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Chapter Text

The Knight-Giant Hound and his Prized Princess

(aka Pretty Pet Princess)

As transcribed by quack folklorist P.B. Magic

Once upon a time there was a knight-giant known as Hound. Born Sandor of House Clegane, it was he who burned in the brazier at the age of seven at the hand of his brother, the elder knight-giant Mountain, so aptly named for his legendary size and obdurance. The Hound delivered his requital five and twenty years later in formal combat trial. Dog and Rock clashed greatsword to greatsword, Brightroar to Blackfyre. Where the Mountain had might, the Hound had heart. 

Heart triumphed. 

Brightroar slipped so sweetly between helm and gorget to spill rivers of shared blood. Off to Valyria! where Mountains may live or die thus. That glorious day, the Hound split the paled corpse of his brother to a clean fourteen pieces, one each for the Fourteen Flames. As he shoved the chunks into eager magmatic chasms, the wilted cock especially, he laughed thunder from ashen storm clouds and boulders from perilous ledges. The black sky filled smoke-meat sweet, for as we all know, no fumes taste so sweet as revenge. For that glorious day, the Hound conquered his fear of fraternal fire and thus earned his Keep. 

Most importantly, he won a knight-giant's fair due: the hand, and fecund womb, of a human princess. 

This is where our story begins. 

But first, some context. 

The realm of giants, and their knights, lords, and king, exists high above the worlds of their puny human vassals. Three knights keep watch of Westeros: the Hound, Darkstar, and Brienne of Tarth. What other worlds have giant-keepers? Read on, and you shall see! For now, I will tell you this: the giants are ruled by the ever chaotic god-king, Loki. 

Clegane's Keep is a quaint tower house that sprouts like a stone trunk from Lost Lake. Around its now-crumbling outer wall wraps a ring of crystal water, and beyond that, miles and miles of hills roll like a golden sea. It is the envy of no giant, boasting a mere four stories, a cellar, and a modest gatehouse. But it is the great love of Sandor, for here he suckled and weaned, here he knew Mother, who taught him of courage, heart, and honor above all! But Mother is gone, Father and Sister too. There is a great darkness of giant-kind: the girl children are put to slaughter. Infertile! Ugly! Bar none, useless! Giants slake bloodthirst with thine own blood, so at birth girls eat first a blade. After bearing Mountain and Hound, Mother bore great shame. She was big with child, this Sandor scarcely remembers, and one night, after much fuss from the uppermost floor, there was grave quiet. 

"A sister," Big Brother said. He patted his belly and licked his lips. "Father did for them."  

Sandor found he was not so sad when Father died in a manhunt. 

Now our freshly minted knight-giant rules his keep, alone but for his thralls, a motley lot of human men, plumped on giant's spoils. Yes, magic is alive and well! Eat the crops of giant fields and ye should grow stalkier—in Clegane lands, we harvest poppies. Sandor dines on petal paste, drinks the floral milk. He stands a proud sixty feet, and his human underlings, who toil over this precious crop, scrape a scant forty. There are limits, after all. The humans below the clouds sow princesses and serfs and are thus spared; the giants end wars with near effortless boot stomps and greatsword blights. Curry favor—or else! I would call this symbiosis. 

For a quarter moon after his victory, Sandor entertains a deluge of visitors. He sits at the end of his great oak table, large enough for ten giants to feast, in his armor and surcoat, colored gold like the hills with three black hounds afield. There are well wishers, witches, warlocks, and wizards. They bring first and foremost congratulations: hail the knight-giant Hound! It is, as always, critical to bend the knee. In come offerings: silver and jewels, the laces of Myr, the perfumes of Lys, exotic red pods from Sothyros with roastable seeds, and a mushroom, a mushroom says the Ghost of High Heart, that is very magical indeed. 

But our Hound cares for one guest, the matchmaker called Varys. He roams the giant realm with a vast catalogue of princesses. He knows the finest bred; he knows exactly how a knight can use perfumes and laces! On the seventh day Varys comes in silk robes, rotund and egg-bald, reeking of rosewater. He pads on slippered feet to the Hound's very side.  

Thunk! goes the tome in a cloud of dust. It's leatherbound, a foot tall, embossed with the word Prinsessa. Like all giants, Sandor knows only the Old Tongue. As for Princess Speak, he will have to learn. 

If he so chooses. 

He will take, and his princess will give. That is the way. Princesses are born to curtsy, charm, and conceive. Pretty little things, ripe for breeding. Sandor saw one once, from the battlefield, with flaxen hair and eyes of emerald, slender as reed, weeping, of course, in her tall tower. Better that princesses aren't seen! The lesser giant brothers tend to prowl; appetites unchecked, they might unrightfully devour—and that's not to mention dragons! But this particular princess had a brother, Sandor knows. This brother lives next door at Evenfall Hall, a true-blooded prince wed to the realm's sole lady giant. Brienne the Beauty, Maid of Tarth, lady-knight-giant, spared by Loki and Loki alone. "She will conquer and she will conceive," he's said to have said. Lo and behold, Brienne and her golden princeling shepherd a five son flock! 

As for the sister princess? 

Sandor turns pages thick and stiff as cracker bread, spilling yellow paper crumbs in his haste. "Who do you seek, Good Ser?" Varys asks. 

"Golden hair," the Hound grunts. "Green eyes. Sad." 

"Ah, you seek fair Cersei," Varys says. "It is with great sorrow I must inform you she was wedded to a human king, and is tragically dead. Besides, I have much younger models, and if it pleases you…" the eunuch mummer slides three pudgy fingers into the meat of his book and cleaves it open. "These are our… melancholy types. Any match here would constitute a rescue." 

Rescue! A heart the size of a wheelhouse throws itself against rigid breastplate. Sandor knows of human knights. They terrorize the giants: climbing on beanstalks, sprouting wings, and worst of all, sculpting stairs from clouds. They invade the castles of the giant realm to reclaim their little women. Rescue, they call it. True love's first kiss! Father called it hogslop, but Mother had kept her princess tales from her life before. She read them to Sandor in secret by warm candleglow. Chivalry, she said, is most important of all. 

Sandor has forgotten what that means. Was it a princess word? 

He doesn't have Mother's books anymore. While he was off serving lord-giants, the Mountain gave the brazier treatment to the lot. 

Worry not, as he browses, more slowly now, through colorful portraits of premium Westerosi stock, he finds his princess: hair of ember, skin of snow, eyes like two sapphires. Sandor sticks a dirty-nailed finger to her button nose. "This one," he says. "Why is she sad?" 

"Excellent taste, Ser," Varys clucks. "This poor maiden has lost her parents in the most recent war. Worse yet, her betrothal came to an untimely end, and in her prince's stead, she was forced to marry his uncle imp." 

An imp! No creature more low, literally. Sandor growls, as Hounds do, and Varys quickly adds, "Happily their marriage went unconsummated. She remains chaste, but time is of the essence. She's been burgled to the Vale by the cunning Lord Baelish—he claims her as his natural daughter, and erstwhile makes plans to wed her himself!"

Sandor stares at paper sapphire likenesses drenched in sorrow. "What is she called?" he asks. 

"Lady Sansa of House Stark, if it pleases you." 

"Sansa…" The name flickers like cold flame on his tongue. Is this how pretty tastes? He decides: 

"I'll rescue her." 

"Very well, Ser! A thousand golden dragons, and we'll consider it done!" 

How does the rescue unfold? Beloved reader, I beg of you, tune in next time!

Chapter Text

Princesses, oh princesses! How fair are thee, fair enough to constitute a new species!
Bred for their grace, courtesy, and docility, they make a giant's perfect bride:
Fertile, pliant, pretty above all! Through a princess's womb, giant seed will surely grow tall! 

Well, they don't have a choice. On with the monsters! 

Upon exchanging a fat sack of coins, Varys gave the Hound three treasures: a map, rescue instructions, and the standard princess guidebook, Your Prized Princess and You: A Giant’s Duty. Sandor perused—literacy isn’t quite esteemed in the giant realm—but the first and most boldly displayed rule, on a page of full bright ink, stuck.

