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It had been two days since Sandor had told her a tracking party was almost upon them.
Sansa’s life in those two days had been… appropriately dogged. Fleeing towards the nearby hills with soldiers at their heels, her body and mind both almost on the point of breaking, and Sansa had known…
Sansa had known…
They were going to die.
At least she would not die a maiden. Sansa had been painfully, horribly delighted at how like a song her life had become; saved from an evil prince by a hero who loved her utterly. Even if he said it only with actions and not – yet – with words. She shouldn’t have let him kiss her, shouldn’t have kissed him first. This was something her propriety forbade.
Yet this was how songs went. She was in a song, not a castle, and she could no more deny his passion than she could have stopped the sun rising.
And now their song was ending, as so many songs did, with blood and death. In a way, she comforted herself, that was fitting.
I always wanted to live a song.
He had left behind their horses and carried her in his arms along a hillside track. She wondered why they did not just let themselves fall off the ledge down to the rocks below.
A moss-dressed stone jutted like a monolith out of the hill into their path. Sandor dodged around the side of it with dizzyingly confident balance, then squeezed her down in the roots of a tree determined to grow where it clung. She could have laughed as he crouched over her. Even she alone could not have hidden behind this tree, little more than a sapling. Sansa resigned herself to death, hoping it would be quick.
The Hound made his disdain for how songs were meant to end quite apparent when the soldiers approached from behind the boulder. As soon as the first was past, Clegane had moved like a snake, his sword flashing as fangs, and Sansa realised that she and the Hound had been lying in ambush for them.
A choke point. The banner-men and battle-scarred lords her father had hosted occasionally at the high table loved to excitedly recount their military campaigns. Although it bored Sansa to tears, she had always tried to at least pretend to pay polite attention.
Actually seeing one in action, though, seeing men trapped, panicked, slaughtered one by one, had given the word a whole new meaning.
As had the fact that after the last red cloak had disarmed Clegane, and Sansa had thought he was going to die such a very, very brave death, the Hound had ducked under the soldier’s sword, crashed his aurochs-broad shoulder into the other man, falling on him like an avalanche, then knelt on his chest and literally choked the life out of him.
It had taken several minutes.
Then the Hound had turned his attention to her.
Sansa sprawled on the battlefield among carrion; crouched, crushed, held trapped like a frightened animal. And she was frightened. Had been frightened for days, and terrified from the moment the Lannister soldiers appeared.
Horrified that at any second she would witness the death of the man who gave everything to protect her.
Frantic each time a blade had entered a body, and made it rain blood.
Sansa was not afraid for herself now. She wasn’t in any pain. Or if she was, it was of the exquisite kind. Her body was saturated with wondrous pleasure. Was it the fear or the blood or the sight of life leaving someone’s body that made her own feel so outrageously alive? Every sensation tenfold what she was accustomed to.
Her knees and forearms were stinging, and most of her body ached. She felt both hot and cold at once, like a furnace was burning inside her, but chill from the cold air on her sweat-slicked skin. She was another fallen body beneath him.
With every impact of his hips onto hers, she felt like the man who was pounded into the earth under Clegane’s wrath. She had to shut her eyes to stop herself from reflexively looking at the poor wretch in question. His body was the sole one that was not sodden with blood, but he had churned up the ground underneath himself.
The whole slope stank of mud and blood and shit. There were pale things showing through the gashes in the soldier’s flesh she wished she could un-see. This was a horror, and wrong, wrong, like spitting on the graves these men would never have. She wanted to stop, to flee, to forget any of this had ever happened. Instead she was pinned here, forced into a jeering celebration of life in the face of death.
He was stabbing into her, stabbing, stabbing, and blood stuck to her in red handprints everywhere he touched. He himself was adorned with it like a thousand crimson jewels. Sansa trembled with hope that none was his own.
But if I told him to, even now, he would stop, she tried to assure herself. If I call out, he will stop. Wouldn’t he? Could she be sure? Her mouth was desiccated from panting, her tongue seemingly swollen to fill her whole mouth. Speech was impossible.
Not for him, sadly, as he bellowed out curses and moaned of his appalling delight at seeing his heavy cock impale her softest, secret place.
The glazed eyes of a dead man reflected the light of the setting sun, catching her own eye as though he were winking at her. Five men slaughtered. For her. And even in his bloodlust he would stop if she commanded him.
All of a sudden she heard his groans and pants above her with a peculiar new view. They were so akin to the sounds made by these freshly slain soldiers as they fought to survive. Although her eyes remained fixed ahead, she felt as though she were looking back, upwards, through her own skull.
She was not yet another victim of the Hound to fall on this blood-soaked ground. He was fighting still. He was groaning in agony against a foe he could not best. And she- Blood surged into her head, her heartbeat made so loud in her ears it almost drowned out all else.
He liked it when she held tight the muscles of her womb and thighs around him, she knew.
Sansa used her every feeble ounce of strength to crush his member inside her.
With a sudden bursting shout that pierced the clouded sky, Sandor Clegane yielded.