A !Dothraki reader x !young the hound.
Reader is a khalakki/princess and has mastered herbs and is a healer. One day the tribe gets attacked and she gets away wandering to Clegane keep where she passes out at the entrance, Father Clegane takes her in and once she gets better he was gonna to kick her out but she shows how good she is at healing and he decided to let her stay but as a servant/healer. She gets close with Sandor and after a few years (now 18) they have their first time together when she came to his room to try a healing herb she made and he pins her down saying no then she gets sassy back and then he lets her do it leading to more 😉😉😉 and then they become boyfriend and girlfriend at the end.
(Maybe a lil end credit of them going to kings landing together him as soon to be Joffreys sword and her a maester.)
Yer shekh ma shieraki anni
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Pairing: Sandor x Dothraki!Reader
Tags: SMUT, first time, everyone is feral, i am not joking, Sandor is mean, kissing, crushes, mentions of slavery, swearing, young sandor, post rebellion but pre canon, young love, loss of virginity, canon typical everything, no use of Y/N, reader has dark hair
Summary: Reader was the daughter of a great khal, she was once a sacred healer, and is now a mere slave in foreign land. When she attempts to escape her captors to find freedom she finds Clegane Keep in her path, and it soon becomes her only hope of survival.
Warnings: THIS IS NOT BETA READ AND I WAS SLEEP DEPRIVED. I feel like there are probably a thousand misatkes. ALSO ADULT CONTENT AHEAD.
A/N: HELLOOOOOO i am back at last! I made some minor changes and i hope you do not mind!! Also if there are mistakes please forgive me I was genuinely pulling an all nighter with this one. If it makes no sense you know why,,,,, this idea would work so well in a longfic too lol
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“Yer ver yomme rhaesheser. Reki izvena” Going to the outside world, that is forbidden.
You repeat it to yourself under your breath, just like you have done since you had been dragged over the poisoned water, the salty sea, to which no horse lowers their lips, to set foot on the wicked ground beyond the black water.
That is no place for a dothraki, you are not meant to leave the great planes. You never were meant to leave Vaes Dothrak, either. You were meant to die in the sacred city, remembered as a khalakki to the great Khal Mirthas, your beloved father, who fell to injury and died when you were but twelve, and your dear mother who died in the walls of Vaes Dothrak of a broken heart.
You were dragged away from your people, your Khalastar, first when your father died, and the sacred city second when the slavers found you.
You had been found outside the walls gathering herbs by masked slave traders, tall men with mean voices who spoke a language full of hissing you recognized as Valyrian. You fought against them when they caught you, yelling for guards to hear you, but all was vain.
You fought with the might of any mare of your khalastar, you fought with your teeth bared. But you were alone, and they were many. They cinched you in ropes and chains as thick as fists and dragged you to the slave markets to be sold, as you had seen your own men do to the women of other tribes after battle. But there was no battle here that called for slaves, just slavers riding in the lone fields looking for victims.
Before they made a fool and a slave of you, you had been part of the sacred khalen.
You had been raised in the dosh khalen and taught how to heal the hurt and nurture the weak and the young the same year your father’s funeral pyre was held, mayhaps it had been mercy, mayhaps you had not been as strong as you thought yourself and you would not have fared well in the Khalestar. You struggle to admit it to yourself, but on some nights you think your father’s death was a blessing.
Vaes Dothrak had been a nest of safety, the most sacred ground for the dothrakis, where you grew and learned without fear of scorn or death. And of course that was taken away from you the moment you stepped out of its walls. It must have been a warning from the gods above.
Dothrakis should never be alone, as no horse is on the great planes of grass. No warrior shall fight only relying on his sword and his might. You were alone when they found you and they hauled you away. Alone, weak and young and perhaps unworthy of the title of Khalakki.
The slavers took you to a slave market, you were moved from hands to hands and appraised as one would a copper pot or a measly clay bowl. They sold you to a fat man from the summer isles that barely spoke any recognizable language but had pockets full of gold. They dragged you to a fearsome ship that trembled above the poisonous water of the salty sea.
They took you to the land of the Kingdoms, Westeros.
Westeros is a lonely world.
The legends were right about the ocean being made of venom. The venom must have seeped into the earth here, and made people dishonorable and evil. Not only are you a slave, bound never to return to your city, but you are looked at with scorn rather than respect. Even at age twelve, your khalastar looked at you as they would a khaleesi, and at age fourteen you were an healer, a promising one, in the bosom of the sacred city. Now fifteen you are no other than a strange creature from beyond the poisoned sea.