DO NOT EAT YOUR PRINCESS

Easy enough. 

So the next morning, the Hound suits up. He follows the map, parts the clouds over the Mountains of the Moon, and rides to the tallest peak astride Stranger, his loyal horse-giant. There sits his target: the Eyrie, seven white towers trenched into the mountainside below. Make note of the peak’s tip, say the instructions. It may come in handy. The Hound knows a killing device when he sees one. Snap! Off comes a perfect lance of ice and stone, twice his height, which he dutifully schlepps downhill. 

Oh, the alarm sounds! Flaming arrows fly and ping off the Hound’s armor like gnats. One leap over a narrow bridge of rock, lance forward, and the gates are dust. The Hound stirs up the castle’s guts, then dismounts to discard the bowmen, one by one, into the white-haze valley below. He storms past the rubble to the snowy central yard, and ankle-biting swordsmen soon join their brethren at arms.  

The castle is clear. Now, seven glittering towers to choose from. The Hound stands at height with the lot, so he lifts his visor, and, heart thundering, puts an eye to each one. 

There she is, in the tower easternmost! He clobbers the roof with one gauntlet-fisted punch to expose a round bedchamber, fine as they come. Pretty. Sandor likes his glimpse of his prize, though she cowers in the corner, and what’s this? 

There’s another man inside. 

The Hound plucks him by the cloak. He’s a pitiful human thing, with silver hair, and the world’s ugliest goatee. Sandor bites off his head and spits it out, flings the corpse to Gods-know-where. His princess screams, but it’s a pretty sound, a sort of bird-sing. Time to plunder. The instructions say to take it all—princesses are fickle pets that require familiar finery. So Sandor opens up his leather pouch and tosses in the lot: wardrobe, trunk, bed, table, chairs, and mirror. Tapestries, drapery, rugs, candelabras, vases, goblets, plates, books, even her chamberpot. Last comes the most important treasure: the girl herself. 

DO NOT CRUSH OR MAIM, OR YOU’LL BE SORRY

Sandor remembers that rule too. So gently now, gently, he scoops the princess in two steel palms and inspects her. She looks like a little frostfire, with shiny flame hair to her hips, and gown of white silk. She weeps and wriggles, searching for a way out. But no! Sandor would hate to see her plummet to the bottomless valley of mist. He pinches her silks and lifts her to eye level. “I won’t eat you, little princess,” he tells her. "This is rescue.” But she cries on, and water spills from her skirts. Oh, she’s frightened. Princesses hate a mess so Sandor brings her to his mouth: he’s going to drink her water, that’s it. But it’s a honey glaze on supple meat. Sandor’s tongue does a little exploring up her thighs, to the pinkness inbetween. A bite, he thinks. Just a toe, or a foot. 

But he pulls the girl from his maw because he remembers: he’s no Gregor. 

KEEP YOUR PRINCESS CLOSE

The Hound has another pouch for that, a pouch of golden silk, hung round his gorget to rest on his breastbone. He slides the girl in, but doesn’t pull the drawstring. Her little fiery head pokes out, still sorrow-kissed. As he takes to the saddle and trots up the mountain, he wonders if he hasn’t the wrong girl. She looks the same as the portrait of course, but she chirps like a little bird. Oh, but it's Princess Tongue! Music to Sandor’s ears, a high-pitched warble, that sings him through clouds, over the hills, and all the way home. He peeks down at his sad pet often. He feels softly for her. “I won’t eat you,” he finds it necessary to repeat. “I’m going to keep you, little bird.” 

And even at distance, her pretty stench is distinct: a bouquet of flowers, honeyed cake, and the sweetest mead. She’s bite-sized, undoubtedly a delicacy. But Sandor needs her blood for more than its sugar. His cock is another lance, sheathed stiff beneath his mail. When she's sprouted on poppy's milk and grown as can be, she'll be promptly impaled. Two bloods will combine, giant and human, as one. 

Above all else, the Hound wants his sons.

Chapter Text

The Hound reaches his Keep at purple-grey dusk. Mudge, the guard-troll, an amalgamation of lumpy green limbs and eyes that bulge from a low brow and too-thick skull, raises the stout oaken gate, and follows to the stables, where he has Stranger undressed, and Sandor de-plated. Sandor keeps his princess pet close at his neck as he stalks to the next level of his tower house: the dining hall. 

The cook-troll Notch has laid a fine spread of roast fowl, stewed beets, and man-flavored bread. Sandor can grind his own flour, of course, but he's a busy knight now! Fields of poppy to tend, lords to oblige, and, most importantly, a very pretty bride. So he takes his seat at the head of the table and empties the furniture pouch. Princess accessories beg to be broken, so with aggravatingly thick, clumsy fingers, Sandor sets her miniature table: chair, cloth, goblet and plate. "Here, little bird," he says. He scoops the girl from her golden pouch and slides her into her seat. One look to Sandor and she wails, then stumbles up, flees to nowhere. Naughty thing! 

The Hound pinches her gown and plops her back down. He belts her in with his thumb and forefinger round her waist. "No," he tells her, same as he disciplines his giant hounds. "Stay." 

Two little hands batter his thumbnail and put up a feeble fight. Some manners! Sandor holds his prize steady and loads his trencher with beets and greasy bird breast. The girl gets a string of muscle and a crumb of bread. 

She turns up her tiny nose. Bah! 

The Hound angrily gnaws a leg to bone, then gnashes the bone to paste. Look at this girl, rescued, rehomed, and like only to weep! He wouldn't mind the weeping if it didn't make his belly rumble. To think: she has the nerve to sit at Ser Sandor Clegane's table, and brine herself! He shouts to Notch for milk and petals: he'll see her fattened and stuffed. He's coming for her sweet silky insides, no matter what. The troll returns with a fresh pitcher, fills Sandor's pewter goblet to the brim. Then Sandor sticks a finger in the milk and makes fall a droplet to lade the girl's cup. 

"Drink, pretty bird," he says. 

He tears a sliver of blazing orange poppy petal and sets it atop her meat. A curious little thing, isn't she? Sandor downs ten whole beets, then sets his chin to the tabletop, to watch her eat. Cautiously, she nibbles the petal, closing her rosy lips to chew. She takes a sip of milk, looks to Sandor, and coos a stream of frantic Princess Speak. She pats her lips, picks up the corner of the tablecloth, brings it to her mouth. Oh, a kerchief! Sandor sifts through her things: no luck. He pulls his kerchief from his belt, bundles his finger, and mashes it to her lips. Chancing to let her go, he unsheathes his dagger and cuts off a tiny square. This he gives to his bird. 

She accepts with a slight bow of her head. 

Now she eats as a princess ought: coy bites, delicate sips. She dries her tears and dabbles at her lips. She's talking Princess, blathering, chirping sing-speak. (Look—I don’t even understand her yet, I’m using Google Translate). Still Sandor listens, he finds it pretty, there isn't much pretty around here. He drinks heartily his milk, and oh, he wants to chat too! "You're a pretty girl," he tells her. "You're my little pet. I'm going to put my sons in you, whether you like it or not." 

The bird trembles when Sandor runs a finger down her curls. "I scare you," he says. "Is it because I'm big, or ugly?" He tucks his finger beneath her chin, leans close. "Wait until you see my cock." Whether she understands or not, her little face rumples. Sandor can't resist: he licks it. He licks and comes up to howl dark laughter. 

His plans for her start now: off to the bedchamber! 

Giants are lonely, you see, and have only their hands for company. Princess Sansa is the first to share this bed, lake-sized in her eyes! She drowns in golden velvet covers as the fearsome Hound strips to his breeches. Oh, his cock is hard as they come, but he's in no hurry. I should add here that Sandor is good to his pets: never beaten, well-treated. He loves to see blood spout from torn limbs and feel flesh part beneath sharp teeth. But there is a rule for pets: 

DO NOT EAT 

To which Sandor would add: 

DO NOT BEAT 

and 

OFTEN TREAT

Pets are special, even for knight-giant who not infrequently sups on human man tartare. Steal a giant's crops, and see how far you get! As far as the table, that's what. 

