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“Do you want to go home, m’lady?”

“Home? Sansa asked, startled by her maid’s question. I’d do anything to go home.

The slim, pretty, black-haired chambermaid had been brushing Sansa’s damp, auburn hair after her bath, but the brush stilled once the words left her mouth. “Tonight,” she added, smiling at Sansa’s reflection in the vanity mirror.

Sansa quickly turned around to look at her, unbelieving of what she was saying. “Tonight? I...I don’t understand.” If I leave tonight, I’ll never be able to say goodbye to...

“If you wish to leave, it must be tonight,” Shae interrupted her thought, placing the brush down gently atop the vanity. “There is a bag underneath the featherbed. We will pack light, but we must go, m’lady.” The short young woman sauntered across the bedchamber and towards Sansa’s chest, taking out several items of clothing before closing it shut.

“Go where?” Sansa asked, her heart fluttering as she stood from the crimson velvet seat. 

“Chataya’s,” the pretty maid said. “A brothel. I have friends, m’lady,” Shae said proudly. “We won’t be seen.”

“But, won’t someone recognize me in the…”

Brothel, m’lady,” Shae finished for her, smiling at her innocence. If she knew the dreams I have, the desires I feel, she wouldn’t think me to be quite so innocent, Sansa thought. “You’ll wear a disguise, m’lady. Mummers use them often. My friend will help with this.”

A disguise? “Wait,” Sansa said. “If Joffrey finds out, he’ll--”

Shae reached underneath the bed for the bag and tossed it atop the furs. “He won’t find out, m’lady, and his men will never lay a hand on you again,” she said reassuringly. “Grab what you wish to take with you and wrap this around you.” Shae tossed her a cloak that was not her own, and Sansa wondered how it had gotten into her chest in the first place. It was worn out, ragged, and entirely inappropriate for a highborn lady to wear. And it’s perfect, Sansa realized. Perfect for an escape.

Without questioning the older girl any further, Sansa wrapped the cloak about her shoulders, the rough fabric engulfing her entire person, hiding the thin violet nightgown she wore underneath. Shae came up behind her and pulled her hair to lay along her back before tossing the hood over her head. When the maid stood in front of her, surveying her body up and down, she smiled once again.

“Keep your face down, m’lady. It’s time we go.”

Hand-in-hand, Shae led Sansa down the corridor, scurrying along the stones of the quiet Red Keep late in the evening. The hood blinded Sansa from much of the view, but she knew something was unusual since they had not yet been stopped by a guard on duty. Whoever has planned my escape to go home has planned it well.

Minutes had passed as the young women traveled throughout the keep, and once Shae stopped, Sansa finally lifted her head to discover there was an opening in the stone wall of a corridor somewhere in the Red Keep. A secret door.

Sansa was breathless when she asked, “Where does it go?”

Shae smiled again, but this time it was wicked. “To the tunnels, m’lady.”

It’s too late to turn back, Sansa thought. I must go. Even if that means I will never see...

Taking one long, deep breath, Sansa walked in with Shae following behind, closing the stone door shut behind them with not a seam to be found in the wall. There were torches in the sconces posted along the hidden corridor, leading down to a steep flight of stone steps. Their sharp breaths echoed off the narrow staircase, and Sansa felt herself becoming increasingly claustrophobic. Brushing her hands along the walls as she descended, Sansa grew more anxious with each passing second. Who would risk their life to take me away from here? she wondered. And what will everyone think when I am gone? What will Joffrey do? Cersei? And him ...what will he think?

Once at the bottom of the stairwell, Shae set down the one bag carrying her belongings to pick up a larger, leather bag that had been placed just underneath a torch that seemed to be brighter than all the rest.

“What is that?” Sansa asked.

“Your disguise, m’lady.” Shae pulled out a wig that was a sandy shade of blonde, the hair straight as a lance, followed by a simple beige gown fit for a peasant girl. “Take off your nightgown, m’lady. You will need to change before we go any farther.”

