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Sansa nervously awaited the King in his bedchamber on their wedding night. She’d been undressed and her hair brushed out, then a pretty nightdress put on her by her handmaids, who’d also dabbed a bit of rose-scented oil on her pulse points and between her legs, much to her embarrassment.
She wondered if she should get into the bed to wait for Joffrey. She’d been instructed by her mother as to what was expected of her on this night: to lie back and spread her legs, and submit to her husband’s will. She knew it would hurt the first time, but she was more worried about what else the King might do to her. She was well-acquainted with his pettiness and cruelty, and tonight she would be more vulnerable than ever.
Biting her lip, Sansa paced about the room. The flowers and candles with which it had been decorated were lovely, and helped to soothe her a bit. She was inhaling the fragrance of the roses arranged on a small table when the door opened and King Joffrey entered. The look of depraved glee on his face made her shudder, and his grin immediately transformed into an ugly sneer.
“Afraid, wolf bitch?” he asked with an oily tone to his voice as he approached her that reminded her of Littlefinger. “Good,” he continued, grabbing her by the hair and shaking her. “On your knees, slut!”
Tears streamed down her reddened cheeks at her lord husband’s cruel, vulgar words, and the pain of his fist in her hair. She fell to her knees, hoping that if she did not fight, the ordeal would be over sooner, but it was not to be. Joffrey found pleasure only in the suffering of others, and he would have it from her tonight, and every night for the rest of her life, she was sure.
The King opened his breeches, pulled out his angry-looking cock and slapped her face with it.
“How would you like to suck the royal cock, my lady?” he asked, stroking himself and rubbing the wetness from the tip of his member across her face. She grimaced and tried to pull away, but Joffrey still had a fistful of her hair, and now he released his cock and used the other hand to slap her face, hard. She bit her tongue from the impact, and tasted blood in her mouth.
“Please, Your Grace, please don’t hurt me,” she begged, and the young man standing over her just smiled even more.
“More, Lady Sansa,” he groaned, fisting his manhood again. “Beg some more.” She could see that he was excited by her abasement and it infuriated her, to the point that she lashed out foolishly with her words.
“No!” she yelled. “You’ll get nothing from me, you…you…evil bastard!”
The King went very still, his green eyes wide with shock.
“How dare you speak to me that way?” he demanded. “I’ll show you who’s King, you lowly whore. I can’t believe Mother made me marry a fucking worthless traitor, but I’m going to get some fun out of you.”
Joffrey was not strong by the standards of men, but he was still easily able to overpower a woman. She fought him as much as she could, but he bent one of her arms behind her back until she cried out in pain, then forced her over to the bed. He pushed her down and drew the dagger from his belt.
“Strip and get on your back, wife,” he growled, turning the knife menacingly, “or I’ll start carving pieces off of you until you do.”
Shaking, Sansa did as he said, terrified of what he might do if she did not comply. When she was completely divested of her garments, she climbed onto the bed and lay on her back. More tears leaked from her eyes as she watched King Joffrey stick the knife point-first into the wood of the bedside table and disrobe.
“Spread your legs, wolf bitch,” he demanded, but she couldn’t make herself do it. He slapped her face again, but didn’t stop there. He continued to slap her on both breasts, across her belly, and both hips until he came to her mound. He forced his hand in between her tightly clamped legs and jabbed into her flower sharply with two fingers. Sansa shrieked in pain, but Joffrey did not stop. He kept stabbing her most delicate place with his hand, adding a third finger, before penetrating her bottom opening with his smallest finger, making her gasp again in shock. He jiggled and jabbed and punched her openings brutally, all the while staring into her face, grinning at her pain and suffering.
Finally, he stopped, He pulled his hand out of her body and she jerked with the sudden movement. He wiped the blood and shit from his fingers onto her cheek and into her hair.
“Let the stench of your own blood and shit be a reminder to you of your place,” he said in a low, menacing tone. “Now for the main event.”
Sansa shivered in revulsion as he ran his hands all over her naked body, pinching and squeezing her delicate flesh, leaving bruises and scratches in his wake. Finally, Joffrey climbed in between her legs. Weak with shock, Sansa just closed her eyes and didn’t fight as he mounted her and forced his hardened shaft into her. He thrust into her over and over, but she soon felt that his member was softening inside her. She opened her eyes and stared in confusion, only to see Joffrey’s face contort in rage. He hit her, with his fist this time, and when she cried out he increased his pace inside her. He struck her again, and she could feel him hardening every time she whimpered or screamed.
“Beg, wolf bitch,” he gritted through his teeth. “Beg me to stop.”