So this princess business is quite novel, a privilege, if you will. Sandor likes his lady's furniture. He arranges it on his bedside table, fixes her pretty blue coverlet, her matching pillows, even sets her little washstand. He spits in the pitcher for a good laugh. But the girl doesn't go in her bed, not yet.   

Sandor finds her in his blankets, then lays down with her on his bare chest. "Hi little bird," he says. She's a drowsy pet—milk, on the untried, has that effect. She's curled on her knees, looking downtrodden. A hard day for a small creature. What if she cared for that silly little man, the one whose head so sadly parted from his spine? But also, who gives a rat's ass? Sandor has faced much worse, re: the brazier. Mostly Sandor thinks of how delicate his girl is, her beauty foreign, her youth appetizing. He admires her hair of flame; he touches it without fear. His head rings loud, same as when Brightroar kissed his brother's throat. His little victory, packaged in ivory skin, set with two sparkling sapphires. 

His pretty little pet.

Sandor decides to cheer her up, and he knows what pets like: pets. He gropes at his table and pinches her tiny silver-handled brush. How hard it is to be gentle! One squish and her little skull would pop. Still, Sandor squeezes her cheeks and eases the brush through her shiny locks. 

"Pretty girl," he tells her again. "My pretty lady bird. Why don't you sing a little princess song for your knight?"

She frowns instead. Bugger her. He'll have to teach her the Old Tongue, right quick.  

He points to his chest. "Sandor." She'll only know him by his given name, he decides. "Sandor," he says once more, then he sets a fingertip to her nose. "Sansa." And, feeling rather courtly, he brandishes his only Princess word: "Prinsessa."  

Did he see a smile? Or perhaps it's candlelight, shattering in her eyes. 

The bird gathers a fistful of peppery chest hair. "Sandor," she says in lilted Princess. She gives him a nice tug. "Jättiläinen. "

 "Jättiläinen," Sandor repeats. "Giant." 

The girl tugs his hair again; it's a bee sting; he likes it. "Sandor, giant," she chirps. 

"There's a good little princess," he replies, sweeping a finger along her jaw. Like the hounds, his bird recognizes tone, so she blushes ruby red, and extends a little hand. 

"Sansa, good little princess," she so sweetly sings.

Oh, I'll say it for Sandor: fucking delicious! He picks up the girl up in a fist and tries for a soft kiss, but somehow, her whole hand plunges into his mouth. And if the hand's in there, why not an arm? Sandor is fond of this middle ground: tongue only, not teeth. A partially digested princess is still a princess indeed. Her arm flails against his tongue which is excellent blood-fuel. Sandor unlaces, frees his stiff cock, and fine, he gets toothy, he rips her silk gown off. 

Her little body tastes like frosted cream cake. Slurp! is what Sandor has to say. He loves her tiny teats, baby buds, with tender give. She has hair between her legs, red candy floss, soft under-tongue, and softest of all beneath. Yes, her syrupy flower gets a full-on lap. Her thighs part wide to give Sandor's tongue sufficient berth. And she fights a lame fight: the milk has done good work. 

The Hound pulls a sleepy, spit-slathered bird from his mouth. She whimpers, but hangs limp, slobber dripping from her toes. Sandor considers this a bath. 

It’s time for an introduction. He sets the girl atop his pubes and strokes to the tune of her whimpers. There's your dinner, moonbloom! Sandor thinks. Seven, yes, seven feet, of velvet steel knight-giant meat. Girthier than the girl and a good few human heads taller, a fine companion for now, if she didn't cower. 

"What does the pretty princess think of her keeper's cock?" Sandor asks, and he wins a delectably lame whimper. "Oh, but she’s a maiden, isn't she? Her sweet flower is untrodden." 

And Sandor thinks of treading. He prods his bird's softest bits, circles her nipples, swirls her maidenhair. Languidly, she crawls towards Sandor's thigh; he blocks her with his palm. "Not to worry, sweet princess. I'll bide my time like this." He cradles her and thumbs her belly, oh, how sweet she looks. Resigned, plum-tucked, she nests in his tangled hair, a naked blossom. “Pretty, pretty pet,” he growls. His heart pounds in his heart and in his fist. He comes hard, watching her sleep. He smears most of the seed on his breeches, but he saves a fingerful, and dabs it between his bird's thighs. 

He likes that. His lips twitch to a half-smile. "I won," he says aloud. "You're mine." 

And though the guide clearly states: SLEEP APART FROM YOUR NEWLY GOTTEN PRINCESS, LEST YE MAIM, Sandor sets his little Sansa on his chest. He won't crush or maim, of this he's quite certain. He craves her hair, so radiant it warms him. Her fire curls paint his breast, and he sleeps, snores terribly, with his fingers betwixt them.

Chapter Text

The Hound wakes to his hair being pulled. His first instinct is to swat, but no! the little bird. She stands on his collarbone, whimpers over and over as she tugs a black strand, "Apua, apua, apua." Our dear giant is so charmed by her desperate song, he doesn't stir. He watches her fall to her knees, frown, stuff a hand between her thighs, and what's that she's doing? 

Oh shit, she's peeing. 

He's a bad keeper. He takes the girl by the waist, still leaking, and sticks her on her pot, which he so delicately placed in her nightstand bedchamber. She chirps sadly, covers her teats with arms crossed over her shoulders. Sandor watches. She needs to be housetrained, so he pokes the pot between her legs. "Pot," he grunts. He swipes the warm trickle in his chest hair and shows her the wetness on his fingertip. "Piss." 

The girl wrinkles her nose and backs up to her miniature washstand, but one tip of the little pitcher and last night's glob of spit plops out. She frowns. Sandor laughs, hocks a hot-tub sized loogie. It rattles his own pot, sends the cold contents splashing. 

Sansa wilts to her knees and weeps in a ball of pearl-white hide. Fuck, she looks tasty, but Sandor thinks of the guide: DO NOT EAT, of course, but also— 

PRINCESSES ARE MODEST
PRINCESSES ARE CLEAN
BATHE OFTEN
DRESS IN PRETTY THINGS

Ah, but he neglected to filch a washtub! Worry not, he has a goblet. He warms the kettle over a low hearth and rinses yesterday's wine. He tests the waters with a pinky, then plunk! the girl goes in. She fills out the goblet, wades on pointed toes. "Apua," she chirps once more, and mimics scrubbing. Fickle, this pet. Sandor cuts another square from his kerchief as a makeshift rag. He drapes it on his pointer finger and rubs each soft cut of his bird even when she recoils—her teats get special attention, and her maiden's flower? 

Sandor feels a pulse there, a flicker of life. He takes his cock out of his breeches, strokes, and matches her heat. Forget the rag—he sets his bare fingertip to her softly folded flesh. She wriggles against that ridged pad, peeps, frantically looks for an out. But where is she to go? The goblet's pewter sides are tall as she is, slick, and a nasty fall to the nightstand awaits her. Sandor would never permit such tragedy, but still. The princess relents, goes slack on her giant's finger. She makes new noises, breath-flutterings and kitty whimpers. When her thighs clench Sandor's uppermost knuckle, oh, there's pressure enough, and he spills his seed. 

He likes his pet. When the bath is done, he fetches her leather bound trunk. After she paws through it and picks a pat of emerald velvet, she chirps another, "Apua." So Sandor dresses the girl, a silk chemise and her chosen gown. His fingers are useless mallets on her golden ribbons, so she has to lace her own bodice. Sandor brushes her curls to bright flame, puts her silver-handled looking glass in her hand. "Pretty," he says, fingering her hair, her cheek, her dainty silhouette. "You're a very pretty princess." 

"Pretty princess," Sansa repeats, and then, "Good?" 

Her big blue eyes lift to find Sandor's. "You are a good little princess," he tells her, pinching the softness of her skirts. Giants have scant use for velvet. It's weak, smooth as butter, gentle as a mother's hug. Sandor sees his mother in Sansa, thinks, she was this small once. 

