Untitled

"I can't. I have toー"

"Bed."

"Just let me finish this report, it's due tomorrow and the formatting is fucked and my boss is being a dick about the projections—"

You close his laptop.

He makes a sound like a kicked puppy.

"Hey—"

"No. You're done."

"I'm fine."

"You're shaking."

He looks down at his hands. They are, in fact, shaking. He shoves them under his thighs like that'll hide it.

"I'm fine," he repeats, stubborn, stupid, infuriating.

God, he's such a liar.

He's not fine. He hasn't been fine in months. He's running on coffee and cortisol and some deeply pathological need to provide, to protect, to make sure you never want for anything even if it means grinding himself into dust. He does all the cooking. All the cleaning. All the grocery shopping, the bill paying. the appointment scheduling, the car maintenance. He won't let you touch the dishes. He physically removes your hands from the laundry basket. You tried to vacuum once and he looked so genuinely distressed you thought he might cry.

"l just want you to have a good life," he said once, when you confronted him about it. "I want to give you everything. The nice things. The expensive things. You deserve— you deserve so much, and I can't— I have to—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. His throat closed up. You held him for an hour.

That was six months ago. He's gotten worse since then.

Now he's sitting in his office chair at four in the morning, vibrating with exhaustion and the desperate, delusional belief that if he just works hard enough, he'll finally be worthy of you.

As if he isn't already. As if he hasn't been since the day you met him.

You take his face in your hands.

He freezes.

His eyes go wide and wet and immediately. instantly. all the fight drains out of him. His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. His breathing hitches and then slows, and he's looking up at you like you're the sun and he's been living in a cave for a thousand years.

"There you are," you murmur.

He makes a soundーa tiny, broken thing, half sigh, half whimper一and leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.

"Baby," he whispers, and his voice cracks on it.

"I've got you. Come on. We're going to bed."

"But the report—"

"Fuck the report."

He blinks. You never say things this... aggressive.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

You take his hand and pull him to his feet. He stumbles. He actually stumbles. Your strong, capable, hyper competent boyfriend can't even stand up straight because he's so depleted. You have to hold him. And when you do, his forehead drops to your shoulder and he just... stays there. Breathing. Just breathing.

"I'm so tired," he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it.

It's the first honest thing he's said all week.

"I know, love."

"l just— I want to give you— want you to have一the necklace, the blue one, I saw you looking at it, and I've been saving, I've almost got enough, l just need to finish this project and then I can—"

"You think I want a necklace?"

"..."

"You think I want anything more than I want you alive?"

He doesn't answer. But his hand clenches in your shirt.

Fuck.

He always have to make you emotional.

"Alright, we're going to bed."

He follows you.

Of course he follows you.

In the bedroom, you sit him down on the edge of the bed. He's still in his work clothes—button down wrinkled, top two buttons undone, tie somewhere lost in the office. He looks up at you with those huge, exhausted eyes, and you can see him trying to figure out what you want, what he should be doing right now to make you happy.

You peel his shirt off. He hold out his arms to help, even now, still trying to make it easier for you. His pants come next, then his boxers.

Such a beautiful man.

Your boyfriend is such a beauty.

So lucky he's going to be your husband.

"Do you trust me?" you ask.

His brow furrows. "Of course I trust you. I trust you more than— more than anything, more than—"

"Then lie down."

He lies down.

"On your stomach."

He rolls over. Hesitates for half a secondー just confusion一and then settles onto his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, hands fisted loosely in the sheets.

You run your hand down his spine.

He start shaking. Full body. Like he's been electrocuted. A tiny, punched out sound escapes his throat, and his back arches into your touch before he can stop it.

"When's the last time you slept?" you ask.

"..Tuesday?"

"It's Friday."

"...Oh."

"Mmhm."

You keep stroking his back, slowy, tracing the knots in his shoulders, the tension that's been there for god knows how long. He's so tight it's like touching hot rock. He's been barely holding himself together and his body is screaming.

You lean down and kiss the back of his neck.

He sobs.

"Shh," you murmur against his skin. "I've got you. Let me take care of you. Just this once. Let me."

"I don't— I'm supposed to— you shouldn't have t一"

"You do everything for me. Let me do this for you."

He's crying now. Quietly, shamefully, face pressed into the pillow so you won't see. His shoulders are shaking and he's trying so hard to be quiet, to not be a burden, to not make this about him—

Fuck, he's such a mess.

