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Chapter Text

She chatted lightly with the other girls in the wheelhouse on the way to the tournament. They were all abuzz with who the most handsome, most valiant knight they would see today. Most of the young ladies favored Ser Jaime Lannister or Ser Loras Tyrell. Gwendolyn knew Ser Loras growing up and he was quite beautiful, yes, but almost too much so. She did not fancy the men the other girls did, she dared not share her unique fascination with The Hound, the half burned brute who was the personal guard of the prince.Nor did she wish to share how much she looked forward to exchanging cold wit with the Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish. The men the girls loved were handsome but simple. Gwendolyn desired a bit more of a challenge.

The wheelhouse slowed to a stop and they quickly descended out into the breezy summer day. She wore a gray blue silk dress with white lace and ribbon trim at her elbows. The color of the dress brought out the striking blue of her eyes, like a cool winter sky. Her black hair was held away from her face with mother of pearl combs and fell down her back in loose inky curls. She ascended the platform with all the other lords and ladies and Gwendolyn appraised the area.

She has been away from court for some time now. She had returned to The Reach for a drawn out betrothal to the droll Lord Hewett only for him to die at sea in a horrible storm, not 20 leagues from the shore. She had wept for him, he had been a good man, but not the type of man whose company she particularly enjoyed. Her father sent her to court to get her mind off things. She was excited to be back at court with all of its gossip and power plays. There sat the drunken king and his frigid queen, the new Hand shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the sullen prince and his dog, the master of coin surrounded by the lords and ladies sussing out connections. This is where she felt she belonged.

As they filed into the seating area, they made their stops to the royal family curtsying and giving the usual courtesies, but the king had stopped Gwendolyn. She was the daughter of a favorite cousin of his and he always had seemed to favor her, which made the queen hate her even more. She stopped and greeted the prince. “My lady, you are looking beautiful today,” he said, kissing her hand. She smiled at him placidly but it had made her skin crawl. She hated the sniveling prince but found that entertaining him was the only way she could contrive an excuse to talk to the hulking man beside the boy. She chatted him up mindlessly, sidling glances towards The Hound. He made no move that indicated he saw her, but she knew that he did. Suddenly, the prince was called away to see his betrothed and she was left standing there with just The Hound. “ Ser Hound,” she said with a smirk, “will you be fighting in the tournament today?”

He looked over towards her with a scowl and simply said “Aye.”

“And will you not ask for my favor, hound? After not seeing me for so long? You wound me so,” she said, feigning a pout. She had loved to tease him this way. She knew he had a soft spot for her and she loved to exploit it. His face would be as unmoving as stone, but she could see him squirm beneath the mask. She wondered if he had ever guessed there was any truth to her teasing but she was old enough now that something in her wanted him to know. 

“Look at me, dog,” she commanded and he raised his eyes to hers. He held her gaze a moment. He saw something in her eye he did not expect. He expected derision, mocking, but her eyes were ablaze with something wild, her smile an invitation. She stuck out her hand and dropped her handkerchief at his feet, her eyes never leaving his. “Now, pick it up.” He bent to pick it up and before he could straighten to return it to her, she had turned and left without a look back. His mailed fist closed around the handkerchief as the prince approached him.

“And what did the Lady Hightower want with you, dog?” sneered the prince.

“She had asked what you want for your name day, my lord,” he replied absently as he looked over as she took her seat laughing among the ladies.

Almost as soon as she sat down she heard “Lady Hightower, so you have returned to us from The Reach?” That sly voice could only belong to Petyr Baelish. There he stood, in his velvet doublet looking down at her with those sharp eyes set in his pointed laughing face. “My deepest condolences on your betrothed,” and he leaned down to kiss her hand. 

“Thank you, Lord Baelish. I am sure you were quite broken up to hear of it.” She smiled at him with chagrin in her eyes. It had been widely known that he had been more than fond of her the last time she was at court. She was breathtaking, yes, but her mind and her tongue were as sharp as Valyrian steel. She could twist and turn any man before her and she would laugh that sweet, wicked laugh. 

“Curious, that you should speak so long with The Hound. What game do you play there, eh? Of what interest is he to you?” He questioned as he took the seat beside her.

Her pink lips spread into a wide grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know what my interests are, Petyr,” she said in a low velvety tone meant only for him. More loudly, she said, “100 gold dragons on The Hound,” and handed him her bet.

The tourney had started and cheer erupted around her. Men broke lance after lance upon each other as more and more of them fell. Gwendolyn had missed the excitement that came with tourney, all the cheering and shouting. The Hound continued to prevail, as she had hoped he would. During the last match before the final showdown, The Hound was set to joust Jaime Lannister. He settled into the saddle and Gwendolyn saw him look down at something in his palm. He looked out into the crowd before lowering his visor and for the briefest moment, they looked directly at one another. 

The Hound kicked the sides of his destrier and it sped forward. Jaime’s lance struck at The Hound’s shield and it splintered into pieces as he pushed on. The crowd swelled with cheers for Jaimie as they prepared for the second round. Gwendolyn pressed her hands together in a secret hope. The horses began to speed down the track and as they passed each other The Hound landed a blow squarely on Jaime’s chest, flinging him from his horse. The crowd gasped then erupted in cheers and The Hound made his way off the track. Groans and complaints of lost bets could be heard all around her in the seats of the court. 

She heard The Hound return to his place beside the prince and consciously made no motion to look at him. Instead she turned to Lord Baelish, “Maybe I will be the Master of Coins today, my lord,” she smirked at him. “It seems your Lannister bet wasn’t as sound as you’d hoped.”

He studied her face and met her with an equally mischievous smile. “It’s not over yet, my lady. We still have your Hound’s brother, The Mountain and the Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras. I’m surprised you haven’t put all your coins on Ser Loras like all the other young ladies.”
“Ser Loras is a valiant rider, to be certain,” she said as she looked over at Lord Baelish wickedly. “But there is no excitement in the handsome valiant knight winning the tournament, no? It would just be dreadful if he won. I would be bored and out 100 gold dragons.”

The next match had started. The crowd erupted into cheers as the two competitors geared up to face off. The Mountain was the largest man Gwendolyn had ever seen. She had seen him at court her first time there. He did not have half the personality of The Hound, and that was saying something. The Mountain never intrigued her the way his brother had, he had only scared her. 

Their horses whinnyed and stomped as they sidled into position. Then suddenly, they were off at full speed. Ser Loras was shining like a star as he streaked across the track. Ser Loras hit The Mountain and unseated him with apparent ease. The hulking man fell over, taking his horse with him into the fence. Ever the brute, The Mountain rose and called for his sword. Gwendolyn gasped and covered her mouth with her hands as she saw what he was preparing to do. He lifted his great sword and brought it down nearly though the neck of his steed then quickly turned to find Ser Loras. He closed in on him quickly, knocking him to the ground. Gwendolyn heard a clammer behind her. The Mountain moved quickly but before he could reach Loras, The Hound had leaped onto the track to block his brother’s attack. They traded blow after blow as the crowd looked on in shock. Gwendolyn was on her feet now along with everyone else in the crowd watching the two brothers swinging their swords. 

Suddenly, the king erupted from his seat, “Stop this madness!” The Hound swiftly planted his sword in the ground and kneeled, The Mountain only stalked off.

Ser Loras was so grateful for the intervention, he ceded the tourney to him, raising his great hand to the sky. Gwendolyn was still standing as she joined the crowd of cheers. The Hound awkwardly withstood the applause, only looking up into the crowd once or twice but that was enough to find her laughing and cheering in the crowd like a beacon.

The day’s events ended in a feast with all the other lords and ladies. Gwendolyn’s closeness with the king afforded her a seat of honor with family and the small council. To one side sat Joffrey and to the other sat Lord Baelish. The hound sat just behind them, he had not looked at her since the tourney. She was quite grateful to the Stark girl for taking up all of Joffrey’s attention for the evening. She traded gossip and japes all night with Lord Baelish. She knew she could not trust him for anything, but she truly enjoyed his company. He was a wicked little man, always hiding a scheme behind a smile, but that was what she had loved about him.

“You must excuse me, my lady, but I have business to attend to in the city this night. It certainly was good to see you today, Lady Gwendolyn. I have missed that silver tongue.” He looked at her as if to drink her in.

“I think it might be a gold tongue after I have so thoroughly cleaned the vaults today,” she said feigning petulance. He kissed her hand and left the table.

She chatted a bit more with Joffrey and introduced herself to Sansa, the young stark girl. Joffrey stood to escort Sansa and he yelled abruptly to The Hound, “Dog! See that the Lady Hightower gets back safely to her chambers. I will be escorting my betrothed on my own,” and the two turned and left. 

The Hound stood in front of her, no change in expression in his face as he stared down at her. “Lets go, girl,” he gruffed in his deep rasping voice and he turned and began to walk towards the horses. They saddled up and began to trot slowly back towards the castle. They rode in silence for a moment, just the two of them wrapped in the darkness of the night. Gwendolyn studied his face in the moonlight. In this light, it was hard to see the details of scars across his face. You could see the slickness of the scarred skin, the gauntness of his cheek, but she found something in him handsome, despite it all. After a few moment of riding in silence she finally said, “I made a great deal of money today thanks to you, Sandor. I owe you my thanks.” She had rarely used his real name and the few times she had it had clearly unnerved something in him. This time was no different.