His lips twitch to a smile. "I love your pretty dress. You're the fairest maiden in all the realm." 

Sandor sounds like a knight or patient master; the bird knows. She smiles, yes, she smiles, and dips low into a curtsy. 

"Kiitos, Jättiläinen." Then, cheeks rosy, she adds with Princess flair, "Kiitos, Ser Sandor."

Sandor's lips land on her head in a thundering heartbeat—he thinks he'll eat her up after all, with words and smiles so honeysweet. But the girl trembles, gasps. No, he won't. He puckers instead. He settles with a kiss to her soft fire crown. 

Midway through breakfast—blood sausage for the knight-giant, petals and milk for the girl—Sandor smells company. A creaky carriage rattles across the drawbridge. It reeks of withered crone and plump fairy. Sure enough, when he stalks to the window to look down on his gates, there sits a giant pumpkin atop four wooden wheels. On the driver’s shelf perches a frog of a woman, warty and hunchbacked, eyes yellow as whey. 

“Let Maggy in, fearsome knight-giant Hound,” the ugly crone croaks from the bridge below. “She has wares for your princess unlike any other. Offers you can’t refuse.” 

Sandor grumbles to himself—he hates her stench, moldering and amphibious, dry as death. She’ll sour the princess-sweetness of the keep if he lets her in. But this Maggy is clever. She pulls a knobby wand from her tattered black robes, swish, and the pumpkin doors open. Out buzzes a pesky fairy, rotund and amply teated. 

“Charmed,” the fat fairy coos, giving an airborne curtsy. “My dear Ser, I am Randa of Royce. I speak the Old Tongue and Princess. There are books in my possession, great books indeed, lists of every word, transcribed for princesses' education.” 

Sandor glances back to his pet, at her table atop the table. Oh, the precious thing ate an entire petal! The fairy’s voice echoes up to his dining hall: 

“Good knight-giant, are you not curious to know how your princess thinks?”

Sansa pats her lips with her tiny kerchief and lifts a delicate blossom of a hand—a wave. The Hound feels heat in his breeches, and even worse flame in his unscalded cheek.  

“Very well,” he barks down. He gestures to Mudge in the gatehouse. “The fairy can come in.” 

Randa of Royce floats up in a miniature pumpkin carriage, touches down beside the little bird’s table. “Hyvää päivää!” she calls. Sansa brightens, stands, curtsies ‘til her curls drip to the floor. The girls are of height and rapidly exchange chirps. Princess Speak, Sandor thinks, but then there’s giggles, and coy glances cast his way. Look, Randa told me the deets: 

“How is he treating you, fair princess?” she asks. 

“Oh, um—” Sansa blushes, puts fingers to her lips. 

“He’s quite the ugly beast, isn’t he?” 

“Why, of course. His face is horrible! And he’s always staring! Always licking me!” 

“He wants to eat you, princess. It’s a knight-giant thing.” 

“Oh my.” Sansa looks up to Sandor, their cheeks mutually rose-red. “He touches me too, though not ungently.” 

“Down there?” 

Sansa sadly nods. “Here too,” she says, patting her slight bosom. 

“Do you know why giants steal their princesses?” 

Randa takes Sansa’s frown as a yes. Still she finds it necessary to say, “If you eat his petals, you’ll grow bigger. When you’re big enough, well, that’s when he’ll make babies with you.” 

“But he’s already tried, twice!” 

“Woof,” Randa says, with a puff of air that glitters, a fairy thing. “Do tell.” 

That’s when Sansa steps close, cups her hands to Randa’s ear. “He takes out his… staff...and he touches it! He doesn’t stop until he makes a white mess.” 

“Babies,” Randa says. 

“Gross,” Sansa pouts. “He’s so big down there! That thing will never fit! I’ll be torn apart!” 

“There’s a salve for that.” 

“A salve?” 

“A magical salve—if he puts it on his staff, it’ll slide right in between your ribs, no pain. Don’t worry just yet, you have a few months to prepare. I recommend you play nice, giants like that.”  

Sansa thinks for a minute, stealing glimpses of her monster. He stares, and his meaty tongue runs along the gaps in his mottled cheek. To her slippered feet, Sansa says, “I think he’s trying to be nice back. When he touched me, in the bath, I—I—” 

“Go on,” Randa urges. 

“My heart burst, below.” 

Randa lets out a high-pitched titter. “Oh girl, he made you come.”   

Sansa giggles along, recalling the feeling, most-like. Princesses hate to be left out of jest. “He talks sweetly, too. He calls me pretty and good.” 

“Well isn’t that precious? You seem like a good girl. Here—” Randa snags Sansa’s hand. “Come see what I have for sale.” 

The girls go into the little pumpkin hovel, and oh, Sansa is in heaven! It’s bigger than it looks from the outside—it’s a full-blown shop in here, like a waiting room, with a vanity and wardrobe, racks of clothing, the latest princess fashion rags. “I need a kerchief, lots of them, and ribbons, and a washtub. Sandor bathed me in a goblet!”   

“Sandor?” 

“Oh—um, yes. That’s my giant’s name.” 

“So he’s teaching you Old Tongue?” 

“A little, here and there.” 

Randa fills a copper wash tub with the requested frippery, plus perfumes and sewing supplies, dolls, and rather scandalous smallclothes—made of lace. “It’s the next big thing,” Randa says. She conjures a magazine, Vogue Prinsessa, and flips it open. There’s a woman, scantily clad in sheer scraps: two triangles over her breasts, and another over ladies' place. “See. Pretty spicy. Your knight-giant might just gobble you up.” 

Randa wonders if Sansa is blushing, or if her cheeks are always beet red. “Here’s the most important part,” she says, pulling a thick tome from her shelf. The leather cover is embossed with the golden words Old Tongue. “You’ll want to learn, for your sons' sake.” 

Sansa peruses the book while Randa does her hair. She misses her handmaids already—no way a giant compares! His hands are like oaken gates, his fingers battering rams. Sansa will have to learn how to weave her own plaits, Randa tells her so. The fairy gives a little lesson and a braided crown is born. Pinned with ivory combs, topped with a tiara of gold. 

“No wonder he picked you,” Randa clucks. “Why, you’re the fairest maiden in all the realm.”

Randa parades the girl from the carriage, with her tubful of belongings floating in tow. “I present Lady Sansa of House Stark, if it pleases you.” 

Sandor, who bided his time with three goblets of breakfast wine, straightens as his blood stirs. 

“Pretty,” he breathes. 

“Oh yes, she’s a dashing girl.” 

“Does she hate me?” Sandor asks, a glutton for honesty. 

Randa and the bird exchange whispers. “No,” Randa says. “You frighten her, but she promises to be on her best behavior.” 

Fair enough. Fear or no, his cock will make its way into her guts. Better that she takes it as a lady—surely she must know. “That book,” Sandor says, pointing to the tome in Sansa’s arms, like to weigh her down. “Will she learn?” 

“Oh yes,” Randa answers. “She’s a very smart girl.”

“Does she have all she needs?”    

More whispers, then, “She does, for now. And if you don’t mind—” The laden tub clatters to the tabletop. “She’s picked these treasures.” 

Randa sticks out a pudgy hand, curls in her fingers, pay up. Sandor mutters curses— “Princesses and their ****ing useless **** all she really needs is a **** in her **** then we’ll see about a ****ing tiara”—but he fishes a gold dragon from the pouch at his hip. Probably weighs the same as the chubby fairy, but with a twiggy wand, she guides it through the air and into her carriage with a thunk. 

“Pleasure doing business,” Randa says, hopping up to the driver's seat. Then, in Princess, “I’ll be back each week, with the hottest styles. Just make sure he lets me in!” 

"Kyllä, kyllä! Näkemiin!”

The pumpkin disappears with a pop. Not long after, Maggy's scent drifts away past the drawbridge. So it’s him and his pet, and a pile of loot. Gods, the guidebook didn’t lie: 

PRINCESSES BURN EXORBITANT COIN

“You better put this shit to use,” he grumbles, dipping a dirty finger in the tub. A wispy scrap clings to remnants of fowl grease. It’s white see-through fabric, made of floral swirls, the tiniest weave. A kerchief or headscarf, he thinks, eyes narrowed. But the bird flips frantically through her book. She hoists up an open page, arms atremble. She points to one word in particular: smallclothes. 

