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When Fire and Metal Collide

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Chapter 1: The Job


The opening shot of the interview was wide, but Tyrion Lannister wanted it that way. It served to make the size difference between him, with his feet dangling over the cusp of his overstuffed purple velvet chair, and his interviewee all the more apparent. Being a dwarf, the youngest of the Lannister clan was used to feeling physically small, but this time was different. Even slumped, in what most would consider an impolitely comfortable position, the man across from him was large. His long arms draped over the sides of a matching purple velvet chair, his massive legs were open wide with an ankle crossing his knee in an uncouth gesture. 


All Tyrion could think as they settled in was, ‘That’s one big son of a bitch.’


Final makeup completed and softball questions out of the way, the lifestyle journalist known as the “Lion of Lannister” began to find his rhythm. Every person who sat across from him was different, not necessarily unique, but Tyrion prided himself in quickly figuring out what type of a person he was talking to. 


The Mad Dog of Metal, however, was a different story.  


“So tell me, Dog. May I call you, Dog?” Tyrion stared down his glasses at the long haired rebel sitting opposite him. 


The Lion of Lannister knew he had to both unnerve and gain the respect of his interviewee. It was imperative to show he could stand toe-to-toe with the big boys, even if he was only half their size. ‘It’s still early in the interview,’ Tyrion reminded himself, ‘There’s plenty of time to find out what makes the big man tick.’


“If I can call you Little Man, then sure.” Sandor Clegane, the lead singer of the metal band Fuck the King, stared daringly into Tyrion’s eyes. It wasn’t a nickname that the dwarf liked, and Clegane clearly knew that. Grinning and inclining his head, Tyrion knew this interview wouldn’t be easy, and had prepared for verbal skirmishes like this one. It was a small concession upfront with the hope of big returns later. The experienced journalist just needed to buy his time.


The infamous front man was visibly uncomfortable under the strong lights of the interview salon. Tyrion’s years working for various newspapers and magazines had given him a keen eye for those seeking attention, and those shrinking away from it. If anything, the very idea that the Mad Dog, The God of Metal, the most sought after man in music couldn’t stand the lights of his interview room, endeared him to Tyrion in a way the dwarf had not anticipated. 


‘He also doesn’t take shit from anybody,’ the journalist reminded himself. Sandor Clegane, like few who had reached his level of stardom, lived his music and had yet to be consumed by greed or money. It was admirable, if Tyrion had to say--but it didn’t make for a good story. 


His readers were ravenous to know more about the notorious bad boy, and Tyrion would be loath not to give them what they wanted. Thus, the Lion of Lannister inhaled deeply, waiting for the right moment to pounce.


“So, Dog. What attracted you to the musical genre of metal?”


A snort emanated from his monstrous counterpart and it made Tyrion wonder if Sandor didn’t think the question was worth answering, or if he was just buying himself some time. 


After what seemed like an eternity, even to an experienced journalist as himself, Sandor spoke.“It wasn’t a ‘thing’ that attracted me to the music, but the other way around.” 


Clegane shifted in his seat, but his eyes were steady. They were almost scary, their cold greyness filling the space between them aggressively. He was an imposing man, the kind of presence that made bands famous, even infamous.


‘He’s not the kind of man I’d want to meet in an empty alleyway,’ the dwarf reasoned, an eye glossing over Clegane’s muscular frame packed tightly into a plain grey T-shirt. At 6ft 8in there were very few stupid enough to pick a fight with Fuck the King’s front man. Sandor was known for personally leaping into the crowd and removing disrespectful moshers and fans. Hell, he’d even drop-kicked an aggressive fan who had jumped up on his stage with a broken bottle, in the middle of a guitar solo--and never broke his riff. The charges were dropped, but the press around the incident had been huge. 


‘Bigger than huge,’ Tyrion thought, ‘the stuff of legends.’


The very thought that Clegane could punt him like a rugby ball, made Tyrion settle back in his chair subconsciously, a vain attempt to make more space between them.


It was only after a long pause that Sandor spoke again. “I write my music for all those out there who look at themselves in the mirror, in the dead of the night, and wonder if they’re gonna watch the world burn or give themselves to the daemons inside. Music, words, life, death, pain. That’s not a music genre, it’s me.”


“When you wrote Save Your Last Breath, you were speaking directly about suicidal thoughts,” Tyrion eyed Sandor, unable to make out what he was thinking. “Don’t you think that’s a bit dark for the subject of a multi platinum single?”


The big man cleared his throat, signaling Tyrion that he’d found the right tone and way to discuss this difficult subject.


“I’d just lost my mother and my sister in a car accident, and got this to remember it by,” he pointed to his face, his burns fearlessly displayed over handsome features. He had been the only survivor of the fiery crash, which happened right at the beginning of his career. Sandor was thoughtful, if not slightly vulnerable when talking about a night that changed his life. 


‘The fans will love this,’ Tyrion grinned to himself, watching the tough metal singer contemplate his next words gingerly.


“I wasn’t in a great place in my life, turned to drugs and alcohol to ease the pain. I thought about my own mortality often--all the fucking time actually. Music, putting the darkest side of me on paper, and seeing that I wasn’t the only one, saved me from my demons. I was being true to myself, going down my dark journey publicly, and the fans could see that.”  He scratched his nose in a nervous twitch.


“Well clearly being you has paid off,” Tyrion passed a sly grin, trying to see if he could poke the bear on his financial success, “you and Fuck the King have enjoyed two double platinum albums…”


The monster of a front man cut him off, sitting up in his chair abruptly, “It’s not about the fucking money, Little Man. I don’t give a shit about money, and don’t give a rat’s ass about fame. My music is for all those out there who play with the darker side of themselves, who think about things that offend the very nature of our society. I’m their slave, not the King’s.”


---Snippet from Tyrion Lannister’s Interview with Sandor Clegane, Singer and Guitarist for Fuck the King --- Playgirl 20th Anniversary Edition


The tap, tap, tap of Sansa’s fingernail on the solid wood table did nothing to calm her nerves. Nursing a coffee in a trendy cafe simply known as Hotpie's, the blushing redhead did all that she could to cover her growing anxiety. It’s been over half an hour, and Brienne is never late. 


The ability to finally put her fear into words, only added to that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Did I dream our phone conversation last night? Am I so on the edge that I’m imagining jobs instead of actually getting them? 


She glanced at her phone, Nothing, not even a message.


Ordering a coffee had not been her best move, the caffeine in her double latte only serving to make the tapping of her fingers quicker, and her paranoia more acute. Stop tapping, she scolded herself, making a concerted effort to grip the cup in front of her. 


Sansa scanned the patrons of the coffee shop in a bid to see if she was drawing too much attention to herself. To her mixed delight and sadness, most of the people there were engrossed in conversation, blissfully unaware of her lonely presence in a table situated so she could see, and be seen, from the front door. 


She’ll come, Sansa reasoned. Traffic is always hell in King’s Landing and Brienne won’t park that Tesla near any vehicle that isn’t worth at least 140,000 Dragons. 


Her manager, Brienne of Tarth, was well known in the modeling industry. She had scouted some of Westeros’ top models. Names like Cersei Lannister, Margary Tyrell, and Shae were only some of her clients who had made the big time under Brienne’s watchful eye. 


And I so want to make it big! The aspiring model sighed, praying she was not about to get stood up by her own manager.


Three years prior Sansa had, rather hubristically, packed up her bags, and what little savings she had, to make her way to the big city. Her home of Winterfell had become small, and she was tired of doing catalogue shots for outdoor camping attire. If she saw plaid one more time in her life, it would be far too soon. 


If you wanted to make it in the modeling world you went to the capital, you found a good manager, and you waited for your break. The first two steps had come relatively easy for the pretty young red-head. Her beautiful smile and blue piercing eyes had gotten her some minor traction. However, fully realizing step three had seen her bussing more tables than standing in front of a camera. It was beyond frustrating.


Sure, Brienne had found her some work. It had always been just enough to wet her appetite, but never the big contract she had hoped for. Sansa had walked down the runway for a couple of top designers, graced the middle pages of a few well circulated magazines, and had been in the background prop in some commercials--but never the star. Playing second fiddle in a cut throat town like this, wasn’t going to put food on the table, much less make her famous. 


I’m this close to packing it up and going home with my tail between my legs. It had been apparent to Sansa for quite some time that she wasn’t actually going anywhere in her modeling career. It was hard to ignore the signs. Her life was an existence that consisted of a closet-like apartment, which took up a large part of her wages, and the occasional moment where she got to dress up and pretend she was somebody else for the cameras.


Brienne’s call last night about “the job” had woken Sansa from her sleep. She had hastily wiped the gunk from her eyes, coughed once, then picked up the phone--fingers shaking. The ensuing conversation, or at least what she hoped had been real and not some strange waking dream, had led her to this spot, in this cafe, a bundle of nerves waiting for her manager to break the news on “something big.”


The door to the cafe clanked, making Sansa’s eyes shift toward the sound. Relief washed over her at the sight of the tall, blonde, immaculately dressed woman she had entrusted her career to.


“Don’t get up, darling,” Brienne made air kisses from afar, “I don’t have much time. As you can see, I’m already behind in my schedule and it’s not even ten o’clock.”


Sansa tried desperately to match her manager’s enthusiasm, but found it difficult because she still had almost no idea why they were here, and why they needed to meet outside of the agency. Her ears were perked, her senses sharpened.


“A flat white,” Brienne motioned to the waiter, who nodded and scuttled off before Sansa had a moment to blink.


Exhaling deeply Sansa’s manager sat down across from her and put her attaché  case on the table. Her manager’s excitement was palpable, which was extraordinary given that the woman had literally seen it all in the modeling industry. Brienne’s demeanor naturally fed Sansa’s curiosity about “the job”, while at the same time leaving her with a sense of apprehension. 


Just smile, nod, and listen to what she has to say. Take a deep breath, Sansa.


“How are you, dear?” Sansa knew Brienne was far too busy for a long answer, her smile hinting at impatience. Questions like this were merely a polite opening so they could get down to what really interested her manager--contracts.


“Fine, thank you,” Sansa smiled, doing her best to downplay the incessant tapping that had moved from her fingers to her right foot. She folded her hands in her lap and did her best to look interested without seeming as desperate as she felt.


“Excellent. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you to meet me here.” Brienne didn’t wait for an answer, “Well I got a call from one of the biggest magazine companies in Westeros yesterday evening. A long story short, on a whim they sent your headshot out to an affiliate of theirs,” Brienne was trying to build suspense, but Sansa was far too nervous to feel joy at being strung along, “... and… they got a hit!”


Sansa beamed. This was an exciting development, yet even with the joy she felt welling up inside her, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of reality too. Just stay calm, you’ve been here before and sometimes these things don’t work out. More often than not things don’t work out, grrrrr!


A mischievous grin on her face, Sansa’s manager continued, “Well it’s more than a hit really, it’s a steal. Basically,” Brienne leaned in, “the affiliate said they didn’t even post the job to other modeling agencies, because you’re the only one they want.”


Sansa’s heart almost lept out of her chest, its over-caffeinated blood making it beat twice as fast as it normally would have. The result was that she nearly crushed the coffee cup in her hand at the very thought of what Brienne had just told her. 


Modeling was all about look books, casting calls, and return interviews. Just because you were picked from a book of photos, then called in to audition for the spot, didn’t mean you would get it. The whole slew of artists, photographers, creative designers all had to choose you -- and the competition was fierce. The result was that Sansa had always come close to landing big spreads in magazines, but had failed to garner complete support from the creative teams. It was beyond frustrating, almost heartbreaking after so much time in King’s Landing.


The fact that she had gotten the job without even showing up, was both exciting and extremely unusual. Unusual enough to have that little voice inside her head let her know that something was afoot. Sansa tried to calm the sound of her blood pumping in her ears. “So what’s the job?” 


The wry smile that crossed Brienne’s face didn’t put Sansa at ease, if anything it almost made her recoil--almost. “It’s a lifestyle piece.” 


That’s an unusual way to put it, Sansa inhaled deeply so as to free up some thinking space in her overly stimulated, excited brain.  


Digging in her attaché  case, Brienne pulled out a couple of folders. “Do you like Heavy Metal, or metal music of any kind, Sansa?”


The question had come from left field, making it impossible to hide the surprised look that sprung onto Sansa’s face. She quickly moved to smile more neutrally, but all the while her brain was in overdrive. 


What kind of a question is that? She found herself asking. 


Her only association with the musical genre were the metalheads at her highschool, which she never ran with. They were a click of darkly dressed boys and girls, who enjoyed wearing chains and T-shirts with graphics depicting demons, blood, and gore. All the boys had worn their hair long, which Sansa had never felt attractive, and used their flowing locks to move their heads to the loud droning music. Having been a cheerleader, and all A’s honor roll student, Sansa had never paid much attention to them. They were just not in her orbit, and she never felt like she missed out on anything. 


Until now.


“I wouldn’t consider myself a connoisseur,” Sansa said, trying to keep an open mind despite not liking the sudden change in the conversation. 


“So you don’t know who this man is?” Brienne took out two photos from a folder and placed them in front of Sansa. 


The first picture was of an album cover, mostly black, Of course . In the background, if she squinted enough, Sansa could see a shirtless muscular man with his head tilted back. He had long hair, like many of the boys at her old high school who followed this genre of music. He was playing a guitar with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open, I guess he must be the singer. If you can call what they do singing. 


Sansa had never considered herself a good singer, but she had always received compliments on her classical voice. Her music teacher in Winterfell had often praised her for her pitch, and her friends had always been jealous of her talent. But it had never gone anywhere, Sansa had never been bitten by the music bug. The little she had heard of the metal music genre, gave her the impression they were more into screaming than singing. 


The second picture was much clearer. A band of four men were in some kind of burned out warehouse. They were dressed in black T-shirts, and all wearing listless expressions as if their lives didn’t matter. They were literally grown of versions of some of the people she had steered away from in high school.


The one man Brienne was pointing stood out from the bunch. The left side of his face was scarred, though she couldn’t really say how. He had a face that was a metal shirt graphic brought to life, though somehow he wasn’t ugly. From all the guys in the picture, his personality and confidence exuded off the print. It was hard not to be drawn to his face, and the amazing color of his eyes.


The subject of their conversation was also, by far, the tallest of the bunch. Assuming his bandmates were an average male height, he towered over them at, what Sansa estimated, was a whopping 6ft 8in. His hair was long, well past his shoulders, his dark beard in contrast to those of his bandmates. Colorful sleeve tattoos were inked up and down both of his exposed muscular arms. 


Sansa stared at him a while. He was not her kind of guy, not by far. She preferred clean cut men, well dressed with well fitting clothing. We’re complete opposites, so why would somebody put us in a photoshoot together?


Brienne wore an amused expression when their eyes met again, Sansa shook her head, “No I don’t know him.”


“Do you have your head in the sand?” Brienne had meant it as a joke yet somehow Sansa could tell there was more than a hint of truth in her words. Apparently she’d missed out on something big in the music industry. “This is Sandor Clegane, front man for the biggest metal band in the world right now, Fuck the King.”


Sansa’s blank expression only made for her manager to push further, and more insistently.


“This guy, right here,” Brienne pointed again to Sandor Clegane, “has done more for Heavy Metal music than any other musician in a generation. He’s big, Sansa. He wrote two double platinum albums and the third is sure to be a hit.”


Before she could speak, Brienne continued, “The magazine is on the cusp of signing a huge deal with him for their anniversary edition.” Something in the way Brienne emphasized the last two words made Sansa cock her head ever so slightly to the side. 


Her manager kept her momentum going as if she didn’t detect the growing perplexion revealing itself on Sansa’s face. “They will dedicate every page of this edition to an interview with Sandor…..and pictures .”


Finally she’s getting to the point. Then it dawned on Sansa,  I don’t even know the name of this magazine, could it be Rolling Stone? Excitement began to rise in her once more.


“And they want me to pose with him for some of the shots?” Sansa probed, trying to regain some control in the conversation, and a better understanding of what the mystery job consisted of. 


“No,” Brienne answered, a devilish grin on her face. “It’s not the magazine per se, Sandor wants you to pose with him. He demanded it actually.” 


When Sansa didn’t appropriately gasp in admiration, Brienne huffed in frustration, “The magazine gave him their look book, like I told you.” 


Now she was repeating her words to Sansa as if she had not understood them the first time, “All the models they had on call were in that book. This man,” Brienne pointed to him again, “flipped through hundreds of pictures and could have chosen anybody. Any woman he wanted .”


Her heart was pounding as the meaning of Brienne’s words became clearer. There would be no interview, there would be no elbowing girls out of the way--this was it. 


The sudden feeling of a hand enveloping hers brought Sansa’s attention back to Brienne, “I got a call from the magazine CEO in a panic last night. Clegane was clear, he wouldn’t do the spread without you. He won’t sign the contract until you agree.”


Sansa took a moment to let that settle in. “What kind of magazine is it?” 


Brienne brushed off her question, “My dear, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity.” 


This constant beating around the bush was getting on Sansa’s nerves, but she kept her eyes trained on Brienne. “The magazine has assured me they look to sell over a million copies.” 


Now Sansa gasped, One million copies that was more than any fashion magazine in Westeros. Whoever is doing this has international reach. Oh My God it’s my big break. It's staring me right in the face.


“And what kind of lifestyle will we be portraying?” Sansa would have basically said yes to anything at the moment, but she wanted to know the name so she could call her mother and tell her the good news the minute the contract was signed.  


“An erotic one,” her manager finally answered, “You’ll be doing an exclusive shoot for Playgirl,” Brienne’s face betrayed no emotion, while nearly all the color drained out of Sansa’s. 


“You mean the porn magazine?” Sansa blurted out, affronted. The shock of what Brienne had just said nearly making her fall out of her seat. 


Her manager made a motion to quiet Sansa, looking around the room nervously. Bringing Sansa in closer to her, she whispered, “Shhhh, nobody knows about this shoot, which is why we couldn’t do this meeting in my office. It’s a secret and should be kept that way.” 


Their eyes locked, and Sansa felt panicked. Brienne didn’t seem too interested in calming that emotion though, correcting her, “And it’s not a porn magazine, it’s a lifestyle magazine.”


Sansa’s mind was going at a thousand miles an hour. Playgirl was the female-targeted sister magazine to Playboy. They were the kinds of magazines you hide under your bed, that dirty little secret you kept from your parents. Magazines, or literature of that nature, were never discussed in polite company. For Sansa to pose for such a spread, even for a female audience, would make her a pariah in the modeling industry.


Brienne could see Sansa backing away and took her by the wrist, “You don’t have to sleep with him, Sansa. You just have to pose naked for some racy pictures,” there was a pause, “it’s softcore. The theme of the whole article is his music, his life on the road ….and you would kind of be a groupie, as they say.”


Sansa was very close to leaving, throwing it all in the bin. The flush rising in her neck and cheeks didn’t go unnoticed by her manager. “Sansa, just listen to me and think about your career. This man is a sex symbol. He might not be yours or mine, but there are millions of women out there who worship the ground he walks on. You’ll be that bitch they all hate, but at the same time all want to be.”


“That doesn’t exactly put me at ease,” Sansa finally managed to say, hot tears of anger and frustration welling up in her eyes. She’d been a good girl all her life, the thought of stripping down with a man she hardly knew to do a shoot for a genre of music she didn’t even like, was just preposterous. 


Sitting back in her seat Brienne smiled confidently. It seemed the wily talent manager had one more ace up her sleeve. “The photographer is Oberyn Martell, the best of the best. So think of it as edgy, erotic art. Getting out of your comfort zone and getting into the good graces of somebody who will make your career.”


Now Sana’s mouth did hang open, The biggest name in rock photography, and he’s doing a full edition of a raunchy magazine? Nothing made sense, the only thing that kept running through Sansa’s head was the fact that modeling for Oberyn Martell, having the honor to be in front of his lens, was an opportunity given only to stars. 




The two women stared at one another across the table, the flat white Brienne had ordered, what seemed like hours ago, only now arriving. Neither one of them looked at it, much less acknowledged the waiter who had put it there. Sansa’s mind and body were churning. This was wrong, all wrong and yet, she could see that it might be the opportunity she had been waiting for. I don’t have to have sex with him. I just have to act as if I want to. 


There was no way she was going to be able to explain this to her mother or father, not even her best friends. There were times in life where you had to take a leap of faith, hope that you made the right choice even if you were uncertain of the outcome, And this is my moment. 


“Ok, I’ll do the job.” Sansa felt temporary relief and even some excitement hearing the words escape her throat. “But I don’t even know anything about his life, or music, or what it’s like to be one of these band followers.”


“Do you think Daenerys Targaryen knew how to be a Dothraki Queen before she got the news of her big shoot with Khal Drogo? Of course not. She had to put the work in and do a bit of research .” An upturned corner of her mouth, meant that Brienne had how this conversation would go, and was three steps ahead of her. 


Again, rummaging in her attaché  case, Sansa’s manager pulled out a ticket and a pass on a lanyard. “The reason I was late.” Brienne pushed them across the table, “I was on the phone with Clegane this morning, and had to wait for the bike messenger to give me these.”


Accepting the tickets, Sansa looked at them but could barely read the font to understand what it was. There were some skulls on the pass along with other motifs she couldn’t quite make out.


“The God of Metal wants you to come to his concert this Saturday. He wants to get to know you before the shoot,” Brienne’s eyebrows implied more than Sansa was willing to accept at this moment, “and give you a glimpse into his life. That’s a crew pass Sansa, no fan gets those. You’ll be able to go right up on stage during the concert and go with him anywhere. I think after a night with him and the band, you’ll know enough to be emotive during the shoot this coming Tuesday.” 


The air rushed out of Sansa’s lungs. It was Wednesday, the shoot was in less than a week. Everything was happening so quickly--too quickly. But that’s the whirlwind of fame I guess.


“I knew you wouldn’t say no,” Brienne continued. “It’s the chance of a lifetime, I wouldn’t have pushed you if I didn’t think it would be good for your career in the end.” Brienne slipped the contract across the table. 


“No sex, right?” Sansa asked, cheeks burning.


“No sex,” Brienne assured her, “But you have to go to Oberyn’s studio tomorrow for a screen, lighting, and outfit check. He’s the consummate professional and wants everything to be perfect.”


Biting her bottom lip, Sansa signed the contract.


Before the ink had dried, Brienne was on the phone to her contact on the other side, “It’s done, she’ll be there. Yes, it’s going to be phenomenal. Kisses.”


The adrenaline coursing through Sansa's veins made her feel light as a feather, and made her shake with excitement. “See you tomorrow at 9am sharp, I’ll text you the address of the studio.”


With that, Sansa blew air kisses to Brienne and watched her very busy manager leave the cafe with a little extra bounce in her step.

Chapter Text

 When Fire and Metal Collide Chapter 2

Chapter 2:  Test Shots


Tyrion Lannister was good at playing poker, so good in fact that he usually conned most people out of their gold, and sometimes their underwear too. The main reason for his success was simply that he did not have a tell. He could look you in the face and stab you in the back all at the same time, feeling no remorse and showing no inclination toward doing so. 


The same held true when it came to interviewing. 


Tucked within the cover of his notepad, the Lion of Lannister had a picture few had ever seen. He’d paid good money to the photographer, knowing it would come in handy for just such an occasion. Without so much as batting an eye, the dwarf slipped it from its place, laying it on the table between himself and Sandor Clegane. He hoped, to all the gods that would listen, that camera four was focusing on the big man’s face, while camera two would focus on the picture. 


Leaning forward and putting his forefinger on the photograph to drag it toward him, Sandor shot Tyrion a death stare. The Mad Dog of Metal was as private as one could be given his profession. It was that intense fan interest in his personal life that had driven Tyrion to suggest him to the magazine’s board in the first place. 


The photo was black and white. The manner in which it was taken was about as paparazzi as it could get. Tyrion had studied the photo many times, and almost felt it was iconic of the kinds of lives these alternative music types lived. The backseat of a vintage Cadillac was a mixture of legs, arms, and bodies. At first glance it was difficult to make out exactly how many people were there. 


‘That was half the fun of the shot after all’, at least in Tyrion’s mind.  


However, if you focused on the man in the foreground of the picture, the one who’d lifted his head from in between the woman’s wide spread legs to say something, it was not hard to identify him as a very pissed off Obyren Martell. The wild photographer to the stars was known for many things, his sexuality often making its way to the news. 


The woman laying across the seat on her back had her legs spread, one over the front bench seat, and the other kicked up on the inner car frame. If you followed her body starting at her exposed pussy, moving past her hiked up skirt and over her bare breasts, you could make out another man in the background. Her lips were locked with this second man, one of his hands on her breast, the other adeptly blocking as much of their faces from the camera lens as possible. The very size of this man in comparison to the others in the photo, the iconic tattoos on his outstretched arm, his long hair -- there was no doubt in Tyrion’s mind that the second man was Sandor Clegane. 


Tyrion had gotten it on good authority that Sandor had not been pleased with the photographer following them. After that shot was taken Clegane had gotten out of the car and punched the photographer right in the face. Then, the monstrous front man had smashed his camera in the hopes of destroying the pictures within. 


With a challenging smirk, Clegane sat back in his seat, “So?”


“So...what’s the nature of your relationship with Oberyn Martell?” There had been rumors that the two men were closer than they let on, but no proof as of yet. The picture, which now took the role of an elephant in the room between them, was the closest thing Tyrion had to evidence of any sexual encounter between them.


The scowl on Clegane’s face sent goosebumps up Tyrion’s spine, “Just spit it out, Little Man. Ask what you want to know instead of playing fuckin’ games.”


This surprised him. Tyrion would have never expected a man as reclusive as Sandor Clegane to divulge details of his private life, particularly when it came to another man. The journalist proceeded with caution and excitement, “There’s been a lot of talk about how close the two of you...”


Clegane cut him off, “You bore me with your bullshit.”


Not wanting to lose the momentum he had gained, Tyrion caved, “Did you have sex with Oberyn, then or ever?”


That softened Clegane’s eyes, and he again flashed a triumphant smile and sat back in the purple velvet chair. “No,” his voice was low and defiant. 


Behind him, Tyrion could hear his producer waving a lengthy contract in her hand, a clear reminder that this interview was supposed to reveal the front man’s most telling secrets. Sandor’s lips drew into a thin line.


“What Oberyn likes and does with his cock is not my, or your fuckin’ business,” his eyes stared straight through Tyrion, their calm only serving to accentuate Sandor’s anger. “What? You think because I might have, on occasion, shared a groupie with a good friend that we’re lovers or somethin’?”


The fact that he was making Tyrion say it, or agree to his construction of the sentence, made it all the more awkward for him, as the interviewer. The front man had phrased it negatively on purpose, to throw a poor light on Tyrion. It was a good move, Tyrion would have applauded him for it had he not been the victim of Clegane’s well placed counter attack. 


“Well…” Tyrion began, looking for a way to word his sentence so as not to offend his readers, the metal community, or anybody else. “in a manner of speaking it is a sexual act.”


At that Sandor laughed out loud, “Fuck you man. You don’t know nothin’ about that kind of shit. All I’ve gotta say to that is, if both you and your good friend are balls deep in a girl, somethin’s gotta touch.” Clegan shrugged it off as not a huge deal, “If you’re cool with yourself, your friend, and she’s having a good time, what’s the fuckin’ problem?”

---Snippet from Tyrion Lannister’s Interview with Sandor Clegane, Singer and Guitarist for Fuck the King --- Playgirl 20th Anniversary Edition



Sansa quickly weaved in and out of the buildings, looking for the number Brienne had texted her. This part of town was upscale and artsy, literally the center of anything creative in King’s Landing. It was hard not to get distracted by the beautiful architecture, the huge statues, and massive billboards spread across the skyscrapers. Thrills ran through her body, serving the dual purpose of putting an extra pep in her step and putting her anxiety about the shoot into overdrive. 


I can’t be late for this, I just can’t. She looked down at her cellphone, 8:57am, come on Sansa, move your legs faster. 


It had been a good choice to wear comfy shoes, loose trainer pants, and a pull over to the fitting and screen test. They not only ensured there would be no lines on her body for the test shots, but they also allowed her to move quickly through the throngs of models, producers, and art directors passing her on the street. 


Finally, 57a, Sansa looked up at the building.


A couple of hurried steps, a few dings of an elevator, and she had made it to the 10th floor arriving at 9:02 am. There was no time to collect herself, Oberyn Martell’s assistant was already waiting for her, dressed tastefully in a graphic T-Shirt, cut jeans, and a flat cap. 


The young man recognized her immediately, “Right on time, Miss Stark. This way.”


Using a badge, the young assistant buzzed the two of them into the giant 10th floor studio. Sansa tried not to look like the inexperienced model she was by staring open-mouthed at the entirety of it all--but found herself failing miserably. It was way bigger than any of the sets she had been to for a magazine. The large open space was dark, only a few well placed lights illuminated the intricately constructed scenes. A few of the builders were still putting the final touches on the structures, the sound of hammering and low chatter filling the air. Yet the scene was far from chaotic, favoring a more methodical approach to art.


This is the big time, Sansa thought, starstruck.


There was not even a moment  to examine the sets in detail, as she recognized the familiar voice of Brienne slowly approaching them. In all honesty, Sansa was happy that her manager was there to make sure the test shots were done professionally . Oberyn Martell was known in the industry for his edgy photography and even more for his wild private life. It was not a secret that he had slept with many models--both male and female as well as everything in between. 


It was easy to be intimidated by a persona like his. Easy for young aspiring models to put aside their better judgement for the hope of making it. Sansa had to admit she was nervous and out of her depth when it came to photographers of his caliber. She was also a bit naive. Three years in King’s Landing had taught her the North was more conservative than the South. Having been brought up in a full, stable household with a protective parental unit had not prepared her for the nuances of city life. If anything it had made her easy to take advantage of.


Sansa often reminded herself that the big city had taught her a lot, and she’d grown in more ways than she could have imagined since she’d moved away from home. It was often the simple things that frustrated her the most. Meeting new people, making friends, and dating were more difficult than she would have thought. There was a difficulty in finding the right circles to run in, issues with knowing who to trust and who was taking advantage of you. This was how she learned that she was horribly inexperienced sexually for a twenty-four year old model. It wasn’t like she had never had sex before, she just hadn’t had lot of sex--nor would she trade that kind of commodity for fame. 


I have my morals and I need to stick to them. Not like this shoot isn’t very on or near the line, she cringed internally while preparing her winning smile. 


The photographer and her manager were so engrossed in conversation, it took a moment for them to notice she was there. “ he doesn’t need a fluffer. I know my friend, he’s a bloody bull with a giant…” when they did notice her, Oberyn abruptly stopped speaking.


A fluffer? What’s that?


“Well there she is,” Brienne opened her arms and rushed to Sansa, undoubtedly trying to cover the awkward silence. The dark and handsome photographer followed closely behind her fair skinned, blonde manager.


“Miss Sansa Stark,” a gorgeous smile crossed his face. Oberyn Martell took her hand in his and gave it a kiss. “Brienne has told me so much about you, but to see you in person….” he didn’t finish his thought, but Sansa knew it was meant to be complimentary.


“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sansa replied, blushing despite her best efforts. Oberyn’s slight breath on the back of her hand tickled, causing goosebumps to form on her arm. She liked that he was not that overly fake type of personality, which was incredibly common in the business. From the moment their eyes met to the minute he took her hand, he was friendly, likeable even.


His eyes stayed on her longer than would have been considered polite. There was an inquisitiveness to them, which gave Sansa the feeling he was covertly trying to piece something together. Oberyn’s practiced eye for art was sizing her up unabashed, his mind visualizing where she would fit in his vision. Sansa shifted uncomfortably, happy that his team of assistants started to collect around them. 


“Give her a natural face,” he turned to his makeup artist, “but accentuate those red lips and her blue eyes. When you’re done meet us over there--we’ll go through the different sets, costumes, and concepts behind the shots.” Oberyn squeezed Sansa’s shoulder.


Sansa nodded, quickly removing her jumper to reveal a wide necked blue dance shirt, and followed the young lady. This was the easy part, sitting down and letting somebody else do the work.The practiced hands of Oberyn’s makeup artist moved quickly and efficiently. She was not a particularly talkative person, but for that she was incredibly fast. Once finished, Sansa smiled at her reflection in the mirror, liking that she could still recognize herself. Sometimes photographers wanted very specific looks, to the point of changing your natural appearance to fit their vision. 


This might not be so bad afterall, Sansa thought, doing her best to forget that she would eventually be posing nude and that “natural” was the glaring theme about why she was here.


Making her way back to Oberyn’s atelier, Sansa could see the mood had quickly changed. The quiet hammering was gone, in its place a large number of assistants all discussing their various parts of the shoot. A photographer of Oberyn’s caliber had no problem finding top talent and paying them almost nothing to assist on such projects. That was part of the biz and Sansa had heard he was a very good, if not demanding teacher. Hair and makeup specialists, with those who did only lighting and background, to the costume designers and additional photography assistants--the atelier was teaming with eager young artists. It was going to be a full scale production 


Squee! Sansa’s heart was beating quickly in her chest, excitement taking over her nerves.


“There she is, the star of the show,” Oberyn’s smile was warm and friendly. Unlike many photographers in the modeling world, Sansa had heard he was easy to work with if you were in front of his camera. Good stage direction combined with a keen sense of how to motivate the models he was photographing made for a winning combination in Oberyn Martell. There was no doubt he was a demanding, perfectionist at heart--but if you could make it through his grueling shoots and end up in a magazine or art museum, you’d be noticed in the business--and that was Sansa’s dream.


You have to give to get, she reminded herself. Oh this is going to be difficult . Sansa gulped while eyeing Oberyn from behind. He was a very attractive man, living up to his reputation as a playboy. A naturally dark complexion, with dark hair and eyes the over 40’s photographer had a lean, fit build. He dressed smartly, a long-sleeved button down shirt in green, was open enough so as not to be stuffy. Tight jeans hugged his thighs and butt, which Sansa found rather cute. He was magnetic--good-looks meeting a strong personality and enviable photography skills. 


I’d rather be doing this shoot with him, the young model realized, her mind flashing back to the few pictures she had seen of Sandor Clegane. 


The two men were polar opposites from the standpoint of looks and personality, at least as far as Sansa could tell. Clegane was supposed to be incredibly tall, professional basketball size, with the physique of a bodybuilder. Last night she had sheepishly had done a bit of research on Fuck the King’s front man. The internet was filled with fan photos from concerts, and fansites trading pictures of him between his adoring fans. It seemed his sex appeal knew no bounds, the explicit talk on such sites making Sansa blush deep and often. 


Having studied the photos closely, she knew Sandor must be very muscular. It was rare to see the biceps and pecs of a man like Clegane in such detail. He was almost like a male fitness model with long hair and no smiles. That was perhaps what stood out to Sansa the most, while she had sorted through the multitudes of online photos. Sandor Clegane always seemed dower. He rarely smiled, if anything he seemed to be going out of his way to look either angry, uninterested, or dark.


Sansa’s heart sank and the prospect of doing this shoot with a man she did not really find attractive. You just have to be a professional and try as hard as you can, Sansa told herself, nerves creeping up again. Pretend your ass off!


“Let’s start with the cover shot,” Oberyn pointed to a simple background setup, a giant X on the floor. In her T-shirt and warm up pants Sansa went to her spot while he ordered the assistants around. “No purple won’t do. Perhaps blue, or even green?”


“Will Clegane be here too?” Sansa asked, almost immediately regretting that she did. All of the lighting and photography assistants stopped what they were doing a moment, grinned sheepishly, and continued. Apparently she’d asked a question only a noob would ask. Sansa’s cheeks were suddenly hot.


Luckily Brienne saved her, “He’s got a show tonight on Dragonstone, this is just to make sure nothing clashes with your look.”


Like little insects, the assistants maneuvered the different backgrounds in place while the photographer took stock of the full picture. “Leave the blue one up, it matches her eyes.” 


Sansa smiled a bit at that comment, doing her best not to blush every time the dashing Oberyn Martell spoke to her. Focusing with him around was proving to be more difficult than she thought. Getting her mind off the attractive photographer, Sansa turned her eyes to her manager. Brienne sat on a director's chair and watched from afar, scrolling her phone and occasionally looking up to see what was going on. Her peace, however, did not last long.


“Now I want you to give me face,” Oberyn said, putting his camera on his hip. “Give me sexy.”


Sansa did her best, her mouth slightly open, her eyes narrowed--but it didn’t seem to rouse the experienced photographer in the least. If anything he had a face of disbelief and disgust.


“No, no, that’s wrong,” he wasn’t rude, just very direct. It made Sansa’s heart bump against her ribcage with anxiety. 


Sansa tried again, running her fingers through her hair and biting down on one as it passed her lips. She couldn’t say it was better than before, just different. Oddly, Sansa felt like a fish out of water, which gave her a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Being in front of the camera was normally easy for her. If anything, Sansa thrived on her easy smile and naturally photogenic face, but today that little demon inside was getting the better of her. 


Only able to tolerate a couple more minutes of her sexy face the famed photographer pulled the camera away from his eye, leaving it dangling around his neck. He marched up to her as if he were going to pull her aside, but it would have been impossible given the number of people around them. 


“Don’t be nervous,” he whispered, though it was pretty clear that many could overhear their conversation. Sansa felt an embarrassed flush creeping up her neck. “You’re gonna do great. But you’re giving me what you think I want to see. Don’t try to do a sexy face, think back on your most erotic, naughty experiences and use that as your motivation.” Just the very thought of naughty experiences put a sheepish grin on Oberyn’s lips, but not Sansa’s. 


Dating in highschool had been easy, Sansa’s good looks and position on the cheerleading squad had given her many eligible suitors. The furthest she had ever gone with them was second base, her strict upbringing holding her back from real intimacy before she turned seventeen. Wintertown, where she had attended university and found the world of modeling, had been better. She’d met Harry, and given her virginity to him at the age of 20. They had been intimate, but nothing about what they did had fallen into the genre of erotic. 


Missionary and doggy style don’t qualify, she lamented. 


Even in King’s Landing she had only met one guy that had really interested her. Joffrey had used and abused her--not physically but mentally and emotionally had been more than enough. The whole experience had taken her off men in general, even if she felt a slight flutter in her gut every time Oberyn grinned at her. In a nutshell, none of Sansa's intimate experiences had been great enough to give the famed photographer what he wanted for this shoot. 


“Okay,” she replied, hoping the confidence in her voice would instill that same feeling in her heart. 


Wait, it’s not like I’ve never orgasimed. What do I think about when I pleasure myself, Sansa smiled at her epiphany and gave Oberyn the nod to continue.


Channeling these experiences did make a huge difference. The taste of a strong man’s sweat on her tongue, the feeling of his hands going over her body, his mouth between her legs. She wanted desperately to have a man who respected her, but at the same time was happy to take her beyond her limits. Mussing her hair up and throwing it over herself a bit, Sansa gave a few final kisses to the camera. 


“Yes, yes, ohhhh yess, much better!” Oberyn smiled, Sansa felt relieved. That wouldn’t solve her problem for the actual shoot completely, but for now she could squeak by.


Once Oberyn had straightened out the lightning, tried a few different camera settings and written down some inspiration for the front cover, he turned to her. 


“Alright, so take off your clothes, let’s see what we have to work with.” It was not said in a dirty way, somehow it was so matter of fact and clinical that Sansa almost did it without even thinking. Then her gut kicked in, making her hesitate. 


