Chapter Text
“Fuck the king.”
The Hound spat, his voice low, filled with resentment and disgust, pointed right at Joffrey.
With his decision made, Sandor turned on his heels and walked away. No longer bound by duty or loyalty to a king unworthy of either, he left the chaos behind him, walking away from the war raging at Blackwater, from the Lannisters, from everything.
Joffrey looked at the back of the man, his heart hammered with shock, trying to comprehend the quick turn of events. He wanted to run after the Hound, to force him back and to shout his stubborn, ugly head off, and in the heat of the moment he instantly decided to do so. He ran down the stairs of the battlement, as Tyrion called after him in vain, and quickly dashed after his guard. There’s only one place he could catch up with Clegane, and that’s the stables, the brute surely won’t leave King's Landing by foot.
Joffrey's heart pounded in his chest like a caged bird as he navigated through the streets. His armour clattering around as he moved with a calculated haste, his steps controlled, trying not to betray the fear that gnawed at him. His eyes darted around, ensuring that no one perceived him as fleeing from the battle. He dodged through the soldiers and the common folk, their faces a blur of panic, none wasted even a glance at him, too busy with their own survival. The stables were barely visible ahead, when he already heard the horses within wild with fear, they whined and stomped, their distress palpable as the sounds of battle continued to echo through the city, loud like thunders in a storm. Joffrey entered, his breath short, finding the place eerily empty, but he decided to wait, his mind racing with scenarios of confrontation, each one ending with his Dog back at his side, where he belonged.
—————————————————————————
Meanwhile, Sandor's boots thudded with purpose, each step lighter with his newfound freedom. The battlefield's cries receded as he walked away, his soul heavy with the weight of his decision. His thoughts were scattered, in his mind, fogged by drink and the adrenaline of war, a plan formed, a twisted sense of vengeance against Joffrey. He would take from the king what the boy held dear, stripping him of power.
Entering Sansa's room, Sandor found it empty, so he sat on her bed, his presence alone enough to fill the space with dread and the smell of war, thick and heavy. His body slumped in the mattress, the clean sheets stained with mud and blood seeping out of him. And he was in luck, as the door soon creaked open and Sansa entered, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of the Hound, his silhouette menacing against the dim light.
"Little bird," Sandor breathed, the words cutting through the silence and Sansa froze, her heart skipping a beat in terror as Sandor rose from the bed, towering over her.
“Ser” she chirped, her voice cracking “What are you doing here?” Her heart raced, and she took a stumbling step backwards to the door where she came from.
“I’m no Ser!” The Hound sneered and his fist came down on the door, shutting it with a loud bang, cutting off Sansa’s escape routes completely, he leaned closer, his breath stinking of wine and death “I’m “ he paused, shaking his head, as if physically getting rid of a thought “I was the king’s dog, not anymore…. I’m leaving.”
Sansa knew she should’ve been more careful with addressing the man the proper way as he made it clear several times, he loathed being called a Ser, but apart from that, she had no idea what the brute was talking about, his speech was slurred, his breath laboured, like he was still fighting a war.
"I could keep you safe," The Hound continued, his voice almost soft, promising. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them." He reached out, pulling her closer with a strength that left no room for resistance. Her eyes squeezed shut, anticipating violence, but instead, there was only the heavy breath of Sandor.
"Still can't bear to look, can you?" The Hound’s voice was a harsh whisper, filled with an edge of pain. He threw her down onto the bed and was on her in a flash, his dagger gleaming in the scant light. "I'll have that song then. Florian and Jonquil, you said." The blade came at her throat, a cold reminder of his control. "Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life."
But instead of singing, Sansa's hand moved with a
strange instinct, her fingers finding Sandor’s cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, the stickiness of blood, and something else. The room was too dark to see clearly, but she felt the raw, unguarded emotion in his voice. She thought about the time he told her that she’ll be grateful for how hateful he is, when only he will be standing between her and her beloved king. If he really goes, she will remain on her own, bare in front of Joffrey, who surely will take his frustration out on her. Choosing between the two evil, Sandor seemed to be the lesser of the two, but evil, none the less.
"Little bird," the man repeated, his voice breaking like steel on stone. The moment stretched, filled with the potential for violence or salvation. Then, Sandor abruptly stood before he would do something he’d regret later, his decision was made. "You'll come with me, whether you like it or not. You'll thank me later." His grip was like iron as he pulled her up and threw her to her chest in the corner of the room, ordering her to pack what she could, his dagger still a constant, threatening presence in his hand.
Soon Sandor, with Sansa in tow, moved through the corridors, with the sounds of the battle still a distant roar in the background. His chamber was dark and plain, and Sansa peeked around, wondering how anyone could live like this for years on end. Sandor looked around in the cluttered room, finding his few possessions hastily, his movements sharp despite the state of him, then shutting the door, leaving the remnants of a life spent in service without a second thought. Sansa’s heart was filled with dread as Sandor prepared to leave everything behind, tugging her along the journey, but she knew it wouldn’t be wise for her to stay. Her fate would be dreadful, whether Joffrey’s army win this fight or not.
