Summary; Lyonel spots you dancing in the crowds in his Pavilion- and something about you makes him curious- and doomed.... silly little one shot I wrote in an hour. Be kind ! My first time attempting to write this guy
Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiousstrrawberries @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @halerune @adumbgirlinloove @crayonbug @celestrys @targlocket @faelinda @captainfern @fayefayefay
any reblogs or comments are greatly appreciated -
For a man so used to the boisterous nature of storms, it’s amazing how gently you come to his notice.
Another night. His Pavillion raised. Gold as the heart of the burning sun. Wine and ale flow like rich strong rivers through this place. Every cup kept full. Air alive with the iron of roasted meat and the sugar tang of fine sweet delights.
Candles burn at every corner. Spitting gold up the sagging cloth walls. Stag antlers protrude proud from every inch. Enough to take eyes out. As he would hope.
The house Baratheon is not designed to fall gently upon this world.
You creep to his notice. Rolling to a slow boil. And for a man used to things that bellow and roar just for a slither of his attention, it stays under his skin. Catches him the wrong way.
You make him curious. That’s dangerous.
You’re dancing when he spies you first. Skirts flying. Eyes bright, like freshly struck lightning bolts in the yellow dim. The way you move, fluid like a river around rocks, with a smile on your lips. The arch of your arms and the turn of your neck. Your partner is enchanted. He can well understand the addiction.
You bow and dip. Hair swinging in its braids down your shoulders. The gossamer of your sleeves as light and artful as your touch as you round the cleared space to the musician’s drums.
He doesn’t recognise your face. No obvious colours which tie you to any house. It’s itching at him. He wants to place you. He can’t place you. Your clothes are fine enough to suggest rank. But you move and laugh and slip through small folk like you were born to it.
He does what he always does when something sneaks under his skin like a clever knife. He drinks until he can scarce stand.
Then he dances about it-
Feet stomping. Clapping his hands like thunder claps themselves. Coiled hair shaking. His tunic flying. Black and gold flashes like an animal warning before poison comes. The rhythm turned to liquid gold in his drunken veins. The drums take his heartbeat.
The dance leads him to you. Inelegantly so.
You catch him when he bodily collides with you. Warm black leather and sweat on his bronze skin. His tunic seeps warmth onto the plum velvet of your dress.
Careful, calm hands. Steady as rock. Smile like a siren. Joy flowing out of you in the glow of your cheeks and the excellent flash of those clever, devastating eyes.
You’ve caught the laughing storm in your hands. That’s a feat no one can hold claim too.
He yanks you close. Too close for propriety. A hand like steel on the small of your back.
He spins you. Spins along with you. Watches your skirts whirl. The bend of your hair when you twist. Your laughter like warm sugar poured on his ears. He almost curses how loud the music is so he can’t hear it’s plain simplicity for himself.
He likes the way your scent envelopes him this close. Nectarine blossoms and honey. Like a deep pull of a violet evening in the spring. The sweet nudge of petals and warm fruit.
He halts the dance. A mere second. Stares deeply into your eyes. In a way that cuts. In a way that makes most men scared when they smell a storm brewing.
“Would you give me your name?” He demands. Iron and thunder stroked on his voice.
Your smile grows. Unfettered. Silky and bright as a summer song.
“And what would you do with it, Ser?” You tease. Voice tinged a little breathless with the way you’ve been whirling around.
“Flatter it. Speak it often and loud so that I might learn the shape to whom it belongs.”
“If I do not wish to offer it? What then?” You test.
He lands his eyes on your mouth. Stands with his hand not leaving your hip. It strips you bare. How his touch sinks beneath the fabric of your dress like a warm hot brand.
“You would deny a Lord...” He threatens.
There’s no sharpness in it. It’s all grinning flirt, and playfulness under the shade of his hair falling over his eyes. Wine like heavy dark opium spice in his breath. His smouldering cologne comes with him as you sway together. Dark leather. Charred birch wood from the fires. Intense and hypnotic. Breathing him in, this close, is like wandering through a spiced forest.
He’s nearly crammed hip to hip with the crowds reel on around you.
“If it pleases me. Yes.” You cheek. Stepping forwards. Right up to the stag. Bracing antlers with him. Without fear of being struck.
You duck out of his touch and spin away. Like sand through his fingers. Onto the arm of another. Flying away. Feet taking elsewhere. “I must find my amusement somewhere. My lord. “ You call back. Tormenting him further.
He grins and dances on. Eyes catching yours over bobbing heads and weaving figures.
He stands there. Trying to catch his breath. Laughing true and loud like the wild man he is. Feeling like you’d turned him inside out.
He follows you in your mania and smiles, dances on and on. Chasing you through the steps til the soles of his feet hurt.
~
Truth be told. He came outside to take a piss.
He staggers out of the Pavillion for air that doesn’t claw. Isn’t smogged with drink and body heat and the fug of soot and acrid smoke.
Relieves himself up against the side of some ash tree. Hand braces to it. Rings glitter fat hungry gold in the moonlight. He opens the neck of his tunic. Sweat is sheeting down his chest like a river. Sticking to raven curls of chest hair.
He turns and attempts to trudge his way back to the dying party. The music softened to a lull. Drunks slumped in the corners, drooling. Food scattered in crumbs and bones left on platers. Wine stains from clumsy, drowsy hands splotch every table top.
He finds you here too. Between the canvas of the tents. The glow of the torches lit from within touch the muddy earth like jewels, warm orange, purple, red.
You are simply stood. Beneath the moonlight. Bathed in it. His dancing beauty. His steady rock that even chaos like him carves around.
He struggled to stand upright. But let it not be said of him he didn’t hold his drink like a warrior.
“My lady.” He slurs. Treats your name like spun glass in a thugs grip.
“Laughing Storm.” You greet back. Walking towards him. Hands steady like you’re worried he’ll topple.
The sour eye of the moon catches in those eyes of yours like molten silver pools. Threaded into your hair and made you like some dragon queen.
“You won’t let me know of you, will you?” He states. Honesty falls off him like heavy rain.
Your answer guts him. Clean and true. The slight pinch of your face makes him want to haul you close and soothe the ache away.
“I fear it won’t do any good.” You offer.
He frowns. Never a man. To smother down his passions. He staggers a step closer. Swallowing. Trying to find the words that churn in his chest.
“Would a lady let me kiss her?” He asks. Voice chafed to a drunk whisper. “Just once.”
Your breath hitched. Mouth gaping. For the first time tonight, he’s finally caught you out. It feels like hooking a prize animal in a hunt.
“I fear that wouldn’t do any good either.” You warn.
But you’re coming closer. Edging in the way one would approach a stag on a hunt. No attempt to spook or spoil.
His eyes settle on your soft, sultry mouth. Yours gaze to his. To that salt and pepper goatee. The way that stupid golden earring dangles like a glittering gold bug into his curls you want to lose a fist in.
“What use is good. My lady. When the opposite is so much more fun.” He charms. Eyes like liquid devastation.
Because he always did seek out danger. The viper in the forest to see the flash of its fangs. The swelling bruised clouds of a storm that he sails his ship directly into. The melee of a fight - he aims right to the heart of where the fighting hits the thickest.
You reach for him first. Boldly. Stroke a fingertip over the sharp of one cheekbone. Eyes falling to his mouth. He shifts. Leaves his hand carefully over your hip. Stroking the velvet and the even finer grain of the feel of you underneath.
“Fun. But ill advised. Seldom recommended.”
“Fuck your ill advised.”
He reels you in. Right to his chest. Just like the way you danced earlier. Arms coiled around each other. All close and intoxicating body heat.
He kisses you then. And it shatters you to fragile sharp little pieces.
A stunning kiss. Not gentle or kind in any way. There’s the sting of teeth. The mess of shared spit. His moans sink to the bed of your tongue and you nearly cannot comprehend the enormity of the passion that strikes clean through you.
His hands are big and rough, battle scarred, warm skin on your face as he takes this kiss off you like he needs it to live, but vehemently doesn’t want it.
You taste his moans. His tongue curls to seek out yours. Your hand heaps into his hair like you’re trying to keep tethered to this earth.
You claw his neck when he bites your lip. He hisses a smile at the sting. Breaking the kiss to rest his forehead to yours. Utterly drunk on you. Hands on your lower back. Resisting the urge to drag you closer by the plump of your ass.
“Forgive me.” You whisper like warm honey sin onto his lips.
“Shan’t.” He sneers. Then he grins. Tries to hold you closer once again.
You cup his face. Then you turn. Slip away like smoke dissipating under the moonlight. Torchlight turning your hair to spun flame. Cloak lapping your heels.
He watches you leave. Something like grief wrapped its stinging barbs around his heart.
~
He sinks into a sober misery come the rise of the dawn. A determined grit in his jaw. He hunts. He was born with a storm at his back. A shield and sword in his other. This will not best him.
He flays every banner man he can get his hands on, in the hopes someone the night before managed to get the taste of your name on their tongue.
His luck runs dry. No one knew you. Plenty remembered your beauty. Plenty remembered dancing with you. Too drunk to have gathered your name. All spinning skirts and smiles. No name.
He must ride to the tourney field. Gilded in his fine yellow armour that screams Baratheon from a mile away. Like the sun had chewed him up and spat him out in it’s colours.
He rides into that mud bogged field. A shining smile and a laugh tucked in his throat as always. Parades like a prize stag with balls made of iron, in front of the nobility. Antlers high and proud.
He was negotiating for the hand of some Lordling’s daughter. It was high time the heir paramount to Storms End tied himself to someone who would settle him. Someone who could quell and soothe the rising tides and madness of his hurricane temper.
In truth, he does not look forwards to any match that promises him some trembling noble girl whose being sold on like chattel, for bartering grain, swords or livestock from the heir to Storms End.
He rides his horse to the stands where the nobles sit. Some plain, small little Blackhaven lords daughter had been offered to him. Of marriageable age. He would not even touch nor entertain the idea of a child bride with a ten foot lance.