In the modeling industry nudity was as common as a thread and needle. The backstages of runway shows were always a mess of male and female models dressing, undressing and getting their final fittings before walking the catwalk. Yet the very chaos of the whole experience meant that your nakedness was never the center of attention, more a means to an end. Sansa’s hesitation hung solely on the idea that, in a room full of people, everybody was waiting to see what she had underneath her loose fitting T-shirt and trainer pants. What brought even more of a blush to Sansa’s face was that they were not sizing her up for a gown, but how best to position her for erotic pictures. 


A reassuring nod from her manager didn’t make it easy, or pleasant to slowly disrobe. Yet Sansa did well to cover her instincts, which leaned more toward modesty than exhibitionism.  Be brave, it’s your break don’t forget that. 


Her hands shaking, Sansa slowly removed her T-shirt under which she wore no bra. The same then with her shoes and trainer pants, again with no underwear to be seen. It felt like minutes before she could look up from the floor, but by the time she had, a wolfish grin had spread broadly across Oberyn’s face. 


“You are properly kissed by fire, my dear,” his eyes zeroed in on the neatly trimmed patch of red hair between her legs. “Shit that’s what we’re gonna call this project. Make a note,” he turned to the young man who had greeted her at the door, “Kissed by Fire, an interview with Sandor Clegane. That son of a bitch will certainly find the humor in that.” 


Sansa blushed hard at Oberyn’s words. Not only was he making a commentary on her pubic hair, but also discussing directly the scarring on Sandor Clegane’s face--which she assumed now were burns. She felt embarrassed for the singer, though nobody in the studio seemed to mind. The opposite, they were all nodding emphatically.


“Do we need to get her waxed before the shoot, sir?” A female assistant pipped up.


Oberyn turned to the assistant, his face twisted in shock, “By the gods no! Any woman can have a naked pussy, but only a very special few have that.” He pointed directly between her legs, and Sasna felt her cheeks heat up again.  


“She’s beautiful as she is, just Clegane’s type in every way possible,” the star photographer took this moment to walk around Sansa, inspecting every inch of her exposed skin with great interest.


There was a foreboding tone to the way the photographer had spoken, something that put Sansa on edge rather than at ease. When Oberyn stood in front of her once more, he spoke as if he had not fully finished the previous thought. “ every way, right down to this timid little blush on her cheeks.” 


Oberyn traced a line down the side of her face with his finger, their eyes locked in a suggestive heat. He broke their stare abruptly, turning to Brienne, “And you think he’ll have a problem keeping it up for 12 hours?” 


The two laughed and Sansa felt a flush covering her chest, remembering that it wasn’t just her body that would be displayed erotically in this shoot. Her sheltered upbringing and rather vanilla taste in life generally, had not afforded Sansa the occasion to see a man who wasn’t her boyfriend with a full erection. Sandor Clegane was a stranger, and going to his show this weekend would not remedy that to an acceptable standard. She knew very little about him, other than the genre of music he had become famous for and the fact that he seemed to have a thing for redheads.


With that, a robe appeared from behind giving Sansa’s exposed body a much needed reprieve. She shrugged it on, and took Oberyn’s arm so he could introduce her to the sets. Aside from the cover page, which seemed like it would be a simple one color background, the sets that had been constructed in Oberyn’s atelier were very intricate.



The first was a replica of a stage, all the instruments in their places waiting for a band to play. It was not as tall as a concert stage, lifted perhaps two feet from the ground, but the depth and width of the thing certainly had an effect. There were pyrotechnic canisters set up on the sides, obvious by the flame and caution signs on them. The lighting was being tested, different colors switching from white, to green, to blue.  


It will be empty looking with just the two of us, she thought, finding its true-to-life size intimidating. 


As if reading her mind Oberyn spoke, “We needed to get a few shots with the band in there. It’s an interest piece, so the fuller a picture we can paint of what it’s like to be Sandor, the better.”


“Will they all be naked?” Sansa blurted out, the thought of being surrounded by a full group of long haired, erect metal musicians more daunting than she cared to admit. 


“Only if you’re lucky,” Oberyn teased as he studied her reaction. 


Sansa laughed off the photographer’s raised eyebrow. There was no way in the Seven Hells she was going to pose nude with four guys--one was already quite enough. Anyway, Sandor Clegane probably qualified as two as big as he was.


“All those instruments belong to the band,” Oberyn pointed to a distinct looking electric guitar, fully black. “That’s Sandor’s custom Gibson. It’s worth a fortune, and plays some of the sickest notes you’ve ever heard. He doesn’t let anybody touch it, but I think we can convince him to let you...use it.” 


Oberyn’s eyes turned dark and mischiveous,“There’s something so erotic about a woman making love to a proper guitar. Even if this shoot is about Sandor, it’s also very much about what turns him on. He’s a goddamn sex symbol for the love of the Seven, and he’s never properly shown what’s under his sweaty T-shirts and jeans.” He said it as if he very much knew, and was keen to share it with the world. 


It made Sansa wonder if something had gone on between the two men, seeing as they seemed to know each other so well. Her cheeks flushed at the very idea of two men engaged in any sort of sexual act. Not because she disapproved, just because it was so different from what she knew.


“That blush again,” Oberyn smiled at her fondly, “You’re just all northern peaches and cream aren't you?” 


It was a rhetorical question, yet their eyes met a brief moment. Sansa never had the impression he was trying to kiss her, but he had an interest in her that went well beyond the professional. Though the young model could not fight the feeling that something was holding him back, keeping the Dornishman at bay. Sansa knew it could not be the multitude of people around them, Oberyn was famed for not caring about public displays of affection. It was something else, but what, she could not say.



The next set was a full bar with a beautifully done old wooden counter. It curved in an L shape, and was unusually deep. The shelves and mirrors behind the bar were old and intricate, which gave it an old timey feel. The shelves were stocked with proper alcohol, no empty bottles. There was even a fridge underneath, though Sansa wasn’t sure why.


 “Flown in from Germany,” Oberyn remarked, running his hand over the excellent old craftsmanship. “Drinking, drugs it’s a huge part of Clegane’s life and a good party always starts in a bar. Here I want you to be wild, the seductress, the little devil that keeps him drinking and snorting more than is good for him.”


Gulping, Sansa nodded to Oberyn, unsure of what he really meant by that but vowing to look everything up on the internet later. She was such such a goodie-two-shoes, that she could not even imagine how to portray the role of drug seductress.


“You look fit, Sansa. Do you dance?” It was an odd question, Sansa stood mute a moment trying to figure out how that could connect with this bar set. 


“Well I do barre, and yes I also dance. In highschool I was a cheerleader…” at that she stopped, the wicked grin on Oberyn’s face stopping her in her tracks.


“Can you do the middle splits?” Oberyn’s head was filled with ideas, the twinkle in his eye and the slight twitch in his lip told Sansa her answer would decide the fate of how this set of pictures would go.


“Of course,” that was all that would come out her mouth. She’d trained since she was a child to do such things, but never had she been asked to do the splits in a photoshoot. Sansa smiled nervously.


Running his fingers along his chin with interest, “Oh that son of a bitch doesn’t know what he’s in for, not by a long shot. You’ll have the dog on a leash before lunch time.”


Sansa gulped at his words, knowing it was a positive for the shoot, but not having any idea of their actual meaning when it came to her and a literal stranger doing this shoot. The photographer leaned back to one of his assistants and they whispered briefly. They were pointing to the set, exchanging some words, then she saw the assistant’s eyes grow wide, before a huge grin spread across his face.


I really am over my head, Sansa smiled, as if she were not thinking of the utter failure of a shoot this was going to be for her.



The third set consisted of an old vintage Cadillac in a seafoam green color with amazing leather upholstery. “It’s beautiful,” Sansa said, running her hand over the door handles and looking in. Her brothers loved old cars and did their part to both buy and restore them in Winterfell. 


“Good memories,” Oberyn said, a twinkle in his eye. “Here I want to see you two in the throes of raw passion. You don’t care who shows up, or if anybody sees you. The two of you want each other so badly you’re doing all you can to fit in that car and make it work.” 


He flashed a winning smile, “It’s good you're flexible, Miss Stark.”


She gulped, “Yes. But won’t he be posing on his own as well? It seems like we’ll be together most of the shoot.” It was a desperate attempt to create some distance between her and the unknown, to try to understand why they really needed a woman at all if the readers were mostly, if not completely, interested in Sandor.


Oberyn grinned, “Of course the big man will have to brave the cameras by himself. He’ll complain, but we need to find a few prime shots in each of these sets. However, you can’t forget, Sansa, our target audience is women. We’re going for a much more moody, voyeuristic shoot. Looking is one thing, but imagining yourself as the object of Sandor’s affection is what sells magazines.”


There was a certain truth to his words, Sansa knew it instinctively. To simply look upon the male form was enticing, but to see it in action, to feel him through pictures, was completely different. Brienne’s words from the day before rang in her ears, she had to be the woman all his fans both hated and wanted to be. There would be no room for error, no hiding in the background on this shoot as she had in the past. Sansa realized in this moment she was almost as important as Sandor, that they weirdly had equal rights in this shoot. 


“Of course,” she managed to say. 


“Don’t look so uptight, my dear,” Oberyn winked. “Next week is about having fun. Just forget we’re here and let your...instincts drive you.”


My instincts? More like they would drive me out the front door than anything else. This shoot went against her better judgement, and her good girl image. Sansa sighed, knowing that if there was one thing she would not do on the day of the shoot, it would be to listen to her instincts.



Finally they came to a recreation of a nice hotel room. The bed was freshly made, there was a fur rug on the floor and a chair in the background. An acoustic guitar with metal strings leaned against a wall. It could have been anywhere, in any city--cozy yet anonymous.


“This is where the magic happens,” Oberyn smiled triumphantly. “This room can be everything, sex, aftersex, love, romance...two people locked in an eternal embrace. Enjoying the moment, how nice it feels to fuck.”


Sansa lifted an eyebrow, If he thinks we’re going to do anything in front of the camera in this bed, he’s mistaken.


“A musician spends much of their time on the road, so what happens in these rooms, in the dark of night to the very early morning, is an important aspect of their life. Here I want your makeup smeared, your eyeliner tired from an already long night. Your beautiful naked bodies together. All that getting to know you shit is finished, all that’s left is what you want to show each other.” There was such a confidence with which he said his words, that it made the pit of Sansa’s stomach sink deeper than it already was. 


Sure, there was a certain excitement to the whole thing. Very few in her industry got to work so closely with Oberyn, and he was taking a keen personal interest in this shoot that was as intimidating as it was validating. It was the very thought that her most intimate feelings, those of attraction, sex, and desire would have to be put on display. That not just her body, but her passion would be put under the microscope for an art director to decide on--it was terrifying. There was no amount of sucking it up or pep talking that was going to remedy this feeling.   

Oberyn’s eyes burned through hers, “This shoot is going to be my best yet, but I need the two of you to be burning with passion. I want you to take us deep inside your lust filled thoughts. I want to know what you’re thinking just by looking at you. I want you both to bring us to the edge of coming--anything less will be failure.”


Failure, yeah. Sansa forced a smile, hoping Oberyn could not see through her well constructed armor.  Before she knew it, the assistants swarmed in so they could get to work on the test shots. It was a much needed relief, a calm before the storm.



It took hours for them to go through her outfits. Each setting had a very specific mood and Oberyn was a perfectionist. Never in her life had she tried on so many variations of ripped jeans, tight t-shirts, and leather skirts. The tailor was also extremely keen to have everything fit her like a glove--so hundreds of pinpricks later she finally had a wardrobe of ten outfits complete with lingerie. 


By the time the clock rolled to 9pm, Sansa was out of gas. The lights, direction, and the energy that was needed to emote through the camera made her want to fall in bed and die for two days. Exhaustion didn’t even begin to describe how she felt.


“I’m off,” Brienne said looking as tired as Sansa was.


“How will it go on the day?” Sansa asked, pulling her sweater over her head, her muscles aching as she did so. 


Brienne smiled, “Clegane will come in on the Monday for the tell-all interview, then on Tuesday you’ll have the whole day to go through the shots. Oberyn works very methodically, so, at the very least, you won’t be jumping from set to set and back again. He also likes to tell a story, building the emotions between shots. Let’s hope it doesn’t take more than that, two day shots are tedious. Aside from that your emotional momentum fades.”


Sansa nodded, “Thanks, good night!”


Emotional momentum? I can’t even feel my own body. If this was only a taste of what was to come, Sansa was going to need to rest up. 


Most of the assistants had left by now, but given the lights were still on Sansa lingered a moment, needing some time to collect herself in silence. She was exhausted and overwhelmed. The pressure to get it right building inside of her gut. With no one in sight, Sansa leaned her head against the wall near the door, and felt the warm tears of fear and frustration running down her cheeks. It was a good release, a much needed one.


That was when a voice came from the darkness, “Like that,” Oberyn smiled, “natural, vulnerable. Your emotions on display make you irresistible.”


Sansa tensed immediately, “I’m sorry I just…”


“Don’t be sorry,” he placed both his hands on her shoulders. “What we’re doing is alot to ask and if you think today was tough...” His words were of little comfort to her, even if he was trying to help.


“Next week it won’t be just about you up there, it’s about you and Sandor. That chemistry has to be instant, real. To do that, you can’t be afraid to open your heart, to allow yourself to let go.” Oberyn tipped Sansa’s chin up toward him. 


Sansa could feel tears well in her eyes again and couldn’t hide them from the famed photographer. The pressure to get this right was high, and the young model didn’t feel ready for it. She was drowning, feeling her moment slip away from her and unable to muster the fortitude to stop her tears, much less control of her emotions. 


“If you think your job is challenging, I’m going to have to direct you both, keep you focused. You and him, just have to let nature run its course.” Oberyn paused, searching Sansa’s eyes to see if she was following him, “You have to allow that tiny drop of desire ripple into a pool of lust. Don’t be afraid be close to him, or to touch him--if you don’t wind up fucking by the time we’ve reached the last set--then we’ve done it wrong.” There was a fire in his eye when he said it, but all Sansa could do was flush at the insinuation.


“I’m not the kind of girl to be so bold,” Sansa couldn’t tell whether the photographer was joking with her a little, so she quickly added, “I don’t even know him, and don’t have the time to get to know him well enough know to...”


Oberyn looked at her for a long while, studying her features. “That right there, that vulnerability that honesty. If you let that guide you, Sandor won’t be able to resist.” 


Carefully Oberyn stroked a tear away from her cheek, “You know he’s horribly camera shy, right? So if you think it’s going to be easy for him, I can guarantee you it won’t be. That’s why he wanted to meet you before the shoot--to get to know you better, to see if this whole crazy thing would work out. He asked you to his concert?”


She could only nod, knowing if she opened her mouth she’d start to cry. 


Oberyn snorted, “I think you’ll find you have more in common than you know--trust me.” He smiled a moment as if he’d made his own private joke, all the while looking Sansa over. “Don’t pass up his invitation. You’ll get all the answers to the questions you need, I don’t think my friend could deny you anything.”


“So you know him intimately?” Sansa managed to squeak out, realizing the double meaning of her words only after they left her lips.


“We go way back.” The photographer’s eyes twinkled clearly remembering some good times he and his friend had shared, “If there’s one thing I know he’s as anxious as you are about this shoot. Shit even more so. He’s gotta have a fuckin’ boner the whole day. Performance anxiety is a real thing when it comes to this kind of photography.Keeping it up is stressful in the best of conditions, and your beauty and youth only make it worse.” He chuckled, amused by the social-photographical experiment she had been thrust into.


Sansa was younger than Sandor by almost twelve years. That fact had also played into her apprehension about doing the shoot. Aside from that they couldn’t be more opposite in both looks and appeal.


“I’m no groupie, and I don’t even like Heavy Metal,” Sansa sucked in her tears as best she could, regretting her honesty. “I just...we’re so different from one another…I can’t see how we’ll make this work...”


Oberyn squeezed Sansa’s shoulders again, “You know the magazine suggested Margarey Tyrell for this shoot, that the contract was already signed on her end. She has experience with big celebs, and a bit of a bad girl reputation. So for them, it fit.” He searched to make eye contact with her again, “Clegane refused her flat out. I can tell you it was a big deal. Sent the execs into a frenzy and had me scrambling to find a new face for the shoot.”


She wasn’t sure how to feel at hearing this new information. The Tyrells were a name in fashion, from her high-end designer brother, to her envious strut down the runway--it very much bucked against the grain to refuse to do a shoot with Margarey Tyrell. Though, as Sansa was finding out, Clegane bucked the trend in many things--not least of all his music.


Oberyn released her shoulders, “Can you imagine? I, me,” he pointed to himself in utter disbelief that he would do such a lowly job, “was calling up every agency I could, getting the face of every woman who had ever modeled for them and just hoping. Hoping that big bastard wasn’t going to pull out of the whole thing. We poured over that shit for hours, then he saw you.” 


He wanted to say more, Oberyn’s upper lip trembling, then deciding against it, “Don’t let the dark clothes and the long hair fool you, he knows what he wants, Sansa. It’s also hard to deny there’s something about you that pops. Be yourself. Show that old metal head the ropes of high fashion photography.” He accented his last words with a jovial wink.  


Sansa nodded, trying to find some comfort in the fact that she and the “God of Metal” were both in a similar situation. At the same time she couldn’t stop wondering why he had chosen her. 


Does he feel better knowing that I’m as inexperienced in these kinds of shoots as he is? Is there something about my look, my aesthetic that speaks to him? Is the most well known Metal artist in the world somehow smitten with a good girl from the North? Sansa found her last thought preposterous, love at first sight was something reserved for fairytales and romance novels. It was still hard to find her footing, her eyes moving to the floor to get some space from Oberyn. 


Maybe he just thought I’d never do it. That did seem much more likely.


“He’s a charming motherfucker,” the photographer’s smooth silky voice entered her ears once more, “ I’ll just warn you not to get swept off your feet.” 


Sansa looked up from the floor. The sparkle in Oberyn’s eyes told her his true thoughts. The experienced photographer knew his advice would go unheeded, and that there was a certain amusement to the idea.


“I think I’ll manage to keep it professional,” Sansa said, breaking the hypnotic stare of the photographer in favor of her shoes.


“Let’s hope not,” Oberyn’s smile was confident, with a slight bit of teasing behind his dark eyes. “Come on, let me drive you home.”

Chapter Text



Chapter 3: The Concert


Tyrion loved a heated discussion, and Sandor Clegane was giving him one for the ages. His views on politics, sexuality, and religion were different, if not refreshing. The man across from him was articulate underneath his harsh exterior, thoughtful even if he fought tooth and nail to appear otherwise. This was going to truly be one of the greatest interviews Tyrion had ever done for the magazine. There was a certain sport to chasing the inner workings of the elusive front man, and the Lion of Lannister was living for it.


“Why are you doing this shoot for Playgirl, Dog? You’re known for being, as Rollingstone put it, ‘One tough son of a bitch, who would be as easily at home in the mosh pit as on the stage.’ I mean just look at you…” Tyrion’s eye ran over Fuck the King’s muscular singer, who appeared to have received his gifts more from the Warrior himself than the Maiden--who was the patron goddess of music and the arts. The journalist smirked to himself at that observation, sure that Sandor Clegane had never set foot in a Sept, much less prayed to the Maiden.


Clegane chuckled darkly at his words, but said nothing. “Let’s be real about this,” Tyrion continued, leaning forward in his seat, “You’re a serious guy. You don’t sit in your ivory tower and write music. You get in there with your fans, you feel the dirt, blood, and grit of your own concerts.”


“I do.” Sandor answered in the most basic way he could. 


Rolling his eyes to himself, Tyrion went to pulling more out of the singer, “Your concerts are, for lack of a better word, hardcore. I’ve seen the videos. They’re like medieval battles played out to Heavy Metal music. Death walls, mud all over the place, ambulances bringing injured moshers to the hospital in droves. Why show the more, how to put it...sensitive side of the Mad Dog of Metal in an erotic photoshoot?” 


The two men stared at one another, a coffee table and some extra inches not enough space to contain the tension. The notorious front man shrugged as if he didn’t care so much, but shifted in his seat nervously. “The opportunity came up, and I took it.”


A mocking smirk came from the dwarf, “Oh come now, Clegane. You and I both know this didn’t just materialize out of nothing. We could have chosen from hundreds of celebs, but we wanted you AND you agreed. Why?”


Clegane raised an annoyed eyebrow, and it made Tyrion grin. Say what you wanted, but it was never a boring interview with Sandor sitting across from him. “Well it wasn’t for the fuckin’ money, I can tell you that,” the singer wore a sarcastic smile which quickly faded. It was true, they were not paying him much to bare it all, which was why Tyrion knew there must have been another motivation, one Clegane didn’t want to share.


“Dare I say, It’s like you want to let people see a more intimate side of you. Like you’re bursting to show something more than the demonic persona you display on stage.” Tyrion was pushing now, trying to crack the musician’s well polished armor.


“Demonic persona? What the fuck man?” Sandor shook his head condescendingly at the dwarf, “I wanted to give back I guess,” he offered reluctantly. “I think of all those years as a teenager, checkin’ those goddesses in the nudy mags, and thanking them every fuckin’ day of my life. It was a brave thing to pose naked for strangers, especially twenty years ago. So it's like givin’ back. Community service.”


“The karma of smut. It’s the gift that keeps on giving, is it not?” Tyrion laughed at his own joke, Clegane remained stone faced.


“Our readers aren't going to be disappointed are they?” Tyrion challenged, wanting to sweat the singer for as much as he could. He was sorely disappointed when the big man grinned confidently at him.


Without hesitation Sandor leaned in, his face coming closer to the journalist than was comfortable. “You’ll have to wait till the pics come out, just like everybody else, Little Man.” There was a slight insinuation that put the dwarf’s sexuality into question. 


‘Well played,’ Tyrion thought to himself, sharing a sly grin with the front man.


The interviewer quickly moved on to the next question, “Our readers are just dying to know your type.” When Clegane purposefully played dumb, Tyrion pushed further. “Oh you know, your type of woman. You’ve been in the music industry for years but you’re so protective of your personal life. No visible girlfriends, only a few paparazzi shots of your ‘lifestyle’,” Tyrion observed the sparkle in Sandor’s eyes, continuing with his setup, “It’s like we hardly know anything about the man behind the band.”


It was then Tyrion found the front man’s tell, that little twitch that everybody had somewhere that told him he was onto something. In Clegane’s case, it was a slight reflexive movement on the burned part of his lip, something the lead singer couldn’t control even if he had wanted to. Pleased, the Lion of Lannister sat back waiting to pounce.


“I was supposed to keep it that way,” Clegane brushed his long mane of dark brown hair back, again giving himself a bit of time to respond. The man was an enigma, everywhere but nowhere at the same time. Tyrion couldn’t wait to peel back the delectable layers of his life, and find the juicy stories that lay within.


“I’m just a regular guy, you know?” Their eyes locked, and Tyrion would not settle for such a dodgy answer. Sandor knew it too, but if he was going to suffer, he was going to make Tyrion suffer as well.


“Define regular.” Tyrion said, looking down his glasses at the big man in front of him. Sandor Clegane was many things with his ripped clothing, colorful tats, and long dark hair, but he was far from a regular guy.


“I, uh, kind of like a good girl.” Now the nearly unshakable Sandor Clegane was showing cracks, it was delicious. The singer’s posture was one of annoyance, no longer the cool and collected man from a moment before. 


When Tyrion made a gesture for him to continue, his interviewee reluctantly kept talking. “You know quiet, tight skirt hugging her curves at knee length, shirt buttened up to her neck-- like a fuckin’ librarian, okay?”


Tyrion lifted an eyebrow, “Are you kidding me?”


Annoyed Sandor turned his palms toward the ceiling in frustration, “Does it look like I’m fucking kidding you?” The front man waited for Tyrion to cut him off. When he didn’t, Sandor continued,“She’s gotta be all peaches and cream on the outside, but when I’m between her legs, worshiping that pussy then she needs to be wild. A freak in the sack and for me alone.”


“So you’re a possessive man?” Tyrion put out there nonchalantly, knowing his readers would be dying to know more. 


“Not possessive, Little Man. I just want a woman to be into me for me. Demonic persona notwithstanding,” Sandor arched an eyebrow at Tyrion, clearly not having liked that characterization of himself, “Too many groupies are lookin’ for the next best thing, it never lasts.” 


“Once bitten, twice shy?” Tyrion offered up.


“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Clegane answered, rubbing his chin as he did so. 


The experienced journalist knew he wouldn’t get anything more of value from his interviewee if he kept going down that line of questioning. So he cycled back to the other bit of information Sandor had readily given up, “And you seem to like eating pussy?”


“Oh yeah, you might even call me a pussy hound,” the front man nearly laughed at his own joke.


Clegane continued, “I mean fuck the Seven, I found one god, one prayer to the heavens, and it’s with a woman’s thighs around my ears, and listening to her squeal over the riff of a guitar.”


---Snippet from Tyrion Lannister’s Interview with Sandor Clegane, Singer and Guitarist for Fuck the King --- Playgirl 20th Anniversary Edition



Sansa was late, and not that five to ten minutes for a coffee kind of late. No, I’m never that lucky, she gripped the upholstery of her hastily hailed taxi, now stuck in the worst of King’s Landing traffic she had seen in a while. The construction site on the Bridge of Balor was the main culprit for the increased travel time. It was beyond frustrating.


Today had not at all gone to plan, and the dominos just kept falling against her. Despite all of her research on metal concerts concerning the proper attire for such an event, Sansa had not been able to find anything really appropriate both style or color-wise in her wardrobe. She literally owned not a single piece of black clothing, Unless lacy bras and panties count as concert attire, she snorted ironically, her bedroom a mess of discarded clothing.


Instead she had fished out a sexy, body hugging pencil skirt in cobalt blue. It was the darkest color she had, and accentuated her eyes. Next she decided on a sleeveless white blouse, though conservative in the way it buttoned up in a high collared neckline, it was somewhat see through, a soft white lacy bra visible from the right angle underneath. A pair of matching cobalt blue patent leather pumps with some little spikes on the heel finished off her clothing. It was a look to be sure, but it had taken her ages to put together despite its simplicity.


It was more interview wear than band wear, Sansa wasn’t naive to that fact.  But I am kind of going for an interview, right? She reasoned with her reflection in the mirror. First impressions are important, no matter what the nature of our work together will be. Am I not supposed to make a good first impression on the man I’m about to pose naked with? Perhaps even more so, her thoughts sarcastic.


The next victim on her list was her uncooperative hair. The recent rains and sudden heat had given Sansa’s long red mane a sleepy bedroom look instead of the straight laced, every-hair-in-its-place look she often went for. An hour of products, combing, teasing then not teasing had only put her even more behind than before. With no time for any real makeup, she’d applied some mascara for her light eyelashes and a bit of lipstick. 


Finally, she stood in front of her door, at 8:45pm, a concert start of 9pm and realized she was scared to go. Intimidated actually. Her ticket and crew pass tucked in her small handbag strapped across her chest, Sansa looked at herself in the mirror on her way out and found herself frozen there. Her gut telling her it was folly to think she could do this, that she could get to know a bad boy rock star, learn his ways and habits, then project this in pictures. Yes, it was her job, but it was also so the opposite of who she was. A good girl who blushed at the very idea of sex, chosen by a man who was the very embodiment of the party culture was just hard to wrap her head around. What am I doing?


One extended pep talk later, Sansa found herself jumping into a cab to go across the city. Usually it was faster than public transport, but now she was deeply regretting her decision. 10:30pm was flashing on the car display and Sansa felt that sinking feeling of knowing she’d missed out on the whole thing. Implementing breathing techniques, she did her best to find some zen amongst the honking horns and cursing.


By 10:45 pm she was at the gates of the concert venue. Her heart sank the moment she rolled up, it was an outside concert, the recent rains making the ground muddy. Shit, Sansa, just shit!

Late summer in King’s Landing ensured, at the very least, that there was still some sunlight by which to navigate the treacherous walk, in stilettos, to the designated entrance indicated on her pass. That didn’t make it fun to roll up on the balls of her feet and jump puddles. Sansa just hoped she wouldn’t twist an ankle in the cement like moist ground on her way to the venue.


She could just make out the stage in the distance, but the chest thumping music and the crowd cheering made it seem like she was already in the front row. Never having been to anything other than classical concerts with her parents, this experience was quickly turning out to be the polar opposite of what she was used to. That fact only served to feed her nervousness as she artfully made her way to the gate. 


Clutching her pass and feeling like she wanted to shrivel up and die, Sanasa approached the doorman. The tall, overly tatted guy with a muscular frame gave her a look over. Not in the way one would if they wanted to flirt, it seemed he had to do a double take on what she was wearing. It had been abundantly clear to her before the taxi had driven off, that she would stick out like a sore thumb here--the bouncer’s expression only reinforced that notion. 


Gathering what little dignity she had, Sansa flashed him a smile and pressed her pass closer to his face. He murmured into the radio while he turned his back to her. “..yeah, gate 5, red hair.”


Not like there was anybody else where they were. It seemed like no metal head wanted to go to the bathroom or vacate the concert area while Fuck the King was playing. The occasional outdoor staff walked around collecting cigarette butts and the occasional bit of trash, but there was not one concert goer who was not focused on the mainstage.


After an eternity, a young man, clean cut, approached the gate. He too took a double take, but extended a hand all the same. “Don’t look so out of sorts,” he started, noticing her poorly concealed nerves, “They only got on stage half an hour ago, the warm-up band ran over. Fuck the King always plays a two hour plus set. You’ll get to see the good stuff.”


Sansa sighed in relief, which elicited a chuckle from the young man. She knew she was not the embodiment of a Heavy Metal fan, but that didn’t mean she wanted to miss the show. Every bit of information she could gather on Sandor Clegane, the better for the shoot.


“You can walk in those?” He looked down at her stilettos, wrinkling his nose with apprehension. 


It was not a question of whether she could walk in her shoes, more if she was willing to take on the responsibility of not falling flat on her face in the mud. Sansa considered her options a moment, and barefoot was out of the question. The weary model looked down at her cobalt blue stilettos. They were all the rage and had that aggressive look she found might appeal to a man in Clegane’s position, but they were the most out of place shoe she could have worn given the circumstances. 


Her mother’s words rang in her ear, You’ve made your bed, now you have to sleep in it.


“Yes,” she smiled prettily, knowing she could get most of what she wanted with that look.


“Alright,” the young man chuckled and began to take her in the direction of the main stage. 


The concert area itself was basically an open field that had been reduced to dirt and mud. Sansa’s guide, however, led her through the open air portion of the venue to a metal door. Once inside she could see the structure in and around the stage was much more permanent than the gates made of movable metal railing and pylons where the young man had picked her up. It had to be given the amount of sound they were pumping through the speakers. 


Not my favorite kind of music by far, Sansa was reminded yet again. The roar of the heavy drums and bass hung in her ears, the growl of the singer--the man with whom she would be modeling--made it impossible for her to distinguish any other words than ‘death’ and ‘the Stranger.’ 


The closer they got to the back stage, the more cables and obstacles there were strung across the walkway and taped to the floor. Sansa found herself squinting in the semi-dark to make sure she didn’t trip over something and twist an ankle. Given her skirt didn’t allow her that much leeway to lift her knee high, she was doing her best to sidestep over the thicker cabling. 


“Watch it!” Came a voice from behind her. Moving aside startled, Sansa watched two stagehands charging as fast as they could with some rigging. The one who had spoken shot her a bit of a side eye, annoyed that such a noob would be allowed in his backstage domain. In the blink of an eye he climbed up a stage support, rigging hook attached to his belt. It was dangerous work, not just for the men doing it, but for people like her walking through. If something or someone were to fall, it would be an immediate trip to the hospital or the morgue.


Sansa basically found herself in the middle of well-oiled chaos. The chest-thumping boom of the music ensured that all communication had to be yelled out. The heat served to make everybody in the enclosed space sweat, buckets literally dripping off every stagehand that passed her. The tension and pressure to get everything right made the men and women working there a no-nonsense bunch. Their short orders and quick replies would have been considered rude under normal circumstances, but here they simply didn’t have the time to be nice or answer in full sentences. 


This whole world should not have been surprising to the young model. She had been in runway shows before and had been caught up in the backstage chaos. In great contrast to now, however, it was a soft almost feminine kind of chaos. The most dangerous implement wielded a needle and thread, or the occasional glue applied to raw skin in order to keep a gown in the right place. Sure there was stress behind the scenes at any runway show. Blood, sweat, and tears were always being poured into its production, but not under such conditions as this concert was now. And not to the boom of such powerful music. 


Wow it gets in your bones, Sansa could feel her chest reverberate.


Pressing her back against a wall quickly, Sansa fumbled to get some ear plugs out of her small purse. The small pieces of synthetic material only did good for her conscious, and little to still the roar of sound coming from the stage. Promptly pulling them out of her ears in defeat she scuttled quickly behind the young man guiding her through the backstage, the thought of losing him in this chaos unpleasant.


The closer they got to the stage, the louder the music got. There was also the distinct smell of humanity that entered her nostrils. It smelled like sweaty, moshing bodies moving to the growl of the music. The acrid smell of body odor, mixed with plastic cabling and smoke was repulsive on the one hand, but in other ways alluring. Sansa was not a concert goer, but had she been it was almost certain she would have never attended a show in which there was such a raw feeling of passion for the band on stage. She imagined the bands she liked would sit quietly on stage, while their fans politely sat back, cooing over how cute they were. 


This is nothing like I’ve ever experienced before, she quickly realized, not even having seen the front of the stage yet.


Once they reached the metal stairs leading up to the main stage, the young man extended his hand in a true gentlemanly fashion. The young model was grateful, as some of them were a bit tall for her to take in the skirt she had chosen, Yet another poor wardrobe choice, Sansa lamented.


The rumble of the music, the deep tones emanating from the band rumbled in her chest making her heart move at the same fast pace. It had an intoxicating quality to it, which drew her in. “You can stand there,” the stage assistant screamed in her ear, though it sounded like a whisper. 


“There’s no chair?” she asked, thinking of how sore her feet were going to be standing for an unknown amount of time.


“Nope, we can’t block the stage exit,” the young man shrugged apologetically.


“Ok,” she agreed, and moved to the mark he had pointed to.


These are the best seats in the house, Sansa realized from her tiny spot in the wings stage left. The crowd was packed and moving in sync. It was as if the concert goers, in the sweaty steamy late summer of King’s Landing,  were moving as one living breathing being. Long hair in a variety colors moved to the beat of the music, to the point it was impossible to determine if it belonged to a man or a woman--and it didn’t really matter.


The mosh pit was what drew her eye first. Walls of guys crashing into one another, some shirtless others covered nearly head to toe in mud, stomped through the song Fuck the King was playing with a ferver she didn’t know existed. The movement of the mass of people, the intense heat of the night made it feel like they were just on the edge of anarchy. From where she was, Sansa couldn’t see how much space there was between the pit and the stage, only that it was negligible should the crowd choose to rush forward. Yet the crowd was alive, whether directly in front of the stage or as far back as she could see, everybody was jumping in the air and following along with the words. 


Then Sansa’s eyes moved to the band. From what she could tell it consisted of a drummer, a bassist, a rhythm and, of course, lead guitar. Sansa’s eyes set on Sandor Clegane and she nearly lost her breath. Everything she had read about him over the last days had remarked on the fact that he was tall, and striking. None of them said he was a giant. At 5ft 10in Sansa could look most men in the face, in heels like tonight she was 6ft 1in. Even with that, the Heavy Metal singer would still tower over her.


For a moment, she felt as if she was underwater. Her oxygen starved lungs forced Sansa to suck in breath despite the fact that everything else seemed to stand still. Watching Sandor play literally stole her breath, voided all the sound in the booming venue. He moved with a passion she had never seen up close. His fingers were so fast across the metal strings she was certain they were a blur. 


As her eyes moved from his fingers over his amazingly tattooed forearms, smattered with colorful roses, flames, skulls and other graphics she could not quite make out, she realized how muscular the man truly was. Fuck the King’s front man had well defined biceps popping out of a tight grey T-shirt. It was as if the fabric couldn’t contain him, despite how much it tried. Somehow Sansa could find empathy with that shirt, for she herself was having a hard time containing an influx of emotions he inspired in her. 


When he finished his solo, the huge man whipped his hair back behind him and stepped up to the mic. It seemed the other guitarist took control, giving Clegane a much needed chance to focus on the words to the song. Sansa couldn’t say it was the kind of singing she enjoyed, though she seemed to be the only one. He growled and screamed into the microphone with a deep rib cage rattling voice that set the crowd on fire. His lung capacity and stamina were remarkable. Even without knowing much about the musical profession, she could see how much exertion it was to perform at the level Fuck the King did. It was hard not to get caught up in the moment, amazing to have the opportunity to see them perform up close. 


The song went on for ages -- or maybe it was two songs that played well into one another -- Sansa couldn’t be sure. What she was sure of, however, was how sore her feet already were and she had not even been standing in the wings that long. Ten minutes passed, maybe more, and the balls of her feet were already screaming for relief. When the song did finish the lights went out completely, then suddenly the boom of pyrotechnics a little too close to her for comfort made her jump, nearly twisting an ankle. She could feel the raw heat on her cheeks, feel the blood course through her veins from the adrenaline rush. That was what this concert was after all, one long shot of adrenaline.


Fuck the King’s front man stood in front of the mic. His chest was heaving from exertion, his eyes only for the crowd. Sansa hadn’t noticed until that moment how drenched in sweat he was, beads forming at his hairline and running down his face. Then she realized that his dark grey shirt had probably been a lighter color at the beginning of the night, now there was not a spot on it that wasn’t soaked through. A stage assistant dressed in black ran up and handed him a towel, Sasna watched him dry off his face and neck, taking what precious moments he could to tank up on energy. 


What surprised Sansa the most was Clegane’s demeanor. He wasn’t one of those typical stars who ached for affirmation from the crowd. He was comfortable, confident on the stage. The notorious front man listened to them, fed on the energy coming from the packed outdoor stadium.That didn’t stop him from throwing his sweat soaked towel into the crowd, a few front row fans jumping to snatch it up. They adore him, would walk through fire for him, that much was clear.


Sansa was suddenly reminded of what she and Oberyn had spoken about at his studio, and wasn’t sure if she believed it. No self-respecting, camera shy person would put themselves out the way Sandor Clegane did. Not in front of so many people, and not at such a high level. Sansa wondered if the photographer had been teasing her, telling her a white lie so she’d feel better about the shoot in general. 


Her thoughts were abruptly disrupted. Taking the mic out of its holder, Fuck the King’s front man walked toward the front of the stage. “You,” he pointed ominously to somebody in the mosh pit, but Sansa couldn’t see them. “Yeah you, pissant. If I ever see you pull somebody into the mosh pit again, I’ll jump down there and stomp you myself.”


The crowd roared in support of the Mad Dog of Metal. Some inaudible words were exchanged with the person Clegane had singled out. “Come up here then…” Sansa couldn't see Sandor’s expression, and she was kind of glad. The tone of his deep voice would and the seriousness of this threat, would have given the most experienced fighter chills.


When nothing happened, she watched the intimidating front man motion to somebody else. The people in the pit parted to let that person through. What amazed Sansa was how orderly the mosh pit had become, given it had been complete insanity only moments before. She watched as Clegane went on his knee and extended an arm below, pulling up a beaming young lady with blood on her T-shirt. By the gods he’s strong, Sansa thought, noting the huge height of the stage compared to the ground.


The young fan, probably around Sansa’s age, was in complete shock and surprise. Gobsmacked might have been the right word to describe her expression and her stiff body. There was some blood on her face from, what Sansa assumed, had been an elbow or fist to the face. Of course she had not seen what had happened from Sandor’s perspective, but assumed the young fan had been unwillingly swept up into the chaos of mud and humans mere feet away from them.  