“We will stop here, get the Dothraki whore out of there!” The man slaps a palm on the side of the carriage. making it rock crudely.
The sun is shining, slipping through the canvas covering your cart and lighting up the prickly bedding you wrapped yourself in. Your back aches from sleeping on the rough planks of the cart, a splinter digs into the skin of your elbow making it hurt when you bend it. You simply frown, picking at your skin to try to wake up fully. The sounds outside already bother you, five or more voices fighting over each other.
You know their language, at least some of it. You had spent scarcely one year here, travelling with these no good fools and offering remedies to their wounds when asked to. They are entertainers from the free cities.
They are flabby, and weak. Bald, with no braids to attest to power or well groomed beards to line their jaws. They are not handsome like your late father, Mirthas. You can scarcely remember his face now, but he is among the stars, riding the fire stallions through the night to light the fields for what remains of your khalastar, and perhaps he never thinks of you any longer. It makes you whimper and your throat squeeze.
He was a seasoned fighter, an honorable warrior, with hair so long and dotted in copper bells that would sing in the wind when he rode into camp, holding his weapons high. And your mother was the most beautiful of the women, and you were the most respected of the girls.
You want to cry, despite the early hour. Another slap hits the side of the cart jolting you out of your mood, just to make anger rise in you.
“Get up!” Huffs the head of the circus. You lift yourself up, vertebrae by vertebrae, until you feel like a living thing and not a carcass left to rot in the sun.
“Get up! You need to re-dress the cut on Titus’ leg!” He bellows.
You slip your fingers under the canvas, wiggling your fingers outside the edge of the cart until they turn cold, you feel the sun on your skin.
Sometimes even the sun feels different here than it did beyond the narrow sea.
You have made peace with the sun, even if it is another star all together, you care not, and imagine it is the same that used to guide your path when looking for herbs in Vaes Dothrak. It feels better to think the same sun is warming your people, so far away from you. A tear slips down your face, and you ignore it, letting it roll to your chin.
“Yer ver yomme rhaesheser. Reki izvena. I broke the rules.”
You ride, the horse below you is quick and angry, you spur him faster, sitting on the Westerosi saddle. You dare not look back, afraid it may slow your riding and allow them to catch up to you.
You have been planning to escape ever since they purchased you. But no chance ever came, not when they distrusted you. No chance ever came, until now.
You do not know the fields of this land, or its paths and forests, it looks nothing like home, nor sounds like it. There are no eagles whistling above you, and the grass grows yellow the more you ride rather than pale green like it was back home.
But you follow the fields as far as they may take you, pushing the horse until he cries for mercy below you. Your eyes narrow, blurry with tears and blinded by anger. You are unsure where you are running to, anywhere far from the prison of the circus cart will do, even if it means being alone again, as you were when they captured you. Even if it means being as a lone horse in a great prairie, waiting on death.
The field of gold is interrupted at the horizon by a strange building. A tower house that looks to be close to toppling over, black on a field of yellow. Your horse slows, head dragging low and rolling side to side. You fist your hands in his mane.
“Go! Keep on riding! Go! Go!” You spur him, but the horse neighs angrily at you, ignoring your kicks to his ribs, or you bounding on his saddle to startle him. He stops, then lowers, bending on fragile knees until he is resting in the grass with a long sigh.
The grass tickles your knees and almost drowns the shape of the horse whole. Your hands fall from the line of his mane.
“Go! I beg you! Go!” You say, but the animal doesn’t move.
When you lift your head night is lifting from the line of the horizon, making the building ahead look even uglier, and spindly like the body of a spider. You truly think it is about to fall, the roof of the tower too heavy to be supported by the misshapen body. With the moon rising its shadow starts growing longer, as if washing ashore like waves of black to reach closer to you. It reminds you of the poisoned sea and you grimace.
The fire horses race in the sky, you look at them in near desperation, they twinkle above, and you beg them to send you strength.
They are silent, even when they continue to ride across the sky, they have nothing to give to an oath breaker and a slave like you. You feel ashamed, thinking of your father riding with the other Khals, and having to peer down at the disgrace that was made of his daughter.
“What do we have here?” Says a voice behind you, when you turn something dull hits the back of your head, and the world goes black.
“How does a Dothraki get to the Westernlands?” The man sits on a big chair.
While the chair is big and ornate, decorated with the heads of lions, the interiors of the tower house are dim and unlit, bare, and smell wet as if the poisonous sea washed them up before you came in.
“Maybe a slave!” Says the old guard at his side, chewing on rotten teeth. A saggy leather cap keeps slipping over his brow.