“You owe me nothing,” he said curtly, shifting in his saddle.

“Hmm, maybe you’re right, hound. It was my favor, afterall, that guided you to your win, I’m sure of it now. Maybe you should thank me,” she said wryly. 

He looked over at her, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight and her cheeks flushed with wine. He often thought she was too beautiful to look at for long, like looking at the sun. He felt that now. He averted his gaze and stared straight ahead as he said in his low, rough voice, “I do not know why you show me any favor. I am not one of your court playthings.”

At this, she rode in closer to him. “Oh but you are, hound.” Her voice was languid with wine. “You are one of my most favorite playthings and do you want to know why? You are the freest man in the keep, no oaths, no oils, no duty bound honor and yet you stay anyway. You are fascinating, I think.” She paused a beat and added with a drunken laugh, “And quite handsome in your way.”

“Handsome? Pah! Now there’s one I’ve never heard,” he spat the words out at her.

They said nothing else the rest of the trip back to her chambers until they reached the door to her room. She turned and looked at him, leaning slightly on the door behind her. She looked up into The Hounds face, clearer now in the torchlight. A mass of pink fissures across his face. His face was twisted in its nearly permanent scowl, but his dark eyes pierced into her in a way they never had. She cocked her head to one side and said, “You know, my mother always scolded me for letting my dog sleep in my bed.” She flashed him a wicked smile and disappeared into her room.

He stood staring at the closed door for a moment that seemed like hours. That night he paid extra for a girl at the brothel with black hair and when he returned to his room that night he took the handkerchief with a delicate GH embroidered on it and breathed it in.

Chapter Text

The weeks came and went in much the same as all weeks come and go in the Red Keep, lunches, teas, gossip, seeing (and dismissing) possible suitors. Everything has been as peaceful as it ever had been until the night the king died. The change in the air in the castle was almost immediate. Everyone was quick to declare alliances and to her surprise, the king’s Hand had been detained as a traitor for not recognizing Joffrey as king. She could hardly blame him, the little cretin would be terrible atop the iron throne, but she dare not say it. As a relative of the king, she had stayed relatively out of the mix, thankfully.

Not long after the Hand’s horrid execution, she had met with Lord Baelish. He had been busy laying his schemes, she was sure. They met for tea in his chambers on a warm afternoon. “Lady Hightower, always a pleasure to see you and in my own chambers too, like a dream.” He had a wolfish grin as he gestured to have the tea brought out to them. After dismissing all the servants, he looked at her over his steaming cup and said to her, “Now, I didn’t just have you over to tea to admire you. Surprised, I’m sure. There have been… ideas floated around at the Small Council.”
“Ideas?” He always talked this way, beating around the bush, when he talked of the council.

“Yes, ideas. For instance, Joffrey cannot be betrothed to an executed traitor’s daughter now can he? So the council has taken it upon itself to find him a replacement. I’ll let you guess whose name has been coming up.” He took a sip while looking at her with his calculating eyes.

She smiled placidly as if he had just told her the weather and looked down in her cup. The smile faded to a forlorn look and she simply said, “My father certainly wouldn’t let me turn down that match.” She sighed, “The boy is so young and foolish. I suppose there is something I could do with that.”

Littlefinger laughed then. “And this is why I told you, my lady. I have seen you fold stronger men to your will, if we are prepared, we could seize this moment.”

“We?” She questioned him, amused. This was just like him, to find a way to the top using her as his ladder. “I supposed court life would be boring without you, my lord.” They talked the rest of the afternoon and Littlefinger shared what secrets he knew to get on Joffrey’s good side. The game she would be playing from here out was dangerous. Joffrey was quick to anger and slow to reason, she had to be careful but if she played her cards right, the world would be hers.

The courting started sooner than she’d expected. The next day Joffrey called upon her, Hound in tow. He called upon her every day for a week, tea and riding and taking walks through the garden. She hated every moment she spent with him but she never showed it. She smiled always, laughed often, and appeared amazed at every simple fact he spat out. She put on her best show all while The Hound watched in silence.

After a week, she had gotten more confident that she knew how to play him. She thought she knew what buttons to press but she went too far. He was already in a foul mood and she jested when she should have acquiesced and he smacked her hard across the face, so hard he drew blood. They had been out in the city and he demanded she be returned to the Keep in the wheelhouse with The Hound as her escort.

She sat silently across from him, blood dripping from her lip as she stared sullenly out of the window. She sighed deeply but said nothing.
“Come here, girl,” and he motioned for her to lean in. When she did, he lifted a leather gloved hand and more gently than she ever thought him capable, he wiped the blood away from her lips. “This is the day of the week he studies with the Maester. He is always cross after that. Do not laugh around him on these days.” His hand lingered on her cheek as he spoke and she did not pull away. Her eyes widened as she looked at him. They were closer than they ever had been and suddenly it seemed like he had realized it. He studied her face searching for disgust, for hate, for fear but she showed none of it. Her face only showed a soft weariness that he suddenly felt he must kiss away.

He leaned further in and saw her close her eyes expectantly and he kissed her. He kissed her softly first with hesitancy but he felt her lean in and twist towards him. He suddenly realized he had never kissed a woman he had not paid for and kissed her all the more passionately. Her hands lifted and she placed one hand in his hair, the other on his armored shoulder.
They stayed like that a while until The Hound pulled away to look at her face. Her cheek had begun to purple where Joffrey had hit her but they were also colored with soft blush that had not been there before. He held her face in his hands softly then hung his head. “Gods… the prince will have my head if he ever finds out,” he gruffed to the floor.
She raised his head and caressed softly the marred half of his face. “Then he must never find out,” and she kissed him once more.
They stayed close the rest of the ride back. She leaned her head on his shoulder as they rode on. The rose and lemon smell of her hair filled his head. He did not say anything else, only looked out the window with his scowl he wore every day. An outsider would never know that his deepest desire, so deep he did he had never even named it, had been fulfilled.

Chapter Text

Gwendolyn had been able to recover the king’s good graces with some careful smiling and caresses. That and the king had been so impressed with the dagger she had given him for his birthday. It was gleaming golden with a wickedly curved blade. Joffrey was absolutely delighted, waving it around like a fool. She looked over the whelp to The Hound who stood like a tree, steady and silent, at their door. She flashed him a quick curl of the lip, the dagger had been his suggestion.

“Guaranteed to please him,” he had said. And guaranteed to keep her around, he had thought. 

The wedding pressed on more quickly than she would have hoped. She had heard the rumors of Joffrey, that he was no Baratheon at all but a product of incest between mother and uncle. It was hoped, secret from the King, of course,  that her Baratheon lineage would add more merit to their claim, or so Lord Baelish had told her.

They barreled back toward the Keep from the Sept, where they had met to discuss the ceremony that would be happening in a week. She sat next to Joffrey and across from his mother. Gwendolyn knew the dowager queen held no great love for her and she did everything in her power to make no enemy of the queen. She was discussing the ceremony when the wheelhouse began to shake. She heard shouting from without and suddenly they stopped. Gwendolyn looked out the window and saw the people in the streets. There had been much unrest with all of the chaos the many kings had caused. 

The king moved suddenly, “The people simply need a word from their king!” And before his mother or Gwendolyn could stop him, he opened the door. As soon as the door was open they were on him. The kingsguard began cutting through the crowd. Shouts and chaos erupted everywhere around them. The wheelhouse began to tip and Gwendolyn leapt out before it did. She hit the ground and was swallowed by the crowd. She got to her feet but by the time she did she was completely disoriented and the crowd had suddenly noticed her finery and started pressing in on her. Then, she saw him. More than a head taller than everyone around him, The Hound came bounding toward her, clearing a path with his sword and brute force. “Get the fuck out of my way!” he shouted as he moved.

Her eyes widened as he cut the man in front of her down where he stood. Blood pooled around her skirts. She looked shocked from the man at her feet to the to The Hound that stood before her. Although fear bloomed across her face she did not scream, only looked up at him with a glimmer of awe in her eye. 

He grabbed her tightly around the waist and lifted her with one arm across his shoulder as if she were a sack of flour. She could hear his heavy breathing, his grunts as he thrust his sword ahead. She could  feel the wait of his mailed hand around her waist as they weaved through the crowd. He cut and shoved his way back to his horse where he placed her and got along behind her. He shouted, “I am taking the lady back to the castle! Now!” With a swift kick of his horse they were off. His destrier parted the crowd with ease as they trotted on with a steady pace. She held tightly onto his arm wrapped around her waist and stroked her thumb anxiously across the back of his hand where he held her. 

Her mind raced. He had saved her. He had sought her out almost immediately to safeguard her, while she saw her betrothed cowering behind several of his men, weak and useless. She had known all along this marriage was one big power play, for her family, Lord Baelish, the Crown itself seeking her Baratheon legitimacy. But now reality had sunk in, she would be trapped with this weak, cruel boy while someone brave and fierce would stand forever out of reach. By the time they had reached her chamber doors, tears streamed down her face. 

“One run in with the smallfolk can’t leave you crying if you’re to be queen. You’re all right, little lamb,” he said, quietly as he raised his hand to caress her cheek. 

