Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones nor its characters. They belong to GRRM, HBO, and whoever else has the rights.
Notes: Random modern AU plot bunny that struck me a few days ago. Sandor Clegane - hitman turned bodyguard for Joffrey Lannister-Baratheon - flees with Sansa Stark, Joffrey's fiancee, after a particularly rough incident. This won't be overly long - it's planned as five parts, six at the most. Feedback is much appreciated! :)
Warning: Forced stripping and mentions of abuse.
They'll Never Let You Walk Away
Sansa Stark had always wanted a life like something out of a movie. There are few things more theatrical than running for your life.
The little bird is trembling and her pale face is flushed as the tears fall. She won't look at him. She never looks at him, but it's different now; all wrong. She stares at her shaky hands because she is ashamed of herself, not because she is afraid of him.
Instinct tells him to help her. Reflex tells him to replace shame with fear again.
Her arms move around herself, over her breasts as if she still feels naked before him.
There's a feeling in his gut that is much like her own shame; guilt and self-loathing eat away at his insides while his dick remains uncomfortably hard. He got an eyeful he can't say he didn't want.
Just not like that, with her weeping while terror made her obey Joffrey's command to strip before him and his thugs.
"Enough," he'd said. Enough, as she choked on a sob when her bra fell from her breasts. Enough, as all the men leered and licked their lips and their fingers all twitched to grab and grope. Enough, as Joffrey stared at her like she was a doll he was finally ripping apart.
(But it was the fucking midget that got Joff to put an end to it. The fucking midget that liked to pretend he was above all of them no matter how horribly he'd treated women in his past.)
He'd given her his jacket and gathered up her things and led her out - Joffrey didn't trust his dwarf uncle and his dwarf uncle's right hand man - and he'd waited while she had changed.
She'd sobbed the entire time; broken cries becoming more violent until he'd thought she might even vomit.
But the little bird was made of stronger stuff than he'd given her credit for back when he'd first met the girl. A sleek, slender thing, all pale, perfect skin and fiery hair and awestruck, blue eyes. She had always looked so fragile being slowly dragged deeper and deeper into the Lannister underworld of guns and drugs and sex and anything they could slip their fingers into.
He holds out the jacket she'd returned to him. "Here. Keep it." He speaks gruffly, as if he's ordering her.
She flinches, but she takes it. She wouldn't have if he'd offered it kindly.
"Thank you," she whispers. She is a polite thing; old fashioned and gentle. She once was spoiled and sheltered, but their masters (she is much their pet as he is, though she put her collar on blindly) are eagerly tearing all of that away.
Today was just another layer to peel away in this vicious striptease.
He keeps trying to warn her, but all his warnings come out more like threats. His mouth twitches; her fear of his face and his size and his whispered reputation certainly don't help him.
If she stays, they'll kill her. They will do it slowly, because Joffrey loves to watch her squirm and cry (all while telling her to smile as if she truly is displeasing him). They will do it slowly, because they are a poison.
This world was never meant for her, but he just stands by and watches them drag her down.
(And it was the fucking midget of all fucking people that smacked their hands away for a short while.)
It's a tense drive from the club to the estate, and she sits there clutching his jacket around herself as if it will cover up the memory of him and Joffrey and Meryn and Boros and everyone else staring at her nearly naked body. As if it could ever erase the sight of her shaking and crying and all that pale skin and smooth flesh and the ugly bruises Joff's ordered given to her.
There will be more bruises and more blood and more skin bared.
He's fucking hard as stone, hands balled into fists and jaw clenched and eyes staring ahead (gaze flickering to the corner to watch her next to him). He feels like shit, because she's seventeen and still a child no matter how hard they try to make her a woman used and abused. He feels like shit, because there's already talk of another fiancee to replace her.
And then all the hungry eyes that saw her today will be hungry hands that take her and hungry mouths that taste her.
Sansa Stark will become nothing but a casualty of Lannister cruelty, one of many who won't even be remembered in a few years when her body is dumped in the river (like her father's).
He should know, he's added many bodies to that long list. Thug, hitman, bodyguard; he's killed in each and every capacity they've put him in. He's a bitter, old dog that grew up even earlier than this slip of a girl, and he'd thought he wouldn't ever give a damn again.
But she's swallow and starting to whisper, "Thank you. For speaking up for me," in a tremulous voice. She's fucking thanking him for saying one word after she was down to nothing but pink panties so pale they almost blended into her skin.
(It was the fucking midget that did more for her today.)
Sandor parks the car and sits in silence while she finally looks up at him.
"Thank you," she whispers again.
"Pack a small bag. Only what you need."
She stares at him, uncomprehending. She freezes when he reaches over, as if waiting for him to tear her clothes back off (because they both know she's starting to understand the way he looks at her).
He grabs her chin so she will keep her eyes on him. "We're going to go inside. You will go to your room and pack a small bag. Only what you need. And then we're going to leave."
Sansa's eyes do not leave his, not once. There is no sign of the usual aversion, no blinking, no brief darting about before focusing on him like she knows he wants. She stares him straight in the eyes while her baby blues get that childlike awestruck look they had the first day he saw her (but she was looking at Joffrey back then).
It makes him feel pathetic. It makes him feel good.
"I understand," she whispers.
They get out of the car and go inside. She runs to pack a small bag while he discards their cell phones and grabs a briefcase he hasn't touched since becoming Joffrey's bodyguard.
Later, as Sansa sits clutching Sandor from behind on his motorcycle, she thinks to herself that it's terribly romantic. Just like in a movie.