The girl came up to Sandor’s chest, only serving to accentuate his height. Putting a hand on her shoulder, Sandor spoke into the mic, “What’s your name, unwilling mosher?”


“Uhh...Laura,” the young lady was literally at a loss for words, both terrified to be on stage and living her wildest dream at the same time.


“King’s Landing this is Laura. Laura, King’s Landing,” the roar from the crowd was deafening. From Sansa’s spot on stage she could see their profiles, and a cheeky grin on Sandor Clegane’s face.


“I’m sorry that asshole pulled you into the pit,” his voice was pure sex when he spoke, both gravel and silk, making Sansa’s heart flutter. “You okay?” 


The super fan nodded, wide eyed. “Well it wouldn’t be a metal concert without a little blood,” he smiled and the crowd roared. 


Sandor reached down to hug the girl, and she eagerly hugged and even planted a big kiss on his sweaty cheek. They exchanged a few private words, turning their backs to the crowd so Clegane could take an epic selfie of them together with her phone. A full house in the background and her favorite singer had made Laura quickly forget her traumatizing time in the mosh pit. 


That was the first time Sansa had really noticed his scars. She’d read up about them on the internet, trying to figure out what had happened to the notorious front man of Fuck the King. After filtering out the junk she’d found the newspaper article on the fiery crash that had claimed the lives of his mother and sister. It must be hard to look in the mirror everyday and be reminded of such a night. 


Sansa had been pretty her whole life. While she had done her best not to let that define her, it was hard for her to fathom ever looking in the mirror again after such an accident. It was even more difficult to think about getting up in front of thousands of fans and moving with the ease and grace that he did. His scars suit him, she thought her eyes fixed on the singer. And he has a beautiful smile, Sansa realized, surprised by his genuine feelings for the crowd and his fans. 


“Now let’s get the medical staff to check you out, then, take a stand over there by the VIPs,” Clegane pointed to an area on stage right, where some very excited guys and girls were standing to watch the show. “You can watch the rest of the show from one of the best seats in the house.”


The roar of the crowd covered everything, but Sansa could see one of the stage assistants yell something at Clegane and point in her direction. The front man whipped his head around, his gorgeous long hair mesmerizing as it flowed in the air. Their eyes met. It was electric. Sansa felt her knees weaken unbid, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers through her body despite the heat of the night. Sandor smiled broadly at her, a large tongue bitten between his teeth as he did so. His eyes ran over her, head to toe then back again. 


She was breathless. Again. Not even able to gather the courage to wave hello. 


“Let’s get this goin’” Clegane said into the mic, and they started their next song. 


They played for the better part of an hour and a half after that, the heat of the stage lights and the atmosphere feeding the band’s passion. There’s hairography in their performance, Sansa noticed, amazed by how the band members banged their heads in near unison. Her feet were killing her, her legs ached and she deeply regretted not wearing more comfortable shoes. Part of her time in the wings was focused on how best to roll on the edges of her feet so as not to be in complete pain all the time. Even being used to the feeling of being in heels all day, didn’t make this moment any easier to get through.


When the band did finally round out the last bit of the show, Sansa was pleased. Somehow she found herself wanting to experience more, but her body had given up the ghost. Her lower back yearned to be set free, her calves ached, and the balls of her feet had long since gone numb. If there was one thing she needed, it was to sit down. The stage went mostly dark, the band members running off stage right except for Clegane. 


He rushed up to where she was standing, his chest heaving from the raw physical exertion of the show. “I thought you’d stood me up,” he said, smiling at the very idea.


Sandor’s voice was pure sin, its deepness making her breathing hitch again. Sansa shook her head, yelling over the roar of the crowd. “Traffic.”


At that he laughed, his eyes looking her up and down again, “A dog can smell lies, and that is a fuckin’ lie.”


A blush crept into her chest and she was happy to have a blouse that would cover it. It was a half-truth, but he’d seen through it--right to the heart of her insecurities. It was disarming to be laid bare so quickly. Happy for the volume of the crowd’s ferver making it hard to speak, Sansa merely looked into his eyes. They were grey, a color she’d never seen up close before. They were wild and beautiful all at the same time. She couldn’t look away. 


“You can walk in those?” He asked, a cheeky grin on his face as he looked down at her shoes.


“Yeah,” she smiled. 


“Right, a model.” She wasn’t sure he believed her given his tone, but he was just going to have to as far as she was concerned. “We’re gonna play two more songs then we need to run to the bus. When I come back, be ready, okay?”


Sansa felt the heat rise in her cheeks and nodded. Gathering up a bit of his stage persona Clegane and his band members rushed back onstage to give the crowd more of what they wanted. As they played Sansa became suddenly nervous, the realization his life was so very different from hers taking hold. Why, of all people, did he choose me?


If coming here was supposed to put her at ease before the shoot, it was having the opposite effect. The type of clothing she had decided to wear, the fundamental difference between them only served to heighten her since of being incompatible. Part of her was taken with the singer, another part of her feared what that would mean in all aspects of her life. 


There was no time for her to think further on the matter, the stage darkened and Clegane appeared right next to her, seemingly out of nowhere. He smelled like spices and salt, his fingers quickly lacing into hers. “You ready for this?”


The intimacy of how he took her hand surprised Sansa. It was a comfortable kind of intimacy, something she would not have expected from a guy like him, much less a stranger. Not knowing what she was agreeing to, she merely nodded. That got a chuckle from Clegane, “Alright then.” 


They made their way quickly down the stage stairs and through a few new hallways she had not seen on her way to the stage. Pushing open the big exit doors, they were met with the flashes of cameras as well as throngs of reporters and fans flooding around them. The lights, the flashing, the heat, and yelling of the people was insane.


“Who’s this woman?” A photographer yelled over the rest. Clegane eyed him and smacked the camera out of his hand before he could take a shot. A few other reporters stumbled back, understanding quickly they needed to give the big guy some space. Sansa could tell Sandor was in no mood to have their exit on display for the tabloids. This is probably why he hates cameras, and she didn’t blame him.


Sandor was pulling her quickly, one of his steps was at least two of hers if not three given her heels and tight fitting skirt. Her adrenaline was up, and Sansa was shaking from all the attention. Fuck the King’s front man seemed to notice she was falling behind, if not stumbling in an attempt to keep up with him. In one smooth motion, he swept her up in his arms while Sansa buried her face in his neck. 


Gods he’s the Warrior, she realized, feeling a steel physique under his T-shirt. He was warm too, and Sansa almost wondered why steam wasn’t rising off of him as he moved her through the unruly crowd. Before she could catch herself, Sansa nuzzled his neck both in an attempt to hide her face from the cameras and to satisfy her curiosity to smell him. Despite what most might think, she was not repulsed by sweat. If anything she found it attractive, natural. His was fresh and mixed with a spicy cologne, which fit the front man perfectly.  


There wasn’t a lot of time to consider his scent, because he made it to the waiting tour bus relatively quickly. The driver shut the door and the noise from the crowd was immediately deadened. Sandor carried her into the middle of the bus, away from the nosy crowd.  Sansa could only make out a bar and crescent shaped couch, though clearly this was where the band lived when they were traveling from one show to another. 


Clegane slowly put her back on the ground, but kept his large hands on her hips just a tick longer than would have been considered polite, “They’re fuckin’ animals, right?”


“Yeah,” she smiled, her chest heaving with the excitement of the moment. 


Never having been caught in such a crowd of paparazzi, Sansa was quickly realizing how ill prepared she was to deal with the onslaught of cameras, reporters, and fans. I wonder if you ever get used to something like that, she eyed Clegane as his back was turned.


Making his way behind the bar, Sandor looked at her again, unable to hold back his thoughts. “I’m not a creep or nothin’, but you are a babe, Sansa Stark.” 


There was something in the way the words came out of his mouth that gave her pause. It almost reminded her of highschool, when a guy revealed his feelings to a girl for the first time and was nervous about how she would react. It was oddly endearing in a way it would not have been in her younger years.


“Um...thank you,” she felt her cheeks flare at his words despite her best efforts to the contrary. 


Taking a few breaths, Sansa’s nerves began to steady. The downside of that was the less adrenaline was in her bloodstream, the more she could feel her aching feet. While the shoes she had chosen were stylish, they were not known for their comfort. Trying her best not to hobble to the curve in the long leather couch, Sansa gingerly sat down, secretly hoping Clegane didn’t notice. She could not, however, stifle the sigh of relief that escaped her lips once her bum met the cushion.


At that Clegane snorted, her mission to cover the soreness of her feet blown, “Let me guess, champagne?” 


“Of course,” Sansa looked around the bus, doing her best to play it cool. It was full of pictures of the band. Different venues, some personal shots, it was really quite impressive. A door beyond the bar hinted at more private areas of the bus, where she was sure the band slept and ate. It was all quite grand, very different than what she was used to.


The pop of a cork and a bit of overflow later, Sandor walked around the bar to sit next to her, handing her a huge glass of champagne and leaving the bottle for himself. 


He exhaled deeply, not caring to hide the apprehension in his deep grey eyes, “Ready to do this thing next week?”


Sansa nearly chirped a yes in a bid to show she was not the green young model she knew herself to be. Then her mind went to their quick exchange backstage, to when he said he could sniff out lies and she thought better of bluffing, “I’m...absolutely terrified,” she smiled nervously.


His eyes softened, his body visibly relaxing, “You’re terrified? My cock is gonna have to be at attention the whole fucking day.” 


Her eyes went wide at his words, redness rushing into her cheeks. Sandor observed her with an amused expression on his face, as if he admired her prudish reaction to the very thought of his erection. She was going to have to see it after all--maybe even touch it, Like Oberyn said, we’ll have to basically have sex in front of the camera. Basically.


“To my fuckin’ boner, and your beautiful face-- the stars of this bloody Playgirl shoot,” they shared a smile as her glass clinked with his bottle. They each took a much needed drink. 


The way his throat moved, the bits of foam that leaked down the sides of his mouth, caught Sansa’s curiosity. She was always so conscious about what others thought of her, always trying to do the right things so people would like her. Sandor Clegane, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care about what others thought. Like drinking champagne straight from the bottle. It wasn’t the polite thing to do, but it didn’t take away from his likeability either. If anything it drew Sansa’s interest even more. The smell of his cologne mixed with his own sweat was still fresh in her nose, enticing in its masculinity and rawness.


After a good long chug of champagne, Clegane took her ankles, propping them up on his thighs. Slowly he removed one blue heel after the other, observing each in great detail to the point that Sansa wondered if he would dare to drink champagne out of one of them. He didn’t, instead placing them on the floor next to the sofa. 


“You’ll wear those at the shoot?” He asked, making no attempt to hide his wish. 


“Um...if you like them that much, sure,” she offered, surprised by the raise of his eyebrow at her eagerness to please him.


He’s intense , Sansa could see there were no two ways about it. Yet he seemed to have a chivalry to him she would not have expected. It’s not right to judge a book by its cover, Sansa scolded herself, her Septa’s teaching still strong in her mind. He just seems more down to earth than I would have expected and….somehow genuinely nice. 


The silence between them wasn’t awkward, mainly because Sandor didn’t seem to notice it. He was much more focused on her feet laying across his lap. Part of her was relieved she’d recently had a pedicure, her toes painted a dark red. Part of her was nervous, never having had a man take an interest in that part of her body before. A sudden self consciousness washing over Sansa, taking her off guard. He didn’t seem to notice, instead picking up her right foot in his massive hand. Sandor then placed this thumb under the ball of her foot and pressed firmly. His other hand went to massaging her ankle and warming her tired soles. 


“Mmmmm, that feels good,” she smiled, surprised he’d be so bold as to look after her in this way. 


Sandor nodded knowingly, his expression neutral. His fingers were so strong, his hands warm. Sansa leaned back and enjoyed it, despite her instincts telling her otherwise. “Um mmmm,” was the only thing that escaped his lips. 


The Mad Dog of Metal knew what he was doing, pressing on the pressure points under each of her toes, firmly squeezing the arch of her foot. He was completely focused on massaging her feet, occasionally looking over to make sure she was enjoying it as much as he was. Only when he switched to the other foot some moments later, did he speak. “I guess we should at least know a little bit about one another before know...” 


His eyes twinkled at the thought of what they were about to do, hiding any sort of apprehension he might have had about posing nude. If Oberyn had not told Sansa of Clegane’s dislike for cameras, she might not have noticed the nearly imperceptible change in his voice indicating his nervousness. 


Realizing there wasn’t much to say, Sansa looked down self consciously, “I’m from Winterfell, got into modeling at 18….”


“I read your CV and looked through all your photos, little Northgirl. I want to know you--not what’s on paper.” He wasn’t one for small talk, preferring to get right to the point as he found every delectable pressure point on the bottom of her foot. Clegane seemed to relish watching her squirm with delight in his hands.


Sansa bit the side of her cheek as she contemplated what to tell Sandor. She was just twenty-five, and had grown up in a sheltered environment. All of her major life experiences had happened while she fended for herself in King’s Landing. I haven’t really lived much, not compared to him anyway.


“I sing in the shower,” she found herself confessing, “I use dance and painting as a way to relax. I started modeling so I could tour the world,” Sansa felt her cheeks heat up as his expression remained unchanged. There was no way to know if what she was telling him was at all interesting, or if she was boring him half to death.


While she struggled to fill the space between them, Sandor cut in, “So you have no idea what you just got yourself into? Me, this bloody photoshoot, you just took a leap of faith?” 


Sansa shrugged, “Yeah. I’d never even heard your name or knew the band until a couple of days ago.”


At that he did bark a laugh, as if she’d said the most refreshing thing he’d heard all week, “Right on.” They clinked their respective glasses together again, each taking a drink. “That’s probably a good thing,” he joked.


“Oberyn said I’d be portraying more the groupie experience. Though I can’t say I’m very clear on what that is.” She admitted. Sandor’s hands were making quick work of her feet, bringing them back from the dead and making her skin prick in unanticipated excitement.


His features quickly flashed with delight before turning back to a more neutral expression. “Don’t worry,” he leaned in so that their faces were only a few inches apart, “I’m the fucking David Attenbourgh of groupies. Stick with me and you’ll learn a lot, enough so that we both don’t look like naked noobs playing at the erotic.”


At that she laughed uncomfortably, both at the thought of what it could mean if the shoot went poorly and at how easily he’d laid everything out on the table. It was somehow refreshing not to pretend in front of him, and hard to hide when she felt unsure. All of this was so far removed from her normal life, equal parts scary and exciting.


The door to the bus was about to open to the roaring masses, the opening mechanism squeaking as the driver pressed the button, Clegane looked toward the front quickly, then back to her. “Stay close to me tonight, and don’t let them know your weaknesses. If there’s one thing about groupies, they’re assertive.” His lips held a devilish grin while he pulled Sansa closer to him, their hips touching, his arm around her shoulder.


It almost felt like he was using her as a shield against the throng of female band followers who were about to explode onto the tour bus. What had been a quiet moment for them to speak, quickly changed to loud talking, laughing, and singing. 


As the first few groupies bounced up the stairs, they gasped and squealed as they’re eyes fell upon the popular front man. A few smiling faces turned to disappointment to see Clegane was already taken, but as one made a move to sit on his empty lap, Sandor politely waved her away. 


“Assertive,” he whispered, his baritone voice reverberating in Sansa’s ear, the heat of his lips tantalizingly perceptible on her sensitive skin.


The second women who attempted to make a move for Clegane’s lap was thrown the best death stare Sansa could muster, which garnered an approving chuckle from Fuck the King’s front man. 


“There’s a bit of wolf in you, Sansa Stark.” He then pulled her on his lap to make more space for the quickly filling bus, and -- as Sansa would soon find out -- to make it more obvious that he was taken. 


Her bum graced his muscular thigh in an almost chaste position given what else was going on in the bus. Her legs fit neatly between Sandor’s widely spread knees, her full weight on his right leg . He did, however, keep a large warm hand on her thigh, his thumb resting where her legs were touching over her clothes. 


The sense of anxiety Sansa had developed over the last days about having a sexual shoot with a man she did not know--worried he might be a creep--was slowly subsiding. While she had not known him long, she felt safe in his arms. He’s nicer than I expected, at least for now.


The band members, probably held up by the press, finally spilled into the pumping bus. “Oh ho, well nice to meet you ginger sister,” a red haired man made his way to where she sat atop Clegane’s knee and held out his hand. “Tormund Giantsbane on rhythm and lead guitar--when that prick lets me,” the guitarist smiled. 


Sandor piped in, “They call him Giantsbane because he likes tall women. Man sized women.”


The two shared a knowing look and laughed, “We won’t talk about that one time in Essos you sack of shit. But a  big woman always gets me hard…” Tormund started.


“Yeah the more hair on the back the better,” Sandor interjected, receiving a middle finger in return.


“Cunt!” Tormund shot back with a grin, “Is that cologne I smell, Clegane? Pretting yourself up for somebody?” The ginger teased, finding himself a nice place on the couch next to some very beautiful fans. Sandor shot him a death stare, which only served to make the jovial ginger laugh harder. Sansa blushed, wondering if the no nonsense front man had made an extra effort for her tonight.


“That’s Bronn, our drummer,” Clegane pointed him out.


Bronn waved, clearly too caught up in a very sexy brunette to care much about what his bandmate was doing. Sansa couldn't really blame him, their tongues had already been locked for quite some time.


“No one plays like that son of a bitch, I can tell you that. It’s like he sold his soul to the Stranger.” Sansa listened intently, finding she’d never get enough of hearing him talk. While Sandor’s singing might not be her style, his voice certainly was.


“That’s Trant, our bassist.” Sandor leaned into her ear, the warmth of his breath making her shiver again, “He’s a bloody tosser but we keep him in the band, for now.” His tone was not as jovial as it had been with the others, the hint of seriousness in it giving Sansa cause to observe Trant more critically. 


There was something about him she didn’t like, something that made her body instinctively recoil. Perhaps it was the way he looked at her, as if she were a piece of meat instead of a human being, the very opposite of Clegane. It gave Sansa the creeps, making her melt deeper into Sandor’s strong body. From her reclining position on his knee, she slipped her arm around the front man’s shoulders. Even with the chaos in the bus, Sansa could hear a satisfied growl escape his throat. 


Sandor shifted his gaze up toward her face, his eyes peeking through his thick hair. He had something about him she couldn’t describe, something that made her gravitate to him despite her best efforts. “You smell like citrus and summer flowers,” he whispered, only just containing a deep desire to inhale her completely.


You’re not falling for a Heavy Metal singer, Sansa. You just aren’t, she tried to tell herself. 


A flush began to rise in her cheeks all the same, so she fought it with a flustered question. “Where are we going?”


“The hotel,” he answered, “where your deepdive into the life of a musician can really begin.” His tone promised things Sansa could not imagine. His hypnotic eyes were only for her, as if all the insanity on the bus didn’t exist. Sansa didn’t know what she was in for, only that it was going to be a night to remember.

Chapter Text

                                  Chapter 4


Chapter 4: Of Groupies, Parties, and Everything In Between


They’d taken a much needed break, Clegane leaving the interview room to smoke and Tyrion stretching his legs from the torture apparatus known as his purple velvet chair. The Lion of Lannister capitalized on this moment to share some words with his producer and strategize on how to best continue. It was by no means a poor interview, if anything it had the right amount of fire in it to be as edgy as the content of the magazine. Yet Tyrion had not managed to crack Sandor Clegane’s cool exterior, at least not to his liking.  


The notorious front man was far from the preening, nutrition crazed, athletes and models Playgirl often interviewed as centerfolds. He was neither young, nor naive, nor inexperienced in life. This made him nearly impervious to Tyrion’s usual line of questioning. Nearly. If there was one thing the journalist was not ready to do, it was to fold to Clegane’s will. 


Of all the things that had bothered Tyrion in his preparation for this interview, one major point stuck out. The dwarf simply could not get his head around the mismatch between the singer posing naked, which was about as intimate as you could get with a person, and his dogged reluctance to open up about his private life. The very thought was inconceivable, and it made him suspicious of Clegane’s motives.


‘He wants to have his cake and eat it too,’ Tyrion knew this and was not about to let Sandor Clegane get away with it.  


Tyrion and his producer went over their notes again, making sure they knew more about Clegane’s own history that he did. The hope was to glean any tidbit of information from their collected intelligence on the singer and guitarist that might lead to learning something new about the God of Metal. That was what the readers wanted after all, a glimpse into his private world. 


‘And of course to ogle his cock in action,’ the journalist smirked, knowing that the hardest part of Clegane’s work would be posing for Oberyn’s camera.


Scanning the pages of notes, there was something so irritatingly organic about the fearsome front man, which both sucked Tyrion in and repulsed him at the same time. If you looked at the body of work he and Fuck the King had produced over the years, and combined that with the ridiculous tour schedule they kept, it was a wonder they were all still standing. ‘I guess that’s the power of hard drugs,’ the dwarf thought sarcastically, a wry smile passing his lips.


By all accounts, the man was a musical prodigy. A multi-instrument artist before he was a teenager, Clegane had devoted his entire life to music. Of course there was an interesting edge to the early part of his life. Most with such a gift for music usually went into orchestral writing and composition after conservatory, but not him. Fuck the King’s front man had always been alternative, different from the rest. In a way it was what defined him, sticking the middle finger to those who expected him to do something their way. Sandor was good at pissing of ‘the man’ and doing things his way. He had reshaped Heavy Metal music with his composition, changed the sound to suit his tortured soul. And yet very little was known about the man himself. To do a piece on his conservatory years, and the fact that he had mastered the piano and the harp, were things any fan would know. Tyrion knew it would lend nothing new to this interest piece. It was scraping the surface of Clegane’s well put together persona that Tyrion wanted to do. Scrape, dig, claw until he found a hint that there was a man behind the machine. It would be that man his readers would buy copies to get to know.


The direct approach to this information would be painful and not worth the effort, that much was pretty clear to the experienced journalist. Clegane wasn’t making it easy for him on purpose, curtailing his verbal assaults at every chance. Instead, it might be better to get him talking about something he loved and then lead him into a topic they wanted to get to the bottom of. Together with his producer Tyrion decided to cycle back around to Sandor’s music. If the Lion of Lannister could be successful getting him off the one word or sentence answers, he might be able to take that momentum into the status of Fuck the King’s new album, or even to the intimate topic of whether the towering frontman had a girlfriend, a paramour of some kind.


The men and women who ordered copies of this edition of Playgirl, would surely want to know the finer points of their centerfold’s life. All of the meaty and juicy tidbits focused around what made his heart, and by extension his cock, tick. If there was one man who could get to the bottom of it, it was Tyrion. 


Returning to his seat and adjusting his glasses, the experienced journalist waited for Clegane to join him. He nearly had to snort at the look the notorious front man shot him as he walked in. ‘Just when I thought I couldn’t get enough of that dubious gaze,’ the dwarf muttered to himself. It felt at times that he was interviewing a hostile witness instead of Playgirl’s 20th Anniversary model. 


“You look refreshed, Dog,” Tyrion noted, feeling the need to strike up the conversation quickly.


“And you look nervous, Little Man,” Sandor settled into his chair, a cheeky grin on his face. It quickly faded, the front man wasn’t much for smiling, Tyrion could see that.


Narrowing his eyes briefly, Tyrion cleared his throat, “Let’s begin shall we? So give us a glimpse into a day in the life of the Mad Dog of Metal. What does a normal day look like?”


Clegane pursed his lips together, signalling to Tyrion that he would not like the answer that would come out his mouth, “I wake up, shit, eat, make music….occasionally fuck, then I do it all over again.”


At this point Tyrion could have jumped across the coffee table and strangled the singer, gripping his massive neck in his tiny hands and squeezing as hard as his body could. Clegane noted the flash of anger in the dwarf’s eyes, and snorted, moving his head in a provocative gesture so as to encourage the journalist’s murderous fantasies.


“Oh give me a break, Clegane. I do the same and I’m not a mega star. There’s a lot more to your life and your success than eating, shitting, and fucking.” Tyrion’s slight loss of composure seemed to move the Heavy Metal star to speak, as if he appreciated some raw emotion instead of his usual put together interview manner. 


“I bet your cock looks huge in comparison to the rest of you. Why aren't you doing this shoot instead of me?” Clegane asked provocatively.


The Lion of Lannister almost had to laugh. Very few had the balls to ask such a question directly to his face, either out of fear of offending him or looking like they were anti-dwarf--Clegane didn’t give a shit about either. It was somehow an endearing question, “Just looks big? They don’t call me the Lion of Lannister for nothing,” Tyrion threw out there. Both men shared a knowing grin.


“With that said,” the experienced journalist went on, “I don’t have ‘god’ in any of my names, which brings me back to my original question. What does the God of Metal do normally in his spare time? Us mere mortals can only speculate.”


He’d broken the ice, won the big man just a smidge more over to his side. There was a triumphant, yet non-celebratory air to Tyrion’s grin.


“Tours are fucking grueling, and I wouldn’t call it life. It’s more like surviving, breathing your life into the fans. I exist, feeding on the symbiosis of their hunger and my need to feed it.” Sandor explained.


“That’s an interesting way to put it,” Tyrion noted, writing something down on his notepad, “Considering the Stranger Inside Me tour has been going on for over two years--that’s a lot of existing.” 


At that Sandor snorted, a smirk on his face, “We just played our final gig in King’s Landing. It was a killer show--but I’m ready to turn my sites toward something new.”


There it was, that tell again. That tiny twitch on the burned side of the front man’s face that let Tyrion know he was on the right track. His interviewee was hiding a bit more than he cared to talk about, and yet he was contractually bound to do so.


Tyrion cocked his head to the side, deciding how to unpeel this layer of Sandor Clegane. “There have been whispers of a new album, but nothing there to really substantiate them. Are you telling me there’s a third double platinum album on the horizon? It’s been over three years since your last one came out.”


A dark, yet satisfied smirk crossed Clegane’s face, and Tyrion knew he had been bamboozled. He’d been at a crossroads, Sandor having served him up a juicy tidbit of information on a silver platter, only to lead him down the wrong path. Tyrion narrowed his eyes, but felt it best to stick with this line of questioning. 


“Any cunt who tells you they're writing a double platinum is a liar. A musician of substance doesn’t  have record sales in mind, they have their fucking heart and soul out there. As you’ve said, we’ve been on the road a while, and it’s difficult for me to compose on the road.”


“So you are writing an album?” Tyrion asked, a nod came from Clegane. 


“There’s something brewing, but a tour bus isn’t the place to let those ideas mature. I can’t hear myself think with Tormund snoring like a damned troll, Bronn entertaining his lady friends and Trant doing whatever that fuckwad does. It’s distracting. I need to be alone, relaxed, in the mood.”


“You have a property in the countryside outside of Lannisport, right?” Tyrion asked.


“Yeah,” came a one word answer from the front man. Tyrion cringed at the very idea of having to drag more information out of Clegane piece by piece, but then the big man continued. “So a day in my life once I’m home, is getting some peace and fucking quiet -- sitting back with a piano or an acoustic guitar and creating.”


“You don’t strike me as the quiet type,” Tyrion proffered.


“I’m not a talker, but I do what needs to be done on stage for the fans. They pay good money to see us, and disappointment isn’t an option.” Sandor sat relaxed in his chair, his grey eyes focused on Tyrion.


“Indeed,” Tyrion confirmed. “So tell me, these other endeavors you plan to pursue with your newfound time, it wouldn’t happen to be with a woman would it? Red hair, 6ft or so?”


Tyrion knew things, he’d heard things. Rumors from their final show were that a red-haired woman had been seen in his company. Hands clasped, affectionate body language. The journalist knew Clegane was hiding something and hoped springing this trap would get him, and his readers, one step closer to the truth. The anger behind Sandor’s cold steel eyes confirmed he’d indeed uncovered what the singer had so wanted to keep to himself. 


“She’s none of your fuckin’ business,” Clegane spat, his anger boiling over his otherwise easy going demeanor.


“Oh, but you see, she is.” Tyrion grinned.


---Snippet from Tyrion Lannister’s Interview with Sandor Clegane, Singer and Guitarist for Fuck the King --- Playgirl 20th Anniversary Edition




Everytime Sandor’s fingers laced into hers, Sansa felt her heart skip a beat. From the very moment the webbing touched and their palms were flat against one another, a warmth would grow through her hand, to her arm, and then eventually permeate her entire body. The very act of hand holding was such an intimate gesture in Sansa’s mind, something she had only ever done with close friends or family—never with a stranger. It was an act the singer did with a familiarity and confidence that caught the aspiring model completely unawares. Her usual defenses laid lame by the simple squeeze of his fingers around hers combined with the molten flames that danced alluringly behind his eyes. 


Sansa was but a moth to Sandor’s flame, and knew not what to do about it. 


Admittedly, the young model had not been sure what to expect of the party they were going to. From the moment Sandor had whispered their destination in her ear, she had been unable to picture it. A party at the hotel bar perhaps? A couple of nice adjoining rooms with ice chests of beer maybe? Instead the tour bus, turned girls-gone-wild-video promotion, had stopped outside one of the most expensive hotels in the city—known for its views on the Sept of Balor—the Baratheon Grand. 


Hand-in-hand, Sandor guided her through the entrance of the historic luxury hotel. Having come directly from the heat, sweat, and dirt of the concert, there couldn’t have been a more diametrically opposed place to hold a party than this one. The piercing smell of body odor and smoke was replaced by the oppressive scent of jasmine, no smoking signs displayed prominently throughout the grandiose room. Long-haired, band-shirt-wearing moshers were instead high fashion brand-wearing socialites, with little dogs and overly expensive jewelry. The Baratheon Grand was as posh and clinical as you could get, and the people in the hotel knew it. 


There was no way Fuck the King wouldn’t draw attention to themselves in a place like that, and they couldn’t have given two shits less. The disheveled, still high from the concert band members—along with their newfound lady friends—stormed through the lobby with Sansa and Sandor leading the way. There wasn’t a person in that hotel who didn’t stop to look at the motley crew of entertainers and groupies, their varying reactions to the ruckus painted unabashed across their faces. 


It was only then that Sansa truly understood how magnetic Sandor Clegane was. Everybody was looking at him, sizing him up, unable to rip their eyes away from his overwhelming presence. Sure, it was unusual to see a man of his stature outside of professional sport, much less with hair any model would envy. The air about him was unapologetic, strong, and in your face. It promised the seven hells to anybody who spoke ill toward him and those around him. Sansa could only describe him as a badass unafraid to backup his words with physicality. 


Those hotel guests who recognized Fuck the King’s front man either smiled brightly, or scurried to get a pen and paper for an autograph. Sansa was surprised that, even amongst the King’s Landing elite, there seemed to be those who knew his music. Or, at the very least, recognized him from some show or magazine. Those who did not know who Sandor Clegane was merely gawked at him, their eyes widening in surprise at his sweat soaked T-shirt and ripped jeans. Of course their eyes went to her as well, trying to make sense of the fact that a man like him was pulling a woman like her through a hotel like this.


Following the signs marked, “Presidential Suite,” Sansa’s stomach tightened. This wasn’t just going to be any party, this was going to be something huge, And we’re right in the middle of it.


They were moving so fast through the lobby that Sansa could only see the surprised faces of the hotel guests blur when they passed, and only pick up snippets of their conversations. None of those snippets were kind, focused instead on people’s distaste for men with long hair, or how the world was coming to an end because poor people were renting rooms there. They have no idea that success can come from the unconventional, and they probably don’t care to know.


Sansa’s cheeks burned at their judgemental comments, probably taking them more to heart than any of those in the group around her. Always the good girl taking care not to offend anybody, and always making sure she was above reproach — Sansa felt herself growing angry with other people’s judgement of Clegane. It was refreshing to not turn her insecurities toward herself and ask, ‘What’s wrong with me?’, but instead to ask, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ 


Occasionally Sandor would turn his head to make sure she was keeping up with his long legs and quick pace. It was then that Sansa made sure to give him a smile, to show those staring disapprovingly at them that he was worthy of her smiles, a person who deserved companionship. Her smiles reflected her true feelings. Despite all odds, she liked the Heavy Metal singer and was excited to see how the night would go.


Finally, reaching the private elevator that would open into the suite, Sandor positioned her in the corner near buttons. Sansa’s back was against the wall, the corner of the elevator to her left, the front man’s huge tattooed forearm to her right. She was thankful for the fact that he was creating some breathing space for them in the soon to be filled elevator. Only then did he return her smiles from the lobby. Sandor’s metallic grey eyes drilling through her, their bodies mere inches apart. Sansa could not deny the thrill of his closeness, and made little effort to hide the electric pulse it gave her.


The elevator rattled side to side as the group piled in. It was a tight squeeze considering the eight newfound girlfriends of the band, its four members and her. Stealing a glance at the prescribed number of bodies in the elevator they were over the twelve person limit by just a smidge—but that seemed to be half the fun of it all. Certainly nobody other than Sansa seemed to mind that there was a slightly higher chance they might fall to their doom.


Instead the sexual energy from the bus simply carried over into the tightly packed space. There was kissing, growling, and a few other things going on that Sansa couldn’t quite make out but knew were both exhibitionist and naughty. Using Sandor’s chest to steady herself as the elevator lurched upward, she could not tear her eyes away from his. She wondered what he was thinking as he looked her over, inhaling her scent liberally. The front man for Fuck the King was not making an effort to hide his satisfaction at their forced closeness, if anything he was overtly relishing it.


Am I just the newest, most interesting thing to him? Or are we just both trying to figure one another out? Sandor didn’t emote like people she was used to. His expression usually shifting between neutral and brooding. So if anything she was searching his eyes with the hope of reading his mind. While some might have found his gaze deep, or too intense for comfort, Sansa found it more exciting than intrusive. It was both wild in nature and yet focused exclusively on her.


The ride up to the 45th floor of the luxury hotel was swift. Sansa felt a sense of disappointment when Sandor abruptly put distance between their bodies, bringing her through the elevator door, again hand-in-hand. They literally strode right into the middle of a full on party, complete with a bar and DJ set. I definitely wasn’t expecting this! Sansa’s eyes were wide in surprise at the mere thought that the Presidential Suite of one of the best hotels in King’s Landing had been turned into a club. And a good one at that.


The members of Fuck the King were the “belles of the ball”, their arrival at the party met with cheers and the clinking of various alcoholic bevereges. For the first time that night Sansa was beginning to feel the pressure of being in the public eye. From the time they had left the concert until the time they had entered the party, people had been watching them. Observing them. Wanting to understand what was going on between her and the elusive front man. The motives of paparazzi versus the hotel guests versus the party guests might have been different, but otherwise it was the same. 


It’s an intrusive feeling, she realized. Something I can’t imagine getting used to. Stealing a glance at Sandor, Sansa understood his dislike of cameras more intimately than she had before.


Shifting her eyes about the room, Sansa took a moment to take in the jovial chaos erupting around them. The common room of the suite was bigger than she ever could have imagined. There was a huge fountain in the middle, with a few party-goers in various stages of undress enjoying its waters. The DJ had a proper setup, his speakers booming throughout the huge room, his turn tables busy as he planned his next ebbs and fades. The bar on the opposite side of the room was fully staffed by hotel personnel in dark suits, some flair bartending entertaining the party guests. 


Sansa could only just make out a few hallways where she assumed the private rooms of the band were. They were away from the direct action, but hardly a place of refuge given the chest pumping growl of the dance music. It was, however,  the back wall of the common room that was really breathtaking. Completely made out of glass, it offered an unobstructed view on the Sept of Balor. At night, lit up for all to see, it was amazing. I must go out on that balcony before the night is through, she thought, wanting to take a picture for herself. 


“We just finished up our tour,” Clegane explained, his lips coming dangerously close to her ear. “It’s the last big party until we go our separate ways for a bit.” 


His other band members had certainly not wasted any time in welcoming their vast array of guests. For as out of place as Sansa felt at the concert, she ironically felt even more out of her depth here. This wasn’t just a party for groupies and close friends, it seemed like there was everything in between. The room full of people had the likes of Cersei and Jamie Lannister, for which Sansa had auditioned and failed to become the face of their skin care and makeup lines. In the end Cersei had decided to do it herself instead of finding a fresh face. There were magazine publishers and editors, such as Petyre Baelish, who had his little fingers in just about every high fashion event in the trade. Sansa also recognized a couple of musicians from random MTV spots she had seen while bussing tables. It was an unusual mix of people, Sansa and the groupies probably ranking amongst the most normal. 


“The rest of the crew is coming later, we just wanted to throw something big for everybody who helped us out over this fucking long trip around the world and back again.” Sandor put his arm around her shoulders, bringing Sansa closer to him so as to hear her better.


“I see,” she managed, blushing at his closeness. 


Following his eyes Sansa realized Clegane might also have been shielding himself from a group of women standing a couple of feet away. They were chatting amongst themselves, but always kept turning back--eyeing him in that way one does a choice piece of meat. It by no means surprised her that Sandor didn’t want to be treated like a commodity, something to be photographed and put up on Instagram by some influencer. Or worse yet, some sexual conquest to blab about to friends and news outlets. She could empathize with how hard it was to find the balance between being close to his fans, as he clearly enjoyed being, but also finding some normalcy in the crazy. Though it wasn’t quite on the same scale, Sansa knew this feeling from working in the modeling industry. You could never know if a guy wanted to date you because he’d seen you in a magazine somewhere and wanted to boast to his friends, or if he really liked you. 


She sighed, satisfied with her promise to lay off men for a bit and resolved to keep her relationship with the Heavy Metal singer professional. Don’t get swept off your feet by the novelty of it all, Sansa reminded herself. Just enjoy the ride and don’t do anything stupid. 


In a show of solidarity, and dare she admit it, a deeply selfish desire to feel what was under his T-shirt, Sansa moved her arm around Sandor’s waist. It had the effect of pressing their bodies closer together, the side of her breast brushing against his hard chest. Sandor certainly enjoyed this unexpected escalation, because he dropped his hand to the small of her back in response as they watched the crowd. 


He’s like me, a bit of a wallflower when it comes to stuff like this, Sansa found some amusement in that idea. While Tormund and Bronn were out there living it up on the dancefloor, taking shots, being frisky with any woman who came near them, Clegane seemed to be content to hang back and enjoy watching people have fun. She wasn’t sure if it was a complete contrast to his stage presence, which had been energetic, engaging and quite frankly mesmerizing. It was just different. When I’m in front of a camera am I not playing at ‘being’ somebody else? 


It was only after they stood there for some moments, that Sansa realized how many people were looking at them. It wasn’t just some groupies probing for a way to snatch Sandor up, but rather the careful eyes of those trying to figure out their relationship. Right from the beginning it was obvious to the model that Clegane seemed to like making their relationship status ambiguous, staring them down a bit and whispering in her ear as they chatted to the loud music. He gave a snort of amusement as her second hand went to his chest while they talked. Surely all the people here would be interested in the Playgirl spread when it came out, but as of now none of them knew about it. It had been part of the contract they signed, to keep a tight lid on the mystery centerfold for the 20th Anniversary edition. 


One way or another, the people in this room were going to understand why they stood so closely now. Both trying to take the measure of one another, and both trying desperately to feel comfortable in each other’s arms. It’s not going to be so hard. There’s already a bond growing between us. 


If anything this whole crazy situation made her feel relaxed about the shoot on Tuesday. It would have been genuinuely horrific to sit opposite a complete jerk through such an erotic shoot, and Sansa was thankful for such small but important graces.