Such a beautiful mess.

He's lying there naked and trembling and so vulnerable it gives you butterflies.

"Good boy." you whisper.

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. Like a fucking dog.

You reach for the drawer in the nightstand. The one he never opens because he's too busy taking care of you to even think about sex.

He hears the click of the lube cap and his breath catches.

"Baby—?"

"Shh. You're going to let me do this. You're going to let me take the stress out of you. And then you're going to sleep. Understand?"

"...Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes— yes, I understand— please—"

Please. There it is. The word he never says because he's too busy being the provider, the protector, the one who never needs anything.

You slick your fingers and then your strap一the one you bought specifically for this, for him, because you knew this day was coming, knew he'd eventually run himself into the ground and need someone to pull him back out.

Or maybe you just wanted to fuck him. But that's not important right now.

He's so tight. Damn, he's so tight.

Your first finger slides in and he gasps, back arching, hands fisting in the sheets.

"Breathe," you remind him.

He breathes. Shaky. Wet. Still crying a little.

"You're doing so well."

Another whimper.

You work him open slowly一so slowly. Because he deserves it, deserves gentleness, deserves to be handled like something precious instead of a machine that just runs and runs and runs.

He's making sounds you've never heard from him before. Little broken moans. Desperate, needy sounds. His hips are twitching, pushing back against your fingers, and he's babbling into the pillow.

"please—"

"I love you ughh—"

"Ahh fuck don't stop—"

By the time you're three fingers deep, he's a mess. Tears and pre cum and a flush that goes all the way down his chest. He's stopped trying to be quiet. He's just making noise—open mouthed, broken, gorgeous noise.

"Ready?" you ask.

"Uh-huh?"

He looks confused. So out of it already.

How cute :)

You position yourself behind him. Press in.

He keens.

A high, desperate sound that goes straight to your own core (of course you're wet, but tonight is just about him)一and his whole body goes taut for one second before it melts. All the tension, all the stress, all the months of holding himself together—it all dissolves as you push deeper.

"Oh— oh fuck— baby—"

You start to move. Slow at first. Letting him feel every inch of it, letting him adjust, letting him remember what it feels like to be taken care of instead of taking care of.

His hands are white knuckled in the sheets. His face is pressed into the pillow, mouth open, tears and drool soaking the fabric. He's moaning your name over and over like a prayer.

Y/n. Y/n. Y/n.

So hot.

"You're so good." you tell him, picking up the pace. "You're so good to me. You work so hard. You take such good care of me. Now let me take care of you."

He sobs again. Nodding frantically into the pillow. His hips are pushing back to meet your thrusts now, desperate and uncontrollably, and he's so hard it's leaking onto the sheets but he hasn't even touched himself, hasn't even tried. He's just letting you use him, letting you fuck the stress right out of his body.

"Let go. I've got you."

He comes with a cry of your name. Ropes of it, hot and thick, painting the sheets under him. His whole body clenches around you一around the strap, around this moment, around the feeling of finally, finally letting someone else hold the weight.

You fuck him through it. Gentle. Lovingly. Until the last tremor runs through him and he goes completely limp.

And thenー finallyー he passes out.

Just like that. Face down on the bed, tears still wet on his cheeks, body finally relaxed for the first time in months. He's breathing deep and even, the way he hasn't breathed in weeks, and his pulse is slow and calm under your fingers when you check his wrist.

You clean him up. He doesn't stir. You wipe the tears from his face, the cum from his stomach, the lube from his thighs. You change the sheets around him—carefully, so carefully一and pull the blanket up to his chin.

He murmurs something in his sleep. Your name, maybe. Or l love you. Or both.

You kiss his forehead.

"Sleep well, honey."

He sleeps like a baby.

When he wakes up, the sun is streaming through the windows and the bed is empty and he panics.

What the fuck??

Where are you???

Fuck, he didn't made you breakfast—

He's on his feet before his brain catches up一stumbling, sore in a way that makes him pause for half a second...

Oh, right, last night, oh god—

And then he's moving again, grabbing the first thing he finds (your robe, pink, too small, he doesn't care) and following the smell.

Bacon.

Eggs.

Pancakes.

And you, standing at the stove in your pajamas, flipping pancakes like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He stops in the doorway.

"...Baby?"

You turn around. Smile. The smile that he loves more than anything in his miserable life.

