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literenTitle: Wedding Night
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters: Sansa/Sandor
Words: ~1,900
Rating: PG
Warnings: hints of dub-con, het, spoilers for later books
Summary: Alayne Stone wants nothing better than to forget her troubled past and be a good daughter, but what does Sansa Stark truly want?
Beta: none
Notes: Re-posting all my old ASOIAF fic from my other account. This is embarrassingly old, it was written in 2007.
The silk dress was soft against her fingertips, but it felt icy cold as well and it made her shiver. But she was a proper lady, and she always remembered her courtesies, so she forced herself to smile.
"It is very pretty, Father," Alayne said. "Thank you."
Lord Baelish smiled at her. "I'm glad to hear that you like it," he said, fingering his short pointed beard. He had let it grow again after... after his lady wife's untimely death.
Sansa caressed the pearls sewn on the bodice again, tracing the direwolf's outline, pretending to take great interest in the decoration. "Freshwater pearls were ever my favourite," she lied. "I shall look forward to wearing it on the morrow."
"You ought to try it on now," Lord Baelish urged her. "It will be a problem if your dress doesn't fit."
Alayne shifted uncomfortably. "The women took my measurements carefully, and I tried it on while they were sewing it," she said uncertainly.
"Everything must be perfect on your wedding day," Lord Baelish insisted.
In the end, Alayne motioned for her servants to help her. She could feel her father's eyes on her back while she struggled out of her simple woolen dress and into the elaborate gown. She stared right ahead outside the window, to the snowy peaks in the far distance, trying not to think about anything, trying not to cry. Lastly a woman laced her pearl necklace and stepped back, bowing her head respectfully. Alayne turned slowly, and Lord Baelish nodded appreciatively.
"It suits you perfectly," he said. "You're beautiful as always."
She wanted to thank him, to be courteous like the lady she was going to become, but the words caught in her throat and she couldn't speak.
Lord Baelish noticed it. "Is something troubling you?" he asked, stepping closer and taking one of her hands.
"I'm just worried that I will leave you, Father," she lied, averting her eyes. With her other hand she wiped away the tears that had started to fill her eyes.
"Don't worry, sweet daughter," he said with a small smile, squeezing her hand gently. "It's only normal to feel worried before your wedding. But if you need anything, remember I'll always be there for you."
Alayne could smell the mint in his breath. She smiled back at him and met his gaze, but his dark eyes didn't betray his thoughts. As always when they were this close, she just wanted to push him away and run. But he was still her father and she wouldn't disgrace herself in front of the serving women.
"I would like..." she started weakly. Truly, what did she want? "I would like to visit the sept," she invented.
"The sept?" Lord Baelish sounded half-surprised, half-amused. "Child, the hour grows late, and you'll visit the sept soon enough on the morrow."
"I'll go at once, and I won't be long," she pleaded. "I haven't gone in so many days, I think it would help put my mind at rest."
Even more lies. She had lied so many times, she couldn't tell right from wrong any more. She held her breath, sending a silent prayer to the Seven, and surely they must have heard because Lord Baelish smiled and bowed his head. "Very well, but I'd rather you didn't go all the way to the sept at this hour of night. I will send the septon to you so you may talk of the gods and I will retire."
He kissed her on the mouth and took his leave. After the door had closed behind him, Alayne gave a sigh of relief. The serving women helped her out of her wedding gown and into a light linen shift.
"Please put out the braziers, then I'll have no need of you until the morrow," she told the women, dismissing them.
Her wedding gown had been folded carefully and placed on top of a chest of clothes. The pearl direwolf shone in the candlelight and seemed almost to run on a silvery grey field of snow. She thought of the next time she would have to wear it, and of the next time she would have to take it off. The night wasn't cold, but she still shivered at the thought of what the following day would bring. She wrapped herself in a thick woolen robe and sat at the table waiting for the septon to arrive.
He took a long time coming, and she must have dozed at some time. A knock at the door jerked her into consciousness and she noticed that the candle had almost gone out.
"Come in," she cried, trying at the same time to straighten the candle and to rub the sleep from her eyes.
"My lady," said a man, opening the door. "The septon is sleeping and we are loathe to disturb an old man's rest, but a wandering brother of the faith is here, if you would speak to him."
"Thank you," Alayne said. "Please, let him in. I won't be long."
The monk who entered her room was a tall man who walked with a slight limp. He bowed his head to Alayne, his face hidden behind the brown hood of his order.