He recalled her fathers letters. A girl borne of the storm lands. Used to the fierce lashings of the sea. Learned the shape of the waves the same way he’s been raised too. Familiarity to the way the wind could break ships masts. Someone weather worthy. Ready to stand alongside him and spit into the eye of the storm.
She’s a pretty thing. He’ll give her that. Frail as the first snowdrop in spring. But she looked like one breath of wind, or even a mere necklace of heavy gems would flatten her.
She’s excellently educated in the way she preens and moves and beams just right. Every action angled and taught to perfection. He’s never been able to stand anything as stifling and neat as affection.
She hands him her favour with a mousy promise. A token she’d embroidered herself. She wishes him good fortune on the field. He takes it with a bowed head.
He winks boldly at this small girl. Because he’s nothing if not bold. He can talk charm and flirt with almost anyone he wishes. That is his grace. “With your luck, my lady, it is as good as promised.”
His horse shifts. His attention comes to the person sat to the right of this small tepid creature they’re offering up to him. Like a mouse to a falcon. He can’t pretend he looks on the match with any great enthusiasm. A slip of a girl will not withstand the hurricane that is being the Lady of Storms End.
When his eyes take the shape of the person sat behind his intended bride. It was like someone ripped the golden earth out from below his feet. Tore out his spine and left him to bleed. A flayed man.
It’s you.
Your father, a heavy set man. Plump off pies and port. All jewels and formality and frown lines from worry. Stumbles to bring you forwards. He cowers beneath Lyonel’s gaze. Wheedled and made sure nothing but courtesy and flattery fell off his tongue.
You stand. Slow and steady. Hands crossed. The very picture of a tempest smothered deep into your bones. Stormborn. Iron surety in the way your hold yourself. Your eyes find and fix on him with all the sharp wicked charm of lightning. He feels stung by it.
“Pray may I introduce my eldest daughter, Lord Lyonel…” He speaks your name.
Lyonel tests the weight of it on his tongue in a whisper. He finally gets the flavour of your name. And it’s devastating. It falls like a slip of honey laudanum. Or some sweet violet petal. Melts on his tongue.
He’s taking you in like he can’t quite believe the gall of you.
“Lord Lyonel.” You greet. And there’s a small stroke of cleverness, and muted pain, tucked in the corner of your smile. All poise and dread.
You turned out to be Lady Dondarrion of Blackhaven. Cousin to the crowned princess. Older sister to the meek little girl he’s being promised in marriage.
It enraged him how much it made sense.
After all, what better companion for a storm than a bolt of lightning?
Starting over because I was stupidly scammed and it looks like my old account has gone bye bye. I’ll upload some of my writing works later. Right now having a sad little funeral for a blog I had for literal decades.
If anyone gets a message from my old blog. Don’t answer it for fucks sake.
If someone messages you saying they’ve reported your account just report and block. It is a scam I assure you. They try and take you to discord. And take your email and details.
I do have an AO3 with some of my works thereabouts. I will repost my hound x maid series and try and see if I can rectify my Eddie Masterlist. Be patient with me-
I mean.. this headcanon isn't exactly the most original but I can totally see Lady Dondarrion being the scary one. Like, Lyonel is going on and on and rambling and she just sits there, watching, observing. If anyone dares to comment on Lyonel's behaviour, she's gonna glare. Like, eyes on the back of your head glare. Maybe making a remark about how interesting it is that a lord who cannot please his wife dares to comment on her husband.
But I dunno
The storm that bites-
Lyonel Baratheon x Lady Dondarrion
Forgive the fandom tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiousstrrawberries @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove
Lyonel Baratheon is the storm that laughs. This is true enough.
The way his bellowing cackle falls across the battlefield or tourney ground like a tolling sept bell. The way his jovial chuckling turns to a dagger when a Lord makes an unsuitable comment against him that’s designed to offend. The thin blade of his displeasure was fast to strike.
His grinning nature falls like summer songs. Gold as sun stroked wheat fields. He can charm the small folk with a bawdy song. Flatter and swoon a highborn maiden with a wink of his eye. Claim easy kinship with a knight with a heroic tale to spin, and a cup of ale in his merry hand.
His storm is a summer one. A kindly warm breeze that wraps and delights in its wonderful, rich chaos. That shakes the trees and fusses the long grass fields. He shakes the world in its place.
Lady Dondarrion is the storm that bites.
Raised a daughter of Blackhaven. Used to the basalt black walls of the castle, and the strong winds that tried to knock it down. Storm worthy, from the day you learned to crawl. You know well the language of ferocious rains, and fast, terrible tides whose only aim is to decimate. To drown.
Your fury hits entirely different. The way a cold, icy hurricane would blow across the north. Freezing crops. Icing over tumbling rivers. A scowl that could curdle even the most stone faced northerner. Dondarrion ladies such as yourself, are remarked to house frosty lightning in their veins.
You use it accordingly.
It is another feast that takes hold of Storms End. A mere hunting party that Lyonel managed to turn into a two week celebration. As was his skill.
The party had been hawking, sailing and making merry so loud, the din of enjoyment shook to the cavernous rafters. Laughter rings in your ears even now, over the din of the feast.
Really, he’s also using it as a further excuse to still celebrate your union.
You are seated beside him in the grandest manner. Raised on a plinth in a fur covered throne that nearly matches the illustrious grandeur of his.
Your dress screams Baratheon too. At the top of its lungs. A honey gold silk fetched all the way from Pentos. Its been embroidered with golden stags around the neck. Fine long bell sleeves.
Jewels and finery glitter on your neck and hanging from your earlobes. Hair worn braided from your face, but otherwise free to roam in curls down your back. Bear pelts that he has hunted himself keep you warm in your seat. A vision.
He raises many a cup and charges many a toast to you. His Lady of Storms end. The name he whispers in your ear when you’re alone stays a lustful secret. His savage storm.
Charges of Lady Baratheon, ring high to the echoing ceiling. The din that follows as men gulp their ale or wine.
Masking the dim of the rain that fell like arrows on the roof. The storm that tears the thick. walls. And typical to your storm born nature, you will dance and dine though it with a grin.
He toasts your name again and again to the tune of his men’s cheers. Even though you’ve been married near three months. It’s still cause for merriment.
Eyes sparkling and smile wide, he leans in and cages you to your seat with a fiery kiss. That’s all wine tasting and heat. Tongue slipping a little against your lip. He can’t even kiss you quietly. You press your hand to his wiry side where he closes you to your chair. Smile when he breaks the messy kiss.
When he straightens, he cups your face in his hand. Holding his goblet in the other. Before turning round to roar to the crowds-
“Right. Dance. You cunts. Let us have some dancing…” he bellows. Shifting on his drunk feet. Throwing a handful of coin to shower over the poor musicians.
He stumbles down to the steps. The first to dance. And the last to leave.
People are quick to flock to his joy and take part in it. Swallowed up in his favour like a golden summer storm. The floor is swarmed with dancers in no time. As soon as he’s clicked his fingers to a command, others leap to follow.
You ask the servants to bring up more wine. And more meat pies. Keep the food train coming and the wine flowing, and keep your guests watered and full. You will not have it said Storms Ends tables are stingy with their offerings.
You sit back. Chuckle at the way Lyonel moves himself to music. All limbs and flopping hair.
A couple of Lords bow as they come past you. Come to curry favour or make small talk. You indulge them sweetly. Clever eyes taking the measure of the whole room.
You excuse yourself from table. Holding your skirts up. Treading down the plinth into the crowds to mingle. Ladies flock to you to flatter your gown. Gold kissed fire in the torch light. Threads twisting and burning. Your feet falling to the distant thrum of the fine music.
You spy your Uncle, at table. His favourite titian haired whore feeding him food as he sucks at her fingers for more. Perched on his lap. Giggling together like they were adolescents.
You skirt past. Coming to your friend.
When you move behind a couple of gentlemen you’re distantly familiar with, the words that slither to your ears are decidedly unkind ones.
“Making a holy show of that bitch wife of his.”
You stop dead in your tracks.
“I heard he took her at the Ashford tourney. Snuck into her tent, lifted her skirts, and fucked her senseless. Apparently she was gagging for it. Despite the fact he was already promised to the younger Dondarrion cunt.”
You look to where Lyonel is spinning circles on the dance floor. Clapping his hands. None the wiser.
“Really? What’s one cunt to another.” One of them cackled.
“Better a nice soft young cunt, than a dry old widow. I hear she’s not married two weeks to her previous husband and he mysteriously perishes at sea in a ship wreck. Foul women’s play if you ask me. Cursed. She must have made a deal for the gods. To rid herself of him.”
“Wonder if Lyonel knows his new wife is a scheming sea witch.” One of them slurs. “Maybe she enchanted him. He certainly goes on about her enough. Wicked if you ask me. She cast her spell on him.”
“Nah..” one drawled. “Maybe she just opened her legs nice and wide. Got that laughing idiot all good and cuntstruck.” They chuckle like ill-mannered hogs together. Drunk and hollering. One slaps the other on the back in celebration.
You’ve heard enough.
You step down and come round to face them. Square up to look them dead in the eyes. A smile on your mouth that would have better men scattering for the hills.
“Lord Fell. Lord Horpe.” You greet. Hands folded in front of you. Serene as a painting. Eyes turned to daggers of lightning.
They clumsily - drunkenly - bolt from their seats.
“I hope you’re enjoying the festivities my lords.”
They are both quick to stumble their approval. Their false flattery.
“Your wife, Lord Horpe… she is one of my ladies in waiting. Delightful creature. I do adore her.” You comment.
Turning around to see where the woman in question is dancing with another. Smile wide. Cheeks flushed.
“Of course she’s told me plenty about you.” Your words turn sour on a penny. Glaring back at the man. Still with a smile that could bloom roses. But your eyes- lethal lightning silver.
“Mainly how it took you many months of trying in the marriage bed. In order to get the shrivelled pink shrew you call a cock, hard, in order to consummate your marriage. I do pity the lovely girl having to make love to a sweating hog like you each night.”
You delight in watching his face fall.