"Morning, sleepyhead. Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."

"But I— you— I always—"

"Yeah. I know. Today it's me. Sit."

He sits at the kitchen table and watch you cook.

He's confused. He's wearing your robe. He's sore. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on.

You set a plate in front of him. Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs over easy, just the way he likes them. A glass of orange juice. A cup of coffee—JUST ONE— fixed exactly the way he takes it.

He just... stares at it.

"lt's not going to eat itself."

"I—" His voice breaks. He tries again. "You made me breakfast."

"I did."

"But I always make you breakfast."

"I know."

"I'm supposed to— you shouldn't have to—"

You immediately rush to him, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. Soft. Sweet. Syrup from your lips sticking to his.

"l love you," you say against his mouth. "l love you and you're running yourself into an early grave and I'm not going to let that happen. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to eat this breakfast. Then you're going to take a shower. Then you're going to tell me what's been going on at work. And then we're going to figure out a schedule that doesn't involve you dying of sleep deprivation. Okay?"

"But the chores—"

"We'll split them."

"The bills—"

"We'll look at them together."

"l just want to give you everything," he whispers, and his eyes are wet again, and god, he's so tired of crying but he can't seem to stop. "You deserve the world. And I can't— I can't give you anything if I stop一"

You kiss him again. Harder this time.

"You are the world, you idiot. You're my world. And I need you alive in it. So eat your pancakes."

He laughs. It's wet and snotty and a little hysterical.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." He picks up his fork. Looks at the pancakes—perfectly golden, just the way he taught you一and his heart just skip a beat. "But I'm doing the dishes."

"Fine."

"And tomorrow I'm making you breakfast."

"Obviously."

"And tonight..." He pauses. Cheeks flushing pink. "Tonight can we... can we do that again? The... the thing. With the..."

You raise an eyebrow. Smile.

"You want me to peg you?"

He buries his face in his hands, "Oh my god."

"Is that a yes?"

"...Yes."

"Then sure. But only if you promise to sleep at least six hours every night this week."

"l promise."

"And eat lunch."

"l promise."

"And let me do the vacuuming sometimes."

"...I'll think about it."

You laugh and ruffle his hair and he leans into your touch like a starving man offered bread.

He's still a mess. But he's eating. He's sleeping. He's sitting at the table in your too small pink robe with syrup on his chin and a soreness in his body that's painful in a good way.

And when you sit down across from him with your own plate and your own coffee and your own smile, he looks at you like you're a miracle.

"Thank you," he says.

"For what?"

"For..." All of it. For not leaving him even when he's disgusting. "Everything."

"Eat your pancakes."

"Yes ma'am."

He eats his pancakes.

He's going to be okay.

You'll make sure of it.

If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)

Cersei lifted an eyebrow, swirling her wine. “I doubt any lady in the realm is that desperate.”

Tyrion said nothing, eyes fixed on the table, jaw clenched.

Jaime sipped his wine slowly, expression unreadable.

Sansa looked up, startled, her pale eyes flitting from Sandor to the King.

Sandor Clegane stood still. But the hall could feel the simmer beneath his skin.

“I’ve made my decision,” Joffrey announced. “We’ll host a tourney. A grand one. The winner will receive the hand of the most fearsome creature in King’s Landing.” He grinned down at Sandor. “Assuming she’d have you.”

The laughter now was raw, unfiltered. The kind meant to wound.

The Hound’s voice came then, slow and dangerous: “Careful, boy.”

That silenced some.

But not Joffrey.

“Oh? Did the dog just growl?” He rose from his throne, steps echoing down the dais. “Do you bite now, Sandor? Or has someone finally trained you to heel?”

Sandor’s eye narrowed.

“I wonder,” Joffrey mused, circling now like a cat around a chained lion, “do you think yourself capable of love, Hound? Of being loved? Or are you simply too… grotesque for it?”

The word hung there. Grotesque.

No one defended him.

Not Jaime. Not Cersei. Not even Tyrion.

He was alone in it—as he always had been.

A few courtiers looked away in mild discomfort. But not enough. Not loud enough. Not brave enough.

Sandor’s mouth curled slightly—not into a smile, but a grimace that twisted his burned cheek further. His hands clenched, knuckles cracking.

Then, softly, “You think love is sweet, boy?” His voice was smoke and gravel, deep as a pit. “You’ve never known the taste of it.”

