Strangely it doesn’t bother you as much as you would have predicted. The loss of velvet gowns and silk slippers finally rearranged the axis of your existence, you now look as invisible and mundane as you have felt, yet so incredibly important in the depth of your soul.
That is because of him, of course, Sandor.
He looks at you and you can read his vows in the depth of his eyes each time. He is promising to protect you, at the cost of his life, that sometimes seems to have no value to him if not for protection. The strange passion makes you drunk, and at night you kiss him fervently when he is tired and mellow.
You used to be a forgotten lady of the court and he allowed you to become the most looked after out of the commoners. Somehow that seemed enough to finally give you peace.
“Sandor” You say when he lowers heavily on the straw mattress, his hands on his knees, wide as saucer pans.
“Sandor– Thank you” You mumble, maybe for the tenth time this week. It succeeds in making him touch you, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling him into his bulk. He rubs his opposite hand over your face, looking down at him with wild eyes. There is no softness in the turbulence of his features but you care not, you recognize the devotion, on both the scarred side and the clean one.
“Hush.” He says, a finger that is too big for the job pushes your hair behind your ears to look at your face better. You surge up to kiss him and he almost refuses, as usual, unsure if he is deserving to receive your affection, but you push onwards and his defences crumble.
You are the only creature in the seven kingdoms and in the world beyond the sea that can disarm him this easily. It fills you with bravery, makes you feel like a knight yourself, a warrior. You smile in the press of lips, feeling his palms stroke your ribs. You should not give kisses this freely, to a man you are not married to, he may take more than what he is offered. But he doesn’t.
Sandor breaks the kissing when the stew is delivered to the room, allowing you to straighten up, adjusting your hair back and wiping your lips on the edge of your palm.
In his hesitance to claim your maidenhead on the road you read a clear intent, he wants to marry you. As soon as you reach somewhere safe.
That will be the last step, being rebirthed under another name, free in the arms of a lover.
The septon’s clothing is ruined, frayed at the edges. Nothing distinguishes him from the country folk he preaches to.
The sept is a squat building on the edges of a field. He looks at Sandor in clear hesitation, then at her with the same strange tremble in his jaw.
Sandor slams a bag of silver on the nearby stool and grumbles.
“Get on with it” He growls, his brow hangs so low and angry it obscures the view of his eyes. But the Septon can see it clearly, the burned skin on the side of his face that makes his skin look as if it is melting from the bone. It sends a shiver of fear down his spine.
He can recognize that the man doesn’t have a Valeman accent, nor does his lady, who speaks too finely to be a civilian. Despite that, he nods in agreement and accepts the silver.
Sandor looks at him when he opens an ornate wooden box and takes out the wedding ties, unravelling them. Sandor lifts his hand and she does the same, pressing her forearm to his elbow to wrist. She looks at him, her face reddened by the sun.
She is not wearing a fine gown, and these are not the beautiful septs of the capital, yet this is a wedding nonetheless. True in the eyes of the law and the gods alike.
They murmur their vows low, the septon holding his hands over their joined hands and stumbling his way through the ritual. Sandor keeps his eyes on him, pinning him in place on the flagstone floor. She looks at their joined hands in wonder, as if presented with a room full of gold as a gift. The haste she had felt before slips away for a moment, slowing time.
Sandor doesn’t know how or why she seems so happy to be joined to a man such as him and live the rest of her life in the middle of nowhere, but each time he attempts to pick a fight with her she shuts him down, and they end up kissing anyway.
When the vows are said the sun is dipping low under the belt of the horizon. Sandor catches her about her middle. Lady Clegane.
“It is done” Stutters the Septon, trying to shoo them away from the sept with night coming close. She turns to Sandor, lovestruck, and he does the same. There is little left of the child he knew years ago in Casterly Rock, yet, she is all here now, with him. And she is all he has.
He whisks her away from the sept, pulling her in a strange dance towards his horse. The old draft horse neighs high when he helps his lady wife atop him, lifting her from her waist and settling her on the back of the saddle. She opens her arms, waiting for him to mount too with her.