“And you. Lord Fell…” you grin. He looks positively green with worry
“You are unmarried. And I believe your father is having the hardest time trying to get any decent woman to the altar for you. Especially as I’ve heard tale you pay many a coin to whores, not for their cunts. But to lick their toes and suck on them as you touch yourself.”
He turns as red as a crimson cloak.
“You utter any more disparaging words against me or my husband again. I will expose your foul threats to his ire. And trust me, I will remind you, why you don’t want to risk the wrath of lightning and thunder.” You advise. Eyes glittering.
“Enjoy the wine. Try the venison pie. It is excellent.” You sneer. Turning away and leaving them to fester.
You walk back to your chair. Where you seat two heads higher than the rest of them. Watching one man slink off to his wife. And another cower in his seat. Unable to turn his eyes your way.
Lyonel returns to your side. Biggest grin on his face. Sweating and heaving for breath. Gulping his wine. Collapsing with an inelegant thud down next to you, into his chair. Half draped across you.
He heaves for breath. Turns and narrows his eyes at your face. “Why are you frowning my love? No frowning. Tonight. Indeed I forbid it.” He mumbles. Making a fist and slamming it on the arm of his chair. Threatening thunder.
Then he’s leaning in to drunkenly lay his lips to the corner of your jaw. He’s all sweat and spiced wood cologne mingled with wine. Lips sucking wet spots onto your neck as he grumbles under his breath how sweet your skin is.
“Nothing. My sweet. I’m well…” you cup his face. Wiry beard pressing into your palm.
“Although I do think we need to review and raise the taxes for Lord Fell and Lord Horpes lands… I’ve a feeling it’s far too low.”
He pulls right back and makes a concerned face across at you. You beam right back.
“You are wicked.” He grins. Eyeing you up like a roast boar on a spit. He lays his mouth to your neck again. Tongue licking the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.
“I usually pride myself on being the last to leave a party… as you know.”
“I sense a ‘but’ coming….”
“But I feel I need to sneak my wife away a moment. Very possibly because I need to fuck her very hard, in the nearest discreet alcove in a corridor. Loud enough for all the guests to hear.” He whispers.
Slinking back to meet your eyes with a look of pure, troublemaking sin on his features.
“Say no more. My Storm.” You thread your fingers in his. He leads the way. Laughing to the rafters the whole time.
Your absence is noted of course - but it’s not entirely unsurprising.
Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII - Part VIII - Part IX - Part X - Part XI
Summary: after the tourney, among the revelry and celebration, Alssa ignores your advice about unsavoury men. Heads will roll for it— TW death/gore/violence/assault against women.
The festivities slipped into drunkenness after the games were done. The victor was crowned and given the champions purse. A whole chest of gold dragons.
Evening tinged over the landscape in gentle mulberry clutches. The sun long cast aside in favour of the chirp of crickets and the veil of night ebbing in. Warm and pleasant. Sticky summer midnight. The kind that makes the stars in the heaven seem sparkling sharp.
Everyone was wrapped up in the benefits of victory. Many barrels of wine opened for consumption. Bawdy folk songs howled by drunken men around braziers. You saw many whores from silk street brazenly prowling through the crowds. Offering succor or celebration to the men depending on where they ended in the lists.
Tables laid out for Knights were rich with food. Fluffy white bread dipped in honey. Plums stewed in Lannisport honey wine. Lamprey pies. Apple and brie tarts. Roasted hen by the platter full. A whole roasted boar with red grapes spilling out its mouth, laid on the table for the men to carve at with their knives.
They eat like half-starved hogs and spill ale and wine over their hands, with their bawdy singing and hooking scantily clad whores onto their laps. Roaring laughter and conversation gradually getting more raucous the longer it went on.
The squires settled themselves simpler fair. Iron pots cooked held over fire, bubbling with brown broth, barley, stewed onions and pigeon meat. Poured into bowls and savoured until the pot ran dry. Some of the squires assistants - little more than children, ran around like fleas, begged for coin and ate morsels of stale bread where they could scrounge it.
You and Alssa watched from some corner at the whole spectacle. A wooden cup of wine in your hands each as you watched some of the servants bowling around in a folk dance, as some penniless musicians played a jig.
Alssa was roused into dancing with several young men - of course she was. The Bard from earlier strumming along. Catching her eye now and again with a wink and a smile. Liking that she now wore his flower in her hair.
Her shawl was now hooked over your elbow as you drained your cup. Feeling drunkenness slither into your limbs. Drowsy heavy.
You’re leaning against a Lannister banner post. Remarkably free from the usual ache that gathers between your shoulder blades. The wine was helping. You’d had three cups of it by now. Bribed a squires child, Rody, to fetch you some in return for some coin, and roasted nuts you’d bought earlier.
Alssa came whirring back to your side. Breathless and exertion shone red on her cheeks. Hiking her skirts up. Panting for breath. You know it would be all of two seconds before she was hooked into another whirl of a dance.
“You look happy.” She remarks.
You slosh around the nearly empty contents of your cup. “I’m drunk.” You answer.
“Ah, that’ll be it then.”
“You should try some.”
“My mother says ladies shouldn’t drink such strong wine. That it isn’t meant for the likes of us womenfolk. Wine should be man’s drink.”
“Then I suppose I must have quite the cock.” You jape dryly. Sipping more. She splutters into embarrassed laughter.
The squires boy comes racing back to your side. Looking up at you expectantly. A shaggy mop of blonde hair that tumbled in curls like unruly sun baked weeds. Big shining eyes in the half dark. Dirt smudged across his cheeks and under his nose. He’s dressed in oversized rags. A red cloth knotted around his neck, near threadbare.
You smile. Slip another coin into his outreaching palm. “Find me the Highgarden sweet red again, Rody.” You wink.
He scurries off. Joined by friends who hop around him. Skirting past the revelry. On a mission to put food in their bellies. His fellow snipes scatter after him.
“You are shameless.” Alssa decides. Taking a sip of her cheap honey wine that you’re sure was watered down dark berry cordial. Weak as piss.
“If I’m going to get drunk, I may aswell do it proper.”
She set her gaze across to the side where a Knight from house Tully was looking longingly in your direction every few seconds. Constantly looking up. In between talking and sharpening his sword. She smiled and turned back to you.
The way firelight ran into your hair did make it look scorching red. Kissed by fire. The pretty tulip red of your dress spun into brilliance. You looked like a flame, ensnaring the attention of every moth in sight. Many male eyes trailing over the jut of your hip. The bout of your waist to your plump thigh.
“That Knight over there keeps on staring at you.” Alssa utters. Delighted. Giddy that a man is giving you attention.
Not the one you want.
You weren’t entirely sure where he’d slunk off too after the tourneys close. Possibly loping after Joffrey still. Back at the keep. Not allowed to indulge in wining or feasting.
You know by choice, he’d be at the bottom of a flagon of wine by now. Sour red. He liked Dornish red. The more bitter the better. Possibly he’d tucked tail and found a whore of his own to perch on his knee. Was in a tent using her right now for a bit of fine relief. A dog gnawing on a well earned bone.
You will the thought away before it made a home.
Turn your attention back to the undeserving Knight.
“The weasel looking Tully prick?” You answered her. Without looking across. You clocked him earlier. You assumed his sultry looks were intended for her.
She makes a contemplative face. “He’s… not bad.” She defends.
“Mm. Probably ran out of decent silk street whores by now, I guess. I look like the next best option.”
You dare to peer past the pole. Catching his eyes and giving him the best withering look you had. Hopefully your look told him to fuck well off.
“That is a shocking thing to say. Must you always be spiky.” She chides you. Tapping your elbow. It was like being pecked by a baby bird.
You shoot her a look. It’s truth. Plain as day judging by the noises coming out from within certain tent flaps.
Loras and Renly had strangely disappeared a while back. Alssa had mentioned it in passing. You smirked into your cup of wine. She was too green to understand that revelation as of yet.
More than one man was happy to wet his wick after the victory or loss on the field. Even handmaidens like yourselves, were fair game. You’d do in a pinch.
Rody ran back to your side. Came barrelling to a stop before he crashed into you. Holding the cup aloft to you in victory. You pluck it out his hand and swipe a fingertip to his chubby milk cheek in thanks.
Part with another coin in thanks. “Off with you.” You pat his back. Bones narrow and brittle under your hands like a baby bird. He sprints away with a laugh.
Out the corner of your eye, you see the Tully Lord encourage the boy over with a wave of his hand. “Here, boy.” As he guided him closer. That makes you frown…
You sink the wine and lose yourself in its fruity heavy gloriousness. Anymore and you’d be stumbling back to the keep. But, then again, you’d not had any indulgence in months. Alcohol or other.
Suddenly the bard in his blue doublet and worn brown boots stands before the pair of you. Smile quirking up his tawny brown goatee beard. He smiled and held his hand out for Alssa to take it.
She accepts. Predictably. Stepped into his path.
“Careful.” You side eye her.
Flicking your eyes across to him next. So sharp you hoped they cut. In the firelight they looked damn near blazing. More terrifying than the stranger, himself.
He seemed rightfully wary of you. Shifting into unease at your pointed look. You’d a pair of eyes on you that could chill a man to the backbone. Makes blood run as cold as the ice and snow you were spawned from.
You address him directly. Voice proud and brazen.
“If she isn’t returned to my side safely within the quarter hour, trust me, I will come find you and put a dagger through your eye.” You threaten. Smiling all the while. Eyes not moving from him for one second.
He falters for a second. “On my word. Good woman.” He mutters. Bows even deeper. Not able to use any honeyed words from his repertoire to soften you up with. Honey melts against steel.
“She’s fierce red as a tiger. Is she a friend or your protector?” He asks Alssa as she slides her hand into his. And they move to walk away.
“Both.” You snap after him. He jolts at the bark of your voice. You pin your eyes on him again. Make him sweat with it.
“Don’t mind her. She just wants my welfare.” Alssa encouraged.
Hooking her arm to his as they wander off to dance together. Making their way into the crush of people. Her cheeks pinken with the praise he utters her way.
“Prick.” You grumble under your breath.
Rody comes stumbling back to your side. Clutching something large in his hand. Your frown deepens. “If you please, Miss.” He lisps up at you.