“She can be a servant then,” says the man, there is a stiffness to his muscles, despite him being the lord of this poor household, he looks like the building is slowly bearing down on him to end him, he doesn’t command the room, rather he looks hunted, even in his wide stature and the seriousness of his eyes.
You stare at him carefully, sat on the floor where they dropped you to be looked at.
“We need another one, after Gregor–...” He seems to remember something and looks away. “Well, she may be useful. Unless she belongs to someone…”
“She is unmarked-” Says the guard, chewing again on his teeth and shifting.
The man of the house looks at you, then nods. A long banner of yellow and black hangs behind him, you look at the snarling dogs stitched into the fabric. The edges are fraying. He seems to notice you staring at his sigil and his grey eyebrows crease.
“I am Lord Philemon Clegane, head of this house. Do you know the common tongue, child?” he asks you, shifting back until his stiff back is cushioned against the back of his chair. Despite his pose he doesn’t look at ease.
“Yes” You answer dutifully.
“Do you know what a lord is?” He asks, looking at you with that expression you have come to know, like you are some strange sentient animal and not a dothraki worthy of her name. Or perhaps that is just what they see, a dothraki, and that is the very thing they despise so profoundly. As if they hated the blood in your veins and the tissue of your muscles, and the color of your hair, and the language of your people.
“Do you always say yes?” Asks Lord Clegane, a hint of annoyance where it shouldn’t be any.
“She is not a dimwit at least,” He says, straightening again in his chair. He gestures to you again, dismissive. “What is your age, and what do you do?” he says.
“I am ten and five.” You say, you are careful now, you know how easily men dispose of other people’s life. As a slave if you are not useful you are as a dying man to a khalestar: a dead weight.
“I am a healer, I heal well, I was kept by a knife thrower… he died in a fight on a crossroad, I escaped” you lie, at least partially, they do not need to know your owners are searching for you in the woods, that you stole their best horse and run away from them despite them owning you by right.
“She is about Sandor’s age-” Says Lord Clegane, looking older than his years for a moment, he rolls one of his copper rings against his fingers and sits in grievous silence for a long time.
“I have a son who needs healing, will you help?” He asks, his tone suddenly subdued and almost timid. He doesn’t look at you directly but you answer anyway.
“Yes. If he is sick I can heal it.” you promise. Lord cleagen nods, looking away, into the hearth at his side where the fire is kept low and burns a dull yellow.
“Take her to Sandor, see if she can soothe his burns.” Says the lord, gesturing to his guard. The man walks towards you, grabbing your elbow to lift you to your feet. You follow, obedient for now so you may prove yourself a good servant and a good healer and show you have worth to grant protection.
The men of westeros do not keep slaves, they keep servants. If they keep you, you won’t be a slave any more, and if death takes you perhaps you will ride among the stars too, and not be remembered like a slave in a far away country and be followed by scorn in the after life. For a moment death is all you think about, and procuring yourself a safe corner to die in seems more important than life itself.
Your throat tightens when you realize you will be given burial under the name of their seven foreign gods and your body will not be burned like any other respectable dothraki.
“You know, we do not have many maids here, because our young lord Gregor tends to scare them away, he is a knight, a very strong one. The strongest.” Says the old guard while dragging you up the tower that sits at the edge of the house. The steps are slippery and narrow, and a strange fear grips your heart the more you climb up the stairs.
“As for Sandor– Ah, you will see.” The man steps further up until the stairs are interrupted by a platform. A heavy door cuts a dark shape on the wall. The man knocks on it and pushes it open just enough to slip in, forcing his hunched back through the opening without letting the door fall open on its old hinges.
Some words are exchanged inside, then the guard opens the door more fully to allow you to look inside.
You stand there, your hands held at your stomach like you did at the slave market in Pentos. You hate it, but it comes naturally, to present yourself neatly and obidiently.You do not feel like a dothraki at all, whatever it was you clung to of your people must have fallen right from your hands like discarded jewelry. Shame burns in your stomach.
A giant appears from the dark interiors of the room. A monster. Your eyes widen at the mere sight of him and your heart flips in your ribcage.
A tall and wide young man, his face clean shaven if not for a narrow line of hair on the edge of his jaw. But the hairs are abruptly cut off when they reach the right side of his chin. That side of his face is eaten away, covered in a thick matting of terrible scars.
