Sandor Clegane Imagines

#6 - It's You

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Romantic smut with that dear, grouchy Dog. He says he doesn't need or deserve a woman's love, but that's not what you believe.
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Sleep didn't come and you had grown tired of staring at the canopy of your bed. You sighed and slung your legs over the edge of your soft mattress, letting your feet slip into a pair of comfortable sandals. Clothed in nothing but your nightdress you wandered the halls of the Keep until you arrived at the pantry. You treaded into the room softly and scanned the dimly lit space to find it empty. Or at least it seemed to be. After a second look, your gaze fell on a dark figure sitting in the corner. He was barely visible but you immediately recognised the man as Sandor Clegane.

"Oh, good evening Ser. I didn't see you there."

"Lady (Y/N). What are you doing out of your chambers at this hour?"

"Sleep doesn't seem to take hold tonight, Ser."

"I'm no Ser," the man spoke with contempt.

"What should I call you then? My Lord?"

"Not Ser, not My Lord. Just Sandor."

"Duly noted, Sandor," you spoke with a hint of playfulness in your fine voice. Unbothered by Sandor's presence, you strolled towards the cabinets and started looking for something to eat. A disappointed sigh escaped your lips when you found nothing to your liking. You turned to Sandor, who was still seated in the corner and who had apparently not taken his eyes off you. They carried a glint of curiosity. "Is something the matter?" you asked politely.

"Most little Ladies such as yourself get startled when they see me. Especially when I'm sitting in a dark corner like this. They let out a scared little yelp, sometimes they excuse themselves but that's rare, and then they scurry away. Not you, though," he observed with his head tipped to one side.

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "Why should I be startled by your presence, Sandor? I know you," you chirped with a smile. Well, you knew of the man and you had spoken shortly on several occasions. But it was always in passing and in a polite manner. The chance to have an actual conversation took place for the first time this night.

The non-Ser rose to his feet and let his big, hulking form approach you. He halted right in front of you with his broad, muscular body looming over your short and slim one. "You tell me, little Lady."

Your unfazed eyes raked over his tall figure and landed on the skin in his right hand. "Is that wine?" The Hound gave you a nod. "Can I have some?" you asked forwardly.

Sandor raised the wineskin and looked at it pensively. "Why not?" he eventually rasped with a shrug and handed the container to you. Your slender fingers brushed his as you took the skin from his big, calloused hand. The sensation made your cheeks tingle. You brought the bag up to your lips and took a deep swig.

"Easy there, Lady, wouldn't want you to overextended yourself." A grin formed on his otherwise straight lips.

"Who says I can't hold my drink? And for the Gods' sakes, don't call me 'Lady'. We're alone here so to hell with courtesies, (Y/N) is fine."

"As you wish, (Y/N)," a ghost of a smile curled his lips upwards.

"That's better," you smiled and returned the wineskin to your companion. You padded to the bench he was previously sat on and asked: "So what keeps you from your sleep tonight?" Your tired yet vibrant eyes rested on his sad ones expectantly.

Sandor shuffled towards you and slouched down on the seat next to yours. He swallowed a big gulp of wine and sighed. "Right now? Your cunt nephew mostly," he admitted in honesty.