She held his hand there and kissed it softly. Tears filled her blue eyes and glistened on her eyelashes as she looked up to him. Quietly, as if a prayer, she whispered, “I wish it were you.” She lingered looking up into his eyes, hers were pools of sorrow.

He looked quickly down the hall and placed a light kiss atop her head, his thumb brushing the fullness of her lips as he pulled away. He said nothing, only looked down at her with something that could have been pain in his eyes and left. 

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The day of the wedding had come. She had thrown up 2 times that morning from nerves but she was able to gather herself before her handmaidens came in to dress her. She would be queen, the most powerful woman in Westeros because she held the most powerful man in Westeros in the palm of her hand. Since the incident, she had been calculating in every interaction with him. She was deft in the careful way she planted ideas in the young king's mind. He had been infatuated by her beauty already, but now she had constructed the perfect personality that had truly hooked him to her. When she was queen, she would wield her power through the half-wit king and this would all be worth it. 

This will all be worth it , she told herself over and over as she rode to the Sept. She repeated the mantra to herself up the steps and through the doorway. When she entered, all in the room stood. Joffrey waited for her at the end of the aisle. His blond hair shone like spun gold beneath his heavy antlered crown. A thin, petulant smile crept across his face as she made her way ceremoniously down the aisle. She stood facing her king and behind him, as he always was, stood The Hound. She chanced a quick glance at him but he stood like a stone pillar, unmoving, unseeing, unfeeling. 

They exchanged their vows and knelt before the septon to be anointed in their oils. She knelt, nearly shaking, awaiting her crown. When the crown was placed atop her head, it felt so much heavier than she expected. They rose and she looked at her king, his beady eyes looking at her expectantly. She took a deep breath, leaned in and kissed him. She put all of her efforts into kissing him in a way that would make him believe she loved him. She thought of her hound, not 20 paces away. She thought of the way she had felt that day in the wheelhouse when her now husband had struck her. She pulled away and they turned toward the crowd, our subjects , she thought. 

The sept erupted in bells and cheers all around them, but The Hound stood still. He had not moved an inch since he saw her silhouette at the doorway. Something black and twisted bubbled within him. She cared for him, beautiful and bright as she was, he had seen it in her eyes that night. I wish it was you . It rang through his head louder than any bells of the Sept. Thoughts flickered to his mind unbidden. What if he were standing there now across from her in her gleaming white gown? What if he could kiss her in the daylight? What if he were the kind of man that could be her husband? Rage filled him as he followed the procession out of the sept. 

He watched her back now as she walked away. She was lithe, languid, and graceful as a deer as she accompanied her new husband. That life would never be his, it had never even been the possibility to be his, he knew this. As he walked behind, as he always did, he swallowed his rage. This was the only way to be close to her now. He would serve that brat king as long as he had to as long as it meant he stood a chance at being near her, being alone with her once more. This was the only way. 

The feast was grand and festive. The tables were lined with smoked meats, cheeses, fresh baked breads, and roasted vegetables. Another table lay to the side overflowing with grand gifts. They ate and drank and laughed among the high court seated at their table. His mother shot glances like darts at her occasionally, but she tried her best to act oblivious. She danced with her lord husband until he was too clumsy and danced now with Lord Baelish who was quick to take up the mantle. 

“You look ravishing, your grace,” he said with a sly smile. “How does it feel to be the most powerful woman in Westeros?”

“Do not let Cersei hear you say that, Petyr, please,” she hissed and then after a moment she giggled, “It does feel good, though.” She looked at him. He was her closest friend at court, if you could call him that. Part friend, part admirer, part puppet master, she loved and feared him in equal measure. “I’d like to exercise some of that power now. Petyr will you help me with something? Quite simple really, but a favor that would put you in my debt, to be sure,” she said as they danced around the room. 

He looked at her with an air of amused suspicion about him “Go on.”

“All I want you to do is start the rumor that Ser Marbrand, handsome and good looking as he is, was eying his queen a bit too lustily. Young and foolish as I am, you know, I am liable to fall to his charms, perhaps,” she said in a hushed tone, the music filling the hall around them.

“You want me to start a rumor that Ser Marbrand is lusting after you? And suggest that you may fall prey to that? Are you mad Gwendolyn? He’ll kill you.” Petyr searched her face in confusion.

“I am willing to risk it. Stress the handsomeness of Ser Marbrand and my simple girlishness,” she said back resolutely.

“No one in this Keep thinks you simple, your grace,” shot back Petyr.

“Joffrey does and that is why this will work.” The song ended and her husband had risen.

“It looks like it is time to go to your marriage bed. Good luck,” he looked at her sheepishly and left. 

She walked with her husband and their guard up to his chambers.  She felt strangely out of her body as they walked up the stairs, The Hound and Ser Meryn Trant in tow. Joffrey opened the door, allowing her in first as he looked back at his two guards, “Listen good and I’ll show you two how it's done,” he sneered, looked to his new wife and entered the room. 

Not long afterwards did they hear soft fleshy sounds and moans. “A boy like that, he won’t know what to do with a woman like her,” Ser Meryn said, gesturing to insinuate the curve of her body. “Now me, I’d tear her in two,” he roared with laughter.

A pit opened up inside him. He felt the rage creep through his body until he realized his hand had been gripping his sword tightly. To be close to her would mean to hear this, often. But he was strong, of body and of will. He had endured and endured and he would endure more if only to fill his head with her scent once again. He looked at the knight beside him, still laughing and mumbling vulgarly about his Gwendolyn, his lamb. “Fuck off, Trant. Shut up,” was all he said harshly, but no harsher than usual. The sound filled his ears but he only stared straight ahead as if he could pierce a hole into the stone wall in front of him. This was the only way.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since their wedding night. It was late morning and she was just finishing her breakfast at her table when she heard a knock. The Hound entered and shut the door behind him. His face belied nothing about his reason or disposition at being there. They had not had a moment alone to speak in some time. She had felt embarrassed when she walked past him as she left the king’s chamber the day after her wedding. She knew he had heard the mummery she had put on to please the king. It tore at her to think of what he now thought of her, but it had worked. The king had been like clay in her hands ever since.

“The king has reassigned Ser Marbrand. Says he’s too pretty to be left alone with his sweet, young wife,” the words tasted sour in his mouth. “Said he wanted an ugly guard to protect your virtue while he fights alongside his grandfather in the war, so he chose me. I’ll be your new guard, your grace.”

She smiled up at him over her cup of tea. Littlefinger’s face floated in her mind’s eye. She certainly owed him her thanks. Exactly as she had planned. “Well, I am certainly glad to hear of it. Ser Marbrand is dull as rocks. And Joffrey will be leaving soon, what a lucky girl am I,” she said with mirth in her voice. Embarrassed as she was, she was happy to see him. He was always bigger and fiercer and at same time softer and more tender than she remembered. 

“You sounded like you might miss Joff the other night,” he said roughly. His tone was the same scraping metal it had always been, but there was something of a tightness in his eyes when he spoke. She had hurt him, she could tell. 

She frowned, got up from her seat and went to him. She looked him sternly in the face. “Surely, you do not think me stupid enough to act displeased being fucked by that egotistical fool? What would you have me do, Sandor. He is my husband and I must stay in his good graces. I must be able to have some influence over him, or this was all for naught,” she said to him.

“Influence over him, eh?” he balked at what she had to say, but he knew she was right. Had she laid there crying or doing nothing even, the king would have thrown a fit. He likely would have hit her again or worse.

“Influence over him. How do you think you got here, Hound? His own idea? Who do you think started the rumor about the handsome Ser Marbrand? I knew that insecure as he is, he would need to assign someone I would loathe to be with, in his eyes.” She looked at him with a bit of a challenge in her eyes. 

He looked at her, speechless. She had contrived this all? To ensure that he was her bodyguard? He had never felt this way before. He had never felt… desired. And by a woman like her. His mind reeled.

She stood in front of him now, a look of over exaggerated penitence danced across her face. “Do you forgive me now? All this to make you my dog,” she said as she reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “And you remember, don’t you? I like to let my dog sleep in bed with me.” She smiled, patted his cheek and turned on her heel. “Let us go now. I am late for my date with the other ladies.” And she walked out of the room. 

He followed her, as he would now every day. Every day he would watch her raven curls sway as she walked. Every day he would hear the bells of her laughter. Every day he would be prepared to serve her in any way she would ask.  

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More days passed and Joffrey was preoccupied with entertaining his grandfather, Lord Tywin. The lord was a hard and calculating man and so found Joffrey’s temperament quite disagreeable, to say the least. He had visited her only a few times more in the night. Each night she had performed ecstasy for him and each morning he had left her chambers wrapped tighter around her finger. She had whispered sweet nothings and Lord Baelish’s schemes in equal measure to him as she caressed his insipid face.

The Hound endured. It still was not easy to stand outside that door but his burden was somewhat lightened now, knowing she had chosen him. This marriage may have been a play in a larger scheme designed by the court but he stood outside this door because she wanted him near her always and she had made it so.