The scarring starts at the edges as thin and grows thicker and deeper the closer to the brow, there it is red and angry, in some spots wet with humors. It eats at his browbone and hides his dark right eye under a mass of knotty skin. The features on his burnt side barely resemble those of a human male any more, what remains are the vague curves of his bone structure supporting the weight of ruined skin.
The other side of his face is far from unremarkable. He looks like a sad animal, with eyes so full of anger he seems, to you, the first true warrior you have put eyes on since you arrived in Westeros.
His hair is long, dark like the room behind him, they reach past his jaw and grow frizzy and tangled. His nose is regular, wide, and his lips are pulled in a serious line that is distorted only where the burns reach it.
You have no braids, yet you suffered the scars of a warrior, you think when he takes a step closer. You turn sharply to the guard, your eyes wide, a strange trepidation replacing the fear.
“I cannot heal this-” You say, pointing to Sandor. “This shall not be healed-” You add.
The skin has melted off the bone, like a limb lost. You have had it drilled into you that certain wounds are to be worn with pride, some stitched so they will leave a visible scar and ward off any doubt that a warrior is what he is. But you are not sure how to put this into common language. To explain to this measly guard that some pains are to be worn and not replaced with clean skin or treated with oils, they are here to stay and that is a fact of life.
You do not expect them to know, these vain pleasure seeking people of Westeros, who preen themselves on honor but practice none.
“It is not the burn you have to fix, stupid wench, but the sting” Says the young man, his mouth twitching, pulling at the scars.
Where the burns run deeper, and are still red as if they have been recently inflicted, they ooze a clear liquid. You nod, conjuring whatever memory of salves for burned skin you can think of.
“You need lemon flowers, no more tallow or animal fat, just– mint leaves, fresh cut grass, and I will need to make a balm with hazelnuts–... berries from the Reach as well.” You say. The guard blinks and hums. The young man looks at you with a sneer that, while mocking, is also somewhat tinted with curiosity.
“Well, if it works I am sure Lord Clegane will keep you around.” says the guard, adjusting his leather cap over his bald head. You swallow and pray. This is your only chance to find any sort of asylum.
“It will work” You promise.
“You are also quite ugly, are all dothraki women ugly? Or are you just special?” Asks Sandor. You slap him across the face and he barely flinches, if anything his mouth grows wider with a mean grin.
He is mean, very, of course. Sometimes mocking, sometimes full of a fire not fit his age and station. Sometimes he is simply quiet, and so full of a disheartening sort of sorrow that makes you want to avoid him at all costs.
You care not for his teasing. Nothing he says ever truly insults you. It would take much to do so. You were a mighty mare once, at least.
“Sit still, or I'll poke your good eye out-” You hiss, pushing him at a distance from you when he tries to stand imposingly above you.
“Both of my eyes are good, you wench” He mumbles, but still enough for you to dip your fingers in the salve and apply it to his burn. His face, the bad part as well as the good, was dragged against the stone wall of the keep’s corridors during a terrible fight with Gregor when he last came back home. Sandor almost drove a knife through his brother’s stomach, Gregor left the same night.
These things do not happen often, Gregor is very seldom here, he mostly keeps to Casterly Rock where no one attempts to gut him like his younger brother does every chance he has.
Sandor’s lip is split open, and it keeps oozing blood that he spits on the floor, uncaring for manners. He truly is no knight. You could tell him so, but he would be glad to agree.
You go back to healing him.
“I don’t need help with this- I fought in the rebellion, you know that? Have you ever seen how men behave in war here?” He asks, his teeth clench like those of a wolf, and you stare at the curve of his mouth, so very unwelcoming.
“I know war,” You say. Your hands dab at the blood on his chin. Sandor looks down at you, his chest catching measured breaths. For his age he is a monster, but you hold no fear in your heart. Sometimes you think he seems a bit like a man from your home, with long hair, and a body meant to kill. It makes you feel strangely nostalgic, even if so many years have passed and you are not welcome anymore.
“You are sad thinking of it” He says, reading the shimmer behind your pupils with interest. You shake your head.
“I miss…” You shut your mouth.
“You miss seeing dothraki brutes divorce heads from bodies” He says, a mean smile on his lips that is close to being a grimace. You slap him across the face.
“You have no honor.” You say.
“Did your khal?” He cups his cheek, soothing the sting without further complaint.
“Yes.” You answer “My father was honorable-” Your eyes hold the last words, the ones you dare not speak in front of Sandor. Unlike yours.
Sandor grins, looking in pain, not physically however. He laughs.
“You were a princess,” He points out.