Sansa shook her head and he tore at her hair painfully. “I said beg you filthy traitor!” he shouted, before lowering his voice and stopping the motion of his hips. “If you plead prettily enough, sweet Lady Sansa, I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night,” he offered. She knew it was too good to be true, but the pain all over her body, inside and out, was too much to bear.
“Please, Your Grace,” she said through her split and bloody lip, “please stop. You’re hurting me.” She hoped it would be good enough, but King Joffrey merely shook his head.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” he told her, punctuating his words with another thrust of his manhood into her tunnel. She gasped in pain and tried again, but all her begging and pleading merely aroused him more and he increased his pace, hammering into her so hard her body shook and she could feel her head banging against the headboard with every brutal stroke.
“Yesss, that’s good. Much better,” moaned Joffrey as he rutted into her. “Scream for me, slut.” She wept openly now, sobbing as the King fucked her into the bed.
“Stop!” she cried out, screaming with every pound of his cock inside her, his hips slapping against her inner thighs. “It hurts! It hurts! Stop it please!” she blubbered incoherently. Joffrey’s eyes gleamed and then, with a look of utter bliss, he groaned and emptied himself into her, topping it off with another hard slap to her cheek.
—-------
As soon as he was asleep, Sansa had gotten up and cleaned herself as best she could, all over her poor ravaged body and face, and put her nightgown back on. But she still felt filthy, like she was forever soiled. Now she lay on her side, curled into herself, and wept silently. After a time she fell into a light doze, but was awakened again by the sound of a log popping and shifting on the fire. Her eyes were drawn to the glint of orange on metal beside her, and Sansa froze.
The dagger.
She stared at it, not daring to breathe as her mind swirled around her skull in a frenzy. She could kill herself, or better yet, him. They’d kill her afterwards, but at least he’d be dead. Could she really bring herself to do it? Sansa had never done anything violent in her life, she wasn’t like her sister Arya. She didn’t like the sight of blood, not even from a tiny cut on her own finger, and she didn’t know how much force it would take to kill a man, nor how to go about it. It would have to be quick, while Joffrey slept, else he’d overpower her and maybe kill her instead. Probably kill her. Definitely. She shivered in fear and indecision. This might be her only chance, but in truth, she did not want to die.
—---------------
The Hound stood guard outside the King’s chambers beside Meryn fucking Trant, the cunt he hated most among all his “brothers” of the Kingsguard. They’d been forced to listen in silence to the little bird’s screaming, begging, and sobbing as that cunt King Joffrey brutalized her. It was all Sandor could do to contain his rage behind his usual veneer of indifference when he observed Trant smiling, the telltale bulge in his breeches giving away that he was enjoying every minute of Lady Sansa’s suffering. Once the noises from the bedchamber stopped and silence fell, Trant excused himself to go piss, but Sandor knew he was just going around the corner to jerk off.
If he stood very still, he could hear the little bird sniffling and whimpering on the other side of the door, until even that stopped. Trant had just returned to his post with a sickening, satisfied smile on his face that made Sandor scowl, when a piercing scream rang out from within the King’s bedchamber, and this time it was not the girl who screamed but the King himself.
The two guards burst into the room one after the other with the Hound in the lead, to find a scene that stopped them both in their tracks. Joffrey was lying in a pool of blood, clutching his groin and screaming bloody murder, and the little bird stood beside him, covered in blood, with a dagger in one hand and the King’s manhood in the other.
“You bitch!” bellowed Trant, drawing his sword and charging towards the girl. Sandor got in front of him and met the blow with his own sword, stopping the other guard from cleaving the little bird’s head off. He threw Trant back away from her and shouted in his face.
“Fetch the maester you idiot, and be quiet about it!” he rasped. “You think the King wants the whole world to know he’s been gelded?” Joffrey moaned at this and whimpered into the pillow. Sansa seemed frozen in shock at what she’d done, but the moment Trant was gone from the room she came back to herself and dropped the dagger and the bloody organs. She brought her hands up to her face, and then, as the sudden realization of what she’d done seemed to hit her, her eyes rolled up into her head and she collapsed. Sandor caught her just before she hit the floor and carried her to the settee by the fire. He found a clean blanket and wrapped her in it, before turning back to the King in the bed.
“Kill her!” demanded the King, his voice a strangled squeak. “What are you waiting for, dog?”
“If I do that the entire kingdom will turn against you, Your Grace,” replied Sandor. “She’s the princess of the North and you need her, that’s why you married her in the first place.”