Sandor was going to take her to the kennels, the stable, the fields. He needs to see to his serfs and show his pet his prideful bounty. But scratch that plan—he’s a little drunk, and fucking horny.

No time to waste: let's get this bird naked!

Chapter Text

Well, there is a smidge of time to waste. The Hound dismisses Notch to the furthest reaches of the keep, no way in seventh hell he'll let that creep near his girl. He tosses the pretty scrap to her feet. "Strip," he commands, hoisting her hem overhead. She gets the idea, gets naked. The little scrap poses a puzzle, so small, with so many holes. But the smart bird gets her legs through so a white triangle covers her maidenhair. Next she rifles through the tub to find a matching piece, two triangles for her teats. "Pitsi," she says, but Sandor is distracted by her nipples, poking through the sheer fabric. A real wonder, how they seem more appetizing when covered. 

Sandor undoes his belt, lets his dagger and pouch slouch on the back of his chair. He loosens his breeches enough to stick a hand over his half-chub. 

"Pretty?" Sansa asks, twisting her toe. 

"Very," Sandor grunts, stroking himself beneath roughspun. "Here girl." 

He stands her on his thigh. His cock comes out, but the girl doesn't run. Her manners make him iron-stiff; the wine has him impatient. Like get this maiden on his sack already! So he pinches her wrist and sticks her hand to his shaft. "Like this," he tells her, guiding her arm up and down. She blushes but complies, eyes downcast. Her touch is petalsoft, blood-boiling. He puts her other hand on him, and it's a little better. "Harder," he tells her, firmly pressing her hand with a finger. She digs her palms deep, mashes the skin of Sandor's sheath. 

Good Gods above, and Loki be damned, this shit is fantastic: fire, as they say. Sandor would butcher a thousand more knight-giant brothers to get a pretty little princess's hands on his boner. Better than the hands is the girl's stitched brow, and the tiny pink swell of tongue poking from her lips. A determined bird, he likes that. He helps her by spitting in his palm and dousing his shaft. His princess has a blast with that, smearing and spreading like an upright wash. 

"Tongue," Sandor grunts. He points to his own. 

Caught off guard in her horny reverie, Sansa timidly sticks out her tongue, laps as a kitten would. She must like his taste, because she looks up and smiles. "Good girl." Sandor thumbs her rosy cheek. "Your old hound likes when you lick his cock." It's all the fuckways downhill from here, because get this—she hugs the damn thing. You see, it's easier to smooch a chunk of knight-giant meat (a foot and a half taller than oneself) if you wrap your arms around it, like a fleshy quintain. It's a full on makeout, and Loki knows what Sansa's thinking. Probably something along the lines of, "This cock is terrifying, but I can't stop kissing it, Maiden forgive me." 

Satisfying as her embrace may be, Sandor needs more. He grabs his cock in one fist, Sansa in the other. He strokes as he always does, as if he's inches from getting the brazier again, sweat waterfalling down his brow. Erstwhile he forces the girl bodily against his shaft, lacy tits first, her tiny feet bouncing up and down on his sack. He tries her in a few positions: forward, backward, bent at the hip. But the best, the best of all, is when he grinds his cock between her legs. Her pink petals swallow up that little lace wisp. Despite the spit, he can feel how dewy she is. 

"Look at you, little princess. Your smallclothes are drenched. Not so afraid of our giant's cock, are we now?" 

She whimpers first, chirps unintelligibly. Uh-oh, our princess has forgotten her manners! Sandor knows what's up. He balances her, split up the middle, on his reddened tip, oozing precum. "I'm going to put my seed in you, pretty bird," he growls. "You're going to make a son for me." 

Though Sansa's pretty plaited head had been lolling here and there, she finds the strength to look up, blue eyes glowing in that particularly orby way. 

"Make son," she parrots. 

Sandor nuts harder than ever before. "Oh, fuck me," he rasps. "You want your giant’s seed, is it?" A rhetorical question now, because a total deluge of come splatters the girl head to toe, cakes the shiny eyes that pushed him over the edge. "What a pretty sight," he muses. As his cock softens, he sets the girl back on his thigh. It isn't long until she's chirpy again, smearing seed in overflowing palmfuls and wiping it on his breeches. 

"Oh, hiisi vieköön," she warbles. "Hiukseni ovat pilalla!" 

She's frightfully cute when she's angry, scowling with white sludge caked in her slanted brow, even more dripping from her button nose to her pouty lips. 

Sandor laughs at first, then prods the copper tub on the table. 

"Bath," he tells her. "Is that what you're after?" 

The princess meekly nods, her head hung. 

"Say please," he commands. "Please. Good little princesses use their manners." 

"P-please, Ser. Please pretty bird bath." 

As ever, there's that moment: no bath, come live in my belly, honey girl. Sandor sloppily licks his thumb. He wipes the mess from his pet's face. "That's a good girl. Let's get you your bath, then I'll show you the keep. How 'bout that?" 

"Yes, Ser, please!" 

Chapter Text

And so the little bird learns the keep. It's big and frightening for a creature so small, but she has no other choice, nowhere to go but down through the clouds, splat. Sandor won’t have that happen—he needs his bird breedable. He needs his sons. So the princess grows as she eats her petal salads and drinks her poppy milk, and she lives out her days in Sandor’s pocket. 

Knight-giants have a steady routine. The mornings are for riding out to the poppy fields astride Stranger. There lesser giants watch over the toiling men, scraping a measly thirty feet tall, their hands delicate on the flowers that feed them. Sandor barks orders with Sansa safe in her golden pouch, peeping out with wide eyes only when the other giants have gone, when her Ser tells her it’s safe, because, “They’ll eat you princess. One bite, no chewing.” 

She’s not fluent yet, but she understands when Sandor fake-chomps her little face, swallows, and licks his half-blackened lips. “Oh no,” she gasps. 

“Oh yes. But I’ll keep you close, little bird. Don’t fret.” 

And he does. The pouch is her home as Sandor tends to his giant-hounds in the kennel, when he undresses Stranger in the stables, or when he climbs to the gatehouse, and watches for intruders. They come every so often, those puny man-knights in tin can armor. 

“I’ll save you, princess!” they cry, longswords brandished like shiny toothpicks. 

Sandor notches arrows, looses them. Thunk. Mudge collects the corpses and makes meal out of them. Wouldn’t do to waste such precious meat. And of course, the little bird hates it. She hides until Sandor takes her back to the tower house and tells her the coast is clear. 

“Not scary?” she asks. Scary is a new favorite word of hers. 

“Not scary,” Sandor repeats. “The little knights are long gone.” 

He pats his belly over his daily wear leather jerkin and earns the cutest frown. “Gross,” the bird chirps. That’s her second favorite word. 

See, she puts up with knight-giant bullshit. The eating people, the giant horses and dogs, the giant plants, the giant keep with its giant rooms and giant furniture, the endless diet of petals and milk that has her belly swollen and bones aching. She puts up with Sandor whacking it two, three, four, hell, five times a day. After waking, after breaking fast, in the fields, at supper, after supper. It’s incessant—Sandor, stripping her down, or not, and cranking his meat. He’s taken her in all sorts of positions, but his new favorite is laying her down on the quilt and climbing on top. Yes, actually. His meaty lance flops down to cover her, head to toe. At nine feet tall, she can handle it, some. Biceps shaking, Sandor grinds against his bird, careful not to smash her bones. She’s learned to cling to his shaft for dear life. But she still begs, “Gentle, please, not scary,” as she glides up and down his foreskin. 

“Not scary,” Sandor huffs. “I’m not scary. Not scary—ah—fuck.” 