With their few belongings secured, they made their way to the stables, Sandor entered first, his broad frame filling the doorway, only to freeze at the sight before him. Joffrey stood in the middle of the stables, his face angry from the betrayal of his Hound.
“Oh, surprised to see me, Dog ? I knew you'd come, sooner or later….” Joffrey’s voice was a string of words dipped in poison, low and dangerous, but his eyes soon found Sansa and his voice hitched, finding a higher note.
"I’ll have you return to your post, Clegane…. and will you care to share what SHE IS DOING HERE ?!” Joffrey almost shrieked, pointing a shaky finger at Sansa.
Sandor didn't flinch, his eyes meeting Joffrey's with a cold, unyielding stare, but Sansa trembled under Joffrey’s gaze, trying to be as small as possible behind her new protector. If she could, she would surely disappear into thin air.
"I'm done and she is coming with me, she had enough of your torments” the Hound said, his voice rough.
Sansa quietly hid behind him, not eager to go anywhere near the mad king. Joffrey took a step forward, his eyes wide with shock, his breath coming in quick bursts, working himself into a frenzy.
“So you're not just abandoning your king, but robbing him too?!” He shouted, the disbelief clear on his face as his eyebrows rose.
Sandor took a step, then another towards Joffrey, then walked past him towards Stranger, his shoulder brushing against the king, as the boy didn't budge from the spot.
“I won’t let you, Dog!” Joffrey spat, spinning around as he drew his sword, hand trembling, the blade shaking with his barely controlled anger.
Sansa gasped, a sound soft yet filled with terror, her hands covering her mouth, not about to draw attention to herself as he backed up to the stalls. The horses around them snorted, sensing the unease, mirroring their emotions.
But Sandor did not even grace the boy’s with a glance, knowing well that Joffrey was putting on a parade, as usual, and he was so damn tired of it. He searched for Strangers saddle and started to pack the horse for the journey ahead of them.
“Put that thing down, before you cut yourself, Your Grace” he flicked the words at Joffrey over his shoulder with disdain “you don’t deserve the effort to fight over”
Sandor's words were like a low blow to Joffrey, the realization that his protector, the one person bound to him through gold, but whom he foolishly thought might share a bond beyond mere service, was leaving him. And on top of that the brute was stealing Sansa too, the betrayal cut deep.
"You can't leave," Joffrey's voice trembled now, the realisation that he was alone, that his power was easily dismissed by those he thought he controlled seeping in his mind, tainting his thoughts. He lowered his weapon "I'll give you anything you want, just name it, and it's yours, just please stay!" His composure crumbled, his desperate begs rang through the neigh of the horses.
Sandor, focused on Stranger, his movements were a clear signal of his resolve. He could ask Joffrey to give him his freedom, but he knew his wishes would only be granted if they pleased Joffrey. So it was pointless.
Joffrey stepped closer, his free hand reaching out to grab Sandor's arm, a physical plea for the connection they never truly had.
He was pulling the large man to face him, and Sandor let him, the touch foreign and fraught with emotion.
"You've been with me through everything," Joffrey pleaded, his eyes searching Sandor's for any sign of relenting. "You were there when I was scared, when I was alone, when I needed protection” he trailed off “company” his eyes gleaming, a faint smile, strange and unfit for his features tugging at his lips as he continued “I need you, I need you now more than ever."
Sandor, taken aback by the touch, by the vulnerability in Joffrey's voice, looked down at the boy. There was a moment where the world seemed to stop, the sounds of war outside muted, the only sound the ragged breathing of a king on the brink of losing everything he knew.
"I'm done with this. All of it." Sandor's voice was low, almost gentle in its firmness.
Joffrey's eyes instantly welled with tears, the realization sinking in that Sandor would not be swayed. His heart was breaking at the thought of being left alone.
Joffrey's hands moved to Sandor's chest, a last attempt at connection, his fingers trembling, tracing his bloody armour without care for his own hands staying clean or not. "I can change," he whispered, desperation in every syllable as he leaned in closer, almost intimately. "I'll be better, I swear it to you and the Gods above, just stay."
“Please”
Sandor gently removed Joffrey's hand, completely stricken by the boy's demeanour, his eyes never leaving the king's. "You can't change what you are. And I can't change what I've become because of it." He turned away, the finality of his decision echoing in the silence that followed.
Sansa watched the exchange, her own heart heavy, she never saw Joffrey like this, never knew he could act like this. The boy who had terrorized her, ordered death to anyone who presumably wronged him, now stood diminished, begging for something he never truly had- loyalty cannot be bought or coerced, but it seemed as if he was begging for more than just loyalty here.
With a quick angry and accusing glance at her, as if this was somehow all her fault, Joffrey sheathed his sword and started to francticly pack a saddle, with determined movements he approached one of the white mares in the stable.