Her hands shook as she pulled the gown fit for a highborn young woman to rest in over her head, stripping down into nothing other than her smallclothes below. Shae pulled the skirt of the mummer’s gown over her head so quickly it had been a blur. It was form-fitting, and the neckline was cut so low that her breasts nearly overflowed from the bodice. While Sansa tied the lace in front, Shae combed her fingers through her damp hair, bounding it into a tight bun before slipping the wig on over it. 

“Even as a peasant girl, m’lady is beautiful,” Shae complimented, “and shapely.” She smiled wickedly again while brushing the sandy blonde hair from between Sansa’s breasts. 

“Yes, the lady is,” a strange voice agreed. 

Sansa gasped and turned around quickly to discover a man dressed as a goaler. His face, though much of it hidden underneath a hood, somehow looked familiar, but Sansa could not quite place it. “Who are you?” she asked in a breath.

“A friend, an ally,” the goaler said. “That is all you need know, my lady. Come.” 

Shae took her hand once more, and picked up the two bags on their way through the tunnels somewhere underneath the Red Keep. It felt like hours, though it was likely no more than ten minutes before a ladder presented itself.

“Climb, my lady. Your maid will see you safely to where you must be, and present you to who will return you to Winterfell.”

The name of her home made Sansa want to cry. “It's not you, then? Who else?”

The familiar man giggled and it was then that Sansa learned the truth. Lord Varys.

The eunuch turned around and said over his shoulder, “The eldest daughter of Ned Stark has tamed one of the fiercest animals in Westeros. It will be he who takes you home.”



Chataya’s brothel was located on the Street of Silk, an upscale brothel two stories tall with a ornate lamp of scarlet glass positioned just above the door. 

“Go in, m’lady,” Shae urged her.

Sansa took a quick glance at the lamp above and then entered. Sansa was overwhelmed by the rushing scent of exotic spices and nearly tripped over her cloak. Shae grabbed her arm before she could fall and balanced her onto her feet. Once they had passed the screen, she surveyed the common room where several scantily clad and nude women walked about the drunk visitors. “Where now?” 

‘Fiercest animal’ Varys said, could he have meant….

“I’ll take her.” A stunningly beautiful woman as black as the sky outside stood from the alcove in the common room and took Sansa’s hand. “My lady,” she said with an accent that could only be from the Summer Isles, smooth and pleasing to the ear. “Come with me, northern daughter.” She knows who I am, Sansa realized.

“Do not worry, m’lady,” Shae said while handing her the two bags. “Chataya will take you to him.” The maid kissed her cheek affectionately before departing back out into the night.

“The gods gave us our bodies, our desires,” the tall woman said as she led her up the stairs and onto the second floor, “but your body has been tortured, your desires forbidden.” 

With that, Sansa’s suspicions were confirmed. But how could anyone know? How could anyone know I desired him ? Sansa feigned innocence and asked, “My desires?” 

“Are inside,” the beautiful foreigner said just before stopping in front of a closed door. Chataya reached forward to unclasp Sansa’s ragged cloak, unveiling the sandy blonde wig and the form-fitting peasant dress, her breasts heaving up and down from her erratic breathing and threatening to spill. 

The smooth-voiced brothel owner then reached for the handle, her long fingers caressing the metal sensually, and opened the door.

“In,” she purred.

Sansa gave Chataya one last apprehensive look, her breath catching in her throat, before stepping forward and entering the dimly lit pleasure room, the door closing behind her in a whisper. 

On the canopied bed sat a man well in his cups, a massive man and muscular, a man who needed no introduction, a man who was no stranger to her, the man Sansa had been thinking of all this time.

The Hound. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed with his head hanging towards the floor, he took one look at her and grunted. “I said auburn hair, not blonde.”

He didn’t come here to take me home, she realized. He came here to… Sansa balled her hands into fists at her sides.

Without so much as a glance he mumbled, “Go bring another.”

In one swift motion, Sansa dropped the bags onto the floor and reached for the sandy blonde wig to tear it off, tossing it onto the ground and ripping the band from her hair to allow her thick, auburn waves to spill across her back. Afterwards, she frowned and crossed her arms, her breasts on the brink of spilling out from the effort. Something about him sitting there, waiting for another woman, made her uncharacteristically dauntless, prompting her to ask, “Auburn enough for you, ser ?”