“I’m gonna change quickly,” Sandor’s gravelly voice interrupted her thoughts, “Don’t be afraid to mingle if you like, there’s a lot of interesting people here. Just don’t take a drink from anybody unless it’s me, Tormund, or one of the bartenders ok?”


When her eyes still held questions he elaborated, “I don’t know everybody here, but the ones I do know, I don’t trust.” It was half a joke and half not.


Date rape drugs were still a thing at parties like these, Sansa had heard this from friends in the modeling industry. There were always cautionary tales floating around about how a girl, who nobody knew but was always one degree removed from, had taken a drink from a guy and ended up naked in a room she didn’t know. Somehow it wasn’t hard for Sansa to believe, but at the same time she wouldn’t have known any practical way to shield herself from that kind of predatory behavior. 


She smiled at Clegane and nodded, finding his protective nature endearing. If anything, a friendship was budding between them and she liked that.


“You’ll wait for me, right?” He asked, and Sansa again felt that weird moment of highschool boy dejavu. Not too much, he was a man after all. But there was a sort of mixed message, schoolboy awkwardness to his question that had her smiling like she too was back in home room.


“Yeah,” she smiled.


Sandor’s eyes lingered on her a moment, then he tipped his chin upward in confirmation. It was an unusual gesture, one she had only ever seen in old biker movies, but that kind of nonverbal communication fit him somehow. Sansa watched him melt into the crowd, a full head and shoulders above most people. She had not expected they would get on so well, and that fact made her smile. 


But it should also not distract me from the real reason I’m here, to take in the groupie experience. That too made her grin, for there was much to study.


Slinking her way over to the bar and grabbing a cosmopolitan, if for any other purpose than to fit in, Sansa found a particularly lonely area by the door where she could fully take in the whole scene. Smoke of all different kinds had begun to fill the Presidential Suite, despite hotel’s clear statements that it was “Smoke Free.” It had the effect of dampening the low light in the room, making it harder to see what exactly was happening between the party goers—and yet accentuating their clandestine activities at the same time. It was a hoity toity suite turned club that anybody would have paid money for. And there seemed to be no rules.


Scanning the party as methodically as possible, Sansa soon realized it was difficult to know where to focus first. The party was insanity mixed with pheromones, with a dusting of various drugs she couldn’t name. As well as some she could. Glass coffee tables had been converted to cocaine lounges, some stopping by only briefly for a quick fix, others chatting it up and staying longer. Couples were hanging on one another, the couches being used either for comparatively chaste makeout sessions or more bold acts of sexual foreplay. Bronn was proudly heading the contingent of couchplay, already making out with two women on one of the fluffy pillows. His right hand well under the skirt of one of his groupies, the left openly fondling the breast of the second woman he was kissing. It was a feat of dexterity to be sure, but probably child’s play for a professional drummer. Sansa smiled.


The dance floor was also on fire. There were the typical couples and triples both kissing and dirty dancing in the shared space of the Presidential Suite. Some were just having fun, letting the music guide their bodies in what Sansa would have called interesting dance moves spurred by both alcohol and drugs. Others were doing more than swinging their hips, which called for the young model to lift an eyebrow over the rim of her cosmopolitan. Sansa was pretty sure she’d seen a woman exposing her partner’s manhood to those around them, moving her hand back and forth over it for anybody and everybody to see. Yet another was surely having sex with her partner, the hips of the two so close together, and the moans so lacivious there was no other logical conclusion. 


Sansa had never been surrounded by so many intent on hedonistic pursuits. It was both a strange and brave new world that would certainly take some time to get used to—if not fully understand. It gave the young model the feeling that she was a social anthropologist, thrown into an alien subculture. Nothing could have been further from the parties she normally attended, the wildest thing that she could recall happening was her friend taking a picture of her cleavage on a stranger's phone. A smirk crossed Sansa’s face at the realization that this was how the ‘other’ lived. Those who cared little for the opinions of society, those who lived life as they wanted with no constraints. Sansa could hear her mother’s voice in her head telling her to be a good girl, and yet, part of her wanted to be anything but that.


A loud bit of commotion, which overpowered the music enough to draw her attention, erupted from the bar area. A very pretty dark haired girl, who had also been on the bus, had loudly ordered a shot of something and sat on the bar. Her feet resting on Tormund’s shoulders. His fiery red mane was hard to miss in such a crowd, even if his back was turned to Sansa. Of course he was getting a great view up her short skirt, but that didn’t seem to be the reason there was such fervor coming from that side of the room. Before Sansa knew what was going on, the young woman took the shot glass in hand and made it disappear under her skirt, a short count down ensued, after which Tormund’s head also disappeared under her skirt. When the ginger guitarist did finally come up for air, he howled as if he’d just taken the best shot of his life.


“Yep,” Sansa heard a familiar voice confirm her suspicions. “He just took a shot right out of her pussy. We call those groupies, ‘the Wildlings’.” Sandor shouted some encouragement at his friend, and they promptly exchanged hand signs that would have angered the High Septon greatly. 


Turning her eyes to Sandor, she could see a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he put a bottle of beer to his lips. He’d changed his T-shirt, now black instead of a sweaty, deep grey. It too, was stretched tightly over his broad chest. The front man had also freshened up, his spicy cologne filling her nostrils with a scent that was becoming familiar far too quickly. 


“Well she’s quite, um, adventurous…” those were the only words Sansa could come up with to explain this kind of behavior. 


“Don’t judge her,” Sandor smirked, taking another swig of his beer. “She’s just having a good time.”


“Have you ever done anything like that before?” Sansa asked, before realizing it might be rude. 


Sandor shrugged, his answer non-committal, “Maybe once or twice.”


Sansa raised an eyebrow, knowing the bad-boy front man wasn’t lying outright, but that he was probably fabricating the numbers to be lower than they were. 


Enjoying the shock on her face, Sandor moved the conversation along. “Tormund is enamored...for tonight.” He pointed back to the guitarist and his young lady at the bar, now kissing, “He’ll show her a good time if she wants. She’ll have fun. They’ll probably never speak again. That’s ‘the life’ sometimes.” 


Pulling her close to him again, the front man pointed out another groupie, “That one over there,” he turned her attention to Bronn, “she’s looking for love. It’s the way she’s kissing him, trying to push the other one away. The other, to his right, she’s just looking to party and have fun. All different types.”


“And which is your favorite type?” Sansa asked, unsure whether her motives for asking were professional or personal.


That question merely elicited a lopsided smirk from the bad-boy singer, who snorted and put the bottle of beer to his lips so as to avoid answering her question. Sansa could understand that he was hesitant to divulge personal things to her, they had only just met. Yet, she would need to know what kinds of things he liked so as to make the atmosphere of the shoot as true to life as possible. At least that’s what she told herself.


It’s not going to be easy to recreate this kind of crazy. It’s going to be just the two of us and a whole photography crew. The thought wasn’t one she relished. Not because of Clegane, but if he was indeed uncomfortable in front of the cameras there would be no place to escape. Frustration could turn a shoot sour really fast.


Sansa felt his arm slip over her shoulders, a flush filling her cheeks unbid for the umpeeth time that evening. Then she realized somebody needed to pass and he was pulling her out of the way. 


Embarrassed at her own thoughts of Sandor’s possible flirtation, she diverted the conversation quickly. “What about Trant?” Sansa asked.


They turned their attention to the bassist, only to find he was staring back at them. The poor girl giving him a lapdance seemed to be the furthest thing from his mind. It was an odd scene if Sansa had to put it in the context of the other things going on around them. It was unclear whether he was having fun or not, but for some reason Trant could not keep his dark eyes off of her. Sansa felt Sandor’s arm tighten around her shoulders, felt the whiskers of his closely cropped beard tickle her earlobe. 


“Trant’s a bloody tosser and you should stay away from him,” his tone offered no room for argument, just the promise of knowing more than she did on the subject. Given that every time the man looked at her she felt spooked, Sansa was hard pressed to challenge Sandor on that topic.


“Hey, I gotta go talk to that guy,” Sandor pointed to a crew member who had just walked in. “It seems you have plenty of things to study up in the meantime.” He winked at her and made his way through the crowd to a man at the other end of the room.


Not more than a few beats passed before Sansa felt a hand on her elbow. She turned, to see the mustached adorned face of Petyre Baelish. “You don’t look like you belong here,” he said, looking her up and down creepily.


Sansa’s breath hitched, her instincts telling her she had to be careful with a man like him. Petyre Baelish was incredibly powerful in the modeling world, and could destroy a career with a few swipes of his pen. Editing for major art magazines had its advantages, and word on the street was that he made girls ‘do things’ to get ahead. Gods I wish Sandor hadn’t left. 


The only advantage she had in this conversation was that he probably didn’t know her, and thus would not know she had a career to kill, yet. Pulling on a little of Sandor’s self-confidence, she took a breath. “You don’t look like you belong here either,” she retorted.


At that he chuckled, then leaned in closer to her, “I’m Peter Baelish, I do editing and art direction for some magazines you’ve probably never heard of.” The way he said it made her cringe, made her understand why girls told one another to be on guard in his presence. It was condescension mixed with some kind of desire to wiggle under her skin by any means necessary. 


“I’ve arranged some magazine spots for Fuck the King, so I have every right to be here. Who are you? Clegane’s new girlfriend or something?” The way he said it made her blood run cold on a number of levels. Not least of which was the distaste in his mouth as he mentioned Sandor’s name. 


Why am I so defensive when it comes to him? The thought was only fleeting, Sansa needed to focus on the issue at hand.


“No, I’m a friend.” Sansa did her best to sound uninterested in making the conversation go further, but Baelish didn’t get the message. Or rather, didn’t care to get the message.


“A friend?” the man looked her up and down, “You’re not slutty enough to be Clegane’s type anyway so I don’t know why I even asked.”

She felt a pang at his words, a jealous pang at the thought that Sandor might like a more adventurous, wild type of woman. One she didn’t even know the first thing about. Quickly recovering her composure she stared back at Petyre, as if she had nothing sensible to say on the subject.


“You could be a model, you know? Long legs, delicate features, beautiful red hair. Yes, I could get you into some magazines without a doubt. Come to my office next week, we could talk about your future in the industry.” Sansa’s heart dropped out of her chest at his words simply because she could understand how many young women would have lept at the chance to be in magazines. Only a few days before she had lept at the chance to make it big, pulled herself into a situation that was only now turning out to be the right decision -- but Sansa understood acutely now how it could have very much been the wrong decision. 


“I’m busy,” she managed, feeling sick to her stomach.


“Oh that’s too bad, how about the week after? Care for a drink?” He lifted a second glass to her as he looked deeply in her eyes. 


The young model was just figuring out how to properly decline his offer, when Sandor swooped in. “The lady doesn’t want to talk to you Baelish, I could see it from clear across the room.”


The two men eyed one another in a way that gave Sansa the sense it wasn’t their first argument on the subject of women. 


“I was simply...getting to know her…” the older man stammered.


Sandor put his arm around her shoulders, “Did you just show up here? I certainly didn’t invite you.”


“Trant did,” Petyre replied, his eyes flickering to Sansa then back again.


“That figures as much,” Sandor’s voice was a growl, a warning to stay away. Did the singer know the rumors about Baelish? Had he witnessed something that made him particularly aggressive toward the man? Sansa didn’t know but she certainly didn’t want to be in Baelish’s shoes right now.


Clegane regarded him with suspicion, his eyes zeroing in on the drink he’d offered. Cocking his head to the side, he smacked the glass out of Peter’s hand, with the purpose of getting it all over the older man’s shirt. 


“You spilled your drink,” Sandor’s words were a challenge. She knew he only needed one little excuse to pop Baelish in the face. 


As Baelish began to retreat, a omonios warning passed the singer’s lips, “I see you offer a drink to a girl again, I won’t need a reason to kick your sorry ass to the seven hells and back.”


Petyre slinked back into the depths of the party from which he came, and Sansa felt relief in that. 


“Let’s get out of here. This place is starting to piss me off.” Sandor took Sansa by the hand and led her through the bumping crowd. 


They weaved past the sweaty dancing bodies, through couples and threesomes in the throws of passion to the balcony doors. Sansa made a mental note of their emotions and facial expressions. She would need to practice these in the mirror in advance of Tuesday. The young model would have to master their lack of fear and enjoyment of life. Without this, she wouldn’t be able to fulfill her part of the shoot, and she didn’t want to let herself or Sandor down.  


Once through the doors, their heavy metal frame clicking behind her, Sansa sucked in the fresh early morning air. The cool temperature hit her skin violently, making goosebumps form almost instantly. It was, for now, a welcome reprieve from the hot, humid party going on within the Presidential Suite. 


Clegane didn’t let go of her hand, instead leading her to the edge of the railing. “It’s beautiful huh?” She said, referring to King’s Landing at night. She took her phone from her small purse, still strapped around her chest, and took a photo.Then, noticing it was low on battery, Sansa promptly turned it off.


“It’s not ugly,” Sandor said, somewhat unimpressed by the Sept and the city in general.  


Just as she began to shiver a bit from the brisk morning air, Sandor pulled her in front of him shielding her from the wind. It should not have surprised her he would do it without needing to be asked, he was attentive in a way Sansa had never experienced. Caring but not suffocating. I fit well in his body, she realized, her thoughts trespassing into the personal. It was true though. Her height, the dainty width of her shoulders, everything seemed to be made to measure.


“Maybe it’s just because I’m a forest and fireflies kind of guy,” Sandor added. “I’ve got a quiet place outside of Lannisport. The land is full of trees, the odd field here and there.” 


Sansa smiled at him, “I love fireflies too. It’s not something you get in the city, that's for sure.”


“Uh huh,” he muttered in response, more preoccupied with squeezing her tight to his body than their conversation.


He’s tired of the parties, that fact wasn’t hard for Sansa to divine from his actions and words throughout the night. She had the impression that if he could do his music, and simply escape to his quiet house in the countryside, he would. Yet that wasn’t how the world worked and Sandor Clegane surely knew that. Music, as all jobs in their collective industries, was about constant promotion, being in the public eye. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it. 


With those thoughts, Sansa’s interest in why such a seeming introvert would choose to have such an intimate “lifestyle piece” be done over him. Even from what little she had seen of him, he clearly had the body of a model, but he was by no means the attention-seeking-giving-his-career-a-boost-at-all-costs kind of guy.  


“Why did you choose me for this shoot?” The words stumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. Sansa turned in his arms, her bum now on the railing, her hands against Sandor’s formidable torso.


Fuck the King’s front man smirked, as if he’d wondered when she was going to ask the question. Yet he didn’t hurry to answer it, instead staring into her eyes.


“I..uh..thought that was kind of obvious,” he whispered, moving a fluttering bit of hair behind her ear. She liked the feeling of his calloused fingers against her skin, they made him more real to her, more tangible.


It was obvious , now that Sansa thought back on it. So obvious, and yet she didn’t want to believe it either. Love at first sight only existed in fairytales, for little girls who still thought the world was made of good kings and noble knights. That kind of fantasy wasn’t reserved for people like her and Sandor, real human beings with needs and desires. Nothing can come of this. Meeting this way, doing what we’re doing...we’re just so different, Sansa tried to reason with her heart. But then why do I want him to kiss me right here, right now.


The way he was looking at her hinted that he wanted to as well, that he might just take the initiative to bring their lips closer together. Sansa felt his arms wrap more tightly around her, she heard his breath hitch, and she knew her head was moving closer and closer to his unbid.


But then an uninvited voice came out from the darkness, “Sandor that movie exec is here...we’ve got to corner him now or never, brother.” Tormund had rushed through the balcony doors, not fully aware of what had almost, just about, happened.


“Motherfucking seven bloody hells…” Sandor cursed under his breath, the momentum gone, the moment now awkward. 


Quietly Sansa was relieved they had not overstepped that boundary, she was so out of her depth she didn’t know which way was up or down. Nothing seemed to miss Clegane’s well trained eye though, for it seemed he sensed her mild bit of relief too.


“You wanna keep it professional. I get that,” he said to her quietly, before inhaling deeply--perhaps in slight disappointment.  “I have to talk to this guy. We’ve been playing cat and mouse for over six months…”


The singer wasn’t making an excuse, but the damage had been done. She’d made it awkward between them, and that was what she had wanted to avoid. “Sure,” Sansa said. “I have to use the bathroom anyway.”


She needed some space to breathe, recenter herself anyway, and the bathroom seemed like as good and as private a place as any. He had to have known that, because she remembered that dogs could sniff out lies, but he appeared to be okay with this one.


“Here, take my key. I think all the other bathrooms are occupied at the moment,” he winked, tossed her the keys to his room. “Second door on the left,” were the last words to come out of his mouth as he exited the balcony with Tormund, leaving her there alone.  


Gripping the keys in her hand, and steeling herself for the mass of people within, Sansa pushed through the balcony doors. It wasn’t hard to find Sandor’s room in the short hallway right off of the shared space of the suite. Fiddling with the lock, Sansa passed through the door and shut it behind her. It was amazing how well the walls blocked the torrid party, and she was glad for it. She took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the light of the room, darker than the shared space of the suite. In the semi-darkness she could make out a well ordered room, a few bags neatly arranged in a corner, Sandor’s old T-shirt draped over a chair back. There was a huge bed in the middle, surely meant for more romantic moments than a single man sleeping there alone. There was a chair at the far wall, which wasn’t a wall at all. It was ceiling to wall windows, with a beautiful view onto the city. The chair was facing that view, an acoustic guitar nestled in a holder nearby. 


Making her way through the room she found the bathroom and clicked on the light. It was a big marble thing with an exterior sink, mirror facing in toward the room. There was a door separating the shower and toilet from the rest, for a bit of privacy. Entering the toilet shower area, Sansa shut the door behind her and pulled up her skirt. It’s time to go home, Sansa. She told herself, There’s no reason to get any deeper than this. You came, you saw, you know what is ahead of you. 


But her brain couldn’t stop thinking about their almost kiss. She couldn’t stop thinking about how mixed her emotions had been about it--wanting it on the one hand, fearing it on the other. There was some guilt that she had given him mixed signals, given him hope for something she wasn’t sure about. And it made her feel sick to her stomach.


I’ll have to say goodbye to him first, then a cab home. Sandor had been the perfect host and she refused to leave things on strange terms particularly given they would have to work together in a few days time.


A simple flush of the toilet, Sansa exited to the sink. There she took stock of herself, rearranging her hair and making sure her skirt was in place. When she turned to leave a man came from the darkness, “I saw you lookin’ at me from across the way.”


“Trant?” She said, backing up to where her butt was on the sink. 


The bassist for Fuck the King walked into the light, his eyes crazy and dilated from drug consumption. Knowing she was backed in a corner fear seized her limbs, making them feel heavy. She had never liked the man from the moment she had laid eyes on him, and Sandor’s warning from earlier in the night came screaming back into her head 


“Clegane doesn’t deserve a woman like you. That burnt monster lookin’ son of a whore gets all the bitches anyway. Doesn’t share any with the rest of us.” He took a step closer, his thighs mere inches from her own.


“I’m not his girlfriend, Trant. I’m just a friend, getting to know him better…” Sansa tried to say something logical that might make the man back down, but she could hear the shaking in her own voice, and she knew he knew she was scared.


“By what? Sitting on his lap? Whispering things to him and standing close?” He was angry, jealous, and clearly out of his mind on something. “Well it doesn’t matter. He’s busy now, so that  means I get to have a little fun.”


“No thank you,” Sansa tried to push past the bigger man and was forced back against the sink. 


Fear rose in her throat. Sansa felt she was shaking even if it wasn’t visible. Her body was going into fight or flight mode, but she couldn’t be sure which one it would choose and when. Grabbing her by the back of her head, Trant forced her in a kiss, his teeth hitting hers and splitting her lip on impact. The taste of her own blood filled her mouth, along with the disgusting mix of alcohol and cigarettes coming from the bassist. Sansa felt like she was going to throw up just from the smell and her disgust for what was about to happen. 


Sansa pushed as hard as she could against Trant’s chest to make space between them, finally winning enough ground to put him at a bit less than arm's reach. Adrenaline was coursing through her veins, her senses heightened.


“Don’t refuse me you little bitch,” he said his eyes wild, the threat of violence overt in his gaze.


When he went to grab her again, Sansa’s body went into fight mode, remembering the self defense classes her sister and brothers had dragged her to only a few years before. As Trant gripped her tightly by the hair to bring her closer, Sansa used that momentum and space to bring her head forward faster than he anticipated. Her forehead connected directly with the bridge of his nose. There was an audible crack, and blood went everywhere. Trant cried out and stumbled backwards, his hands holding his face, but Sansa wasn’t finished. She wouldn’t be safe until he was on the ground, that was what her brothers had taught her. Sansa took a step forward, without even thinking, and kicked him as hard as she could between the legs. Her shinbone connecting with Trants balls, her skirt ripping loudly in the relative quiet of Sandor’s isolated hotel room. Trant fell to the floor writhing in pain.


Her heart was pounding, her body was light as air. He wasn’t out yet, just in pain. She knew he’d get up soon and be madder than before. It wasn’t so easy to get around him, Trant’s disgusting form blocking the most direct way to the exit. She needed to think fast, she needed to see if she could make a move for the bed and run to the door before he would catch her. Oh gods, please...


The door opened then, and she felt more relief that she realized, “Sansa I…”


Sandor took a moment to understand what had happened, she in her ripped clothing, blood on her white blouse with a split lip, and Trant wheezing on the floor. She knew she didn’t have to say anything, she knew he knew what had happened. She knew because, no matter how schooled he tried to keep his expression, his eyes always spoke a thousand words. And now all she could see was an unbridled rage in them.


Grabbing his bandmate by the scruff of the neck and lifting him to his feet, Sandor whispered something in his ear that made Trant cower. There was no way in the haze of adrenaline she was feeling to hear what he said, but Sansa was certain it had been a threat. The conversation between them was very one sided, with Sandor then grabbing his bandmate by the belt and literally flinging him into the shared space of the suite. She had never seen a man fly through the air the way Trant did, making a small arc before hitting the marble floor and sliding with a smear of blood. But it did little to stop the party, the music didn’t even skip.


Sandor slammed the door unceremoniously and locked it behind him. 


“I…” she started but found her head against his chest, his arms wrapped around her protectively. 


“Shhhhsh. It’s ok. You’re ok.” He said, his heat and his scent a welcome thing. Sansa snaked her arms around his big body and hugged her face deeper into him. Happy he was there and happy he wasn’t going to leave her. 


“It seems you’ve got more than a bit of wolf in you, Sansa Stark. There’s a whole fuckin’ dire wolf under that sweet face,” he teased softly.


Sansa didn’t have the energy to smile at his words, she gripped him and listened to the even beat of his heart. It was calming, he was there, the moment was perfect. 

“I think he might have hit me,” she murmured, surprised at how fuzzy her memory of the incident had already become. 


“Let’s take a look,” Sandor said after some time, leading her to the sink and lifting her to sit on its edge. 


Gone was the usual cold look he carried, in its place something warmer, more caring. He took a tissue and wiped the blood from her lip, “It wouldn’t be a proper metal concert, or a night out with me, without a little blood,” at that she did manage to smile, which seemed to put him at ease. 


From the corner of her eye she could see the concern on his face, and how his attention went from her lip, to the pulse of her neck. He stared at it a long while before returning to her lip, his rough thumb running gently over her bottom lip.  It made her wonder if he would kiss her there, and in some strange way she kind of hoped he would. This time she wouldn’t shy away or be happy to have it broken up. Even after what had happened, Sansa needed it.


“It’s just a split lip, it’ll be healed before Tuesday, don’t worry,” he said, his eyes dead set on hers.


“And my forehead,” Sansa asked, hoping she didn’t have any broken skin. There had been so much blood, she was certain it hadn’t been just from Trant.


“You headbutted him, did ya?” Sandor grinned fully then—there wasn’t just amusement in his eyes, it was full blow adoration.“That explains why his nose was broken.”


“Oh gods, I broke his nose?” She’d never hurt even a fly in her whole life, and how she’d broken a man’s nose and kicked him in the balls all in one fail swoop. 


“Don’t you feel bad for that son of a bitch. He deserved every last bit of what you gave him,” Sandor’s voice was firm, his fingers brushing against her cheek. He kissed her on the forehead then, it was a chaste kiss, one that her mother would have given her after she scraped her knee. Coming from Sandor it was oddly comforting. Particularly now. 


She smiled at his words, his huge calloused thumb wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s fine, not even a bruise and there won’t be. Your clothes though…” Sandor motioned to the mirror and Sansa gasped. Her white shirt was covered in blood, her skirt ripped all the way up to the waistband. 


“Look, I can’t take you home right now--I’m not sober enough to drive in the city.” She opened her mouth to protest, but Sandor seemed to be reading her mind, “And I can’t let you get in a taxi like you just got in a street fight. Just wait a sec…” He disappeared into his room while Sansa took stock of her appearance. Her makeup was smudged around her eyes, her hair was stringy and her clothing was a disaster. But he was right, the lip wasn’t so bad, and even then, nothing makeup couldn’t help.


Gods, did he just try to rape me and I fought back? The very idea made her giddy, and completely freaked her out. Part of her had expected Sandor to blame her for the state of his bandmate, or accuse her of leading him on. Yet he had done none of that, nor had he ridden in like a knight on a white horse to the rescue. There had been a respect for her personhood in those actions, a partnership that she couldn’t quite describe. Sandor had merely taken out the trash and was ensuring she felt safe. And I do feel safe with him. 


When Sandor returned, she almost did a double take and fell off the sink. The front man was shirtless, a long and gorgeous tattooed arm holding out the black shirt he had just had on. His shoulders, chest, and abs were for the gods. The envy of any male fitness model, at 6ft 8in tall his body was proportionate, powerful and covered in well groomed, tightly cropped brown hair. I think I’m gonna faint….


“They...uh...didn’t bring my laundry back yet and this is literally the only thing that I have that’s clean. If you consider a beer stain still clean?” There it was again, that slight feeling of an unsure young man. Sandor’s left hand was on the back of his neck, the other still holding out the shirt--hoping she would take it as an acceptable item of clothing. 


Sansa couldn’t get enough air in her lungs to make words, much less to breath. She had heard, perhaps a quarter of that sentence, her sight the only sense that mattered now. Her mind flashed back to all those times she had teased her mother for liking men with body hair, claiming that smooth skin on men was the best. Oh I was wrong, I was so horribly, terribly wrong. 


“Thanks,” she mustered up the courage to say, taking the shirt from Sandor’s outstretched hand. He stood there awkwardly in the doorway, then realizing she might want some privacy, he turned his back and walked into the bedroom. 


Tentatively putting her feet on the floor, Sansa took a moment to go into the bathroom and shut the door. There she could finally exhale properly, her eyes nearly bugging from her head. Respectful, badass, and sexy were three adjectives she didn’t think would ever describe one man--but she was soon finding herself schooled by Sandor Clegane at every turn. Is it so bad to be happy to spend the night here with him? Of course it wasn’t, but Sansa had no idea what to do with all of these strange and intense feelings welling up inside her for the Heavy Metal singer.


There was no chance of properly thinking about those feelings tonight, Sansa was far too tired and far too emotional for that. So she set herself to the task at hand, getting rid of her old clothes and changing into a single black T-shirt. Her white blouse and bra were unsavable, promptly going in the trash. Her blue skirt, ripped all the way up to the waistband, was gone too. Her tiny black thong and her blue stiletto heels, still intact. At least I can salvage something from this night, her lips twitched at the slight bit of humor there.


Sandor’s T-shirt, which looked so small on him, was huge as she held it out by the shoulders in front of her. Pulling it over her head she was immediately surrounded by his scent, one she had truly grown to love. The neck of the shirt was such that she had to pull it to one side, exposing a shoulder, so it wouldn’t just drop down over both of her shoulders at once. The sleeves came down just about to her elbows and the hem right at her mid thighs. It was modest enough for sleeping, but that was about it. And I don’t really care at this point, she sighed, removing her shoes and exiting the bathroom. 


Sansa’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, illuminated only by the lights of the city streaming through the huge wall of windows. Sandor had taken his guitar, made himself comfortable on the chair, and had begun to tune it. A few picks of the steel strings here and there, it seemed he had been fiddling with it since she entered the bathroom.  


He was concentrated, the guitar looking small against his body. The light of the city only just illuminated his face enough for her to read his expression. His grey eyes looked up from the guitar and met hers. “Take the bed, I don’t sleep much.” 


Dropping her heels on the side of the bed, Sansa turned back the covers and slipped in between the sheets. They were soft, the bed even softer. It was so much better than her cheap twin bed in her matchbox apartment in the city. Even just the smell of the fresh detergent that filled her nostrils made her want to cozy in the bed and not think of the consequences of doing so. She grabbed a pillow and pulled it in close to her, hugging it like she might an overstuffed teddy bear. 


Sandor began playing a few chords, stopping, repeating and then tweaking the sound. He was diligent in his work, humming the tune he wanted and trying to emulate it on guitar. “Which song is this?” she asked absentmindedly, feeling her eyelids grow heavy.


“Don’t know yet,” he answered, his fingers gliding easily over the strings. 


“So you’re composing?” she asked, somewhat surprised.


He never stopped his stride, “Yup. Piano is better though.”


“You play the piano too?” At that revelation she could not hide her shock. It was difficult, if not somehow comical to think of a man his size, with his long hair and bad boy image to sit in front of a piano and bang out notes. The two ideas were just so diametrically opposed. On the other hand, the thought of Sandor at the piano shirtless ran through her mind with alarming ease. 


He chuckled at her words, somehow not taking offense, even if it would have been easy to. “I was a multi instrument artist by the age of 12. Guitar, piano, drums, and cello of all things. I’d just absorb any instrument I could get my hands on. I didn’t have too many friends then.”


It didn’t surprise her somehow, that he had spent his younger years alone. But he didn’t seem sad about it either, if anything she felt it had given him an opportunity to pursue his music on his terms. 


“And this song you are composing now, it’s really beautiful,” there an airyness to the chords, as if the sound just floated off the strings. Certainly different from the heavy music he had played at the concert.  


“I’m glad you think so,” he mumbled, finding some headway with the opening chords. Sandor hummed a bit more, stopping a moment to listen to himself, then trying to pick it up again.


“Who will sing the words to it when you’re done?” Sansa asked, feeling more drowsiness setting in. 


At that he stopped his composing and turned his head to her, “Me, of course.”


“I can’t imagine that,” she challenged him, “that screaming you do in concert wouldn’t suit a song like this.” Then she almost instantly regretted saying that--as if she knew anything about music. 


Sandor was quick on the uptake, barking a laugh at her bold comments. “I’ll have you know growling is a vocal technique that takes a lot of work. If I just got up there and screamed into the mic, I’d never have a voice.”


“Really?” She asked, surprised.


“Of course, everything about what we do takes work and dedication. But I’ll have you know, my actual singing voice is pretty fuckin’ good too.” There was a playful smugness to his words, but Sanas knew he wasn’t joking. Though, after the concert he had put on today, it was hard for her to imagine him singing in the way she envisioned--she nearly giggled at the very idea of the Mad Dog of Metal singing some kind of pop song.


“Well, can I hear it?” Sansa asked, somehow finding her cheeky streak.


“No,” he answered flatly. “You’ve gotta earn that shit, and at the moment,” Sansa could see him eyeing her up and down in the low light, “taking my last clean T-shirt, sleeping in my bed, and insulting my singing voice isn’t how you get there.” 


Sandor chuckled at his own sarcasm, the guitar chords moving easily and swiftly through his fingers. “But you could start making it up to me by giving me a song, little Northgirl.” There was a playful challenge in his voice, one she knew she would have to take just to prove to him she wasn’t a complete pushover.


“I’m not that good,” she said suddenly, feeling her bravery fade. 


“All talk and no action, I see how this is gonna be.” His voice still held a bit of teasing in it. “It was the first thing you told me about yourself though.” As if to up the ante, Sandor moved from his chair, to the foot of the bed. She wasn’t going to weasle her way out of this one, even if she wanted to.


“Well, if my shower voice means that much to you,” at that she sat up on her knees, noticing too late how high his T-Shirt rode up on her thighs. The Heavy Metal singer’s eyes traveled from her knees to the hem of the shirt, causing him to raise and eyebrow and clear his throat.


“I’m thinkin’ more about the shower than the voice,” he mumbled, while Sansa blushed in the dimly lit room. “You’re a Bear and the Maiden Fair kind of girl I guess?”


Now it was her time to laugh with sarcasm, “I’m not 12 years old. I prefer the Rains of Castamere.”


Clegane’s fingers immediately went to the Rains of Castamere without missing a beat. He was immensely skilled, even a person like her with no real exposure to music could tell. Playing was just so effortless for him, it would trick many into thinking everybody could do it. But they couldn't. Not like that.


“Dark. I like it,” he grinned, a timbre to his voice.


The idea of what she was about to do, and how ridiculous it was, certainly wasn’t lost on her. If anything it was made more acute by how beautifully he played the guitar. But Sansa wanted to show him she had no fear, because if she showed that now, perhaps he would trust her more on the shoot--when they would both really need to prop one another up. 


Sandor Clegane was an incredibly attentive musician, taking her pace and pitch into account as he played. Had she not known better, Sansa would have thought he was a machine the way he continued to play the notes and adjust to her own style. It was a silly folk song, one that had been sung a million times before, yet he had a flare to his musical style that made his interpretation truly unique. 


I probably haven’t done it justice, Sansa thought as she finished the last notes.


“Not too bad,” he offered, his musical brain on overdrive. “If you trained your voice you’d be good. Even very good.”


“Thanks, but I’ll stick to modeling,” she answered, a future in music the furthest thing from what she could imagine herself doing. Sansa nestled into the duvet once more.


“If I don’t ruin your career first,” he quipped, making her laugh. 


Of course there was a real chance of something like that happening, the thought had crossed Sansa’s mind hundreds of times since she signed the contract. The modeling world was as cutthroat as any other business, with tons of pretty faces willing to do anything to get their big break--ready to take even the slightest chance to get ahead. Yet, given everything she had seen tonight, the droves of adoring fans he had, the keen interest around his life, and Sandor’s raw sex appeal, it was hard for Sansa to imagine she chosen incorrectly. If anything she had been lucky he wasn’t some pompous jerk. 


Snuggling deeper down into the soft high thread count sheets, her leg thrown over a huge pillow Sansa hugged close to her body, she felt calm for the first time in days. The sound of Clegane gently fiddling with different chord combinations on his guitar made her eyelids grow heavy, despite her desire to listen more. It was then that she realized she might actually feel confident about doing this crazy thing with him. That taking this chance wasn’t only something to get her ahead, but something to grow from, to embrace. 


Then, as if in a dream, she heard him say, “Sansa, I don’t know if I can keep this professional…” but it was too late to answer, for she had already fallen into a deep and much needed sleep.



An early afternoon light hit Sansa’s face, forcing her eyelids open despite her best efforts. The clock on the nightstand read 1pm, so she knew she hadn’t been asleep that long. Not as long as she would have liked at any rate. Sucking in some breath and stretching out her arms, Sansa knew where she was, and who was with her, but not exactly where he was. Lifting her head from the bed, she was surprised to find herself alone, a gently breathing Heavy Metal musician asleep in the chair he had been playing his guitar from most of the evening. 


His guitar was on the floor, carefully placed so he would not stumble over it. His hair masked a bit of his face, his body hunched in an uncomfortable position. Sandor was peaceful, calm and beautiful. That was really the only word to describe him in this moment,  beautiful. Sansa smiled, sheepishly committing his slumbering form to memory and tiptoed to the bathroom. A shower was in order, something to wash off the grit of last night and focus her on what little was left of Sunday.


The warm water rolled over her body and Sansa used her palms to brace herself against the shower wall. It was difficult, if not impossible, to process everything that had happened last night and her brain was exhausted at the mere thought of having to do so. She was confused and unsure, that much she knew. Everything else is uncharted territory. Scary and exciting.


Sansa had spent much of her young adult life looking for the ‘right’ guy. He would be her age, somewhat athletic--but not too much--clean cut. This guy would be somebody who could meet her parents and win them over instantly. At that point, Sanas should have realized no man would ever meet her ‘right’ guy criteria. Her parents were conservative and extremely protective of their eldest daughter. No man would do, especially one like Sandor.  And yet he’s everything they raised me to cherish in a partner.


Her predicament was perplexing in a way Sansa had never experienced before, and was unlikely to experience again. At that moment the door to the bathroom opened and she startled, happy the shower curtain was opaque. Though that didn’t stop her from covering her breasts and mound reflexively.


“Morning,” Sandor’s voice grumbled. Then she heard the toilet lid lift up, and a zipper pull down. 


“Are you??” She didn’t even have the vocabulary to speak through her shock. Yet her question was answered as she heard the unmistakable sound of urine hitting the toilet bowl water. 


“You’ve been in here for twenty minuets, and I’m not pissin’ in my own sink,” he stated, enjoying the shock value of his little escapade. 


“Well you could have knocked, you could have…” she was kind of laughing at his boldness, as the shock of what he had done wore off. All those little voices in her head saying,  That’s too intimate, or He could see you naked slowly melted away. 


We’ll be seeing each other naked anyway, Sansa reasoned, smirking at the prospect in a way she had not before.


“Keep talkin’ and I might just jump in there with you…” it was a teasing threat, but one he surely hoped she would agree to. 


Smiling, Sansa poked her head from behind the curtain. “Make yourself useful and hand me that towel,” she smirked and that caused him to grin as he carried out her orders.


Just let it happen Sansa, and don’t question anything. Just be you for once and see where it leads. It was good advice but hard to follow. 


Once Sandor exited the bathroom, Sansa dressed herself. With only a thong and a T-shirt to worry about, she was out of the bathroom in record time. Sadly, not fast enough to glimpse him one last time without a shirt. Sandor had already pulled on his, now dry, T-shirt from the night before, a pair of car keys dangling in his hand.


“I guess you wanna get out of here as soon as possible, huh? Or we could grab some pancakes or somethin’?” Sandor knew well that walking into a pancake house in a shirt five sizes too big for her and high heels would get them promptly kicked out, Or would it?


“The pancakes are gonna have to wait until I have some pants,” she retorted. They shared a quick smile and Sandor nodded understandingly, if not slightly amused by the prospect of walking to a restaurant with her after the night they had had together. 


“You’ll need this,” he handed her a huge leather jacket with studs all over it. If the shirt was big, the jacket was even bigger.


“Oh I’ll be fine, it’s not so cold,” she protested. 


“It’s not for the weather,” Sandor said, turning to her. “It’s for the fuckin’ paparazzi pieces of shit. Don’t think for one minute that they left last night and,” he took a step closer to her, brushing a stray hair behind her ear, “I’d rather have you showing up in tabloids on your own terms. Not because some fuck wad has nothing better to do with his life but follow me around.”


Sansa nodded, then went to slip her shoes on. A sheepish grin crossed Sandor’s face, “I never thought that old thing could look so good.”


Of course she blushed, but this time she didn’t look down or tear her eyes away. She let him see she was flattered, that even if she was playing hard to get, she enjoyed his attention.


With that, he took her by the hand and opened the door to his room. The Presidential Suit was a mess of sleeping bodies in various states of undress. It was by no means trashed, but a total mess too. Open liquor bottles were strewn across the floor, and the room smelled of stale weed and cigarettes. Thankful she had not spent the night out amongst the invited guests, Sansa squeezed Sandor’s hand harder. 


