Archer

The air in here differs to the heat and dirty rabble outside its walls. An open air courtyard flourished like a vision of heaven. Vines climb up the walls. Perfume petals seeping sugar into the air. Exotic greenery gathered in bunches in large urns, drank of the suns heat. The foliage that flourishes bears white flowers. Lupins. Sympatic with the mansions name; Lupanaria. Named for the wilderness that’s housed in ladies of the nights blood.

A musicians corner, tucked to one side of the yard, plays a soft stringed melody. It’s sultry and calming all at once. Enmeshed perfectly with the mingling of dazzling laughter and conversation. Echoed off the tiles like songbird calls.

Many men and women mill around in the courtyard you’re walking into. Fine robes and fabric adorn every one of them. Drape behind their shoes like capes. Gold rings glitter off fat fingers. Necks and ears dripping gold too. Here, everyone is gilded in their wealth.

This mansion was one of the finest, most luxurious taverns and brothels in all of Kings Landing. You needed an entire bag of gold on your hip just to be able to gain entry.

It was a decadent place meant only for esteemed members of the Iron bank. Distant royals, ones for whom the crown was just a fingertip shy of their reach.

The ladies who served as working girls are mingling among the crowds. Wearing billowing chiffon dresses in wheaten gold. Jewellery from princes or lords hang as gifts around their necks. Heavy links of pure gold and gems the size of walnuts. Hair loose or artfully displayed in coils. Decorations slotted into their hair in combs.

Every body type was available for the men or women here. No shortage in the variety. Slender. Short. Curvy. Voluptuous. Big hips or petite. Small breasts or pendulous ones. Exotic or plain. Dornish. Lorathi. Braavosi.

Those girls walk arm in arm with some of the men. Going into rooms huddled away to the side. Wispy curtains offered privacy if needed. Or not, if that’s what is wanted. Some part with a great deal of coin just to see people enjoying each other.

Every bed to buy for the night, had silk sheets. Every mattress feather filled. Canopy’s hung over beds threaded of orange and gold. Endless supplies of expensive wine and as fine a style of food as you’d find in palaces. Perfumed smoke that smelt like freesias and honey poured from lanterns in corners of all the rooms. The scent of filthy rich sin.

People lounge on cushions and settees around a small fountain that trickles water in the centre of the riad. Water spits and trickles to the small blue pool. Ladies gather around some men, at the edge, sipping dark wine from glass goblets. Smiling and laughing.

A particularly curvy woman with blonde hair brushed past you. A tray of freshly split figs seeping juice in one hand. She slips back to the side of a client. A woman with tanned skin, short cropped black hair and a long neck. They kiss vigorously.

The blonde drops to the cushions to come closer. They eat the figs and suck the juices off their fingers.

You watch as you walk by. The raven haired woman slides her fingers from the blondes mouth, smearing the wetness down her chin, further down her neck, going even further down to her nipples through her dress. Every indulgence was met here.

Coming through to an inconspicuous stairway. Ducked behind a curtain. Leading up wide stairs that you take, with your skirts in your hands. These too are guarded. You are let by with no fuss and an understanding curl of a smile.

You come up onto the balcony. Weaving past more people, naked ladies in rooms entwined around their clients. Some walking around serving wine from silver trays. Each one dripping gold and trailing fine perfume after them.

You come to a set of double doors you know all too well. One is ajar. You raise your hand to knock, but then you catch onto the exchange happening inside. You turn your head and listen. Daring to creep open the wood a fraction.

You knew this was his office. You knew the exact cadence of the voice that sounded like smoke and honey combined. You peered inside the room. Saw a man sat at his huge carved ornate desk. A woman sat in front of him on it. Just to his side.

His hand was lovingly on her thigh as they spoke. The thick gold ring on his finger, snatched light from the lantern in the corner.

“You know I’m right about this.” She leaned close and told him. Her glossy hair swayed off her shoulders as she did. Fell in waves, down to her waist. Black as a crows feathers. Her dress was green. Soft as mint leaves. Matching gold band crowns her finger.