He’s not good at keeping clean. He puts his seed wherever he pleases, and it pleases him to see his bird caked in white goop. She’s too small to take care of herself, too small to escape. After the come flood, Sandor snuggles the bird, oft times licks her while she squirms: “Bath, please, Ser, no!” But the licking makes her giggle, and licking between her legs—that’s when she moans. 

“The little bird likes her hound’s tongue,” he teases between laps. “Your dew is so sweet, I ought to gobble you up.” 

He doesn’t gobble, just drinks. The teasing doesn’t end, because Sandor controls everything his little pet does in her dependent state. He thinks her peeing is hilarious, the same as one would with a pet rabbit or hamster, but even moreso because of her silly faces and chirping. “Please make water,” she asks each morning, yanking Sandor’s hair. She’s consulted her book too much, and doesn’t dare utter the word piss, lest a septa materialize and rap her little knuckles. 

Sandor doesn’t immediately oblige. Some mornings he merely pours a tiny goblet of milk and bids her, “Drink.” So she collapses onto his fuzzy chest and takes gobletful after gobletful. Sandor watches, grins, as her little belly swells. “Keep drinking, girl.” He wants her to be bigger; he wants her twenty feet taller, bursting with his babe. He’s ravenous for it, so he beats himself as the girl clutches her tummy, a practice gestation of sorts. 

“Please,” she begs one last time, eyes shining. 

“No,” Sandor rasps. 

So the girl wets his chest, pouting all the while. A long while, because Loki forbid, her bladder held a generous gallon. The sight makes Sandor nut himself to the stars. In times of dire thirst, he catches his bird before her release. She begrudgingly straddles his open mouth, hands propped on his nose. Not a drop goes to waste. Sandor swallows everything. 

But he bathes the bird daily, a novelty for a knight-giant who spares a wash every other moon. He carries her pot with him in a separate pouch at his hip as he goes through his daily chores, and most times acquiesces when she pleads, “Make water, good giant.” Or else she pleads, “Make more,” because a princess would never say shit. Yes, princess droppings are cute to Sandor in the hamster way. Yes, he watches her do that too, just not on his chest, and certainly not in his mouth. This isn’t that kind of story. I draw the line at coprophagia—you’re welcome. 

The long giant days exhaust the girl. It’s plain by supper, after she munches her plateful of orange petals, and sips her final goblet of milk, head swaying. The princess guide has a note: 

AS PRINCESSES GROW BIG, THEY GROW WEARY
LET THEM SLEEP LONG AND SLEEP OFTEN
TREAT THEM GENTLY AS SNOWFALL

She naps in the pouch by day, and at night time, after Sandor has his way with her, balls empty, he can finally use his dummy thick giant skull, and better yet, his carriage-sized heart. Look, she’s so pretty, filled with such sorrow. He faces her, her little body curled up on his pillow. 

“Hi little princess,” he greets, as if for the first time, for her fairness never ceases to surprise him, so up close, so fire and ice and pale milk skin. 

“Hei, Jättiläinen,” she returns, speaking Princess to tease him. She’s endured the keep for a few reasons—for one, she’s given herself lessons in the Common Tongue. While Sandor drinks and sharpens his collection of blades, or calls in his hounds to practice commands, Sansa sits at her little table atop the grander table, and studies her dictionary. She’s getting good, you see, at speaking what she considers giant-speak. It helps to hear him talk to the dogs. Better yet is the other reason for enduring: bedtime cuddles. 

Sansa quickly realized the size of his heart, in part because she spent many long hours curled atop his hairy breast, but also because he followed the rules, in the big leathery book he shows her by candlelight: Your Prized Princess and You: A Giant’s Duty. Inside she learned the giant’s crude nature, curbed by these scripted guidelines. Of course, Sandor has said it aloud: “I won’t hurt you.” 

I’m going to keep you. 

She’s not afraid, although she’s totally nude, level with a giant head, half-marred by flame, a story Sandor told her, the first time she reached out and pet his mottled scars. His brother did it, but he’s dead now. Good riddance, Sansa thinks. She told Sandor, “Bad brother. Good Ser.” 

He sucked on her hand then up to her arm in retaliation. She allows him these tastes—better than the alternative, and rather flattering. 

Tonight Sandor stares. Tonight he says, “You were sad in your castle.” 

“Yes,” Sansa confesses, downtrodden. “No family. Bad uncle.” 

But Sandor needs her eyes. He picks up her chin with his pointer finger. “I don’t have a family anymore either, little bird.” 

“Why? Mother princess?” 

“Aye, she was a princess. She ate petals just like you. Grew bigger. She had my brother, then me. But she had a daughter next. My sister.” 

“Where is sister?” 

He doesn’t want to do it, the ol’ belly pat, the universal gesture of yes, I eat my own kind, and I don’t give a single fuck. Instead he tips his head to his toes, ever so slightly. 

“Dinner,” Sansa whispers. Tears turn her eyes to glassy ponds. “No daughters.” 

“That’s right.” He presses his mouth to her face; her salt stings the cracks in his lips. “But you’ll give me a son. I’m certain.” 

“Be family?” 

“Aye. We’ll be a proper family, little bird.” 

He sleeps like that, mouth pressed to his princess. Her little teats squish against his nose. She hugs his cheeks, uses dark locks of hair as a blanket. Family, she dreams. Proper family. 

She wants that more than anything. 

Still, she misses her siblings.

Chapter Text

And so Sansa grows from ten feet, to fifteen, to twenty. A third her giant’s size, can you imagine? (If not, google comparing heights—it’s that easy). Each week, as she outgrows her princess friperies, Randa of Royce is there, to guzzle Sandor’s hard earned coin. The girl needs new gowns, new furniture, new accessories. Sandor grumbles all sorts of curses each time he forks over his golden dragons, which Randa understands and promptly answers, “What do you think having a son will be like? Should you like him to stay the same size all his life?” 

Touche. It’s almost time—the breeding. That’s why he ceases to cuss at the fat fairy, even internally, because he knows his girl is on the brink of taking his fat cock in full. Oh, the sex has been great in the meantime. Sansa stands a couple heads taller than Sandor’s knee. Her little flower is big enough for him to get a finger in. Loki above, it’s good. Sandor’s favorite game is putting the girl on his thigh, having her ride him like a sort of half-hairy pony. Her dew glosses him in no time. Best is when she cuddles his cock simultaneously, kisses it. 

Elsewise Sandor will lay the girl down his belly, with her legs spread, flower unfurled before him. “Look at that pretty flower,” he tells her often, mashing it with a rough fingertip, then thrusting in to gape her center. He probes her while he jacks off, ‘til he can’t stand the smell. Then he pulls the girl up to his mouth, and licks, licks, licks. His scruffy face is her throne—he tells her this, from below. “You’re my princess. You belong here.”

With two little hands clasping his hair tight, she feeds Sandor her release, the sweetest tideful of dew. He drinks and laps her petals until she simply collapses onto his face, teats squished to his eyes, a real reminder of Loki’s grace. 

“My giant,” the little princess hums, petting his hair. “Good giant to me.” 

He’s been nothing but good, truly. Word spreads fast in the giant realm, which is how they soon find themselves with visitors. The princess is delighted when Mudge brings the letter to the dining table, where she sits atop Sandor’s thigh, preferred to the little table and chairs beside them. Brienne of Tarth requests a visit! Sansa’s eyes widen as she reads. 

“Giants visit?” she asks. “Have feast?” 

Sandor’s gut does its knight-giant rumble. “I don’t like company,” he grunts. 

“But they have princesses! I make friends!” 

“No,” Sandor barks. He tries to look scary, but Sansa isn’t fooled. 

She pouts, sweeps her cute little brow together. “Pretty please?” 

“Fuck’s sake,” Sandor growls. “Fine. But you write the letters yourself.” 

The little princess does. That afternoon, while Sandor tends his fields, she scurries up to their shared bedchamber, and takes a seat at her miniature writing desk, carved by Sandor’s serfs in the village down the road. She pens two replies: one in Princess, and one in giant-speak, called the Old Tongue here, as she’s dutifully learned. 

Dearest friends,

We would be elated to entertain you at Clegane’s Keep by the next full moon. 