In silence they exited the suite and took the elevator to the 3rd floor, then snuck around to the side stairs. The few people they did pass on their way to the parking level had given them some sideways stares, but if anything that had only made Sansa grin. Her mind ran wild as to what kind of stories they were concocting about her and Sandor from last night. Even if we didn’t have sex, it was pretty wild.


It was when they hit the underground parking, near where Sandor’s truck was, that they ran into trouble. A few die-hard paparazzi had been hanging out in the parking garage, waiting and hoping to hit it big. Sandor threw her a look and she promptly put the jacket over her head. She couldn’t see what happened next, but she certainly heard the curses Sandor and the reporters threw back and forth and one another. Sansa also felt his palm on the small of her back guiding her to the side door. 


The sound of the camera shutters was almost defaning, the flashes nearly blinding. Sansa could feel Sandor’s anger as he secured her in the passenger side of the car and slammed the driver’s side. Rolling down his window and telling them to all suck a dick, Sandor sped out of the parking garage and Sansa was amazed he didn’t hit anybody in his hasty exit. 


Once it was ok for her to peek out from his leather jacket she sighed a huge relief to see the semi-busy streets of King’s Landing-- away from the craziness. They rode in a comfortable silence, Sansa giving him her address and pointing out a few streets to turn on here and there. 


Once at her apartment he stopped his truck right outside the front entrance, front wheel up on the curb. Sandor’s jacket around her shoulders, her purse in hand, she exited the car--careful not to flash any passers by. “Thanks for a very...lively evening.” 


At that he laughed, “I’m never boring, I can tell you that. Here, take my number.”


He scribbled down a mobile number on a piece of paper and handed it over, very old school. Her questioning expression moved him to continue, “In case you need something before the shoot.”


At that she did cock her head to the side, but grinned despite herself at his boldness. “What could possibly go wrong in two days?” Her hands were on her hips as she stood on the sidewalk. 


“Dunno. Grab a coffee, or an emergency foot massage…” he trailed off and winked at her again.


“I’ll keep that in mind,” she teased. Then she got a little more serious, “Thanks again. I really did have a great time.”


With that he nodded, then pulled his truck out into traffic. Sansa made her way up to her tiny apartment and fell on her bed, still wrapped in Sandor’s jacked and shirt.  It was good to be home, nice to be alone. Then she made the mistake of turning on her phone, and it nearly exploded with what little battery life it had left. 


There were several missed calls and some texts from Brienne, a few voice messages from Arya and one from her mother. “Oh no….” Sansa felt her heart sink into her stomach.


Deciding to take the ones from Brienne first, Sansa cycled through to find the most recent texts. I would know these legs anywhere. Did you sleep with him, you little fox? Call me, we need to know how this might affect the shoot. Sansa downloaded the picture to which the message was attached. It had literally just been taken as they were getting into Clegane’s truck. It was by no means a stellar photo, containing a pissed off Sandor in front of his truck, and her with his leather jacket over her face. With her face obscured her legs were probably the most prominent, long and shapely with his T-shirt stopping in the upper third of her thigh. Her blue high heels sticking out amongst the grey of the parking garage and the black of his truck.  


“That’s what he meant about the paparazzi,” Sansa could see it so clear now.


She then went to her sister’s most recent voice message, “Sansa. Call me right now. I’ve had to hide all of mother’s reading because guess who’s on the front page? You! With Sandor Clegane.  I’d know those heels anywhere because we bought them together. Why didn’t you tell me you were dating him? Can you get me an autograph? Call me!”


Sansa wiped her face, assuming they were talking about the same or similar pictures. Sansa didn’t even want to do an internet search for Clegane and herself right now, knowing there had been multiple opportunities for somebody to get a good picture of her face and make a giant story out of it. 


Finally, with a little sigh, she listened to her mother’s voice message. Steeling herself for what she might hear next. “Sansa I was just checking up on you. You said you’d call this morning but I haven’t heard anything yet. Hope you’re well.”


At least that, Sansa sighed a big relief at the idea her mother didn’t know anything yet. Sansa laid back on her bed, letting her phone slide off the edge. She decided she would not call anybody. If anything she needed the media attention to cool down, and to allow her the time to focus on the job that lay before her. 


With that thought a memory, almost like a dream, came back to her mind. It was something Sandor had muttered to her as she was laying in bed, close to when she fell asleep. Sansa, I don’t know if I can keep this professional….


She sat up then, taking the crumpled piece of paper with his number on it and looked at it once more. Sansa was wrapped in his clothing, surrounded by his scent, and infected by his being. “Shit,” she found herself saying out loud, “I don’t know if I can either.”

Chapter Text



Chapter 5: The Shoot: Part 1

Tyrion Lannister was, by far, not the most comely of the Lannister clan. Nor was he the most sought after by sycophants longing to get the odd smile or suggestive wink. Born a dwarf he would never reach the size of his brother or father, nor would he ever truly be brought into the family business of cosmetics and skin care. Those were narcissistic pursuits that he could only watch from afar. Fate had seen to that. The gods had conspired such that the youngest of the Lannisters would never really be an important or treasured part of the family. Yet that didn’t mean he wasn’t, like the sigil of his house, a lion. And, like all good lions, Tyrion enjoyed playing with his food before he ate it. 


Peering over his notes at Sandor Clegane, the Lion of Lannister knew he had the big man right where he wanted him. It had taken some mannouvering, a measure of verbal skill and mental aptitude that neither his sister, nor his brother could muster. The wily God of Metal rarely gave interviews and even then, they were never quite as juicy as this one. In a matter of two hours, Tyrion had been able to both finger and exploit the indomitable front man’s weakness, a woman. 


‘It’s always a woman,’ Tyrion thought, his eyes still locked in battle with Clegane’s. ‘This one means something to him though. She’s different from the others.’


“We’ll get to Miss Blue Heels in a moment,” the journalist said, noting the flare of the Heavy Metal singer’s nostrils as he said it. The man was a raging bull, tamed only by the flutter of a duly signed contract and the concern that Tyrion might know more than he actually did about his ‘weakness’. 


‘Oh this is delicious,’ the dwarf smirked to himself. Miss Blue Heels was the name the media had given Clegane’s mystery woman. Her cobalt blue, spiked stilettos and her fire red hair were her only identifying features. The front man had done well to hide her identity, and it was beyond irritating to both Tyrion and every media outlet who covered Fuck the King. Everybody wanted to know who she was. Everybody was chomping at the bit to capture her face.


‘Soon we’ll know who she is and I want to be the first to break the story,’ Tyrion chuckled to himself.


“For now,” the journalist continued, a proverbial swipe of his lion’s paw, “let’s go over some Thirst Tweets, shall we? There’s no lack of thirst for you, Dog. My production team had so many to choose from it was a virtual oasis of pent up sexual desire.” Tyrion laughed at his own joke, but the man across from him was less than amused.


Sandor was stewing, literally ready to have steam come out of his ears.The front man’s huge bulging biceps were crossed contrarily over his chest, the bright color of his tattooed sleeves drawing Tyrion’s eye. Sandor’s lips had drawn into a menacing thin line, his grey eyes threatened violence if the dwarf didn’t tread carefully. One could almost say the Lion of Lannister felt bad for the singer—almost. This was journalism after all, and the whole point of this tell all interview and spread had been made clear to him from the beginning. Tyrion hadn’t come here to play fair, he’d come to get the juicy scoop on Sandor Clegane.


The Lion of Lannister liked to read out Thirst Tweets to celebrities, as it usually served to be a jovial break from the hardline questions he posed about their lives. Every interviewee who sat down across from the dwarf was briefed on the drill. Tyrion would read a couple of pre chosen Tweets and the celebrity would react. It was supposed to be a fun, light hearted exercise. But, with the intimidating look he was getting, Tyrion knew the next few moments would be anything but that.


Clearing his throat, another metaphorical nip of the lion’s mouth, Tyrion began. “Kikkamar4590 writes, ‘I want to stick my tongue so far down Sandor Clegane’s throat that it comes out his bum, rim him, then do it all over again.’ Well that’s a full service now isn’t it?” Tyrion’s chuckle was undercut by the look on Clegane’s marred face. He was far from amused, hating the very thought that the journalist would toy with him. 


When the silence between the two men had begun to turn defanningly awkward, Clegane spoke as he knew he would be asked to. “Guess they have a pretty long tongue then.” 


He was making no attempt to be funny, witty, or anything of the sort. Rather the front man’s general annoyance with the whole setup, including the inevitable questions he would get about his new lady friend, was shining through.


Tyrion smirked, enjoying watching the singer’s glare grow deeper with each breath. “MetalMom2121 says, ‘Everytime Sandor Clegane adjusts his massive cock on stage, I legit cream myself. Like every time...and he does it ALOT.”


Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Clegane answered. “The next time I do it, I’ll be thinkin’ of you, MetalMom2121,” Sandor winked into the camera, but it was half hearted. 


‘Oh he’s livid,’ Tyrion grinned, nestling down in his seat. Sensing a great moment with which to continue toying with the Heavy Metal singer, the Lion of Lannister continued his assault.


“And our final thirsty Tweeter….wait. You know, I think it would be great if you read this last one, Dog. It’s just so good.” The dwarf watched Clegane balk at his suggestion. “Oh come on, don’t be shy now,” there was some sport in rubbing salt into fresh wounds and Tyrion was living for it. 


A murderous glance passed between the two men as Clegane sat up and snatched the paper from his hands. Exhaling deeply, the singer’s well known deep baritone voice continued with the final Tweet, “SillySlothSingsTheBlues writes, ‘Whenever Sandor plays shirtless I want to jump on him, both hands and feet digging into that big daddy chest and legit never let go. I need him in every hole, even between my toes.’” 


“Well I’d say that’s quite a visual,” Tyrion said, trying to push the metal singer further.


Sandor shrugged as if wrapping his head around how one would exactly cling onto him with both their hands and feet. “Uh...thank you?” Was all the front man cared to muster.


“So all these thirsty fans, and trust me we had many many tweets to choose from. Where does your sex appeal come from, Dog?” They needed a smooth transition to the real meat of this interview, and Tyrion was riding high on his success.


“My beautiful fuckin’ face,” Clegane responded sarcastically.


“Oh come on, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Tyrion interjected, knowing he was just egging Clegane on. “You wouldn’t have agreed to do a naked shoot if you didn’t think you have at least some sex appeal. So why do you think women throw themselves at you?”


The reporter was referring to the fact that the notorious front man almost never got through a concert without one or multiple women hanging on him. Happy to take photos with his fans, they often involved him holding them, touching inappropriately, or being kissed by female fans. Even the male ones, Sandor Clegane had a good humor about him that wasn’t easy to come by in the business. Tyrion knew the singer enjoyed the attention at some level, and tolerated it on others. It was the price of fame to have such a following of overzealous adoring fans and if you didn’t bask in it to some extent, you were letting them down. That was why Tyrion knew Miss Blue Heels was different. Holding her hand, protecting her identity, she meant something to the singer in a way the others didn’t.


“Why is the sky blue? Why is this,” the front man gave Tyrion the middle finger, “the universal sign to go fuck yourself?” The front man shrugged, uninterested in taking the questions much further. 


“All this defensiveness over a woman?” Tyrion made as if he was surprised. “You’ve opened up to me on every other subject, but not on Miss Blue Heels. Why?”


“Because my life is in the public eye, and has been for quite some time,” the singer spat. “I don’t wish fame and the shit that comes along with it,” Clegane gestured as if Tyrion were part of the problem, “on somebody who doesn’t want it or isn’t ready for it.”


“So you’re protective of your girlfriend,” Tyrion stated in a bid to keep the Mad Dog of Metal talking.


“She’s not my girlfriend,” Clegane corrected him, uncomfortable. “She didn’t even fuckin’ know my name until a few days ago.”


At this revelation Tyrion was, indeed, flabbergasted. Even if you didn’t follow Sandor’s music, he and his band were often in the news. Their songs were chart topping, their antics legendary. Clegane’s open feud with the King often made him a subject of royal press conferences. Anybody, except perhaps an ostrich with its head in the sand, knew the uniquely scarred face of Sandor Clegane, and had heard about the band who — at its core — did despise their lord and sovereign.


“So she’s not a groupie? Not the head of the King’s Landing Clegane fan club?” Tyrion pushed further.


“Nope,” Sandor readjusted his big arms across his chest.


“So who is she?” Tyrion pressed.


At that Clegane pursed his lips together, not finding the question worthy enough to waste his breath on. 


“Well if you aren't going to say who she is then at least tell us a little bit about her,” the journalist was desperate to learn more about the mystery woman, and to understand how the two could have possibly met given his existence had been unknown to her. She had not sought him out, instead it had been the other way around. ‘Very curious indeed.’


At that question Sandor grinned despite himself, the very thought of this woman filling him with a strong emotion. Stronger than the hatred he felt toward Tyrion for sure. He ran his fingers over his tightly cropped beard in a nervous gesture, as if searching for the words to describe her.


“She’s the bloody patron saint of rock’n roll, and she doesn’t even know it. A beauty to rival even the most gorgeous likeness of the Maiden, but tough — porcelain poured carefully over hard steel. She left my former bassist bleeding on the floor — deservingly so — and has the audacity to blush at the very thought of my bare chest.” The singer cleared his throat, then continued, “One look from her makes you feel exposed, weak. It makes a man like me question everything I’ve done in this life, and wonder if it was enough. I was made to worship her, but she wasn’t made for me. I don’t deserve her,” Sandor took a long pause before continuing, his discomfort showing through, “but what happens next is in her hands.”


Clegane’s tough appearance, and impressive physique, made it easy to forget he was—at his core—an artist and poet. Musicians see the world differently from others, in lyrics and notes instead of labor and sweat. Sandor had written the music and lyrics to Fuck the King’s most iconic songs. Tyrion knew his knack for composition was one of the front man’s draws and not just within his own fan base but beyond. And yet, hearing the camera shy, tough as nails Heavy Metal singer pour out his feelings for a woman he claimed to barely know —made even the most hardened journalist feel something. It made Tyrion gun for Sandor’s success in wooing the woman he seemed to have fallen so head over heels for.


“Does she know you’re posing for this magazine? I’m assuming she’ll either watch or read this interview at the very least.” Tyrion was on the edge of his seat, curious as to what the singer would say next.


“She knows and by the time this interview is published maybe I’ll have the rest of this story already figured out.” Clegane sat back, his fingers laced, his expression less than amused.


“And you have no idea of her feelings toward you? None at all?” 


“That’s life, Little Man. All I can do is ride the fuckin’ wave.” Sandor sat up from his slumped position, “Or I’ll just look like a total fuckin’ idiot when this is released, but then again you don’t give a shit about that.”


The two men stared at one another a long while, Sandor in his massive frame and Tyrion in his little one. The dwarf wasn’t even sure if they breathed, the depth of their stare was such an intense one. 


“So we’re done here,” Sandor said definitively. He had apparently looked up at the clock and seen that they had, indeed, run out of the allotted time for the interview. Much to his relief no doubt.


Without another word, Sandor stood and walked off camera. At that moment Clegane’s phone vibrated, in his back pocket. Tyrion could still see his face despite the heavy glow of the lights. A slight grin flashed on his lips, disappearing almost as quickly as it came.


“Was that her?” Tyrion asked, calling out beyond the camera.


“Wouldn’t you fuckin like to know?” Clegane threw Tyrion a ‘fuck you’ gesture of moving his fingers under his chin, then lumbered off, surely never to agree to an interview with the Lion of Lannister ever again.


---Snippet from Tyrion Lannister’s Interview with Sandor Clegane, Singer and Guitarist for Fuck the King --- Playgirl 20th Anniversary Edition



When Sansa opened her eyes once more, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her alarm clock read 10:12am, and she shook the damned thing again just to be sure. Still clad in Sandor’s spicy scented black T-Shirt and heavy leather jacket, the weary model tiptoed over to her bedroom window and looked out. Her eyes confirmed what she had hoped was merely her misreading the date and time. But no, it was Monday morning and the hussle and bussle of her street made it clear to her that she had slept from the time Sandor dropped her off Sunday afternoon.


Well at least the shoot is tomorrow, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief for small favors from the gods, then promptly hopped in the shower. 


Stuffing a few fruits in her mouth and brewing a tea, the young model begrudgingly decided it best to break the promise she had made to herself on the previous day. Taking her phone, Sansa decided to reach out to Brienne, Arya, and her mother. First, because she was not so cold as to leave them wondering what she was up to, or dare she say it, make them call the police to come and check on her. Second, because they had continued to call her through her blackhole like sleep over the past eighteen hours. A series of missed calls and additional text glaringly obvious on her silenced phone excellent motivators.


Singling out her mother as the most likely candidate to overreact and call the King’s Landing police department, Sansa called her first. There was also that little extra of her mother having a ‘thing’ for the tabloid news. While Sansa wouldn’t have considered her mother a gossip, she did like to track what was going on with the A-list celebrities and old families of Westeros. So a little gossip news to supplement her Sunday morning paper was always a welcome bit of entertainment. This made the young model want to ensure the cat wasn’t yet out of the bag, particularly with a signed non-disclosure agreement. Even if she had wanted to tell her mother about the shoot, it would have been a breach of contract--at least that’s what Sansa practiced saying a few times should her mother confront her on the topic of Sandor Clegane.


Able to reach her mother right away, Sansa was relieved to hear that Arya had been successful in her quest to rid their mother of her Sunday morning entertainment. Their conversation was quick and painless with Sansa citing a busy work week and overtiredness for her inability to call her mother the day before. As understanding about such things as she usually was, Catelyn Stark had wished her eldest daughter well and hung up the phone. One down, two to go.


Next she texted her sister, without calling. It was better that way as Sansa had no clue what to tell her. Nor had she any idea her sister knew Fuck the King’s music. Can’t talk now, but will call you on Wednesday. It’s not what you think. Or maybe it is? Thanks for looking after mum.


She then sent a text to Brienne, doing her best to be both open and cryptic. I’m fine. It’s not what it looks like, or what the tabloids say, but I am much more confident about tomorrow. See you then.


Then she stared at her phone, or more accurately, at the number Sandor had given her. Before her unusually long sleep, Sansa had diligently typed his number into her phone so as not to lose it. Now, it called her like a ghost from the past, begged her to reach out to him. Of course she did her best to resist, knowing that she would eventually give in.


In preparation for the shoot Sansa spent a lot of time training different expressions in the mirror. Like any visual art, you needed to practice and prepare for a shoot. Eyebrow wiggles, smirks, smiles, pouty lips, winks, wayward uninterested expressions it was an unknown but extremely valuable talent to train your face to be coordinated. To know when you were moving one part of your face as opposed to another, working to find the expression needed to capture the intended movement. While the antics of Saturday and Sunday had given her a lot of material to work with, her consequent passing out from exhaustion had left her more behind in her work that she would have liked. 


Sansa also needed to take some time to reacquaint herself with her very best body angles. So, standing in front of the mirror in her cramped bedroom, wearing only a bra and panties, the young model judged her body angles. She practiced mundane things like standing, which might seem simple but in her profession you needed to stand with character. Sometimes you needed to have authority, other times something softer to convey an emotion. Hence she needed to know how her body looked and which way she could contort it to look better. It wasn’t about thinness, but aesthetics. A more extreme arch in the back might complete a shot better than a standard one. Knowing that you had a certain look when standing 30 degrees to the camera instead of 45 could save both time and frustration for the photographer. Knowing yourself, being intune with your body was what distinguished professional models from all the YouTube wannabes. No matter what the subject of the shoot, Sansa wanted to look professional. 


It was well into the afternoon when Sansa glimpsed her phone once again, and felt that urge to text Sandor. Normally she would not have texted a guy back the next day, preferring to play hard to get. It was a childish thing she realized. Something a girl her age would do if she were dating within her own group of friends. But Sandor was different and it wasn’t just because he was older than her. He didn’t play games, instead he put everything out there--unafraid of rejection or what people thought. 


So, taking a break from her old dating habits, Sansa grabbed her phone. Selecting Sandor’s number, she pressed the text function. Then she stared at it a bit. She didn’t want to say something meaningless. If anything she wanted to both show interest and tease him at the same time. A heightened level of game for the young model, one she hoped he would like. Not wanting to come off rude, or childish, Sansa stared into her phone for a long while until finally something of value sprung into her head.             


So you answered the why, Sansa typed, but what makes you think an erotic photoshoot is an acceptable second date? She read the message a hundred times, hoping it would come off both playfully, but quell her desire to know the next thing--why go through the trouble of the interview and photoshoot at all?  


She sent off the message, remembering he had his interview today and hoping he wouldn’t get back to her right away. To her surprise, and also dark delight, the message checked off as read within seconds, the answer however, didn’t come until the evening.


Saturday was NOT a date. I can do much better than that. (devil smiley) Tomorrow isn’t a date either, it’s more like….an audition.


Sansa cocked her head to the side as she read his message, her heart pounding, her cheeks blushing for no good reason. An audition? She wrote in response.


Yeah, he responded, had a rough day, see you bright and early. We’ll talk then.


After that exchange she had not written him back, rather contemplated his words at great length. For as cryptic as she had been, Sandor had been equally so. Though she was dying to know what he meant, surely she could wait another 12 hours, surely. 


Sansa walked into the atelier of Oberyn Martell at 6am on Tuesday morning for hair, makeup, and wardrobe, a ball of energy. Her makeup artist, normally quiet, was also a ball of energy eagerly chatting to a friend, “His hair is so soft, it’s amazing. And he’s so nice. I got to take a picture with him and he signed my album…” As Sansa walked up, the two women quickly stopped talking. 


“Right this way,” the makeup artist said, showing Sansa to the proper room and starting on her. The tight lipped young lady had not struck her as a Heavy Metal fan, but then again looks didn’t mean much--Sansa was learning this quickly. The young makeup artist was certainly still on a high from her encounter with Sandor. 


Sansa grinned to herself, trying her best to settle the butterflies in her own stomach. Instead it was better to focus on the schedule. She knew Sandor was going in before her to shoot some cover shots solo, and probably Oberyn wanted him to work off some of the ‘on camera’ jitters in the process. Judging by his lingering spicy scent in the makeup artist’s chair, they had missed one another only by a couple of minutes. 


I hope I can work out the jitters, she mused, surprised the idea of seeing Sandor again made her so giddy.


For the cover shot and, what Sansa assumed, would be a few extra shots in the early part of the magazine, she would be in relatively natural makeup. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t take some time to achieve a look that was both natural and light absorbent. It always amazed the young model how skillful the makeup artists were, able to make a face really look good under the hot studio lights. The rest would be up to her and her chemistry with Sandor. 


Taking a quick moment to admire the work of her colleague in the mirror, Sansa was pleased with what she saw. Her lips were accentuated red, and her eyelashes darkened so they would stand out against her pale skin. Her hair had been kept long, brushed, blow dried, and hairsprayed to lay naturally but have a bit more volume than usual. Her wardrobe consisted of 7in stiletto platform heels in black, more so she could reach Sandor’s massive height than for their sex appeal. The jeans she wore were a dark stone wash, tight and ripped. Also, she wore no shirt, she would be doing the covershot topless.  


“No underwear?” Sansa asked, searching around the dressing room.


“There was a last minute change, Oberyn’s decision,” the costume designer said unapologetically. 


Snorting, Sansa took one last breath to gather herself. Instead of making her anxious, as was often the case, her nerves made her bolder than she would have thought. A big part of this new found confidence was because she knew him, and she felt comfortable with him. There was no way to fake chemistry on camera, you either had it or you didn’t. Armed with the knowledge that their attraction went beyond the lens, the young model was oddly at ease. 


“Wear this,” the costume designer handed Sansa a thick robe, “It’s cold in there and no need to freeze before you're under the lights.”


With a quick smile and a nod of thanks, Sansa exited the dressing room and made her way through the multitude of people to the main set for the cover page. Even before she could glimpse the action, she could hear Oberyn and Sandor arguing. 


“I know what a mirthless smirk means, but what the actual fuck is one supposed to look like?” Sandor’s voice did not contain his anger, the frustration at his friend’s artistic direction oozing out of it. 


This is going to be an interesting and very long day, Sansa mused making her way through the throng of assistants. 


Sandor was just as she remembered him, if not better. Standing in front of the blue background, which accented both his eyes and his tattoos, he was shirtless, his bluejeans tight, the zipper wide open. Oberyn’s assistants had put the lighting up in such a way that it accentuated every peak and valley of his well defined musculature. The well maintained hair on his chest led all the way down his abs, enticingly past the beltline of his pants, and into the open part of his zipper. The trail beyond the zipper promised an avalon of raw masculinity, one Sansa’s eyes eagerly hoped to partake in. She was certainly not the only one reveling in looking him up and down, then back again. Sansa’s cheeks heated up unbid.


Happy not to be the center of attention, and to have a good long moment to glimpse him in relative peace, Sansa didn’t make any moves to distract Sandor’s attention. If anything, he and Oberyn needed to feel things about between one another now, if the shoot was going to move smoothly in the future. 


“Sansa, there you are.” The voice of Brienne and a quick squeeze of her elbow, made the young model reluctantly turn her eyes from Clegane. 


“Hey,” Sansa smiled, not sure what to expect from her busybody manager after the cryptic texts they had exchanged.


“So he’s a real piece of work,” Brienne looked over at Sandor. “It’s going to take you guys all day and then some to get through this. They’ve been arguing for a fair bit already.”


Sansa grinned, more amused than concerned about the time. At the moment it could take them three days for all she cared, her desire to spend time with Sandor far outweighing the relative discomfort of a prolonged shoot.


“You’re not going to, uh, fill me in on the juicy details,” Brienne nudged Sansa playfully intent on knowing everything that had transpired over the weekend.


“You’re worse than the tabloids,” Sansa joked. “It was exactly as you said. I went to a party, had a short glimpse into his life and the life of groupies. That was that.” Sansa was a terrible liar, and knew Brienne wouldn’t buy her abbreviated version of Saturday night’s events. At the same time, she didn’t have to. That was all Sansa had to say on the subject.  


Brienne eyed Sansa up and down, assessing her honesty. Having worked her entire life in the fashion industry, the tall blonde was used to trysts between models and celebrities. She most certainly knew all the good naughty tidbits in the industry, and that was why Sansa was doing what she could to dodge that gossip bullet.


“Where is my…? Oh there you are,” Oberyn’s eyes lit up when he saw Sansa, and he motioned her to come closer. With all the attention on her, the young model couldn’t help but blush slightly, her eyes darting quickly to Sandor’s. The tall metal singer rose to his full height, giving her the impression he wanted to be noticed. Even if it was impossible to miss him.


Three cheek kisses passed between Sansa and Oberyn, as if they were old friends, then she was led to Sandor—who had promptly zipped his pants back up. “You are going to have to tame this unruly beast,” Oberyn teased, though Sansa knew there was more than a hint of truth in his words. “He’s impossible to manage.”


Sansa nodded but her eyes never left Clegane’s burning greys. They were like magnets drawing her in with the gravitational pull of the sun. When she finally stood in front of the Mad Dog of Metal, Sansa could feel Oberyn’s hand on her shoulder and see the other one on Sandor’s. It was like he was about to give them a little league pep talk.


“Now the FCC has given us strict guidelines for the covershot, and there can be no overt nudity. Otherwise, once inside the front cover we have free artistic reign to do as we please.” Realizing they were only half listening, the Dornishman gripped both their shoulders a little harder, “Now I don’t really give a fuck what they think. So let me handle the pencil pushers and you two concentrate on being as dirty and teasing as you possibly can be. Now reacquaint yourselves. I need to do some adjustment on the lights.”


The photographer walked away and didn’t even turn around as he added, “Oh and Sansa, take that bloody robe off. I mean, why wear it at all?”


Nearly eye-to-eye with Clegane, Sansa undid the belt of her robe, and shrugged the thick cotton material off her shoulders. It was snatched up before it hit the ground by an overzealous assistant. She could see the Heavy Metal singer’s nostrils flare, but his eyes remained on hers for a polite amount of time before dipping below her chin. 


She could see the pulse on his neck quicken, and detected a slight uptick in the palpations of his chest. “Hi,” she said, smiling like a teenager on her first date. The irony of being topless on a first date not lost on her.


“Hi,” he said, his characteristic deep voice slightly higher. He cleared his throat, obviously abashed by how it had sounded. “You, uh, you’re bloody gorgeous.” 


The burnt side of Sandor’s face twitched reflexively, he wouldn’t have been able to control it on that side for sure. He also brought his hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it a bit—a nervous school-boy gesture that Sansa found sweet.


In a bold move, Sansa put her hand on his chest. They needed to break the ice as quickly as possible if they were going to get some good pictures early in the shoot. That kind of thinking was also a good cover for her own personal desire, to run her fingers through his dark curly chest hair. 


“You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, unable to wipe that silly grin from her face as the soft hair tickled her fingertips. 


They were whispering, hoping nobody would hear their little conversation in the rush of lights being changed, lenses being moved around, and a few minor clicks of test shots being done. She and Sandor were like teenagers trying to hide something from their parents to the point she had to stop herself from giggling outright.


“I don’t see how you can do this as a job,” Sandor chuckled nervously, “I’m one hot minuet from smacking Oberyn in his handsome dornish face.”


“You get used to it,” she whispered, feeling bolder than she ever had, her finger still tracing lines on his chest, enjoying the surprising softness of the hair there. “So an audition, huh?” Sansa teased, not wanting to have their conversation and her curiosities go unanswered. “What were you thinking when you agreed to this shoot?”


“Oh I don’t know?” His voice was so deep it rumbled in his chest. “How a guy like me was ever gonna meet a girl like you. And…” he sucked in some breath, “that I wanted you to get to know all of me--not just some of me.”  


Sansa threw him a look that asked him if he was serious. When his expression did not change at all she smiled and shook her head. “So what are you auditioning for exactly? Back-to-back shows every Friday night starting at 7?”


That did elicit a laugh from the big man, a few diligent young photographers snapping some candid shots. One could never have too many photos. “Just Friday night?” He answered in mock disgust, “I was thinking every bloody night of the week. More a permanent type gig, like resident musician or some shit.”


“Bold and presumptuous,” she said, as if she had any other male callers of note.


Moving a stray hair behind her ear, Sandor bent his head down slightly, “I never do anything in half measures. It’s go big or go home.”


At that she smiled, closing the distance between them and forgetting the cameras were around. They were so caught up in one another, it seemed they had both lost track of why they were there and who was around them. “And what exactly are your main talents for this,” she brought her finger down his chest, “audition?”


“This for starters,” his lips pressed into hers passionately and without warning. One arm moved skillfully around her waist the other snaked up to control her head, digging into her hair. 


Gasping a bit in surprise, Sansa quickly steadied herself against his body while he leaned her back. Never truly forgetting her modeling training, her left arm up stage, went around his neck. Her camera facing arm down stage, gripped Sandor’s beautifully tattooed forearm tightly.  The sound of shutters clicking filled the air and Sansa could see the lights flashing a bit through her closed eyes. She didn’t care one bit. Sandor's lips were warm, his tongue entering her mouth assertively. There he reveled in her taste, seeking out her own tongue slowly and methodically. Once located, he teased it, gently running the tip of his own muscle along the length of hers, his lips readjusting to play with her mouth. 


“Mmmmmm,” she could hear him grumble, arm that was around her waist now slipping down to her bum. He had long since pulled their hips flush, tipping her back in a well balanced, artistic arch.


As they locked lips in front of the crew, Sansa ensured her hand traveled from Sandor’s bicep to his face, his shortly cropped beard brushing her finger tips. Just as they were about to come up for air, Sandor nipped her bottom lip, holding it gently between his teeth and pulling. Slowly bringing her body upright, he held her steady just to make sure her legs wouldn’t fail under her. 


When their eyes met again, and their faces had a bit of distance, all Sansa could see was a twinkle in his eyes and a sheepish grin on his face. While she couldn’t say they’d broken a cardinal rule of modeling, it was considered very unorthodox to simply start such an intimacy without the direction of the lead photographer. That’s why the tone of Oberyn’s voice didn’t surprise her, “Now that you’ve got that out of your system…”


He waited until Sansa and Sandor had stopped staring at one another lustfully and, instead, focused their attention on him. Oberyn’s hands were on his hips. “Your tits look great smashed up against that big daddy chest of his, but a bloody kiss is not going to make it on my front cover. It’s very old fashioned and boring. So if you’re quite ready, we’ll start with the real shoot…” 


There was both amusement and sass to his words. All photographers at this level were difficult and demanded unquestionable following of their orders. The spark in his eye told her he was at least content that his two models had a healthy and fiery chemistry. Yet Sandor looked rather displeased with Oberyn’s tone. It was clear the two men would continue to clash, one dead set on art direction and the other not caring, or unwilling, to follow any sort of orders. Sandor’s arms were crossed over his chest, as if daring Oberyn to scold him. That didn’t stop the experienced photographer from continuing in his bossy tone.


“Clegane, get on the blue mark. Make sure you’re behind Sansa,” Oberyn mimed the move, though it wasn’t necessary. 


“Sansa, take a  wide stance,” Oberyn ordered her. “Yes, that’s right. As close to him as you can possibly be. Back to chest shouldn’t be so hard given what we’ve just seen.” Sansa detected more than a twinge of jealousy in the photographer’s voice, though he covered it well.


Sandor snorted at the off-color comments, but quickly did as he was told, favoring closeness to her over a fight with the Dornishman.


“Now, Sandor, right arm across her chest, your hand resting on her shoulder. We’ve got to cover those luscious pink nipples with some hard metal masculinity.” Oberyn was getting into his groove, the clashes from Sandor’s single shoot soon forgotten.


Clearing his throat, equal parts tentative and excited, Sandor did as he was told. A big, strong arm wrapped itself around her body, pulling her back flush with his chest. They were so close that the curve of her bum nestled itself firmly in his crotch. Sansa felt the front man twitch slightly, then quickly ease into the position.


Yet before they could get too comfortable, Oberyn’s voice interjected. “No, not like that, Clegane. Don’t give her cleavage with your arm under her breasts. It looks weird and makes a terrible shape.” 


Sansa inhaled deeply, wondering if it was wrong to feel her nipples harden while Sandor rubbed his forearm awkwardly over them--trying to please the detailed eye of Oberyn Martell. “Overtop of the breasts and kind of push them down. Yeah that’s better I want a bit of under boob. Excellent, Marcell, the lighting…”


Happy to have a bit of the focus off of them, Sandor pushed his lips into her ear. “You could cut glass with those things,” he literally growled the words, making a slight shiver pass her spine.


There was no way she could blame her puckered nipples on the blasting A/C, Sandor’s body seemed to run several degrees warmer than her own. The man was a literal furnace, keeping her warm despite their surroundings. Sansa blushed, and was happy when the assistant promptly flashed some reflected lighting in their faces--saving her from the conversation. 


“Alright that’s good,” Oberyn came over to them and moved their hair around such that all of Sandor’s long dark hair was swept over his right shoulder, mixing and melding with her own red hair. It was like one endless waterfall of hair connecting two very different people.


“Sansa, right hand on his thigh, yeah just grip it. Sandor that left hand…” Oberyn stood back a moment looking at them and composing something on the fly. It was always the case in this profession that an idea might not quite pan out once the bodies were there, so a lot of time was spent on improvisation. 


When the pretty faced photographer suddenly had a devil’s grin on his lips, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder what he had in store. “Somebody open her jeans, we need to have his hand down her pants.”


She opened her mouth in shock, but didn’t dare move. They were in a great position and to ruin that would be to endure more bickering and repositioning. Sandor groaned lightly in her ear at the very idea of what was about to happen, and she nuzzled his neck with her lips so as to hide the redness flooding her cheeks. His spicy scent filled her nostrils, and it was oddly comforting. One of the camera assistants, along with Oberyn, came to do the deed. It was weird to feel foreign hands on the button of your jeans and to have them move the zipper down. 


The two sides of her tight pants peeled back, Sansa could feel Oberyn moving Sandor’s hand down her belly between the jeans and her naked skin--positioning it at the right angle for the lighting. “Like old times, huh, brother?” The photographer grinned.


“Huh? You mean you being a picky, difficult little bitch?” Sandor shot back. Oberyn smirked in response. These two had a history for sure, but it was hard to judge just how deep it ran.


Sansa rather enjoyed the feeling of Sandor’s rough fingers trailing down the narrow passage between her skin and the jeans. They were in no rush, but certainly not tentative as they slid further toward her core. He was a man who liked to take his time. One who valued sensuality.


“That’s right, even more. You’ve gotta play with her, man. Or at least let the people who look at the magazine on the shelf do a double take just to see if you are,” Oberyn laughed while he and his assistant took some steps back to take in the full scene. 


When Sandor hit the top of her mound, and in so doing the edge of her pubic hair, his fingers twitched. With a sharp exhale of breath she felt him press her into him even more. “Don’t tell me the carpet matches the drapes now.” His voice almost shook when he said it, as if the real answer might be too much for him to take. 


The tighter he held her, the more she could feel his turgid manhood against the round of her bum. It made her nipples harder, more sensitive to his warm skin, igniting her own lust. Sansa nipped at his ear, “Don’t tell me the star of the show is prematurely ready for his closeup.” 


At that he chuckled lightly, enjoying the witty banter about his eager erection. Oberyn gave them the sign that they were ready to shoot. The first couple of moments they were both looking into the camera, but Oberyn didn’t seem to find it as alluring. Sansa knew that, in order to get them in a bit of a flow, it would be best for them to light that spark as they had in the beginning. 


Her left hand was just hanging about, not doing much of anything. That was when she decided to do a little improvisation of her own. Slipping her hand over Clegane’s, ensuring not to cover up his tattoos, she began to move his hand deeper down toward her center--dragging his fingers slowly over her patch of pubic hair. Growling, he buried his lips into her neck and gripped her to his body, and she in turn rubbed her bum on him in response.


“That’s it, this is much better, oh you naughty girl…” Oberyn was taking pictures, “Clegane, look at me. Sansa, yes that’s it, baby. Put your lips on his neck and make them pouty so we see them better.”


By this time Sandor’s huge hand, led by her much smaller one, had made it all the way to the crotch of her jeans. He could have done anything, but instead of slipping a finger into her throbbing pussy, he cupped it. “Oh, a gentleman I see…” she teased.


“Not a day in my fucking life,” he whispered back. Then he moved the hand he had resting on her shoulder to her chin, it was both a possessive and controlling gesture, one that made her quiver. Sandor’s eyes never left the camera though, and Sansa couldn’t conceal her naughty smirk as she nipped at the flesh of his neck. 


“That’s it, that’s the money shot. Marcell cast a shadow over that nipple a bit. Perfect. Don’t breathe,” Oberyn’s voice allowed no room to challenge him. There was a smattering of camera shutters and lights going off at different times--but when the dust had settled, Oberyn had a satisfied grin on his face. “Ok take a moment, I need to review these.”


He’s slowly getting the hang of this, she thought, amused.


The final shot, the one Sansa was sure would eventually make the cover, would be a cropped picture of them from the mid thigh up. Against a blue background that matched her eyes and accentuated his grey ones, Sandor stood tall behind her, hugging her body possessively into his own. Their hair, a cascade of intermixed red and dark brown, nearly black, streamed over their right shoulders. Clegane’s  iconic arms were wrapped around her, the right elbow and forearm only just covering her nipples, having the effect of pressing her breasts down, making the full swell of her under breast visible. His right hand controlled her chin, pointing her face toward his, but it belied who was really in power. Sansa was by no means a damsel in distress, caught in the arms of a dark Heavy Metal musician. Her strong stance, her oozing sexuality were equal parts siren and nymph. The satisfaction of having lured such a strong, sexy bull to her lair evident in her eyes, and the way her teeth tugged at the flesh of his neck. Her right hand gripped his thigh in a predatory fashion, loath to let her juicy prey leave. Her left hand guided his toward her ultimate weapon, showing him she would not renege on her promise of the dark lust he would find there. A hint of her red pubic hair was slightly visible over the side of his thumb. It suggested the bait she had so adeptly used to tempt him.


