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REPUTATION
It’s crazy to think, but once upon a time, the songs about sweet Lady Sansa were far, far different from the ones we know now. In fact, Sansa Stark didn’t just have a bad reputation, she had horror stories told about her, each more gruesome and terrifying than the last. The small folk lapped it up. “A nightmare dressed like a daydream,” one song went. “She’s got a long list of former lovers…..every one of them dead!”
It was true, all of her past loves had met with misfortune in one way or another. As the song went, one choked on a pie at his wedding to another woman. The next murdered his own father at her behest, bewitched by lust for her. Years later, another one was eaten alive by hounds. She’d even sat as judge and jury over the trial of the last man she’d loved, a once close friend accused of treason. She sentenced him to death and barely batted an eye as he bled out in front of her (it was said).
So her bad reputation grew and grew, despite everything she’d done for the good of her people and the kingdom as a whole. Sandor Clegane was on hand to watch it all happen. He had decided to stay in Winterfell after the war, helping to train little Lord Rickon and taking charge of the defense of the castle. His days were spent in duty to his liege lord, as were the Lady Sansa’s, as far as he could tell. She had no suitors to distract her. They had all quit calling, no doubt due to the vicious rumors surrounding her reputation.
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It didn’t seem fair to Sandor. This wasn’t how the world should treat a lady as gentle and pure as his little bird. She had all the qualities a noble should want in a wife. She was young, rich, well-mannered, and educated. She was gifted in the domestic arts. She managed the kitchens and pantries herself and he’d seen her at work over the ledgers. She could sew and knit with the artistry of a goddess. He owned a pair of gloves made by her very hands as proof of her superior skills. She made her own dresses. He’d noticed that she had a talent for fitting her clothes to her figure better than any lady he’d seen, and he’d lived in the Capitol for years. It’s true she was tall and a bit skinny, and maybe high lords were bred to want a tiny, curvy wife, but Sansa carried herself so well, she was nothing but lithe and graceful in Sandor’s eyes. And if it was curves a man wanted, why, she had those as well. It had been winter, for Gods’ sake and she’d needed to keep warm. What lazy minds these high lords must have, to be incapable of imagining how lissome and pleasing she must be under all those furs and high collared dresses. Even now, the days were growing warmer and the grass greener. Just the other day, Sansa had been in the yard without her cloak and Sandor was struck by how refined her hips and waist looked as she walked ahead. And she had a sweet face.
So it pained him to think of her alone in the world, in a cold bed each night. One by one, her siblings had left her to form their own families. Her cousin was King on the Iron Throne along with his wife, the Dragon Queen. Her crippled brother had gone south as well, as a royal advisor. The little wolf girl had married the legitimized Lord of the Stormlands and the couple had immediately left on an expedition across the wide sea. The only brother left to her was Lord Rickon, and just today a Dornish envoy had taken his leave, happy with the state of negotiations for a marriage between a pretty princess of House Martell and the Lord of Winterfell.
“What buggering Dornish dolts,” he thought. “Why not offer a husband for Lady Sansa as well? The soft-minded simpletons.”
These were the thoughts that kept Sandor Clegane up at night. They rolled in his brain like a hot coal, burning and uncomfortable. He couldn’t find rest in his bed. Anger and annoyance at the injustice of the world made everything he touched feel course, hot, and itchy . He bristled against the linen of his shirt, feeling a trickle of sweat running down his chest. He tore it off in frustration and stalked out of his small chamber, seeking the coolness of the night.
He followed a familiar path on these nighttime outings. Uncomfortable thoughts frequently inflamed his mind, but nothing could soothe him like the freshness of a starlit Winterfell night. He would stalk across the grounds, from the stables and kennels towards the Great Hall, making a pass around the building to walk the perimeter of the Godswood. Sometimes he’d stop and swim in one of the larger ponds, stroking furiously and splashing as he exercised his demons. Or sometimes he’d stop by the kitchens, grabbing some watered down wine and taking it to sit on the frosted grass of a hill. He could sip it and gaze at the stars, remembering his skills as a soldier and finding South, East, West, and North in the sky.
