Chapter Text
Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home. Sansa had read it at least ten times and was still clutching the note. It was like something she had read out of her storybooks when she was a child. Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home. Was it a joke? Who wrote such things, except in songs and childish tales? It was probably a cruel jape. She could not for the life of her guess who would have left her such a note. She had no friends to speak of in King’s Landing. No one spoke to her kindly, and she might as well have been a ghost, for wherever she went, no one would look at her or speak to her.
Except for the Hound… Sometimes they crossed paths during her wandering throughout the grounds of the Red Keep. He mocked her as she rode her horse round and round the bailey, until she finally stopped for fear of looking more a fool than everyone already thought she was. She was afraid of him, and she was terribly aware of trying to keep her dignity as much as possible under the awful circumstances of being the daughter of a traitor and the sister of a traitor and betrothed to the King who held her in utter contempt and made no attempt to hide it.
But the memory of Joffrey’s name day tournament still fluttered at the edge of her memory. She had protested His Grace’s command to drown the drunken old silly, useless knight that had run out to the tourney grounds half-naked after his horse, and then sat down in the dirt and yielded, asking for more wine. Ser Dontos. Sansa had tried to cover her recklessness, saying it was ill luck for a king to kill someone on his name day, and the Hound had agreed with her. She realized later that he had LIED for her. And towards the end of the “tourney of gnats” (as the Hound had called it), when Tommen was supposed to joust the straw man, Joffrey had been so hateful towards his sweet younger brother. Sansa had found the courage to rebuke him, gently, even as she wondered where her mad behavior was coming from, and the Hound had, incredibly, taken her lead and responded in kind.
Could it have been… Could it? Had the Hound left her the note? She didn’t know his writing. She didn’t even know if he could read. But he was strong and fearsome and… and… He spoke to her harshly, as did Joff and Ser Meryn and Ser Boros and so many others she could not keep track. But alone of all Joffrey Baratheon’s Kingsguard, the Hound was the only one who had never lifted a finger to hurt her. In fact, he had always treated her in an oddly gentle manner.
Still, even though being in his presence scared her, there was something about the Hound that… She couldn’t put a finger on it. Just as she was about to tuck those thoughts away for the night, she realized what it was. He served Joffrey and the Lannisters dutifully, but he didn’t care what anyone said or thought about him, or the consequences thereof. And Sansa could see it. Nothing he said to her was motivated by what she or Joff or his “brothers” of the Kingsguard could say or think or do. He was huge, and fierce, and strong, and skilled, and everyone was afraid of him. Joff doted on him. He wasn’t going to tell everyone to bugger off, but he also didn’t need to seek the favor of His Grace or his court. So, that being the case, if he wanted to slip her a note under her pillow, it almost certainly wasn’t in answer to some trick that the cruel King and his protectors (her tormentors) had thought up. If it was the Hound that had slipped the note under her pillow, he had done it for his own reasons.
This is madness.
The Hound belonged to the Lannisters. Why did she think he would help her? Why would he want to help her? It would mean risking everything he had, including his life. Sansa assumed it was a good life, too, with many comforts and the freedom to do anything he wanted when he wasn’t on duty. He was even wealthy, after winning the Hand’s Tourney. His life would be much better than hers was under the Lannister’s control. He wouldn’t risk it. This isn’t a song, stop being foolish, just go to sleep.
And yet… Who else would have left her the note?
Sansa heard a sudden commotion outside, growing louder and more urgent with each passing second. She looked out her window, heart pounding. Men were in the yard arming themselves to put down another skirmish in the restless city.
The drawbridge was unguarded.
A recklessness took hold of her. Without thinking, she pulled on a dark cloak and soft slippers, feeling as if she were in a dream. Before she knew it, she was flying across the drawbridge and up the serpentine to the godswood. No one even noticed her. Gods be good.
It was dark in the godswood, and quiet. She wondered if the Hound was still there, or if he had gotten tired of waiting and left. She drifted among the trees, thinking about the Hound, and escape, and Winterfell. She was suddenly grateful that the Red Keep had a godswood. A godswood was the perfect place for secret meetings—dark, quiet, private, with hiding places where secret plans of escape could be hatched. She imagined the Hound stepping out of the trees and pulling her close to whisper his plans of escape, and to pledge his sword to protect her from her enemies. Her throat was dry with anticipation, and she was breathing quickly with excitement. No one else could save her from the Lannisters and take her home. Only the Hound was strong and fearsome enough. She would be safe with him. He could protect her. Everyone was afraid of him.
Sansa heard a rustling from the trees to her right and turned eagerly to greet her rescuer. A fleshy, unkempt man emerged from the shelter of the trees and swayed as he moved towards her. “Ser Dontos?!?” she exclaimed. Her disappointment was so acute, she felt as if Ser Meryn had just punched her in the stomach with a mailed fist. Her head reeled and her heart fell. Distantly, she realized that part of her was surprised at how bereft she felt at the Hound’s absence. She had gotten too carried away in the excitement of the moment. She would have to try and control her imagination better. It was too painful to hope that someone might want to help her.
“My lady, I was afraid you would not come,” he murmured, slurring his words slightly. She could smell the wine on his breath even though he was more than an arm’s length away from her.
Sansa’s disappointment was starting to turn to anger. “It was you who left the note?”
“Yes my lady, it was poor, humble old Dontos. I would be a knight again for you,” Ser Dontos said weepily.
“I prayed and prayed to the gods for a knight to save me and take me home! Why would they send me a drunken old fool?!” She was angry, at herself as much as at him. The gods wouldn’t have even sent her the Hound. When had they ever helped her? If there were gods, they would have protected her father and struck Joffrey down. She really was a stupid little bird, just like the Hound said.