“I don’t care!” whined the boy king, and Sandor bit his lip. He had to choose his words carefully now if he had any chance of saving the little bird’s life.
“Wait for the maester, Your Grace,” he said as calmly as possible. “Do not act in haste. No one knows of this but we few; if we keep it that way, your honor may be salvaged.” He almost choked on the word ‘honor.’
Joffrey’s eyes looked dull and then closed as he passed out and said no more.
“Dear gods, what has happened here?” exclaimed the Grand Maester when he entered the room with Ser Meryn at his back.
“Wait outside, Trant,” growled the Hound. When the Kinsguard began to protest, Sandor gripped his sword hilt menacingly. “Let the Grand Maester do his job you buggering cunt!” Trant backed out of the room with a grim look on his face, and Sandor knew this wasn’t over. He approached Pycelle cautiously.
“It was a terrible accident, Grand Maester,” he said. “The King has been injured, but has requested that his privacy be maintained at all costs.” The Hound knew he was pushing his luck very far indeed to presume to speak for the King, but Pycelle merely nodded his head and approached the side of the bed.
“He’s lost a great deal of blood, I fear,” he said, gingerly removing Joffrey’s hands from his groin, only to let out a gasp of horror. He looked up at Sandor, then over at the little bird where she lay by the fire, fortunately still unconscious. “Is the Queen injured as well?” asked the old man as he got to work staunching the blood, and Sandor shook his head.
“No, Grand Maester, she has merely fainted,” he replied. “The blood no doubt frightened her.”
“No doubt,” agreed Pycelle. “Place the iron poker in the fire, Clegane. You’ll have to hold the King down while I cauterize the wound.” Sandor’s eyes widened and he shook his head, taking a step back, away from the maester and away from the fire. “Very well, Hound,” said the man, “get Trant in here and he can do it, then.”
Sandor nodded. “I’ll see the Queen to her chambers,” he said, and scooped her up in his arms before opening the door and hurrying out.
—--------------------------------------
The sensation of cool, fresh water on her face roused Sansa to awareness slowly. She forgot for a moment where she was and what was going on, but then it all came rushing back to her. She sat up suddenly from the bed she’d been laying on and vomited over the side.
“Bloody fucking hells, little bird,” snarled the Hound from his place beside her. It appeared that she had just missed his boots.
“Oh gods,” she moaned, before another wave of nausea overtook her and she emptied the rest of what was left in her stomach onto the floor. She hung there, miserable, until the Hound pulled her hair back away from her face and wiped her mouth with the damp cloth he’d been using to mop her brow.
Sansa stared down at herself, her clean white nightgown and spotless hands, before looking up at her savior. The last thing she remembered was pulling back the sheets, grabbing the King’s manhood and stones, and slicing them off at the root. After that it was just a blur of screaming and blood and then darkness.
“Did you…” she gestured down at herself, then looked up at him again. “Did you clean me up? Dress me?” she asked, with a tremor in her voice. Clegane looked away.
“Figured you wouldn’t want Cersei’s spying handmaids to see you like that, little bird,” he told her. “I’ll take the other nightgown away and burn it.” She thought she saw a hint of a blush on his good cheek, but she wasn’t sure. “Don’t worry, my lady, I didn’t look at or touch anything I didn’t need to.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she said quietly, “I know you wouldn’t.”
“No, little bird, I would never hurt you,” he agreed, gently tracing the bruises that had blossomed on her face.
“What have I done?” she whispered, “and why am I still alive?” Sandor shook his head.
“Trant would have done for you for sure, only I convinced him to go fetch the maester instead,” he explained. “I told Pycelle the King didn’t want anyone to know what had happened. Little cunt was unconscious by then anyway so he couldn’t argue.”
“He’s going to kill me,” she whimpered, dropping her face into her hands. She didn’t know what had possessed her to do it, but as she’d stared at the dagger beside the bed, every foul thing he’d said and done to her flashed before her eyes and the rage had overwhelmed her.
Clegane huffed but didn’t reply. He went and got a rag to clean up her mess off the floor.
“You don’t have to do that, Sandor,” she protested, but he just shrugged.
“As much as I drink, you really think I haven’t puked all over myself a time or two?” he said with a harsh bark of laughter. She shook her head mutely.
“Anyway, serves him right, the cunt,” rasped the Hound, and Sansa realized he was talking about the King again. “He hurt you bad, little bird; s’only fair you hurt him back.”
“Don’t say that, Sandor,” she begged. “Don’t tell anyone what you heard, what he…what he did to me,” she sniffled. “They’ll know I did it on purpose and they’ll put my head on a spike right next to my father’s.”