The day had come that Joffrey would be leaving with his grandfather to learn the ways of war. He had put on his face of sneering bravado but she knew he was scared. The Hound said he was hopeless with a sword and with any luck he’d die out there. They had both laughed darkly at this prospect. She kissed her prince and handed him a handkerchief to grant her favor. The Hound looked on from the shadows. He thought of the delicate white cloth folded at his nightstand. He thought of that day at the tourney. He had thought she could never be more beautiful than she was that day and yet every morning she eclipsed herself.

That night he stood outside her door in the torchlight when he heard her call to him, “Hound? Come here, will you?” He turned and entered. She sat in a dark blue silk robe, a glass of wine in her hand. “Lock the door,” she said coolly. 

He turned and stared at her, awaiting further instruction but she only looked at him. There was something devilish in her eyes. “Take off your armor and sit,” she gestured to the sofa in front of her.

He had cut down a hundred men and had never felt his heart race more than in this moment. He removed his gloves, unclasped his cloak and breastplate, and lay down his sword, all under her gaze. She said nothing, only watched him and sipped her wine.

When he had finished he walked over to the sofa in rough spun tunic and trousers and sat facing her. 

“Wine?” she reached out and offered him a full glass. He took it, drained it in one drink, and set it down on the table. She giggled, “Are you nervous, Sandor?” She stood. “Do you want to know why I called you in here?”

 He could not speak, he only stared up at her, eyes wide. When she stood the nakedness of her body was apparent under the thin blue silk. She untied the ribbon around her waist. The robe slid down her body and fell at her feet. She stood there naked before him, looking at him like prey. She walked toward him as she said, “I have been with the king but I want to be with a man now,” and sat down straddled across his lap. She felt him hard beneath the thin linen of his trousers. She placed one hand on his chest as one softly caressed the deep scars of his face and kissed him.

When he felt her lips on his, it turned something in him. He grabbed her waist pulling her into him. One hand brushed up the length of her spine to lock his rough fingers in her black hair. He was dizzy as the smell of her filled his head and the softness of her filled his hands. She felt so small as she writhed wrapped in his arms.

Her hands flitted down the bottom of his shirt and began lifting it over his head. Burns and scars covered his bare skin. She ran her hands through the thicket of dark hair that covered his strong chest, his belly, and lower. She heard him take in a sharp breath as her hand found him beneath his trousers. The size of it surprised her as she struggled to fit it in her small grasp. She worked him beneath her as she kissed him on the lips, the ruin of his cheek, his neck. He let out something like a sigh and a growl as she did.

Then suddenly he stood, standing easily as if she was not clinging to him, wrapping her legs around his thick waist. He walked over, laid her down on the bed and let his pants fall to the floor. His massive veined cock glistened at the tip in the light of the hearth. He took in the sight of her. Her skin glowed like starlight, her body looked like it was made from dreams. He kneeled over her, parting her legs. His rough hands coursed up her thighs and into the heat between them. She quivered and stretched and let out a soft velvety moan. This was not the exaggerated act she put on for the king but the real sound of her desire. He kissed her deeply as he searched for her pleasure. 

He removed his hand from her and placed it around the base of his cock. He whispered gently in her ear, “Tell me if I hurt you,” and he entered her. She cried out sharply and her body tensed, nails digging into his back as he did. The first thrust was not enough to receive him fully. He pushed deeper in her. She felt herself stretch to fit him in and her head rolled back as she let out a long “Aaah,” dripping with lust. He let out a throaty grunt as he continued into her rhythmically. She bit her lip and squirmed beneath him. Her desperate eyes pulled him further into her. Her cries became sharper, more frequent as her hands knit through his dark hair. 

She felt the heat of his breath at her neck as he panted and groped at her. Her hips rocked instinctively into him. Her body felt hot and her mind was empty of everything except him- the rough feeling of his hands searching her body, his earthy smell of leather and sweat, the salty sweet taste of his kiss. She looked up into his face and the look of lust and awe in his eyes melted her. Her grip tightened on him as tremors surged throughout her body, her back arching as she let out a sharp cry, looked directly into his eyes and moaned, “Oh, Sandor.”

The sound of his name in her mouth had always made him feel desire for her but this time felt like lightning through his body. He thrust one last time deep into her and let out a long, relieved, “Ahh fuck,” as he twitched inside her, filling her with his cum.

He lay there beside her running his hands through the inky ribbons of her hair. She had fit her body neatly in the crook of his arm and it felt to him as if she had always belonged there. She traced her fingers along the fissures of scar across his body slowly, slower as she drifted off to sleep. He stayed that way for a while, holding her and hearing the rhythm of her breath. The night was at its darkest when he finally arose from that warm bed to dress and return to his own chamber. He went straight to his room and sought no wine or mead for he wanted nothing to cloud the memory of this night. 

Chapter Text

Weeks passed and Gwendolyn and The Hound continued their clandestine tryst. She did not see him as much as she would have liked, however. She still feared Cersei’s power until she could secure an heir. She could risk no scandalous rumors. When they were among company, she rarely spoke to him and, though difficult, almost never looked at him. Once an heir came Cersei’s looming power would be diminished greatly and Gwendolyn would have an uncontested rule of the keep. Still though, she commanded a great deal of power and had not been afraid to use it.

After denouncing the king Renly Baratheon, the Tyrells had come to court and their lord Mace Tyrell jockeyed tirelessly for Petyr’s spot as Master of Coins. She had lunched with Peter the day before and he had laid out much of the story. In summation, the Lord Tyrell would stop at nothing to secure this seat and restore favor to his house, so she was not surprised to see him walking towards her that sunny afternoon in the garden.

As soon as he had gotten about 20 paces from her, The Hound stepped out, blocking his path. “What do you want, Tyrell? The queen has not summoned you,” he menaced at the short, round little man who she suddenly realized had a young man she had never seen before with her as well as his guard, a young Ser Kidwell. She smiled a bit, pleased The Hound had stepped in her line of sight and gave her a reason to look at him. He towered over the men before him. The wind rustled through his dark hair bearing much of his scars to the sunlight. They had never scared her like she had heard the other ladies say but now that she had so many times kissed and caressed them, she found they added all the more to his charm. 

“Step aside, dog. I will hear what the Lord Tyrell has to say,” she said, waving to one side. He moved immediately, but still stood scowling at the men in silence. Lord Tyrell took a seat beside her, the strange man stood off to one side and The Hound stood sentinel, his hand on his sword, watching them. 

“Well, I know you are quite busy, your grace, so I will cut to the chase,” Lord Tyrell began. “I have come to this court for the Master of Coins position and I will not leave until I have the seat.”

She smiled, bemused at his brusque tone. “So Lord Baelish tells me, but it seems he is quite comfortable in his seat. I do not believe he wishes to give this to you, Lord Tyrell.” She spoke to him like she would a child. The Hound watched her. He could put any man down with his sword but she could put any man down with her words. He loved to see her this way. 

“Well, I’m quite sure that Lord Baelish would tell you. Quite sure. That’s why I’m here.” The man shifted in his seat, his eyes darting from Gwendolyn to the young man to the hulking hound.

“It is no secret that Lord Baelish and I are great friends. Say what you mean, Tyrell. I tire of this conversation,” she said lazily. The Hound took a step closer.

“What I mean to say is,” said Tyrell, “I know that you are sleeping with Lord Baelish and I have a witness.” He gestured to the boy who looked increasingly uncomfortable.

Suddenly she burst out into a loud laughter. He was attempting to blackmail her and poorly, too. “What proof is that, then? Say it, boy,” she commanded the young man. 

“I, er, the other night… three nights past, I saw you leaving Lord Baelish’s room and I saw you kiss him.” The latter half of the sentence ran together with the young man’s nervousness. He had seen no such thing. Three nights past she had been with The Hound exploring the depth of the castle. They made love that night before the skulls of the Targaryen dragons.

This time it was The Hound whose laugh rang out. “Mighty brave to speak to your queen like that, boy,” and his sword was drawn and nearly at the boy’s neck by the time the sentence had finished. “On your word, you grace,” and he stood staring coldly down his sword at the young man whose hand hovered above his dagger. Tyrell’s guard looked frantic as he unsheathed his sword, clearly unprepared to square off with The Hound. She pitied them.

“I am not sleeping with Lord Baelish and even if I were, this attempt would still be useless. Hound?” That one word was all she needed to say. The hound slashed across the man’s throat before he could even move a finger towards his dagger. The young Ser Kidwell attempted to react but The Hound was on him in an instant. He blocked his blow with ease and plunged his sword into the man’s side. Blood sprayed from the man onto Lord Tyrell and onto her as well. She did not flinch, only stared placidly and Lord Tyrell, who returned her gaze in horror. The Hound did not intend to get blood on her but he stood impressed at the strength of her will to show know weakness

“Now you are down one well paid actor and this poor knight, Lord Tyrell,” she said as she rose. “Threaten me again and I will have my dog do that to you and then have my lord husband strip your house of its titles. My father has long said it is the Hightowers who should be Warden of the South. Or perhaps we are all happy with our current titles now, hm?” She began to walk away, then turned back to him, “Clean up your mess, Tyrell.” She turned on her heel and left.