Sandor’s eyes looked straight into the camera snarling a warning to anybody who would wish to pull him from his singular fate. It was clear from his expression, and the power with which he held her, that he thrilled in the idea of giving into this dark love. There was no doubt this man had sold his soul willingly to the nymph who possessed him. He would do her bidding willingly, hers to use as she pleased. Her seduction of the Heavy Metal singer was complete.


There was something so relaxing about getting her makeup done. The soft brushes moving across her face, not having to do anything other than allow somebody to work. Sansa used these valuable moments to recenter herself during shoots. Photoshoots, no matter where they were or their subject, were often chaotic, energy draining exercises where you needed a lot of physical and mental stamina. This particular job, however, was forcing the young model to control her raging heart on top of it all. 


It had hit her like a freight train, this sexual and emotional connection to Sandor Clegane. It had taken on a life of its own, which was both unexpected and electrifying. It was a visceral emotion. Wild and uncontrollable he’d possessed her with a kiss, and that kiss had crept through her body slowly overtaking the ‘good sense’ her mother had taught her. He had seeped into her mind, ripped through her body, and had taken her heart prisoner. I’m helpless, Sansa knew it implicitly. 


Despite her first impressions, Sandor had some amazingly attractive qualities that went beyond his formidable body. Sansa appreciated how he took his own path, no matter how unorthodox it might be. It made her think of the chain of crazy and bizarre decisions the both of them had to make to be here today, in a room together, both making art and fighting for control of the other’s heart. She almost smiled, but quickly stopped herself so as not to disrupt the makeup artist.  


Perhaps even more strange, when she truly considered it, was the idea that people might actually ‘get off’ on the photos they were making. The very idea that a total stranger would masterbate to your likeness struck Sansa as weird. For a girl that had been taught to cover up and cross her legs when sitting, this was a complete slap in the face to the conservative northern values she was raised with. And she loved the thrill of it. Even more, she loved the idea that Sandor wasn’t intimidated by her budding sexual side. As a matter of fact, he encouraged it, smirked at the jealousy of other men, and wanted her to give him more. 


It was liberating. He was liberating.


She could hear the band playing in the background, the makeshift walls of the makeup and dressing room were thin. In the room’s defence the music was loud, but Oberyn wanted to get some good band shots playing where he was able to control the lighting conditions. This desire for what the photographer called ‘real band shots, not those amature pieces of shit’ had given Sansa a bit of time to get her makeup changed and her nails painted. This next set would be the Stage, though she was not one hundred percent sure what Oberyn wanted her to do there. 


The other aspect of this scene that made her skeptical of the photographer’s motivations, was the fact that she was doing the shoot nude. From her understanding, or at least the way the schedule was planned, it would be a solo shoot. Yet Sansa didn’t necessarily trust Oberyn to play fairly. The wily photographer always seemed to have something up his sleeve, and certainly got a kick out of pushing their boundaries. Smiling to herself, Sansa threw the cotton robe around her body and slipped into her red high heels. Ready.


Where’s Trant? She wondered, seeing only three of the band members finishing up their final song as the stage came into view. Looking around Sansa recognized an audio player through which she assumed, the bass for the song was being played. Sansa let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding in--not really in the mood to confront her attacker yet again. Once the music had stopped and Oberyn had given them the ok to leave the attractive, Dornish photographer turned to her. It was like he had a second sense for where she was, as he always seemed to look in the exact place where she sat or stood.


Putting his arm around her shoulders, Oberyn pulled Sansa close, “So we’re making a grab for the big man’s guitar,” his eyes shifted to where the black guitar now sat neatly on its stand. “Whatever you do, and I mean at all costs, do not let him see that patch of fire between your legs, ok?” His eyes twinkled with devilish mischief. 


“Alright,” Sansa answered in a way that begged the question, Why? 


“He’s quite fun to tease. Trust me,” Oberyn winked, then led her to the stage with his hand in the small of her back. 


Sandor’s eyes were immediately on her, his head cocked in slight confusion as to why she would be coming onto the stage set, and him coming off of it. Pointing to a small step ladder, Oberyn began, “Sansa if you could get up on the stage a second.” 


Knowing what he was about to do, the naughty photographer was already waiting at the appropriate place to help her up the ladder, offering his hand. Sansa took it, and made the four precarious steps onto the constructed stage setup. 


“Okay, my dear. See that black guitar,” Oberyn made a point of gesturing toward Sandor’s guitar, right in front of the big man, “Pick it up and bring it to the edge of the stage right here.”


“Wooh, wait,” Sansa could hear Sandor’s surprised voice cut into the conversation. “You didn’t mention anything about my guitar.”


Not wanting to set off a war, Sansa turned to the two men and waited to see how the little spat played out. “You’re already going to let her handle your most prized possession, so what’s wrong with letting her play with your second most prized possession?” Oberyn challenged the monstrous singer. 


Hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed, there wasn’t too much Sandor could say. A growl of annoyance emanated from his throat, but he turned his eyes up to Sansa and gave her a nod. It was very clear he wasn’t thrilled about his guitar being handled by anybody. Yet it seemed, for the sake of art, Sandor would make an exception. 


A stage assistant helped her unplug the big electric guitar from the amp, and Sansa took the weighty thing over to the edge of the stage. “Alright sit on the edge and let’s get started. Simon take that robe.” 


Sansa sat on the edge of the stage, her legs dangling off the edge. Sandor’s bandmates were still around, having a bit of a chat with the camera crew and signing a few autographs. Once the robe came off her shoulders though, and she sat there with Sandor’s pride and joy in her arms, the room got very silent. 


“This guitar is like an extension of the man himself. It’s iconic, responsible for some of the best music in the industry,” Oberyn’s words combined with Clegane’s nervous look, didn’t make her feel any more comfortable about holding the instrument. The irony of it all was that the guitar was the only thing covering the space between her legs. So she absolutely had to keep it pressed to her body.


Oberyn continued, “So you should make love to it. Show the big guy what you want to do to him later.” There was an awkward eyebrow wiggle from the Dornishman that made Sansa even more apprehensive of the stage direction she had just received.


Visible just beyond the lights, Sandor stood with his huge arms crossed watching her intently. It was difficult to decrypt his expression. On the one hand he was like a hawk watching her every move with his favorite guitar. On the other, his eyes were slowly wandering up her body, fire engine red heels, to knees, to a bit of exposed hip. He was smart enough to know she was naked behind that guitar and it made her wonder if this was some kind of unspoken fantasy of the Mad Dog of Metal. Well, I’m about to find out.


Wishy washy direction, like she had just been given, was not particularly useful -- and it certainly wasn’t her strength to interpret such words into visual artistry. So instead Sansa took a deep breath, and her eyes locked with Sandor’s. She trusted their connection, felt that in an esoteric way, he would guide her. 


I need to surprise him, that was the dominant idea that popped into her head at that moment. 


The neck of his guitar in her right hand, Sansa let her left leg dangle over the edge of the stage, bringing the sole of her right foot to rest on the stage. It was by no means a comfortable position, but the idea of having her legs spread wide open with only the body of the guitar covering the apex of her thighs had the intended effect. Sandor’s eyes lit up like it was his Name Day, the huge front man putting both hands behind his neck and turning briefly--struggling quell the sexual thoughts running through his head. 


“That’s it!” Oberyn called to her, taking some shots.


Sansa was trying to do her best, her well practiced expressions of both sexy and fierce coming easily to her face. Yet, she had never held a guitar before and consequently had no idea what her hands, and especially her fingers, should be doing. As the lights blazed and the flashes continued, she began to feel more and more awkward holding Sandor’s second most prized possession.


The Heavy Metal singer seemed to think so too, for he interrupted the shoot without a second thought, “Stop, just stop one moment.”


Oberyn didn’t even get a chance to snip, as Sandor passed him and went directly to her. “It’s a total boner killer when you hold a guitar wrong,” his eyebrow was lifted, but his words were oddly gentle. 


Using one hand, Sandor hoisted himself on the stage so he was sitting next to her, his audacious attempt to glance at her little red bush thwarted by a quick readjustment of the guitar. Knowing something was up, Sandor’s eyes passed between her and Oberyn, then back. “Are you two in cahoots, or somethin’?” 


As Sansa was a terrible liar and could never stop the flush that rushed into her face, his suspicions were almost instantly confirmed. 


“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” He teased, then brought his leg around Sansa so he could straddle her from behind, all of their legs now dangling off the stage. Of course the sound of shutters never stopped, and Sansa wondered, as she again found herself back to chest with him, if this had somehow been a setup by the wily photographer. 


Sandor helped her adjust the guitar on her thigh, his left hand steadying hers on the instrument’s body, his right hand searching for her fingers. “This is C,” he moved her fingers gently into the proper position. “Now you have to press down or it’s not gonna look like you’re doing anything.” 


She did, and found the metal guitar strings rough on her fingers.


“C major seventh, also isn’t so bad to start with,” he kept her cradled very close, his mouth at her ear whispering how she needed to move her fingers, his steady heartbeat noticeable on her back. Sandor was patient, calm and the brushing of his beard against her neck was driving her insane. 


“This is D, it's not so different from C,” he continued. “You know, this isn’t going to work,” with that he very artfully pulled her on his lap, her legs draping over the outside of his own -- spread even wider than before. 


“Oh that was really smooth,” Sansa pulled her head to the side and stared him down. While she might applaud the Heavy Metal musician on his ‘game’, that didn’t mean he wasn’t being completely naughty. 


“Right here, stop, don’t fuckin’ breathe,” Oberyn starting taking shots from all different angles. 


She must have had quite a look of contempt on her face, because Sandor seemed to delight in her pique. Once they were allowed to breathe again he nuzzled her neck unabashed, “Always,” he answered, his right hand moving from the neck of the guitar to her hip, positioning her right on top of his very healthy erection. Her body responded immediately, leaving Sansa to become acutely conscious of the wetness moving toward her thighs.


“Now this,” Sandor cleared his throat as if her bum cheeks stradling his erection was a bit more than he could take, “is A minor 9.” 


It was the utterly most ridiculous finger position she could think of. A small chuckle preceded his next words,“Or maybe we could try G add9…” And as he tried to position her fingers and force them to make pressure on the strings, Sansa burst out into laughter, her head rolling back on his shoulder. 


The shutters were on fire, the noise nearly deafening. Now there was no doubt Oberyn wanted to catch a sweet moment between the two, enticing the normally impatient Sandor Clegane to help her with his own guitar. It fed into a fantasy, and, to be honest it was kind of hot. The longer Sansa struggled with the horrific finger positions, the harder his cock got between her legs.


“Now you’re just showing off,” Sansa shook her head once she was allowed to move her head again, leaving it ambiguous as to whether she was talking about this chord, or his erection.


Sandor merely shrugged, a self-satisfied grin on his face. 


“Sansa, eyes to me. Now I want you to lick the neck of the guitar up to the headstock,” Oberyn winked when he said it, “Keep your fingers on the neck. That’s right, you know what you’re doing you bad girl.”


“Sandor, we’re all waiting for your right hand to move to that amazing breast. What chord is that Mr. Guitar Lessons?” Oberyn was clearly goading the man at his weakest moment, and Sandor didn’t shoot back. His eyes were too busy following her tongue as it made its way lazily over his guitar. His body too focused on the very idea of palming her breast.


Sansa sucked in breath as a huge hand slipped over her breast, her nipple caught between his index and middle fingers. He rolled it gently, applying a measured amount of pressure, one he’d certainly mastered from years of guitar playing. Sansa suppressed a moan but Sandor was so tight against her body he could feel her body twitch despite itself. Pictures were taken, and their position was becoming painful--not physically but sexually. A dam was about to break, Sansa could feel her loins tingle with excitement. Suddenly wondering if he could smell her arousal, she promptly turned red at the very thought she was so turned on and there was nothing she could do to hide it. 


“Okay, we’re done here,” Oberyn gave the order for them to stop.


The final shot was pure foreplay. A lonely stage in the background, Sandor and Sansa in the foreground. She was firmly planted on his lap, her legs spread wide on the outer sides of his own, pale skin and red heels in stark contrast to his dark jeans and black combat boots. Steadying the body of the guitar with both of their left hands, his subtly over hers, one finger caressing one of her own. Her right hand was on the neck of the guitar, his covering her breast, the tiny puckering of her aroused nipple only just visible between Sandor’s large fingers. He was watching her, lips slightly parted, completely fixated on her mouth -- the dirtiest of sexual fantasies running through his head. She, in turn, was focused on the guitar, her tongue long and flat over the neck. She could taste him on the instrument, and that gave her a subtle look of pleasure while she did it. It was a tease, it was playful, it was a prelude to what was to come. It would beg any reader to turn the page, to see more.


“I’m never washing this guitar again,” Sandor chuckled, his band members chimed in knowingly. Then he whispered in her ear, “And I’m never washing these jeans again either.” Her face lit up crimsen, slightly embarrassed that she might have slicked his jeans with her arousal. “You smell like heaven,” he breathed letting her down slowly from the stage, his hands under her own arms. 


It took a moment for Sansa to get her robe again, nervously holding the guitar in her hands and feeling Sandor’s eyes burning into her backside. Her suspicions were confirmed once she turned around, the notorious front man looked like a bear with his hand in the honey jar, a massive erection visible under his tight jeans. His eyes zeroed in on where her ass once was.


It didn’t take long for his bandmates to chime in, “Is that a green boy we’ve got on stage?” Tormund called out.


“Naw, that’s the new bass player ready for his audition,” Bronn laughed, eyeing Sandor’s healthy hardon. “We’re gonna have to bloody name the thing, yeah?”


“Fuck you guys,” Sandor kind of looked at the floor. He wasn’t embarrassed so to say, but it was clear he wasn’t thrilled to be the center of attention right now. “You guys come put your cock on the line, and see how many magazines you sell.”  


Those words were met with some jovial laughter as Sandor tried to look Sansa in the eye without feeling slightly self conscious. His shyness was cute, and Sansa realized that when they were together it melted away--that he could endure the cameras if just even for a little bit. 


Sansa handed him back his guitar and sent him a wink before being led, once again, for a wardrobe change and makeup. That didn’t mean, however, that she couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation the men were having.


“And they thought you would need a bloody fluffer!” A contrite laugh escaped Oberyn’s lips, but Sandor said nothing. “Alright big guy, time to release that monster and give the public what it wants.”  


Sandor’s bandmates whistled and hollered, clearly ready to see the first part of his nude shoot. Sansa did hope they wouldn’t be there for the next scenes--they would need to focus to get through them.


There was a slight pause, the uneasy shifting of clothing could be heard as she walked away from the set. The sounds of a cotton T-shirt moving over strong muscle were unmistakable, the opening of a belt buckle and it’s unceremonious drop to the floor. The pace with which he did it, told Sansa he was uneasy and she could understand. Even for somebody used to the stage, as Sandor was, being fully nude in a group of strangers was an altogether different thing. 


“Oh you let Simon wax you huh? Good call,” Oberyn remarked, if not with some reverie for Sandor’s presumably ample manhood.


“Painful as fuck, but smooth balls do feel pretty damned amazing,” Sandor’s gruff voice was conversational or at least trying to be to make his nerves subside. 


It was the pitch of his voice Sansa decided that gave away his nerves. She couldn’t blame him. Women had such stress in the business to have a good figure and unblemished skin, she couldn’t imagine what it might be like to be judged solely on the length and girth of your penis.  


At that the two men laughed, though Sandor’s voice was strained. “Now to the bar, we need to bang some pics out while she’s in wardrobe,” Oberyn said. “Fuck, do I even have a wide enough angle for that cock?” 


The conversation became harder to understand the further she got, but Sansa was already bright red by the time they made it into the dressing room. She’d certainly felt the star of the show. He had not been shy to make his existence known to her. However, the next sequence of pictures would be more openly erotic. The very thought made Sansa nervous, for she didn’t know if she could resist Sandor Clegane’s allure.


Chapter Text


                           Chapter 6


Chapter 6:  The Shoot Part 2

Tyrion Lannister spun around in his wingback, leather desk chair a couple of times watching his office walls fly by. It wasn’t his standard fare, but then again he needed to do something to pass the time and this was better than slamming his fist through the wall. The Dornishman was late, and the testy dwarf despised tardiness right down to his very core. What struck him as odd about this meeting however, was that Oberyn Martell was never late. Punctuality was key to his shoots, and so well ingrained in the man himself, that the handsome photographer was the polar opposite of the typical dornish stereotype.Yet Tyrion had been waiting for over half an hour giving him cause to wonder what in the bloody seven hells was going on. Even more importantly he was dying to see the outcome of the shoot. Ready to feast his eyes on what he hoped would become of the most iconic pictures Playgirl had ever published. 


The suspense was killing him.


Resting his head on the seat back and looking up at the ceiling, the Lion of Lannister tried to calm himself. Today would be a draft design proposal for the anniversary edition.The pictures would be raw, without cropping, touch ups, and the like--but they would be Oberyn’s personal selection. Tyrion grinned, his mind ablaze with what the beginnings of his vision would look like. He had pushed hard for the board to pursue Sandor Clegane, put his reputation and his job on the line to have the Heavy Metal singer. Now he needed to know if it had all been worth it.


The pen he chewed on absentmindedly crunched between his teeth as the youngest Lannister’s thoughts began drifting to the idea of what would happen if they didn’t pull this off. He shuddered at the very idea of what would happen to Playgirl if it didn’t sell the amount of copies promised. ‘Thank the gods I paid them both pish posh,’ the dwarf smiled, thinking about Clegane and the model with which he would be featured.  


It was no secret the magazine wasn’t doing well. In the age of the internet with free naked people of every shape, size, and color one could think of, magazines like Playgirl were struggling. Finding A-list celebrities willing to bare it all in front of the camera, like Sandor Clegane, was one of the few avenues he had left to pursue. 


‘My plan to catapult us back to the front lines, where journalism and porn intersect,’ that was the eager dwarf’s goal anyway. It might have even been considered lofty, but Tyrion wanted to change the way society viewed his magazine and he hoped to use the 20th Anniversary Edition as the springboard to the future.


The incessant sound of the second hand of his large mechanical office clock was louder than normal, and certainly more annoying than ever before. Tyrion sighed, wondering if he should call the dashing Oberyn Martell, or if he was dead in a ditch somewhere with his cock tied to his neck by a rope. Not that that hadn’t happened before, it had just never really made the press. Tyrion chuckled darkly at the idea of the famed photographer off his tits on drugs and playing dirty sex games. ‘Now that is the Dornish stereotype,’ he mused with a wry grin.  


The door to his office burst open unceremoniously making Tyrion whip his chair around to see who it was. Great relief spread though his tiny body at the sight of Oberyn, both alive and with a huge portfolio holder in his hands. Eyeing the man up and down, the dwarf noticed how sweat had beaded on his brow. He’d been rushing to get there, and he could see the photographer was agitated. Normally calm and collected, few things ruffled Oberyn Martell’s feathers. Tyrion narrowed his eyes, not caring what excuses might come spewing from his mouth.  


“I don’t want to know why, just show me what you have,” the dwarf insisted, trying not to show how nervous he was. He’d been chomping at the bit since the end of his interview with Clegane, only a few days before, to see these pictures. His twisted mind dying to know what sorts of debauchery Oberyn had in store for the magazine.


The photographer opened his mouth to protest, but Tyrion shushed him immediately. A glare on his flawless, handsome face, Oberyn instead opened up his portfolio holder and handed Tyrion two hastily put together design books. The dwarf looked up with suspicion at the man standing across from him. They had worked together on a number of pieces for various magazines and never had the art diva ever given him two choices. If there was one thing about the Dornishman, he was precise. He knew exactly what he wanted and rarely compromised when it came to what defined him--his art.


Tyrion looked down with suspicion at the books. The cover photo was exactly the same. It was a striking picture on a cool blue background. It was raw in its sexuality and while it captured Clegane’s dark masculinity, it was clear to Tyrion that the model sharing the picture was really in control. Her face was only just visible given the lighting, her long red hair caught up in the singer's own dark mane. She gripped him as possessively as he did her, a delicious battle between man and woman, good and evil and the dwarf was loath to decide who represented which side. Tyrion knew that look in Clegane’s eyes, a warning, which came off more like a muted snarl. The two of them leapt off the page. It was immediately engaging. Immediately naughty. It made the dwarf’s heart beat faster. Made him lick his lips in anticipation of what was next. 


“That’s Miss Blue Heels, I suspect,” Tyrion said, not looking up from the front cover. Her fiery red hair was all he needed to see to draw such an audacious conclusion.


“The one and only,” Oberyn responded, less than amused. By this time he had plopped down in a chair opposite Tyrion’s d esk, clearly upset by the dwarf’s offish manner.


“That bastard, he could have told me she was the model….” Tyrion said absentmindedly, referring to Clegane’s caginess during the interview. 


Oberyn snorted in a sarcastic manner, but said nothing. It was an odd reaction from the photographer, but Tyrion thought little of it. Opening the covers of both portfolios there was no difference. The standard teasing photos of the notorious front man for Fuck the King shirtless, his ridiculous muscles bulging, jeans open in an invitation to any female or male reader to turned the page. His hair was windswept and while it was an expected spread of photos, Tyrion couldn’t deny that Clegane was a good piece of eye candy. 


Then his gaze fell upon a kiss, one shared between the model and the singer. Her breasts were tight against him, nipples enmeshed in the front man’s dark chest hair. There was a dynamic element to the photo. It was the way her fingers dug into the skin of his massive bicep, and how her back arched to the point you thought it wouldn’t be possible.


Tyrion looked over the top of his glasses, “That’s not you. It’s far too...mundane.” 


Oberyn nodded but when he opened his mouth to say something, Tyrion quieted him with a finger. He examined the photo closely. “It’s well composed,” he said finally, “and there’s a spontaneous quality to it that gives it a certain...something.”


Turning the next couple of pages, which were again the same,Tyrion observed them carefully. The band shots were good. The lighting was excellent as one would expect from a photographer of Oberyn’s calibre. The obligatory hair flips, head banging, and everything else one needed to have for a proper Heavy Metal band shoot. 


‘It adds context,’ Tyrion thought, ‘Even if you don’t know him you can see what he does and that he’s good at it. For the love of the Seven does he have enough muscles?’ It was, admittedly, impressive to see a man of Clegane’s size so filled out, sweaty, and deeply focused on his craft. It was easy to understand why the Mad Dog of Metal was sought after-- a true sex symbol and hot commodity. It made Tyrion all the more confident in his choice.


Tyrion turned the pages, not surprisingly both suggestions were the same. He looked over his glasses at the photographer, saw he was picking the dirt from under his nails, and went back to the layouts. This part of the magazine seemed to be dedicated to Clegane’s softer side. The young model was prim and pretty on his lap, almost certainly enjoying what lurked under the thin fabric of his jeans, a jet black left handed electric guitar cradled in her arms. Tyrion knew that guitar, knew it was one of those items that should be in a museum somewhere given what the prolific and prodigious front man had done with it. 


Yet this important piece of music history was there with a beautiful naked woman running her tongue over it. The singer’s eyes locked on her with both a lust and a reverie that was somehow very Clegane if you knew the man. Not that Tyrion could say he knew him well, but interviewing did fast forward a relationship to a certain extent. It wasn’t hard to see, or even imagine, that these pictures were a fantasy--a sweet humanizing fantasy.The dwarf could feel his trousers grow tight at the sight of her nipple between his fingers. It was that little detail that hinted there was more going on between them than simply posing nice for the cameras. It was delicious. 


Tyrion looked up and threw Oberyn a grin. The photographer motioned for him to turn the page, a knowing smile crossing his face. 


Lifting an eyebrow, the journalist couldn’t help himself, “Cocaine, Oberyn? That’s so….you.”


“It’s the life, that’s what they do,” the photographer shot back.


Rolling his eyes, Tyrion continued to review the magazine proposals. Then a picture really caught his attention. Clegane must have been on top of the model, the physics of their hair hinted at that. It was a close up shot, their profiles and necks filling the entire picture. The two were close, one could only fit a finger or two between their noses. The scarred, monstrous side of Clegane’s face was to the camera, her finger pressed tight against his lips, her eyes unafraid. It was emotive in a cultural sense. Tyrion was immediately reminded of the fable in which the Stranger ravages the Maiden, stealing her into his bed and never letting her leave. In this picture however, the Maiden was reprimanding the ill behaved god. Putting her bigger, stronger foe in his place.Tyrion could not read the words that were coming from her lips, but her mouth was in motion and she was in control. 


The next series of photos, on the bar, made Tyrion chuckle outright, his cock reaching a semi-hard state. “It looks like he wants to drown down there,” he said, admiring this photo in particular. A photographer like Oberyn was priceless and it was these kinds of shots, both edgy and out of the box, that made a magazine spread. The way the model’s nipples perked from under her white shirt, the way the ice cold vodka covered her -- its motion so vivid.


“It would have been a happy death, I can tell you that,” Oberyn said, putting his feet up on the desk. 


Tyrion turned the pages of both proposals, again the same. He was beginning to wonder what the famed photographer was playing him for. ‘A fool? A simpleton?”


The old Cadillac was a cramped space, difficult for a man of 6ft 8in to fit in, much less with a young woman pressed up against him. “Jeez, man. These are iconic…” It wasn’t a word Tyrion threw around lightly, but it was true. Their hand placement in these pictures, the look in their eyes, as if they were seeing one another naked for the first time, Sandor’s face buried between her legs, his massive manhood full and ready. It made a man wonder if he had enough cock, comparing your own with that of Fuck King’s front man.


“You haven’t seen everything yet,” Oberyn teased, a glint in his eyes. Art excited the man, enough to pull him even out of his darkest thoughts, the dwarf could see that.


While Tyrion found it difficult to believe, he ghosted over the solo nudes of Clegane. He wasn’t that into cock, but there was  enough thick, veiny pleasure there for anybody who was. Oberyn seemed to have a keen eye for the organ, which was part of the reason Tyrion had pushed for the photographer--that and the fact that he knew Clegane just about as well as anybody could. There needed to be some trust to get involved in a shoot like this, and the dwarf had banked on the relationship between the two men.


Turning the page, Tyrion was surprised to finally see a difference between them. One of the books ended, while the other continued. The dwarf narrowed his eyes, then continued looking at the design book with more pictures. If he hadn’t had a full erection by now, these would have really gotten him going.


The scenes of the two of them in the bed together was a fly-on-the-wall’s glimpse of a raw passion driven sex life. It was naughty, and yet full of respect and pleasure. Smeared makeup, sweaty hair, angles that alluded to deep penetration, facial expressions that confirmed it. Tyrion flipped through the pages of sexually charged photos and fought the desire to wank. They were beyond iconic, nothing so raw and artistic had ever been done.


“You’ve outdone yourself,” Tyrion started. 


That was when a rather perturbed Oberyn kicked his feet off the desk and leaned forward, resetting his forearms on the desk, “Had you listened to me when I walked in, you’d have a different perspective on that.”


Tyrion cocked his head to the side and waited for the photographer to continue. 


“I ran into some issues with the shoot, so to say. That,” he pointed to the shorter portfolio, “is what we get contractually. That,” he pointed to the longe r, more explicit portfolio, “is what we could get if we negotiate.”


“Bullshit, all those photos belong to us…” Tyrion began to argue.


“The reason I’m late,” Oberyn threw an envelope toward the journalist.


It was thick and heavy, so that it plopped on the desk and slid toward the dwarf. Pulling the document toward him, Tyrion opened the manila envelope and read the first couple of pages. 


“I made a choice, Tyrion, for the sake of art,” Oberyn explained. The dwarf didn’t even look up from the legal document he was holding, but he already didn’t like where his photographer friend was going with this conversation. “We hit the point of frustration on the last set, and I kind of knew they wouldn’t go...full on without a little space.”


Tyrion narrowed his eyes, “Are you telling me they didn’t know these were being taken?” 


The Dornishman stroked his chin as he searched for his words, “I have this hypothesis, you see. It goes on the whole basis of, if a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a noise?” 


Tyrion was so angry, all he could do was glare as Oberyn continued, “The same applies to sex photography.  If I observe sex between two people will it happen in the same way when I’m not there? I bet on not. It’s all about observation versus perception. Observation inevitably has an effect on the thing you are observing, and I wanted purity.” 


The dwarf was following, but that didn’t mean he was pleased. Exhaling deeply, he waited for Oberyn to finish his thoughts. “I gambled because I know my friend, and I know he’d be much better with the perception that the cameras were off and all of us were gone.”


Arms crossed, face red, the Lion of Lannister was going through all the ways he could kill Oberyn Martell and dispose of the body. “Look at those pictures, the two of them are perfect together. In this one you get just this hint of how tight her cunt is squeezing around him. Tell me that’s not the most artistic penetration you’ve ever seen?” There was a look of exasperation on Oberyn’s face, as Tyrion refused to answer. “I figured it would be better to ask for forgiveness than permission…and the only thing I miscalculated was how much she means to him. He’s head over heels for the woman and with that he’s become very protective.”


The famed photographer pointed to one of the bed shots, a particularly emotive photo in black and white. Clegane was sitting upright while she straddled him. You couldn’t see their penetration this time, but you didn’t have to. The model’s expression said it all. Tyrion’s mind had already filled in the blanks, knowing she’d been riding the singer’s cock with the kind of vigor the big bull deserved. She was right on the cusp of her orgasim, her head tipping, back arched to an almost impossible angle, her lips beginning to open. Sandor looked so taken with her, that there were no words to describe his facial expression. To the detailed observer it appeared as if there was a symbiosis of the most erotic kind between them. As if Sandor’s very soul was nourished by simply watching the beautiful model enjoy herself at his expense. For her part the young woman was exploring a passion she never knew existed. Her eyes transfixed on her dark lover.


Tyrion could have literally hopped across the desk and stuck his fist through Oberyn’s face. “You took a chance and it backfired. That’s what you’re telling me? You gambled and lost the final bit of the shoot you Dornish cunt.”


“Well,” the photographer stroked his chin, “I got the hottest photos on the market through dubious means. That’s true. But that in no way means they aren’t ready to negotiate on some of those. Maybe not all of them, but I chose the best ones from the video before it was confiscated from me this morning.”


Tyrion rolled his eyes and counted to five, hoping he would be able to think straight enough to deal with this problem.


“She owns the rights to those….” the photographer added quickly.


“All the rights?” Tyrion interrupted.


“Yup, and she’s lawyered up with Sandor’s support. So now it depends on how much money you want to part with to publish those. Leaking them will get us both in trouble. I’ll be ruined and the magazine will have a new red-headed owner.” Oberyn leaned back as if the answer was obvious.


Tyrion looked at the papers again, “Sansa Stark,” he repeated her name written at the top of the lawsuit. “Get her on the phone, we need to discuss this now.”


“So you’re going big,” Oberyn asked, smiling because he wasn’t in the position to lose a lot of money.  If anything he was in a position to gain notoriety—along with the subjects of his photos.


“I have to save the magazine, so could say I’m invested.” Tyrion hated to admit it, but the Lion of Lannister had been backed into a corner. It seemed that Sandor Clegane would, indeed, have the last laugh.


----- Excerpt from Tyrion Lannister’s Book, “The Mad Dog and I” -- Meeting between Tyrion Lannister and Oberyn Martell, Friday after the Playgirl shoot



Lemon cakes were one of Sansa’s favorite things, one she indulged in rarely. But, as a reward, she often brought one or two to the set of a big shoot both to calm her nerves and to keep her sugar levels high. Photographers were notoriously bad with time, more focused on getting the right shot and keeping the vibes going than eating. So it was often every man and woman for themselves when it came to nourishment. 


Wiping the crumbs from her mouth, careful not to smudge her lipstick, Sansa walked toward the Bar set. She wore a tight white tank top, with a short black leather jacket over it. Her pants were not leather but they were a good imitation. She needed to have a certain amount of give, if Oberyn still intended for her to do her “special move.” This ability in particular was a relic of her cheerleading days, a time when doing the middle splits was a much more wholesome affair. Now, it was certainly a nod to some of the crazy things she’d seen groupies do at Sandor’s party. Sansa smirked, convinced the dark, handsome front man might have a heart attack with what she and Oberyn had planned.  


For this set, Sansa’s makeup was a bit more dramatic than before. Her eyes were smokey, her lips colored a deep red. The makeup artist had done well to give her an elevated, artistic goth girl look. It suited Sandor’s music and fit well with the rest of the outfit. Sansa’s auburn locks bounced around her head with more curl than usual, a more wild take on her normal appearance. It was an edgy look, one that challenged her comfort zone and yet it never lost sight of who she was. 


Rounding the corner to the set, Sansa felt a pang of disappointment to see Sandor’s nude shoot had come to an early end. After feeling him against her most of the morning, the desire to see his manhood had taken root deep within her. There was no point in lying to herself anymore, she wanted Sandor Clegane in the worst way possible. Yet she had to calm her raging hormones, try not to look as sexually frustrated as she felt. 


The lighting and camera crew members were sipping some water and chatting. She could see Sandor and Oberyn leaning against the bar engaged in a conversation of their own. Once Sandor spotted her though, his eyes didn’t leave her, prompting Oberyn to turn and smile. He looked between the two of them with a knowing grin.


Walking to the edge of the stage, Sandor extended a hand with a Targaryan-era like chivalry, helping her negotiate the thin and peralious steps. “Did you think about me?” Sansa whispered cheekily, hoping she’d been his inspiration for the previous nude shoot. 


Once she reached the top, he even pressed his lips into her knuckles, a dark knight seeking the attention of his maiden fair. Sandor looked up from the back of her hand, “Think about you? I fuckin’ dream about you.” The sly grin that accompanied his words made her cheeks heat up.  The singer took great joy in making her blush, that much was clear from the amusement that danced behind his eyes.


Sandor had changed clothes, different jeans and a green T-shirt with the arms cut out. His makeup had been refreshed, but it was very little in comparison to hers. But it was his eyes, and the intensity in them, that really drew her attention. Before he’d always been able to keep the fire in them at bay, control how much to show her and how much to keep for himself. Now, it was as if they had been set ablaze by wildfire, their smokey color no longer able to hide the lust locked within them. Sandor’s gaze excited her instantly, making the pit of her stomach throb at the very idea of being close to him. He was addictive, and she had gone past the point of no return.


At the bar Oberyn gave them a quick briefing on the scene, yet it did little to quell the growing sexual feelings inside of her. “A beautiful woman minding her own business on a Saturday night, then this big bull walks into the bar. I want you to be assertive, Sansa. Take him by the horns and make him do what you want.”


When Sansa’s eyes held questions to his vague stage direction, Oberyn merely replied, “The how is up to you two. I only have one little bit I want to sneak in.” He winked, and Sansa knew exactly what the dashing photographer was referring to.


Stepping back from them, Oberyn assumed his place behind the camera. Sansa always hated these moments, the very beginning of a scene when nobody--even the camera crew--was warmed up. It was awkward to find placement and it took time to get comfortable with where you were and who you were with. Her eyes flickered to Sandor and she suddenly felt a sense of calm. They had each other, and they had this burning urge inside of them, It will be enough, she reminded herself. It has to be enough.


She slid onto a bar stool, hoping inspiration would hit her. Luckily Clegane seemed to have ideas of his own. Not budging from his relaxed position leaning on the bar, the dark front man brought his index finger to her chin, tipping her head toward his and kissed her. It was a different kiss from before, softer and less penetrating. Its gentle sensuality contradicted the lustful fire in his eyes from a moment ago. Sandor’s lips brushed lightly over hers. There was a sweetness to his kiss, a desire to be a good boy buried deep within his bad boy persona. Sansa liked this duality in him, the very idea that he was hers to tame and nobody else’s. That made her kiss him more, press her lips to his harder.


“Get on the bar,” Sandor whispered, a twinge of alpha in his voice. The command, in and of itself, was not sexual. Yet when you combined it with the headiness of his tone and the intensity in his deep grey eyes, it made her core pulse in a way she was not accustomed to.


She did as she was bid. Sandor moved behind the bar while she hopped up on it. With a wicked grin he positioned her so she was laying on the old wood completely. “Sansa, bend the upstage leg, keep the other one straight for now,” Oberyn ordered. 


Before she had even settled into the position, Sandor leaned over her and wrapped the fingers of his up stage hand around her neck. It was by no means choking, but it was dominating. There was a split second where she was forced to quickly reexamine her level of trust in him. His hand was placed such that he could detect the quickening of her pulse, and it made him growl in delight.  


The lack of control she had in this situation was thrilling in a way she did not suspect. Her heart beat loudly in her chest, all her senses honed and focused on Sandor Clegane. The Heavy Metal singer’s eyes were feral, filled with a dark lust she could not fathom, but desperately wanted to. Sansa could see his irises flickering with all the things he wanted to do to her. They were taboo, naughty things. Things that titillated her. Things that made her want to give herself to him in a way she had never given herself to another man.


A gasp escaped her throat at that realization, her lips parting only just, “Right there, stop.” Oberyn was moving in and out of her view, taking close ups. 


Sandor’s hair was toward the back of the stage, the burned side of his face toward the camera. Theirs was a modern interpretation of the Maiden about to be ravaged by the Stranger. The fear on her lips and the arousal of her nipples under the white fabric of her tank top underscoring the goddess’ true dilemma--the desire to both keep her purity and know the true pleasures of the flesh. The true pleasures of the flesh, a little voice from inside Sansa’s head whispered.


Once it was ok to move again, Sandor brought his lips to hers. There was immediate security in her resignation to his lips. Her body went slack as she gave into him. His kiss made her tremble, made her understand there was no turning back from him now. Sansa moaned into his mouth, making him grip her throat a little harder.


Oberyn’s voice interrupted them, “Sansa, take off the jacket.” Then he looked around the room, “We need some cocaine!”


Though he’d been rather displeased at Oberyn’s intrusion, the photographer’s last demand made Sandor roll back his head and laugh. “The dope king of Dorne is all out of the white stuff? Now that’s a fuckin’ first.”


“I’m turning over a new leaf,” Oberyn argued, but it was not so convincing. “None of you bloody hipsters carry coke on you? What kind of fucking generation are you? Useless.”


“There’s sugar in the break room,” one very bold assistant piped up.


“Sugar looks nothing like coke you idiot. We need baking soda or something, flour….gods be damned, quickly now. When did I surround myself with straight edge assistants?”


A few assistants scuttled back to the break room, while Sansa sat up to eye the man next to her. Sandor had a self satisfied grin on his face, obviously turned on by the idea of her reaction to his possessive kiss. A quick check below his belt line confirmed her thoughts. He was, again, sporting a huge secret erection, given it was hidden from Oberyn’s view. While they waited for the white stuff to appear, Sandor shot her a challenging look. 


How far are we going to take this? She wondered to herself, her eyes burning into his. 


The notorious front man certainly didn’t expect her to do anything with his very large secret behind the bar. That was part of the reason she couldn’t stop herself from swinging her leg over the bar so she was facing him. A cheeky expression on her face, Sansa slid herself as far forward as she dare, her butt only just keeping her on the edge. Putting two fingers in the waistband of his jeans, the daring model pulled Sandor toward her. Clearing his throat in a coy fashion, Sandor stepped forward and adjusted his hardened cock so it could better rub against her. She settled her hands on his chest, sliding down the edge so their hips could meet. With one hand under her bum, they began to stealthy find the right way to rub against each other. Sansa had to stop herself from smiling too broadly, lest she give away their little tryst. Sandor was into it, his wry smirk growing as his cock found a particularly good spot between her legs.  