“Pycelle’s Lord Tywin’s pet, so the old lion’s sure to hear of this by morning,” he mused, “but he’s smart enough to keep it to himself, I’d wager, and King Cunt is too proud to ever let anyone know he’s cockless now. No, the only one I’m worried about squawking is Trant.”
“What can I do?” she wondered aloud. “I can’t stop him from doing or saying something.”
“Leave it to me, girl. I’ll handle Ser Meryn,” said Clegane, “permanently, if necessary.”
—----
Sansa spent the next two weeks confined to her rooms, but nothing else happened to her. Her bruises and cuts were mostly healed, and no one had come to take her to the executioner’s block so far. Only the chambermaids came in to clean though; no handmaids came to tend her hair or clothing.
She didn’t see Joffrey at all during this time and it was a relief, but she knew it was only a matter of time. The bells hadn’t tolled so she knew he must have survived in spite of the blood loss.
The Hound came to see her when he could, bringing news from the court and from the King’s recovery.
“They’re telling a tale of true love, little bird,” he said with disgust. “You and the King have been sequestered in your rooms for a two-week honeymoon, they say.” Sansa shuddered in revulsion.
“So your strategy is really working, then? They’re keeping it a secret?” she asked hopefully. He nodded.
“Seems that way, aye.”
Sansa threw her arms around his neck in relief bordering on joy, with gratitude beyond anything she’d ever felt before.
“Oh Sandor, you’ve saved me!” she gushed, but he gently disentangled himself from her arms and held her away by the shoulders.
“None of that now, little bird,” he rasped. “I did the only sensible thing, that’s all.” Sansa shook her head and smiled at him.
“As you say, my lord,” she replied.
“Stop that,” growled the Hound. “You’ll have to return to public life soon, no doubt, and you’d better get it through that pretty head of yours that the Hound is no one’s friend, least of all yours, else you’ll get us both killed.”
The smile died on her lips as Sansa took in his words. She sat down slowly on the velvet couch.
“I hadn’t thought about what happens now,” she said softly, “I was just relieved to be alive.” Her thoughts whirled in mounting anxiety. What would she do? How would she behave? What lies would she have to tell to go on with any kind of normal life at court? And what would Joffrey do to her now?
“Joffrey…” she whispered. “Oh gods, Sandor. He’s going to hurt me even more now.” she wrung her hands together in her lap. “It would have been better to be executed.”
“Just survive, girl,” said Sandor. “You’re a wolf under those fluttering feathers. Remember that.”
—---------------------
King Joffrey returned to public life even meaner than he’d been before, if that was possible. Even his mother commented on it, and Sandor could only assume that she did not know the reason. How the little shit had managed to keep the secret so close was beyond him.
He’d been right about that old cunt Pycelle telling Lord Tywin, though. The Lord Hand had called Sandor and Ser Meryn to his solar shortly after the incident to put the fear of the gods into them if they breathed a word of his grandson’s emasculation to anyone.
Queen Sansa was resoundingly ignored by the King in public, which seemed to amuse the Queen Mother. He was outright rude about it, but Sandor was just relieved Joffrey was no longer having her beaten in front of the whole court. It put the lie to the official story about them being so in love that they’d needed a fortnight to do nothing but fuck all day, but no one inside the Red Keep had really believed that in the first place, and the smallfolk likely didn’t care. The Hound stood guard over the King most days, standing silently behind him looking bored or irritated while his mind worked, trying to find a way out of this nightmare.
It was at night that things got ugly.
The first time was a shock to all of them. Every member of the Kingsguard, including those who were off duty, were ordered into the King’s bedchamber to take turns raping the Queen. She’d cried and struggled and begged at first, but the worst was when she stopped fighting and just lay there, broken, as one after another all six of them fucked her to completion, finishing inside her per the King’s command.
Sandor was so sick he thought he would puke, but with the King holding a crossbow and the entire Kingsguard watching, he had no choice but to participate along with the rest of them.
He’d wanted her for years, but not like this, never like this. She closed her eyes as he took her, and for once he was grateful that she wouldn’t look at him.
—---------------------------
The first time was the worst. Sansa entered the King’s chamber already in a state of extreme anxiety, having not seen him since that terrible night. When she arrived, she found Joffrey sitting in a chair across from the bed, his favorite crossbow loaded and held on his lap in a relaxed grip. She was confused to find every member of the Kingsguard, save of course for Ser Jaime who was still her brother’s captive, standing at attention beside the bed.
“Good evening, beloved Queen Sansa,” said Joffrey with a glint in his eye that gave her even more trepidation than she already felt.