With love,
Lady Sansa of House Stark, Princess to Ser Sandor Clegane

Two weeks hence, she dons a marvelous gown of sky-blue velvet. She weaves to plaits at her temples, then fixes them together with golden ribbon. Sandor, her stinky old giant, was cajoled into bathing and laundering his finest black leather jerkin, stitched in golden thread with three leaping hounds. He acquiesced to the wash because Sansa agreed to join—she no longer needs her own tub. She simply hops in, and treads on her tippy toes. Happily, Sandor scrubs for her, as he’s always done. He’s like a maid and a husband, though no septon has blessed their union. 

She doesn’t dwell on that for long. 

No, she accepts her giant’s sloppy kisses and his coarse hands on her flower. She even licks his soapy member, because he pets her head and tells her such sweet things. “Like that, little princess. Your giant loves when you suck his cock.” 

It’s frightfully naughty—enough to send a septa running for the hills—but you see, Sandor is all she has, all she will ever know. Love, she thinks. Rakkaus. Is that the name for the feeling when her giant’s eyes squeeze shut? When he holds her cheeks most forcefully, when his seed bounds from his tip and joins the sudsy water? 

Sansa’s heart seizes. She hastily climbs up to straddle her giant, coil her arms around his broad and furry chest. “Love me?” she asks. 

He looks at her with shining eyes. Surprised, mayhaps? Surely, not terrified. But his own pulse is thunder beneath Sansa’s breast. “Scared?” she asks instead. 

“Both,” is all her giant says. He kisses the top of her head, then plucks her out the tub. 

He stares while she dresses in her blue velvet. 

His unburnt cheek is awfully red. 

— 

The guests arrive at midday. Sansa greets them from above in the gatehouse, hoisted on Sandor’s hip. “Hyvää päivää!” she cries as a little princess drops from the shared saddle. But wait—she swiftly realizes, it’s a prince, in golden plate, nary a gown to be seen! Sandor recognizes her befuddled look. 

“Prince Jaime of House Lannister.” 

“But no daughters! No lady giants!” 

“One,” Sandor says. “Loki allowed it.” 

How odd! Odder yet that this lady-knight-giant wears full plate as well. No true lady, Sansa imprudently thinks. Even so, she presents her finest curtsies when Jaime and Brienne step foot in the yard. 

Oh, Prince Jaime is a true marvel of chivalry, and handsomeness to boot! He stands thirty feet tall and pulls off his helm to reveal a plethora of golden curls. Sansa gawks with heart eyes as he gets to one knee, sweetly kisses her hand. “Olet kaunein neito koko maailmassa, rouva,” he greets, smiling a dash white smile. You are the fairest maiden in all the realm. Oh, her maiden tongue, it’s a song to her ears! 

She notices but one flaw—he’s missing his right hand. In its place sits a gilded likeness. 

His giant must have been too hungry to hold back. What of the guidebook?! A total brute! 

It’s true—Brienne the Beauty is an ugly sight, blotchy-skinned, lumpy-nosed, thin of hair. Sansa opts to have her gallant Jaime lead her up the tower house stairs to the dining hall, ignoring the uncomely lady-knight-giant. 

Sandor isn’t a shred warmer. He regards Brienne rather coldly, seats her far at the other end of the giant’s table. But that is simply the proper etiquette of the realm: Sandor wants another limb off of Jaime, Brienne wants a nibble of Sansa. So their respective charges are seated together, at a much smaller table, where they converse like Summer Island birdies in their native Princess.

Sandor eyes his princess as pitcherful after pitcherful of poppy milk disappears. He himself downs goblets of Starfall Red, near strong as liquor, enough to put even a giant under the table. Brienne makes meager talk: “She’s a lovely girl.” 

“I know.” 

“A Stark, you say?” 

“Aye, a Stark.” 

“Did you hear of her siblings?” 

That perks Sandor’s ear. She has no family, his sweet little bird. “What of them?” he grunts, feigning disinterest and gnawing honey glazed haunch of man. 

“Shapeshifters, the lot of them. Two brothers and sister. They reclaimed Winterfell, their ancestral home.” 

Sandor scoffs. He knows not of the affairs of the land below. It’s beneath him, for fuck’s sake! He visited a mere thrice. Once at the behest of his lord-giant to settle a war waged amidst green fire. Once to rescue his sweet princess. And once, once a trip was stolen, for selfish reasons. He keeps an ear to the ground on one issue: escaped lady giants. There was a whisper, in his youth, or rather a taunt, from Gregor himself: “How can you be certain they’re dead and eaten if you didn’t check the privy, little brother?” 

He kicked himself for not thinking of that the very day after his mother and baby sister were supposedly made into dinner. He would have waded through a whole-ass sea of shit if it meant finding his beloved’s bones. So he descended from the clouds and stormed about Westeros in a feint of senseless violence, fee-fi-fo-fum, etc. 

None of the castellans, mercenaries, knights, or witches he devoured knew a thing about a land-bound giant. Least of all a lady. 

“Does the girl know?” Brienne presses. 

Sandor stares at his princess. No, she’s like him, no family to speak of. It’s what strengthened their bond. Not fear—love. When she glances her way she blushes first, then waves. 

Sandor turns to face Brienne. “No,” he grunts. “She will never know.” 

“And if they attempt rescue?” 

“They’ll be dinner.” 

Sandor takes a nasty rip of muscle from thigh bone and gnashes open-mouthed. He’s afraid of no one with Gregor gone—no Stark, no shapeshifter. But this lady-knight-giant, for the love of Loki, will not shut up. 

“What of his lordship? Have you received your summons?” 

Ah, there’s something to fear. Sandor's asshole clenches at the sense-memory of a rather carnal penance from his current lord-giant, whose name I’m purposefully omitting for suspense, but I wager you could guess, if you truly know your humble narrator’s taste. 

His lordship takes what he pleases, princesses included. 

Through tight teeth Sandor manages, “No. She’s not been bred.” 

“Very well,” Brienne muses. “It seems you have time yet. But his lordship always calls.”

Chapter Text

The day arrives: breeding. 

Sansa has been perfectly groomed. She is glad to have all her limbs, to have gowns hand-tailored to her ever-growing figure, and moreover, her Ser is very sweet to her, if not terribly nasty. They have many a secret that should never be told to a septa, but Sansa has learned the Seven do not reign above. There is a god-king Loki, some powerful weirdo she’d never heard of until her capture and subsequent cultural lessons. She is as good as wed, see, a capture is a marriage to the giants. She decides she can and must live this way, because what is the alternative? 

Her days pass amiably. She is safest in the keep, safer yet at Sandor’s side, though often he must ride alone, to keep his serfs in line. Without her giant, she isn’t quite so tall to make use of his things. Luckily Sandor is skilled with his hands—he built an entire keep in the courtyard, carved from the hollow of a weirwood. It is two stories, a parlor below and bedroom above. It is Sansa’s sanctuary, where she can pretend all is well, that perhaps, perhaps, it is all a dream, and she is down on ground level, happy as can be. 

Her feint continues as she writes mushy letters to Ser Jaime, her newest and dearest companion. He tells her of his sons, hearty and hale, of their training days in the yard, how they’ll surely be the realms most fearsome conquerors. 

Oh, she hopes they shan’t come for Sandor! 

In his absence she wishes for the company of Ser Jaime, though his duty is to his lady-knight-giant wife. Instead Sansa is tended by Notch and Mudge, the cook-troll and the guard-troll. They stink terribly and look worse, with their lumpy and pustule-ridden noses, low brows, and two square teeth that jut from wormy lips. Sansa does well to avoid eye contact or full breaths in their presence, though she is comforted by the knowledge that they lack tongues and…more delicate bodily protrusions. 

“Only one cock allowed in the keep,” Sandor told her at dinner, and promptly shoved an entire man-sausage in his maw. He eats people, regularly. Turns out that was not merely a wives’ tale! 

This horror must be stifled, buried deep in Sansa’s heart. She dwells only on the positive: I am married to a land-owning knight! I will bear him a son!