“Well I’m never going to admit that. Now am I. It would be a losing battle.” Comes the dry answer from the man afore her. Voice bearing the rugged charm of his slightly later age.

Your voice cuts, sudden and knife like, into the conversation. Disjointing the woolly thick calm of his office.

“Come off it, Cousin. I think that particular battle was lost, long ago.” You state. Leaning against the door like you were part of the furniture. Hip cocked to rest against the carved doorcase.

Yves spins. Hair flying out like uncurled rope as she twists so sudden. A smile climbs on her mouth. Dark crimson lips and a white smile as bright as pearl. Smooth as a running river.

“Darling.” She cried. Her accent kept steel strong despite years of travel all over the seven. Sunspear charm always lay thick in her throat like lingering honey wine. The golden tie to her homeland.

She slips off the desk and rushes smoothly to your side. Every step lyrical. As poised as she ever was.

She embraces you in a huge fold of fabric and sun warm skin, and that particular pear and freesia perfume that rolled off her. The same way that famed golden fruit, rolled off its branches. She rushes to embrace you. How it makes you pine-

“It has been much too long.” She exclaims earnestly into the hug. Even though she only saw you last month when you’d first arrived. Her caramel-rust coloured eyes flick up and down you. Taking you in.

“Ugh. Why must they dress you like a common silk street harlot?” She asks. Holding out your arms to see beneath your cloak. Today’s dress is a peachy orange monstrosity.

A smile bred with a laugh bursts out of you. “To remind me of my place. Yves. In case I dare get ideas.” You answer. Cupping her hand.

“You know if we stayed here you wouldn’t have to dress in secondhand rags. And would actually have some decent food to eat.”

She pets your hair. Follows the wild red curl of it with a gold ringed finger. Brushes it with her thumb like the touch of a lover.

Your heart pangs. A little pip of poison. The faint hungering for a better life dangled just before you. One way from toil and sweat and the constant danger that hangs over your head in the Red Keep like a golden damacles sword. Forever suspended with fraying rope, and always ready to chop.

Her fingers curl around yours. Soft silken skin. Such a fierce wave of familial love takes you. You have to slaughter your dreams dead. You had to do it the minute you had to flee the North in tattered rags. Hope had to be killed and you had to be the one to kill it stone dead.

You knew you couldn’t go back. It would be signing your own death warrant if you did. Crimson ink drying on bone yellow parchment as they looped a noose on your stupid neck.

“It’s safer.” You whisper.

Your throat chafes with it.

If anyone was going to really try and look for you, Tallin and his various houses and businesses would be the first place they’d try. A distant cousin, but family ties nonetheless. They never severed. Those ties stretched and bridged endlessly like spiders silk.

You hid yourself in your position at the palace. Threaded yourself into obscurity, poverty and dirt. No one would think to look for a wolf in the den of lions. You just hope that fetid little snake, Littlefinger, keeps to his silence on the matter.

Yves makes a drawn face. Upset. She feels her every emotion loud and true. Traps you into another honey freesia scented hug for it. Her soft hands brought you solace. How long it was since you’d allowed yourself to be held in sheer love.

“Well….” She plasters a smile over the pain.

“You’re here now. You will stay for a drink and something to eat. Get some fucking meat on those weary bones of yours.” She squeezes your shoulder. It wasn’t a question. It was an order.

Your cousin rounded his immense carved desk.

He was a robust man. Middle age threaded into the bolts of silver in his short copper hair. The faint bulge of a belly to his middle. He oft joked Yves was only his because of his riches. But she lay that aside with derision. A woman beautiful as a goddess with an old northern crock like him.

The fact they had six children and a possible seventh on the way judging by Yves figure belied that. She looked at him like he’d hung all the stars in heaven. Always had. Always would. A robust safe marriage solid as the wood of a heart tree.