“Good evening, your grace,” she replied with a deep curtsey, her eyes flitting about the room increasingly frantically seeking an explanation, or an ally. They landed on Sandor, the only thing she had even approaching a friend in this dreadful place, but he stared resolutely at the wall looking bored as he so often did.
“You look lovely this evening, Sansa,” said the King with a smarmy smile that made her skin crawl, “but you’d be even lovelier naked.” Sansa gasped and folded her arms protectively across her chest.
“My…my King?” she stammered. “I don’t understand. What is this?”
“Stupid whore,” he said calmly, as if discussing the weather. “Strip yourself naked and get on the bed. Don’t make me tell you twice.” he threatened, brandishing the crossbow.
The guards did not move a muscle. No one coughed or shifted on their feet; the room was absolutely silent and still.
“Now!” screeched Joffrey and Sansa flinched. With shaking hands she began to disrobe, her back turned to the men in the room in a vain attempt to preserve some semblance of modesty, but it was pointless as her husband then ordered her to lie on her back at the edge of the bed with her legs spread wide.
“Please, Your Grace, don’t do this,” she begged, but Joffrey ignored her as though he hadn’t heard her.
“Trant, you’re up first you lucky bastard,” said the King with a laugh. “I made them draw straws, wolf bitch, just so you know. No one can accuse me of favoritism.”
Sansa did not reply, too deep in her misery to say a word as the fully-armored knight pulled out his cock and started to stroke it as he approached the bed. Once he was right in front of her she could no longer see anything but the vicious glee on his face as he forced himself into her opening.
Sansa screamed in pain and tried to wriggle away but the knight grabbed her by the hips and pulled her back against him hard.
“Bitch is dry as a bone,” he complained, pulling out to spit on his hand and rub it on his cock, before pushing back inside of her.
“Watch your mouth, Ser Meryn,” scolded Joffrey, “that’s the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms you’re referring to. It’s Her Grace Queen Bitch to you.” A nervous chuckle went around the room as Trant picked up his pace and fucked her harder, his armor clanking as she cried. “See that you finish inside her, Ser Meryn,” instructed the King. “She’s a breeding bitch, after all.” He peered closer at the place where Trant’s member pushed in and out of her.
“Is she tight, Ser Meryn?” he asked. “She was for me on our wedding night.” The King licked his lips as he watched. “Swat that pussy hard, make her moan.”
Trant grunted and groaned as he leaned over her, grasping one breast painfully and licking it as he filled her with his seed. When he pulled out she could feel it slipping out of her and dripping across her exposed bottom. Sansa suppressed a shudder of revulsion at the feeling and the humiliation of what had just happened to her.
Next was Ser Arys Oakhart. She battered his chest with her fists, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Please, Ser,” she pleaded, “Please don’t do this. Don’t hurt me, I beg you, make it stop!”
As he entered her she felt the lubrication of Trant’s seed easing the way, making it slightly less painful, but the man set a brutal pace as if he couldn’t wait to get his task over with. Her body was jerked back and forth across the bed with every rapid thrust, again and again and again without pause as Joffrey clapped and urged him on.
“Yes! Fuck her harder, Oakhart! Make the little bitch scream louder,” he cheered. “Ungh. Yeah! Pound that sweet little cunt!” Joffrey’s fists were clenched tightly and he pumped his right one in time with the snap of Ser Arys’s hips. Sansa could hear the knight’s flesh slapping against hers obscenely.
Oakhart was winded as if running a race when he finally stilled and closed his eyes, an odd, almost pained expression coming over his face with his release as she sobbed helplessly.
One after another they used her like the lowliest whore, pounding into her balls deep, some with gleeful abandon and some with stony expressions, but none showed her any mercy. The sticky cum pooled under her and coated her opening, making Sansa feel nauseated. She’d stopped fighting, and even the tears had stopped since the fifth man had mounted her, but they started anew when Sandor approached.
“Please…” she whimpered, but he didn’t even look at her.
“Ooh she wants you, dog!” said Joffrey. “She’s begging for it, you all heard her, didn’t you?” The men muttered acknowledgement and Trant laughed out loud.
The Hound’s manhood was by far the largest of all the cocks she’d taken that night, one after another. Although her cunt was wide open now and well slicked with semen, it still stretched her walls tightly when he sank into her. She yelped when the head of it hit the entrance to her womb painfully. Sansa lay there in shock, unable to look at him, as her erstwhile friend violated her.