She gestured him to the chair in front of her. "I thank you for coming, good brother," she said. "You must think me a fool to call on you at such a time of night..." Her voice trailed off. The man was staring at her, she could see the candlelight reflected in his eyes even though she couldn't properly see his face.
When he spoke, it knocked the breath out from her. "Little bird," he said, and his voice was the familiar rasp that she'd heard half a hundred times. "I always thought you were a sweet fool."
No, she told herself. This isn't possible, this isn't happening. Was she still asleep? As in a dream, she walked to him and pulled his hood back. His face was even worse than what she remembered, and not only the burned half. He looked gaunt, with hollow eyes.
"I thought you were dead," she said in a whisper.
"So did I," he replied flatly, but she could see that he was surprised. Whether he was pleased or angry, she couldn't say.
She tried to avoid his stare; the sight of his face made her uneasy. "I'm pleased to see that you're well," she said, stopping just before the ser. Should she call him brother now? He didn't look like a man of the Faith, no more than he'd ever looked a knight.
True enough, he snorted derisively. "Little bird, I've never been well in all of my life. Spare me your lies. What would you care about my life, if you can't even look at my face?"
"That's unjust," Sansa protested. "My words weren't just an empty courtesy. I've often thought about... about what could have become of you." Her voice faltered slightly. "After the battle." Despite herself, she blushed at the thought. Suddenly she remembered that she was wearing only a nightshift and wrapped her arms protectively around herself.
"I thought about you often, too, though I don't think you would like to hear that," the Hound replied. "And I met your sister. She didn't like me either, nor would she sing any songs."
Sansa hugged herself more tightly. This was all wrong, it wasn't supposed to go like this. "I have no sisters," she said weakly. "I'm Alayne Stone, I'm Lord Baelish's natural daughter. I've lived with my mother all of my life, but she died not long ago and my father took me with him..."
The Hound's laughter drowned out her words. "If you're Littlefinger's bastard, then I'm truly a brother of the Faith. You're the worst liar I've ever seen. The high lords can play their games of thrones, but little birds get crushed."
"You don't understand," Sansa wailed. "I had to hide myself or the Queen would have killed me! Lord Baelish has been kind to me."
"I can imagine how," he snarled. "Still, after the Imp he should have come as a relief."
Sansa blushed. "It's not as you think! My marriage to the Imp is null. I'm to be wed to Harry on the morrow."
"The one they call the Heir?" the Hound snorted. "What a waste. I should have followed my first impulse and taken you with me the night of the battle."
She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.
"Is my face so hideous?" the Hound rasped.
She shook her head, trying not to look, wiping her tears on her sleeve. Why couldn't he understand? His face was the least of it.
He slammed his fist against the table in a fury and the candle trembled. Startled, Sansa shielded herself with her arms, but he simply turned to leave.
"I wish happiness to you and your future husband," he said sourly, pulling the hood around his face.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, don't go."
Tears were coming fast out of her eyes now. He stopped, halfway to the door, and turned to her.
"I have tried to be Alayne Stone and forget about Sansa Stark because terrible things always happened to Sansa," she said to the darkness under his cowl. "I thought I'd be happy here, but I'm not. I'm scared." Her voice was barely a whisper.
She was glad she couldn't see the Hound's expression, in case it scared her again. "When Lord Baelish kisses me, he doesn't think of me as his daughter, but he never... he never went any further. He said that my maidenhead is the proof that my marriage to the Imp was void, so I could wed Harry instead. Now he wants me to become Sansa again and claim the North, but I don't want to." Her voice cracked. "I don't want to be Sansa any more," she wailed.
"Gods," Sandor swore. She never saw him moving, but suddenly he was on her, kissing the tears from her eyes, kissing her. She closed her eyes. I remember this, she thought, but she didn't remember his tongue between her lips, or how how hungrily he pressed his mouth against her. She gave in to the kiss, putting her arms around his shoulders and drawing him closer. He wiped her tears off with a callused finger, tracing her jawbone, brushing her shoulder. His hand was trailing down to her breasts. Sansa shivered and broke the kiss.
"My marriage," she started, but she sounded uncertain even to herself.
"Piss on your marriage," the Hound said. "You're my little bird. I gave you my cloak already. Once I saved your life, and I'll protect you again no matter what. I've got more rights to you than Harry will ever have."
Her hands were still on his shoulders, but she didn't want to push him away. Clumsily, she reached and pulled down his hood, revealing his scarred face. The red candlelight made him look as if his face was still on fire. She stared into his eyes, saw the longing in his gaze. She knew what he wanted. But what did she want? She couldn't have said, even as Sandor swept her off her feet and carried her to the bed.