“Sandor, let us go,” she says. The world is so still and so empty. Sandor lifts himself atop the horse and spurs it fast and angry towards the cabin at the far edge of the greenery.
The culmination of all his vows, a small hut pressed to the woods near a tall mountain range in the Vale, so desolate and small no one will come from them. He pushes the horse to the stables, then pulls her down almost too fast.
“Sandor!” She squeals when he grabs her. Hunger consumes him, making him go from guard dog to hunting hound.
“Sandor” she whispers when he pulls her inside the hut. The bed is a stocky square of pine wood planks carefully stuffed with hay and linen sheets. It beckons him closer.
She looks at it and up at him, he can read hesitation in her eyes, even when she grabs the sleeves of his tunic to pull on them.
“You are my wife now, but I am no rapist” He says. She grimaces.
“You are not a romantic” She laments, closing her eyes so softly, until he can trace the veins on her eyelids.
“You know that well already, woman,” He says, grabbing her to tuck her to his chest, where his heart hammers like he is getting ready for a fight. He pulls her head up to him when she is pressed to his torso and kisses her, bending down and slotting his lips to her much softened ones. She makes a sound he reads as nothing less than positive and pushes up on her tip toes to kiss him deeper.
He pulls her and pulls her until she is laying with him in bed, crawling atop him while he lounges back, each muscle fighting against his clothing, his torso supported on his arms. He feels like a spoiled king, or he guesses this is what it must feel, surrounded by the smell of her and the softness of the bed.
“Sandor” she says, so sweetly, her hands fidget with the ties of her wool dress. She undoes it with two fingers and kneels atop his hips. He pulls her down, until her buttocks are pressed to his thighs. She squeaks, more a mouse than a lion. But he likes that too, she can be whoever she wants here, and he will never complain.
She sits on his lap, lowering the sleeves of her dress down the enticing curve of her shoulders. Sandor brushes it with his fingers, grunting.
“Sandor– I have never-” She starts. He nods, answering before she can stop.
“Let me see, woman, let me see” He says and she nods, lowering the clothing even more then allowing him to lift the clothing up her frame.
He rubs the skin, soft and smooth under his palms, and so regular he can’t help but want to bite into it, just to know if it would make him drunk like wine or sweeten his stomach like marzipan. He traces the lines on her thighs, where the skin is interrupted by shiny vertical lines. He presses his face to the center of her torso, under the swell of her breasts, to lick the dip between them and down to her navel.
She moans, and he is taken by the need to consume, eat, the hunger to finalize. His hands squeeze the circle of her ribcage, moving her back in an arch to meet his tongue.
“Oh- Sandor! Oh sandor!” She calls out. He continues, always obedient, and moves to lay her down on the linens. Her head falls on the stuffed pillows, sinking into the white bedding until her silhouette is swallowed by it. He feels ravenous.
Her legs are pressed together, not yet granting him access to the opening between them, which is sure to unfurl red like a Lannister sigil before him as soon as his lady decides him worthy.
“I will not hurt you, you know that” He says. she turns her head to the side, and he starts trailing his lips and his bearded chin on the length of her throat.
“I know that.” she says. Her chest struggles against the newfound fullness, soon he will make her even more full, fill her with himself so she won’t have space to harbor any loneliness.
“Allow me” He grunts. She opens her legs. He doesn’t look first, slipping a hand between her legs to trail it up and down her slit. Her skin sticks together with dew, and he parts all the flabs of skin to make space for himself.
Her breathing hitches and her eyes close tight when he touches the bud at the peak of her.
“Have you ever touched this?” he asks, mostly to annoy her. It works, her mouth pulls in distaste.
“Sandor! Do not ask such things!” She whispers. Sandor chuckles, using his opposite hand to trace the line under her breasts, which is still slick with spit, side to side to placate her. She lets out such wonderful sounds, his dove, peeping and whining every time his finger finishes a circle over her bud.