—-------------------------
Joffrey Baratheon. Meryn Trant. Arys Oakhart. Boros Blount. Preston Greenfield. Mandon Moore. Six men who had soiled the little bird, all of whom needed to be killed. And then there was himself, Sandor Clegane. He was as guilty as the others, and he hated himself at least as much as he hated them.
Every night for a week they’d raped her, all of the Kingsguard, while the King watched and the Queen cried. Every night he’d gone to his bed feeling filthy and despicable, and every night he repeated the list of names of men he would kill.
Sansa only left her chambers when summoned directly, and then was listless and pale. She still chirped the appropriate courtesies, but she never smiled. She was dying inside, Sandor could see it happening before his eyes. He had to get her out of the Red Keep, if it wasn’t already too late to save her. He should have done it before all this, before the wedding, before the rapes.
When her moonblood came she got a break, but it meant there would be more suffering as soon as it was finished, over and over again until she either conceived a bastard of unknown paternity or died from shame and grief.
Sandor hated himself even more on the nights when they didn’t use and abuse the Queen, because his body had become accustomed to regular releases and he couldn’t help wanting her even still. He’d lie in his bed at night, hard as steel and leaking, and weep as he gave in every time and took himself in hand. He imagined her as he saw her on those nights, naked and splayed out before him, her red hair radiant in the firelight and her skin like fresh cream as his cock stretched her cunt tight around him. He imagined pushing into her unwilling body, taking what he had no right to and feeling sick as he enjoyed every second of it.
—------
Sandor was attending the King when the Lord Hand summoned Joffrey to his solar. He expected to be told to wait outside, but Lord Tywin ordered him to stay, so he came into the room along with the King and shut the door behind him.
“Clegane,” said the Hand, “Nothing leaves this room, of course. You know it would mean your life, I presume?” Sandor nodded.
“Aye, my lord,” he replied, and Tywin turned his attention to the King.
“Your Grace, I have the honor of informing you that the Queen is with child. Grand Maester Pycelle gave me the news just this morning after examining her,” said Tywin succinctly.
“Why did he inform you and not me?” whined Joffrey, but his grandfather merely raised an eyebrow before continuing.
“I am aware of what has been going on in your rooms, Your Grace,” continued the old lion. “It is a disgraceful way to treat a highborn lady, but the objective has been achieved, although I would have preferred a different means of achieving it,” he said, before clearing his throat and giving Joffrey a stern look. “The abuse stops now, Joffrey,” the Lord Hand declared. “So long as the Queen is with child she is not to be fucked. Is that understood?”
The King slouched in his chair and pouted, but nodded, and Lord Tywin locked eyes with the Hound.
“You will ensure that my orders are carried out, Clegane,” he said, “and you will guard Her Grace personally until further notice.” Sandor nodded.
“I will, my lord.”
His mind raced as the King strode angrily through the halls of the keep towards the royal apartments. Sandor knew they were heading for the little bird’s cage and feared what Joffrey might do. When they arrived at her door, Ser Arys was on guard duty along with Ser Boros. Blount threw him a smirk as Sandor knocked and then pushed open the door for the King, but he ignored it.
Lady Sansa was sitting beside the window sewing, but as soon as she saw the King she rose, the work falling from her hands unregarded as she stared at him wide-eyed and dropped into a curtsey. Sandor could see that she was shaking.
“Sit down,” commanded Joffrey, and the Queen obeyed immediately, her eyes lowered. “Look at me!” he demanded, and she raised her eyes to him. “I hear you’re pregnant, you little slut. Why didn’t you tell me first?”
“I wasn’t sure, Your Grace,” she murmured softly. “I didn’t want to disappoint you if I was wrong.”
“You should have told me anyway,” he told her sharply. “Your womb belongs to me, and so does that bastard you carry.”
“Yes Your Grace,” said Sansa, “as you say.”
“Well now that that’s out of the way, I have some bad news for you,” continued Joffrey. “Since you’re carrying my child, your nightly trysts with the Kingsguard are at an end.” The little bird looked at the King with a little more color in her cheeks at this news, but he wasn’t done with her. “That is, until you give me a son. If you bleed it out or drop a girl, you’ll be right back on your back, spreading your legs for whoever I decide to let fuck you.”
The little bit of color drained from her cheeks.
“Do you understand, you stupid little slut?” asked the King, and she nodded. “No more cock for you, you greedy whore. Although…” Joffrey got a frightening look on his face and turned to address the Hound. “Dog, pull out your cock.” Sandor shifted uncomfortably.