Joffrey tilted his head. “Oh? And you have?”

Sandor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He turned from the King with a grunt and started to walk away.

“Oh, don’t sulk,” Joffrey called after him, delighted. “I’ll throw you a feast! You may even bring your beloved, if you ever find one. Just make sure she’s housebroken.”

The final round of laughter swelled again, vicious and echoing.

And Sandor kept walking. Past the flickering torches. Past the gold-draped sycophants. Past the courtiers who only knew how to laugh when the King laughed.

His boots struck stone, hard and fast.

But something in his chest ached. Not with shame. Not with fear.

With rage.

He had endured worse. He would endure more.

But tonight, something inside him cracked.

And tomorrow, they’d all see what happened when a dog stopped playing tame.

The night stank.

Flea Bottom was crawling with its usual sickness—wine, sweat, spoiled meat, cheap perfume. Sandor Clegane shoved through it like a bear through smoke, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A drink. A warm body. Something to get through the night.

No. That was a lie.

He was looking for a woman. Any woman. Someone willing to pretend—for a fee, a favor, a kindness he’d never earned.

Someone to be seen on his arm come morning. Someone to laugh and smile at him as if she meant it, if only for a few hours. To fool that golden little cunt on the throne, and the whole court with him.

And not a single one would touch him.

He’d tried. Quietly. Bluntly. With gold in hand. One had recoiled the second she saw his face, like his scars were contagious. Another told him flat out, “I’d rather fuck a corpse. At least they don’t smell like burnt leather.”

That one he nearly backhanded—but he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to. Because her laugh reminded him of the court’s.

He stormed out of the brothel, steam rising from his breath. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her until he slammed right into her.

A soft body. Perfumed. Warm.

She gasped and stumbled back half a step, steadying herself with elegant poise, not so much as a wrinkle in her silks. “Gods—my apologies.”

Her voice. Clear, soft, not like the others. A voice made for poems. She looked up at him, eyes wide, not with fear—but surprise. Curiosity.

He blinked. He opened his mouth, and—

“Marry me.”

The words tumbled out like they’d tripped over his teeth.

Her brows shot up. A breath of a laugh escaped her. “What?”

He was already regretting it. Already burning beneath his armor. But fuck it. “You heard me.”

She laughed again, this time fuller, richer. “Is this your usual approach, Ser? Should I feel flattered or alarmed?”

Sandor scratched the back of his neck, his massive hand nearly swallowing it whole. “I’m not good at this.”

“Proposing?”

“Talking.”

She studied him, amusement curling at her lips. “You’re serious.”

“I just—” He sighed. “I need someone. For a few days. A week. I don’t know. To stand next to me at court and pretend they don’t want to vomit when I breathe.”

Her smile faded slightly—not gone, just softer now. She tilted her head. “You barely know me.”

“I’m not asking for your maidenhood,” he growled. “Just your time. Maybe a laugh if you’ve got one to spare.”

“And if I say no?”

He looked away. “Then I’ll go back to begging whores who spit at me.”

A silence stretched between them.

Then, her voice—gentle again. “Look at me.”

He did.

Her eyes met his without flinching. “Fine.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You may have my hand.”

Sandor stared, blinking once, twice, like he’d misheard.

She extended it—palm up, elegant and self-assured. “But only if you give me your name first, Ser.”

He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Clegane. Sandor. Ser Sandor Clegane.”

Her brows lifted, amused. “The Hound?”

He waited for the sneer. For the wrinkle of the nose. It didn’t come.

Instead, she bowed slightly, graceful and proud. “Lady Velaryon. House Velaryon.”

He blinked again. “A lady.”

“You don’t say,” she teased, looking down at her silks. “Was it the embroidery that gave it away?”

He coughed. Might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. “Meet me at the Red Keep tomorrow. You’ll know when.”

She tilted her head, watching him carefully. Then: “I look forward to it, Ser Clegane.”

She walked away into the darkness, the hem of her cloak whispering against stone.

And Sandor Clegane stood there, swaying just slightly, feeling like he’d just been hit in the gut and kissed on the cheek at the same time.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, touching his face like something might’ve changed.

Then he laughed. A dry, rough sound.

He’d either just met the cleverest woman in Westeros… or the cruelest.

But she said yes.

And that was enough—for now.

It had been thirty agonizing minutes.