Below him her cunt has turned puffy and red, making it easy to slip a finger inside her, to prod at the slick skin inside. His hands are big, big enough to make her feel full with only a couple of fingers. His hands are made to wield weapons, broad and square, with dry knuckles and short fingernails that barely tickle her when he moves his fingers inside her channel.
They play, like animals, switching back and forth, one over the other. He makes her touch him after she has come once on his fingers, shows her how to touch him, to pull on the hair of his chest and his groin, and even on the tangled locks dangling down the sides of his face.
“Will it not hurt you?” she asks, tugging on his hair as a kitten would with a ball of yarn. He grunts. He knows she has him figured out and is playing an unfair game, pretending innocence. But Sandor is unapologetic, she is his wife now, and they can play his strange games in bed.
“No, you would not be able to.” He scoffs, like it is obvious. She smiles at his exasperation, endeared. “If you have to brace yourself on anything, do as I told you”
“Brace myself-” She repeats in awe. He settles atop her, slipping over her body and balancing himself on his elbows.
“You will need to, when I take your maidenhead.” He says.
“I do not feel much of a maiden anymore,”
“You are in the eyes of the gods.” He scoffs. She smiles.
“I hope they are not watching,” She whispers and presses her face into his bicep, there she leaves a kiss or two, or even three. Sandor knows there are millions of them to be expected from today onwards.
He moves her knees apart, settling his hips between them, his hand guides his rod inside her, pushing force from the back of his thighs and sinking slowly in her body. She makes a happy sound, still pressed to his arm and closing her eyes tight.
He allows her to hide her face in his body, setting a rhythm inside her that mirrors that he kept with his fingers before. Her chest spasms when his movements force sounds out her body, making her stutter. He cannot keep quiet either, moving over her and letting out fìgrunts and cut off growls to keep the pace.
No one is here to hear them anyways.
He braces himself fully on the bedding round her, his elbows on either side of her face so she can only hide her face in his chest, he cups the back of her head with a wide palm, inviting her to keep her face there.
“It feels good, Sandor” She whimpers and he nods, a rumble of satisfaction forcing his thrusts deeper. He can tell he is deep into her, enough to make her hips move at every thrust and the hair of his groin tickle her when he bottoms out.
“I know, I know” He grunts, grabbing her left hip to keep her hips still against his thrusts. It makes her mewl even louder.
Her breath wets the hair on his chest, and the sweat of his back leaves the pelting of thick hair covering it in a similar state. He moves even more fervently, and she happily receives whatever he gives her. Anything she wants he will give, that is a guarantee with him.
It doesn’t take much thrusting to finish her off, her head rolls back and she grabs his shoulders hard, pulling him close. He allows her to, closing in over her and holding her so close to him she may melt into his skin.
Maybe that would purify him enough to ever have to think about being a Clegane ever again.
She comes with two long intermittent sounds, her mouth open and her eyes struggling to stay wide to look below her at the magic happening below her navel. He presses them so close she can only see his huge bulk moving over her.
When Sandor wakes the light has drawn a broad stroke of white over his face, slipping in from underneath the curtains covering the windows of the hut. He rubs his face, his body trying to rub the light away from his skin.
You look at him from your side of the bed. you don’t yet feel like waking, the light outside is still polluted with the blue hue of the night. It is early still.
Between you your child sleeps, curled on the bedding and around a stuffed toy you made him when he was born. Sandor pats the child, almost aimlessly, while waking up.
There is little to none of that military instinct left in him in the mornings now, it used to be a lot different, when he was still tense in the first years of life here.
You smile at him, staring at the ruined side of his face that he fails to conceal from you when still half asleep. One of your fingers goes to brush over the head of your sleeping son, but your eyes stay on Sandor.
“Why are you staring so much early in the morn’, woman?” Laments Sandor, turning to face you fully. You smile and shake your head, nosing into your pillow.
“Nothing.” You say. It is a lie, you are staring at your whole world. And the same goes for him.
“Sandor” You add when Sandor gets busy plucking at the floppy arms of your son’s toy.
“I think I may be pregnant again.”