Sandor finished with Stranger. “Come now, girl” he motioned to Sansa and she dashed to him, afraid to get in the proximity of Joffrey. The Hound picked Sansa up to help her in the saddle at the back of Stranger, but his hands clenched the reins as he climbed up and looked towards Joffrey, his patience thinning as he saw the boy’s frantic yet determined movements, saddling the mare. With Sansa secured behind him, Sandor's voice was a low, dangerous growl, his previous weakness leaving his body as Joffrey’s pleading gaze was not fixed on him.
"And what do you think you're doing?" His eyes were like steel.
"I'm coming with you," Joffrey declared, his voice sharp with stubbornness, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Sandor let out a bark of laughter, harsh and cruel. "’The Hell you are! You think you can just follow me into the night ? You're not fit for what lies beyond the walls."
Joffrey's grip on the mare's reins was white-knuckled, his face set in a mask of defiance, the insult rolled of of him. "Oh, but I am fit for anything with YOU! I'll not be left here, I am your king, and you will NOT abandon me! You understand?!”
"You're no king of mine," Sandor snarled, his voice thick with contempt.
Joffrey's eyes blazed, he snapped back, as entitled as always .”You owe me your loyalty “
Sandor shook his head, his voice lowering to a deadly whisper. "I owe you nothing.” He breathed with a finality, then turned Stranger towards the stable's exit.
But Joffrey's resolve was hard, his effort to cling to his protector making him even more unreasonable as he already was.
"I'll not have your blood on my hands." Sandor called back, but Joffrey ignored the warning.
He finished saddling his mare, his movements now fueled by determination. As Sandor spurred Stranger forward, Joffrey mounted his horse and followed, the mare galloped after them, the clattering of hooves echoing through the streets.
Sandor glanced back, his expression one of dark resignation. "Fool of a king," he muttered to himself, knowing that the road ahead was now even more perilous with that damned dumb blonde tagging along like a tick.
—————————————————————————
As they left the protective, yet war-torn walls of King's Landing behind, the only sound was the rhythmic drumming of their horses' hooves against the earth. Joffrey's pleas had ceased, replaced by a silent determination to revisit the argument when they stopped. But Sandor did not stop as the sun began to rise.
The landscape changed subtly, the familiar paths giving way to less-traveled routes, and the trio veered off the beaten track to avoid any who might follow or recognize the king. Joffrey, his earlier confidence now tinged with unease, watched as the familiar sights of the capital dwindled into the distance, replaced by the wild, untamed beauty of the countryside.
By the time night threatened to fall again, exhaustion had set in, their horses got slower and weary, their bodies aching from the saddle. Sandor finally halted, choosing a secluded spot far from any road or village. The silence that had enveloped them during the ride now felt heavy, charged with unspoken words and the weight of their flight.
Dismounting, Sandor's movements were slow, his body protesting after the long ride. Sansa slid off Stranger, her legs shaky, her gaze avoiding Joffrey as she stretched her cramped muscles. Joffrey looked around, his mare snorting in relief, though she did not have to carry much, the reality of their situation setting in. They were far from King's Landing, the comfort of his castle now a distant memory, but he wasn’t about giving up.
"We need to rest," Sandor said, his voice gruff from disuse, as he began to unsaddle Stranger, his actions methodical.
Joffrey, hungry and tired, his royal demeanor cracking under the strain of their already long journey, finally spoke, his voice less commanding, more weary. " We should go back." He suggested.
Sandor's response was a grunt as he set about making a rudimentary camp. “Go then, no one stops you.”
“Pfff, don’t be ridiculous, I’d be dead before I reach the walls, riding back alone” Joffrey puffed, rolling his eyes, like the suggestion was somehow more ridiculous than his own.
“You should've thought of that before following us into the wild." Sandor retorted.
Sansa, quietly helping with the camp, kept her thoughts to herself, her eyes occasionally darting to Joffrey, a mixture of pity and wariness in her gaze.
Joffrey sighed, the weight of his decision heavy upon him. "We can't stay out here. It's not safe."
Sandor looked at him like he was stupid, his face illuminated by the small fire he'd managed to start, his eyes reflecting the flames, but after a long pause he rasped at Joffrey.
“Are you frightened, Your Grace?” A cruel smile playing on his lips.
“Frightened?” Joffrey echoed the words, raising his eyebrows at his guard. “I’m not!” He protested.
Sandor’s gaze bore into Joffrey, considering him for a moment before he spoke “ You should be.”
“Is that a threat?” Joffrey shot back, his voice edged with defiance and a hint of uncertainty, narrowing his eyes at Sandor.
"Take it as you wish, but nowhere’s safe anymore. Not for you, not for any of us." Sandor responded, his tone flat once again, but his eyes flickered over Joffrey’s form, assessing him. Joffrey caught the look, his tone sharp with suspicion “What?”
“That armour makes you a walking target. Take it off."
Joffrey gazed down on his armour, gleaming in the dim light of the fire as an ill-suited beacon for stealth. Sandor, by contrast, was the embodiment of their escape, his armor stained with blood from the battle, his face etched with fatigue. Sansa, though outwardly more composed, carried the same air of tension as the king. Joffrey hesitated, the idea of shedding his armor seemed unsafe.