He doesn’t usually speak this much, however since you have been tasked with seeing him often, he sometimes drinks in preparation to see you, and his tongue loosens. He says many terrible things, often. This evening, as the golden shimmers of the wheat fields below the window send flickers of yellow to the edge of the windows, and the dogs howl in their kennels, he seems strangely tender.
“We have no such things” You say and go to rinse the rags. His blood stains the water of the basin. At the center of the old pot is painted the snarling face of a dog, its edges ripple under the water until he looks like a thousand different things. A sparrow, a cloud, a full moon, a scythe.
You turn back to Sandor. He stands, unfolding his great height until he fills his tunic completely. You stare at him, unashamed.
“You can be a princess without wearing silk and gold,” he says.
“The khal doesn’t pass his name on like your kings do, whoever is strong leads.” You say. Sandor looks down at you. You look up at him, at the width of his shoulders in his tunic, and the strong square of his jaw under the few hairs he keeps to line it. It makes it even more striking.
“Who says it works differently here?” He says. You swat him away.
“You are so irritating” You scoff, suddenly overcome with annoyance. You do not want him to talk circles around you just to make fun of you. Sometimes the Westeros language confuses you so he wins the game without needing to try.
He chuckles, and the laughter follows you when you gather your tools and slip away from his rooms.
The clanking of armor as Sandor walks downhill is so loud it rouses you from your sleep. In the few hours you are allowed to yourself you often lay on the northern edge of the hill, where the grass is so tall it hides you completely, and listen to the bubbling of the stream downhill, the one that cinches the edge of the property.
Sandor is descending the hill, fresh from his training, undoing the straps of his vambraces. His gait is sure, it holds power even when it is slowed by the strain of his muscles. At only age eighteen he has the posture of a full grown man. He is leaner than one, however. You get to study him well from the edge of the grass.
Feeling like a beast of prey, you spy his movements when he discards some of his armor and lets it fall to the ground. The wind whips his hair back southbound. You can see the scarring on the side of his face has grown red and irritated with sweat.
Maybe you will be required to heal him tonight. It makes your mouth clench with strange hunger, a feeling balanced between passionate and tender. There is some fear too, that you hardly can tell apart from excitement.
It has been this way for many years, if you were to be honest. Sandor is a frightening boy, but he is the truest man you have known this far. Somehow something in him burns, and sometimes you can trace the shapes of the fire stallion in his eyes. If you were to tell him that you see the fire of a dothraki in him he would laugh at you. But it doesn’t keep you from thinking about it.
You continue to spy his scarred side, then the movement of his hands, tugging on the leather straps, he spits on the ground, angrily wiping his mouth on his sleeve. You lower your eyes on his frame, looking at the rise and fall of his shoulders, the weight of his breath compressing his chest and letting go great huffs of air.
“You ugly thing-” Sandor is looking at you now, spying the dark of your hair atop the golden grass. He sneers and scoffs, turning fully to face you. You do not move, imagining you are a hare and he is a hunting hound pointing right at you. It is not fear that fires up your belly.
“What are you doing? Escaping work?” He asks. You answer not, still staring.
His grimace turns to an ugly smile. If you are ugly, then you are one of the same. It makes the hair at the back of your neck stand.
When he pounces you expect it, you draw back, following the clinking rhythm of his armor when he takes two wide steps in your direction. It is a war drum, and it is the mellow ring of dothraki bells.
He grabs your foot, his thumb where the laces of the leather shoes are tied tight. He looks at you from underneath the damp curtain made of strands of his hair. He slips a finger under the rough leather straps, his pointer against the bone that pokes from the side of your foot. He strokes the arch of your ankle with his thumb, then squeezes tight, edging on pain.
You should shake him off, but you just stare back at him, silent.
He tugs. You yelp. He laughs.
When he is kneeling in the grass with you you turn sharply to slap him but decide not to just at the last moment, aborting the snap of your arm to sit very still below him.
You and Sandor both sit there, breathing the strong smell of soil and sunlight, looking each other in the eyes with no shame nor bashfulness. You feel as if you know his eyes so well, as if you have known them a lifetime, or a thousand more.
His chest heaves with a long breath, he sniffs the air like a wolf.
“I am not evading work.” You say at last. He groans in annoyance and lets go of your calf, allowing you to scoot back and curl on yourself. Your eyes stay on him, guarded, but he turns away to look at the stream downhill to ignore your staring.
In the movement of his head you see the attempt to hide the burn under the drape of hair. Somehow, despite how mean and how irritating he is, despite his violence, despite his size and his rotten words, he still hides the burn as if it offends him more than it does you.
