the hound hates it at first. you're no heir, no fearsome lion's son. practically just a stumbling cub, despite the fact that you take on the appearance of a graceful woman before your father's court.
all you want to do is follow sandor around all day. you beg him to teach you how to swing a sword, and he gruffly says no. you threaten to tell your father, and he begrudgingly takes you out, past lannisport, out into the pastures high above the sea where he can cope with the embarassment beyond the prying eyes of the city. and your family.
you nearly take yourself out with that sword of his, and he has to take you by those delicate shoulders and position you right. he presses tightly against your back, grunting against your ear, 'tiny slip of a thing... you'd make an easy kill, little lionness.'
when your head falls back, and those soft golden curls fall against his chest, and you look up at him with those sweet, round eyes like gems, like glistening summer fruit, and he catches the rich scent of your freshly bathed skin, of roses and milk and something decadent beyond his reach... he was yours by oath already, but now he is yours out of blinding, searing desire.
he becomes a lot more talkative now. you tell him about the gossip, about courtiers and ladies and suitors - he has his opinions, and he makes them no secret as you ride at his side, or when you host him in your chambers when casterly rock falls asleep at night. you share wine, poured from his weathered wineskin into priceless golden chalices you'd sneaked out of your father's personal cabinet.
there was something about his crude tongue that excited you. he taught you how to swear like a soldier, and you taught him... patience. nothing close to chivalry, mind you. he was no knight in shining armour, bending the knee. he'd show you his devotion in other ways.
lifting you up from where you'd been drinking on the floor of your chamber, not holding you like a princess, but rather hoisting you onto his shoulder, like a farmer hauling burlap sacks of grain. tosses you down into the rich furs of your four poster, chuckles roughly as you squeal and reach for him, makes no pretense that he doesn't want a piece of that coveted lannister cunt beneath your skirt, sinks down on top of you, lets himself loose.
sandor fucks you, and he fucks hard. this was a lioness he was laying with, and she needed a wild beast's cock to set her to rights. taking those sweet hips in his big, rough hands as he bullies his way into your slick little cunt, that he knows one day will be married off to some pampered lordling of your father's choosing, who will treat your body like it's made of glass, whose soft hands wouldn't know how to hold a wild creature like you.
'that's right, little lionness, milk me with that cunt... you want my bastards in that sweet belly, don't you? dirty girl.'
plenty of opportunities to steal away, at roadside inns on trips with your siblings where you sneak from your room and join him in the stable, where he takes you in the hay, biting at your neck as he drapes his large, warm body over your back, shoving his fingers in your mouth for you to suck and bite and muffle your bliss with. those same fingers delving into your cunt over and over again as you lie against his chest, too fucked out to speak beyond soft coos of 'clegane... clegane, please...' as he only grunts soothingly, pushing his spend snugly into your womb, making sure it stays there for the long ride ahead.
bushes in encampments work just as well for a quick one while nobody's looking. you've inherited the sharp tongue of a lannister, which works dilligently polishing the hound's full balls while he strokes those sweet, rich curls.
his favourite, though... it has to be those mornings back at casterly rock, when your chambermaids come bursting in the door after the two of you spend the night together, and you have to shove sandor beneath the furs. he loves hearing you try to hold a conversation while he laps sloppily and rough at that priceless cunt, like a hound dog at his bowl.
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