That night she had dismissed The Hound to his chambers for the evening while she cleaned herself up from the day’s events. She had just dressed for bed when thoughts of him from the day swam up into her mind. He was so fierce, so quick to act. She had never asked him to kill for her and he did so without hesitation. She recalled the animal look on his face as he cut the man down and suddenly she had to see him. She realized she had never thanked him. She put on her most nondescript cloak and left her room.

She had never been to his chamber, but she knew where it was. She walked the long halls of the keep towards the guards’ quarters. She wondered if he would be there or not. She knew he often visited the city winesinks or … the brothels. The thought caused a sharp pang in her heart. She knew it was silly. Afterall, she slept with Joffrey and not only did The Hound know, but he heard it all. She knew this and yet the thought of him with another woman tied a knot in her stomach. By the time she had reached his door, the thought had grown into full worry and she hesitated. She lingered then heard a noise down the hall and knocked, hoping no one would see her.

“Get the fuck on, Slynt! I told you I don’t want in on any fuckin gambling tonight!” He shouted through the door. 

She smiled to herself as the worry was lifted from her shoulders. He was in there alright. “Sandor? It’s me,” she said softly through the door.

She heard a chair scraping and a few moments later he stood in the doorway, staring down at her in confusion. As soon as he registered it was her he looked down the hall quickly to see no one was there and pulled her into his room and locked the door behind them. “What are you doing here, your grace? Gods, if someone saw you…” 

“No one saw me, I’m sure of it. I just… I wanted to see you. I wanted to say thank you. For today.” She looked around the tiny, windowless room as she spoke. There was nothing but a bed with a nightstand, a table and a single chair, and a chest that his armor lay on unceremoniously. 

“No need to thank me, your grace. It’s my job. I would offer you a glass of wine but I… don’t entertain much here.” He shifted where he stood suddenly aware of the smallness and dinginess of his room. Her radiance was completely out of place in a room like this.

She went over to him and placed one hand on his shoulder and the other took his rough hand in hers. “I know I do not need to, darling. But I wanted to,” she said softly. “And please stop with all this “you grace” nonsense. You have fucked me more times now than my husband, Sandor. You can call me Gwen.” She was playing with his hands when she spoke and looked up with a smile as she finished. 

“Gwen, eh?” He put his hand beneath her chin and looked into her face. She was so beautiful that sometimes he could hardly believe she was real. Her clear blue eyes set atop high cheekbones, her lips like rose petals. Gwen. Only her closest friends had called her Gwen. To realize he was close enough to be counted among them seemed unthinkable a year ago. He tucked a tendril of black hair behind her ear and kissed her.

He was so tall she had to crane her neck to meet him. Her hands found the clasp to his pants and undid them deftly. She wanted to thank him in a way she never had before so she dropped to her knees and knelt before him. She reached for him and she felt him harden in her hands. She looked up at him and said,  “Did you ever think to see the queen of the Seven Kingdoms kneel before you?” and took him in her mouth.

He certainly could say he had imagined it but never thought to see it in truth. His breath quivered as she worked. He looked down at her. Her mouth stretched wide around his cock and her eyes looked up to him in adoration. Her tongue licked the length of his shaft while she continued to stroke with her hands. He leaned his head back and let out a deep groan.

She took him from her mouth and said, “Sit,” as she looked to the bed. He obeyed, watching her rise and remove her sleeping gown. She sat in his lap and reached her hand between his legs to guide him into her. She never broke eye contact as she writhed and squirmed to fit him in. 

He growled loudly as he felt her, warm and wet, around his cock. He said to her, “In my chambers, we don’t have to be so quiet,” and he rocked his hips up into her deeply. She let out a sharp cry of ecstasy as he did. Her moans and sighs got louder as did his as they rocked into each other rhythmically, staring into each other’s eyes.

There was a bang on the door and a whistle from outside, “Sounds like The Hound’s got a bitch tonight!” She heard guards whooping as they walked past but the two continued as if they could not hear them.

He could feel she was close to orgasm the way she shivered and rocked, her eyes twisted with lust. He reached his hand up to her neck, his thumb on her lower lip and said, “That’s my girl,” he said deep and soft, “come for me.” His other hand gripped her waist tightly.

Her body felt electric. His voice felt like a soft caress over her entire body. His command pushed her over the edge. Her cry filled the room as her body shuddered in his grip. 

He felt her contract around him, saw her bite her lip and felt her nails dig into his back. Seeing her in the throes of such ecstasy he thrust one last time into her. He let out a rough sigh and said quietly, “Gwen,” as he filled her with his seed.

They lay together for a long while afterwards, entwined in his small bed like vines. As she lay there letting her fingers roam through the hair of his chest, she noticed something on the bedside table. There on the table lay a small folded cloth, a delicate GH embroidered on it. Her favor from the tourney. He had kept it all this time, it had been more than a year now, and by his bedside table. She said nothing for fear of embarrassing him but thought of it all while she dressed to return to her chamber. 

She thought of him so brave and valiant in that tourney, his black armor standing harsh against the sunlight that day. She thought of the gentle way he had wiped the blood away from her lip the day they shared their first kiss. She thought of him saving her from the crowd the day the wheelhouse overturned and how she had wept thinking him out of her reach. Yet here he was, rubbing her back gently as she sat on the bed to put on her slippers. He had never been out of her reach and she hoped that he never would be. Her chest suddenly felt tight. She looked at him and said, “I love you, Sandor.” She looked at him softly, his face a look of disbelief. She placed a hand gently on his burned cheek, “You have been with me on my best and worst days. You have made it all worth it.” 

He only stared back at her, his eyes searching hers. She rose, “Well,” she said, regret creeping through her chest, “I should be-” and he suddenly caught her wrist and pulled her into his arms. She looked up at him, shocked and expectant. 

“I’ve never loved anything but killing but you’ve made me a different man. You know I’m no knight and I’ve sworn no oaths. My honor is worth little, Gwen, but with what honor I have I swear I will be by your side always because I,” he struggled with the words, “I love you, too.” The smile she beamed up at him nearly made his heart burst. He did love her from her sharp mind to her incomparable beauty to her utter tenderness. He would never be her husband but he swore to himself he would protect and love her always and he knew this was more than her true husband could do. 

Chapter Text

Months passed and as they did her stomach began to swell. She had thanked the gods the timing was right it could plausibly be Joffrey’s but she hoped in her heart it was not. Joffrey still was away in his campaign that seemed to be going successfully. If he letters were to be believed it was all thanks to his military genius, but she knew better than that. His uncle, Tyrion, now saw as Hand of the King, overseeing in his absence. Tyrion had taken to her immediately and had spared her none of the details of Joff’s follies.

She was 8 and a half months pregnant when she received word that Joffrey would be returning home from the campaign to attend to some business and the birth of his new child. He would be there in two weeks. The news weighed on her heavily iin her temperamental state. All this time she had been free of him and his haughtiness and had been free to be with Sandor as much as she could manage but now that time would be less and less.

She called him into her room to tell him the news. “Can’t believe the cunt lived,” he said glibly. Her lips curled into a smile. His coarse language had grown to amuse her in past months.

“My thoughts exactly, darling,” she said as she struggled to her feet from her chair. “He will sour the mood of the entire keep once he is back here. I wish to walk in the garden and look out into the bay. I must plan for his return. I must make sure the distance has not lessened my grip.” 

She paced along the walkway as the breeze from the bay rustled her hair. She had always loved this spot. The flowers and water reminded her of home. She could think clearly here. 

He sat nearby in silence, his eyes following her as she paced along. In the beginning, he thought her nearly magic the way fortune had always seemed to favor her. But he knew her now and he knew that it was all thanks to many hours spent like this, calculating and planning maneuvers that thwarted even the highest political minds of the realm. He was admiring the way pregnancy became her when suddenly she was doubled over in apparent pain. 

She cried out. Pain shot through her like an arrow and she felt water breaking at her feet. Her head felt dizzy with pain and suddenly felt herself lose balance. She leaned to one side and suddenly he was at her side and caught her up by the arms. “Gwen, we’ve got to get you to the Maester. Can you walk?”

Sweat beaded across her forehead and the color seemed to drain from her face. Her breath was ragged as she said, “I think so,” and took a step. She faltered, nearly stumbling to the ground again when he steadied her. He lifted her into his arms and carried her through the gardens back into the keep as fast he could.

She looked so frail and weak, panic began to eat at him as he held her. Would she be okay? Would she survive this? He looked down at her face contorted in pain, “You’ll be alright, love. I’m getting you to the Maester now, Gwen, you’ll be alright.” He placed a kiss atop her head before the reached sight of anyone else. As soon as he saw a servant he yelled, “Fetch the Maester now! Her grace is in labor!”

He rushed through the halls, a gaggle of midwives and servants and onlookers forming around him. He ignored them all, his mind was so focused on getting her to her bed and to the Maester. 

He pushed through the door and crossed the room in only a few strides. He set her down on the bed as gently as if she were glass. He wanted to hold her hand, he wanted to kiss her pain away but the midwives and servants were quickly filling the room and he had been herded out into the hall.

He waited outside the door for hours, hearing her cry out in shorter and shorter intervals. He had never been so close to a birth before, his domain was usually death. But he knew that women often died in childbirth and the fear that started as a trickle began to flood his mind. To lose her now would be utter devastation. He had never loved something so truly good before and he was not prepared for the pain of losing her. He had not prayed to the Gods since he was a child but he thought now of pleading for her life.