It’s a fold of rough spun cloth. Blue and Silver, with dancing fish embroidered onto it.
“What is this?” You seek.
Rody fades into the background as a man steps forwards. Voice proud and coming from the shadows to your left.
“A token of my house, my lady. As you see, it bears my sigil. The trout upon blue, and the silver waves.”
“Lord Tully.” You acknowledge with a nod. If only to keep your head on your shoulders. Or to keep from being whipped for disrespect.
He stands a fraction too close. Ale heavy on his breath. Hands folded behind his back. “Might I have the pleasure of your name.”
You scan him up and down. Even in his armour he appears scrawny.
A long mop of straight hair swept back from his head. Eyes too beady and close together. Nose jutting sharp. His armour is dull silver. More trouts dance on the sky blue motif of his breastplate. His gorget also had two dancing trouts meeting in the middle.
“What would a Lord knight possibly want with a handmaiden’s name?” You seek.
“To flatter her beauty. Of course. To offer her trinkets worthy of her beautiful countenance. Ever since I saw you stood there with your hair caught in the flames. I’ve feel as if I’ve been struck.”
You fight rolling your eyes. Under all that poetry and compliments you know, ultimately, it was his way of tricking you onto your back.
“Well….” You begin. Throwing the cloth over to Rody. He only just dove in time to catch it from the mud. Grins to see such finery. Let him sell it, or use it to keep warm. His eyes blow wide. Awed at such a rich gift. He clutches it close to his chest. Slips away like an eel between the gaps of tents.
“Strike elsewhere. I’ve no need of flattery. Or courting.” You give him a stiff curtsy.
“I only wish to drink my wine and revel in peace with my friend. I bid you good evening, Ser.”
You reluctantly leave your spot, weaving through the crowds. Leaving men guffawing in your wake at him, and your blatant refusal. You don’t particularly care if you’ve done damage to some knights ego. You’re sure the next passing woman with glittering eyes and pretty hair will soothe him soon enough.
You strike off in your own, wandering crowds and hoping to catch sight of Alssa’s slimy bard. Or her blue skirts. Her shawl is still clutched in your hands
You move fast on your feet. Your steps tread with purpose. To dawdle in this terrain would be dangerous. To head back alone doubly so. A treacherous path for a maiden to tread on her own in gathering night. You’re staying put here until you find Alssa.
You weave through the celebration. Eyes trained for sight of her. Coming up empty. A cruel feeling starts to simmer at the base of your spine. No girl is alone in a place as this for innocent intention.
You tread the outskirts. Looking inbetween the gaps of tents. Eyes roaming shadows like a fury.
A slumped shape slouched up by a tent in a sky blue doublet gives you your answer.
You race to his side. Crouching to see he was out cold. Blood spraying across the tent at the back of his head. Mouth slack. Eyes closed. Someone had taken the trouble to silence his sonorous Lorathi voice.
A sniffle and a muffled cry catches your attention. Unfettered rage coarses to your bloodstream, hotter than coals.
You tear around the corner. Cloak yourself in the shade between two white tents. Where blue skirts were spilled across the ground. Alssa was shaking and crying, pleading. A wretch of a guard was knelt between her legs. Tears streaming down her cheeks. Hands delving through her skirts as she screamed. One knelt by her head holding her hands.
You stalked right up to the one knelt at her thighs. You shrugged off your shawl and looped it right around the bastards neck and tugged.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy that the fear turned from hers, to theirs.
“Let fucking go of her.” You seethe.
When the letch doesn’t move. Not letting go of his iron grip on her wrists- you pull the shawl tighter.
“Now.” You seethe. Rolled the words slow through your teeth like a warning dogs growl.
Your grip was strong. His face turning from red to purple. The gurgling cries that came out his pathetic mouth. Wet and struggling. Arms flailing for yours. Leaving scratches. You’ll feel the burn of those blunt nail marks later. For now, you don’t dare relent.
“Want this cunt friend of yours to die, do you…” You infer with a smile.
He lets go of her and holds his palms up. You relax yours. Kick the wretch forwards. Sending him flying.
But then a full sneer shows on his broken yellowed teeth, and your stomach drops to notice footfalls on dry grass behind you.
A fearful blow came across the back of your head. Hard as iron. Made your brain shake in your skull. Eyes watering. In your moment of weakness you’re tugged to the side. Pulled from his mate.
Not before you could grab for your dagger, you sliced it across the back of the hand that held you. Slicing knuckle. You don’t care how deep. His cries are satisfying.
You are coarsely yanked face to face with a third soldier. As reeking and repugnant as his counterparts. You could smell old sour sweat and stale ale.
His foul face leans close to yours. Pinning you close. Rotten breath like old meat rolling your your cheeks where he pinches your chin.
Your dagger he plucked off you, held right down low, ready to stab into your gut. Livid that you’d cut him with it.
“Let’s gut the red bitch for spoiling our fun.” The one you choked hoarsely grunts out. Glaring at you from his position. Ripping off the shawl you’d used to strangle him with.
“Waste of a good set of tits. And a nice soft cunt, that is….” He literally spits in your face as he speaks. Blood shaking down his hand. Spotting down into your dress. Eyeing you up like that stuck roast boar they’d dined on.
“Why not use that little blonde first, Connin…. Then this one. Make her watch.” He decided grimly. Head tilting as he leaned closer, his words falling from a hot, muggy mouth. Scraping against your neck.
The one by Alssa’s smirks anew. His fist yanked in a chunk of her blonde hair where she tried to squirm away. She shrieked. He slapped her to keep her quiet. Tears staining his hand.
The one on the floor you’d choked, kneels and rubs his throat. Gasping for breath. “Fuck. I’m not done with this one. Virgin cunt.” He grinned. Excitedly.
Began fumbling for his trouser fastenings.
Alssa begin to scream all the more until the miserable oaf before her stuffed his hand over her mouth. Your rage crept to a deadly boil. You chose your time to strike;
You reeled back and boldly spat in the eye of the one holding you. Making him stagger back, cursing you. His eyes closed for a mere second. You used it to your advantage.
You grabbed the hand that held his dagger before his brain could fathom what was going on. With both hands you grabbed him, and quickly drove both sets of your hands. Burying your dagger right into his unarmoured gut. Twice.
You twist the blade on the second stab. Twist it deep. Delighted in how he howled. You like that he’d died screaming.
You lay your lips next to his ear. The last words he’d take to his miserable forgotten grave. “Should’ve gutted me when you had the chance. Cunt.” You snapped.
Letting him sag and flop to the floor. Holding his stomach and trying to clasp the hole in his gut.
His friends stop their fumbling to look at you with poison in their eyes.
The one between her knees, leapt up to full height and grasped his sword out the scabbard. Panting with rage as he looked from his dead friend, and back to you. Face an ugly twisted snarl. Made uglier by hate.
He wanted to run you though.
You stood with your dagger dripping in your hand. Staining the grass with warm blood. Knives would envy how sharp your gaze was.
“There’s two of us… one of you.” He pointed the tip of his sword right at you.
A shifting clank of armour rose from the shadows beyond. A low growl follows the noise. Voice like grinding rocks and grit.
“Like those odds do you?” The Hound asks, as he edged slow but sure out his hiding place.
Towering a terrible shadow over the one at Alssa’s head. Armed to the canine teeth as usual.
Armoured hand slung on his sword pommel. His face was as grim as the Strangers. Even drunk he could still swing a sword better than these flea bottom whelps.
His eyes glow demonic with sparks from the distant red flames. He was hiding from the fires light, of course, nursing a flagon of red wine when he heard the screams. His dark cloak carried scents of charred wood embers. The stench of death lingered around him.
The one who’d pulled his sword at you, spins around on clumsy, fearful feet.
Peering up and up to meet the terrifying scarred face that had men fleeing in terror on his good days. His bark certainly held up his bite.
“Plenty to go around dog.” One soldier explains shakily. Unable to lay aside how fear snuck into his voice. Sword limp down his side. They cowered in his presence.
“Starting with the pretty blonde….” The one near him tried to bargain. “We’ll let you have your pick. Let you stretch them out first.”
Pure hatred stained Sandor’s expression in a wave.
Oh. The Hound didn’t like that.
“I don’t make deals with raping rats like you.” He warned.
Before the next words out his mouth could be uttered, he gripped the man’s head by the hair and drove his dirk through his throat. To the hilt. He died with those foul words still drying on his tongue. A dreadful eulogy.
Alssa screamed. Scrambling and cowering to the side. Out the way of the man busy choking in his own blood.
The other dropped his sword and tried to run. Like the true rodent he was. He tried sliding away, but the Hound was quick. Clever. Bigger. Made to kill rats.
With a grunt, he captured the man by the scruff of his shirt at the back of his neck. Holding him back from escape.
He clutched him close to his chest, screaming, begging, and with a sharp twist of his hands, snapped the filths neck in one move.
Another body littered to the floor like carrion for the vultures.
Alssa, weeping, blood on her pretty skirts, stayed trembling on the ground. Scared stiff. Her cries caught his attention.
He leaned down as gentle as he was able. Voice softened to a grizzle rather than a bark.
“Up you get girl. You’re alright now. You’re alright.” He tried his best to be soothing. It came out skewed.
Like a great untamed bear trying to assure you it wasn’t hungry or wouldn’t cause you harm. The way promises of safety came uttered through mouths with sharp gleaming teeth: double edged.
She looked up at him with tears shaking in her eyes. Every nerve in her body told her to shrink from him.
But she reached up for his huge hand as he helped her from the dirt. Her palm lost in his it was so small.
She rose to her feet in her tattered dress. He bent down once more and picked up her blood stained shawl and limply tried to tuck it around her shoulders where her dress was torn.
He patted her on the middle of her back. And that seemed to spur her into motion.
She ran for your comfort. You held her close. Arm around her. Trying to your red dagger away from her persons.
You turned your attention to your grizzled saviour, as Alssa wept onto your shoulder.
