The Traitor's Wedding

Chapter One

She had no idea when she started thinking of him more than just a scary, scarred man. The first day she'd seen him, on the King's Road, she hadn't been terribly frightened of him, a little curious in fact. But the more she heard, and the words Littlefinger had fed her, stoked a fire of fear inside of her for months, more so when she was the last wolf in King's Landing. She was surrounded by liars and thieves and cruel men. She was living in a story of hell and fire and destruction. She was utterly exhausted and terrified. She didn't know how much more she could have taken.

When she was brought forth in front of the King, to be taken in front of all the decapitated men of her House, she had never felt more alone. She knew how much Joffery wanted her to feel terrible and confused. But all she felt was angry. She remembered a phrase she'd heard her father speak, "The North never forgets." It was like someone else had taken her over.

When Joffrey threatened, "After I raise my armies and kill your traitor brother, I'm going to give you his head." She'd dropped her stupid courtesies and her words and said the first thing that came to her mind, "Or maybe he'll give me yours."

Despite the fact she got slapped, the pain that bloomed in her face or the shame of being struck, she was never more proud of herself. She knew she was alone now, knew that Arya was most likely gone, so when she saw the edge to push him off and kill the stupid little brat, she was more than happy to die with him.

But Sandor had stopped her, dabbed at the blood that welled on her lip with such tenderness that she had no idea what she could say. She lost her fire, her wittiness, and, by the time he broke their shared gaze, she was a submissive pup again. She thanked him quietly, remembering her stupid courtesies and let Joffrey do what he would with her.

She had never felt more alone.

The Hound had just seemed like another Lannister, another piece of Joffrey's chessboard. Despite his moment of kindness, Sansa began to loath him. She even tried blaming him for some of her suffering. She wanted to hate him. She did up until Robb had captured Jaime Lannister and she was brought to the King. He declared it was her fault and that Robb needed to be taught a lesson. There was only one way that could happen; Sansa needed to take the punishment. Maybe if she cried loud enough he could hear her.

That moment, so painful and frightening was burned into her memory. The strike of the sword against her flesh, the pain radiating through her body, and the momentary fear that she might actually be cut caused her to cringe at the thought. What was worse was the fact that not one person wanted to step forward to help her. Most of the King's guard watched her, sneered at her, and enjoyed the misery that was caused. But there was one person that didn't watch, didn't take joy in her pain, or laugh at what was said; the Hound. Thoughts that he could see what was happening, hear her begging, pleading, made her ashamed. She hated how she acted, that she was so pathetic. It filled her with shame and embarrassment and made it all the much easier for the tears to fall.

Tyrion had stepped forward and ordered the knights to stop. She'd never been so relieved. Despite her nakedness, the fact she was exposed to all those men, knights, and women at court, she was briefly relieved. Even better, Sandor, for now he wasn't the Hound, stepped forward and covered her shame with his white cloak, just like a proper knight should. He hadn't needed prodding, nor did Tyrion have to order him to. He simply did it like it was nothing, just a casual gesture like anyone here would have done it. He wouldn't meet her eye, didn't say one word to her. He just draped his cloak over her shoulders and made sure she wouldn't be shamed anymore.

That night, as she soaked down in the water to try to get rid of some of her bruising and the pain from her muscles, Sansa finally realized who Sandor really was. He was a man growing up in a cruel world. He was scarred at a young age and was brought up with sneers and jokes made on his part. He'd built a wall, the Hound persona, and made sure everyone knew they'd never be able to mess with him again. But in brief moments, he let her see exactly who and what he truly was. He was surly not a knight. Not in his personality or some form of morals. No, he was brutal and honest and didn't let anyone walk over him. He wasn't pretty like Ser Loras or terrible like Ser Jonas. No, he was just Sandor.