You still do not understand his actions. Men should wear wounds with pride, not with such shame, as if they are a proof of fragility rather than strength.
One of your hands goes to his hair, moving them back without finesse. You swipe your whole palm over his hair, mussing them up until you find the knotting skin behind.
His eye, where the burns almost hide it, flicks to you.
You hold eye contact until he breaks it himself, looking at the horizon instead, up at the sky, where the clouds are growing soft and full.
“What do you want?” He snaps, once the feeling of your hand proves too much for him. You let your palm drop in silent understanding. Your hands go to your lap, and together you sit.
“You miss being a princess, I bet” he says, his eyes flicking to you again, his head turns more, allowing you to see his other handsome eye spying your shape. You do not hide, straightening your back instead.
“I lived in Vaes Dothrak, the holy city. A khalekki cannot stay in the Khalastar after the death of her father” you explain. He frowns.
“Your people are brutes” he comments.
“Are you not one yourself?”
“I never said I wasn’t” He says and looks at you, then proceeds to rub his blunt nails on the linen of his pant, picking at it angrily. “You shouldn’t sit with me. Do you know what happens to maids when they get too close to the Clegane boys?”
“Nothing happened to me.” You answer. He chuckles.
“You truly are stupid” He says. You launch yourself at him with a whine of annoyance.
It doesn’t take him much effort to stop your fists from battering on his back. He grabs your right hand with his own and pulls you close, until your body is leaning into his space, your stomach on his knee. You make a long sound in irritation, trying to tug yourself free by pulling at his forearm. You feel his muscles twitch under your hand, he doesn’t let up his grip, and your hand keeps slipping on the fabric of his chemise.
For a moment, a silly moment you wish he would stop being such a gross animal with you, and would instead go back to that strange quiet he showed a moment before, that almost-wistfulness, that reminded you of one of those knights from the illustrated manuscripts Lord Clegane reads in his studio when you clean it.
You tug your hand free at last and turn sharply away, offended at his contrast tugging and mockery.
“Don’t tell me the little khaleesi is angry now” Scoffs Sandor.
“You have grown” Says Sandor, his mouth is on the lip of a brass cup, drinking his wine in the dark of his room.
“You have hardly been away for a few moons” You point out, grinding the herbs for his salve, the fresh herbs, the anti-inflammatory pollens, the lemon, all reduced to a gummy paste. The stone pestle grinds against the rough curve of the mortar filling the otherwise thoughtful silence.
You are no more grown than you were when Sandor left for Casterly Rock.
“If all goes well… I will leave this shit hole of a house soon” He says, informing you briefly about his travels, he doesn’t add much more but you do not ask. Instead you lift an eyebrow, skeptical.
“What do you want, you witch. I don’t fancy being killed in my sleep by Gregor. Perhaps you do.”
You do not answer him, sitting on the bed next to him to apply the salve to his scars. His hair is tucked behind the stump of his ear, what is left of it, eaten away as it is. You start there, tracing the curve of it with your fingers, spreading the salve over the blisters and the irritation.
“This is stupid, I am not eight, I need no stupid salve applied,” He says. Despite his bellyaching he is soft under your fingers, he allows you to rub the herbs into his scars until they shimmer green and smell strongly of weeds.
“Hush,” You whisper, and his eyes move to you. The dark interior of the room makes the sharp features of his face deepen, and, despite the shadows cutting such harsh planes over his cheeks, he looks much more fond than usual. His eyes linger on yours, and you allow it, looking back at him while your hands are busy with the healing salve.
Your faces naturally gravitate close to each other. He takes another sip from his goblet, looking at you aslant, his brows so low on his face it makes him look like a much older man. You almost laugh, but abort the sound when he frowns at your smile.
“What’s so funny now?” He asks. You can tell his anger is just performance, and you shrug, only to get him to look at you even deeper. His eyes are dark, dark, dark and lit of a late evening yellow light.
“Nothing” You promise. The conversation between your eyes continues, he says many things, with each twitch of his rough skin, and each movement of his strong jaw under the new beard he started growing in Casterly Rock.
Your eyes answer, and so do your hands, in the tenderness of your touch. You reenact that first time, when you approached him as if he was a wild stallion and had to bear the assessing force of his gaze for long, interminable minutes. But now, in that same room, tending to that same wound, you find a new sort of comfort.
Sandor stays quiet until he finishes his wine and he finds reason to grumble about that.
Another long silence stretches.
You finish your work and wipe your hands on your hemp apron.
