you're too young & eager to love

Game of Thrones is a serious addiction. There are so many pairings and characters to write that it may be the best fandom for exploration ever. I'm thrilled.

The following is a 1600-word (woo!) piece I brought up from the dregs of my mind. I wanted to make it kinkier, but it's my first time writing these two characters, so I got sidetracked trying to understand their personalities, actions, and reactions instead of focusing on the smut at hand. I do believe it is a good first attempt though. P.S. I only read this once before posting, so there's probably spelling/grammar mistakes galore. I don't care. It's late. I'm sleepy. That's my excuse.

Pairing: Sansa/Clegane (The Hound)
Rating: R? I guess? Yes? I never do ratings.
Spoilers: Yes, so readers be wary if you're not up-to-date with the second season/novel.




“A perfect little dove, is she not?”

Joffrey, looking small and bored against the Iron Throne, glances more at his mother than at the young Lady Stark. If he were a smarter boy, he would recognize Cersei’s tone – a summer softness etched with shades of cruelty. Her mouth is smiling, Joffrey realizes, so she must be pleased. She has not smiled much since his betrothed’s traitorous brother captured his uncle, and Joffrey is inattentive enough to consider this rare smile one of joy rather than condescension.

The boy-King plucks at the gold crest on his tunic, feigning the least amount of interest necessary. “She will be lovelier when her brother’s head is on a spike. Remember how having her father’s head mounted brought color to her cheeks?” Joffrey smirks down from atop his throne while beside him Cersei smiles tightly. She does not favor her son’s brutality, but she indulges him nonetheless. It is his birthright.

Sansa, dressed in silken plum colors, holds her posture properly. Her chin is tilted high enough, her shoulders squared, her fingers soft by her sides, to denote a certain Northern pride. But her eyes dip without hesitation, her curtsy impeccable. Her elegance is something fragile she carries close to her chest. “If I have displeased His Grace …”

Cersei scoffs, interrupting the girl, her blonde hair shining brilliantly as she brushes the complicated braids over her shoulder. “Lady Stark, you are an icon of propriety. We merely dismay that your siblings refuse to pledge their loyalty.”

“My brother is a -- ”

“Traitor, yes, my sweet. We have heard the speech before. Let us merely continue to remind you that actions, Sansa, are truer and louder than words.”

Choosing silence so as to not provoke Joffrey’s anger or the Queen’s suspicions, Sansa curtsies once more, dipping her head in a subservient gesture as sweet as blackberries.

“Dog,” Joffrey barks to his servant. “Escort my beloved back to her room. With blood as thin as hers, we must keep our eyes on her till she has proven herself.”

Her King, the Protector of the Realm, is too foolish to know the truth. She used to like his green eyes and the almost feminine pout to his lips, but now all she sees is the weak frame of his face and tastes boundless cruelty on his breath. Her blood is not thin. It is thick and hot, the blood of the direwolf, and her eyes brighter for every insult he slips into her like a blade, for every offense he places against her family. She does not have her brothers’ strengths; she is no man. She lacks armies and swords and the courage to attack.

But she survives.




The Hound understands survival. He knows it well, because survival is something one buys with the steel of a sword. They do not speak of these things, but she seems to understand all the same.

He is not ruled by honor and the way he grabs her arm, hard enough to bruise, is all the confirmation Sansa needs. He is no Knight, he reminds her often, as often as he orders her to look at him. He is so tall that she must crane her head back to see him fully, his broad form massive enough to almost block hers entirely. Clegane has grey eyes, storm eyes, but they are hard like the eyes of a distrustful beast. It is not the hardness that scares her, nor the sharp cheekbones or the gaunt quality of his face, but the twisted mass of scars that spread, waxen and pink, around his left eye and down to his jaw. If she stares close enough (which she never does), the bone is apparent in places. A map of old pain and fire fear.