But he was not inconvincible with enough reason, so he reluctantly began to unbuckle his armor, each piece clanging softly as he placed them on the ground. Sandor, with a nod of approval, went back to his task, spreading out blankets and organizing their meager supplies.
The less we look like what we were, the better chance we have." Sandor said, his words a blend of advice and warning.
Sansa, with a quiet efficiency, helped cover any tracks that might lead back to them, understanding the need for secrecy, trying to be as useful as she could in their dire circumstances and trying to not rouse the Hound’s anger at herself by doing nothing.
Joffrey, now in his underclothes, felt exposed and vulnerable, he wrapped his arms around himself, an attempt to shield his body, his pride wounded by the exposure.
“Little bird,” Sandor called out, his voice rough and low, addressing Sansa who was startled enough to nearly drop the twigs she had gathered for the fire. Her gaze darted to Sandor’s direction, then forcing herself to look at the man's hideously burned face. The effort only earned her a twist of the Hound’s mouth.
“Give the boy something to wear,” Sandor instructed, leaving no room for debate.
“But…” Sansa began, her voice trailing off as she looked down at her own garments. She had nothing that would fit Joffrey, she only brought dresses, all too delicate and feminine to fit for Joffrey’s frame. Her eyes flicked to the king, meeting his loathsome glare, his disdain for her evident.
“What are you waiting for girl, fetch a dress!” Sandor's command echoed through the small clearing, the absurdity of the suggestion hitting both Joffrey and Sansa like a physical blow. The idea was laughable, yet neither of them laughed, in their situation, it made a twisted kind of sense. Joffrey, though taller, could pass for Sansa's sister with enough distance and dim light.
Okay, maybe a lot of distance.
"This is madness," Joffrey protested, his voice laced with disbelief, looking at Sandor, then at Sansa.
"Madness is staying in that armour and announcing to every bandit and sellsword who you are," Sandor retorted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You want to live? You'll wear her clothes."
Sansa rummaged through her belongings with haste, not to anger any of them with her slowness, her fingers brushing past items that held memories of a life that now felt like another world. She pulled out a dress, grayish blue in color, one that Sandor recognized instantly.
It was the same dress she had worn when they first left the North, a garment that had seen her through the journey to King's Landing, where it had been donned several times in court. He imagined several times how it’d look ripped from the girl's form.
The dress was long, its hemline promising to reach Joffrey's ankles, and it had a corset at the back that could be pulled to fit the boy’s frame. Joffrey's face twisted into a mask of disgust as he eyed the garment. However, the necessity of the moment forced him into reluctant acceptance. He extended his hand for it, his eyes rolling in a childlike defiance as he took it from Sansa.
As Joffrey put on the dress, the fabric stretched slightly to accommodate his body, and while the garment was simple, it had softened his features in a way that made him appear less like the proud king he once was, but more like a lady of ethereal beauty from the tales of old. Sandor, shaking his head, took in the sight with disbelief.
He recalled Sansa wearing the blue dress and while she was undeniably pretty in it, Joffrey had a completely different effect. He knew the boy for almost a decade now, he saw him grow up in front of his very eyes, but he never saw him this way before, he was fair, despite his protests and discomfort, the little cunt looked almost prettier than Sansa.
Sandor had long harbored lustful thoughts towards the girl, he would lie if he’d say he never wanted to bend the little bird and claim her as his own, although his desires only surfaced when the girl was near. He wasn’t one of those men who yearned over some bitch, losing themselves over something as widely available as the wetness between women’s legs. No, he prided himself being a reasonable and free man, and he didn’t know Sansa at all, but with Joffrey, there was a complexity, their shared past made this moment resonate with much deeper notes. The boy was damn near captivating.
“Who would’ve thought you make such a fine lady?” Sandor's voice was a low, rough chuckle, his smirk barely concealed by the gruffness of his tone.
Joffrey, despite his attempts to maintain his royal composure, couldn't help but blush at Sandor's remark. The color rose to his cheeks, a flush of embarrassment, that did not escape Sandor's notice, nor Sansa’s, who felt a fleeting relief at not being the center of the Hound's intense gaze for once as she recognised the low lying hunger in the man’s voice, having it heard countless times before.
Sandor's smirk deepened, seeing the rare vulnerability in Joffrey's eyes. "Well, well, look at that," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, instinctively biting his bottom lip as the sight stirred him, the rush of the war still heavy in his veins.
Joffrey, feeling the weight of Sandor's gaze deepening, turned away, his face burning “This is humiliating” he muttered as his hands adjusted the dress with an awkwardness that only added to the illusion. Joffrey’s discomfort took over his usual arrogance and replaced it with an uncharacteristic bashfulness.
Sandor, tucking the flush of Joffrey’s cheek away in his mind, to ponder over it later, felt a sense of satisfaction as he continued preparing the camp, forcing his mind on the practicalities of the task at hand. This was not the Joffrey he knew.
Sansa observed Joffrey with tired eyes as she accepted a slice of bread from Sandor. There was a part of her that felt a twisted satisfaction in seeing the boy now so humbled, yet she also understood their shared vulnerability.
