The Hound King: King Takes Queen
Sheesh, this thing is taking on a life of it's own.
In this installment: The Hound King takes a Wolf as his Queen...
Warning: This chapter contains mention of past abuse.
It is six days before her eyes open.
Six days while he frets and curses and tries to give up the crown he did not want and the kingdom he did not fight for. In the end he realizes that if he is to keep his promise to his Little Bird, if he is to keep her safe, his only option is to keep the crown.
He is not a Lord. Not a Knight. If he gives up his crown to someone, anyone, he will be no more than the leader of a company of sellswords and his Little Bird will once again be a highborn hostage. A pawn once again in this Game of Thrones.
But hasn’t he just won the game?
It is this thought, above all else, that settles the matter. He will keep his crown, though he does not want it, and his kingdoms, though he knows not how to rule them.
…and he will keep his Little Bird safe no matter the cost to himself.
--
Sansa’s eyes flutter open on the evening of the sixth day, and at first the soft voices in the room sound like screams to her ears. The candles are brighter than the sun and the blankets heavy as plate… but there is something… something familiar. Buried in the cacophony her battered senses perceive, is a sound that soothes her frayed nerves and calms her racing heart. A sound she thought never to hear again.
It is a sound like steel on stone. A harsh rasp. Dogs snarling in a pit.
It is only her weakened state that keeps her from weeping in relief.
Years in hiding, years of surviving as a bastard and Littlefinger’s pawing and groping and his drunken kisses and slurred whispers of “Cat..Cat..my cat..” How she dreamed of that sound, in those years. Dreamed of harsh lips and a bloody cloak. Later, of calloused fingers on her heated skin and strong arms around her and a throbbing ache she did not, at the time, understand.
And now he is here… wherever here is.
She remembers little. Remembers Baelish saying they would travel to Harrenhall and remembers preparing to leave one morning. Remembers being invited to break her fast with her so-called Father…. Remembers the tea tasting funny and her head spinning and then nothing... nothing but darkness and intermittent flashes of light and the sensation of being held down and liquid being forced down her throat.
What she does not know is why he did it. She is ignorant of the fact that Littlefinger’s suit for Harry failed. That he was left with few options and less support from the Lords Declarant. That rather than give up his one, valuable piece, Littlefinger decided to win himself back in to Cersei’s deranged favor by delivering into her hands the girl she believed responsible for her son’s near-death.
There will be time for that later; time for questions and answers. For now there is a large hand behind her head, and warm broth at her lips, and deep grey eyes that hold her warm as any blanket.
--
She heals slowly and he assigns four men he trusts to guard her when he cannot be with her. Though she is afraid of the city and untrusting of everything (except him), she experiences the Keep as it is - not as a cruel cage, but a palace of kings.
She is spoiled rotten and finds it amusing that the man who hates Knights, who loathes chivalry and favors and romance, spends so much effort sending her gifts.
She does not have to sew her own clothes now. Does not need worry that her dresses might grow too short or too tight during her stay. Sansa is flooded with silks and satins, rich, soft wools and thick furs, dressmakers and seamstresses; handmaidens to brush her hair and prepare her bath.
…and there are fresh lemon cakes with her dinner every night.
Sansa cannot quite believe that he is king now. When he first told her she thought she was dreaming. She’d laughed and he’d looked almost hurt and then she’d realized SHE hurt - and since one does not feel pain in dreams she decided that it must be real.
The Hound was the King.
Her Hound…
--
She sits with him in Council (always at his right) and in the evenings he seeks her out for further discussions. It goes unspoken that she is the one with the head for ruling. Between her birth and status and her time with Baelish (she tells him, one night, of her time in the Vale and spares no detail and the next day he sends forty men out to scour Westeros to find the Mocking Bird and promises the Stormlands to whomever brings him in alive), she has a better understanding of politics and economics than the Lords and Knights on his own Council.
She spends their time together explaining things to him and giving him advice, and he spends it cursing the Lords on his Council and the Knights under him and the crown on his head.
She is with him so often that soon, no one questions it. If anyone wonders why the King demands the Keep’s Godswood repaired and expanded, if they wonder at the amount of soil he orders shipped in and how he sets a nearly obscene award for a Weirwood sapling, no one dares say anything to his face.
Winter has made short work of Stannis, and his remaining army has been relegated to the Night’s Watch. With the Lannisters all but destroyed, the Tyrell’s not far behind, and winter lying heavily on all the Kingdoms, things are nearly peaceful.
Sansa uses Baelish’s own contacts to broker deals with the Iron Bank and Pentos and soon ships laden with food and supplies are putting in at White Harbor and King’s Landing and Maiden Pool.
--
She is three years with him in King’s Landing when winter wanes and a false spring dawns. As roads thaw and travel becomes possible, tensions begin to rise. You must wed, his advisors tell him. A marriage to broker peace. A good match. A strong match.
The suggestion of whom he should marry surprises him - but not nearly so much as who makes it.
His Little Bird looks at him evenly and makes her case.
Join the North and King’s Landing, as King Robert had once planned to do…
--
They are wed on a spring morning in the new Godswood. The Weirwood is a slender thing still, but taller than the King, and its red leaves are the same color as Lady Stark’s hair when she walks towards him in her cloak of white and grey.
The High Lords and their ladies are so concerned with not muddying their finery that it is only Sansa who notices Sandor’s big hands shaking when he fastens the yellow-and-black cloak about her shoulders. It is only Sandor who notices how tightly she grasps his hands, how her voice waivers, as she recites her vows.
She does not dare admit how much she wanted this… he does not dare allow himself to believe she did at all.
Her Hound King places a rose-gold circlet on her head and kisses her - his lips are soft, not cruel, and heat pools in her tummy - and Sansa does not point out that this would make such a wonderful song…
--
ConCrit makes my world go 'round...