Impossibly slow, his head lifted, grey eyes meeting blue, yet he gave not a single response. All Sandor Clegane could do was stare, awestruck.

“I want to go home,” she said to end the lingering silence.

He must have been holding his breath, because just then a large exhale escaped him. “Little bird,” he slurred. “What the--”

“You’re drunk,” Sansa complained. 

The Hound snorted and shook his head. “Well I come to brothels to fuck, little bird, not talk.”

No, he didn’t come here to take me home at all.

“To fuck a whore?” The words sounded strange leaving her mouth, but there was a fury in her that she could not explain, a swelling envy speaking on her behalf.

The words caught him unawares, too, but his shock was soon replaced with a smugness, and then the scarred side of his mouth twitched. “The little bird grows bolder now that she has left her cage. If I knew any better, I’d even say you are mad.”

“I...” I am, she wanted to say. The thought of him here, finding pleasure in a woman, her finding pleasure in’s more than maddening, it’s infuriating. 

“What would you rather have me do while I’m off-duty?” he asked her. “Stand beside your door and listen to my fellow brothers of the Kingsguard beat you before bed, knowing I can’t do a bloody thing about it?” His tone grew somber, and the Hound looked at the floor and sighed.

I am bolder, she knew. Every punch, every kick, every slap in the face from Joffrey’s false knights, it has made me become stronger, bolder. However, has it made me bold enough to do this?

Her contemplation ended when she said, “No, I’d rather you fuck me.”

The Hound’s head shot up and his eyes stared at her incredulously before briskly surveying the room. “What is this, a trick?”

That was not the reaction she hoped for, and her newfound confidence fled. “No, it’s not a--”

“Is that eunuch listening to us right now? Or did that cunt Littlefinger return to King’s Landing?”

“What? No, I--”

“Is this some ploy to get me to defile Joffrey’s betrothed so my buggering brother can shove my head onto a spike?”

Sansa grunted. “It’s not a ploy, no one is--”

“Are you so eager to rid yourself of me? For what?” he asked in a shout. “Because I stood by when your father’s head was snipped off, or because I let Meryn Trant, Boros Blount, and the fucking rest beat you?”

Sansa uncrossed her arms and wrung her hands together, her pale skin growing red, becoming increasingly frustrated by his interruptions. “I’m not--”

He stood from the bed, fuming with anger. “Does the little bird hate me so bloody much?”

Sansa couldn’t take anymore, and when she spoke, a truth not even she had known was revealed. “I don’t hate you, I love you!”

Her hands, now raw from having squeezed them out of irritation, rushed to cover her gaping mouth, and an anxious silence followed. Sandor’s hand reached out to balance himself against the bedpost, and Sansa thought he might faint. 

“What did you say?” he muttered in one hushed breath.

What did I say? she wondered herself. Could I truly... love him? It’s not the same way I had once felt about Ser Waymar Royce, nor Joffrey, nor Loras it’s not a stupid, girlish crush. My feelings for him, my incessant dreams, are not a product of one sharp smile, nor one given rose. I grew an affection for him from the times he saved me, the times he told Joffrey to stop, even if it could have meant his head. And it’s not just an affection, but something else. I…

“I love you,” Sansa confessed. 

Sandor approached her in a hasty stride, as if her words had sobered up his senses in an instant. Once he towered over her, his warm hands cupped either side of her face, gripping so tightly that she would never be able to look away. His hands trembled, as did his breath.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked her. 

Again, it was not a reaction she hoped for. 

“What?” she whispered, his gaze piercing through her eyes and deep into her core, stirring the sensations she only ever achieved by using her hand.

The Hound grimaced. “How could you...I’ could you be so bloody stupid?” 

Sansa furrowed her brow and huffed. “Stupid?” Her hands lifted in an attempt to pull away the massive ones gripping her face, but they would never budge. 

“You heard me, little bird,” he rasped. “Stupid. Bloody, fucking stupid. A stupid, beautiful, little bird.”

Her mouth opened again, deciding to boldly curse him out, but before she could voice her anger, his lips pressed down onto hers and that anger fled quicker than her confidence had just a moment ago.