He heard her let out a long wail and suddenly heard the cries of a baby through the door. Suddenly, it swung open. The Maester announced to the crowd, “It is a boy! An heir is here!” The crowd around him erupted into happy murmurs. He wanted so badly to ask after her, but in this crowd it would draw too much attention. Thankfully, Lord Baelish spoke up, “And the queen? I trust she is in good health?”

“The queen is very well. She is a strong woman and she delivered what is sure to be a strong son,” he answered to the room. 

With the announcement, the crowd began to thin out as many went to spread the news. He still sat by the door, staring deeply at the stone floor. She had survived and relief washed over him. He looked up as he heard footsteps approaching and saw Petyr Baelish approaching him. “You did well to get the queen here in such quick time. I’m sure you are pleased to hear of her good health.”

The Hound only looked up at him and said nothing. Lord Baelish was Gwendolyn’s friend but he certainly was no friend of his. He could not understand how she had called this weasel of a man her friend. Not only that, but he saw the way Lord Baelish looked at her when she was not looking. He leered at her like a wolf. Sometimes he felt he could see the drool dripping from his mouth for her.

“Well, chatty as ever, Clegane. It has been a pleasure, I simply wanted to say congratulations.” A smile flitted across Lord Baelish’s face. The last word hung heavy with meaning. Did he know? Gwen swore that she had never told another. Answering would only give Littlefinger more to chew on, so he only stared back at him until Lord Baelish eventually excused himself and left him alone in the hall. 

Finally, a serving girl came out, “Um, Ser Clegane, she is asking for you. She says she needs you to carry a message.” 

He entered the room. Nursemaids and serving girls buzzed about the room disposing of bloody cloths and buckets of warm water. “Please, leave us, “ she commanded all of them and they dispersed. 

Her hair was matted with sweat and her face looked more weary than he had ever seen her but she sat there smiling wide at him with a bundle of blankets held in her arms. She looked from the bundle to him, “He has your eyes, Sandor, and he is so strong already,” she cooed into the blanket. “I named him Arthor. He is your son. Come see him.”

He went to her side. He felt a strange mix of feelings he had never felt before. Fear, pride, love; and when he looked down into the bundle and saw a healthy baby boy with his own deep brown eyes looking back at him, he felt fierce protectiveness. This was his son. He could feel it the moment he looked at him.

 She raised the boy in her arms towards him, “Hold him, Sandor. Isn’t he beautiful? Our beautiful boy will be a king.”

He took the child from her arms gingerly. He had never held a baby before nor truly even seen one this close. He looked down at the boy and smiled a deep and true smile like she had never seen him wear. He was the fiercest man in the realm and yet he was so gentle with their new son it took her breath away.

 He looked down at the boy and thoughts of the future flooded his mind. The boy was a product of himself and the woman he loved most in the world but it felt bittersweet. He would watch this boy grow, perhaps train him at the sword, but Arthor would never know that he was his father. His love was a queen and his son would be king and he would remain The Hound and serve them both until his final days.

Chapter Text

Six years passed since the birth of their son Arthor and not two years after that, they welcomed their second son, Robert, into the keep. Both boys were strong and rowdy with thick dark hair and deep brown eyes. She had convinced Joffrey the boys took after his father, King Robert, and it seemed to please him to take credit for their strength.

It was an overcast afternoon with dark clouds promising rain above her as she sat having tea above the training yard, watching her boys. Arthor stood at least a head taller than any boy his age and he swung his little wooden sword with force at the targets in the yard. The Hound had been appointed to oversee their training, with some light finessing from her. Now he stood to the side guiding and encouraging the boy. 

“Raise your arm, Arthor! Harder!” he shouted as he paced around the boy watching his form. He remembered how he had feared during her pregnancy the child would not be his but he looked now at Arthor, so fierce with that wooden sword the other boys his age refused to spar with him and he knew the boy was his. These days spent training the boys in the yard were some of the happiest days he had spent in all his life. He could never show pride as the boys’ father but he could show pride as their sword master.

The young Robert watched his older brother from the side as well. He was too young to handle the practice swords but like his brother and his father, he loved to be where the action was. He was excited by the older knights sparring. He began to wander dangerously close but as soon as he did, his brother shouted, “Robert!” and ran over to him, pulling him out of the way just in time as the two men neared them.

The Hound was there in an instant, scooping both boys up in his arms with ease. “Careful, Robert! This isn't the Septa’s nursery,” he said to his younger son. To his older son he said, “You did good to keep an eye on your brother, Arthor.”

“Mother always says that since I am the older brother I must always take care of Robert. She says a good king takes care of everyone and that includes little brothers,” said the boy as The Hound set them down. He looked at the boy and thought of his own brother, the man he hated more than anything. A tinge of pain flashed in his chest as he thought of that first, most ultimate betrayal from his own brother. These boys would never know pain like that, he would be sure of it. 

The two children ran up the stairs to their waiting mother. “Mommy! Did you see? I saved Robert! The Hound said I did good today mommy! Do you think I’ll be a good king?” They huddled around their mother, asking her what she thought, for a sweet, for a hug. He had thought he loved her when she was his alone, but he found her captivating when he saw her with their sons. She made sure they looked out for each other and they could rely on one another. She treated them gently so they were kind but spoke to them sternly so they were not soft. They had all of her cunning and all of his strength. Sometimes he looked at them, as he did now, in awe, to think of what she had given him.

She smiled at him sweetly over Robert’s head as he sat on her lap. “Boys? Do you remember what I said today is?” she said to them.

Robert looked and pointed at him with his small hand, “Mommy says it’s your name day! 

“Alyssa, bring out the gift the boys made,” she said to a nearby handmaid. The girl approached him, averting her eyes as she did. She produced something small wrapped in one of Gwendolyn’s scarves. He unwrapped it and inside was a small, crudely shaped clay dog. The dog was painted black and had bright yellow eyes. He smiled down at it with his crooked smile. 

“I made it!” Arthor said proudly. 

“It's a big dog! Like you!” Robert said and he began to woof.

He laughed, “Thank you boys. He looks like a tough dog, eh?” he said, turning the dog in his hands so they could see.

“Alyssa, take the boys back to the nursery. I have somewhere I must be.” She stood and handed Robert off to the girl as Arthor took the girl’s hand and they were off.

“Come,” she said, beckoning him to follow her. “I have something for you as well. Joffrey is away today, he is with that girl I arranged for him”

He followed her through the bailey and into the larger courtyard. Her dark hair whipped about her as the wind picked up. There was a loud crash of thunder as fat raindrops began to fall from the sky. She looked back at him with a wild smile on her face, “We’ll have to run,” and she lifted her skirts and began to dash across the courtyard. He took off after and heard her laughing, clear as bells in the rain as he got closer. She dashed up the stairs and into a second story door in the guest wing. 

They opened the door and the hall was dark and empty. She squeezed water from her hair as they entered but she kept walking until they reached a chamber on the east side of the tower. “I wanted to hide it so Joff wouldn’t think it was for him.” She said this from experience, thinking back to a pair of nice leather gloves she had got him for a previous name day. Joff had found them thinking they were a surprise for him. The gloves fit him poorly but Joffrey had been so taken with her he kissed her in thanks and wore them out of the room.

Where they stood in now was a dusty, cold chamber that had not seen use in some time. He followed her to a table standing in the center of the room. On the table was a long black box. She gestured to it, her eyes full of excitement as she said, “Open it.” He looked from her to the box. Her hair was damp and her skin dewy from the rain. The glee in her eyes at giving him this gift, whatever it was, was a second gift in itself. He went to her and kissed her on the forehead then lifted the lid of the box.

Inside the box was a gleaming two handed sword. The steel was a smoky black folded infinitely on itself and the edge finer than any he had ever seen. He held it in his hands. The grip was supple black leather that felt good in his hand. As he lifted the sword higher he saw the pommel had a carefully carved onyx dog’s head on it. “It’s a fine blade, Gwen.” He held it out straight in his hand to test the balance.  “Real fine work,” he said, closing one eye and looking down the length of the blade. It was simple, deadly, and dark. She knew him well.  

“Beautiful,” he said but he was no longer looking at the blade. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the dim room and her hair began to dry in a halo of dark curls about her face. The years had hardly changed her. He still felt a shock of nerves when he looked at her just as he did the first time he ever laid eyes on her.

He set the sword down on the table and took her in his arms. “So you like the gift, then?” she nuzzled herself deeper into his arms. He looked down at her and he thought of all the things she had given him over the years. He thought of the laughter and the smile that came easier to him now. She had given him endless love, their two sons, she had given him hope. All things 10 years ago he had never even dreamed of. 

“Yes, lamb, I love the sword. Thank you,” he said as he kissed lightly and pulled away, “for everything, Gwen.” He pulled her tighter, one hand at her waist and one at her jaw, and kissed her more deeply. Her lips parted and her tongue searched his out. The smell of her drove him crazy. The rain fell down around them as he poured his thanks for every moment he’d spent with her into the physical expression of his love.