“Here” she said between two bites, finding a light cape, slightly darker than the dress Joffrey was wearing, and offering it to him. Joffrey eyed it warily before accepting it then putting it on the side, his movements stiff.
"You'll be safer like this," she said softly, knowing well the dangers of being a lady in times like these, and in the presence of a man who’s running from war, her words meant to soothe Joffrey's hurt pride.
But Joffrey’s temper flared quickly “I don’t need your fucking sympathy” he snapped back at her with unnecessary harshness and Sandor looked at them instantly. He was not about to waste his last ounce of energy on playing a peacemaker in a children’s quarrel.
Sansa flinched at the sharp retort and feeling Sandor’s eyes on herself again. Joffrey’s cruelty reminded her of their past, yet the boy’s words lacked the strength they held before, maybe because this was no longer Joffrey’s battlefield, he was no longer her king, he had no power out here.
“As you wish” she replied,returning to her dinner, her voice steady and calm, which only made Joffrey sneer at her.
The night slowly closed around them as they prepared for sleep, the camp now set under the trees and the night sky.
Joffrey, drowsy and defeated, continued to fidget with the ornate flowers on the dress, his fingers seeking relief from the delicate but irritating decorations, taking them off one by one, his stomach filled with dread for their shared journey ahead and how long it will take to convince his guard to return to safety. He refused the bread Sandor offered to him as well.
Sandor only shrugged, convincing Joffrey of anything was pointless and a waste of effort, but despite his own fatigue, he couldn't resist a few more jabs at the boy, his words both a shield for his own conflicted feelings and a way to establish their new hierarchy.
"If I’d known you could make a dress look so good, I’d have suggested this waaaaay sooner” Sandor rasped, his voice low and teasing as he took a swig of his wineskin, washing down the dry bread. "If we meet any bandits, they might just try to court you instead of rob you."
Joffrey, his face a mask of indignation, shot back, "Shut your mouth, Clegane."
Sandor's smirk only grew wider at the remark.
Sansa, lying down a short distance away, tried to suppress her own amusement, her eyes reflecting the firelight as she watched the exchange. She knew well the cruelty of Joffrey, so it was amusing seeing him coming undone and deep down she knew The Hound was only trying to ease the tension of their situation.
"Perhaps you should practice your curtsy.” Sandor mused, “Wouldn't want to offend any of your new friends," his tone was light but not without an edge.
Joffrey glared at him, his hands fumbling with the dress as he tried to find comfort in his new role. But left Sandor without a retort, too tired to engage in the banter any longer.
Sandor finally turned his attention to his own bedroll, his laughter fading into the night. "Sleep well ladies," he said with a mock bow as he retreated, but only Sansa reacted to his witty remark with a badly suppressed giggle.
They each found their spots around the camp, the fire's warmth offering a small comfort against the chill of the night. Joffrey, still seething but exhausted from the day, lay down, the dress an unwelcome but necessary blanket around him. Sandor, with one last look at Joffrey, settled down, his mind wrestling with his thoughts.
Sansa, already half asleep, wore a delicate smile, amused by the earlier exchange as her eyes fluttered shut. As silence fell upon them, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the distant calls of the night, each lost in their own thoughts, the boundaries of their former lives blurring with each passing moment. They did not have the energy to appoint a watch for the night.
Joffrey's blush faded into the darkness, but the memory of it lingered in Sandor's mind as he dozed off.
- - -
The night was heavy with the echoes of battle still fresh in Sandor's mind, the surge of the fight lingering in his veins, keeping him restless. Joffrey, draped in that simple dress, had unwittingly become the focus of his pent-up energy and dark desires, rousing him in ways that both confused and excited him. He cannot touch Sansa if he wants to bring her to safety or exchange her to her brother at the north for some gold, but Joffrey… they would take him happily broken or not.
His gaze drifted towards Joffrey. The sight of the boy, now in this new, vulnerable guise was maddening. He moved closer, his presence looming over Joffrey, who was feigning sleep to escape reality. Sandor's voice was a low growl, barely above a whisper, "You’re fuckin’ irresistible, you know that?”
Joffrey’s eyes snapped open, his body visibly tensed under the fabric of the dress. "Stay away, Clegane," he whispered, though his voice was weak.
But Sandor was past listening, his need for relief was fixated on Joffrey. "You look like you could use some protection now," he murmured, his hand brushing against the fabric of the dress, testing the boundaries.
Joffrey, feeling the heat of Sandor's breath, the roughness of his touch, was at a loss, with his usual arsenal of cruelty stripped away from him. "This is not what you want," he whispered still, trying to push the Hound’s hand away, not yet realizing the weight of his guard’s actions, but his words meant nothing to the man.
Sandor's laugh was dark, filled with the night's shadows. "Maybe not what I wanted,” he looked towards Sansa’s sleeping form, then back to Joffrey, ” but what I need right now." His tone was threatening, his intentions finally clear to Joffrey. Sensing the shift, he tried to dash away, but Sandor was quicker, his large hand clapping over Joffrey's mouth, silencing his protests before they could form, his whole body moving to plant himself between Joffrey’s legs, pushing them apart with his own.