He escorts her silently, his grip constant, the pressure oddly comfortable now that she’s used to being touched roughly. (Once, she was used to honey sweetened milk, feathered pillows, and the soft breathing of her wolf at night. She was used to the gentle way her mother would brush her hair in the evenings and how she could stitch with a needle better than any of the other young ladies in Winterfell. Once, she would have chosen kindness over cruelty.) He smells heavily of wine and something fainter but more bitter – like wood ashes and heat. He has a large stride, and she has to walk quickly so that he does not drag her behind him like some cumbersome package he’s been saddled with. When he stops, suddenly, she almost collides into his side, managing to avoid crumbling against his body. She is left standing so close that the soft skirts of her dress brush his legs.

“Ser Clegane… ?” Sansa hates the uncertainty in her voice, the shrill hesitancy. By instinct, she wants to press against the castle walls, further her distance from this large and predatory man, but she is a highborn of Winterfell and was taught better. The reason for their stopping is unclear to her; her rooms, though comfortable, are still further away. The Hound is not by nature known for his disobedience.

“I am no Ser.” He reminds her, harshly, keeping his hold on her. His hair and face is darker in the shadows, but she can still make out the part of him that is burnt when he turns to gaze on her.

Sansa is tall and slender, frail-boned like a sparrow. He might snap her, the way young children snap twigs. Her voice dries in her throat when he pushes his thick fingers into her hair, not so much feeling the soft texture or smelling the lavender oil her handmaidens added, but inspecting. There’s fire in her hair, the red of the Tully bloodline, strands of burning crimson that lick at the pale skin of her throat.

“Let down your hair, little bird.” He rasps, releasing her arm, and for some reason she does. Standing in a dark corridor of the Red Keep, her fingers fumbling clumsily, she unbraids the summer-style until it lays heavy and thick down her shoulders, over the small curves of her breasts.
“You listen to all men like you listen to your King.” He scoffs, his half-smile bitter, as though he expected more from her. A fight, perhaps, but she has been fighting just to breathe ever since Joffrey ordered her father’s head lopped from his shoulders, and she was never taught how to say no. “Maybe I should prepare you for him. Would you like that?”

And then she is pressed to the wall, like she had wanted moments before, but there is no space between them now. No shield or safety. She feels heat blossoming over her chest, spilling against her stomach, blotting her skin beneath the soft silks of her dress. Her fingers start to tremble, and the shaking spreads up her slender arms and down her spine until she is barely able to stand. To her shame, Clegane must slide an armored arm around her tiny waist, holding her upright.

“I -- ” Sansa tries, her mouth pink and open and full of fright.

However shakily and soft her voice began, Clegane silences her all the same when his other hand slips between her gown, feeling the skin of her thighs. “No chirping allowed, little bird.”

She frowns at him, wanting to protest, and she gives a little cry when his fingers slip, not unkindly, inside of her. For all her chastity, she is wet. Clegane laughs knowingly, a dry, husk of a sound, mocking her until she blushes so deeply that she thinks her skin will catch afire. He brings his face close to hers; this time, he does not have to order her to look at him. She could not imagine looking anywhere else, searching his grey eyes with hers, her breathing irregular and his hand working skillfully between her legs. “What if I should throw you to the floor, hold your legs apart and lick you like a dog until your throat turns raw from your screams?”

Sansa braces herself against him, the majority of her weight pressed against the muscled arm around her waist, her lip caught by her teeth and her eyes wide. Like a child’s. The Hound has killed children before, and somehow this is similar.

She comes quietly, smelling of fear, shaking, and so unlike the strong sigil of her House. Her dress has slipped from her shoulder, the skin there pale and lovely, and he covers her brutishly after forcing her to her feet. His hand is wet from her and for one horrifying moment Sansa thinks he might bring his fingers to his mouth, his nose, devouring the taste of her like a common animal. She thinks she might fall, her knees are so weak, but when she tries to drape herself against the stone bricks for comfort he pushes her boldly again – back on to her feet. Forced to stand alone.

“Do they make songs of this, little bird?” He asks, and his voice is almost sad.

She does not have the words to respond, so he nudges her once more, towards the end of the corridor, back to her gilded cage. “You know the way.” He reminds her, brusque, seemingly unaffected by their encounter or the brief crush of her against him.

He leaves her standing there, sore between her legs.

Sansa has nowhere else to go but forward, but she wears her hair free and thick around her shoulders the next time she is summoned, the long, loose curls catching fire in the sun.