ladytp: (Anne)

She gulped to see the sheer size of his bare shoulders and torso, and the way how his chest was covered with dark hair just like his arms.


One evening – they were starting to blur into one long, uneventful string in Sansa’s mind – there was a knock on the door, but much softer, rapping sound than the previous time. Again Sandor barked, “Who is it?!”

A woman’s voice beckoned, “T’is only me, m’lord, Ranna. Let me in!” Almost as re-enacting the last time he had had a visitor, Sandor went to the door gesturing for Sansa to hide. She retreated dutifully out of sight, but instead of a bed, she rushed behind the curtain of the garderobe.

She heard the door opening, but rather than letting the person behind it in, Sandor appeared to hold it firmly half closed.

“Thought you might wanna see me again, big man!” a teasing voice declared. Sansa couldn’t help but peek between the gaps in the curtains and saw a woman leaning against the doorframe. She looked young and not bad looking at all; long brown hair, twinkling brown eyes and an ample bosom and wide hips swaying invitingly inside a wide billowing green skirt. It was attached to a tight bodice which pushed her breasts up revealing a generous cleavage. She looked mischievously up to him and tried to enter the room.

“T’is been a while you have come to see me so I thought to come to you again. T’was a nice time we had here when I was here last, didn’t we?”

Sandor didn’t move and the woman stopped right in front of him, unable to come further.

“Not tonight Ranna, go find yourself another man,” he growled. The woman looked up startled.

“Come on now. What’s up with you? We usually have such a good time don’t we? You know I can take all of you in, your face and …all, you know…” she extended her hand and placed it quite brazenly to touch the front of his breeches.

Sansa saw that and gasped at the gesture. She is touching him there! He is surely going to smack her! To her amazement Sandor only winced and removed the woman’s hand almost gently. “Not now, as I said. Run along, I have things to do.”

The woman – Ranna – looked up with indignation in her eyes. “No time to become choosy now, you big oaf. T’is not like you’d have a long line of lassies queuing for you, you know. Most of the young ones won’t come near, getting nightmares just seeing you.”

Sansa felt outraged by what that coarse woman was saying. How could someone get nightmares for seeing him! It took only a moment for her to realise how blissfully she had forgotten how she herself had first reacted seeing him. She felt ashamed.

Sandor was still pushing the woman out of the door, apparently not being offended by what she said and muttering her to just go and leave him alone. Finally she gave in, drew righteously her shoulders up and stormed off with not as much as a bye. As Sandor closed the door and turned to the room, Sansa slipped out of the garderobe. She felt uncomfortable about what she had just witnessed and knew she was blushing. What should I say? That I am sorry that he could not take up on her…offer?

Before she had time to say anything, Sandor looked at her with something akin to embarrassment in his eyes and muttered, “No shame in them, coming to the Keep to hunt down squires and soldiers. Things must be bad in King’s Landing is there is not enough business there.”

Sansa realised that it hadn’t been a random knock on a door to find a customer – she had clearly been here before. Why that would make her feel so queer, and him so embarrassed, she couldn’t say. Yet she knew she was glad that the woman had not come in.


They didn’t talk about the incidence afterwards, but it stayed at the back of her mind. She was uncomfortable thinking Sandor with that woman, her hand touching his manhood so blatantly. The gesture had been so bold, so challenging – and the fact that Sandor hadn’t confronted her about it made it even stranger. He hadn’t even been irritated, the expression on his face being more anguished than angry.

One day after the incident Sandor went to the garderobe after returning from the practice yard. He closed the curtains carelessly leaving a gap that allowed Sansa a good view from where she was sitting. She saw him removing his tunic in one fluid movement and starting to wash his upper body with a cloth.

She gulped seeing the sheer size of his bare shoulders and torso, and the way how his chest was covered with dark hair just like his arms. The even cover was only disturbed by visible scars running through it, leaving a clear trail in their wake. He looked focussed on his task, wiping away the grime with smooth purposeful movements, splashing water over him to remove it all. As he moved, Sansa leaned over further and further in order not to lose the vision of him. Without warning she lost her balance and landed awkwardly on the floor – more embarrassed than hurt.

Sandor’s head snapped to her direction, and without saying a word he pulled the curtain close. Gods, does he think I was spying on him?