"Shh," he whispered, leaning close, his breath hot against Joffrey's ear and the king's eyes widened with fear.
With Joffrey silenced, Sandor's other hand ventured beneath the dress, exploring the unfamiliar territory with a boldness born from desperation and desire. His touch was rough, driven by his animalistic need.
Joffrey's muffled sounds were a mix of protest and surprise, his abdomen tensing under Sandor's heavy hand, his muscles hard under his palm, so different from the soft bellied whores he had been with.
“You smell of fear, boy” Sandor whispered as he inhaled Joffrey’s scent“ and it's fucking delicious." His voice a low growl against Joffrey's ear.
Feeling the weight of Sansa's gaze, Sandor turned slightly, his eyes locking with her barely cracked ones across the dim light of the dying fire. Sandor's hand left Joffrey's mouth, no longer concerned with silencing him, and the boy’s breath came in shallow gasps, his protests now a whimper, his fear only fueling Sandor’ urges.
The Hound’s hand, now free from Joffrey's mouth, moved to grip his chin, forcing his face towards Sansa, a cruel display of his power and Joffrey’s eyes couldn’t meet her gaze out of humiliation.
"See how your King falls," Sandor taunted, his voice carrying just enough to reach Sansa's ears, his actions both a warning and an invitation to witness the depths of his desires and he saw a chill run through her at the sight. His actions made it clear what the consequences might be if she dared to intervene or show much of a reaction. She quickly closed her eyes, her breath becoming harder, and Sandor let out a dark chuckle at her childish response.
Joffrey, his fate finally sinking in, was far from accepting his role in this play, struggled against the man’s iron grip with all his might.
“Unhandle me, Dog!” he spat, founding his voice again as he writhed beneath the Hound, his slight frame bucking and twisting in a futile bid for freedom, unwittingly dragging himself on the man’s hardness over and over again, but his youthful, lean build was no match for the the Hound’s massive, battle hardened form. His hands, delicate in comparison to Sandor’s large paws, met with unyielding force.
Sandor, reveled in the moment, “Struggle all you want, boy! You soon will be too tired to protest, you’re only making it sweeter for me” he bucked into Joffrey’s still clothed form, giving him a taste of what’s to come.
Joffrey's feet kicked out in desperation, his heels digging into the dirt, but his protests were useless.
With his firm grip still on the boy’s chin, Sandor tilted his pretty head back, his lips crashing down on Joffrey's in a brutal kiss, silencing him once more, his dick giving a twitch at the connection. His mouth pressed hard against Joffrey's, teeth digging into the soft flesh, bruising and biting his lips with feral need.
With his other hand, Sandor began unbuckling his belt, and awkwardly pulling off his tunic, the leather and metal clinking ominously in the silence. His trousers loosened, revealing his erection, swollen and flushed a deep, angry red. The veins along it prominent, pulsing with every wild heartbeat as he looked down on his little king.
He let go of the boy’s lips and positioned himself between Joffrey's legs, his large hands pushing the dress up more, exposing Joffrey's thighs and the soft flesh beneath. He was as pale as the moon itself and even the light blue dress seemed dark on his body.
Joffrey's skin was almost glowing with the sweat of his struggles. His delicate curves were hairless, apart from the faintest peachy fuzz catching the low light between his legs, making him even more otherworldly in contrast with the cold ground and Sandor’s dark complexion that bore the marks of thousand battles, his coarse dark hair curling around his muscles making them even more prominent in the shadows.
“Never been touched, have you?" Sandor growled against Joffrey's lips, his voice thick with lust. His hands, roughly gripped Joffrey's hips, holding him in place as he adjusted his stance, his thick cock brushing against Joffrey's tense body, and the boy’s thighs pressed together instinctively in an attempt to resist, but Sandor's easily pushed them apart, laughing at Joffrey’s weak effort to deny him.
“Tell me, how does it make you feel that I’ll be your first?”
And without waiting for an answer his hands tightened on Joffrey’s bony hips, his cock, instantly finding its place, hard and demanding, pressed against the boy’s entrance, seeking entry. With a single, powerful thrust, he pushed in.
Joffrey’s back arched involuntarily with shock and pain coursing through his body, and he let out a painful cream, the sound piercing the quiet night air, making Sansa jump in her pretended sleep. Her curiosity was getting the best of her as she looked upon the scene between her lashes with horror.
“That sounds about right.” Sandor chuckled as he pulled out then showed back in again, now even deeper. “I’ll make a real girl out of you…” He breathed as he stole a glance at Sansa, sensing her movements from the corner of his eyes, “..promise”. But Joffrey’s muscles clenched around his girth, almost as if the boy was desperately wanting his full attention, his attempt to push him out only heightened Sandor’s pleasure as he brought his gaze back on him and a low throaty groan escaped his lips.