The embrace was gentle, hungry, desperate, and endearing all at once. Though he was so very different from her, their union felt more natural than anything, as if they had lived a thousand lives prior to this one and each time they had been lovers. Breaking away from him seemed impossible to consider. The Hound’s hands remained firm on her face when his lips slowly pulled back to mutter heavily, “I’ve loved you since the moment I took my bloody helm off in Winterfell.” He kissed her again, but quicker this time, lasting no longer than a second before pulling away again. “I’ve considered killing Joffrey every day since then just so he could never have you, just so he could never hurt you again.” This time he buried his lips into the side of her neck, and her eyes shut tightly at the ferociousness of the embrace. “I’ll kill them all,” he growled against her pulse. “Say the word, and I’ll bring you their heads, every last one of them.”

It was not a conscious decision for her to moan, but she did, a long, titillating moan right beside his ear. She might have blushed from the sudden outburst, but once she heard the throaty grunt escape him, Sansa felt no shame, and her inhibitions ceased to exist. Her hands found comfort at the collar of his tunic and mindlessly, her fingers worked on loosening the laces.

“Tell me again, little bird.” The Hound’s breath was hot against her perspiring skin. “I want to hear that pretty little song of yours.”

“I love you,” Sansa exhaled. 

He grabbed a handful of her hair that was still damp from her bath and pulled her head back just enough to force her to look into his eyes. “And now the other.”

Despite her breathlessness from the sudden, intoxicating moment, Sansa was not void of understanding what he was referring to. In fact, it was the only thing left on her mind, the only two words her mouth knew how to speak. And the boldness returned.

“Fuck me.”

When the large hands left her face, her cheeks felt chilled once absent of the heat they exuded. The firm grip returned, but lower, on the suppleness of her ass through the thin peasant gown she wore. Sansa gasped when he lifted her up as if she weighed nothing, and instinctively wrapped her legs around his torso, the spot between her thighs physically throbbing with an urgency to be touched. Their lips collided and their tongues danced as he carried her over to the large canopy bed, and all the while, Sansa ran her hands through his dark, thin hair that was more pleasant to the touch than any silk could ever be. 

Once beside the bed, his hands left the curve of her ass to drop her down onto her back, the impact against the furs causing her breasts to spill out from her bodice. “Seven fucking hells,” he cursed at the sight. “I hope you didn’t sew this one together,” he said just before his hands grabbed either side of her bodice and pulled it apart, ripping the gown clean in half. Her round, pink nipples hardened once her skin was exposed and before long, his mouth was on one. 

“Oh,” she moaned. It was a sensation unlike any other, and the throbbing in between her legs tripled in intensity. As if he could hear her thoughts, one of the warm, calloused hands lowered to cup over her folds, her chaste skin shielded from his touch by the thin silken smallclothes. “Take them off,” she pleaded desperately.

A satisfied grunt against her breast answered, and as he sucked on her nipple, he hooked the fabric with two thick fingers and tore it off like it had been nothing more than a parchment covering her. With nothing left in the way, his hand returned, and Sansa jolted at the sensation, whimpering once the roughness of his fingers brushed over her soft, auburn curls below. Her fingernails dug into his broad, muscled shoulders, but he did not seem to care, not once the palm of his hand pressed against her folds and the arousal that seeped from her entrance saturated his skin. “Bloody fucking hell,” he moaned.

Sansa had only recently discovered what it was like to find pleasure. Shortly after she had her first moonblood, she was overcome with an unique urge to place her hand between her legs, especially after dreaming of him. She didn’t know what to do the first time, her septa never taught her that, but it didn’t take long for her to learn that if she continued to circle the tips of her fingers over the nub between her folds, a wave of satisfaction would consume her. Each time she pleasured herself Sansa discovered that the place where she bled from, the place she would someday birth a child, would produce a slippery, clear fluid that was no doubt meant to facilitate lovemaking. However, never had Sansa put her fingers inside there , not where the Hound’s were just now approaching.

The tip of one finger brushed against the warm, lubricating fluid outside her entrance just before slowly sliding in.

Sansa gasped, and then she moaned, “Sandor.”