The throne room was a furnace of tension and gilded cruelty. Sunlight spilled through the high stained-glass windows in soft shafts of color, but no warmth touched Sandor Clegane. He stood stiff as stone in the shadow of a pillar, half-shrouded in the folds of his dark cloak, arms crossed over his broad chest.

He had never felt smaller.

The Red Keep’s courtiers were already whispering, like insects buzzing too close. Their silks rustled, their jeweled fingers fluttered as they leaned in with rehearsed sympathy and barely veiled amusement.

“I suppose she drowned on the way here,” one lord quipped dryly.

“Or perhaps she changed her mind. I know I would have,” a lady replied with a titter, her bracelets clinking like bells.

Cersei sipped from her goblet and tilted her head toward the King, voice lazy and amused. “You must admit, Joffrey… if someone were to make up a lady-love, claiming she’s from a powerful house would be the way to do it.”

“She’s not coming,” Joffrey declared, loudly enough for all to hear. He lounged in the Iron Throne like a bored vulture, golden hair gleaming, fingers curled in irritation. “No woman in her right mind would willingly claim the Hound. Let alone kiss him.”

A low murmur rippled through the throne room. No one dared laugh—yet—but the tension begged for it.

Sansa looked stricken. “Please, Your Grace—”

“Please?” Joffrey mocked. “Please, your Grace, don’t be cruel? Shall I give him a doll to cuddle in her absence, little dove?”

Her face flushed red, but she said nothing else.

Tyrion, ever perched like a cat at the edge of danger, gave a sigh and stood from his seat. “Perhaps the lady is simply delayed, Your Grace. Seas do not always obey your schedule.”

“Delayed,” Joffrey scoffed. “Or invented. I say we give the dog a bone and send him back to his kennel.”

Tyrion’s brow twitched. He glanced toward Sandor.

The Hound didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the weight behind his silence could flatten a castle wall.

He should have known better. Of course she wasn’t coming. Maybe it was a joke, or worse, a pity game. What had he expected? That a woman like her—a lady of elegance, sharpness, born of salt and silver—would really stand at his side before all of King’s Landing?

Then—

The great doors creaked open.

Every head turned.

Two knights pulled the towering iron doors aside, and warm sunlight spilled across the marble floor. A hush fell so quickly it was as though the entire room had been dunked underwater.

A herald’s voice rang out:

“Announcing—Lady Velaryon. Of House Velaryon.”

There was a pause. Audible surprise.

The name echoed, rippling through the nobles like a stone dropped in still water.

Cersei turned slightly, golden brows raised.

“Velaryon?” Joffrey repeated, frowning. “They said she was of House Velaryon?”

No one answered. No one could.

Because she stepped into the light like it belonged to her.

Her gown was sea-green and threaded in silver, the colors of the Driftmark coast. The silk clung to her body with practiced elegance, bell sleeves trailing behind her like mist over waves. She wore no crown, no heavy jewels. Just the ripple of wealth in her stitching and the way she carried herself—head high, shoulders regal, her walk deliberate and unhurried.

And her hair… it wasn’t braided in the old style. It fell loose, free down her back, with only a single pearl-pinned wave tucked behind one ear. A quiet rebellion.

The court murmured as she passed. No one seemed to know who she was.

But she commanded their silence all the same.

At the foot of the Iron Throne, she bowed deeply.

“Your Grace,” she said with a soft, velvet voice, eyes raised to Joffrey. She dipped her head again to Cersei, then offered Tyrion a gentle nod. The Queen Mother blinked. Sansa stared.

No one spoke.

Then she turned toward the shadows.

Toward him.

Sandor stiffened, suddenly aware of how large and dark and ugly he must seem compared to her elegance. He expected hesitation. Disgust. The reveal of the prank.

Instead, she smiled.

Soft, amused. Real.

She walked to him with grace that curled around every movement, her bell sleeves sweeping behind her, the scent of salt and sandalwood in her wake. The sound of her heels against stone echoed like a heartbeat.

When she reached him, she looked up.

And before he could say anything—before the doubt in him could open its mouth—she said brightly, “My dear, you look like a brute.”

The court gasped.

She reached up with calm hands and cupped his face, one palm resting against the burned side of his cheek like it was made of porcelain, not scarred ruin.

“Smile,” she added, her voice dropping. “Why don’t you?”

He blinked, stunned. Her hand was warm. Gentle. Real.