When he returned to the room, he didn’t indicate anything would have been out of ordinary, allowing Sansa to recover from her embarrassment. Once again she couldn’t help thinking of the woman and how open she had been about a good time they had had. Even as she was contemplating that, she had to admit to herself she had a pretty good idea what it meant. She was not completely naive after all, despite of what highborn maidens were supposed to know or not.

As curious as Sansa was to examine the man, she was also curious to know more about him by studying his possessions. Her examination revealed mostly nothing unexpected; unpretentious clothes, sturdy utensils and everyday living items. He had three books, which surprised Sansa although as she thought about it, it shouldn’t have. Cleganes were landed gentry, well enough to have their own maester. Surely sons of such house would have been expected to learn to read and write.

One of the books was about horsemanship, giving advice on how to train, handle and look after warhorses. The second book was a description of faraway places in Eastern continent, telling about exotic places such as Free Cities, Slaver’s Bay and others Sansa hadn’t even heard of before.

The third book was about the strategies of warfare, mostly of the battles of the Targaryen reign. As Sansa was examining it, few sheets of scroll fell from between the pages. She picked them up and examined the writing with a burrowed brow. The papers contained several lines of hand-written text; neat but simple writing, as done by someone who knew how to write but didn’t do it often. No flourishing touches of maesters to signify the first letters of the sentences or names, no embellished words. Just lines seemingly summarising the main points of one strategy or another – Sansa couldn’t really tell much about the contents. The last line in the scrolls read “Effective war leader leads by example”. In the sidelines of the text she saw “Robert”, underlined, then “Joffrey?”- that entry had been crossed over with sharp lines so many times the paper had partly torn.

The most unexpected find was in his chest. Sansa had grown bolder as the days passed – she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, she reasoned to herself. So she had explored the chest, lifting all the items in it to the floor, taking care to note their position in order to be able to put them back exactly as they had been. Again, most of the contents were utilitarian, simple, useful items such as leather goods, small tools and more clothes. But as she got to the bottom she saw something she would have never assumed to find in the possession of the Hound.

Sansa lifted up a small doll, hardly bigger than her hand. It was made of coarse fabric, filled with animal hair as was common, giving it a round plump form. It was dressed in Clegane colours of yellow and black and had coarsely drawn features on its face. Why does he keep a doll in his chest?

Disturbed, feeling as if she had crossed a boundary she was not supposed to cross, Sansa put the doll back, filled the chest as it had been and went back to the bed. She sat there for a long time, her head filled with thoughts.

ladytp: (Anne)

Before she could wonder what had happened to her clothes, she felt the blanket being removed and big, warm, calloused hands descending on her body touching, exploring.


Sansa heard the sound of heavy boots on stone fading as soldiers descended the stairs of the Tower of the Hand. The back of her head was pressing hard against a stone wall and her legs were cramped from the tension of the awkward position she had curled herself into. She was afraid to move though and waited for a long time to be sure that the men had left.

The silence stretched on and on and finally she concluded it to be safe. In a puff of soot and cinder she landed into the fireplace, tearing back of her dress that had hooked itself to a crack on a stone surface. A sharp cry that she couldn’t muffle left her mouth as she hit her bare toe against a hard iron grille. She froze for a moment but as nothing happened, she continued to carefully move from the fireplace back to her father’s solar.

The soldiers had come in force, loud voices and angry commands telling servants to fetch ladies Stark at once. Sansa didn’t know what that was about, but from their voices she could hear that they were not friendly, and they were not cordially requesting their company. Sounds of struggle soon ensued confirming her suspicions, and before she had time to think about anything else but an overpowering desire to escape, she had run to the Hand’s solar. She had looked frantically for a getaway or a hiding place finding neither – until she noticed the big fireplace at the back of the room, cold and unused. She run closer and noticed how its huge mouth narrowed towards the chimney, but was still big enough to accommodate someone her size in its cavern without anyone from the room seeing her.

Without further thought she had kicked her shoes under one of the chairs and climbed up the chimney using her fingers and toes to find support. Arya could do this much better, she had thought as she scrambled for purchase, unaccustomed as she was for such unladylike activity. She didn’t know where Arya was – the last time she had seen her, she had been on her way to her dancing lessons.

Her head pounded, full of unanswered questions. Why were they here? Where did they want to take us? Where is father? Slowly she crept towards the top of the stairs to peek into to the stairwell.

