Chapter Text
Sansa
Sansa had been so stupid. One night, that was all, and it had ruined everything. Joffrey had been awfully sweet at first, the knight in shining armor she had dreamt about ever since she was a little girl. He had promised her that he would marry her, that they would have the wedding of the century, he said that he loved her with all his heart and Sansa was stupid enough to believe him. Then he asked her for her maidenhead, a proof of her love. She didn’t want to at first, but Joffrey said that they were almost engaged anyway and that this would prove that they were each other's, that if Sansa really loved him she would do it. So she relented. It only happened one time, but it was enough for her to fall pregnant. When she had told Joffrey about the baby, asking him to marry her, he laughed in her face and called her a stupid whore.
Her mother had been so disappointed when she had told her. Her father couldn’t even look her in the eyes. And now they were hastily trying to arrange a marriage for her, with anyone who was willing to take spoiled goods, so some shreds of her reputation would be salvaged. The rumors about her were already growing and soon she would start showing, and then everyone would know for sure that they weren’t just rumors.
It was harder to find a husband than she had thought. Before the rumors had started she was one of the most eligible young women in King’s Landing, with many suitors begging for her hand. But now there were only a few options left. Ramsay, for one, is the bastard child of Lord Bolton. He was young and not bad-looking, but there were awful rumors about his horrid temper. Then there was old man Frey, who became widowed for the third time last year. Sansa shuddered at the thought of marrying that disgusting old man. Those were her options, a bad-tempered bastard or a perverted old man. How she had fallen.
“You look like you bit into a lemon.”
Sansa looked up from the embroidery she had been pretending to work on for the past hour, only to see her little sister, Arya standing in front of her.
“I have every reason to be bitter. Did you come to leer at me?”
“Well I came to share some news with you, but if you’re going to be a bitch about it…”
“Arya!” Sansa gasped. “Mind your language!”
“Look at who decided to be all proper suddenly!” Her sister quipped back.
Sansa opened her mouth to answer, but then she closed it and turned away, pretending to be occupied with her embroidery. Arya’s words stung and she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. Arya must have noticed how hurt she was because her voice turned apologetic.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I overheard father telling mother that he had a new potential suitor for you, that’s what I wanted to tell you.”
That did perk Sansa’s interest.
“Who is it? Do I know them?”
“It’s Lord Clegane. You might have seen him around town, you know he is the one with those horrible scars on his face.”
Arya bit her tongue, immediately trying to correct herself.
“Well, I mean it’s not that horrible. And the other side of his face is actually very…normal.”
Sansa did see Lord Clegane before, although only a few times. He only moved to King’s Landing recently, following his older brother's death, and he never participated in any social events. Sansa remembered the many rumors going around about how he got his scars and why he hadn’t taken a wife yet. She was pretty preoccupied with Joffrey back then, so she hadn’t paid much attention to him.
“Did he make an offer?”
“I don’t think so. But father invited him over for tea tomorrow, so he’s surely hoping for it. You know it’s kind of refreshing that for once they aren’t fussing over me.”
Sansa sighed and stabbed the needle in the handkerchief so hard it pricked her finger. She couldn’t be picky, she reminded herself. And if Lord Clegane actually showed some interest, she should consider herself lucky. Maybe he was a better option than Ramsay or Lord Frey.
Sansa straightened her back when their mother entered the room. Catelyn sent a disapproving look to Arya.
“Aren’t you supposed to be doing your practicing on the piano, Arya?”
Arya let out an exaggerated sigh, but still, she left. Catelyn’s glance turned to Sansa, but instead of her usual smile, her lips were sealed in a thin line.
“Your father had invited a guest to tea tomorrow. He’s hoping that Lord Clegane will take an interest in you. I hope you’ll behave.”
“Of course, mother.”
“We don’t have much time, Sansa. You’ll soon start showing, and people are already talking. God, I feel like I’ll die from the shame. I never would have thought this could happen to you. Arya maybe, but you?”
Sansa bit her lip hard to keep herself from crying.
“I’m so sorry, mother,” She whispered.
“Sorry doesn’t fix your mistakes. So you better appease Lord Clegane tomorrow, because he might be your last chance,” She turned away and left the room, leaving without a kind word.
Sansa’s hand was shaking too badly to continue her embroidery.
Sandor
He had no idea why he had agreed to this. This was even worse than he imagined. Lord and Lady Stark were uncomfortably polite, skipping from one shallow topic to another, while they kept refilling his cup with tea. He just wished he could be drinking something stronger. The Stark girl was no better, squirming in her seat, trying way too hard to be charming. Her parents must be putting enormous pressure on her to win Sandor over. It would have been funny, if it wasn’t so damn sad, the pretty socialite trying to impress him, the scarred old dog. Her parents were trying to sell her off, and the whole town knew it. If you could believe the rumors it was because she had opened those pretty long legs of hers before saying “I do” at the altar. But Sandor knew better than to trust rumors. So once he had enough of the polite jabbering, he interrupted Lady Stark’s speech about some garden party.
“I would like to speak to Lady Stark, if possible.”
The Starks were clearly taken aback by his rudeness, but Sandor didn’t care. Not like they could afford to be picky.
“Well, of course, she’s happy to answer any question you might have.”
“I wish to speak to her alone.”
“That would be entirely improper –“ Lady Stark said indignantly, but her husband stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Catelyn, Lord Clegane is a gentleman. I’m sure he has good reason to wish to speak to Sansa alone, so we’ll allow it. Please, join us in the garden once you’re done.”
And with that, they left, although Sandor had no doubt that someone was at least eavesdropping by the door, but whatever. He put down his cup and stood up, walking over to Miss Stark. She smiled at him, a smile that was meant to be charming, but instead came across as a nervous grimace.
“Calm down girl, I won’t bite.”
“I trust you, my lord.”
“I’m no lord,” Sandor scoffed. “But we’re not here to talk about me. You’ve been chirping all afternoon, like a pretty little bird, but most of it was nonsense. So tell me, Sansa Stark, why are your parents even considering marrying you to an ugly old dog like me?”
She paled, and Sandor almost felt bad for scaring her like that, but he had to know the truth.
“I don’t know what–“ She tried to say, but Sandor interrupted her.
“Don’t try to lie to me, girl. A dog can smell lies.”
She fell silent, and Sandor noticed that her hands were shaking. Poor little bird. Finally, she looked up at him, seemingly gathering all her strength, and whispered:
“I’m with child.”
Oh. That explained the rush to marry her off. It should have pissed Sandor off, that the Starks were trying to decoy him into being a father to someone else’s bastard, but instead, all he felt was pity for the girl.
“What about the father?”
“He wasn’t as honorable and honest as I thought. He refuses to acknowledge the child or marry me.”
Sansa bit her lips so hard Sandor could see little red dots of blood on them before she continued speaking.
“Please, my lord. I know you probably do not wish to marry me after knowing this, but please keep it a secret. If not for my sake, then for my child’s sake.”
“What will happen if I don’t marry you?”
“I have two other men who seem willing to take my hand, Lord Bolton’s son and Lord Frey.”
Fuck. Those weren’t good options. Ramsay was a sadistic little fucker, Sandor had seen himself when he witnessed Ramsay setting his dogs on an old homeless man. And the old Frey, buggering fucker, it’s a miracle if he could still get it up after so many wives, and he was a mean old man, too. Fuck.
“I have business to attend to this week, but we can marry next Friday. I’ll speak to your parents.”
The little bird just stared at him with wide eyes, mouth slightly agape, and Sandor turned around to leave before he changed his mind.