And for the first time since entering that gods-damned room, a low sound escaped his chest.

A laugh.

Rough and brief—but real.

He turned away, lips twitching against a grin, cheeks flushing beneath the scar. “You’re late,” he muttered.

“I know.” She smiled. “But I came.”

The King stood, face souring. “Kiss him,” Joffrey commanded. “Kiss your mutt. If this so real!”

Cersei said nothing. Tyrion narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t have to,” Sandor mumbled, pulling back slightly.

But she leaned in with a grin, loud and warm and confident.

“Well,” she said to him, voice lifted to the court, “kiss me, mutt.”

He froze.

Gasps again. Whispers.

Then she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his—rough, sudden, heated. His lips parted, and it was awkward, but she didn’t shy away. Her hands braced against his chest like she meant to stay. When they broke apart, her thumb brushed over his chin.

“You don’t have to be so rough,” she whispered, eyes twinkling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The court was in chaos now—half-shocked, half-horrified.

“This is a joke!” Joffrey barked. “I demand proof—bedding ceremony, this very night!”

The room went dead still.

Cersei looked mildly intrigued.

Tyrion groaned under his breath.

But she turned back to the throne, smiling sweetly. “If that’s what you desire, Your Grace,” she said without blinking. “It would be no hardship. Making love to my husband isn’t a problem.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

Gasps erupted.

Tyrion stepped forward quickly. “That’s quite enough.”

But she wasn’t done.

“We will wed tomorrow,” she said, smiling now. “If Your Grace would be so gracious as to host.”

The court didn’t know whether to bow or faint.

But Sandor?

He just stared at her, a thousand questions screaming in his chest.

And all of them quieted when she reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his.

The chambers were smaller than hers at home.

That was the first thing she thought when the door closed behind her with a soft thud. No open arches to the sea. No breeze to sweep through silk curtains. The walls here were heavy with tapestries, stone cold beneath her bare feet. A single window let in slanted light from the courtyard torches below. The fire was already lit in the hearth, but it did little to warm the quiet.

She walked slowly across the room, her bell sleeves dragging behind her, her sea-silver gown whispering secrets to the stones.

At home on Driftmark, her chambers were open and wide. Her bed had no curtains. The ocean could be heard in every breath. She missed it. The salt. The freedom. The space.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t turn, only smiled faintly at the window as the familiar heavy steps moved inside.

Sandor.

His presence always came before the sound — a weight in the air, a pull behind the ribs. He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. He never did things gently.

“You’re alone,” he said gruffly, like it offended him.

“I prefer it,” she replied.

There was a beat of silence behind her. She could hear his breath — short, sharp. Pacing. Boots scraping faintly against the stone.

“You’re a stupid girl.”

She turned now.

He was tense, jaw set, the torchlight throwing gold across his burn-scarred face. His hands were clenched at his sides. His voice shook with something like anger, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—they searched her like he needed an answer that could unmake him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Why would you—this is just supposed to convince them.”

She stepped toward him.

Elegant. Calm.

“Relax, I said yes remember.” she said, as if reminding him.

He blinked, like he still couldn’t believe it.

“You’re playing some game ,” he said. “I’ve seen better men ruined by court women and their pretty lies.”

“Do I lie?” she asked gently, stopping in front of him. “You asked me to marry you. Now I am accused of playing games.”

He didn’t answer.

She tilted her head, one brow raised. Then, in a whisper, like she was teasing the sea, she added, “Kiss this stupid girl goodnight.”

His lips parted.

His eyes narrowed, searching her face. She wasn’t mocking him. Not playing. Just standing there, daring him, velvet and salt and moonlight.

When he didn’t move, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Not softly.

She yanked him to her.

And he broke.

Sandor kissed her like he had waited his whole life for someone to choose him. It was not gentle. It was fire licking through storm, rough hands grasping her waist, mouth crushing hers, his breath hot and uneven. She gasped against him, and he took it, deepened it, hands sliding into her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.

But she didn’t.

She held him right back. Firm. Certain. Her fingers gripped his tunic, her lips moved with his, slow and hungry and sure.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead fell to hers.

They stood there, breathless.

He hadn’t meant to lose control. But she didn’t seem to mind.

She smiled softly, still catching her breath. Her hands slid down his chest until they rested just over his heart.

“Good night, my dear,” she whispered, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sleep well. For me.”