“I deserve that,” he said, humbly. “Yet I beg you to listen to me. You saved my life; I would save yours too. My life is worth nothing. If I lose it to save you, it will be worth it.”
Sansa remembered her courtesies. “My lord is too kind. But you are mistaken. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey. I am to be his Queen and have his babies.” A wisp of fear now tickled her spine. What if the Lannisters had put him up to this after all? Ser Dontos would report immediately to Cersei after they parted. Sansa felt panic rising in her throat. She was now quite convinced that she would be brought before the Queen on the morrow, to pay for her treason. She had to find a way out of this trap. “I will say nothing of this folly to His Grace or the Queen, and accept your gratitude for saving your life once again,” she said, her voice wavering only a little. She hated to be so cold to Ser Dontos, but she must protect herself against his accusations. He must not be allowed to believe that she sought to escape King’s Landing.
She left the godswood as quickly as her dignity would allow, and then flew down the serpentine, desperate to get back to her rooms, hoping the drawbridge was still unguarded. Head down, watching her feet so she wouldn’t fall and break her neck, she never saw the huge dark figure lurch out of a shadowed alcove along the stairs until she caromed into him at full speed.
She put her hands out to break her fall. Strong arms wrapped around her, breaking her momentum. She kept her head down hoping she wouldn’t be recognized, but it was too late. “It’s a long roll down the serpentine, little bird. Want to kill us both?” he rasped, and then laughed. “Maybe you do.” The Hound.
“No, my lord, pardons. I would never…” Sansa was finding it hard to catch her breath. Had he been on his way to the godswood to meet her, after all? The Hound was holding her as close as a lover, his breath hot against her neck and smelling of wine. How many drunken non-knights will I encounter before this night is through? she thought wildly. He forced her chin up so that she had to look at him.
“Where were you?” he growled, bending down so his face was inches from hers. She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t think pressed up against him so firmly, the heat radiating from his body so that it seemed to soak into her, warming her to the core. He smelled of wine and sweat and leather, masculine smells that overwhelmed her senses. She had never been this close to a man before. Her father had never hugged her so tightly, nor her brothers, nor even Joffrey. She was intensely aware of how big the Hound was. His roughspun tunic was scratchy, and the feel of his heavily muscled chest under her hands was a distraction, as was his hand around her waist. She could feel every one of his fingers digging into her side. His hands were so large… All he had to do was move his fingers just the littlest bit higher, and he would be touching—
“Where were you?” he asked again, squeezing her even tighter as if he could squeeze the answer from her. But if she thought it was hard to breathe before, it was nearly impossible now.
“In the g-g-godswood, praying, my lord,” she gasped. She wriggled to try and loosen his hold, give herself room to breathe, but that only made her even more aware of other places their bodies were touching. She could feel the hilt of his sword digging into her belly. His hips were right there and her own hips were pressing into his, a bit more than she realized they would when she started squirming to get away from him. To her shock, she realized that she enjoyed the feeling, and the realization that she was being embraced by a man, a true man, grown and hardened and seasoned in battle, feared by all…
An image of their bodies joined together there, both of them writhing and panting like she was doing right now, suddenly flashed in her mind’s eye. The heat that had begun pooling in her belly flooded up into her chest and face and neck, and she blushed furiously and lowered her eyes.
No, she mustn’t think like this. This was the Hound. She shouldn’t be excited about his embrace. If it was Ser Loras or Ser Waymar Royce in his place, she thought she would very much enjoy being his captive. But this was the Hound, he was lowborn and ugly and cruel, she told herself, and more than that, he was the Lannister’s dog. It was wrong of her to feel this way. She tried to remember all the times he mocked her, but instead she remembered him gently wiping the blood off of her lip after Ser Meryn struck her.
“Think I’m so drunk I’d believe that?” the Hound said, releasing her. He kept a grip on her arm, though. His gaze dropped from her face to take in her body. She hadn’t had a new gown made in ages, and she had grown in the last year. She was suddenly mindful of the fact that the fabric of her bodice stretched tight across her chest, pushing her full breasts together and causing her bosom to heave wantonly as she tried to calm her breathing. As if that wasn’t unseemly enough, the cool night air made her nipples stand out. Sansa tried to will them to go back down. The Hound couldn’t look away. “You look almost a woman now,” he said, with a hungry, surprised look.
And you are most certainly a man. The thought came to her unbidden. Now that there was space between them, Sansa realized with a shock that the Hound wasn’t wearing his swordbelt.
“Face, teats… You’re taller too,” he mused, swaying slightly. “Almost a…” His words trailed off and he looked her in the eyes again, intense.
The hardness that she had felt pressing into her belly was… Was his… His… His manhood. Which, judging from the strained bulge in his breeches, was every bit as big as the rest of him. Sansa trembled. She had never actually seen anyone’s manhood before, but she desperately wanted to now. She could only imagine what his looked like. A dull ache had begun to build between her thighs. She kept her gaze lowered modestly and hoped he didn’t realize she was actually staring at his groin, trying to picture what his erect… cock… (even thinking the word made her want to die of embarrassment) would look like.
A lady doesn’t think such things! Had she forgotten all of Septa Mordane’s lessons, all of her training? This was not seemly. She had no idea how to make sense of the feelings that were suddenly flooding through her. She licked her lower lip without realizing it, and looked back at the Hound’s face.
He reeled, almost falling down the serpentine, and staggered back to lean against the wall. “Gods,” he laughed. “Too much wine.”