His head lifted off her breast, his hand stilled, and just like he had done when she had revealed who she was, he stared at her. At first, Sansa thought he was worried that he may have hurt her, but it wasn’t worry in his eyes, it was a tenderness so deep that it would melt the heart of even the cruelest of monsters. And she knew why.

“Sandor,” she said his name again, brushing her hand along the scarred side of his face to embrace every scar and crater. I once feared this, she remembered. But now, how I love it.

As if he awoke from a dream, he took in a sharp inhale and quickly dropped his head beside her own. “Gods, I love you,” he said into her ear. His breathing changed somehow, and before long, she realized he was crying. Sansa used both of her hands to press his face above hers, and once she saw the tears, she pulled him closer, taking his tongue into her mouth once again.

The muscled hand awoke as well, and in doing so, one finger steadily eased itself into her warmth. A whimper escaped her throat and into his own as their mouths pressed together, and while the sensation was undeniably painful, it was more pleasurable, still. Sansa lifted her hips up, encouraging him to continue, and he did gladly. 

Another finger entered, and then the two slowly pushed in and then pulled out, in and out, again and again, until the pain gradually lessened and the pleasure intensified. “Oh, Sandor,” she moaned against his mouth. “I’m--”

Her speech was cut short, incapacitated by the same pleasure she often achieved using her own hand, the same pleasure, yet entirely more powerful. Sansa felt her entrance tighten around the thickness of his fingers that still moved in and out of her, and shortly after, cries of pleasure filled the brothel room, a fitting song for the setting.

Just as her peak ended, Sandor removed his hand and kneeled onto the ground beside the bed. Confused and flushed, Sansa lifted her head to see what he was doing just as his hands grabbed her thighs to pull her down onto the edge of the bed. When his mouth kissed the inside of her folds, Sansa thought her heart might give out. Her hands rushed to push his head away, unable to handle what he was doing to her, but again, the Hound, Sandor Clegane, was immovable, and whatever he so chose to do with her, it would be done.

The sensitivity of the nub between her folds was enormous, and as his tongue flicked over it, Sansa felt tingling and numbing in her legs, her arms, and even her lips. It was as if her body simply did not know how to handle the sensations, yet it persisted, for it had not been another minute before her thighs tightened against his head, peaking once again. Sandor’s hands were able to spread apart her thighs with ease, forcing her to take every lick he gave her even as she climaxed. Never had her breathing been so shallow, and never had Sansa felt so faint.

When he arose from the floor, his facial hair was dripping, covered in her juices and he looked utterly pleased with himself. Despite having found her pleasure twice, the sight of the subtle smile playing on his lips made her crave him all over again. Before he could make the next move, Sansa used one shallow breath to push herself up to sitting and place her hands onto the front of his trousers, her fingers brushing against the skin inside.

Sandor grabbed her wrists firmly, and Sansa’s face looked up at the one towering over her. “It will hurt, little bird,” he warned her.

It will hurt, she knew. But only for a time, and then it won’t.

Refusing to show hesitation or fear, Sansa jolted her arms to urge him to remove the grip on her wrists, and once he did, her hands went about their duty, pulling the thick fabric down and revealing his aroused length to her.

The more Sansa thought about what she should do, the worse it sounded to her. Up until now, she had let her body instinctively give herself to him; Sansa let her tongue dance as it wanted, following his lead, and let her hands brush where they desired. Now should be no different, she told herself. Sansa listened, and let one hand wrap around his girth, the touch alone producing a guttural growl from Sandor. She moved her hand up and down slowly, unsure of the pace at first, but the more he moaned, the quicker her hand moved. 

As she stroked his cock, she felt the friction that came along with it, and knew that just like the arousal fluids that seeped from her entrance, she needed to facilitate the movement of skin against skin. Sansa leaned forward until her mouth met the head of his cock, opening her jaw as wide as was feasible to fit around his girth. 

The two large hands returned again to encompass the entirety of her skull as she built a rhythm of moving her mouth up and down his length. The moans escaping him sent chills down her spine, and once more, her sex was begging for him. Sansa hoped to finish him off with her mouth just as he had done to her, but he grabbed her hair once more to pull her off of his cock, solid as stone, glistening in the dim light from her spit. He lifted her up onto her feet before releasing her hair from his grip and removed his tunic. Once he was as nude as her, he sat on the bed with his back pressed against the carved headboard, his muscled legs stretched out in front of him.