Joffrey's hands, previously clenched in fists at Sandor’s chest, now dropped to the ground, his nails digging into the dirt as he felt Sandor's invasion. With each thrust his body was forced to yield to his once loyal guard. The raw sounds of their bodies, the slap of skin against skin, Sandor's grunts of exertion and his own muffled cries filled the air.
Sansa contemplated covering her ears, to make it finally stop, but she was too afraid to move again.
Sandor's movements on the other hand were relentless, each thrust pushing Joffrey further into the ground, the dress now a soiled mess around the boy’s narrow waist, offering no modesty or protection.
And Joffrey's body trembled and trembled, his muscles protesting the invasion with a pain so sharp, he almost forgot to cry, his sobs were low, almost inaudible, his resistance weakened with fatigue.
As the Hound continued, his thrusts became more urgent, his breathing erratic, Joffrey's silent tears had turned his face slick, dirt smudged across his skin and his hair, but he was even more beautiful this way, defeated and broken underneath him. Sandor’s fingers dug into his flesh, leaving imprints that would hopefully remain long after this moment, mingling with the dirt.
As he neared his orgasm, his movements became more frenzied, forcing Joffrey’s body to accept his dominance over him, and the boy’s own physical reactions betrayed him at last, his muscles tensing and relaxing in a rhythm dictated by Sandor's will.
Then, with a final, deep thrust, Sandor found his release, his body shuddering, a guttural sound escaping him as he filled Joffrey, marking him as his own.
The air was charged with the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of salt from tears and skin lingered in Sandor’s mouth, the feel of Joffrey’s limp body underneath him, crushed by the weight of his actions and his heavy form felt right. The sound of their heavy breathing synchronized in the aftermath. And Sansa finally breathed out the air she was holding in all along, thankful for it to be finally over.
Sandor, his lust somewhat sated, slowly pulled away, leaving Joffrey to the cold air, his beautiful body marked with the signs of what had happened between them.
The blue dress now ruffled and stained from the ground where they had laid, his skin covered with the red marks of the torture, where Sandor had pushed, scratched and bitten his pale skin. His fragile hands rested flat on the ground, his fingernails broken and dirty with blood and grime.
Sandor bent down, his voice dripping with mock concern as he whispered to Joffrey, catching his breath “Is this not why you followed me here, huh? To be close to me, to convince me of your worth?” His words were like venom as he licked in the boy’s ear, eliciting a shudder of disgust from Joff.
"I have to say I'm quite convinced now," Sandor purred, his voice low.
Joffrey, his body still beneath Sandor's, shakily breathed out "This is not what I wanted.” He turned his head away in shame, unable to find a better cover from the Hound’s gaze and the ongoing assault.
"Is it not?" Sandor's laugh was harsh but genuine."You sought me out, followed me into the darkness. Admit it, you craved this, the lack of power, the submission, to be fucked by me." He snarled the words. “You should’ve said earlier, I might not have left you then.”
"No!" Joffrey's protest was immediate, his voice cracking with emotion, his body still trembling from their encounter and his terror. He looked up to the man all his life, he was the closest thing he had for a father, and Clegane had betrayed him not once, but twice already. Joffrey’s eyes welled with tears again.
Sandor reached out, his rough fingers brushing against Joffrey's cheeks, wiping away the tears that stained his face. "Look at you, crying like a babe, was I really that good?" He taunted, his voice rough like gravel, still next to Joffrey's ear. His hand from Joffrey’s face slid down, fingers tracing the line of his throat, feeling the rapid pulse beneath and wanting to push down, to steal his breath away. But he rested his palm flat on the boy’s chest instead. The touch, although gentle in nature was not meant for comfort, it was possessive, a reminder of who held power now.
Sandor's tongue darted out, following the path of his hand, licking the salt of Joffrey's tears and the dirt from his cheek, then moving to his neck, sucking at the tender skin and leaving small, sharp bites that would soon bloom into bruises.
Joffrey‘s body, previously tense with resistance, now seemed to give in, not out of acceptance but from the sheer exhaustion of enduring such an ordeal. His breath was short and ragged, his eyes hollow and glassy with shock.
"You thought you would command me around here too, and I would jump at your service, like a loyal little beast on a leash?" Sandor continued, his voice a menacing whisper, his breath hot and invasive. "Look at you now, pretty little king." His laugh seemed forced as he nipped at Joffrey's ear "Look at the mess you've made of yourself, chasing after power…” Sandor pulled on the boy’s short blonde hair, to force him to meet his eyes, so he could see the devastation in his pretty blue ones, to bathe in the dominance he had over him as he felt his hardness returning slowly, his body and soul hungry for more of this rare treat, “…you dumb bitch."
"You are all mine now" Sandor growled, his voice dropping with a dark thrill as he started to move his hips again, his cock swelling with each thrust, filling Joffrey’s raw, abused body. Blood and seed easing his way this time, making it easier to slide in and out.
His hands, rough against the pale smoothness of Joffrey’s skin, dragged over the boy’s long pale thighs, his touch possessive, claiming every inch of skin, every muscle that quivered under his grip.