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters: Sansa/Sandor
Words: ~1,900
Rating: PG
Warnings: hints of dub-con, het, spoilers for later books
Summary: Alayne Stone wants nothing better than to forget her troubled past and be a good daughter, but what does Sansa Stark truly want?
Beta: none
Notes: Re-posting all my old ASOIAF fic from my other account. This is embarrassingly old, it was written in 2007.
The silk dress was soft against her fingertips, but it felt icy cold as well and it made her shiver. But she was a proper lady, and she always remembered her courtesies, so she forced herself to smile.
"It is very pretty, Father," Alayne said. "Thank you."
Lord Baelish smiled at her. "I'm glad to hear that you like it," he said, fingering his short pointed beard. He had let it grow again after... after his lady wife's untimely death.
Sansa caressed the pearls sewn on the bodice again, tracing the direwolf's outline, pretending to take great interest in the decoration. "Freshwater pearls were ever my favourite," she lied. "I shall look forward to wearing it on the morrow."
"You ought to try it on now," Lord Baelish urged her. "It will be a problem if your dress doesn't fit."
Alayne shifted uncomfortably. "The women took my measurements carefully, and I tried it on while they were sewing it," she said uncertainly.
"Everything must be perfect on your wedding day," Lord Baelish insisted.
In the end, Alayne motioned for her servants to help her. She could feel her father's eyes on her back while she struggled out of her simple woolen dress and into the elaborate gown. She stared right ahead outside the window, to the snowy peaks in the far distance, trying not to think about anything, trying not to cry. Lastly a woman laced her pearl necklace and stepped back, bowing her head respectfully. Alayne turned slowly, and Lord Baelish nodded appreciatively.
"It suits you perfectly," he said. "You're beautiful as always."
She wanted to thank him, to be courteous like the lady she was going to become, but the words caught in her throat and she couldn't speak.
Lord Baelish noticed it. "Is something troubling you?" he asked, stepping closer and taking one of her hands.
"I'm just worried that I will leave you, Father," she lied, averting her eyes. With her other hand she wiped away the tears that had started to fill her eyes.
"Don't worry, sweet daughter," he said with a small smile, squeezing her hand gently. "It's only normal to feel worried before your wedding. But if you need anything, remember I'll always be there for you."
Alayne could smell the mint in his breath. She smiled back at him and met his gaze, but his dark eyes didn't betray his thoughts. As always when they were this close, she just wanted to push him away and run. But he was still her father and she wouldn't disgrace herself in front of the serving women.
"I would like..." she started weakly. Truly, what did she want? "I would like to visit the sept," she invented.
"The sept?" Lord Baelish sounded half-surprised, half-amused. "Child, the hour grows late, and you'll visit the sept soon enough on the morrow."
"I'll go at once, and I won't be long," she pleaded. "I haven't gone in so many days, I think it would help put my mind at rest."
Even more lies. She had lied so many times, she couldn't tell right from wrong any more. She held her breath, sending a silent prayer to the Seven, and surely they must have heard because Lord Baelish smiled and bowed his head. "Very well, but I'd rather you didn't go all the way to the sept at this hour of night. I will send the septon to you so you may talk of the gods and I will retire."
He kissed her on the mouth and took his leave. After the door had closed behind him, Alayne gave a sigh of relief. The serving women helped her out of her wedding gown and into a light linen shift.
"Please put out the braziers, then I'll have no need of you until the morrow," she told the women, dismissing them.
Her wedding gown had been folded carefully and placed on top of a chest of clothes. The pearl direwolf shone in the candlelight and seemed almost to run on a silvery grey field of snow. She thought of the next time she would have to wear it, and of the next time she would have to take it off. The night wasn't cold, but she still shivered at the thought of what the following day would bring. She wrapped herself in a thick woolen robe and sat at the table waiting for the septon to arrive.
He took a long time coming, and she must have dozed at some time. A knock at the door jerked her into consciousness and she noticed that the candle had almost gone out.
"Come in," she cried, trying at the same time to straighten the candle and to rub the sleep from her eyes.
"My lady," said a man, opening the door. "The septon is sleeping and we are loathe to disturb an old man's rest, but a wandering brother of the faith is here, if you would speak to him."
"Thank you," Alayne said. "Please, let him in. I won't be long."
The monk who entered her room was a tall man who walked with a slight limp. He bowed his head to Alayne, his face hidden behind the brown hood of his order.