“Little bird searching for escape?” she heard a raspy voice behind her. She startled and turned quick as a flash to see the Hound sitting in the Hand’s chair, long legs lifted on a table in front of him, looking like there was nothing more relaxing than to sit in the Hand’s solar that sunny afternoon. Before Sansa could correct herself, she had instinctively taken few steps backwards to escape his attention. She felt the second step landing on thin air – and then all she sensed was falling…down the stairs, unable to stop her fall and landing heavily on one step, then another, hitting her side, then back, all the while flailing her hands in a desperate attempt to grab hold of something, anything… The last thing she saw was the Hounds face as he jumped from the chair surprisingly fast for such a big man and rushed towards the stairs. His face looked surprised, shocked, eyes wide. Then Sansa felt or saw nothing at all.


The next thing Sansa knew was a heavy thudding pain in her head. She tried to open her eyes but the lids felt too heavy – all she could do was to scrunch her face and squeeze her eyes even more shut. It felt as if she lay on a soft surface, so at least it was not likely she still remained on a stone floor at the bottom of the stairs. Tentatively she moved her hand and tried to turn her head. Slowly, very slowly she finally opened her lids and glanced to look around.

She was lying in a bed – a big bed - and was covered with a simple thick blanket. As she focused her gaze further, she could see that the bed was located in a room with sparse furnishing; a big wooden chest, a table and two heavy chairs, a simple cabinet and a wall rack from which hung some clothes – men’s clothes. The other side of the room was covered with a curtain, presumably to cover the privy, and there was a small window shadowed by an overhang outside. Everything was unassuming, built for purpose – she couldn’t see anything that could be described as decorative, except for a piece of cloth hanging on a wall depicting three black dogs on a field of yellow. Clegane sigil!

She tried to lift herself up but nausea overtook her and she had to fall back. Where am I? She heard heavy footsteps approaching from the head of the bed and even without seeing who it was, she knew. The Hound. She felt a heavy weight landing on the side of the bed, causing her to roll towards the indentation in the mattress. Strong arms took hold of her shoulders.

“How are you feeling, little bird?” Without waiting to hear the answer – which she was incapable of giving at any rate – the hands moved further and turned her on her stomach, gently but assuredly. Sansa was not in a position to struggle, but suddenly she realised that she was wearing nothing but her smallclothes and a thin shift. Before she could wonder what had happened to her clothes, she felt the blanket being removed and big, warm, calloused hands descending on her body touching, exploring. Strong fingers pressed on her arms, one after another, turning and twisting them, moving their grip from the top of the arms to the wrists, then exploring each hand separately, finger after finger. Every now and then he muttered, “Does this hurt? Is this spot tender?” Then the hands moved to her legs, exploring them similarly from the top of the thighs to her ankles, then to feet and toes.

Sansa couldn’t say it exactly felt uncomfortable – except for pain at places where she obviously had hit herself badly against hard surface, and for the queer feeling of being so…intimately explored. If she had had strength, she would have blushed. It being she had none, she only sighed and succumbed to his touches. She was given a thorough once over, including her shoulders, hips and sides, where she winced of pain as strong fingers pressed against one of her very tender ribs. After the examination, the next sensation she felt was being dabbed with a soft, moist cloth over the places where her skin had been grazed open, making her flinch again.

Then she was turned over to her back and the Hound continued his exploration and cleaning. Thankfully he didn’t remove her scarce clothing, except lifting her shift once in the area near her hip bone, where an especially nasty bruise had bloodied the fabric. Sansa could see his face concentrating, grey eyes narrowing while he did his task. Finally he seemed satisfied that the job was done and leaned back, pulling the blanket back on top of her.

“No bones broken, and only some bruises – you were lucky, little bird. You could have easily broken that slim neck of yours in that tumble.” He didn’t get up but stayed sitting, looking at her.

Sansa didn’t know what to say. She was still feeling nauseous and dizzy. With an extreme exertion she mumbled “Thank you my lord.” He looked at her  incredulously and threw his head back, laughing that hard laugh of his she had heard a few times before.

“Courteous little bird, thanking me although I almost killed you!” He stood up now, shaking his head. Sansa felt her eyes closing and fell into sweet unconsciousness.


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April 2017

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