He leaned down and wiped his knife on the rats clothing before re-sheathing it on his belt. Comfortable with the fact he’s walking around a tomb of his own creation. Stepping over broken limbs and wells of cooling blood. Perfectly happy to stomp over broken bones and shattered men. Even if they were his own. He was loyal to none but the King.
The one you’d stabbed in the gut still squirmed on the ground like a worm in his own filth. Pissed himself. Fear trembling in his eyes. A wound by the gut was a slow way to die. The worst, he’s seen. Men take days sometimes. Writhing in agony and begging for death to be merciful. It often wasn’t.
Clever little maid. He thought. Good.
Personally, he’d have gone for the gut – or the balls. Prick like that didn’t deserve to die with his manhood intact – for what he’d wanted to do to you both, with it.
He advanced like a fury on the soldier. Who tried his best to shuffle away. Dark black blood pooling at the Hound’s feet. Staining his boots. He’s used to it. He had it in his nose now, this Hound. There was no letting it slip.
“Please. Ser. Please- I-I meant no harm.”
“Yes you did.” Sandor snapped. He can’t stand the lies that come sneered from vermin’s mouths. Lord knows he’s dealt with enough of those.
A man whose dishonest even as death hovers for him? The worst sort of coward.
He nodded his chin across to you. “Weren’t gonna kill her quick were you?” The dreadful silence speaks leagues of guilt.
“You were gonna fuck her every which way, and then gut her, you said. Heard you say it.”
Sandor didn’t give the man a chance. He unsheathed his large sword. Let him hear the song of the steel that would end him.
“I’ll give you the same death you promised her. See how you like it.”
With one wrench of his arm, he opened the man from groin to gut. One vicious arc. Viscera spilling free.
“Never liked you anyway. Jullon. You dumb cunt.” He spoke down as he watched light in the man’s eyes fizzle to nothing. The spark of life gone.
You caught his gaze when he turned around. Alssa shaking into your chest. Gasping through sobs.
“They killed Jorvan.” She wept like the world had ended. Her dear Bard.
You locked eyes with Sandor. He turned his head and saw the man slumped not far away. Lumbered his way over to check the man. You watch the turn of his head as he assessed the sprawled Bard before him. They split his instrument to splinter too. It lay cleaved at his feet.
He gives him a short stout kick in the thigh. The man’s head lolls and a grunt comes from his throat.
“Your Lorathi cunt isn’t dead, girl. Just stunned.” He declares.
Alssa looked relieved. You walk with her over to the man. Looking down as she tore from your side and fussed over him. He mumbled again, groggy. She holds his limp hand and kissed the back of it.
The Hound stays at the shaded start of where the alley between tents began. He stands composed again. Hand slung over pommel. Eyes gazing like a glare for more trouble or unrest.
He watched as you cleaned your sticky dagger on one of the dead man’s tunics. Draws a small quirk to one side of his mouth that others may dare suggest looked like a smile.
You walk up past the dead men. Coming to his side. Holding your shawl to hide the blood on your dress. Not sure how you’ll get rid of the crimson stained across your hands.
“Suppose the King wonders why three of his guardsmen met grisly demises?” You ask quietly.
“I’ll deal with it.” He assured you. Quick to wipe away your worry.
“Three men…” you resupply him of the fact. Driving it home. “Kings men.”
He turns to you. Twisting as close as he dared. Eyes meeting yours with plain severity.
“Maybe they came at me with their swords drawn. Wanted the roast chicken I was eating. Or the wine I was drinking. I wasn’t in the mood to share.” He suggested.
Then his voice turned darker. “Perhaps I lost my temper with their fucking impertinence. I’m certain I heard one of them bad mouth the prince. Inferred something they shouldn’t. I’m also sure a little maid with red hair will back me up.” He assured.
You nod. Heart swelling with emotion for him. Gratitude. Laughter nearly wants to bubble through your chest. He wore his lack of title better than any named Knight.
“You’re a good man. Clegane. Thank you.”
He shies away from any such praise. As he did earlier. Looks to the floor. Readjusts his arms. Blinks and nods. An awkward tall pillar in clinking armour.
Looks back to Alssa and her barely coherent Bard as she tries to coax him round. His eyes flutter and droop.
“I don’t need thanks. Killing vermin is my job. That’s all.”
“You have it all the same, you big bastard.” You tell him, beaming. He likes how it makes your cheeks bunch when you do that.
He fights back a smile. Not sure how convincing it was.
“You hurt?” He asks. Suddenly shuffling to look serious. Brows pulled down in a frown.
He can’t be sure you weren’t nicked or stabbed. Grazed with the tip of a knife even. He swears if he finds one so much as one cut or bruise on your body, he’ll go back over there and take those bastards heads as a trophy.
You shake your head. “Not my blood. I’m well.” You tell him gently. Reaching out to touch your hand around his metal arm.
“How is your shoulder now?” You ask him. “Didn’t seem to slow you down at all.” You complimented.
“I did what you said. Washed it. Kept it dry.”
“Good.” You exclaimed. You spoke like your word was law.
“Besides. The amount of fucking lip you gave me for stitching me up… hate to think what you’d do to me if I disobeyed you.” He remarked cheekily.
“You don’t want to know what I’d do to you.” You promised. Eyes set on his. Smile creeping across your lips.
He dares meet them this time. Brave. “Aye. Maybe I do.”
He can’t take his eyes off the way blood sticks in a small smear on your chin. Another up across one of your cheekbones. Your eyes he could get lost in - if he could let himself do so. In your rage, they’d quivered with copper from the braziers in the darkness like amber gems.
The only time he’d ever consider flames to be pretty.
Truth was, he’d spied you far earlier tonight. Watching your friend whirl into a dance with every man as you stood there sinking cup after cup of wine. Your hair a fierce blaze. Barking your orders at the drippy bard who came to claim your friend. Your ferocity. Protective nature over those who needed it.
He wanted to approach you. To come to your side and say…something. He wasn’t sure exactly what.
Maybe tell you how it made him smile, nearly barking a laugh when you turned down the Tully prick. Maybe it was to tell you how well his wound was healing. It was tight but free of infection so far. He’d been careful with it. The stitches small and neat. How every time he brushed his ruined brute fingers over his shoulder, he was reminded of the smell of yellow jasmine.
He lost sight of you after the Tully prick left you alone. Only found you by the strength of your friends screams. The thought those idiot cunts may have had their way with you, made a fierce rage kick into his blood. Rage, where there usually sat order, calm.
“You uh, should be getting back to the keep. Men are only gonna get more piss drunk from now on. No place for your lot when their blood and cocks are up.”
“I’ll walk her back.” You bend to take Alssas hand. Telling her to leave Jorvin to come round. He’d be alright come morning. Hell of a headache, but alive. Lucky sod.
She walks alongside you like a rattled, cowed child.
“I’ll take you.” He offered. You didn’t argue.
Marching off to lead the way. Cutting a path you follow. Alssa tugged right to your side. You strike your way through the revelry in his huge shadow. Safest place to be.
He takes you back through the tourney grounds, passing revelry and debauchery to come to the dusty road you came in on.
A stooped greying farmer in beige rags was busy coming back from the fields as you arrived. A sour milk coloured ox walking along genially, pulling a wobbly turnip cart. Baskets full of his dirt dusted trade. Piled high with root vegetables. Heading back to the capital. The man sung a gentle calming folk song as they went along. Minding his own business.
At the sight of the Princes Hound, he calls the ox to a shuddering stop. It bayed in protest.
“Fuck me. The Hound. Heard you were big… damn, they wasn’t lying.” He chuckled. Annoying, but friendly.
Sandor cuts a look at the old man. A steely expression on him.
“A gold dragon to see the ladies back to the city. Safely.” He asks.
The farmer can’t nod quick enough. “On my honour, Ser.”
“Any harm comes to these two I’ll strangle you with your own entrails. Got it?” He snaps. Miserly. He steps forwards. Hand on his steel to make his point stick.
“They’ve had a rough enough night as it is.” He reiterated.
The farmers eyes soften when he sees Alssa’s tattered clothes. The blood spattered on the both of you.
He nods his assent. Sandor tosses him a coin from his pocket. It sparkled in the night as it shot across like a shooting star.
“Aye ser. I got two girls myself. On the seven, I’ll treat them like my own.” He nods. Gesturing to the bench seat beside him. Moving over to make room.
He turns and holds out his hand for Alssa. She takes it. He helps boost her small frame up onto the trap. She thanks him gingerly. Voice weepy.
The farmer twists back. “Room on the back, darling.” He says.
Sandor watches you round the cart and hold your skirts to boost yourself up. He takes your hand. You look across to him. Up at him.
He boosts you like it’s nothing. Firm gauntlet hands around your waist in a squeeze. He lifts you and sets you down on the creaking cart, gentle, as if he were placing a crown on a royal head.
The one time you find yourself actually level with him. Eye to eye.
You settle yourself to one side of the cart. Leaning your elbow on the side of the plank of wood. Folding your red skirts in your lap. His hand lingered on the end of the cart near your thigh.
As always, something shrivels up his tongue. He wants to exclaim something to you. Lord knows what.
“Good night, little maid.” He settles for.
He wasn’t expecting your reaction. Before his arm can slide away. You place your hand atop his. Then his whole world tips over, inverts inside out, because you lean in to kiss him.
He freezes like a goddamn marble pillar. Your lips on his made him drown. A frown pulling down his brows.
He’s full of fear. Stunned with it. He wasn’t earlier with swords flashing by him. No, this here is fear. Usually only the churning kind that seeing a burning flame brings.
Hopes you don’t grimace at the rough graze of his beard. The scar that twists his lip. All the ugly things he’s made of that you’ve pressed your pretty petal lips too. He tastes like red wine and just about melts to your embrace.
You steady him with your hand flat to his breastplate. He barely holds for sanity as you let him cup his enormous hand around the back of your small, soft head.
When you pull away, he’s even more speechless. You don’t wince or recoil. You fucking smile.
Mad northern bitch. Choosing his ugly scarred self.
“Goodnight. Clegane.” You breathe. Easy and sweet as a summer breeze. One that wraps around you now. Ruffled at your skirts. Tugged your hair and his.