She turned and walked toward the bed, slowly beginning to unlace her sleeves, unhurried.

And Sandor Clegane, who had known fire, war, blood, and scorn—stood in the glow of the firelight, utterly wrecked by the way she had said my dear.

He didn’t say good night.

But he watched the whole time.

And he didn’t leave until the fire burned low.

The bell only rang once.

Not the high, rolling peal of a royal wedding, nor the trumpets and fanfare of noble procession. Just one solitary ring from the Sept tower—a sound more solemn than celebratory. It echoed over the courtyard like a final breath held in reverence, and drifted away like mist over Blackwater Bay.

Sandor stood alone near the altar, stone still, arms rigid at his sides.

The red of the Sept bled around him—candlelight flickering off tall marble columns, golden pools dancing on the polished floor. Above, the Stranger loomed down from painted glass, its expression unreadable. If Sandor noticed it at all, he gave no sign.

His leathers were brushed. His beard had been trimmed—poorly. A new surcoat had been thrown over his shoulders, black with the faintest sigil of House Lannister sewn into the hem, as was custom now, though he wore it like a man wrapped in old wounds. Sweat clung beneath the cloth. His hand opened and closed once, fingers flexing like he might rather have a sword than a wedding band.

He expected jeers. Or silence. Or worse—Joffrey’s laughter.

What he did not expect was honor.

The first to enter were the Velaryons. The banners of sea-green and silver unfurled behind them like ocean mist rolling in. They did not slink like defeated guests, nor storm like insulted nobles. They walked with the slow, regal confidence of people who belonged anywhere they stepped, salt-touched and sun-warmed, like they had brought the very sea with them.

At their head walked her father.

Tall, proud, and carved from the bones of ships. His cloak was pinned at the left shoulder, fastened over a neatly wrapped stump where his arm had once been. The stories had spread in whispers: a kraken, they said, rising from the depths during a storm when his daughter was just a girl. He had shielded her with his own body. His arm had not survived—but she had. And that, he always said, was the trade he’d make again.

When he reached Sandor, there was no scorn in his eyes. No fear. Just a long, steady look, as if weighing not the man’s title, nor face, but his spine.

Then the old sailor placed his hand firmly on Sandor’s shoulder.

“She laughs like her mother,” he said in a low, rough voice. “And she’s got my fire. Keep her laughing, and she’ll forget to set the world alight.”

Sandor couldn’t speak. Only nodded once, mouth slightly parted, startled by the warmth in the gesture.

A beat later, her ladies-in-waiting filtered in, all of them cloaked in the sea tones of her house—dusted jade, pale green, glistening silvers like salt crusting over pearls. One of them, younger than the rest, blushed furiously when Sandor glanced her way and whispered behind her palm, “He’s not as beastly as they say.”

And then she arrived.

The entire Sept seemed to still.

She didn’t just enter. She filled the room. Like light. Like tide. Like something ancient and elegant walking barefoot from the sea.

Her gown was soft seafoam green with long bell sleeves that whispered when she moved. The silk clung to her body as if the dress had been sewn straight to her skin. Her hair was not braided as tradition demanded. It fell freely in soft waves, the only decoration a pair of silver combs at her temples that caught the candlelight as she passed. Every inch of her was noble, but she carried herself like someone who had never once doubted her place in the world.

She did not stop at Joffrey.

She did not bow.

Her smile did not falter as she walked straight to Sandor.

He couldn’t breathe.

She was real. She hadn’t fled. She wasn’t some joke the gods were playing. She walked to him with a smile like moonlight over calm waters and placed a kiss—a real kiss—on the burned side of his cheek.

“Steady,” she whispered against his skin, her breath warm. “You’re not dreaming.”

He felt the words in his bones.

The ceremony moved on without pause. The septon droned about sacred unions and the joining of souls, while courtiers whispered behind hands, the Queen sneered from her seat, and Joffrey sat cross-legged, eyes rolling at every mention of duty. He sighed loudly, exaggerated and boyish.

“Let’s move it along, old man,” Joffrey muttered. “Before the dog chews his own leash.”

But the septon continued. And when it came time to speak, she did not hesitate.

“I do,” she said clearly.

Sandor’s voice was hoarse when it followed. “Aye.”

Then, soft-footed and without fanfare, the maester stepped forward.