“Your Grace?” he asked, afraid he knew what the little cunt was about to order him to do. “Lord Tywin said-”
“I don’t care! I said whip it out you mangy cur!” he snapped, and Sandor had no choice but to comply. Joffrey’s face lit up with depraved glee at the sight. “Grandfather said no more fucking, but he didn’t say anything about her mouth.” He turned back to the Queen. “On your knees, you traitorous whore.” He walked over to where she had knelt down and tore open the front of her dress, leaving her breasts hanging out completely exposed. All the little bird did was whimper quietly.
“You like those teats, don’t you dog?” sneered Joffrey, licking his lips. “Come and rub them with your cock until you’re hard.” Sandor fought the urge to gut the monstrous young man before him, knowing it would mean his head and then the little bird would never be free, would have no one to protect her, no matter how poorly.
Sandor walked over to her and rubbed his cock on her silky-soft teats. He was hard almost instantly, the texture of her skin and the fullness of her breasts irresistible to his body, even as his mind recoiled in horror from what he was doing to her, what he was about to do.
“Open up, Sansa Slut,” ordered Joffrey, and she looked at him in confusion. “Your mouth you dumb whore!’ A tear slid down her cheek as the little bird complied. “Well dog? Give her your bone!” Joffrey laughed and laughed as though he’d made a clever jape. He frowned when Sandor still had not moved. “Shove your cock down her throat, stupid. Do I have to tell you idiots everything?” he shouted, red faced.
With regret, the Hound took the Queen’s hair in one fist and his cock in the other, and pushed her head down on his length as far as it would go.
GLURK! GLURK! GLURK!
She gagged and slurped and gagged some more, eyes streaming and face turning red from lack of oxygen as he fucked her throat, which bulged visibly, forcing her head down over and over while Joffrey watched and clapped. He pulled back every once in a while so she could breathe, and she vomited on his boots.
“More, dog! Fuck that pretty face!” cried the King, fondling the dagger at his belt. “I want you to shoot your load right down her throat!”
Sandor redoubled his efforts, closing his eyes and pretending to be anywhere else but here, doing anything else but this and just trying to get it over with as quickly as possible. Sansa continued to struggle and gag, making horrible wet noises as his considerable length pushed down her throat and his girth stretched her jaw painfully wide. Finally he felt his sack tighten, his release imminent.
“Almost there,” he grunted, and Joffrey cheered.
“Yes! You better swallow it all, traitor, or you’ll be sorry!” he declared with glee.
Sandor pressed on the back of her head with both hands, forcing her face hard against him, completely sheathing himself in her throat as his seed erupted out of him. Sansa struggled, clinging to the wrist of the fist that gripped her hair. She sounded like she was truly choking and he pulled out hurriedly. The stream of cum that burst out of her mouth was tinged with blood, and she collapsed onto the rug, gasping.
“I told you to swallow you stupid whore!” complained the King. “Look at this mess. Ugh.” He made as if to kick her and Sandor stepped forward, his slick manhood still dangling loose.
“Your Grace, the child!” he said, placing himself between the King and the little bird. “Remember what the Lord Hand said.” Joffrey scowled but refrained from kicking her.
“You’re lucky, Sansa Slut, that my dog is so faithful to me,” he told her, gripping her by the hair and dragging her to her feet, where she wobbled precariously. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to my heir, after all.” He looked her over with evident contempt as drool and vomit and Sandor’s seed hung from her slack jaw in strings and dribbled over her exposed tits, gleaming and sticky. “You’re disgusting. Clean yourself up.” With that the King turned on his heel and strode to the door. “Come, dog,” he said, and Sandor could do nothing but tuck himself in and follow.
—-----------------------
Her jaw muscles ached and her scalp was bleeding from where some of her hair had been pulled out. Sansa staggered shakily to the washstand and poured herself a cup of water, then sluiced her mouth out and spat in the basin, but couldn’t bring herself to look at what came out. She’d thought there were no more tears in her until today, but they came nonetheless and there was nothing she could do to stop them. She stripped off her ruined clothes and washed herself as best she could before pulling on a simple shift and robe.
Sansa did her best to scrub the evidence of her shame from the carpet with a rag and some soap and water until the protesting of her knees became too great. Tossing the rag along with the clothes into the laundry basket, Sansa collapsed onto her bed and stared up at the richly-patterned canopy overhead. She wanted to die, to make the horror and defilement end once and for all, but now that she knew for sure she was pregnant, she hesitated. Killing herself would kill an innocent child, too, but then again that child was the product of countless rapes over the course of months, violation after violation, from six different men. There was no way of knowing who the father was, and she refused to consider it Joffrey’s get.