They didn’t have too much time, just enough to wet their appetites more than sate their hunger. “Finally, we’ve got something that kind of looks like what we need. Sansa, Sandor, back in position.” Oberyn tossed a packet of baking powder their way and Sandor caught it with one hand. 


Sansa laid back on the bar, her heartbeat on overdrive, her up stage leg bent. Her leather jacket already long gone, Sandor pushed up her tank top to expose her belly. He then, rather skillfully, made a line of the stuff that started at the top of her belly button and ended at the swell of her breasts. Looking up to get the okay from Oberyn, Sandor bent over her belly and kissed her teasingly below her belly button. There was only a small space between her naval and the beginning of her jeans, but his lips fit there perfectly. 


His beard tickled, and Sansa couldn’t help but smile and arch slightly at his touch. He kissed her there again, then pretended to snort the powder off her body. His lips only barely touched her skin, but that was enough for her to moan. Something in her moan set him off, made Sandor instantly turn up the heat. It took him less than a second to straddle her on the bar, his hands deftly pulling her shirt over her head. His lips went immediately to her nipple, gently sucking it, a growl coming from his throat. Sansa’s back inevitably arched into his mouth, raising up on her shoulder blades, and bushing her hips into his waiting erection. This only fueled the front man’s adore, as he began to plant wild kisses starting between her breasts and quickly moving to her lips. But, as he reached them, Sansa put her index between them, resting it against his wild lips.


“Behave,” she said, her eyes staring right into his. She had remembered Oberyn’s stage direction and had finally found the right moment to take control of her big bull. Sandor was going off script, defying the photographer and if he wanted to get to the more intimate scenes they would have to shoot this one first. 


Surprise registered on Sandor’s face, Oberyn filling in with a sassy voice over. “Ohhhh, the big man has never been told no before. You’d better watch it, she’s gonna slap a leash on you, Dog.” The dark cackle that came from Oberyn confirmed it wasn’t just a tease, but the actual truth.


The camera shutter worked over time, their sexual stand off certainly capturing a very different side of the singer. He was literally flabbergasted by her boldness, and very turned on. Sandor was a man who enjoyed jockeying for position, happy to give and take as it suited. Nonetheless she could see that challenge in his eyes again. He wanted to have her so badly it hurt.  


Sandor sat back on his heels and ran his fingers through his hair in a huff, but did as he was told. Sansa sat up on the bar as well, a sly grin on her face.


“Come to this side of the bar, Clegane,” Oberyn motioned to the side facing the cameras. “Sansa white top on, and….” his look became dark, “... drop the pants too. Then do the thing .” 


Sandor narrowed his eyes, not trusting her and Oberyn’s motives. However he did become an instant gentleman when it came to helping her take the very tight pants off. She rolled her eyes and he grinned, happy for any chance he could get to touch her. Now that she thought of it, he was possessed by the need for physical contact with her. Normally that would have been something that bothered Sansa, made her feel the guy was clingy. But oddly not with Sandor. He just sought her closeness and there was a bond to that, a pact that she had unwittingly and yet with both feet jumped into.


Heels on, skimpy red silk thong and a white tank top, Sansa hoisted herself back on top of the antique bar. Then she slid her legs very demurely into a full middle split, her ass to the camera and Clegane. Her body was perpendicular to the bar, one hand on the flat surface so she could look over her shoulder.


Sandor’s eyes bugged out of his head. Both not believing what he had just seen, but not wanting to rip his attention away from it either. The burnt side of his mouth twitched in an excitement he couldn’t contain. He approached the bar and whispered, “So, are we gettin’ married, or what?” 


There was always a little bit of truth in jest, but Sansa wasn’t ready to know the exact percentages of the two in that little comment. Sandor Clegane was not the kind of man to say something he didn’t mean, yet they were both so high on their own desire for one another -- it could have been making him say crazy things. Well, I’m not quite done with you yet, she thought. 


“A bottle of cold vodka please,” Sansa had learned things in her brief time at Sandor’s party. She’d learned enough to know that body shots were an essential part of any musician’s career. But instead of the famed, ‘pussy shot’ she had something a little different in mind. 


“Oh you nasty little….” Oberyn knew what was going to happen, because somehow he could read her like a book. 


Sandor’s hand was stroking his beard, and Sansa wondered if it was to keep him from drooling or just to keep his jaw in one place. Never in her life had she felt so in control of her sexuality. Usually she was the timid girl, the one who needed some chaste kisses and a dinner to get to know somebody. However the atmosphere, and her synergy with Sandor, was such that she could open up--find a part of herself that might have always been there, but never tapped into before.


Ice cold bottle of vodka in hand, she proceeded to block the opening with her thumb slightly to control the amount of freezing liquid rolling down her body. She started with her head, making sure the alcohol gave her hair that wet look and wetted the front of her white tank top. Then she looked over her shoulder at Sandor with that ‘come hither’ stare that had the front man hastily move to the bar. 


Sandor knew exactly what to do--no stage direction needed. Lifting up the back of her tank top he followed the stream of vodka down over her back, over her ribs, to where it flowed down her lower back and into the very appealing cleft of her ass. There was no hesitation as he brought his face to her bum and drank the vodka from where it pooled.


“He needs to cheat his body toward me,” Oberyn could be heard saying, camera glued to his face. There was excitement in the room as one of the assistants adjusted Sandor so Oberyn could get his shot.


“Oh give her cheeky ass some tongue, just lap it all up,” Sansa could hear Oberyn’s voice falter, which confirmed she’d hit the right tone with this picture. “Look into the camera, Sweetie. I want to see your eyes.”


Sandor’s tongue was warm against her skin and the way he flicked it between her cheeks was to die for. From the unabashed groans of joy he was making as she combined seemingly two of his favorite things, Sansa knew he was enjoying himself. One of his hands gripped her bum hard, the other slid under her pelvis, both cupping her sex and tipping her bum so he could drink more. Sansa felt his fingers twitch below her, as if he wanted to play with her clit but didn’t. It seemed there were some things he wasn’t willing to share on camera, and that made her grin all the more.


Once it was over, and the never ending bottle suddenly stopped, she felt Sandor’s beard tickle her ear as he whispered, “I can’t behave forever you know.” She merely smirked, hoping to every god who would listen that he would make good on that promise.


She couldn’t see what was going on in the old timey Cadillac in seafoam green. A throng of lighting and photography assistants had flooded the space around the car, making it impossible to glimpse anything from where she sat in the shadows. All Sansa knew was Sandor was in there, his jeans pulled down to his knees or below, and that he was touching himself. Oberyn was very vocal about exactly how he needed to touch his erection and what expression he needed to have. There was this semi creepy element to it all, but it gave Sansa the impression that the sexually promiscuous photographer had done similar things before. Albeit for his own personal consumption.  


At times Sansa had put her hand over her mouth to stop from bursting into laughter. “Rub it more, damn it. Wank it harder with a twist at the top.” Those were common phrases Oberyn seemed to go back to time and time again. The other popular phrase was, “Cup those gorgeous balls and look at me.” At that Sansa did laugh outright, rolling her eyes in very much the same way she could imagine Sandor doing.


Occasionally the singer would pipe up and tell Oberyn how much of a prick he was, “Quit molesting me with your bloody eyes,” and “You’re yapping is not making this any easier you dornish son of a whore.” The more she thought about it, the more she realized how easy it was for women to do these kinds of shoots. Some sexy clothing, scrunching your breasts together, a naughty smirk all went a long way to building female sensuality. For men, the focus was their bodies and, inevitably, what hung between their legs. There was no amount of push up bras or lighting that could make a penis bigger--you were either born with it or you weren't. 


The very idea of Sandor being only a few feet away, naked and hard, made Sansa squeeze her thighs together. Sitting in a chair next to Brienne, the young model did her best to hide her arousal--finding it unprofessional to allow such feelings to overtake her before being “in the moment.” She was bursting at the seams to get in the car with him, knowing this was where the rubber hit the road and the shoot turned from sexy, glamour photography to erotic photography.


Sansa’s makeup was simple. A nude lip with just a bit of color combined blue smokey eye makeup. It was designed to pull the reader’s focus to her face. The very thought of that made her scoff, knowing that most people’s eyes would be drawn to the other components of the photos. Sandor’s naked body against hers for example, or the passion with which they toyed with one another. It seemed almost ridiculous to have any makeup at all given what would happen next. 


Looking down at her fingernails Sansa wasn’t quite sure if the color fit her. Black had never been her favorite color and yet, it seemed to bring out her pale skin tone while giving her an alternative bad girl kind of look. Her hair had been pressed straight making it fall well to the middle of her back. A bit of volume ensured it bounced when she walked or tossed her head.


Her outfit didn’t stand out. A sleeveless top in black with a leather skirt. Of course the heels she wore were cobalt blue, similar to what she had worn to Fuck the King’s concert, just more agressive. The heel was higher, the point on toe sharper and the spikes on the heel of the shoe bigger. Sansa was ready and yet somehow, she was antsy too. 


“You’re nervous,” Brienne’s hand came to her shoulder. 


“A bit, yeah,” Sansa answered, but probably not for the reasons Brienne was thinking. 


Having come to terms with her nudity by the second stage of the shooting, it was neither that nor the anticipation of posing with Sandor’s seemingly porn star sized penis that had made Sansa a ball of nerves. It was the fear of giving into that little voice inside of her. It was the fear of losing control. In all of her life she had never had such a desire to be possessed by a man, and she could not calculate the ramifications that giving into that desire might have on her professional career, much less her life as a whole. 


Oberyn Martell’s words from last week kept running through her head. Yet even if they would be put in sexual situations with the aim of inspiring lust in others, that didn’t mean they should just do it, especially in front of all these people. Even though it could be kind of thrilling, Sansa smirked, surprised that thought had even popped into her head. Sandor Clegane was doing things to her, and there was no going back to the way she was before.


“You’re doing great,” Brienne’s voice cut through Sansa’s thoughts. “Oberyn’s thrilled with the shoot.” 


“Sansa, come here,” Oberyn didn’t look back but motioned with his hand. 


A stage assistant led her up the steps to the car, where Sandor had just buttoned up his pants, a dark grey T-shirt having replaced the cut off one. Oberyn took her hand, the normal spark in his dark eyes replaced with a much more lascivious one. A quick glance down confirmed the photographer was certainly enjoying his work. 


The door to the Cadillac was shut, the window rolled down all the way. She could tell by the way Sandor’s lip curled that he fully approved of her outfit. It was a subtle expression, one that others might not have picked up on. Sansa smiled in response, feeling a heat instantly rise in her belly at the thought of their secret conversations. 


“We’re going to do a wide shot. I want you to bend in through the window, but instead of keeping your feet on the floor I want you to lift them up. Then bend them at the knee,” Sansa tried the position, her skirt riding well up to the bottom of her bum.


“Close, but you need to put your head in his lap,” Oberyn pulled up her skirt even more so the bottom of her bum was teasingly exposed. “Sandor that arm, out of the window. Everybody else get the fuck out of my shot.”


The sheepish grin on Sandor’s face didn’t go unnoticed as Sansa dipped her head down to his thighs and used her forearms to balance herself there. “That’s the best stage direction he’s given all day,” the singer’s deep voice came in the mixture of a whisper and a growl. He settled himself into a relaxed position, his right arm stretching across the top of the bench seat. Her face was a mere inch or less from his cock, the star of the show proudly flaunting itself beneath the confines of his jeans. 


Sansa made it a point to look into his eyes, the large bulge in his pants only partially obstructing her view of him. The distance between his lap and his face was certainly a journey for the eyes, one they did eagerly and without hurry. She met his smirk with one of her own, knowing the stakes were getting higher in their little teasing game.


Not to be outdone, Sandor’s gaze never left hers as he drew a lazy line up the back of her thigh with a calloused finger. He knew exactly what he was doing and took joy in drawing out her sexual frustration as long as possible. The way Oberyn was framing the shot, nobody could see their eyes locked in a standoff, seeing who would flinch first. Or even better, who would yield to the other. Sansa would not be complicit in their little game, resting her cheek so that her face was even closer to his cock. The wily red-head knew he could sense the warmth of her breath there, she knew it would do things to him like his fingers were doing to her. Sandor exhaled deeply, enjoying her gentle torture.


“Good, good, keep going with this,” Oberyn encouraged, enjoying the concept of the singer’s iconicly tattooed forearm against her pure white skin.


The idol finger that had been trailing up the back of her leg slowly became the whole palm of his huge hand. Sandor dragged it up the back of her thigh slowly, both to tease her and ensure that Oberyn could get his shot. He was so warm and it took every fiber of her being not to move from the position she had been placed in. When Sandor finally reached her bum, his fingers deftly slipped under her skirt, making her bite her bottom lip. 


“Mmmmmm,” he rumbled, his eyes never leaving hers. Sansa wasn’t even sure he’d blinked since she had leaned over on his lap. It was as if he was studying her every facial expression in detail, divining what she liked and needed by the simple and small changes in her features. 


Cocking his head to the side, as if he had detected something he had not anticipated, Sandor inched his fingers toward her pussy, their rough tips catching on the thin piece of satin that covered it. The front man lifted an eyebrow, as if his hypothesis had indeed been proven, his middle and index fingers rubbing her already swollen lips. 


“You like that?” he breathed, looking down at her with a thinly veiled hungar. 


“Um hum,” was all she could say as his strong fingers applied just the right amount of pressure to feed her need, and make her lust for more. She was amazed at how wet she got for him, how eager her body was to be pleasured by him.


“Oh that’s sexy, yes….” Oberyn’s words were merely background noise to her arousal. Sansa closed her eyes and let out a soft moan to Sandor’s exquisite touch. She moaned into his lap and she could hear his breathing hitch. 


Sandor slowly moved a lock of hair from the side of her face, which resulted in her opening her eyes to look directly at him. “My goddess wants to be filled, doesn’t she?” His words were deep and breathy. “Now? In front of all these people?” There was an excitement in his voice, and a wicked grin on his lips. 


It was over, her battle lost. Sansa should have known it from the moment he had enticed her with the simple movement of his finger up her leg. But there was something sweet in defeat, in relinquishing control of your mind and body. She didn’t have to say anything, the Heavy Metal singer knew exactly what she needed. He chuckled darkly, moved her panties to the side and slipped his two long fingers into her throbbing, wet pussy. Sansa sucked in breath and gripped his thighs. 


His palm was flat against her bum, and he used the strength in his wrist to position his fingers inside her. The more he moved them within her the more the camera shutters clicked. 


“Bloody seven hells,” he cursed, biting his lip and letting his eyes roll back into his head.   


Then Sandor turned his fingers so the tips pointed toward her belly. The dark front man knew what he was looking for, and found her G-spot with surprising ease. He began to run his fingertips along the quickly growing nub inside her, probing it incessantly so it would fill with pleasure. It didn’t take long for her wetness to cascade down from her core, seeping over his hands and down the insides of her thighs. Oberyn, of course, was right there to catch it all, happily swapping the wide lens for the close up one. 


By now she was clenching his thighs so hard with her fingers, she was afraid she’d rip through his jeans. Sandor didn’t seem to mind one bit, enjoying every bit of her greedy heat. “Wild, beautiful…” Sandor brought the thumb of his other hand to her lips, brushing her cheek affectionately, and she bit on it so as not to scream out in pleasure. 


“I need a towel,” she could hear Oberyn say. “Sansa, we need to get you in the car now.” She could tell by the way he said it he didn’t want to break up their connection--if anything he wanted to use their momentum.


Sandor gently removed his fingers from her core, and she felt a towel wipe her arousal from the backs of her legs. It was Oberyn’s towel, the cheeky photographer putting it back around his neck and nonchalantly savoring its heady scent. 


“Get in the car and straddle him, we’ll need you two to undress but very slowly. Ok?” Oberyn was very clear on that point, but Sansa knew it would only be more difficult for him to maintain control. They were on fire now, like wild animals who had drawn first blood. Something inside Sansa told her the frenzy would come soon, but even if that voice hadn’t spoken up she would have been able to detect it in Sandor’s eyes. They were feral and lust filled, drawing on her most basic instincts.


The moment the door to the car opened, Sansa straddled the Heavy Metal singer eager not to miss a beat. In return, Sandor pulled her hips flush against his own, a quick thrust upward so she could feel the steel length that lay beneath his jeans. His eye glanced at his left hand, still dripping with her juices. He brought them to her lips and she tasted herself for the first time. The front man, and some of the camera crew, exhaled loudly yet another confirmation they were striking the right tone.


Sandor might have already been beyond the reach of stage direction, his right hand snaking up behind her head unbid and pulling her in for a kiss. Sansa gripped his chin and neck in her down stage hand in a similar fashion to how he had hers in the last set. Only her thumb brushed teasingly against his teeth. Their foreheads were touching, their kiss taking over everything as Sandor’s free hand gripped her ass with authority. 


“Sansa, it’s time to take his shirt off,” she could tell Oberyn was getting off on this, his voice scratching as he ordered her.


Not wanting to leave their embrace, but at the same time needed to finally see him, Sansa broke their kiss. Leaning back, her bum on the hard steering wheel of the car, she stared Sandor Clegane in the eye as if he would never conquer her. Sansa needed him to know that they could have their passionate moments, but that she would not be so easily led down his road of lust. The singer grinned as if he endeavored to prove her wrong while she gripped the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled it slowly over his head for the cameras. Tossing it in the back seat, Sansa let her hands run over his chest and he again bucked her with his hips. 


“Sandor, her shirt now,” Oberyn said, his finger on the camera shutter.


His warm hands slid over her thighs and up to her belly where the webbing of his thumbs caught the hem of her strapless shirt. She wore no bra, and when his palms reached her nipples both she and him sighed.


“Hold it,” Oberyn butted in and she could think of nothing more than shoving the photographer out of the way so they could rip each other’s clothes off and quench the thirst that had been building up since the morning.


Her under part of her breasts were visible, her arms over her head. It was painful to keep the position while they changed the lighting and tried out a few different reflectors. A huge sigh of relief was had when the stupid piece of cloth was pulled over her head and thrown unceremoniously to the back of the car. 


Sandor’s eyes were worshiping her, memorizing every inch of her skin. It didn’t take long before his thumbs and forefingers tweaked her nipples and she moaned against her will. Her nipples were so sensitive, ready for him and begging for the Heavy Metal Singer’s attention. His lips came to her far breast and Oberyn told them to hold.


“Sansa, give me more sigh on that face, more enjoyment. You look frustrated,” Oberyn said.


I am frustrated, she thought her core pulsing with a frenzy she had never experienced before. Oberyn’s constant interruptions were stopping their natural flow, taking them in and out of the moment when all they wanted to do was explore one another. 


Her partner seemed equally annoyed, doing his best to pick up where he left off. Sandor ran his lips over her nipple and it gave her fresh cause to forget how much she wanted to smack the photographer in the face right now. “That’s it, wow, that’s really it,” Oberyn encouraged them.


It felt like an eternity before they could move again. Her inner thighs were slicked, and she made no effort to hide that fact. “Ok, Sansa I want you to sit back on the steering wheel and slowly unbutton his pants. Keep your eyes on his cock, I want to capture that look on your face when you see it. Sandor, sit back and look as relaxed as possible.”


A look flashed between the two of them and Sandor readjusted so he could put one arm over the front bench seat of the Cadillac the other hung to the side, to give Oberyn access to the scene that was about to unfold. 


The button of his jeans came easy, but instead of going right to the unzipping, Sansa ran her hand over the huge outline of his penis. Sandor’s head fell backward, “You bloody fuckin’ tease,” were the only words she could hear. 


Her fingers moved tentatively to the zipper, bringing it down slowly so Oberyn could take a shot at every stage. Sandor’s erection wasn’t straight down the middle of his jeans, luckily leaning toward the cameras. She unzipped his pants down as far as the zipper would go, excited for what she would find there. 


Sandor was breathing heavily, the anticipation of her having to fish his dick from its cloth prison exciting him. Their eyes met and there was a smile that passed between them. Then her right hand slipped in between his skin and the fabric, her eyes opened wide. The first thing that crossed her mind was how hard he was, the second thing was how thick he was. Her fingers struggled under the straining fabric to grip completely around his cock. All the while the camera shutters were going off. When she did pull it out, her eyes must have been like saucers because Sandor grinned knowingly in her peripheral vision. 


It’s not just perfect, it’s beautiful! Sansa had never in her life considered the male sex organ attractive from the artistic stand point. Sandor’s penis, however, changed her mind very quickly. The shaft itself was perfectly straight, his beautifully rounded head tilting up ever so slightly. The singer’s length and girth were for the gods, with a healthy set of smooth proportionate balls. The skin of his shaft was almost velvety as she dragged her finger tips over it. Sansa was gobsmacked, flabbergasted, and every other word you could think of to describe the moment when you meet the perfect cock.


“Kiss me,” she could hear Sandor’s voice from the void. Sansa was helpless to deny him, their lips meeting. He guided her hips over him, allowing his length to tease her over her red satin thong. 


“Pull her skirt up, Sandor I want to see it pressed against her ass,” Oberyn said, but they didn’t listen. Their lips were feverish, their lust unbridaled. They were an erotic freight train headed for a raveen.


But it wouldn’t last long. “Okay I need you two to break it up.” The young model felt Oberyn's hand on her shoulder, and saw Sandor’s anger flare at the interruption. Brushing it off the photographer continued, “Sansa lay on the bench seat so your head is hanging over the edge of the seat here near the door. Sandor, take off the skirt, and put her leg over the bench seat. You know where you need to go.”


This feels so fake, Sansa felt like sharing her thoughts but didn’t. They kept going to the edge of their emotions and being brought back. It was killing the mood, dousing the flames that so easily flared between her and Fuck the King’s front man. From the glare on his face, Sansa was sure Sandor shared her feelings. Part of this shoot was based on Oberyn’s keen eye for bodies and lighting, the other part was their spark. And that spark was getting blown out at every turn. Begrudgingly taking their places, Sansa could feel their feet dragging.


“Yes, you bad boy, take it off with your teeth but look at me. Sansa you look at me too, one hand in his hair…..I need a bloody towel. And where’s makeup - she’s sweating!” Obery himself was sweating, dabbing himself with his towel.


The makeup touch up came at literally the worst time, Sansa’s legs spread wide, Sandor’s face buried into her hip, her floss like panties gripped tightly in his teeth. She could not have given a care less if she was sweaty, but Oberyn was in charge and she was beginning to despise it.


“Alright, give me sexy, give me girl on fire,” Oberyn’s stage directions might have helped a little bit, but Sansa was far more focused on Sandor; his nose was buried between her legs--a thin satin keeping his tongue from her core. Stealing a glance at the singer, Sansa could see he was gritting his teeth in frustration and only just containing his lust.


“Fuck you Oberyn, I’m about to fuckin’ explode…”she could hear his muffled voice coming from between her legs. He was saying exactly what she was feeling. Loath to care about what Oberyn wanted, Sandor quickly crawled on top of her and picked up where they had left off before, lip locked and teasing one another. 


“Yes,” she sighed, enjoying the heat of Sandor’s body and the taste of his lips. 


This time it took Oberyn and two assistants to get their attention, the star photographer’s mood becoming strained. “All right you two, all the clothing off, we’re headed to the final scene because you clearly can’t do anything else.”


Sandor sat back on his knees, his penis painfully hard. It was full, throbbing and seemingly in need of relief. She wanted more than anything to give him that relief, but felt that kind of intimacy to be more of a private affair. With a grin, Sandor helped her slip out of her panties, and literally gawked at her tightly trimmed pubic hair. 


“You’ll be the death of me,” he said, and he meant it seriously.


With the last bit of self control she had, Sansa led the hulking front man by the hand to the bedroom scene, conveniently located right next to the car. She still had her heels on, but that seemed to be a kink of his so she left them. Sandor was rendered helpless, a huge man at the mercy of a tiny red-head. He would have done anything she asked, no matter what others thought. It was a power she needed to use sparingly, the young model knew it instinctively.


The cameras didn’t stop, her guiding him to the bed was powerful, sexy and raw.


“Stop here,” Oberyn said. “Sansa on all fours on the bed, looking back at us. I need that ‘Come fuck me’ stare. Sandor,” the photographer had to shake him a bit so he’d look at his friend, “I need you to take a good long look at that beautiful woman.”


Sansa knew what Oberyn was doing, tempting the devil. On all fours on the bed, bum to the singer, her glistening strip of red hair and arousal would be visible--it would drive him over the edge, past the point of no return if he wasn’t already. She trembled to do it, knowing she might unleash a hound from hell on her and there was an excitement to that. 


“This is torture,” Sandor’s voice was on edge, clear he no longer wanted to be physically separated from her. Oberyn brushed it off. 


The photographer bent down and took some pictures from the cock perspective, Sandor’s massive member in the foreground, a huge bit of precum hanging from the head of his erection, one hand firmly on his base. They stared at one another as if there was nobody else in the room, his eyes penetrating her far deeper than any male sex organ. 


That was when Sandor snapped. Leaving his position on the far side of the set, he briskly walked over to where Sansa was. The front man sat down on the edge of the bed and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her such that their backs were to the cameras. She sat next to him, their heads touching their long hair shielding their mouths. 


“I want it to just be us,” he breathed. “Your scent, the sounds you’ll make, how you’ll look at me when I’m inside you,” there was such a seriousness in his eyes as he spoke. It emphasized his next words all the more, “I won’t share you with them,” he looked around the studio. They pressed their foreheads together and Sansa knew she’d fallen deeply, if not madly, in love with the man. Nothing else existed, even if Oberyn’s angry voice was somewhere in the background noise. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it, content with his boundaries.


It was the photographer’s angry, shrill voice that jogged them from their moment. “I’m done with this! Fuck you two. I’m going to take a walk and the crew’s coming with me. When we get back, I want this,” he pointed at the two of them but implied their attitudes, “to be sorted out.”


In a rather dramatic huff, Oberyn and his assistants all put their cameras on tripods facing the stage and filed out of the room. He was mumbling something to the effect of, “Ungrateful, horny assholes…” 


Sansa was shocked, and she could see the disbelief on Sandor’s face too--tempered with a bit of amusement. “He can be a little bitch when he doesn’t get what he wants,” Sandor said once they were gone, implying the depth of how well they knew one another. 


“A girl could think something like this was planned,” she said searching for the truth. Sandor and Oberyn were friends and, from what she could tell today, rather good friends. In the pit of her stomach she had always felt something was up, as if there had been more than a series of unusual events that brought them together. 


“Trust me, it’s not. He likes to be in control, especially when it comes to his art. And it pisses him off to no end that I could give a shit less about these photos. I just wanna....worship you. If you’ll have me?” It was unclear whether he thought she would say no, but Sansa detected a vulnerability behind his steel grey eyes that she had never seen before. It was a precious fragile thing. It made her want to protect him, shield him from whatever demons circled them. 


Sansa bit her bottom lip, knowing she would get no more explanation from him today aside from what she had already seen in his eyes. “Well I guess you can’t pass up the most important part of your audition,” she teased gently.


“Most important?” he laughed, Sandor’s body language suddenly more relaxed, a gentle stroke of his cock tempting her. “And here I thought you wanted my winning personality….”


“I want it all,” she breathed. “The good, the bad. Everything.” Motioning him to come to her with her index finger and returning to her position on all fours, blue heels still on. 


Sandor closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if he were calming his raging nerves. Even experienced musicians can be nervous before an audition, Sansa thought, finding a serenity in the fact that he was as nervous as she was. He crawled on the bed and, taking a pillow in one hand, he pushed it under her belly. There was absolutely no hesitation as he began to worship her pussy with his mouth. He slipped his forearms along her inner thighs, had his hands take control of her hips and ass, and set his mouth to work. 


Every inch of her swollen vagina was being explored in detail. Using his massive hands to spread her lips apart, Sandor used his tongue to tease and tempt her. He wanted to see what she liked, how she reacted, and how to please her better. The relative foreplay from their earlier photo session made the young model exceptionally impatient, pushing herself back on his tongue, feeling his nose tickle her bum. Sandor was lapping her up like a man starved, eagerly stimulating her if only for the purpose of becoming drunk on her juices 


Her body was suddenly urged to turn, her bum still elevated on a pillow. Sandor was so focused on her pussy, their eyes didn’t even meet when he slipped two of his fingers in again, their width filling her instantly. The front man’s lips closed around her clit and he began an intricate and well practiced motion of toying with her G-spot and stimulating the bundle of nerves just above her opening. Moans filled the atelier, deep throaty moans. Sansa’s body was not her own, she gripped the sheets and jerked in pleasure. The way he curled his fingers back to him, the amount of pressure he applied, the suction he had on her clit. Everything felt just right. All the young model could do was dig her fingers into his long hair and buck her hips wildly against his mouth. And he loved it, the corners of his lips suggested a satisfied grin as he continued to tease and play with her, deciding whether he would drag it out or make her fall apart now.


The throaty, deep gasps that escaped her lips were wanton. The deep satisfaction that ripped through her body as she came on his face had never been felt before. Every muscle in her body tightened, and then relaxed. Sansa wasn’t sure if she could speak or even form words. She laid there a moment and enjoyed the wave of pleasure he had so skillfully given her. When she finally did open her eyes, the Heavy Metal singer was no longer between her legs. 


Sansa turned her head behind her, to see he’s settled in the middle of the bed, sitting up, his legs spread, his large hand wrapped around the base of his cock. “Come here, pussy cat,” he teased, using his manhood as bait. 


There was no misinterpreting what he wanted, and she grinned. Slowly Sansa crawled on all fours over to where he sat, a dirty little girl eager to reciprocate the amazing oral sex he had just given her. Sansa’s lips barely contained the head of his penis, its engorged tip smooth as it slid into her mouth. Sandor used one hand to steady himself, the other to pull her hair back so he could watch her devour him. There was no force in his hand, no need for him to push her down onto his cock. The singer was very content to watch her as she used both hands and her mouth to stimulate his aching member. 


He was muttering incoherently to himself. Sandor’s deep voice was like sex for her ears, giving her all the encouragement she needed. She took as much of him as she could in her mouth, using her tongue to tease his shaft, then eventually his head. Her tongue flicked over his most sensitive areas and she felt his fingers twitch in her hair. Eventually she felt his free hand guide her body so she was perpendicular to him. Long fingers glided over her back and hips, finding her pussy and entering her with little hesitation. The wet, sloppy sounds of her pussy being penetrated made her moan on his cock. It was the sweet kind of encouragement he needed to move his digits faster and harder inside of her.


When she began to do more moaning than sucking, he playfully tipped her chin up, taking in the beautiful sight of her with his most prized possession stuffed in her cheeks. “I want you,” he whispered, more a plea than a command.  


Sansa rose to her knees, and straddled Sandor so they would face one another.  He was pleased that her breasts were level with his face, his smile of appreciation so beautiful. It was as if he couldn’t believe it was happening and knew he had to make the most out of his audition. She found herself cupping his face with her hand, a way to show him she had chosen this. Jumped with both feet into whatever it was they were creating together. 


Sandor’s hands moved down her back to her bum. He gripped her firmly while positioning her so that her opening was settled just above his tip. They kissed. It was a deep, long kiss. One she needed in order to steady her nerves. It served as a reminder that this crazy thing she was about to do was justified. At the very least it felt right, and Sansa needed to explore that. 


Lowering her body over his steel length, Sansa gasped at the sheer size of it. They were forehead to forehead, and he whispered her little encouragements, a thumb moving to her clit to stimulate her more. The walls of her vagina strained against his girth, the friction despite her wetness felt so amazing. It made her even more determined to have him all. 


“Oh by the gods,” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. He felt unlike anything she had ever had before, the desire to be filled by a big strong man overwhelming her. The knowledge that they cared about one another, igniting her soul.


Inching further down his cock, Sansa could feel his chest hair drag along her breasts. It was delicious, it made her embrace him tightly, deepening their already very intimate kiss. Both hands back on her bum, he gripped her cheeks and spread them wide. The need to ride Sandor like he deserved possessed her, but she knew she needed to take him completely first. Her body moved in frustration on his cock, attempting to take more of him before it was ready.


Their hips were almost flush, Sansa knew there wasn’t much left of him to sheath. Yet, his manhood was already pressing hard against her womb. She broke their kiss then, feeling a sudden pulse deep within her core. Tipping her head back and pushing against Sandor’s strong chest, she settled over the last bit of him. His arms went around her lower back, allowing her to arch as much as she needed to. Sandor’s breath was warm on her nipples, his beard brushing against her body. Just this sent her over the edge, her walls spasming around him, her knees clenching his hips tightly. She couldn’t hear anything other than a wanton, satisfied moan as she peaked far too quickly. 


When she opened her eyes, she saw Sandor’s staring back at her. He looked like he’d seen a god, his eyes open in reverie, a smirk of wild satisfaction on his lips. “I never dreamed you’d want me so bad. Never,” the Heavy Metal singer whispered in a rough voice, only barely holding his composure.


She trailed a finger down his cheek, “I’ve never wanted a man so much. Ever.”


Sandor swallowed hard, processing her words and their meaning. “I’m your servant. Just...just tell me what you need.”


Their lips met again and Sansa felt a tear forming in her eye. No man in her whole life had ever put her first. They’d always wanted to take, but never to give or even run up a debt. It was a powerful feeling he had given her and at the same time, she wanted nothing more than to make him happy. To please him beyond his wildest expectations. 


She began to gently guide her hips up and down his length. Sansa couldn’t remain silent. Her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, she did her best to enjoy the build up. Then decided to throw the slow buildup to the side, in favor of what she really wanted--to ride him until she was raw. Her kneeling straddle position afforded her the leverage and strength to ride him with the vigor he deserved. Sandor’s eyes held a reverie for her, one only made more intense by the rhythmic slapping of their bodies. The singer was groaning, prepared to sacrifice his cock so she could chase her pleasure for a third time. 


The friction between them was amazing and the depth to which she could bring him inside her heightened that sensation. But what clenched this moment for her, what made it pleasing above everything else, was their affection for each other. Sansa had all but given up on finding a person who would love her for who she was, and be so addictively attracted to her. But the last week had changed everything. Had changed everything for the better.


Eventually his lips would wrap around one of her nipples, his fingers gently tweaking the other one. “Yes, yes!” Was the only encouragement she could scream, the combination of the stimulation with the amazing feeling of his cock bringing her to another drawn out, mind blowing peak. This one hit her so hard, she was certain she’d lost her balance. She felt herself spasm around his healthy member, felt his arms wrap around her body, then felt her back hit the mattress. 


“You’re a bloody goddess,” he whispered in her ear. His lips were on her neck, his hips thrusting gently through her peak.


The young model could not describe how she felt. Her body was exhausted and felt light as air. Sansa was happy he’d taken over, happy to feel him moving within her. She felt so greedy, and yet she understood that Sandor demanded nothing more than total surrender. That was what she had done, she had given him the deepest part of her, the most intimate control. It was not misplaced, she could see that in his eyes, could feel it in the way he touched her. 


Long lazy thrusts, or quickened shallow ones? Her lover seemed to take great interest in seeing which ones she liked more. He was smiling into her neck as her little grunts and moans guided his depth and pace. Sansa gripped his ass gasping at how hard it was. This made him chuckle in response. When the head of his cock rubbed against her engorged G-spot, Sansa moaned so loud she almost didn’t believe it had been her. He quickly picked up on her love for his swollen, rounded head. “My greedy goddess likes the tip,” he breathed, beginning some shallow thrusts. Raising up from her, one hand beside her head, he moved his other slowly up her chest. Then he settled it right at the junction of her neck. The gentle pressure he applied there was thrilling, it made her look at him as he fucked her. 


Sandor wouldn’t last much longer, she could see it in his eyes, feel it in his erratic movements. But she was coming undone, and there was a sense of relaxation in that. Her peak came slightly before his, but then his hand quickly left her chest and she felt his loss instantly. His warm seed was liberally distributed over her mound and below her belly button. It was such that she could feel it rolling down her lips, it made her feel so sexy. Their eyes met, and she could see he was beyond sated. 


Then his eyes flickered to the cameras and his expression changed momentarily. She couldn’t be sure why, and she wasn’t in any state to think properly anyway. He scooped her up, ripping the sheet from the bed and sitting with his back against the headboard. Sandor cradled her in his arms, bringing the sheet around her so she wouldn’t get cold. 


They nuzzled one another a while, the scarred side of his face brushing lightly against her cheek. “Come live with me,” he said suddenly. “I want you to be my muse, my everything. Keep your apartment in the city if you want, but I have to know if we can do this thing.” His voice quivered with need, as if he couldn’t live without knowing if they were right for each other.


She was already so emotional. The pressure of the shoot, the incredible sex they had just had, the fact that nobody had ever been so tender and loving with her before. Tears streamed down her face as she agreed, her head snuggled deep into the crook of his neck. The bad boy of Metal sighed in satisfaction, his free arm rubbing her shoulder. They inhaled one another, gentle kisses exchanged like secret love notes.


It was about that time that the camera crew returned from their walk. Seeing what was going on, Oberyn was quick to get his assistants on their cameras. Sansa was certainly not in the mood to be photographed, and she could only imagine what Sandor felt. 


“Alright, let’s get started,” Oberyn insisted, bringing his camera to his face.


“We’re done,” Sandor cut him off, a coldness to his voice Sansa had not heard before.


“No you aren't,” Oberyn argued, “You can’t just walk off this set before we’re finished. It’s in the contract.”


“You know what’s not in the contract?” Sandor asked, “Having us make a sex tape.” The angry front man pointed to the cameras. “I trusted you not to pull and low shit like that, but you didn’t tape up the record light well enough on one of them.”


Sansa stiffened in his arms, the very thought of what would happen to her life and her reputation making her stomach sink. The singer's fingers stroked her shoulder in reassurance.


“Sandor,” Oberyn began, “we were going to use the stills for the final part of the magazine. I knew you’d never do the deed with us here. That’s the edgy art part, you know?” He was bartering now, conceding in his voice that he had done wrong and trying to save what he could.


“No I don’t.” Sandor replied flatly. “What I do know is that a video you take stills from isn’t covered in the contract. So if you want to use them, you’ll have to talk to the boss.”


“And who exactly is the boss ?” Oberyn was being snooty, across his chest with a defiant look in his dark brown eyes.


“Sansa, of course.” The front man said it in plain language everybody could understand. The boss herself was flabbergasted, her mouth just as agape as Oberyn’s. “I just spent the better part of an hour worshiping this beautiful creature. She’s…” he stopped himself a  moment trying to compose himself in his anger. “She’s not a commodity to make money off of, not some toy you can just play with. She took a huge risk coming here today and if there’s anybody who stands to lose from that tape getting out, it’s her. She owns the rights, and that’s it.” Sansa looked up at Sandor and he nodded encouragingly.


After that he scootched to the edge of the bed,and picked her up still wrapped in the sheet. 


“Sandor, come on. Just listen to me…” Oberyn tried to follow them off the set.


The naked front man turned, his eyes darting to Oberyn with a look that would make anybody’s blood run cold. “You’re lucky I have her in my arms, or I’d beat the shit out of you.”


With that he took her back to the dressing room, where she tried to wrap her mind around what had just happened. “That motherfucker,” Sandor started, digging out his clothes. “If I had noticed it sooner we would have….” he stopped himself but punctuated the last bit with, “fucking leeches.”