“A girl like you should not give certain looks to a dog,” says Sandor. You keep cleaning between your fingers, your body relaxing the motion of rubbing the salve away from the creases of your overworked hands. You offer him no fear, even when he sniffs for it, tries to install it in you, not realizing the tenderness in his eyes is impossible to conceal behind his frowning.
You look back up only once you are done cleaning your hands.
“You know no girl like me.”
Sandor smiles, his mouth is full of fangs, his teeth are crooked and the slit of his mouth is not much better. It is a terrible smile and you like it too much. The pressure between your legs likes it too, the one you dare not name but know very well.
When he pulls at your sleeve you follow his lead, for once giving rather than fighting. His mouth is hot against your neck, and on your bosom, searching for the line of your dress’s neckline. He pulls at it with his teeth, and you dig your finger, hard, into his hair, pulling his face deeper.
You do not worry if someone may come in the room and find you in this position, no one tends to this dog but you.
His mouth drags over your chest, sucks on the swell of your breast where your linen garments push them up. Sandor’s fingers are quick on the lacing of your dress, the one that runs down your spine, behind the shawl you have tied around your shoulders.
It pulls an angry complaint out of you when he bites down on the skin ever so slightly, then licks over the graze of teeth with a smile pasted on his face.
“You are such a brute” You say, fisting your hands in his hair, until your palms are full of them and he groans in response. The sound is cavernous, his mouth widens with it, you spy his tongue and the line of drool that still connects your breast to his lips. You feel disappointment when it breaks and drips down to his beard.
“Are you a virgin?” he asks, finally freeing you of your dress, his movements are growing more powerful and hurried, he seems spurred along by an animal ire. You almost worry he will rip the dress altogether, with those square fists of his that tug at the wool seams and pull your sleeves off your arms.
“Yes, and you are too.” You say, only slightly offended at his questions.
“As if you know,” He groans, he plucks the kerchief away from your chest where you had shoved it for warmth and looks at the peaks of your chest against the tight linen of your undergarments.
“You always had nice tits-” His hands cup them, they are dark and hairy against the light colored material, the linen stretches and is worn thin enough that he can see the dark of your nipple and the round flesh of your breast compressed against the garment, “-just right.” He groans.
There is no humor in his voice anymore, just hunger, and a strange wild rumble that drags after every word.
You pant, pushing your chest against his palms. He squeezes them again, studying them carefully. Just then you are certain of the fact that he never laid with a woman. You do not tease him further, the words fail you and only sounds of need come out your lips.
“You wanted this, that day in the field.” He says, pushing you down on the feather bed to cage you under his body. You shuffle out of the under garments until you are laying beneath him nude, except for your stockings. He pulls them up rather than down, doing nothing to untie the garter keeping them over your knees.
“You wanted me to fuck you.” He says.
“Maybe, maybe I do not know what I want” You say.
“You know now, no…–” His mouth gravitates towards your neck, pulled down by the heat of your skin. You may just be his star, burning fiercely in his sky, demanding all sorts of attention, and just like the sun itself, making everything clear and chasing away the dark and the night. Sandor doesn’t feel afraid of fire this once, and he kisses the hot skin with fervor.
“You always know.” He says. You exhale, filling his palms with your ribs where he is squeezing your sides. You skin is ticklish there, and the feeling of his callouses on the soft length of your waist makes you sing.
“Gods–” Sandor removes his hands from your sides, searching for the space between your legs now, clumsily knocking over the skin and dragging his finger against the flabs of skin until he finds the dip of your hole. The wetness doesn’t disturb you, you hear the sound of his fingers sinking into you and let out a sigh to complete the melody of it.
Like a strange duet he groans above you, pulling sound after sound from between your legs and between your lips.
The world is going to sleep, and through the thin glass of the room’s narrow window you can see the stars start to twinkle outside. The sky expands in your vision, covering everything around you except Sandor and blanketing the room in dark blue draperies. The room disappears in a sea of stars, and the heat of the night is all that remains. Two bodies floating curiously against each other.
“Take me Sandor,” You ask him. You warrior nods, his hair is long and covers his face, when he looks at you he seems ready to charge in battle. All that violence, hidden behind the corded muscle, is all yours. In nineteen years of life you have ever felt this powerful.
As if mounting the strongest of stallions, you guide his rod inside you. He grabs your cheek to kiss you roughly, with a possessive sort of impatience, but he is hiding most of his face from your touches, so you grab him by the shoulders to set the rhythm.