Chapter Text

Not a week after The Hound’s name day, Gwendolyn waited outside the sick room with the king's mother, the small council, and about a half dozen guards. Joffrey had caught ill a few weeks ago. A summer cold the Maesters had said originally but now the cold had lingered and sapped the king of all strength. He was pale and gaunt and his body wracked with pain. 

Lord Tywin, the Hand, and Lord Baelish exited the sick room with a rolled up parchment. The others flocked around as they exited the room, leaving only Gwendolyn and Cersei staring at each other from across the room. Cersei looked at her sharply. If her emerald eyes could cut they surely would. Time had only hardened her distaste for her son’s wife. “You think that after my son dies, you will put that bastard pup on the throne?” Cersei said to her in an icy tone.

Gwendolyn smiled darkly, her light eyes glinting like steel. “I only think what you yourself thought to have for your son.” She stood and crossed the room, looking down at the older woman as she said, “We are so alike, you and I. And that is why you hate me. I have done everything you have aimed to do,” she stooped so that her face was level with other woman’s and added in a hushed tone, “but better. At least my king loves me.” She straightened and began to walk out of the room when suddenly the Maester opened the king’s chambers and said to a nearly empty room, “He’s dead. The king is dead.”

The next few days were a blur. She was appointed regent in her son’s stead until he came of age. She had been softening the small council toward her for years just for an occasion like this. Power was granted to her without much of a second thought. Many knew who had been truly behind the kings wisest decisions and his most memorable speeches

Months passed and she ruled this way, through her young son. One day an offer came to her and it was one she must discuss with The Hound before she gave it any further thought. She called him into her chambers, “Hound? Come here and lock the door after you.” He did as she commanded.

He looked at her as he sat down across from her. The regency became her. As she ruled his heart, she was always meant to rule the Seven Kingdoms. 

“Sandor… there is no easy way for me to say this,” her eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere but at him. “The council thinks I should marry, to strengthen our position as much as possible.” For a brief, fleeting moment, he was fool enough to think it would be his chance finally until she said, “Lord Baelish has proposed a marriage between himself and I.”

He stared at her in utter disbelief. Rarely did he get angry with her but he felt himself losing his temper as he stood from his seat abruptly, causing the chair to clatter behind him. “You cannot be serious, Gwen! That you would marry that fool is unbelievable!” he barked at her. “I endured that fucking blonde bastard of a king and you would have me endure more? And Littlefinger that miserable cunt at that!” He did not know why, but it had never occurred to him that she may marry again. He had thought with the power she wielded now there would be less secrecy but this was a slap in the face. “What are you thinking? Will you marry every man in the damn realm before you would marry me?” More pain than rage colored the last sentence. He put a giant fist on the table squarely, looked down, and exhaled. 

The pain in his voice and the utter vulnerability of his words shocked her. She had expected the rage but the anguish she felt from him she was unprepared for. She went to him, placing a hand on his back as she said, “My darling, I would love nothing more than to be your wife. Please you must know that," she said, combing a hand through his hair. "But if we were to marry it would only lend legitimacy to the rumors of our sons’ parentage. Cersei would latch on no doubt. I would be killed. Our sons would be killed, Sandor. This is the only way to keep our family safe, to keep us together. I--” she looked up at him as she struggled with the words, “Darling, I can never be your wife but you will always be my true love. Body and soul, I will always be yours.” She stood on the tip of her toes to lean up and place a kiss on his lips. Between her soft deep kisses, she whispered into him, “I am yours, all yours.”

His hands began to search her body as he surrendered to her kiss as much as her reasoning. She was right. They could never marry, not now. He had drawn up the same strength he felt on her wedding night. It was not easy to stand beside her and to love her this way but it was the way he must. No matter who her husband was at the end of the day, she would return to him and he would be there waiting for her. 

He kissed her cheek, her ear, her neck. The lemon and roses of her hair fueled his lust for her even further. A sudden possession over her took him. She was his. She was his woman in a way she had never been anyone else’s. The faces and noises he could elicit from her, the desperate and lusty pleas she cried out for him -- he knew no man had ever seen her the way he had. He was overcome with desire for her. Suddenly, he grabbed one of her arms and turned her so her back was to him. One hand found her throat as he gruffed in her ear, “You’re mine.”

She let out a gasp of pleasure and sighed, “Yes, I’m yours. I’m yours.” One had reached down her dress, searching and finding her breast while the other lifted her dress. “Bend over. Be a good girl and show me you’re mine.” She did as he commanded and leaned over on the table in front of her. 

His big fingers parted her lower lips and entered her. “Do you like that?” he said, rubbing and caressing between her thighs as one hand was at her throat. “Yes! Yes!” she cried out.

He loosed himself from his trousers. He was throbbing for her now. He pressed his hard cock against her wet lips. He grabbed hard onto her hips as he pressed himself deeper inside. He felt her body tense, heard her soft, small grunts as she stretched around him. He heard her pant his name as he thrust into her faster now. 

She stood on the very tips of her toes to be able to meet him at his height and her legs quivered and shook beneath her. She grasped hard onto the other end of the table, her knuckles turning white as waves of pleasure coursed throughout her body. She turned her head and looked back at him, locking eyes with him as she did. His long, dark hair hung around his scarred face as he looked down at her with an animal desire. The look in his eyes only made her want more of him. “I’m yours, body and soul,” she purred up at him as his thrusts quickened. She felt his grip tighten on her and saw his face twist in pleasure as she felt him fill her with his seed.

He shivered and leaned down to her as he did. “That’s my girl. That’s my Gwen,” he whispered to her softly as he showered her with soft kisses.

The next day The Hound was walking through the halls of the Keep when he saw Lord Baelish coming down the hall toward him, completely unaccompanied. As the Master of Coin approached, The Hound stopped in his tracks blocking the other man entirely. He stared down at the smaller man. He wore his every day scowl but his eyes glinted with a white, hot hatred for the other man. This sniveling, ass kissing pipsqueak was who he must begrudgingly share his beloved with?

“Ah, if you will excuse me, Hound?” Petyr said as he attempted to side step the massive man before him but The Hound was quicker than he looked. He mirrored Baelish’s step, continuing to loom menacingly over him. 

“So, her grace must have told you then? Yes, we are to marry soon,” he smiled a devilish smile up at the taller man. “To be so close to the throne and finally bed that wicked little minx… yes, I have played the long game, Hound. She will be my wife and you’re nothing more than her whore, dog. Now step--” but before he could finish his sentence The Hound had a huge leather gloved hand at Petyr’s throat.

The Hound looked at Lord Baelish’s reddening, sweaty face with rage. He began to raise his hand still grasped around Petyr’s throat and lifted the man closer to his face as he said, “Remember this, Littleprick, you’re nothing but a job to her. No matter what she must do, I will be by her side. Always,” his grip tightened a little as he said the last word. Lord Baelish tried to pry the large hand from his throat with no success. “She will be yours in name only,” he growled at the man now turning purple and dropped him.

Lord Baelish stumbled as his feet met the floor once again. He coughed and held at his throat rubbing where The Hound’s iron grasp was just moments before.

The Hound looked down at the small, pitiful man choking on his breath before him. “Speak to me about her again that way and I will cut you down and beg her pardon afterwards. And she will grant it to me,” he spat the words out to him as he stalked down the hall to Gwendolyn’s chambers where she sat waiting for him, their two sons filling the room with their laughter.

Chapter Text

There was a crisp chill in the air as The Hound saddled his horse to pick up a package for Gwendolyn. She had sent him a note just after supper instructing him to pick up something for Robert from the toymaker first thing in the morning.  The boy’s 5th name day was approaching. He was lost in thought about how his son had grown when he approached the toymaker's doors. He was just opening up shop when The Hound walked in.

“I’m here on behalf of the Queen Regent. She has a gift for the prince waiting,” he said, standing warily among the dolls, puppets, and stuffed animals.

“Ah, yes! Let me see here,” the man rummaged through some boxes behind the counter and finally produced an ornate wooden box. The shopkeeper opened the box and pulled out a stuffed toy lion. It was plush and soft with shining golden beads for eyes. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I do hope the prince enjoys it,” the man said before putting the lion back in the box and handing it over to The Hound.

He was walking up the hill to the Keep when he saw it. Smoke billowed up into the sky from the big castle on the hill. A primal fear welled inside him but he stifled it with thoughts of Gwendolyn and their sons as he barreled towards the castle. The larger gates were barred shut so he leaped from his horse and pushed through the smaller door reserved for the guards. 

Inside the keep was chaos. Servants and maids scurried through the courtyard as what appeared to be Lannister men stormed through the halls, cutting down the castle guards. That's when he saw Cersei Lannister, standing serene in the center of the courtyard, his brother standing guard right beside her. She wore a smug look on her face as she observed the havoc around her. Then suddenly, he knew this was her doing. He approached her with rage, “What have you done, cunt!” he yelled as he got closer. Four other guards that had flanked her moved on him. He cut them down like swatting flies. His brother took a step closer to him, hand on his hilt but made no other move.

“Only what I should have done years ago do,” Cersei began. “That bitch of yours has gone too far, dog. Did you really think I would let those bastard pups of yours sit the iron throne?” Her voice was venom as she spoke but then more sweetly she added, “Did you like the toy I picked out for young Robert? It is a shame he will never see it.  Ser Gregor, take care of your brother, will you?”