She gestured him to the chair in front of her. "I thank you for coming, good brother," she said. "You must think me a fool to call on you at such a time of night..." Her voice trailed off. The man was staring at her, she could see the candlelight reflected in his eyes even though she couldn't properly see his face.
When he spoke, it knocked the breath out from her. "Little bird," he said, and his voice was the familiar rasp that she'd heard half a hundred times. "I always thought you were a sweet fool."
No, she told herself. This isn't possible, this isn't happening. Was she still asleep? As in a dream, she walked to him and pulled his hood back. His face was even worse than what she remembered, and not only the burned half. He looked gaunt, with hollow eyes.
"I thought you were dead," she said in a whisper.
"So did I," he replied flatly, but she could see that he was surprised. Whether he was pleased or angry, she couldn't say.
She tried to avoid his stare; the sight of his face made her uneasy. "I'm pleased to see that you're well," she said, stopping just before the ser. Should she call him brother now? He didn't look like a man of the Faith, no more than he'd ever looked a knight.
True enough, he snorted derisively. "Little bird, I've never been well in all of my life. Spare me your lies. What would you care about my life, if you can't even look at my face?"
"That's unjust," Sansa protested. "My words weren't just an empty courtesy. I've often thought about... about what could have become of you." Her voice faltered slightly. "After the battle." Despite herself, she blushed at the thought. Suddenly she remembered that she was wearing only a nightshift and wrapped her arms protectively around herself.
"I thought about you often, too, though I don't think you would like to hear that," the Hound replied. "And I met your sister. She didn't like me either, nor would she sing any songs."
Sansa hugged herself more tightly. This was all wrong, it wasn't supposed to go like this. "I have no sisters," she said weakly. "I'm Alayne Stone, I'm Lord Baelish's natural daughter. I've lived with my mother all of my life, but she died not long ago and my father took me with him..."
The Hound's laughter drowned out her words. "If you're Littlefinger's bastard, then I'm truly a brother of the Faith. You're the worst liar I've ever seen. The high lords can play their games of thrones, but little birds get crushed."
"You don't understand," Sansa wailed. "I had to hide myself or the Queen would have killed me! Lord Baelish has been kind to me."
"I can imagine how," he snarled. "Still, after the Imp he should have come as a relief."
Sansa blushed. "It's not as you think! My marriage to the Imp is null. I'm to be wed to Harry on the morrow."
"The one they call the Heir?" the Hound snorted. "What a waste. I should have followed my first impulse and taken you with me the night of the battle."
She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.
"Is my face so hideous?" the Hound rasped.
She shook her head, trying not to look, wiping her tears on her sleeve. Why couldn't he understand? His face was the least of it.
He slammed his fist against the table in a fury and the candle trembled. Startled, Sansa shielded herself with her arms, but he simply turned to leave.
"I wish happiness to you and your future husband," he said sourly, pulling the hood around his face.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, don't go."
Tears were coming fast out of her eyes now. He stopped, halfway to the door, and turned to her.
"I have tried to be Alayne Stone and forget about Sansa Stark because terrible things always happened to Sansa," she said to the darkness under his cowl. "I thought I'd be happy here, but I'm not. I'm scared." Her voice was barely a whisper.
She was glad she couldn't see the Hound's expression, in case it scared her again. "When Lord Baelish kisses me, he doesn't think of me as his daughter, but he never... he never went any further. He said that my maidenhead is the proof that my marriage to the Imp was void, so I could wed Harry instead. Now he wants me to become Sansa again and claim the North, but I don't want to." Her voice cracked. "I don't want to be Sansa any more," she wailed.
"Gods," Sandor swore. She never saw him moving, but suddenly he was on her, kissing the tears from her eyes, kissing her. She closed her eyes. I remember this, she thought, but she didn't remember his tongue between her lips, or how how hungrily he pressed his mouth against her. She gave in to the kiss, putting her arms around his shoulders and drawing him closer. He wiped her tears off with a callused finger, tracing her jawbone, brushing her shoulder. His hand was trailing down to her breasts. Sansa shivered and broke the kiss.
"My marriage," she started, but she sounded uncertain even to herself.
"Piss on your marriage," the Hound said. "You're my little bird. I gave you my cloak already. Once I saved your life, and I'll protect you again no matter what. I've got more rights to you than Harry will ever have."
Her hands were still on his shoulders, but she didn't want to push him away. Clumsily, she reached and pulled down his hood, revealing his scarred face. The red candlelight made him look as if his face was still on fire. She stared into his eyes, saw the longing in his gaze. She knew what he wanted. But what did she want? She couldn't have said, even as Sandor swept her off her feet and carried her to the bed.
