Chapter Text
Sandor was the first one the Little Bird told.
She found him as he lingered outside her rooms, with a flask in hand.
Her small hands wrapped around his, as she tugged the flask away from his mouth. “Sandor,” Sansa chided gently, her eyes meeting his. “It isn’t the afternoon yet.”
“I’m no ser, waiting until I can fuck off to some tavern” Sandor sneered, though his tone lacked its usual bite. Sansa smiled at the familiar words, and he felt warmth roll across his chest, the only flame that he wasn’t afraid of. “I’ll stay here, if you allow it, your Grace”
He let her pull the flask away, and place it on the marble floor beside them.
“Am I not your Little Bird still?” Sansa asked.
Sandor scowled, his response like harsh nettles as they stuck to his tongue. She wasn't, he longed to say, ever since he'd seen her fucked and mated by the very masters of Dorne. Her life was inside the kingdom walls, ones that Sandor knew he would never breach. It was only his position as her personal guard that allowed him near, as he watched her spread her wings and soar.
The thought made him want to sneer, as he heard Joffrey’s familiar words; “Do you think anyone would adore you for your poetry, Hound? There’s only one use for your mouth -“
He was far less than other men, yet far more still.
“Your Grace -“
“None of that,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “You’re my closest friend, Sandor. My only friend here.”
“A pity that is,” Sandor replied, thinking of the attendants that surrounded her. It was everything that she deserved, as her mates made her queen. Yet -
He couldn’t forget how they’d escaped in the night, both of them leaving a world behind that no one in Dorne would understand. Her scars had faded as his never would, yet he knew she bore scars still; ones that made her tremble when the courtiers pressed near, and how she always tucked a bit of her meal in her pocket; a few dates here, a biscuit there, before thrusting them into his hands as she retired. They both remembered their hunger when Sandor had spirited her away from King's Landing.
He knew her in ways her mates never would, regardless of their mark on her neck.
It was this thought that kept Sandor steady, as he listened outside her door during the nights that they visited her. It was the Little Bird's cries that filled the hallways, as Sandor and every guard heard her sweet cries and her gasps of delight, as both of her mates had their way with her. It was widely rumored that the royal brothers were insatiable for their mate, beyond reason.
Sandor had beaten one guard bloody, who had agreed with the rumor; remarking that “any would wish to revel between the girl’s legs -“ and the guard had lost his post near the imperial chambers. Oberyn often regarded Sandor the same as one would a mangled, old hound as if he were amused in Sansa's devotion to him. Doran was harder to read, his gaze rarely meeting Sandor's, yet he knew that he would never be allowed near Sansa if either brother objected.
He bent his head nearer hers, as she regarded his scars without fear. "Am I not yours?" Sansa asked as if she were a young girl at court again, entirely innocent of the natures that men had. She was grown in many ways, yet Sandor remembered the uncertain tilt of her chin and the way she had tugged at her sleeves. She was uncertain and proud, and kinder than anyone else, and the court had immediately decided to devour her.
Her kind was never welcome in the world that Sandor knew then, not while the Lannisters ruled. She was weakened by the cunt between her legs, and the innocent look in her eyes, as if she were oblivious to how horrid the world could be. Sandor’s hand strayed to his scar, the pads of his fingers skimming the ruined flesh there. He learned the truth of the world in a brutal fashion, the same as Sansa had.
“Aye,” Sandor said, unable to lie to her. “You are, Little Bird.”
He guarded her as no one else did, his position higher than the guards Doran assigned her. He and his brother, Oberyn, took little chance with her safety, rarely allowing her outside the castle walls. She was a little bird in her cage again, only this time a gilded one, with adoring owners.
Sandor hated it all.
Her intricate braids brushed against his chin, as she stood on the tips of her toes to bring her face closer to his. She unnerved him in ways that bloodshed and dancing flames never had, as he stood taut before her. “May I tell you something, Sandor?”
He jerked his head in agreement, never expecting the words she said next -
Her hands circled his wrist, as she brought it down to rest on her stomach. There he felt a nearly imperceptible swell, one that he recognized as the end of his dreams, and solidified his desire to stay with her. "It’s been two months now,” Sansa whispered, a rosy pink emerging on her cheeks. “I thought it was too early to tell but -“
Her pheromones swirled on his tongue, a tanginess to her scent that hadn’t been there before. “You’re the first one to know,” Sansa admitted, as she released his hand. His fingers spread across her stomach still, as if he could feel the life that fluttered within her. “Do you…do you think they will be pleased?”
Sandor snorted, unable to resist doing so. "Of course, they will, Little Bird. Only a foul cunt would -" he broke away, as he saw the look on her face, "would be displeased," he finished, knowing that he would knock them upside the head if they reacted poorly. He was damned to follow his Little Bird regardless of where she went and would sacrifice his hand, or his head for her.
He had little interest in the whores that freely filled the kingdom, and rarely took leave away from his post. There were few guards that he trusted near Sansa, though he mingled among the barracks and through the castle often enough to know how well-regarded she was. Her sweetness was alluring, the same as her empathetic nature was, and stories soon spread of her kind word, and actions. Still, Sandor trusted few and had fewer still expectations of her safety, knowing how quickly attitudes could change toward royalty.
Gods, had he not thought Joffrey was a charming if imperious little boy at first?
There were thoughts he would never put into words, the same as he was loath to pursue the violence that burned within his veins. It was a poison, one as pungent as Stranger’s shit, that flowed within him; one that he couldn’t escape from. Nor would he, as he followed in the last Stark’s wake.
(‘Is that why you sleep outside her door, the dog that you are?’ Joffrey’s voice taunted, ‘Are you a bitch in heat, Hound? Should I release you into the kennels, and let the true hounds have their way?’)
Sansa nibbled on her bottom lip, as she pondered his words. "I'll tell them tonight," she said before her eyes met his again. "Will you stay with me? I -" she swallowed, his eyes straying to her throat. "I always feel safer when you're near."
They both knew how quickly Joffrey’s attitude had changed, especially toward Sansa, as she was his plaything then. For as long as Sandor lived, he would regret not stealing her away sooner; before she ever had a mark on her fair skin, and tears streaming down her cheeks. It wasn’t the way of the world, not the one that Sandor had once known.
It was one that Sansa's mates seemed to know and adhered to, though Sandor had little trust for either of them. He minded his distance from them, the same as he had Cersei and her sniveling husband, and loathsome brother. Only Doran and Oberyn were the same as any lamprey; sly and slippery in ones’ hold, always finding a way to make their keeper let go. It ensured their survival, both in politics and in the kingdom of Dorne, where some were displeased with their rule.
Yet even Sandor knew Dorne was far better for Sansa and himself, as warm and brimming with life as it was. It was one of the few places where Sansa was safe from the Lannisters, and far from those that sought to use her; like the cunt, Littlefinger. And if Sansa was safe, Sandor knew that he had to content himself with staying behind her, as he’d sworn his oath to her and her alone. And, Sandor supposed, any child that came from her.
“Aye,” Sandor said gruffly, “You know that I will.”