Tonight, he thought he’d grab some wine and find South and think about what a stupid disgrace that Dornish envoy was, to slight Lady Sansa like that, all due to ludicrous, superstitious stories.
To his surprise, the kitchens were already occupied. It was the Little Bird herself, although she was too engrossed in her task to notice him at first. She was standing with her back to the door, wearing a simple sleeping shift with an apron of the old cook’s thrown over it. It was tied in a sloppy bow at her waist, clearly too big for her, as the strings ran down her buttocks and swayed back and forth as she kneaded some dough on the counter before her. Her hair was piled on top of her head, glowing in candlelight. She looked like a sweet little thing in that moment, engaged in such a mundane task, he had to wonder at the pure stupidity of the men who believed her to be cursed.
But come to think of it, maybe she was cursed, or at least a little too entrancing to be a normal woman. Wasn’t he, a grown man and fierce warrior, staring dumbly at her backside, mute behind her, just so the moment would last a bit longer? And wasn’t that a bit ridiculous? And how could other men not feel the same way?
He cleared his throat. “My lady,” he said.
“Oh,” she turned around. Her front was just as pleasing as her back, although she presently looked as regal as a kitchen maid. Her blue eyes were a bit cloudy with sleep and there was a bit of flour on her face. Her eyes flicked from his face, to bare chest, and back up again. “Clegane, what are you doing about at this hour?”
“I should ask you the same.”
“I’m baking.” She gestured towards the table, a veritable mess of batter-covered spoons, flour, dough, and chopped lemons.
“That’s no answer. You have cooks for this. You should be resting at this hour.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes, hardly ladylike, but very human. Not what a cursed woman would do at all. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “So I thought I would try to recreate how the Southerners make lemon cakes,” and then she prattled on a bit about the difference between cakes and custards and flavors but Sandor couldn’t keep track. There was a white streak of flour over the blush of her left cheek.
“And you,” she said finally. “Why are you not abed?”
“Wine,” he said, not wanting to explain the thoughts that had buzzed through his head since sundown.
As soon as he said the word, she’d flitted around the kitchen, producing a jug of Dornish red and two cups. “Shall we enjoy a bit together, then?” she asked sweetly.
He could hardly refuse the lady of the castle, so he nodded his consent, and waited for her to take the first sip. “To warm nights,” she said as her eyes flicked down to his bare chest once more, “our Dornish friends, and all hundred casks of wine they gifted,” a teasing note in her voice.
He snorted. “To warm nights and wine,” he echoed and took a deep swig. Toasting those arrogant bastards was more than he could handle.
Sansa noted the slight. “You don’t think Rickon should accept their offer?” she sighed, and continued on before Sandor could answer. “I must say, I’ve been trying to only speak on this when he asks me. He’s young and won’t reach his majority for another two years, and marriage with a good match could go such a long way towards securing his future happiness, so I shouldn’t meddle, but Rickon is quite taken with her portrait …” her voice trailed off.
“And what of your happiness?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Those Dornish weren't concerned with your happiness in the slightest. It’s wrong that your younger siblings should marry before you.”
Her voice seemed to catch in her throat and a queer half-smile formed on her lips. “You’re concerned with my happiness?”
“Of course I am,” he responded gruffly. “You’re a lady fit for Kings and Princes. These lordlings should be begging for your hand, not pushing you aside for your younger siblings.” They’re cowardly, superstitious shits he added in his head. The days of scaring her with rudeness and course language were long gone.
“I’m a lady fit for a worthy man, that much is true. But, I can hardly blame them,” she said softly. She reached out put her little hand over his. “I know what’s said of me.”
“The fools,” he said and took another swallow to quash the rage beginning to grow in his belly. He felt sick with the confirmation that Sansa knew what they said behind her back. That she was aware of censure from dogs not fit to lick her boots.
Weirdly, she didn’t seem angry about it in the slightest. She was laughing and giving his hand a squeeze and then she was back to fussing with her baking. She brought a bowl of batter to the table where they sat with their wine. It was a bit runny and yellow and smelled faintly of lemons and sugar as she stirred it. “I always wanted my very own song, “ she said as she worked. “I just didn’t think it would be about how I fed my husband to his hounds.” She scrunched up her pretty face and stuck her little tongue out, probably trying to look devilish. Sandor had to laugh, too.