He opens his ruined dog mouth to say more, but the cart pulls away as the farmer flicks the reins. The ox trudges on.
Your hair grazes and twines round his fingers as you’re lurched and pulled away from him. Like he let copper ribbon run through his fingers.
He doesn’t stop watching the road until the cart is a juddering spec in the distance. You don’t take your eyes off him either. You wouldn’t dare.
The bravest knight you know. Cast in moonlight. Watery white off his silver shining armour. Dark cloak swathing him in a dark shadow smear. Puppy brown eyes.
The trace of your gentle kiss still wrapped around his mind for hours to come.
tagging some hound peeps - i'm new to this guy - be gentle with me! I've tagged based on all the wonderful hound fics i've read off you guys -- @konigslittleliebling @first-edition @catsteeth @castieltrash1 @terry2227 @justagirlwholikesadam @auxmodi @proseandpretrichor @novaursa @jxckerbxtch @mydearviserra @slut4thehound @yeyinde
part I - part II - partIII - partIV - part V - part VI - part VII - part VIII - part IX - part X - part XI -
Summary: You and Sandor entertain an evening in the high class brothel. Maybe even lay your soul bare to him. Apologies no heavy action (yet) Mostly filler and fluff and talking.
Please come chat to me or my inbox with any sandor reqs. I’m very thirsty. Reblogs or comments are very welcome my lords, ladies, they’s and gays-
He was certainly a sight to behold.
When you come to the doors. He’s pacing like a caged tiger. Roaming the entrance hall like a predator, packed muscles tight with anger, fresh blood to sniff out.
His expression and stance changes the second he claps eyes on you. Eases a little.
“My apologies. Ser. I didn’t realise it was my lords guest of honour you were seeking. I thought you were after one of our girls.” Margan stated. Folding his wrists to cross over his front.
“What kind of fucking whore house needs armed guards?” He sneers. Growling around at the men surrounding him. Teeth sharp. Eyes mongrel hungry for violence. For split skulls and unrest. What he’s so used too.
“The civilised kind.” Margan answers brightly.
You come level to him. A ratty black hood half folded over his ruined scars. The dirty black cloak enveloping his body. But the apparent flash of dull armour underneath adds extra bulk to his already hefty frame. Made Tallin’s men weary.
“Finished your grousing?” You raise a brow. Arms crossed over your chest. Amused. Smiles to counter his frowns.
He looks to you. Mouth closes into a grim line. Treating him like an errant squalling brat in need of a smack.
“Came to…. To make sure you weren’t…” He can’t finish the words. Motions towards you with his sword. Maybe he didn’t care to finish his words in front of present strange company.
“As you can see. I am in one piece. Unmolested. This is one house in Kings Landing that won’t see me harmed.” You tell.
He scowls around him. Until the men surrounding him move back a couple steps. The stance to fight in his posture eases only lightly. Not that they’d pose him much trouble. He could wipe them out with one swing of his huge arm.
“We’re not used to soldiers from the palace frequenting our establishment.” Margan informs him.
“Happy to be an inconvenience.” Sandor grits out.
You roll your eyes. Heap any more testosterone onto this moment and someone would end up with their skull bashed in.
You put yourself between him and Margans guards.
“Why don’t we go have some supper. Seeings as we’re both here. Think I’ll be needing more wine.” You supply. Tone heavy with annoyance.
You gather your skirts and turn. His ensuing bark follows you.
“I’ve not coin enough for this fancy fucking place.” He snips.
“I don’t need your coin. Clegane. Just your company. Now come. And put your fucking sword and fangs away.” You tilt your head in the direction of the tavern across the courtyard.
You go through the brothel to get to it. Across the courtyard and down the steps. Well concealed and only for those who know of its presence. It’s not for the rabble like the taverns across the way outside these cherished golden walls.
He eyes Margan sharply. All side eye and venom.
The man steps back with a clever - too knowing - smile.
“Enjoy your evening. Ser.” He nods his head in a bow.
Sandor grumped, as he stalked off after you. All ill temper and wrath. The heavy clunk of his steps in situ with the rattle of his armour.
You lead him through the courtyard. Even now, under growing dusk, the sky lost to peaches and copper and pinks, slanted sorbet shades, the activities haven’t lessened. Girls frolicking naked in the fountain. Sprawled across clients laps. Noises of pleasure bleeding out from the side rooms. His size gains a few new sets of eyes as you both walk by. Man that big couldn’t not be stared at.
When you come to the curtained door, swathed ochre velvet, it’s pulled aside for you. He ducks through, dipping his massive head so as not to hit the uneven stone archway.
A serving girl guides you both to a table. One cloaked in half gold light and the swallow of shadow. Private and intimate.
You take a seat at the conspicuous tucked away table, hiding in the corner. A tapered white lit candle flickers patterns on the old wood. Two glasses wait for you. Yves’ touch, you’re sure. A small white flower sits in some water in a mishapen vase. Snipped of the vines just outside. Sugars the air.
He lands himself opposite you. Wood groaning on the bench seat. The air in here is all perfume too. Too fucking sweet. Like honey. There’s no raucous noise or stumbling crowds. Just people feasting and drinking in a gentle murmur. This beats the scrappy back alley pubs he’s used to frequenting.
The air coming from the kitchens down the stairs smells like roasting waxy lemons and chicken. Potatoes seared in beef fat. Enough to make his stomach clench.
Some noncy bard plays soft ballads in the corner. The ceiling has flower vines scrawling over it like green veins. Popping open with white blooms. Fucking poncy if you ask him.
At the table, he took up as much space as he liked. Blessedly, without asking permission. Here, he was freed. Somewhere Lannister influence didn’t hang like vultures. Or rules of employ stick to the corners like cobwebs. He folds his hood back off his head. Leaves it open at his sides. Sits and looks at you opposite.
Light turned to blackened gold at the rooms edges. Stuck to other figures like mud. Made them dull. Unimportant. Light rolled over and flattened them.
The enfold of candlelight seemed to do the opposite for him; to you, it brought him out.
Every rough crevice. Every bump of scar. Naked yellow light unforgiving. The flicker of the candles writ sonnets across mean skin. Shines in the slick of sweat gathered in the base of his neck. Settled into those deep brown sad mutt eyes like it could live there.
Of course he’s sweating. Hauling all that metal armour and hard edged anger and suspicion around.
“So…” You begin. Laying your arms on the table.
“Following me, were you?”
You drum your fingers on the table. One hand tucked under your chin. Elbow on the scarred wood table. The drums of your fingers ripples the candle. Makes a gold and black dance across the table surface.
His mouth twitches to the side. Whiskers tugging stubby on his chin and around his lips. That move you’ve noticed he does when he can’t use his gauntlet fists or steel to smash his way out of answering.
“Not a safe place for a maid. Out here at night. Among the rats and whores. And fuck knows who else lurking down a dark alleyway.”
“Evidently you were lurking.” You answer back.
“Kings landing is a lawless fucking place. Pardon me for wanting to keep you from all the rags and rats and filth. That rabble outside aren’t kind when they see a palace uniform.”
“I can assure you there’s more danger for me roaming inside the keep, than out of its walls.”
“You don’t fucking know that.” He snaps.
You soothe his agitation. “I’m armed.” Making motion to the dagger that never left your thigh.
“Suppose it’s someone you can’t outfight. A gang of them. Maybe. Follow you down a dead end. Cut you off. They’d toss you around like a cut of meat and slit your throat when they’re done.”
You remain unmoved. Placid.
“You’re painting a very dark picture of my evening off.” You frown. Commenting dryly.
“Just being honest. Red.” He stares at you pointedly.
“That’s what we do isn’t it? Honesty?” He looks at you a tad too hard.
“Well. I need a drink in my hand for that….” Turning your head, cool as anything, beckoning a serving wench over.
She walks in a way that makes her her hips rolling and sultry. Smile bright when she sees you. Recognition flickers across her smile. Brightens her eyes.
The gathered fabric up her legs tightens to her every step. Snug to the ride of her hips. Hair glossy dark, spilling down her back. She’s Lorathi colouring. Beautiful small links of gold rests on her smooth sternum. Looks like liquid gold dripping down her neck it’s so fine.
She clings to your side when she arrives. Steps smooth as velvet. Sultry as a panther. She pours wine heartily into his cup. Right to the brim. No half measures in this house. Wine flowed freely all night; and that wasn’t the only thing that came offered.
His eyes follow the smooth charming path her fingers take. Sliding along your shoulder. Under the curtain of your hair. A fingertip dances a sultry circle on your bare shoulder. He knew now-
You’d had women before.
“Will you be needing company tonight, mistress?” She seeks. Voice so sweet you’d think her throat was lined with sticky husky honey.
Your hand kindly closes over hers. Softly. Fingers wrapping to the gaps of her fingers. You look up at her and smile. It’s full of myth and secrecy. A side to you he’s seldom seen, how comfortable you are with her touch.
“Thank you. Arina. But just the food and drink is all I’ll be having. I have a friend with me this evening.” You politely decline. Nodding your head across to him.
She turns her head. Doesn’t even turn a hair at the terrible grotesque sight of him. In fact, she eyes him up like you first did.
A huge haunch of a man, large set, with thick shoulders, broad thick arms. Surely a fat long cock to match the rest of his huge hulking stature.
His eyes narrow back in an uncertain scowl.
“We will gladly welcome your friend too.” She purrs. Her head tilting to size up the set of his hunched shoulders.
“Is he as big as he looks?” She teases.
“Perhaps next time.” You finish.
She slides her hand under yours. Brings it up to kiss your knuckles tenderly. “We miss you. My fiery one.”
Your cheeks warm a little at the compliment.
Sandor eyes her like a threat. Until you tell her to be so good as to leave the wine jug.
She doesn’t seem swayed or deterred. Merely a smooth shift of her hip, slips her arm off you, and she’s back on her way through the tables. A wake of sandalwood and vanilla teases after her like a lingering kiss.
He raises a brow at you. Nearly makes you flush even more.
“I’m no green maid. Sandor.” You state.