Tallin was made of money and lodged securely high up in the echelons of the Iron Bank. Rich as sin. Reflected in the fine merchant clothing, a cloak, heavy belt, and tunic, and gold that hung off him. A decidedly northern countenance lay only in the cut of his strong jaw. Silver eyes as proud as any Starks. The faint hint of the accent that belonged to snow and the old gods that curled off his tongue when he spoke. Hewn him rough in winterfell stone and last hearth ice.

“You pick your moments, Cousin. Nothing but crickets from you from one month to the next, and then you just boldly sway your way in one night.” He chides.

His voice a husky boom. Yet when he clasps you in his hold. He strangles you with soft love and a muscly hold that would crush a bear. Presses a kiss to your head. You fold your arms around him. Stroke his back. His clothes are a fine cotton weave that feel insultingly soft against your servant rags. He smells like clove soap and saffron.

“Hush your grousing, Tall.” Yves chides crossly. Frown taking down her dark brows as she goes to the side of the room and pulls the bell cord to summon a servant.

“Seems I was overdue a visit then.” You answer.

He coaxes you towards a seat by the roaring fire. Barely a moment later a sweet servant girl in a lavender dress comes sweeping in. Silver clacks in bangles on her wrists. Rich brown hair loose down her back like coils. Tray laden with breads and meats and fruits. And more importantly, wine. A whole silver jug and three goblets.

Yves thanks her. In no time at all. She sweeps out as fast as she came. Dress as floaty as magnolia petals as she departs.

You take a seat. Your fingers twitch as the wine is poured. You realise you were reaching to stand and pour. Your time as a servant sunk into your skin. You’re unused to been served so. It makes you want to take a cold hard knife to that rotten little inclination.

“What brings you?” Yves gets right down to the point when you all have a goblet of wine to hand. The taste of it sat richly on your tongue. Heady and luxurious.

Yves gathered a plate of warm breads and sweet fruits. Shoehorned it into your hand before you could even answer.

You pick at the plate idly as you speak. Plucking grapes from their stem but you don’t put them on your tongue yet.

You flick a look across from her, to Tallin “I need something. I know you provide it for your girls here and I need access to it outside of the keep, where eyes won’t pry…. I can’t ask for within the walls without raising suspicion.”You elude.

And that fetid palace is no place for soft innocent things.

A gentle frown crosses Yves face. “What do you need darling?”

Whatever it is they’d give it in spades. Money. Clothes. Food. Name it and they’d get you it. No questions asked.

You brace yourself. “Moon tea.”

Tallin chokes on his wine. Slurps it back from his goblet. You smile wryly.

“Not too late to leave the room, Cousin.” You tease. Eyes narrow. His cheeks wash the slightest bit red. For a man who runs a high class brothel, he did fluster rather easily.

“Not being chucked out of my own office you brazen mare.” He claps back.

Yves looked avidly and suddenly rabid. Her eyes gleam. She sits up. Smile breaking wider across her lips.

“You’ve met someone.” She supplies.

You smile and play with the fruit on your plate that was sloped on your lap. You pick up a slice of peach and eat it slowly. Glossy juice spreading across your fingers.

“A knight? A noble? I hear Tyrion Lannister is quite the ladies man. Surely he’s fucked many a handmaiden.”

“Do you really see her with The Imp?” Tallin asks her.

Yves looks conspiratorial. “We’ve had girls go to him before. Apparently he eats cunt like an absolute fiend.”

“I’d sooner gouge my own eyes out than go near a golden dreaded Lannister.” You wince. “Besides. It’s not the Imp. Though he may be the most decent royal in that place.” You sip more wine.

You recall the way he told jokes just to make you break and giggle as you served his companions lunch. The way he’d flirt with you but never seriously to make you feel uncomfortable. The side eye he’d roll your way when one of the maesters said something abysmally stupid.

“Who then? A servant?”

“Kings guard.”

Tallin eyes you shrewdly. Playing idly with the stem of his goblet. “Surely they’re all paid brutes.”