He trailed off as she put her hand on his arm, bringing his attention back to her. “He got us both pretty worked up didn’t he?” She smiled so he would know it wasn’t his fault. Oberyn had certainly had a hand in using their attraction against them, making it hard for mere mortals to resist the temptations of the flesh. Sansa was by no means ashamed of what they had done, she was just shaken by the very idea that their private moments could be stolen from them in such a way. It made her understand why he had such disdain for the press.


Sandor nodded and she went to find the clothing she had arrived in. “Do you need anything from your place?” He asked, not forgetting their promise to one another.


“You meant move in today?” She laughed, caught pleasantly off guard by his sense of urgency.


“Of course. Right now,” he answered simply.


Sansa put her hands on his chest and looked up into his deep grey eyes. “No,” she said, “I just want you and the countryside. The rest is replaceable. Let’s get out of here.”


He nodded, and taking her by the hand, led her down to his truck. She’d never felt so good about a decision in all her life and, for once, she didn’t care what others would think either. He was all she ever wanted, all she would ever need. Their meeting had been a collision of nuclear proportions, and she found strength in knowing they would weather any storm together. 

Chapter Text


Chapter 7: Epilogue


Sansa peeked through the backstage curtains of Olenna Tyrell’s Late Night Talk Show, doing her best to get a sense for the studio crowd. It was a standing room only kind of situation. Those who had gotten tickets early were cozy in their plush seats. Those who had come late were standing in the back and all through the aisles. They were a mixed lot, Sansa could see it already from the clothing that they wore and the way they carried themselves. ‘A different sort of audience to be sure,’ the young model grinned.


Olenna had been a fascite of late night shows since before Sansa was born. In fact few could remember a time when the Queen of Thorns had not been beamed to their TV screens.  Smirking to herself, Sansa found it interesting that a loyal contingent of old ladies was there to support their favorite talk show host. ‘They surely have no idea what the topic of discussion is going to be tonight,’ she paused at this thought. ‘And if they do, then those are some pretty randy grannies.’ The very idea made her giggle to herself.


Interspersed between the elderly women were a huge amount of metalheads. Their dark makeup, long hair, and black painted nails surely bristling against the social norms of the other 40% of the crowd. Sansa stifled a laugh to see a fat, curly, white haired lady sitting next to a rather large, dark haired young man with a pentical on his shirt and “FUCK THE KING” written in bold gothic letters across it. Certainly there were several worlds colliding in the studio tonight, and that would make their interview all the more interesting.


So much had happened since the release of Playgirl six months ago, that Sansa felt a lifetime had flashed before her eyes. She and Sandor were the hottest couple in Westeros, their desire to live outside of the public eye made them even more sought after. It was difficult to run to the store for bread or go to a low key restaurant without being overrun with paparazzi. As a child, Sansa had dreamed of that sort of fame. Looking glamorous and constantly being in the public eye had been her measure of ‘making it’ in her industry. The reality of living ‘that life’, however, had changed her views on the subject dramatically.


As predicted, Sansa’s bold move to feature in Playgirl had changed her career trajectory fundamentally. No longer “that pretty redhead at the back of the shoot,” she had her pick of jobs quickly developing a discerning taste for what she wanted to do. The newest, freshest face on the island was being called upon for everything from high fashion shoots to selling healthy cereal. It was an overwhelming experience and she was relieved that she didn’t have to go through it alone. 


A gentle squeeze on her hand made Sansa look back over her shoulder and smile. Sandor stood there anxiously revving himself up as he did before all his live interviews. Despite his confident, at ease stage persona the gigantic frontman often battled his inner demons before submitting himself to the public eye. If there was one thing Sansa had learned through becoming famous herself, it was that people took as much as you gave them. For a man like Sandor, who would not be happy with anything less than bearing his entire soul on stage, interviews and performances took their toll.  


The burned side of his mouth twitched a bit, one of the few signs of his insecurity. There was a beauty in his meekness, a tenderness that he gave willingly to those close to him. Few knew this more sensitive side of Sandor Clegane. Though he did not look it, the Mad Dog of Metal was an artist at heart. The uncertainty that plagued him was the fuel he used to perfect his craft. The detail oriented, hardworking musician who worked tirelessly with the band to fulfill his masterful vision was not part of his aggressive, anarchist stage persona. 


Most saw the tougher, harder exterior of the Heavy Metal singer. He was the total embodiment of his musical genre. A man who’d lived a hard life and captured those defining experiences in relatable, against the social norm type of songs. On stage and in public he was the most confident version of himself, unafraid of what others said or thought about him. It was an alluring persona, one that attracted those who would want to feed from it. Hence it wasn’t difficult for Sansa to understand why he did his best to shut others out. His dry and penetrating sense of humor was often misunderstood, or purposefully misconstrued to fit the media’s idea of him. The outspoken, imposing frontman welcomed such things, spat in the face of the system. 


But it all had a price. Fame had a price, and both of them were well aware of the costs. Though that didn’t make it easy all the time.


Sansa leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, “I’ll do most of the talking.” 


Sandor smirked, his finger stroked the side of her face. They were alone back there, no stage hands around to bother them, no fans clawing for an autograph. There was no doubt in her mind that he reveled in these quiet times, particularly when they could be stolen in this way--right before they were about to expose themselves to their adoring fans.


An idol finger ran over her knuckles and Sansa’s heart swelled. There was no other way to describe Sandor Clegane other than full on 150% of the time. While that may have frightened some girls, or possibly scared them off, she had matched his vigor with a passion of her own. Some friends had told her something that burned so hot was destined to fizzle out quickly. But they did not know him, and even then, they could not comprehend this wicked crazy love they shared.


Sansa heard their que, “Now, introducing the hottest couple in Westeros. The ones we’ve all seen but barely heard a word from since their record smashing spread in Playgirl. Let’s welcome...well can I say that on a late night talk show?” The crowd laughed as Olenna stoked their need to see the pair, “Let’s hear it for Fuck the King’s Sandor Clegane and super model Sansa Stark.” 


The audience went wild with wolf whistles, claps, cheers, all of it. Inhaling, Sansa guided Sandor by the hand from between the curtains, her signature smile plastered on her face. A pair of high heels, reminiscent of those she had worn at the shoot adorned her feet. Her jeans were ripped and she wore a low cut tank top with ‘Starsera’, a rival band, splashed across her chest. Sansa’s hair was long and flowy, her face dolled up. 


They were not more than six steps across the stage when she felt Sandor pull her toward him, smoothly jerking her backwards. Their bodies met roughly, and he dipped her back into an old Hollywood style, penetrating kiss. Her fingers tangled themselves immediately into his long dark hair, returning his passionate attack on her lips with one of her own. This was the frontman in him. That part of her partner that was happy to perform for the crowd--albeit at a distance. 


The room erupted at their long, drawn out, breathless little show. Sandor nipped at her bottom lip, happy to smudge her lipstick across his own teeth. He had a wicked grin on his face. Sansa smirked sheepishly in response, nearly able to read his mind. Finally sitting down on the couch next to Olenna’s desk, Sansa felt the heat in her cheeks. Interviews always made her nervous, and such a public display of affection only upped the ante. 


Settling into their seats, Sansa was pleased that they did not have to break their physical connection. Her right hand was still in his, their fingers laced together. It was a nervous habit of Sandor’s, as if her closeness gave him the energy he needed to face the often very personal questions that made him the most uncomfortable. In truth, they both leaned on one another, even if it wasn’t obvious to the crowd.


Turning her attention to Olenna, the young model could sense the late night talk show host wasn’t thrilled at being upstaged. Yet, when the audience did finally calm itself, she put on her best front, “Well, you two young pups know how to make an entrance.”


Sandor adjusted himself in his seat, ankle over his knee leaning back effortlessly on the studio’s low backed couch. “Just wanted to remind all those little pricks wanking to my girl out there who daddy is.” His voice low and gravily, a self-satisfied grin spread across his iconic face.


Sansa laughed at his joke, along with their supporters in the crowd. If there was one thing her lover enjoyed doing, it was getting under the skin of the people around him. Watching them pique at his little masquerade just to see who truly knew him and who did not.


Olenna didn’t get it, clearly. Though she hid the horror on her face well, Sansa could see judgement in her eyes.


“So,” the older late night talk show host began, “before we get to the real reason you’re here, let’s talk about what’s been going on since the infamous shoot. Sansa, you’ve really catapulted to the head of the modeling industry,” Sansa could detect the slight jealousy in Olenna, if not solely based on the fact she’d toppled her granddaughter from her pedestal. Sandor noticed it too, his hand squeezing hers, his eyes darting to the old lady aggressively.


Sansa answered the question with grace, “Yeah well, I’ve been on the cover of Rollingstone and Vogue.” There was clapping, “Done a couple of fashion shows…”


“That’s right you’re the new face of Lady Ros’ Latex,” the old woman pried.


The Queen of Thrones was trying to maneuver Sansa in a corner. Doing her best to pull the model off guard by saying something racy about her career. As if walking the runway for a high fashion fetish label lessened her career after a full nude shoot in Playgirl. Sansa stopped herself from shaking her head outright, and took a breath to steady her flash of anger.


“Yes,” Sansa answered calmly, but that would not be enough for Sandor. 


The dark frontman piped up, “And why aren’t we all in latex? Shit I ain’t got a problem with assless pants for all.” That got a laugh from the crowd, and Sandor waited until they calmed down to continue. “But seriously, since Sansa became the face of Lady Ros, artists like Lady Gaga started calling Ros up for fittings, even some of the royal family.”


It was true, Sansa had increased brand awareness and made it ok for good girls to go out in or perform in latex. In choosing to work with Ros Sansa had balked against the grain and it had paid off big again. Of course there was criticism of her choices, you couldn’t be in the public eye without negativity. Yet the very idea of being ambushed on a late night talk show, on a subject you weren’t really there to speak about, made the young model flush red in her cheeks.


Doing her best to pick up the conversation and not give their hostile host an edge, ““I’ll be in the Pirelli calendar next year AND I’ve been doing some work for free to up and coming Heavy Metal groups who need a face for their album covers or music videos. If I can help them make their break, I’m happy to do it.” Sansa could feel Sandor’s breath on her knuckles, and she turned to meet his eyes. He loved the work that she did for younger bands, even if he feigned jealousy at the racy covers they sometimes wanted for their albums. Another part of his uber masculine stage persona.


“Is it true you passed up the Lannister’s offer to have you as the face of their beauty brand?” Olenna asked, a scandalized sound to her voice. It was unheard of to deny a Lannister anything, their family name and business were legendary in Westeros. 


“Yes,” Sansa said, leaving the crowd to imagine the rest of the story.


Sandor lifted his lips from the back of her hand, “The whole lot of’em are cunts.” The frontman’s contingent in the audience howled in approval of his words. Ever since the Playgirl interview, the singer had not kept his disdain for Tyrion Lannister a secret. Likewise, Sansa’s experience with Cersei and Jamie had left her loath to fall prey to their offers. 


Being quite surprised by his colorful language, the host moved to Sandor. “And you, Sandor, your band is doing a huge part of the soundtrack to one of Guy Richie’s new movies?” The host’s tone of voice implied surprise that a Heavy Metal band would be the music of choice for such a high end production. 


At that the hulking singer nodded, “Yeah. I approached him a couple of months ago with some ideas for fight sequence music, because I’d heard he was making a movie on Duncan the Tall.  The guys and I wanted to be in on it.” 


“Well you definitely look like a mixture of Duncan the Tall and the Warrior,” there were some female howls that emanated from the audience at the host’s remarks. Sansa could sense Sandor’s annoyance at the refocus from his music to his body. It was the way he wiggled his nose in frustration but smiled and chuckled anyway.


“There’s also a new album on the horizon,” Sansa threw out there, trying to draw the conversation back to the topic that would make her dark lover more comfortable. The surprise of the crowd was pretty clear, Sandor had never written an album so quickly in all his life. A testament to her abilities as a muse he would always say, snuggling her neck as he did so in their cozy lakeside home. 


Sandor chuckled, while Olenna played shocked. Surely the late night talkshow host had never listened to a proper Fuck the King song in her life. “It’s been four years since your, uh, band released an album. Tell us more.” 


‘At least she’s done her research,’ Sansa thought squeezing Sandor’s hand as if her thoughts could be transmitted through the act.


“The album’s called, ‘Oh Maiden May I?’ and it’s gonna come out at the end of the year.” There was a huge applause, while the older women looked dismayed. It was a line taken right from the Maiden’s Prayer, the way a young woman might ask the goddess for guidance and protection. For the most pious among them, a man even the uttering of such words would be seen as sacrilegious. Combine that with Sandor’s reputation and he might as well have just told the gods to fuck off.


“Well that’s quite a title for an album. The High Septon, in all his wisdom,” her voice was sarcastic, “would probably take issue with that one.”


Sandor let her words sink in for the crowd a bit, “Well...the High Septon,” he pointed out with his free hand to the crowd as he might while performing with his band. The crowd filled in all together, “and the King can fuck right off.” Sansa threw her head back in a huge smile, while Sandor nodded confidently, proud of his fans. 


“Well, young man, I’m sure his excellency will have something to say on the matter. Which will inevitably drive up your record sales,” the slight by the Queen of Thorns was quick, but she had not reckoned that Sandor was in his element.


“Whether that old son of a bitch listens to the song or not, that isn’t the point. Rather, it’s capturing that fact that some of us find our true sexuality in goddess worship,” Sandor’s voice held back his anger, but only just. 


Olenna laughed, “Are you telling me the Mad Dog of Metal has become a pious man?”


Sandor nodded, “Uh, huh.” 


Grinning to herself Sansa nestled in, knowing good and well Sandor had planned to make the old talk show hostess as uncomfortable as possible. 


“I do my prayers morning, noon, and evening when I’m home. I’m a pious motherfucker if there ever was one.” That devil’s grin meant Sansa wasn’t going to like what came out of his mouth next. And yet, she couldn’t wait to see the expression on the Queen of Thorns' face either.


“Explain, young man.” 


“I wake up before dawn to watch the sunrise over my goddess,” Sandor kissed Sansa’s fingertips as he did so. “Then I get her her coffee and her fruits, make sure she’s comfortable.” 


He was referring to a very known ritual, giving offerings to the gods. Often drinks and fruits were given in the morning, bread in the afternoon, and sweets in the evening. If one had an alter in their own home that is. Olenna didn’t seem to understand it wasn’t a statue at their home, but rather Sansa herself. The young model could feel her cheeks heat up red, not from embarrassment but because Sandor’s gaze was that of a man who wanted nothing more than to make love to her as often as he could.


Lips brushed past her fingertips, his breath warm on her knuckles. “Then before lunch, I get on my knees in front of her and pray again.” Sansa smiled big as Sandor’s lips met the underside of her wrists. If the talk show host had not gotten the double meaning of his words by now, a few of their followers in the crowd certainly had. Sandor had such a feral look in his eyes as he replayed their countless sexual encounters in his mind.  He’d long stopped focusing on their hostess, his grey eyes looking only into Sansa’s. 


There was a long pause, one might even call it a dramatic one before he shifted his gaze back to Olenna, then said in a very deadpan way, “ Maybe for an hour, maybe more. Red-heads are so fuckin’ demanding.”


An audience member whistled and Sandor pointed to him, “He knows what I’m talking about.” There were some claps from their contingent in the studio and their talk show host finally seemed to have made the parallel. 


“I see,” Olenna said, trying to make light of the topic whilst trying to figure out Sandor’s dirty and dry sense of humor. “So let’s talk about the infamous shoot.”  A subject change, a clear indication that they had successfully dodged the prying questions into their private life. 


“For those of you who haven’t seen it,” the cover photo of Playgirl magazine came up on a big screen so the audience could see it, “then you’ve had your head in the sand.”


There was clapping and both she and Sandor smiled. This by no means meant the interview was over and would be easy, but they had a better idea of where they would be questioned. Neither she nor Sandor had talked much to the press since their status as a couple had been established. They largely shunned the public eye, but also their final agreement with Tyrion had tied their hands with regard to talking about certain aspects of what had taken place on that fateful day.


Sansa grinned to herself. Oberyn’s slip up had given them the leverage to demand more money based on the pictures they controlled. She and Sandor chose the pictures, and demanded  a cut of the profits. Both sides benefitted, the racier the photos the more likely the profits from the usage of these pictures would be higher. However they were not allowed to talk about the deal, the magazine’s indiscretions, and only until now about the shoot at all. It had been worth it, the mystery that had surrounded the shoot and the sexual intensity of the photos had only made more copies of the failing magazine fly off the shelf.


“Let’s get right to the good stuff,” the old lady had recovered some of her stage presence as the next picture flashed on the screen. It was a picture of Sandor in the old cadillac, laying down in the front seat, jeans over his hips and a raging erection in his hand. “These photos, young man, have given me feelings I haven’t had in decades. Does anybody else feel that way?” That elicited a laugh from the crowd on all sides. Sansa looked around through the bright hot glow of the lights and couldn’t tell exactly who was laughing, she was just happy it took the tension out of their discussion.


“I mean, look at this body ladies and gentleman, he’s the Warrior in the flesh.” Olenna knew the comparison to the god of war was something that was often said about Sandor, and it was one he hated. While he wasn’t afraid to mosh with the best of them, or use his size to intimidate, he preferred the comparison to no god at all. Sandor exhaled annoyed.


The screen began to flash a few photos of Sansa on her own from the shoot. A close-up of her dousing herself in vodka, lips parted in that classic “party girl” manner. Then another of her body on the bed, finally ending with the famous close up of Sandor’s fingers buried in her pussy. The shot was cropped close, only the heart shape of her bum and the back of her legs taking up the majority of the frame. Sandor’s iconic tattooed forearm snaked around from the side, two large digits buried in her wetness. Her lips were spread wide for the camera, Sansa’s body obviously straining to contain him. The lens picked up everything, almost in micro fashion. The smoothness of her skin, the hairs on his arm, the wetness of her aching sex. It was certianly erotic, not to mention akward to be sitting at an interview with that plastered and left on the big screen.


“Is it true that Sandor picked you out from a catalogue of models? Or was there a closed audition? Or both?” The question nearly knocked Sansa off her chair. There was a piercing way to how the Queen of Thorns asked her question. Any way you answered you lost. 


Before Sansa could gain her composure, Sandor had begun to speak. He sat up to his full height and turned his face directly to their host. “Now hold on. That’s a fuckin’ sexist way to say it.”


“Oh really?” The old lady shot back, tasting blood. 


“You make it sound like I picked from a menu of girls until I found the one that turned me on the most. And that’s just not fuckin’ right.” The God of Metal made no efforts to hide his anger. As such Sansa could feel how his mere tone made the hairs on her neck stand on end. 


More photos of them flashed on the big screen. Sexual and nearly explicit in nature. All of them had been agreed upon by Sansa, Sandor, and the magazine -- but they were played at the most uncomfortable moment. A carefully staged dance choreographed to make Sandor look worse than he was. It made her angry, which meant her lover was livid.


“I heard you went through quite a lot of look books before you found a girl who turned you…” the old woman began. 


“, you let me finish.” Sandor raised his finger as if to shush her like a child. It so took the old woman aback that she actually did stop talking long enough for Sandor to continue unimpeded. 


“If you want to levy judgement on the modeling industry, of which your granddaughter is a part...a big part, be my guest. It basically trades young women and men for some made up value based on culturally derived beauty standards.” There were some whistles of support from the in studio crowd. “I did find Sansa in one of these agency look books, it’s true. Shit, I’d never seen a woman so beautiful and was too chicken-shit to call her myself.”


Sansa leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. In their time together Sandor had never recounted this side of the story to her. There was a sweetness to it that was so characteristically him that it had not surprised her. He continued after the crowd settled down, “Even then, I could have just shown up to the shoot, taken my clothes off and waited to see what happened. But I didn’t. I took the time to get to know Sansa first. I wanted her to be comfortable. I beautiful mug isn’t for everybody.”


At that the crowd clapped, some whistled their support. One chick even yelled out, “You’re a fuckin’ sexy man!” from the audience. Sansa smiled because she hated when he was so negative about his looks. He was sexy from the way he looked to many musical talents, Sandor Clegane was the full package. 


Olenna, seeing she would get nowhere, tried to regain a bit of control. “And was there a connection?” She asked.


“I bloody fell in love with her,” Sandor kissed Sansa’s hand, while she blushed.


The talk show host let the crowd have their moment, but then she struck again. “So it’s true what the rumors say, that you were intimate on set?” 


Some of their more explicit shots graced the screen. The one that stayed up was of her riding Sandor, back arched back at a nearly impossible angle as she came. There was no visible penetration, but the look in his eyes and the passion etched on her face had inspired some very interesting internet memes. Aside from that, it had become one of the most iconic, raw, nude shots between two celebrities. 


“Does it really matter whether we were or not? It’s about these feelings these photos inspire.” Sansa answered, feeling more confident the stronger Sandor gripped her hand. “When I look at them, it’s like we’re writing a love letter to one another from beginning to end. Instead of words it's written in eye contact, in a smile shared between two budding lovers. If we had wanted to sell this magazine based on pure sex, it would not have been as popular. What I don’t see up there is the last photo in the set,” the model pointed out.


A few seconds passed, and then finally the final shot of the magazine ermerged. It was by far one of her favorites, and graced a prominent wall in their home. A wide shot in black and white, Sansa was wrapped in a blanket sitting across Sandor’s lap. His legs were in different positions, one straight and the other bent to the side, Sansa’s bum nestled in between them covering his manhood from view. The musculature of the singer’s arms looked amazing, particularly because he was holding her so lovingly. The contrast of tough masculinity and a man in love with his partner was so well communicated, that it always gave Sansa tears of joy in her eyes. They nuzzled one another so affectionately here that there was no reason to doubt they had fallen hard for one another. 


“True,” the old woman agreed. “What did your parents think of this whole thing?” The question was not unexpected. 


“Fuck the King is playing at my mother’s benefit concert in Winterfell this year. The tickets go on sale next Sunday. Sandor and I will be there to meet and greet you, then sit back for a kick ass concert with some songs from the new album.” Sansa had been ready for this question, and adeptly avoided having to discuss the tension between Sandor and her parents. They were warming up to him, but slowly.


When the crowd erupted, Sandor leaned into Sansa’s ear. “I love you,” he whispered.


Sansa kissed him, not caring for Olenna’s outro. “And that’s all the time we have. You heard it yourself, buy the reprint of Playgirl magazine and see these two in person in Winterfell. Thank you and good night!” The stage lights dimmed and Sansa felt Sandor relax, their lips still locked in an endless, wonderful kiss.





“Ohhhhhhh, YES!” Sansa’s screams of pleasure permeated the small dressing room that had been hastily put together on the field in front of Winterfell Castle. In the late summer and early autumn, there were always music festivals and benefit concerts held on its endless green grasses. Tonight Fuck the King would play for her mother’s chairty to improve the life of Wildlings. While it seemed reasonable to do such an event given their relationship status, it had been a long road to acceptance in Sansa’s family for the tall, dark, and controversial Sandor Clegane.


In truth Sansa had stopped counting the number of times she and her mother had fought over what was right in her life. Arguments like, “You’re both too different,” and, “Can you trust him to be faithful?” had fallen on deaf, angry ears. Unlike her sister, Sansa had always been the good girl, doing what she could to please her parents at every turn. While this way of being had paid her dividends as a child, it had not helped her into adulthood. The Playgirl photoshoot had been her first, and extremely public, act of defiance. A step toward a mental and emotional independence she never realized she needed. It had felt great, better than great.


“FUCK ME!,” she found herself yelling loud enough for anybody passing by the door to hear. Sansa was bent over the makeup counter, her thighs tight against its edge, her hand bracing against the lightbulb infused mirror. There were few things she liked more than watching Sandor express his passion for her through sex. The way he bit his bottom lip while taking her from behind, his massive hands gripping her hips tightly, his gorgeous hair sliding over his shoulders with each thrust. 


He’s so incredibly beautiful and he doesn’t even know it.


Her free hand reached behind her, gripping his bare ass. The Heavy Metal singer’s jeans had slipped half way down his bum in all the excitement allowing her to feel the warmth of his skin on her hands. Sensing her intense need for more, Sandor leaned over and whispered in her ear,”I love it when you talk dirty to me, you wild bitch.” His growl made her giggle, his knees forced her legs open wider, his hands landed on either side of the makeup counter next to her. Their eyes locked on one another’s in the mirror. The intimacy between them was so strong and powerful that it made her moan all the more. Sansa loved him. It was a deep burning kind of love that she knew came once in a lifetime if you were lucky. 


The frontman used his height difference to thrust deep inside of her, teasing Sansa’s womb every chance he got. He knew very well what she liked, and was loath to deny her anything -- especially when they made love. There was a knock on the door, “Clegane, it’s showtime.”


“I’ll come when I’m good and damn ready to,” he shouted back, never breaking stride. Sansa looked over her shoulder and grinned at the obvious double meaning of his words. 


Sandor stole a kiss, and Sansa melted into him. Moans, gasps, the pulsating of her hungry pussy. It was all so much to take in at once. “They’re calling my name,” he gasped into her ear. It was true, she could hear the chanting of the crowd over the sound of her body smacking into the makeup counter. The band had already setup and were waiting for him. That was the only reason such calls would be made. 


I’ve made him more than late, Sansa realized.


The Heavy Metal singer leaned in again, nipping at her ear, “But all I wanna do is hear you come,” he emphasized the last couple of words with some rather pointed thrusts. Then he slowed allowing her to feel every bit of his throbbing manhood. It would be the death of her.


“Oh, Sandor by the gods, by the….” with that Sansa tipped her head back the sound of her release filling the small room. Her body felt suddenly light, her legs weak, his cock nearly pushed out by the strength of her release. The young model found herself gasping for air, her body at the height of its sensitivity. Sandor could play her better than his guitar, and that was saying something. 


A satisfied growl escaped her lips, Sansa knew he’d follow quickly behind her, He loves it when I let go for him, give him everything.


Suddenly Sansa felt the weight of her partner while he lurched forward, finding his release. Both of Sandor’s arms wrapped around her body, while her pussy milked him dry. She could feel his burnt cheek on her shoulder, and warm kisses on her skin. They could take only a few short moments to enjoy the afterglow of their spontaneous sex session. The crowd was growing more impatient and Tormund had begun banging his drum in frustration. Reluctantly Sandor removed himself from her heat, making her feel empty. It didn’t matter how often they coupled, her body always stretched deliciously tight around him.  


Allowing him a moment to find his feet Sansa turned, her bum resting against the edge of the destroyed makeup counter. The sated model dragged her skinny jeans up from around her ankles and pulled them over her hips. By the time she looked up from pants, Sandor had already zipped himself up and was fidgeting with his belt. 


Those scratch marks are going to be visible from the back row, Sansa lifted an eyebrow as Sandor turned in search of his shirt. Her nails had broken skin, but her man revelled in such things. He wore their love marks as a badge of honor, particularly when he threw his T-shirt into the crowd.


“You’ll be in the wings with your sister, right?” He asked, pulling his T-Shirt over his head and straightened his pants, a half erection still visible against the tight fabric.


There was a twinge of nervousness to his voice Sansa had not expected. Yet, when she considered what it could mean, she didn’t blame him either. Tonight Fuck the King were playing some songs from their new album for the first time, and on top of that they had a new bassist. Being the perfectionist he was, Sansa could only imagine the pressure he felt to get it right.


“Of course,” she smiled, bouncing over to where he stood. “You’ll be wonderful as always,” she smiled and kissed him on the cheek, doing what she could to reassure him.


There was a flicker of something she didn’t quite recognize in the frontman’s eyes, but it vanished quickly. “Mother and father will be listening from their box atop the battlements,” she said, then thought better of it. Sandor’s sarcastic grin reminded her of the tension he felt with her mother. “Sorry,” she muttered, her cheeks flushing more than she would have liked.  


Sandor drew an idol finger down her face with a conciliatory grin. Then he abruptly turned to exit the room and make his way on stage. As she quickly fixed her makeup and hair Sansa could hear his deep, distinctive voice rumble over the sound system, “Winterfel!! Are you ready?!”


Sansa smiled, having him play a benefit concert for her mother’s charity had been his idea, a way to offset her mother’s less than warm welcome to the family. It had taken some time but her parents had slowly accepted him, which was more than she could ask for. Her brothers all got on well with Sandor and had found some common ground. It was Arya and Sandor, however, who got on like a house on fire. Her sister had even managed to finagle guitar lessons out of him, giving the two of them even more reasons to share their quick wit and dirty sense of humor.  


Sansa finished straightening her makeup and made her way to stage left. “It took you two long enough. Did you ever think about waiting until after the show?” Arya huffed, rolling her eyes at her sister playfully and turning them back to Fuck the King. 


All the young model could do was grin, “Some things just can’t wait.” 


Arya only shook her head and laughed, raising her arm at just the right moment in the chorus of the song Sandor was singing. Sansa put her arm around her sister and held her close. It was nice to share this with her, Sandor and a love for his music had brought them together after a long time adrift. He’s the gift that keeps on giving, Sansa knew this even if it wasn’t immediately obvious to her parents .


“This song is from the new album,” Sandor’s voice was sure and steady. Sansa couldn’t stop smiling just looking at him, illuminated by the hot stage lights. “It’s called ‘Maiden May I?’ It’s about a pubescent girl who realizes, while worshipping the goddess of innocence and beauty, that her love goes far beyond pure piety.” A lascivious grin flashed across the notorious frontman’s face.


The crowd roared at the very idea of the song, which surprised Sansa little. The Old Gods were the proper deities here, few cared for what the New Gods had to say. That was why the more sacrilegious a song was, the better. The song kicked off with a killer drum solo and the moshers went to work throwing themselves at one another to the hectic beat.


“This album is already so good, it might even be better than the last one!” Arya yelled over the booming sound of the music and the cheers of the crowd. 


“You think?” Sansa yelled back, thrashing her hair to the music. 


Her sister merely nodded, her eyes alight with the excitement of being even more VIP than the VIPs. Their position on stage was a coveted one, and it brought Sansa back to the evening she first met the Mad Dog of Metal. A smile crept across her lips while she watched Sandor doing what he did best, giving himself to the crowd. Long dark hair whipped around his neck and shoulders, his hands moved like lightning across his favorite guitar. His masterful guitar playing didn’t go unnoticed by the crowd, which cheered in adoration. 


They are so entertaining, she smiled to herself. The deep growl of their music, the band’s meticulous attention to detail, the smoke and pyrotechnics on stage. It was no accident Fuck the King was so popular in the metal scene and beyond. Their stage presence captured your attention and didn’t let go. The icing on the cake, as the song hit its crescendo, were the thousands of flower petals that fell from above on the band and the moshers. They fluttered down like feathers, blanketing everything in view. 


White roses were the sacrificial flower of the Maiden -- a show of her piety. It was a beautiful addition to the show and a total middle finger to the High Septon. Sansa had been the one to suggest such a touch to Sandor, admitting in the dead of night that she would take great joy in watching him covered in white rose petals. He had nibbled her neck then, and thanked her thoroughly for the fantastic idea. Now, as if to tease her further, the hulking frontman tore his shirt off, and held his arms out to welcome the shower of white petals. It was a photo worthy sight, one that merged the Maiden with the dark frontman on stage.  Turning his head to where he knew Sansa to be, Sandor winked then threw the sweaty piece of cotton into the crowd. The sound of women screaming became louder against the Heavy Metal music, and a small shoving contest broke out where the famed singer’s shirt had landed.


He’s gorgeous, a thousand times better than the Warrior ever could be, Sansa grinned, appreciating his ripped body in the strong light of the stage.


The song ended and the whole outdoor arena went black. From where they stood Arya and Sansa could see the mass of chaos of stage hands ensuring the lighting was in the right position and that everybody was in their place. The rose petals had introduced an additional difficulty to the change of sets, many cursing and slipping around in their rush to keep the show going.


When the lights did come on again, the crowd erupted. She could see Sandor flash a quick smile of relief while looking back at his bandmates. His naked chest heaved and all the veins stood out on his neck. There had been so much speculation in the media as to whether Fuck the King could continue its reign as one of the top bands in the industry. Some tabloids had suggested the famed Playgirl photoshoot had been the last act of a man who didn’t have any more to give to the music industry. 


They were wrong, Sansa thought, feeling Sandor’s excitement. They were all so terribly wrong.


That was when something unexpected happened. The entire band, except for Sandor, put their instruments down and left the stage. Arya and Sansa exchanged glances a moment, unsure what was going on. A stage hand then jogged up to the Heavy Metal singer, taking his electric guitar and exchanging it for an acoustic one. A guitar Sansa knew well, because he often composed on it at home. Another young man ran up and quickly placed a stool behind Sandor, then both hurriedly ran into the backstage.


The crowd noticed something was off too, because it was easy to hear murmurs and whispers emanate from it. Sandor looked up from the towel he was using to wipe the sweat from his brow, making a point to turn slowly then brought his lips back to the microphone. “Finally those twats are gone.”


His fans laughed and Sandor couldn’t help but chuckle at his own joke. His deep voice filled the outdoor venue, “There’s another song from our new album I’d like to share with you tonight. It, uh, almost didn’t make it--for obvious reasons.” He was referring to the fact that he was holding an acoustic guitar and not an electric one.


“It’s very important to me that you hear it, but I can’t do it alone. I’m gonna need the help of a, uh, hometown girl…” he turned his head to where he knew she would be and held out his hand. 


Already knowing who he was referring to, the audience went bonkers. Its roar swept over the stage nearly making the sisters cover their already protected ears. There’s no chance I’m going out there, Sansa said to herself. Being in front of the cameras was one thing, but live on stage was still something she had to get used to. It was Sandor’s thing, not hers. 


She shook her head in defiance, arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowed in warning to the Heavy Metal singer. A dark chuckle emanated through the microphone, “If you don’t get that sweet ass of yours out here, Sansa Stark, I promise you I will tan it in front of all these people.”


As if to make his playful threat more obvious, he pointed to his knee and made a slight spanking motion with his free hand. The crowd whistled and called for her, one voice even screaming, “Spank her anyway!”


Sansa kept her arms crossed like a child not wanting to move from her place. It was only when he raised an eyebrow and took a step toward her, stage left that she decided to change her mind. Tentatively the young model took a few steps toward her dark lover. The lights were nearly blinding, her stomach was full of butterflies. 


“Some of you might not recognize her with her clothes on....” the crowd chuckled, and Sansa laughed at his joke while giving him a very clear middle finger. The audience hollered at her antics and, as usual, Sandor always had an answer. “I love it when you talk dirty to me, baby. Give it up for the amazing Sansa Stark!”


Of course she waved to the crowd, Sansa wasn’t paralized on stage. She was just not as witty and charming as the irresistible man who stood before her. Rolling up on her toes, Sansa kissed him enjoying the taste of his lips. “I’m going to kill you for this,” she whispered in his ear. 


“Trust me,” Sandor whispered back, a wry grin on his face. When their eyes met again, she knew he had something planned. Sansa threw him a suspicious look.


“This song,” he started, fingers wrapped around the neck of the guitar. “Shit what to say about it? I mean how do you capture the essence and will of a northern woman in words? Am I right?” Of course the crowd loved it, and all she could do was blush wildly. There were few men on this earth who would keep thousands of people on the edge of their seats with mere words and the sound of their voice, but Sandor was certainly one.


“Maybe you don’t know but I fell in love with Sansa the first night I met her.” A few wolf whistles emanated from the audience, causing the huge front man to cock his head to the side. “Get your mind out of the fuckin’ gutter, man!” Sandor laughed, “She layed out that ass hole Trant with a clean headbutt to the nose, fuckin’ blood everywhere.” 


There was a gasp from the crowd, then a cheer. “Yeah shit, I know right? A fuckin’ goddess if you ask me. But...but...something she said that night still haunts me.” Sandor let the tension mount, while Sansa wondered to herself what he could possibly mean. 


“This amazing woman had the, uh lady balls, to tell me that she didn’t like my singing voice.” Sandor had a mischievous grin on his face, when he said it. His delivery spot on teasing and appalled that she could have ever said such a thing to him.


At that revelation there was a collective inhale of surprise from all the people in the venue. Sansa felt her face immediately flush. It seemed like ages ago that she had said those words to him. In that moment she had instantly regretted it, now that she better understood his music, she regretted it even more. 


“So, I’m about to change your mind,” Sansa knew he was dead serious as he spoke. Her eyes went wide and she smirked, wondering how long he’d been planning to tease her in front of her hometown crowd. Keeping his eyes locked on hers, Sandor loosened the mic stand and sat down on the stool, bringing it down so he could still speak while seated. She was standing off to the side of him, not more than an arm’s length away. 


“This is called, When Fire and Metal Collide and it’s for the love of my life,” his voice scratched when he said it, and Sansa immediately felt her chest get heavy.


When Sandor started the intro, all Sansa could do was open her mouth wide in surprise. It was a riff she knew well. It was the one he had created on the very night they met. She’d fallen asleep to that sound then, and many nights thereafter. His acoustic guitar had a deep tone, the metal strings well tuned. It was a beautiful, soulful melody, one she had only ever heard the beginning of. 


It was when he opened his mouth, and she heard that deep voice push through his diaphragm that she couldn’t control the tears in her eyes. The musical style of Fuck the King was much better for screaming, which Sandor did to perfection. Somehow, in the back of her mind, Sansa had always known he’d have a great singing voice. His deep tones and clear articulation were made for his line of work. Yet it had never been clear to her why he didn’t write songs that showed his full range of talents. Now she knew. This voice, his voice, could make anyone drop to their knees. It was so beautiful that no one man dared hold that kind of power over a crowd. 


The world is lucky that he only uses his power for good, Sansa thought, tears flowing down her face.


“I was just a man

One adrift and alone in a sea

Then you came along

And showed me what my life could be”


Sansa brought her fingers to her face in a vain attempt to stop herself from crying. There were no words to describe how touching it was, or how insane it was to be standing here listening to Sandor Clegane sing unplugged for her in front of thousands of fans.


“I was just a boy

Too weak to know, too young to care

You saved me

Did something with a smile that few ever dared


Because it’s all about when, fire and metal collide

It gets down in your soul, so deep inside

It forges a love, stronger than the tide

You make me a better man, my lover, my guide”


Time stood still as Sansa watched him pour out his love and respect for her in front of her family and a ton of strangers. It was all the young model could do to not collapse on stage where she was. He sang the verses with an emotion that made her breathless. 


When he finished, the crowd was silent for a moment, taking in what had just happened. The notorious frontman put his guitar in its stand, reaching in his pocket he pulled out the most beautiful eclectic engagement ring she had ever seen.  “Marry me, Sansa Stark. Give this old metalhead everything he’s ever wanted.”


Her legs bent underneath her, but Sandor quickly rose to his feet catching her, pressing her body close to his own. “I love you,” she whispered in his ear unable to move, so humbled by his words.


Sandor slipped the ring on her finger, to the deafening screams of an enraptured crowd. Then he wrapped his arms around her and they kissed. Sansa’s feet dangled above the floor as they kissed one another, and it was so natural, so right. Tormund must have made his way back on stage, because the drums started playing in the background. Despite a very public engagement, Sansa knew this moment was for them and there was something intimate about sharing this experience with him here. The place they had first met, a melody she had inspired him to write before he even knew a relationship would grow between them. All of it. They had changed one another in ways she had not yet begun to understand. 


One thing was clear, fire and metal came together to build something stronger, something that would stand the test of time. Sansa knew that in her heart of hearts. There was no man in this world she would rather be with.


“We’re getting the fuck out of here,” Sandor said into the microphone when they did finally get some air. “Good night Winterfell.”