Sansa looked at him in awe as she stood beside the bed, just as he had done to her, and it wasn’t until his hand grabbed her own did she snap out of her astonishment with how incomparably perfect he was. The dark coarse hair on his chest trailed down to his manhood, and everywhere she looked there were scars, bruises, muscles that flexed and rippled with each movement he made. His hands eagerly pulled her on top of him until a straddle was achieved, and Sansa could feel his cock throbbing against her ass as fiercely as her own sex in his lap.

Her fingers admired the coarse hair on his chest before she placed her hands onto his shoulders and pushed herself up inches, reaching back with one hand to guide his cock into her entrance that was now drenched from her previous climaxes. When the head met her warmth, Sandor growled like an animal, ravenous and ready for the kill. The hands that rested on her hips gripped her painfully tight once she lowered her weight onto him, and Sansa eased the massiveness of him inside the tightness of her.

“Oh gods,” she whimpered, but she did not quit. As bad as it hurt, it would have hurt more to stop.

The slow pace at which she lowered herself appeared to be just as agonizing for him. His face was taut and he held his breath, his eyes shutting tighter the further she sat on his length. The stretching she had felt inside now burned; Sansa lifted off of him all at once, only to lower herself back down just as fast. “Fucking hells,” he groaned as she repeated the motion, lifting herself up, lowering herself down, up and down, faster with each cycle. It hurt all the while, and she cried, but watching the Hound, the man she loved, Sandor Clegane, writhing underneath her from the pleasure she brought him quickly alleviated the pain. And soon she found the pleasure. 

“Look at me,” she breathed. “Sandor, look at me.”

He did, and Sansa learned it had not only been the pain of her slow movements that made him shut his eyes, for once he was no longer blinded from the sight of her, his hands wrapped around her waist and he could no longer refrain from controlling the pace.

“You’re a bold little bird, aren’t you?” he said gruffly as he pulled her down on top of him, his eyes fixated on hers. “Chirping orders at me.”

The sound of him stirred her arousal and her walls tightened around him in response. He grunted at the sensation.

“Gods, I’ll fuck you bloody, girl,” he rasped. The hands on her waist lifted her quicker then, and brought her down just as fast. Sansa whimpered when he repeated it, and soon, only he was in control. And she loved it all the more. 

When her eyes started to close at the overwhelming speed, his hand slapped her ass and forced her to open them. She groaned at the effort, wanting desperately to shut her eyes at the impact of him pulling her up and down his cock, but her sounds only made his movements become fiercer. The intense gaze between the lovers broke when he leaned forward to place her nipple in his mouth, and only seconds had passed when Sansa felt her body tense up, releasing a third wave of pleasure.

Her cries were real this time, her sex overwhelmed, and as his mouth pulled away from her breast, the hands on her waist brought her up and down ferociously, followed by the most guttural and feral of moans Sansa could imagine once Sandor reached his peak. His head fell forward between her breasts while his warm, thick seed shot inside of her, and though his hands had stilled on her waist, Sansa took control once again and bounced on top of him until his pleasure was finished. 

Afterwards, there was not a single movement between the two, and other than the sounds of the fire stirring inside the brazier, only their erratic breathing and pumping hearts were audible inside the pleasure room. Sansa felt Sandor’s cock pulsating inside of her, and he jolted each time she tightened his walls around him, resulting in a defeated groan. That made her smile as wickedly as Shae had when she brought her here.

Sandor threw his head back against the headboard and Sansa watched as he took in the sight of her, sweating, nude, and flushed from their lovemaking. I want this forever, she thought. I want him forever. I want him with me, beside me, inside me every single day. And home. I want him with me when I return home.

Again, it was as if he heard her thoughts when he placed one large hand on the small of her neck to pull her lips onto his. “Bugger the Kingsguard. Bugger Joffrey,” he said after breaking the kiss. “They won’t beat you, not anymore. And that blonde cunt will never have you. You’re coming with me, girl,” he growled possessively. “I’m taking you home.”