“I can see that.” He says. Referencing the wine wench. His eyes follow her over the room where she sways to pour more wine and smile sinful invites. Clearly you’d known comforts at this tavern. Flesh and otherwise.
“And I don’t think the whores hereabout would offer me much trouble...” You joke all brazen. Smile crawling across your lips. Finger circling the rim of your cup.
“You got a cock under that skirt, Red?”
Your smile is wide enough for teeth to flash in the candlelight. Makes his stomach feel light. It was as if the apple of your cheeks were gilded in gold leaf. A rare treasure for him to enjoy.
“Who says you need a cock to enjoy a whore… plenty of ways to get around that. She showed me a few of them.” You tease.
He shifts in his seat. Best not think too long on that particular image. He can’t help but think of her hands roaming your skin the way his do. Fingers moving over your breasts or between your legs. Throwing your head back in pleasure with her long hair tangled in your hands.
He gives you the hard corner of his eyes as a look that’s intended to sting like a punch.
“Women don’t offer threat. It’s men. Low-born men who come sniffing for a pretty thing like rats to feast when the lights are low.“
“Then I thank the gods I have a big scary dog here to see those rats off.”
“Don’t know why I fuckin bother trying to keep you out harms way. Red.” He grunts.
Thankless fucking task.
That makes you grin. Nails sliding under his skin he wants to bat away. But can’t seem to bother. You’ve hooked him close with them like meat hooks. He doesn’t want to shadow your steps and worry about you. Yet here he fucking is.
“I thank you for your attention. Trouble does seem to make a habit of finding me, however.” You remark.
“Ain’t that the shagging truth.” He awards gruffly. Lifting his small cup to his mouth. You admire the way his huge thick fingers cover nearly all the metal from view.
“Yet tonight. Seems you’ve found me instead.” You press. “You tracked me here. Don’t deny it. You wouldn’t have found it otherwise.” Your eyes narrow. Sharp as diamonds and as sparky as gunpowder.
He fidgeted. Slurped back wine. Avoided your eye. Guilt.
“Let me speak plain. Sandor. I don’t think I owe you much of an explanation you grumpy fucking git. But I’ll give you one anyway….”
“Despite what you think. I didn’t come here for sex. I came here to acquire something. Something I’ll be needing if we are to carry on the way we have been.” You elucidate.
Now you have his attention.
“My cousin owns this establishment. And his wife and I are close. And very dear to me. I asked her for something and I came to collect.”
You’ve piqued his interest.
“And what’s that? Red.”
“Moon tea.”
Eyes snap to yours. Panic writ in them. Dancing gold. Face stoic.
“Rest easy. I’m not. But I’m taking precautions. To be certain there are no unwanted mishaps in our future.”
“Why didn’t you just fucking say that.” He snips.
Your head tilts. Dangerous. Your eyes - those devastating eyes of yours - spark in the dark.
“Why didn’t you trust me.”
You stumped him there. He grits his jaw.
Trust doesn’t come naturally to him. That’s why. He’s found a small kernel of it in you. But he’s always been and always will be wary. It’s kept him alive thus far.
“I don’t trust any damn cunt in this shit city.” He spits. Gulping more drink.
You do see that right enough. Neither do you. Two burned sides of the same warped coin.
“You could have made a good start by trusting me. Clegane.”
A hound never lies. Well. Neither does his bitch.
He looked sore. A little shamed.
“Aye. I know that. Now.” Was apparently the only concession you’d get out of him.
“Don’t be so fucking mysterious next time.” He barks.
You smile. That was his forgiveness. A rare small gem of it bestowed on you. Rough cut and spat your way crude, of course. Nothing about him fell softly.
“We’re not wed. I don’t need you to know my every movement.” Your eyes can’t half pierce a man when they need too.
“Wanted to be sure you weren’t walking into danger.”
“Got that loud and clear.” You state. Pouring him more wine. Inching your fingers over to cover his fingertips. “I trust that about you.”
The look he gives is sour. Voice deep warning. “Don’t rub it in.” He warns. You chuckle.
Your conversation is halted by the sudden arrival of food. A serving girl slides a huge jointed roast hen on a heap of fried potatoes onto the table before you on a wide oval platter. Another platter too, this one heaped with fine and exotic cheeses, warm steaming breads, butter and fat plump fruits.
You shove the meat his way. Sup back more wine and pluck at the fruits. Watch him devour the chicken with a barely restrained hunger. He leaves the plate in the middle, nudges some back your way. You refuse it.
“I’ve eaten.” You state. You drink instead. He tears more meat off the bone. Rabid hungry dog.
Which grants him cart blanche to leave nothing but the bare bones. You fully believe he’ll have the pattern off the plate too. Man as big as he is with a huge appetite to match.
“The fuck does your cousin do to warrant a place like this?” Sandor asks through a mouthful. Scouring his hard cynical eyes over this poncy place. Flowers snapping into bloom on the ceiling. The whores wearing gold silk. The luxuries that drip off every single guest. This place is drowning in riches, and then some.
“He’s high up in the Iron Bank.” You tell. “Never really asked what he did to be honest. He owns this mansion and a few more like it in Kings Landing. He also has vineyards and villas in Pentos and Braavos.”
“All this and you never asked?” He ribs.
You pick up your cup and tip and roll the wine around in it.
“When the wine is this good, I say nothing.” You beam. Before you take a pull from it.
That actually pulls a rare smile out of him. You mirror it. It feels nice.
This feels suddenly, alarmingly intimate. The full sweeping wash of a realisation takes you. This may be the first time you’re sat eye to eye with nothing ulterior.
No work or chores, duties, tearing you away. No motive that leads to sex. This may well be the longest conversation you’d had. One where you keep your clothes on. It feels like he’s paying court to you - of sorts. Definitely not traditionally. Nothing about this pairing is going to follow tradition.
“One thing about you I still don’t get. Red.”
“Just the one?” You seek.
“You’re not curious. Are you. About anything. All the times we’ve been together. You’ve never even asked me about it.”
“About what?”
He gestures with a thick finger to the burns across the side of his face. The ones that dip and warp the skin. Half hidden by his long waving hair.
You hold his gaze. Seriously. “Figured it was your business.”
He narrows his eyes like he doesn’t get you.
“Surely you’ve heard rumour by now. Run rampant at the keep. Do they not?” He challenged. Looking between you and his food.
Maids and servants do gossip.
“I don’t put much stock into whispers and heresay. Or to sly rumours bred by nastiness.” You offer. You’ve heard rumour certainly. But they pass over you like river water. Running endlessly away. You let nasty rumours with growing teeth sink in elsewhere.
“You want to tell me? Then go ahead. I’m not going to dig into someone else’s pain to sate any questions. If I wanted to know, I’d have asked. I suspect I will not enjoy hearing the answer of why your face got melted away.”
He chuffs a sound that could be a laugh. An exhale of air through his nose.
“You are fucking different. No two ways about it.” He almost says it under his breath.
“Yes. I’m a spiky difficult bitch. According to most.” You beam.
“Spiky.. hmm. Yet the first time we met, barely knew me, you told me about the scars on your back.” He nods. Gesturing to your shoulder.
“Because you asked.” You shrugged openly. Like it made such hale sense. Hands wide on the table top each side of your wine goblet. Holding nothing back.
He seems amused. Smile tugs the corner of his bristled mouth. Nods slightly.
“Maybe it’s because I didn’t see any real danger to you. For days when starting my position everyone told me what a brute you were. Tried to make me scared and see me shrink down with tales of you slaughtering men with one swing of your sword. Making maids and servants cower and scurry away when you walked past…Told me how cruel you were.”
“Not inaccurate.” He offers. Sipping more wine back. Snapping chicken bones apart to get at the meat.
“I was expecting cruel. And then, I saw you for the first time.”
“Aye. Chewed seven shades of shit out me for not stitching a wound properly. Mouthy bitch.”
“Yes. But that wasn’t the first time I saw you. That was the first time I spoke to you.”
He lowers the goblet from his lips. News to his ears. “Then when?”
“It was in the gardens when I was coming down a corridor carrying a tray. The Princess Mrycella came bolting to your side. After you came back from Winterfell. She launched herself at your leg. You didn’t look down at her. But she wasn’t the slightest bit scared of you, or your scars. Not one bit. She gave you a small blue flower. You grumbled of course, but you took it. When she’d gone… I watched you slip it in your pocket.”
“Silly token from a little girl.” He offers. Making it nothing. Crushing it down.
“Bollocks to that. You kept it too. Don’t pretend. It’s the same one that’s pressed on your bedside.” You add.
He can’t catch you out for this one. Looks at you like he doesn’t know how to deal with someone whose laid him bare. The seat creaks when he leans back. In this apparently, to you, he must be open.
“I knew then you may have been a grizzled guard dog. But you weren’t a rotten one. You were one of the good ones. Just….had a nasty temper. A foul bark perhaps.”
“Funny.” He remarks. Dry as dragon bone. Throwing bare bones down onto the platter when he’s done.
“Glad I can amuse.” You beam.
You let the gentleness of the room and its surrounds stir around you for a moment. The soft strings being plucked. The sound of wine being poured. Dornish gold settling with a swish into a metal cup. The scent of flowers that drifts down from the ceiling. The warm air that glides like silk over your skin.
It’s a barb to think you have to swap this life; this brief window of calm, peace, for more toil and danger up at the palace. Back to being barked at and shoved around from pillar to post because you are not highborn. You best eat your scraps without fuss and be grateful for every crumb.
“When you back on duty…” He seeks.
“Dawn.” You sigh.
“Same as me.”
“Can’t believe the Prince lets you wander very far.” You remark in a ribbing manner.
He looks grouchy with it. Mildly annoyed. Why did you have to bring up that little shit on my night off.
“Hes always got something to squall about. Doesnt matter if im there or not. He has more underlings to bully.”
You nod.
“Just so you know. I have secured a room for the night.” You tell him. Looking down at some torn bread and split fruit on your plate as you said it. You dared to flick your gaze up to find his. Blazing into yours.
“I’m allowed to bring a guest.” You flirt. Eyes glittering fine as gems. Looked like you belonged to this place.