If only she could get her hands on some of that moon tea she’d heard whispers about, she could be rid of this reminder of everything she’d suffered since her wedding night. It would be dangerous, but Sansa didn’t care if it killed her. She’d rather die than endure any more of the degradation and pain Joffrey heaped upon her. She wished she’d killed him that night instead of just mutilating him. All she’d done was make her situation infinitely worse.
Sandor had been guarding her rooms for several days, ever since the last assault, before he finally spoke to her. Sansa thought he must be repulsed by her, disgusted by her debasement, but when he knelt at her feet and wept over her hands, she knew it wasn’t that way at all.
“I know you can never forgive me, little bird,” he said, “and I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but please, if you ever trusted me before, trust me now. Can you do that?” he asked, looking into her eyes intensely. Sansa knew he’d done what he did on the King’s orders, and that if he’d refused he would have been executed. She knew he didn’t mean any of it, but her body instinctively recoiled from his touch. She couldn’t help pulling her hands away and gripping her arms tightly.
“I…I don’t know if I can, Sandor,” she said quietly, the same way she said everything now. She rarely raised her voice above a whisper anymore.
“I will fall on my sword right now if you ask it of me, Sansa,” he said, sounding desperate. “I mean it. I owe you that much at least.”
“I don’t want you dead,” whispered Sansa, unable to look into his eyes anymore. Clegane shook his head.
“Someday, when you’re safe, you may change your mind,” he told her.
“I’ll never be safe,” she said. “Not until I’m dead.” His eyes widened in alarm.
“Don’t talk that way, little bird,” he pleaded. “Please look at me. Promise me you won’t hurt yourself.”
Sansa didn’t reply. She couldn’t make that promise, and she wasn’t going to lie. She was still a Stark, and her Stark honor, tattered as it was, prohibited it. She had little enough dignity to cling to, she wouldn’t let go of that.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” promised Sandor. “I’ve been collecting money and supplies, and now I’m ready. At the first opportunity…”
She shook her head.
“What opportunity? I’m watched day and night,” Sansa reminded him.
“They say Stannis Bratheon’s forces will be here any day now,” Sandor told her, and a brief spark of hope lit in her heart, before flickering out again.
“Then I’m as good as dead anyway,” she said.
“No, it’s our chance to get away, don’t you see?” he insisted. “The keep will be in chaos, no one will stop us, and if they do I’ll just say I’m taking the Queen to safety.”
“I don’t have it in me to run, Sandor, I’m sorry,” Sansa told him morosely. “I don’t know how to hope or to trust anymore.”
“You remember what I told you, before? You’re a wolf under those feathers, I know you are.”
Sansa gazed at him with dead eyes, but he refused to relent.
“I will not let you die, Sansa Stark,” insisted Sandor, taking her chin in his large hand and forcing her to look at him. “You.will.not.die.”
—----------------------------------------
When Stannis Baratheon and his army stormed the Red Keep a few nights later after taking King’s Landing in a decisive victory, they found the King already dead, his throat cut into a red smile and the crown on the floor at his feet. The red-haired Stark Queen could not be located, and Stannis feared that she had been abducted or somehow lost in the confusion of battle. It mattered little to him, though, compared to his final victory over the Lannisters and the bastard king.
Finally the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms sat on the Iron Throne.
—-----------------------------------------
One of the first things they’d done as soon as they escaped was to find her some moon tea and a quiet place to take it and wait out the results. The cramps were awful, but Sansa bled out the unwanted babe on the floor of a barn, no more than a few clots of blood at this early stage, and after a night’s rest they moved on.
They had to go a long way to find a place where the Hound and the Queen would not be recognized, but they eventually did. No one knew them, and no one cared where they’d come from or who they were. At last Sandor and Sansa found anonymity in a bustling city in Essos, where he found work at a small pub and his ‘wife’ worked there as a whore. He served drinks and kept the peace, by force if needed, though usually one look at the size and meanness of him was all it took to end any trouble before it started.
Sansa had gotten used to taking a lot of cocks in one night, and so she did it again to help support them. At first, Sandor had been vehemently against it, and in truth she’d been terrified too, but they were desperate and it was quick and easy coin. As beautiful as she was, and with her unusual red hair, Sansa commanded a good price from her clients and Sandor made sure no one did her any harm. She found that when it was her choice and there was no malice behind it, it wasn’t so bad to get fucked over and over again every night for money.
It had taken time, but Sansa’s spark had returned and she’d learned to trust the Hound again, and eventually welcomed him into her bed. His manhood was still the biggest she’d ever had, but it didn’t hurt when he made love to her, because he loved her well and gave as much pleasure as he got.
The End