In this installment: The Hound King takes a Wolf as his Queen...
Warning: This chapter contains mention of past abuse.
It is six days before her eyes open.
Six days while he frets and curses and tries to give up the crown he did not want and the kingdom he did not fight for. In the end he realizes that if he is to keep his promise to his Little Bird, if he is to keep her safe, his only option is to keep the crown.
He is not a Lord. Not a Knight. If he gives up his crown to someone, anyone, he will be no more than the leader of a company of sellswords and his Little Bird will once again be a highborn hostage. A pawn once again in this Game of Thrones.
But hasn’t he just won the game?
It is this thought, above all else, that settles the matter. He will keep his crown, though he does not want it, and his kingdoms, though he knows not how to rule them.
…and he will keep his Little Bird safe no matter the cost to himself.
--
Sansa’s eyes flutter open on the evening of the sixth day, and at first the soft voices in the room sound like screams to her ears. The candles are brighter than the sun and the blankets heavy as plate… but there is something… something familiar. Buried in the cacophony her battered senses perceive, is a sound that soothes her frayed nerves and calms her racing heart. A sound she thought never to hear again.
It is a sound like steel on stone. A harsh rasp. Dogs snarling in a pit.
It is only her weakened state that keeps her from weeping in relief.
Years in hiding, years of surviving as a bastard and Littlefinger’s pawing and groping and his drunken kisses and slurred whispers of “Cat..Cat..my cat..” How she dreamed of that sound, in those years. Dreamed of harsh lips and a bloody cloak. Later, of calloused fingers on her heated skin and strong arms around her and a throbbing ache she did not, at the time, understand.
And now he is here… wherever here is.
She remembers little. Remembers Baelish saying they would travel to Harrenhall and remembers preparing to leave one morning. Remembers being invited to break her fast with her so-called Father…. Remembers the tea tasting funny and her head spinning and then nothing... nothing but darkness and intermittent flashes of light and the sensation of being held down and liquid being forced down her throat.
What she does not know is why he did it. She is ignorant of the fact that Littlefinger’s suit for Harry failed. That he was left with few options and less support from the Lords Declarant. That rather than give up his one, valuable piece, Littlefinger decided to win himself back in to Cersei’s deranged favor by delivering into her hands the girl she believed responsible for her son’s near-death.
There will be time for that later; time for questions and answers. For now there is a large hand behind her head, and warm broth at her lips, and deep grey eyes that hold her warm as any blanket.
--
She heals slowly and he assigns four men he trusts to guard her when he cannot be with her. Though she is afraid of the city and untrusting of everything (except him), she experiences the Keep as it is - not as a cruel cage, but a palace of kings.
She is spoiled rotten and finds it amusing that the man who hates Knights, who loathes chivalry and favors and romance, spends so much effort sending her gifts.
She does not have to sew her own clothes now. Does not need worry that her dresses might grow too short or too tight during her stay. Sansa is flooded with silks and satins, rich, soft wools and thick furs, dressmakers and seamstresses; handmaidens to brush her hair and prepare her bath.
…and there are fresh lemon cakes with her dinner every night.
Sansa cannot quite believe that he is king now. When he first told her she thought she was dreaming. She’d laughed and he’d looked almost hurt and then she’d realized SHE hurt - and since one does not feel pain in dreams she decided that it must be real.
The Hound was the King.
Her Hound…
--
She sits with him in Council (always at his right) and in the evenings he seeks her out for further discussions. It goes unspoken that she is the one with the head for ruling. Between her birth and status and her time with Baelish (she tells him, one night, of her time in the Vale and spares no detail and the next day he sends forty men out to scour Westeros to find the Mocking Bird and promises the Stormlands to whomever brings him in alive), she has a better understanding of politics and economics than the Lords and Knights on his own Council.
She spends their time together explaining things to him and giving him advice, and he spends it cursing the Lords on his Council and the Knights under him and the crown on his head.
She is with him so often that soon, no one questions it. If anyone wonders why the King demands the Keep’s Godswood repaired and expanded, if they wonder at the amount of soil he orders shipped in and how he sets a nearly obscene award for a Weirwood sapling, no one dares say anything to his face.
Winter has made short work of Stannis, and his remaining army has been relegated to the Night’s Watch. With the Lannisters all but destroyed, the Tyrell’s not far behind, and winter lying heavily on all the Kingdoms, things are nearly peaceful.
Sansa uses Baelish’s own contacts to broker deals with the Iron Bank and Pentos and soon ships laden with food and supplies are putting in at White Harbor and King’s Landing and Maiden Pool.
--
She is three years with him in King’s Landing when winter wanes and a false spring dawns. As roads thaw and travel becomes possible, tensions begin to rise. You must wed, his advisors tell him. A marriage to broker peace. A good match. A strong match.
The suggestion of whom he should marry surprises him - but not nearly so much as who makes it.
His Little Bird looks at him evenly and makes her case.
Join the North and King’s Landing, as King Robert had once planned to do…
--
They are wed on a spring morning in the new Godswood. The Weirwood is a slender thing still, but taller than the King, and its red leaves are the same color as Lady Stark’s hair when she walks towards him in her cloak of white and grey.
The High Lords and their ladies are so concerned with not muddying their finery that it is only Sansa who notices Sandor’s big hands shaking when he fastens the yellow-and-black cloak about her shoulders. It is only Sandor who notices how tightly she grasps his hands, how her voice waivers, as she recites her vows.
She does not dare admit how much she wanted this… he does not dare allow himself to believe she did at all.
Her Hound King places a rose-gold circlet on her head and kisses her - his lips are soft, not cruel, and heat pools in her tummy - and Sansa does not point out that this would make such a wonderful song…
--
ConCrit makes my world go 'round...