“Not all.” You defend. Narrowing your eyes and staring him down. Something clicks.

You watch the smile crawl across his lips.

“Do you mean… Princes guard?” He tilts his head.

You lower your goblet.

Damn him. He knew you too well.

Tallin leans his head back as a staccato bark of laughter leaves his throat. “You don’t fucking change. All the poncy fucking Knights in the castle and you snare one of the Cleganes.”

“Clegane?” Yves asks. Eyes blow wide. Horrified. “Not the mountain?”

“Never that murdering cunt. His brother. The Hound.”

Yves raises her brows. Shocked but not unkind with it. “My word.”

“His reputation proceeds him if I’m not mistaken. And not all of it is good.” Tallin warns. Swirling his glass. Looking a mite dangerous. You can see the northern brute rise up in him. Turning on a hairs shade to look brutal. Protector.

You meet his gaze. All full of worrying and love for your safety. You’ve dug your way out of worse and he knows it.

“He’s good to me.” You stare him down strongly until he accepts it. Nods. Backs off. Those silver eyes glimmer in the firelight like copper fish scales. Acceptance dances in them. Lowly. But it does. Simmers down.

“You always did like them big and brutish.” Yves grins.

You lift your sandaled foot up and prod her sage green knee. “Enough cheek.”

“Eat. You’re practically a skeleton.” She redirects your attention back to your plate. Prodding your thigh. Looking after you like one of her many errant children.

“So you have uh, bedded this man? This Hound?” She asks. Looking salacious.

“Frequently.” You answer. Before picking through more bread and fruits. Tallin looks most uncomfortable. Yves looks incorrigible.

“He’s getting harder and harder to resist. I’ve had to be careful.”

Yves smiles in understanding. “You would like to know him properly.”

You smile. Shaking your head. “Such a glutton for gossip.” You smile as you burst a grape on your tongue.

“Even rumour reached our ears of the dreaded Hound’s Bitch. Never figured it to be you.” Tallin smirks.

“Woof.” You jape. Biting into a slippery slice of peach.

Yves grins. You let words bubble up as you pick some more at your plate.

“I like him. I like his company…. In any circumstance maybe it would be different. But I’m sure you can understand I cannot afford to have anything risk my place. Hence the tea. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have need of it.”

“You’ll have it darling.” Yves promises gently. Lovingly.

“Now why don’t you stay the night? Sleep on a soft bed for once. You look as if you may need the rest.”

Your mind flickers back to the sour look Sandor gave you when you parted from him earlier. You’d doubt he’d even open the door to you tonight. Turn away and snarl at you to leave the food tray. Treat you cold.

Maybe a night away would be best. You were off duty til dawn as it was.

“You’ve a room?” You ask.

“For you? Of course.” Tallin promises. “For a reasonable fee.” He japes. Proud of his little dig.

You throw a look at him. Both knowing full well he’d never take one penny off you for it.

“Will you be wanting company?” She seeks. “We could find you someone very talented.”

“Just the wine. Tonight. Thank you.”

Yves gladly pours you more. Fills your cup to the brim. Sweet heady red. “Tell us more of your man. Your Hound.”

“You really are a gossip chaser.”

Tallin hums. “The gossip she gets access too in here would curl even your hair. Cousin.”

“I don’t doubt it.” You laugh. Every dirty sordid secret aired out in here like lists.

“Trade it for diamonds it’s so desirable.” She smirks. Clearly she had a going concern in the trade of whispers. More hardy and powerful than steel sometimes. Steel merely kills a man. Whispers can undo everything.

“What is he like?” She prods.

A dreadful truth curls into you. “I know I shouldn’t chase after ghosts. But in some ways he reminds me of Dran. Huge. Mean spirited and a grumpy ill tempered bear most of the time. Forever cursing and scowling.” You reminisce.

“…But he protects those who need it, without being asked. He doesn’t lord around like a Knight of his stature and warrior prowess would. He scalds himself in silence and distance. He’s saved my sorry skin a few times. I sometimes think he’s the best man to come out of that rotten warped fucking place.”