That quirks one side of his mouth. “Are you now?”
You drain your wine. Stand up. Let your skirts fall to your knees.
When you lean over and offer him your hand. He takes it.
Summary: Angsty one shot. Really this is just my little foray into what our beloved Hound and handmaiden reader feel after Ned Starks execution.
He couldn’t find you.
Everywhere he’d looked turned up empty. Not tucked away somewhere in the Kitchens chopping herbs or washing pots. That little mousy friend of yours didn’t know where you’d slunk off too. Cook didn’t know. Your rooms empty as a discarded steel helm. Twice as echoing.
Perhaps it’s because you didn’t want to be found.
He knows where to look when that happens. A dog with a bone.
He’d warned you not to go. He hadn’t spotted you in the bubbling, roiling crowds. Seething with hate. Smallfolk of Kings Landing that spit fury like a nest of riled snakes when they brought out the traitor, Ned Stark.
That doesn’t mean you listened. Of course you’d been there. You’d snuck out the castle with the thronging crowds of servants who’d attended. You hid at the back with a shawl over your hair. You watched everything.
Rage and agony boiled in your chest. Watching a mighty man bought low by that wretched gold cunt of a boy king. The way he’d sneered like a skeletons smile. The way he promised mercy. But chose death.
The last thing Ned Stark heard was his daughters ear-splitting screams for mercy, and the rabid crowds chanting his name to the tune of treason.
You wanted to look away. Your mind screamed too. Your eyes burned. But you couldn’t. Not even when they held his head aloft by his hair for people to spit and curse at.
The dishonour of it. The cruelty. It made your skin crawl. Sansa’s screams stayed with you. Followed you. The sight of proud Ned’s severed head. Joffreys smirk. It all dug under your skin like maggots and festered. Feasted. The way crows feasted on those who swung.
You could scarce speak to anyone when you came back. You stole a half drunk flagon of ale off the side in the kitchens. Sure enough it tasted like piss froth, but it was better than naught. And then you hid.
Not well enough it seems.
He followed a torch light path through the gardens. The air hanging verdant and petal sweet over him like a vulture. So many precious, sugary blooms surrounding him. Greenery swilled with heat from the pond where lillies sat spread on the waters surface.
He trudged a weary path. Eyes hunting in the dark. Feet falling powerful in the dark. Sinking into mud and over gravel. Seeking the shape of you.
He didn’t find you til he came to the very edge. In more ways than one.
The nook under a small gazebo where the cliff overlooked the sea. A secluded place wedged between gardens and the sea, where there was leas fear of the walls having eyes or ears. Except the shrubbery had many places for birds and spies to lurk unseen.
The place ladies came to natter to their handmaidens. Drink lemonade, sew, and eat fancy lemon cakes. Or whatever the hell else it was that highborn ladies did all day. Fucked if he knew.
He almost missed you at first glance. But then his eyes sunk into the proper shape of you.
The way the sea spray of the wind from the waves pushed your hair and skirts back. The blue that swallowed your skin from the midnight hour and the shade of the tide. Hunched in on yourself on the cold stone seat. Posed facing outwards. Back to any danger. Eyeing the sea like you wanted it to eat you whole.
There was a flagon at your hip. Overturned. Empty. Its contents in your belly.
Silver light slithered off the sea in bouncing waves, cast its fingers over all it touched. You, by extension. The night roamed its light through your swaying hair in silver. Made you like a dragon queen.
You heard his footsteps, singular heavy tread whose pattern you knew intimately, click of plate armour you knew the tune of, yet still you didn’t turn.
It was no use. For you were stuck in the realm of the dead.
“Shouldn’t be out here.” Came his rumbling warning. The way distant storms warn you of their impending violence: thunder grumbling low. That’s how his voice always sounded.
“Didn’t want to be under that fucking roof.”
The same roof as houses the killers, the bastards, and the liars. Tonight they could all rot in seven hells for all you cared.
His steps thudded to slow. Gravel and grit under boot as he closed the distance. Flower petals swaying in the wind. Lapping at his boots as he pushed through them.
“Should come back inside. Suppose you’re missed.”
“Fuck that.” You decide quietly. Staying anchored where you are.
You needed space and solitude. He more than anyone should understand that. The way he goes chomping through life with a bark forever suspended ready to snap and growl in his teeth. Clinging to shadows and believing himself monstrous. Needing space and giving no quarter to anyone else’s wants.
“You were there today.” He states slowly. Accusatory.
“Of course. Half the fucking kingdom was there.”
“I warned you not too.” An edge snuck in his growl. All sword edges and steel. He near begged you not to go this morning.
You turn over your shoulder and blast him a cold look. Colder than he knew you capable of. Like your eyes held sea and storms. Intent on washing him away.
“I’ve never been very good with warnings.” You bit out. Misery took your voice. Made it glum.
“Even if it’s to spare you pain, you dumb bitch.”
You let his harsh words roll down your skin. Like rain off a birds wing.
Calmly peer back round to watch the waves again. You cross your arms. Skin cold. Rest them in front of you. Slot your chin down on your wrist.
“My pain is nothing. Compared to the pain I saw on those steps today.”
He can’t argue with that.
“It was foul. No last words. No plea. No last drink. To not even warn that poor girl they’d kill her own father right in front of her.”
You sob. Tears burst again. Quietly trickle to your cheeks. Drop onto your dress.
No warning. No goodbye. No sympathy. That wasn’t the actions of a king. That was a spoilt brat child playing at crowns. Calling a slaughter merciful. If that was what the south called mercy, you’re glad your bones are northern.
“Is the king having a jolly banquet and feast to celebrate the dead starks? Don’t stay on my account. I’m sure you’re missing some excellent wine.” You snark. Half turning back as you sneered your venom.
Don’t throw me in with them. I’m a dog, remember.
Who holds your lead, Clegane?
He marched a step closer. “You think I like any of this?”
“I think it’s easy to stand to one side. To rest easy. With your comfortable rooms. Paid Lannister coin, steel in your hand, and comfort yourself with the fact it wasn’t you who lost your head today.”
“It wasn’t my will. Red. It was the King’s.” He pointed out harshly.
“To bring such a mighty man so low. To revel in his indignity. Aye. You’re right. That’s the southern cunt Lannister style alright.” You seethe.
You wanted to go and tear down their golden walls of this place with your bare hands. If you could. You’d wrench it down brick by rotten brick. Only it’s no use. They’d sunk their lion claws deep into the throne. No shaking it loose.
You meet his eyes, finally. They look near black as molasses in the dark. Tender and stuck to you. The moon hasn’t reached him. He’s in his shadows again. Where he finds comfort.
“You know I wouldn’t be sat here today if it werent for Ned Stark.” You add softly. Anger filtering away.
A shift of metal. A grizzled sigh moving through an ornery chest.
“I know.” He supposed quietly. Looks to his feet.
He edged in behind right you now. Past the chairs and tables. So close now the moonlight threaded itself in his hair. Down the bumped scars on his face. Skin glossy and twisting like new silver in the light.
He reached over. Uncertain. Wondering if you’d welcome his touch or scorn him. The way storm clouds take your eyes, the way poison is lashing off your tongue. He wonders if you’ll let him come close. A wild thing ready to scar and bite.
He rubs his thumb across one little scar on your back. A raised indent where tooth had torn you long ago. The touch calms you. Your skin was icy cold. Smooth as.
“He took mercy on me. He didn’t see me swing in a noose. He pardoned me and gave me work, when any other fat greedy lord would have buried me in the snow in a shallow grave…”
“Ned Stark was a good man. Maybe one of the best men out there.” He ceded.
You sniff. Wipe your nose with the back of your hand. “I think that’s the kindest thing I’ve ever heard you say, about anyone.”
You look back. Tilt your head up at him. His is tilted down at you.
“I may be the King’s dog. Doesn’t mean I like any of what they do.”
The crickets chirp around you. The waves roll and breaks to dashing salt on the rocks. The night air tugs your skin and clothes. Wraps you in coolness you don’t feel. There were more iron heavy words you weren’t saying. Eventually you give them shape.
“It’s not just that…” you supplied.
He knows there’s more words ready on your tongue. You only need find the bravery to speak them.
His fingers climb higher. Warm fingers come to rest on the round of your shoulder. Hand dwarfing you as they always did. He urges“Tell me.”
“That death means war. Sandor. The whole north will rally and march for revenge.”
“Aye.” He supposed grim.
Thunder breaks over the black water. Distantly, but sure enough. It’s deep drums hide behind the clouds. Rolling across the sky. Coming for the capital.
You lean back. Bracing yourself on his strong chest where he stood. Slide your fingers up to join his shoulder.
“Sansa?” You asked.
You both knew she wouldn’t be returning home.
“Will they marry their golden boy to a traitors daughter…”
He grumbles. Not knowing what to say. Casting his eyes across the bay where you were looking. The wrinkles by his eyes come up as he tries to spy the storm clouds coming your way.
“Her fate doesn’t look good.” He mumbles. Glum.
“What of Arya?” You ask. Softly. You both know full well that her fate is as ill as her sisters. What of the little one.
“She’s missing. No one can turn up the little wolf.”
“It’s a kindness if she escaped. She won’t find any mercy within these walls.”
“You think the world out there is going to be any kinder. Red.”
You hold his hand. Lean around. Nuzzle your lips to his knuckles. Lips soft against his war scarred skin. He always smelled of sweat, salt and metal.
“Anywhere’s kinder than here.” You cry. More tears drip over your cheeks. Salty as that ocean before you.
The thunder crashed over the bay. Loud as a battle. Churning clouds.
“I hate this fucking place.” You whispered. Hoping the harsh words would be carried away in the wind. Taken elsewhere. Maybe to your cold north. Where troops would be soon mobilised to march on these inbred golden cunts.
He leans down to brush his lips against your hair. Nuzzling his mouth to the crown of your head so he could find that sunny yellow jasmine oil you used.
This next piece of rotten dog is shaping up to be a double part doozy- bare with me babes. It’s on its way. Be warned there’s a brothel involved ! Clutch them pearls
