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24 March 2012 @ 07:08 pm
fic, asoiaf: true colors (Sandor/Sansa), PG13  
Title: true colors
Pairing: Sandor/Sansa
Rating: PG13
Word count: 1500
Spoilers: set during ACOK, goes AU somewhere before Blackwater.
Warnings: mentions to physical abuse, language. But really, if you read the book then it's on par with that.
Disclaimer: GRRM owns everything. I don't.
Summary: if it’s a kiss she wants, then she can have it. He’ll give her the best damned kiss she could dream of, and he’ll enjoy it too – charity isn’t his thing.
A/N: written for lenina20 for a comment porn post ages ago; the title comes from a Deadwood episode.

Sandor curses the way she looks at him now.

If only it hadn’t changed, Sandor thinks, he’d have just gone on with his life as it’s always been. But it did. All gods be damned, it did.

At the beginning the little bird wasn’t different from anyone else. He’s used to being frowned upon. He’s used to people being horrified when they look at his face. He’s used to contempt and disdain.

Sometimes he curses himself for ever having told her the truth about the burns, because the little bird started looking at him differently after then. Not too differently, but enough that you could see real pity in her eyes.

And then she thanked him for cleaning blood from her lip, and gods it was plain – she meant it.

No one looks at him now whenever she’s in the room and bruises appear where they won’t be seen as soon as she’s clothed again. It’s good they don’t, because there’d be no mistake about what he thinks of this. There’s a reason he refuses to touch her every time his not so sworn brothers do. There’s a reason he doesn’t bother with niceties whenever he’s near her. And what makes him curse more is that Sansa’s mouth lies but her eyes don’t, and the stupid little bird still means it when she thanks him for bringing her back to her rooms safely.

It makes him wish he still believed that chivalry was worth a damn, but the Sandor Clegane who once believed that died when his brother was knighted. Or maybe he died when his brother burned his face. And with every passing day he can see that the naïve little bird is dying too. It shouldn’t make him as upset. Hells, he had tried to make her see things for what they were before she had to find out on her own, and she didn’t have the sense to realize it – he won’t feel guilty for that. She had to understand at some point; and having your father’s head dangled in front of your eyes is a harsh waking up call, as much as his own was.

He shouldn’t care either way.

If only she hadn’t meant it.


The white gown she’s wearing as he walks her back to her rooms is too thin. He can see a purple spot on her hip under the silk. He doesn’t remember who put it there. He also wonders if this would be happening if Jaime Lannister was here – he doubts it. It makes him almost want to laugh, considering that Jaime Lannister is a piss poor example of holding knightly vows.

Sansa thanks him. Again. And she still means it.

Sandor is half-sure she’ll make him lose his mind.

“I don’t know why you mean what you say to me, but don’t think you have to pretend that you like any of this only because I’m wearing the same cloak as them.”

He expects her to flinch – she doesn’t.

But she still doesn’t speak.

“And don’t think I’ll be offended if I won’t hear you singing curtsies, little bird. You should know I don’t care for that either.”

“I hate it. Does that satisfy you?” she answers, her voice barely audible. She’s still looking at him though.

“No one will know that I heard you admit it. Even if they all know.”

“I should have listened to you before,” she says again, still so low that he can barely hear her. “You were right.”

“Why, finally someone admits that I’m right. I’m touched.” He keeps his voice harsh – no reason to do otherwise. It’s the most he’ll have from her anyway.

“Do you have to – I meant it. Can’t you accept it?”

“Accept what?”

“I admitted that you were right. Do you have to ridicule me further?”

She’s angry now, he can see it, and he regrets having pushed it. Then again, he likes to see her angry. It means she isn’t done for yet. He had thought she wasn’t, but knowing for sure doesn’t hurt.

“Little bird, don’t get your feathers riled up. I wanted you to lash at me. If you can do it, then maybe there’s still hope for you.”

Her anger changes into something else as soon as he’s done speaking. He can’t place it, he doesn’t have an idea of what she’s thinking; he’s sure that no one else has ever looked at him the way she is right now. He glances at his sides – the hallway is empty. No one but them. Before he can convince himself that it really is the most stupid thing he could do, he kneels and brushes his fingers along the bruise on her side. The silk feels too smooth under his hand. She breathes in, but it isn’t in displeasure.

“I’ll be happy if he doesn’t marry you after all,” he whispers before attempting to leave, but her hand grabs his wrist before he can stand up properly. Her fingers might be barely long enough to close around it, but she has a damned mean hold.

“I think you should come inside,” she says. He wants to ask her what got into her stupid little head but before he knows he’s inside her room and she’s still gripping his wrist so hard that it hurts.

“You always say that I’m the one pretending. But don’t you do it all the time, too?”

“Little bird, I’m not your knight in shining armor. I’m not even a damned knight. I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re doing it right now. If I can speak freely with you, then you don’t need to pretend with me.”

He’s this close to grab her hips and push her down on the bed. He’s this close to tear away that hateful silk gown. He’s this close to scream at her that she isn’t supposed to do this to him before tearing away everything else she’s wearing. But then the back of her hand brushes against his ruined cheek and his train of thought dies.

She’s right. He can’t do any of that because then he’d only be keeping up his mask. He’s no Loras Tyrell, but he isn’t his brother either and he doesn’t want anything from her if she doesn’t want the same. And she’s not even a woman grown yet – there are things that even he won’t take. If he took her now regardless of what she wants, no one would be surprised, he thinks bitterly.

There are things he will take, though, and it really is nothing to lean forward and kiss the corner of her mouth. That same point he cleaned up on that day when she thanked him. Her skin is smooth as the silk she’s wearing, but then before he can lean back she turns her head and her mouth meets his.

He’s surprised for a second, but then he figures that if it’s a kiss she wants, then she can have it. He’ll give her the best damned kiss she could dream of, and he’ll enjoy it too – charity isn’t his thing. He teases her lips with his tongue, and when she opens up, he plunges it forward slowly. He rolls it against hers, slow, feeling strangely satisfied when she moans a little; she tastes sweet enough, fresh enough, and he can’t resist moving a hand up to the ribbon in her hair, untying the knot and letting it fall down over her shoulders. When his tongue has mapped every bit of her mouth it could reach, he leans back a bit, his teeth biting her upper lip just slightly, then places another kiss on the other corner of her mouth before leaning away. She’s flushing, and he hasn’t seen her look as pleased since they met.

“I wasn’t pretending,” he answers, standing up. His cock is stirring inside his breeches – he’ll need to find a whore, possibly with red hair. Or if he doesn’t feel like going outside the castle, there’s always his hand.

“I know,” Sansa replies, and not for the first time he’s reminded of how unfair everything is. She shouldn’t have given her first kiss to someone like him, but the world doesn’t work like songs do, does it? If it did, she wouldn’t be here promised to someone like his liege lord in the first place.

“See you, little bird. I hope not too soon.”

She nods – not seeing her means that she and Joffrey aren’t in the same room, after all. “Thank you,” she says, and he has to get out.

His hands are clenched as he walks back the way he came from. He tears the cloak off his shoulders and throws it in his room, then heads outside the castle. He needs that red headed whore and to get drunk, quickly. If only to remind himself of his place. But if anything, he’s glad he could give her something she apparently wanted. If it helps the little bird to keep some of that spirit she has, then he has nothing to regret.

feeling: soresore
A.vella_amor_dm on April 1st, 2012 05:00 am (UTC)
the female ghost of tom joad: asoiaf >> sandorjanie_tangerine on April 1st, 2012 09:00 pm (UTC)
<333 glad you liked it! :D