Without hesitation the man they called The Mountain was on him. His brother was bigger than him but he was slower and duller too. The Hound unsheathed his black blade. The gift he got from Gwendolyn not so long ago. He had not had a chance to test it in battle yet and not just any battle but one he had been preparing for all his life. 

He swung up and blocked the blow that was coming down him with a loud metallic * CHING * as the two blades met. He sidestepped and swung hard on his brother who met his blade with his wooden shield, spraying chips of wood at his impact. His brother lumbered toward and aimed a heaving thrust straight at toward his middle when he dodged but not quick enough. The blow grazed him at his left shoulder. Still, even missing most of the impact,  he was cut deeply. He had not been prepared for a battle today and only wore light mail. 

The shock of the impact caught him off guard and struck doubt into him as much as pain. Would he lose to his brother here? Would he fail to keep his oath to Gwendolyn? Then suddenly, he remembered what he was fighting for. Her face filled his mind and anger filled him. He must get to her now. 

His hits became faster now, harder, more precise. The pain in his shoulder vanished from his mind as he focused solely on killing the man in front of him. All of the rage he had felt for his brother all of his life fueled each blow as he rained them down on the other man harder and harder now. Then suddenly he glanced a blow off his brother’s helmet, sending it flying. His brother faltered and he saw his chance. He stepped in quickly and sent a two handed cut straight into the right side of his brother’s face. He cleared halfway through his skull before putting a foot to his brother’s chest and kicking him to the ground, freeing his sword in the process. 

He saw Cersei begin to flee out of the corner of his eyes. In three wide steps he cleared the distance catching her up by the arm. She pulled hard to free herself to no avail. She sent a wicked smile up to him, “They will all be dead by now. It’s too late for your litter, dog.” 

He let go of her and cut her down where she stood without hesitation. He turned and began running to the residential wing where he saw the most smoke billowing from. He had little time to celebrate the victory he had been waiting for for so long. The revenge that had driven him had seemed trivial now as he raced to find Gwendolyn. The pit in his stomach grew as he saw bright flames flicker out of the first story windows but he pushed himself into the hall anyway. He had made an oath to her and he would die before breaking it.

He rushed up the steps and onto the second floor. The boys’ room was on this floor and he made a mad dash for it. He could carry them both easily enough on his way to their mother. He reached their door and stopped in his tracks. The door had practically been taken off its hinges from the force. The room was in complete disarray even though the fire had not touched it yet. When he saw it, his knees buckled and he dropped his sword to the floor.

In the center of the room lay his two boys, throats slit. Arthor lay with one hand protectively outstretched over his younger brother. He remembered the day in the training yard when Arthor had so proudly saved his brother. His heart sank as glimpses of a future that would never be flicked before his eyes: his boys growing into big, strong men, one sitting the throne, the other a fierce warrior. Both boys brave and wise and able to choose any beautiful young noblewoman for a wife. The vision withered away and gave way to the horror before him once again. He touched their small faces softly. They were still warm. His heart ached and his head felt dizzy but he knew he must continue. He must find her if she… if she still lived. No. He couldn’t think like that. He must find her. He draped their small bodies with a white sheet and left the room.

He pressed on up the steps to the next floor where Gwendolyn’s chambers were. He had climbed these steps hundreds of times but never did he approach her room with the sense of dread he now felt in his bones. He had reached the top steps when he heard it. A blood curdling scream came from down the hall where her room was. He ran faster than he ever did in his life. The fire blazed around him as raced down the hall. 

He reached her door and saw it had been broken down completely. By the looks of it she had attempted to barricade herself in but it looked like Ser Meryn Trant had broken through. He was pulling his blade from her belly when he looked up to The Hound and said, “Her grace, Cersei, said if you didn’t fall by your brother’s sword to make sure this little bitch fell by mine. It’s a pity, you just missed her.” He was smiling as he said the words.

The Hound was nearly blind with rage as he crossed the room like a flash. He hit Ser Meryn with a ferocity unlike any he had ever mustered before. Ser Meryn tried to block him but The Hound was quicker. He buried his black sword into the man’s ribs and let him fall to the floor.

He turned without another thought and dropped to his knees beside her. He held her gently in his arms. The wound was deep and straight through. Moving her now would only cause her more pain. A dark blossom of blood bloomed across her green gown. Her face was paler than he’d ever seen her. A trickle of blood ran down the side of her lip. As he reached out to her, it struck him now how like she was on the first day they ever shared a kiss. He wiped away the blood from her face and just as he did on that fateful day so many years ago, he kissed her. She tasted of iron and her kiss was weak but still she kissed him back. He pulled away, his eyes glistened as tears began to form. “My little lamb,” he whispered as he caressed her face with his thumb.

She looked up at him, into those warm brown eyes that had been her comfort all these years. Pain raced through her body as she felt herself getting weaker and weaker but pain also pierced her heart looking at the anguish in his face. “Are the boys okay?” she asked, her voice belabored. 

He thought of the boys lying one floor beneath them, dead. He thought of the castle slowly being engulfed in flames around them as her door and furniture she had used to barricade caught fire. He did something he had never done before. He had lied to her. “Yes, love, they’re fine. Alyssa’s got them somewhere safe now. Don’t worry,” he said as he kissed her hand softly.

She weakly raised a hand and ran her fingers across the scars on his face as she had so many times before. He was her only true friend in this life. So many days of the anguish of court life had been resolved with his embrace, his deep gravel voice that grew to sound like velvet to her over the years. Now she lay there, dying, she knew, and in his arms once again. Though she knew nothing would be resolved this time besides the flash of fear she felt at first when she thought she might die without ever seeing him again.
“Sandor, I,” she started to say but began to cough. More blood reddened her lips as she tried to speak. 

He looked down at her so weak she was practically fading before his eyes. He thought of her sunny, bright and wild with laughter just the day before and it made the frail woman in his arms harder to bear. His voice was shaking as he said, “Gwen, I’m sorry I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep my oath to you. I couldn’t,” and now he stumbled over his words as the tears in his eyes spilled down his cheeks and onto hers. “I couldn’t keep you safe. I love you, I always have. I should have been by your side. I failed you.” He could not remember the last time he cried but now he shuddered with a sob as he held her, maybe for the last time.

She gave him a weak smile as she, for the first time, wiped his tears away. “Darling, you could never fail me,” she said nearly in a whisper. “You’re here now. If I must go, let it be in your arms, my love. Let me look upon the face that has given me so much and ask you do me one last favor?”

“Anything,” he said, searching her face. The pool of blood around them grew. She would not be much longer. Any last thing he could do to serve her, he would.

“I knew you would,” she said, smiling weakly. “Sandor, will you call me your wife? I want to hear it from your lips.”

He looked down at her stunned for a moment at the question. This was a woman who had been a queen, who had wielded true power, who had the world at her fingertips and this was her last request? To be called the wife of a half-burned second son of some lesser house. Sudden shame at their fight a few days ago flared up in him. He had lost his temper with her. He had been a fool to ever doubt her love for him. He smiled down at her with an effort, grief already began to wrack his body. “Anything you ask, my precious wife,” he said to her softly, kissing her hands gently and added, “The lady Gwendolyn Clegane.” He leaned down and kissed her bloody lips.

She gave a small smile as he pulled away and rasped, “If I could do it all again--” then suddenly her hand fell to the floor. The light in her bright blue eyes that had burned through him so many times was gone now. She no longer shuddered with ragged breaths. She lay completely still in his arms. He held her tightly as he let out a cry so steeped in grief it scarcely sounded human. 

He lay there with her for what felt like an eternity and he suddenly became aware of flames creeping through her room. He lifted her lifeless body with ease and somberly carried her over to her bed. He thought of the many faces she had worn when he had laid her down here before; sometimes lustful, sometimes crying, sometimes tired, sometimes already asleep. She would never wear another face besides this death mask now. 

The room was smoky, but still he could smell the rose and lemons of her hair as he leaned down and kissed her forehead. Memories rushed forward in his mind. She had been like the sun, so radiant he could not help but center his life on her and now she was gone. A cold and dark winter was all that awaited him now. He had lived lovelessly before her. More than 25 years had he spent in solitude with only his blade to comfort him. But after knowing the height of what life had to offer and knowing that it would never again reach that pinnacle, he felt completely hollowed out. Suddenly all he could think about was the oath he had made to her. The oath he had failed to keep. He took off his sword and laid it down by the bedside as he climbed next to her for the last time. The flames had engulfed much of the room now and moved quickly towards the bed. Like he had so many times before, he held her tightly and this time, this final time, would be for eternity. 

The flames burned bright in the Red Keep that cloudy day and would only be quenched by the fierce storm that broke over them that evening. When the two were found the next day charred and twisted around each other the council had tried to keep it a secret but the story of the duplicitous queen who had birthed two bastards by her sworn guard and had died in his arms had soon spread through the realm like pollen on the breeze. The court had renounced her but the story had been spun into a song, The Queen’s Hound . A favorite in nearly every tavern and inn, except maybe in Lannisport. It was a bawdy tune and although not every bard was favorable to the two lovers, in every song they were just that, lovers. Something in life they had both wanted so deeply, to love each other openly, had been granted in death and the song of their love would ring out across time.