“There you are! Finally, not so glum!” she giggled and threw her head back. The baggy neckline of her shift slipped down as she laughed, exposing a pure white shoulder. Sandor didn’t know what possessed him, but before he could stop himself, he reached out and gently moved her shift back up, grazing her cool skin with his fingers as he went.
It was too far. She’d stopped laughing and was staring at him, her mouth open and the spoon frozen in her hand. “Thank you,” she said, barely more than a peep.
It was just like the little bird. He’d been improper. He’d been transgressive. And here she was thanking him, of course. In King’s Landing, he would have mocked her for her stupidity, but right now, he was grateful that she could at least let him pretend he’d been chivalrous.
“I wouldn’t want you to be cold,” he said stiffly. He drank deep to avoid looking at her.
“You’re not wearing a shirt,” she whispered.
And then just like that they were both laughing again. Maybe the wine had already gone to their heads.
She scooted her stool a little nearer to him, bringing her sweet scent tantalizingly close.
“Maybe I could change the words around and make the song a little happier.”
“And how would that song go?” By the Seven, he couldn’t help himself. His mind went back to a different drunken night. The first night he imagined how Sansa might look singing a different sort of song.
“Maybe it could be about ...” she brought the spoon to his lips. “Feeding lemon cakes to my Hound.” He gave the spoon a lick. Gods it was good. Sweet and tangy, just like he imagined it would be.
And then, Gods, he didn’t know how it happened, but the spoon was on the floor and she was on his lap. The clean taste of her skin mixed with the taste of lemons from the batter as he licked, and nipped, and Gods, he couldn’t stop himself.
And she wasn’t trying to stop him either. She was sighing in his ear and working her hands down his chest, down his back, pressing into him. She was on the table now, and he was standing flush against her, her thighs around his hips. “Yes, oh please,” she was whispering, practically fluttering in his arms. The taste of her was just incredible and he couldn’t tear his lips from her skin long enough to tell her much he wanted this. How all he wanted in this world was to see her warm and stated, cheeks ablaze with all the pleasure she deserved.
And then, bang! Pots crashed to the floor somewhere near the doorway.
“My lady is that you?” The old cook stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes.
Fffffffuck , he thought. Too aroused to stop and too mortified to keep going, he was frozen in place, looming over her like a rutting bull.
Of course, Lady Sansa kept her poise. She gently nudged him off of her and then she was chattering to the cook, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at all.
“And I’ll have it all cleaned up by morning, with everything back in its spot, and when I’ve perfected the recipe, I’ll share it with the staff,” she was saying. “And you really must get back to bed. You work so hard and need every last minute of rest. Things would simply fall to pieces without you, “ she finished as she shooed Cook out the door, shutting it firmly behind her.
Sansa turned to face him, her face the color of a Northern sunset.
Was she angry? Gods, what had he done? He’d taken liberties. He’d been a scoundrel. He’d behaved exactly like the dog he’d been before the War. If she put him to the sword for his lechery, another victim of the curse, he knew he’d deserve it.
“Forgive me,” was all he could think to say.
“Forgive you?” Her face was still red, but her voice was soft and not at all angry as he’d have expected. She walked closer to him, eyes cast shyly towards the floor. “I don’t know how I could. This is the last and final blot on my reputation. It will never recover.”
“The cook is half blind, it’s said. Maybe she doesn’t know what she saw.”
“Oh Sandor, “ she said. Her gentle hand reached out to cup his cheek and she smiled. “She’d have to be more than half blind to not see the bulge in your breeches.”
They were both laughing again. He closed his eyes and held her close, enjoying the smell of her hair and the tickle of her breath on his chest. How could any man believe this angel was cursed?
“There is one way to salvage my name,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“We could be wed.”
“Wed? But I don’t deserve you.”
“You don’t. But I deserve what I want and that’s an honorable man who wants me for me, despite my bad reputation.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
And that’s how the songs changed. No more curses, and murders, and feeding her lovers to hounds. As we all know now, her song is a Love Story and, though I’m sure you had no doubts, Sandor said yes.
The End