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Title:  These Little Pests, They Never Go Away
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Genre: General/Romance (slightly; sort of)
Rating: PG-13 for F bombs
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Sandor Clegane, Sansa Stark, Joffrey Baratheon, Tyrion Lannister
Summary: So much for 'victory.' He's still surrounded by gnats. Set in 2.01.
Notes: Written for butanotheropened. Prompt - 'Sandor's thoughts during his scene in the S2 premiere'. I'm still getting used to writing tv!Sandor, so my apologies if this kind of sucks. ^^() But I did have fun writing it! Thanks to my lovely sister, simplyprologue, for reading over it for me! :D




It doesn't matter much when Joffrey compliments his 'victory.' Not much victory to be found when you're surrounded by gnats.

He's a little banged up, but mostly he just feels hot and damp with sweat. The brightness of the afternoon takes a few minutes and a lot of blinking to re-adjust to after removing his helm. He quickly returns to his place behind Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella.

(She's there at Joffrey's side. She's pale and tired; she's beautiful.)

It doesn't phase him to see the Hollard idiot acting a fucking fool. He doesn't pay attention to the edge behind Joffrey's mocking generosity. He knows what's coming; nothing to be done. He never could abide Hollard anyway.

(She's watching, his little bird. Watching, knowing something is wrong. She knows Joffrey is cruel; even now she still isn't always prepared for it.)

The feeling of a punch to his chest sounds like Sansa Stark's voice crying out, "You can't!" and for a moment everything freezes.

(Seven fucking hells.)

He can't move. He can't speak. He can look; eyes staring as his mind tries to find an excuse to speak for her defense. His body is rigid; for some reason he is acutely aware of how badly his left shoulder hurts, and the droplets of sweat running down his chest and back. Aware of the heat of the sun, the silence of those near Joffrey, the anxious shifting of Myrcella and Tommen.

The way Sansa Stark is panicking and lying while her eyes are full of fear.

('Say only what they want you to say, Little bird. Sing your courtesies and nothing more.')

The girl is quick-witted; her recovery comes swiftly though it's flimsy. But she gives him an opening; a moment. She doesn't know it. She isn't expecting help. She's stopped looking for it these days.

"The girl is right," he says. He does not even realize he is speaking already. The words come out. He thinks them up, his mind working out something that sounds more convincing. And the words come out.

(And for a moment his eyes meet hers, and she stares at him. Mouth closed and jaw tight and her eyes are saying so many things that he can't grow too attached to.)

It's a relief when Joffrey believes him.

(She's speaking again. She's back on her feet. She's a clever, little bird. Her pretty words exactly the sort of thing Joffrey wants - and she bends him to her will. Clever, little bird.)

He wants to look at her, but he won't. He exhales deeply and stands straight; not rigid. Until he hears that voice. Grating on his ears, on his nerves. His mouth twitches. He's hot and tired, and his 'victory' was a jape, and the little bird is only just now safe - and now that fucking voice.

The Imp always walks and talks like he hasn't a care in the world, and later he mocks and taunts like no one else has it so hard as him. Always has. Always will.

It doesn't matter when Tyrion Lannister mocks him. It really doesn't today.

(But he puts her on the spot, the pretty, fragile bird, puts her on the spot in front of Joffrey. She has already struggled and been tested with Joffrey's displeasure today. She has already averted the danger - and the fucking Imp puts her on the spot.)

Joffrey will be sulking the rest of his nameday, and Sandor can only hope the boy doesn't take the Imp's presence out on Sansa.

So much for 'victory.' He's still surrounded by gnats.