Though she is not sure how. Her twenty-five foot stature fails to accommodate her giant’s lance. During Randa’s weekly visits, Sansa frets so. 

“Oh, he’s soon to try,” the pudgy fairy warns. They most often take tea in Sansa’s hand-carved parlor, but on balmy spring days the pair sit out in the courtyard, where Randa so helpfully conjures a full picnic spread of porcelain and finger sandwiches. She pinches the meat of Sansa’s arm. “Nearly half his size, and ripe as can be. Do you know how potently you reek?” 

Sansa dares to sniff at the juncture of her arm, but encounters only mild sweetness, as ever. 

“I do not,” she haughtily counters. Bathtime is her fondest habit! But Randa laughs and laughs. 

“Oh, honey. You have a storm coming.” 

The storm comes in the form of Maggy the Frog. 

She invades supper, and this, oh this, Sansa can smell: rotten slime, the gunky bottom of a dried-up pond. She presses herself deep into Sandor’s jerkin—she prefers to take her meals seated in his lap, sipping poppy milk as he grinds bones to bone dust. He snaps a femur clear in half when he gets his whiff of the Frog. 

“Maggy comes bearing a gift,” the sorceress croons from below. “A most important concoction, for those inclined to reproduce.” 

Sandor grunts to Notch who grunts to Mudge. POP! A hunched old crone appears at the foot of the table, draped in a patchy cloak that hangs past her eyes to her warty nose. She shakes a vial of liquid pearl. 

“Pretty,” Sansa puffs. She cannot help but look!

“It’s all yours, sweet princess. For a thousand golden dragons, that is.” 

Sandor growls—that’s the same as the sum he paid for the damn girl! 

“What is?” she peeps. She aimed the question at Sandor, but Maggy chimes in. 

“Oh, I consider it a protectant of sorts, should your knight-giant care to preserve your innards as he claims your womb.” 

Sansa goes rosy—Randa warned her of this, how she’d need a potion for Sandor’s staff to fit her flower. She can’t help but picture the impossibility of it, even now! His staff is the size of her arm, and twice as thick! She’s not ready! She needs more petals! 

But the Frog bares a mouthful of broken brown teeth. “I have convened with the stars—your girl, even on the strongest milk, cannot grow much larger. A thousand dragons is a generous price. I could charge quadruple and I daresay you’d pay up. You reek of desire, and worse, love. Not on Loki’s life would you deign to destroy her.” 

The bone in Sandor’s fist shatters to shards on the table. “I’ll take every vial you have,” he tersely rasps. “Notch will see to the coin.” 

Sansa’s little heart flutters as a bird’s wing. She looks to Sandor. Is this love, the way he beholds her with low-lidded eyes that gleam like freshly drawn steel? The giant drags a hefty thumb across his pet’s cheek and stuffs her lips full of it—meaty.  

“You’ll survive a dozen births, little bird. And dozens more breedings. Believe that.” 

Oh no, no, no, no. 

A stiff heat rises below Sansa’s bottom, a column of raging ore. She knows this feeling: 

A giant's hunger.  

If she pays not with her flower, she'll pay in blood. 

— 

The little bird ogles Sandor from below as Notch lugs sack after sack of heavy coin and tosses them to Maggy’s curly-toed boots. When the witch is satisfied, she waves a knobby wand, and in a symphony of delicate clinking, dozens of vials drape the table. Sandor sweeps them into a fresh leather pouch in one stroke of his arm. 

“Out!” he barks to Notch. “To the guardhouse—let no one near ‘til dawn!” 

More gently, to Sansa, “It’s time, little princess. I want my due.” 

She nods with tears sparkling in her eyes. You might recall how that riles Sandor so, for they look like precious diamonds, and make her taste pop that much more. He balances the girl on his hip as he plods up the stairs to the bedchamber, savoring the way she trembles, for he imagines those vibrations on his rock-hard member. 

And oh, he’s hard. 

He may never have been harder. His cock burns clear to the tip, rubbing achingly against the roughspun of his breeches. He drops the vials bedside, delicately, and drops the princess down even more so on the thick quilt coverlet. Her eyes are the lake that surrounds his sweet keep, deep blue, fathoms wide. They temper him as he strips: sword belt, jerkin, tunic. He kicks a boot on the bed to solicit her help, and she obliges, for a princess would never forsake her manners, not even when peeling back a soggy knight-giant’s hose and catching close sight of yellowed toenails. She does scoot back, a flower in an autumn gold field, small yet bursting for her size, her presence alone begging for fertilization. 

Sandor rubs a palm down the length of his throbbing meat. “Not scary,” he says. 

“Not scary,” she repeats, tremulously. 

With that, he tugs the laces of his breeches, whoosh, they go. He beats his cock as he fishes for a vial, tears the cork with his well-trained molars. He kneels on the quilt at his pet’s tiny feet and dumps the lot on his boner. He could nut right there, the way the pearlescent goo warms and chills him, reminds him of all the goo to come. He takes a bird foot in each hand, thumbs her arches cold as snow. 

“Son,” she chirps. 

“That’s right, pretty bird. I’m going to put my sons in you.” 

He parts her thighs, a heavy palm on each, to reveal a glistening flower, rosy pink. The bird clamps down on his wrists as he practices his strokes, pearl goo meeting her dew, mingling. Knight-giants are loath to read; he does not quite know how to use the Frog’s concoction, but he remembers the guidebook, the passages he read to Sansa, on all their shared nights together: 

THERE IS NO CREATURE SO PRECIOUS AS A MAIDEN
NO PLANT SO PRECIOUS AS HER FLOWER
TAKE CAUTION AS YOU SOW YOUR SEED
FIND YOUR PRETTIEST WORDS TO CALM HER

“Sweet little maiden,” he rasps, low. “Very pretty flower.” 

“Yes?” she whines, her little brow stitched together. 

“I won’t hurt you. I’m a good giant.” 

“Yes,” she parrots. “Good giant. Mine.” 

His slick, red, undulating rod of flesh spans the length of her flower to her chin. The impossibility of it is not lost on Sandor, but he sinks in the same. 

It’s glory, his first dip in a flower. He’s pumped his own fist and scores of stinky giant ass, but nothing compares to the tense, silken hold of a maiden’s vise, small as they come. 

Miraculously, magically, she stretches as he invades. No blood, no screams, just tiny bird claws sunk his forearms as his cock slips up, up, up her guts. It’s visible: a bulge puffs in her belly above her maidenhair, and climbs as Sandor goes deeper, until a lump forms below her ribs. He feels every inch, her womb parting to her bladder, stomach, lungs. 

He nudges her heart and falls, doubling Sansa in darkness. 

“Good princess,” he soothes, smashing her fiery locks against her damp brow. He slides an arm under her head for a better angle, cradles a rosy cheek. Inside her his tip nuzzles her heart, lub-dub, lub-dub together, perhaps they’re not so different after all. 

“Please love me,” the girl whispers. She watches the swell that runs from her flower to ribcage. 

“Love,” Sandor grunts. He slips in deeper, accidentally, tickling the girl’s throat. 

“Minä rakastan sinua,” she sweetly chokes. “Say to me.” 

“Meena rockstan seenwah,” he tries out. “Love my little bird.” 

“I love my knight too.”

Fucking NUT. That’ll do a crusty-hearted giant in. He uses his last scrap of self control to retreat back into her womb, where the cum-storm of the century rains down like the genesis flood. He cradles the bird on his cock for a very long while, bundling her against his chest, savoring his guts against hers. He misses his mother, the only other princess he ever knew. He has his bird now, a little thing, a thing to love. That’s what it is: the rattle in his chest and head and cock. Worse, the rattle in his belly: I’m empty. 

But not anymore. He doesn’t have to eat to feel full. 

“I’ll give you son,” the bird says drowsily into his furry chest. 

“Yes, little bird. A strong son. Many.” 

He refuses to entertain the alternative. Well okay, he does, but once. 

If the bird bears a daughter, he’ll kill the lot of them. 

He’s dumb violent. It’s the only choice he can conceive.