“Ah– Sandor” Despite all your bravado the sensation is new and somehow strange. You like his fingers rubbing over you, and his mouth dragging over your neck and down your chest. You like touching his hairy chest, where his muscles bulge out the skin and his waist tapers towards the thick hair at his groin. Yet the feeling of his rod penetrating you is, by all means, unexpected.
You try to get used to it, the pressure and the pull, the feeling of your flesh allowing him to sink in, and rebelling at the very same time.
Your body curves on itself, looking down at his hips moving, as to make sense of the sensations.
“You won’t find one as big as this– in all of Westeros.” he says, brimming with the confidence of a young man his age, yet carrying the dangerous edge of Sandor Clegane. There is some fragility in his words, his face still hidden in your skin and his hands shaking ever so slightly when he pulls you back on his cock.
“Not even beyond the sea–” He continues. You allow your legs to fall open more and the feeling of being penetrated suddenly becomes more familiar. You let out a tiny sound, a gasp that seems to motivate Sandor to move deeper, and deeper, until you feel the head of his cock drag close to your stomach.
“By the gods, girl” He says. You swallow, bracing yourself on your elbow and letting one of your legs hang off the feather bed and bob above the cold flagstone floors.
“More– More- S-Sandor!” You call out. Sandor braces against the wall above your head and drives his hips deeper, rocking the wooden frame and making the feet of the bed squeak against the floor.
A drop of sweat forms and falls between your breasts, highlighting the space between them. Sandor licks it up.
“Go– Go faster” You ask him, out of curiosity more than anything. He makes a face.
“Girl, I have no intention to break you on my cock.”
“Didn’t you already?” You ask, you feel as if something has been broken, a tension, or the great wall of a dam, and everything is pouring forth now. It is so very sweet to drown in it, and allow it to take over.
“Oh shush,” He grumbles. You are not sure if he understood you, or if you understood him, but you go back to looking below you at the point where you are connected. You stare at it, like some game, until his hips start to tremble and his hands become rough and mean on your skin.
Sandor bends at the waist, hunching over himself and shaking hard against you. His hips twitch, three times, then his back unfolds again. The curve that his body draws from his navel up to his Adam apple amazes you. His shirt is slick with sweat, and sticking to his body, ruffled and wrinkled and open down to the middle of his hair chest. And his pants are lowered allowing you to follow the arch down to the powerful strain of his legs.
You lick your lips when he groans and cries out while coming.
He pants, grabbing the sheets and heaving long breaths. His rod softens inside you, you find the feeling strange, and almost funny. You feel the last twitches of life in it before he goes back to being a mere and uninteresting appendage.
You smile at Sandor, and his eyes smile back at you, even when his mouth is busy drawing in hungry breaths. He sucks all the life in the room into his lungs, and puffs out heat that clings to the sheets.
You can get used to this.
All of Sandor’s life is on the back of a horse. Gregor killed father, and inherited the keep the same day, raising suspicion but little to no action to investigate into the strange death of Lord Clegane.
Sandor came in the night, to take his things and leave, move away and under the Lannister’s roof in King’s Landing. His armor, his two changes of clothes, his weapons, his few silver stags and his saddle pouches. And you.
“I am to be the only member of your following, you may as well introduce me as your whore” You say. Sandor scoffs. The edges of the Capital come into view, and with it the dreadful stench of life. Shit, manure, sweat and death. You draw your veil over your nose and mouth, squinting at the walls in the distance.
“If it bothers you I will marry you.” He says. “No one will care.” He adds, almost defensive. You say nothing to that, smiling under the edge of your scarf. What a terribly unromantic thing, you think, yet it makes your heart throb with affection. There is no other way for a man such as Sandor to ask for your hand.
“Who says I want to marry someone like you,” You say, because that is what is to be expected of you.
“You couldn’t do better,” he says. The self deprecation is there, but you muffle it by hanging tightly to his torso. Your eyes look at the bay where you can almost make it out, the shimmer of blue of the sea.
You miss home, in a way. Yet now you know another kind of home as well, one far from the great planes and prairies, but not without love. The same stars will shimmer over you tonight, your father will look down from atop his fire stallion, you mother atop her mare, and you will look up at them from your bed next to Sandor.
And in the morning the sun will kiss your forehead and that of many dothrakis beyond the sea. And you will kiss your man under that same sun, and rejoice in the feeling of a warrior alive under your lips.
“If you say so, my lord.” You say. The teasing earns you a disgruntled murmur and a tiny shove. Sandor’s new horse, Stranger is his name, shakes his head in discontent, chasing off the mosquitoes flying in from the bay.
So starts your new life, again, this time as a free woman, and soon as a wife.