Yves puts a hand on your knee. “We all mourn Dran. Darling. He was a cruel loss.”

“The cruelest.” You agree.

For a moment. The spirits of your past dance in your chest. Clogging your heart with old shards of glass and distant pain. Choking you the way leather felt wrapped around your throat. Squeezing. Decimating.

“Trust me to find his likeness here. All over again.” You lament.

“Do you more than like this man?” She asks. Suspecting.

You open your mouth to answer. But you cannot make a sound. You fill it with wine instead. Yves shares a pitying look with her husband. You pretend not to see.

You fear love is a hopeless cause where he’s concerned. You can hurl your heart at the Hound, but you’re not entirely convinced he’d ever give his in return. His was not as like to be as easily touched.

Your attention turns to the doorway. Margan, the huge friendly guard from the door raps his big knuckles on the thick oak, idly peering in. Creeping on the fringes. His entrance whines and creaks the door like an old maester.

“Forgive me, my lord. But there’s someone here, he’s seeking after your guest.”

“Which guest?” Tallin frowns. “One of the royals? He’ll have to wait. The Dornish prince paid for a man and a woman this eve.”

“No. My lord. He says after the redhead.”

Yves blinks. “Lannia is spoken for. She’s servicing the Tyrell Lord tonight.” She answers. In odes to one of their girls.

Margan makes a face. A polite one. Like he doesn’t wish to correct them.

Tallin shakes his head. A wry turn of a smile as he catches your eye cleverly. Cat smug on a saucer of cream. “Ah. Not that redhead I wager. Dear.”

All eyes swivel to you.

“Reckon they’re after you.” Your cousin explains.

“Margan. Why don’t you let him in.” Yves goads silkily.

“He’s hooded. He doesn’t have coin. And told me rather, explicitly, to go fuck myself when I asked if he did have it. Big huge lad he is. Barely fits in the door. Quite a coarse mouth on him too.”

You sit up. Face the door. Oh that silly mutt.

“He’s a guest of honour. No need to part him from his coin.” Tallin awards easing out his chair to cross back to his desk. Issuing orders as he went. Completely complacent with his authority. Wore it the most way men would wear titles. To the point and confident. Easy like a worn fur cloak.

“Let him come. But make it plain we don’t accept brawlers or trouble. We’ve guards to keep the peace if he can’t keep his sword sheathed.” Yves looks cunning. Watching you as you digest the news.

“Judging by our cousins predicament. I think that may serve a tall order. Telling him to keep his weapon sheathed.”

“Tal.” Yves grins. You roll your eyes at his dirty jape.

You raise from your seat too. “I’ll come. Stop him from causing any further hassle.”

“He’s not best pleased I kept him at the door. Looked like he could break it down.” Margan commented offhand.

“Never fret. I trust my cousin can keep her loyal dog under ample control. Somehow.” Tannin sneers. Leafing through papers on his desk. Cheeky git.

What better tames a beastly man than lustful company.

“Pest.” You answer as you hurl a grape or two at him. They patter off his chest and drop to the floor. He smiles.

“Take me to him Margan.” You relay to the long suffering man waiting at the door.

You stand your wine down and cross the fine room. Coming to the door. Back out into the debauchery and lust outside these walls.

You pause and lean over the back of the settee where you were sat beside Yves You smack a kiss to her cheek. She holds you for a moment more. Hands wrapped around you.

“Go soothe your great beast.” Yves winks up at you. “Take him to the tavern. Everything on the house. Your room will be ready soon darling. The tea will be waiting on the side for you. Looks like you will have some company tonight after all.”

“Thank you.” You stud a kiss to her thick fragrant hair. Heavy with perfume. Her hands slip off you. You turn away wearing a smile.

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 across eyes 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 white 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.” He 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 white cloak. Silver shining armour. Puppy brown eyes.

The trace of your gentle kiss still wrapped around his mind for hours to come.