“Mine to enjoy.” His fingers traced the contours of Joffrey's body, moving from his slender thighs to his taut belly, then to the flat of his chest. His big hand pushed the boy down harder into the ground, feeling the heartbeat under his palm, erratic like a caged bird.
"Mine to break." his fingers dug into Joffrey's flesh as he pushed into him, picking up his pace.
Joffrey’s breath came in pained gasps, he could only manage a whisper, his voice broken, "Please..."
"Please what?" Sandor barked, pulling harder on Joffrey's hair, forcing him to meet his gaze once more. "Please stop?” He rolled his hips “Or please more? You're so confusing, which is it?" He drove in faster and harder with brutal rhythm, Joffrey’s body jerking with the impact of his movements like a ragdoll, his dress bunched up to his armpits, exposing his whole body and his only now hardening cock.
“I can give you more, if that’s what you want” Sandor breathed between thrusts, taking in the sight of Joffrey’s flushed member, the curve of it just as pretty as the rest of him.
Then he crushed his lips against Joffrey’s, his tongue forcing its way inside, a violation that mirrored the one below, tasting the defeat in Joffrey's mouth, swallowing any sound, any last vestige of protest, until there was nothing left of the boy he once knew, just a shell, marked by him.
“Please, no…no” Joffrey gasped out the minute Sandor released his lips, his back arching off the ground but this time with ecstasy, not agony, betraying his words.
“You’re nothing without me” Sandor breathed “I feel you begging for it with every fiber of your body….even when you….. deny it …. with that pathetic little mouth of yours” he gasped out the words between thrust.
“You’ll pay for this” Joffrey whined out between short breaths.
“Oh, I am paying right now and you’re taking my cock like you were born for it” Sandor mocked as his hand finally grabbed Joffrey’s erection, stroking it in time with his thrusts, forcing Joffrey to feel every ounce of his body’s betrayal, sending him to the seven hells and beyond for enjoying his assault.
Joffrey's breath hitched, his body tensing, his mind fighting the undeniable pleasure, hands trembling to hold on his guard’s arms.
"I hate you” he moaned and looked up at the Hound, his eyes intense as he neared.
“Oh, really?” Sandor rasped, losing himself in Joffrey’s gaze, his own breathing growing ragged, his pace becoming frenzied, his grip on Joffrey's cock tightening.
”Show me then!” He dared.
“Show me… how much ….you hate me."
And it was too much for Joffrey, his body betrayed him fully, his release hitting him like a shockwave, his cry a mix of rage and relief, his seed spilling into Sandor’s hand, droplets escaping between the man’s fingers to stain his belly.
“Fuck you” Joffrey spat out between gritted teeth, as his body jerked and convulsed with pleasure, and Sandor, feeling Joffrey's body clench around him, his own pleasure peaking, gave one last shove before pulling out, his own release splashing across Joffrey’s belly and chest, mingling with the boy’s seed, marking him once again. "There it is," he breathed, his voice harsh.
- - -
Sandor startled awake in the dead of night with a throbbing erection that threatened to burst with the mere thoughts that filled his mind. He sat up, his heart pounding, his breath coming in short, sharp intakes as he took in the quiet camp around him. The fire had dwindled to embers, casting a soft, amber glow over the sleeping forms of Joffrey and Sansa.
Joffrey, still in Sansa’s dress, lying apart from them, and Sansa, wrapped in her cloak, both undisturbed by his inner battle. The realization hit him like a wave, the whole ordeal, his desires, the rape of his king, it had all been a dream, a nightmare born from the chaos they endured.
The dream, from its initial vivid sharpness only moments ago, started to fade, leaving behind only fragments of elusive blurring images and feelings. The sequence of the events was lost to him, save for a few searing moments that clung stubbornly to his mind.
He let his body hit the mattress with relief, despite the tinge of guilt and confusion over how real the dream felt and the desires it had awakened within him. His erection, now a source of discomfort rather than the dark thrill of his dream, ached as he reached down, not about to let himself stain his pants, but there was already a dark, wet patch of precum where his body met the fabric.
He spat in his palm then wrapped it around his dick, his eyes darted to Joffrey, then to Sansa to ensure they remained asleep, undisturbed by his private struggle, yet the mere glimpse of Joffrey caused his dick to harden further in his hand, his balls tightening and drawing up, betraying his intentions.
He shook his head, cursing silently and moved as quietly as he could, his breaths becoming more controlled as he touched himself, trying to keep the sounds of his actions from disturbing the others, but relief was immediate, a soft puff of breath escaping his lips, a sound of both release and regret. His hand moved fast, stroking the firm column of his flesh, each move an effort to banish the images from his dream, but his thoughts kept wandering back.
It took him embarrassingly fast to finish with a shuddering breath, throwing his head back, eyes shut tightly. He took a few gulps of the fresh air, swallowing his guilt, then cleaned himself as best he could, wiping the remnants of his sticky come on the side of the bedroll.
Lying back down, his body now relaxed, he hoped for sleep to claim him once more, this time free from the haunting grip of his dreams.