It was the law, after all. The King had requested confirmation of her purity. And she, raised by the salt and waves, did not flinch at customs steeped in rot. Her maid followed her from the Sept with quiet dignity. And when she returned, her head held high, her cheeks a little warmer, she looked not like a woman humiliated—but like a queen who had simply walked through fire untouched.

“Untouched,” the maester said aloud to the gathered court.

Joffrey raised a brow, unimpressed. “Well then,” he said with a sneer, “go and make it true.”

They left to jeers. Laughter. Betting whispers from the back of the hall.

But none of it mattered once the doors closed behind them.

The room was heavy with candlelight, thick with the scent of fresh linens and rosewater, though neither masked the storm rising in Sandor’s chest. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the last whispers of the court like a stone dropped into deep water. At last, they were alone.

He didn’t look at her

Not at first.

His boots thudded against the floor as he paced once, twice. Then, with a growl barely audible, he began unbuckling the leather strap across his shoulder, the motion sharp and practiced. He didn’t savor it. He wasn’t unwrapping a gift — he was bracing for the blow. The pity. The disgust.

He didn’t want her to see.

When he finally turned, she had already shed her veil, fingers toying gently with the combs in her hair, letting them fall one by one onto the low table. Sea-colored silk clung to her body like a second skin, the long bell sleeves dragging as she stepped out of her slippers and walked toward him without hesitation.

He avoided her gaze, hands moving too quickly now — to the belt at his waist, the buckle of his trousers. Get it done, he told himself. Get it done before she changed her mind.

“Stop.” Her voice was stern.

Sharp as the edge of a broken shell.

He froze, his fingers stiff above the leather. Slowly, his eyes flicked to hers — searching for mockery. For hesitation. For that look they all wore eventually: one glance at his face and the soft recoil, the twitch of revulsion, even when they tried to hide it.

But it wasn’t there.

Only stillness. Power. Patience.

And when she took a step forward, he took one back, his lips parted like he’d just taken a blow to the stomach. “I knew it,” he muttered hoarsely, the words slipping out of him before he could stop them. “Thought maybe you—maybe you looked at me like I wasn’t—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

She chuckled.Softly. Slowly. Like it had bloomed in her throat and poured through the room like warm wine.

“My Hound,” she said, her voice no longer sharp, but velvet-wrapped and thick with promise. She stepped closer again, her bare feet silent against the stone. “Please. Be gentle. Be slow.” Her hands slid up his arms, her palms steadying him. “I want to feel every bit of you.”

Something in him unraveled then.

Something tight and wound and aching that had never loosened, not once in all his years.

She kissed him slowly, her lips brushing his like she’d waited her whole life to know his mouth. His first instinct was to take it — to devour — to grab her hips and shove her down, take her from behind like he was used to, like it was easier not to see. His fingers dug into her waist before she pulled back, whispering a quiet “No.”

She climbed into his lap, straddling him with gentle precision. Her thighs spread over his, her skirts pooling at their hips. She cupped his scarred face between her hands and guided his mouth back to hers. The kiss deepened — not rough, not wild, but aching and tender and full of every unsaid thing that had built since the moment they met.

He tried to speak, but it came out coarse, needy, unfiltered. “Fuck… you feel so warm.”

Her smile curled into his mouth.

“Tell me,” she whispered against his lips, “tell me what you want.”

“To give you my seed,” he rasped, breath ragged, “a son, if you allow me.”

“Yes,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him with sinful grace. “Yes, my love. Give me your heir.”

He groaned, head dropping into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses into her skin as she guided him in, inch by slow inch. Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she cupped the back of his neck, holding him there, whispering praise as his hands trembled on her hips.

“You’re inside me,” she murmured, voice thick and heavy, “so deep, gods, I feel you in my bones. That’s it. My good, strong husband…”

And he lost himself.

He moved with desire now, each thrust slow, drawn out, his forehead pressed to hers as she rode him to completion. When she felt him start to shake, she kissed him harder.

“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words rasping up from some deep, unused place inside him.

She pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you too.”

He held her until the candle guttered out, until sleep dragged him down with her body curled against his chest and his arms locked tightly around her waist, like he feared she might vanish come morning.

The next day, the air inside the Red Keep hung thick with anticipation. Court was assembled early, robes gathered, wine poured, mouths whispering.

Joffrey lounged lazily in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm, smirking. “Well? Was the dog house-trained?”

A lone voice cleared his throat. One of Sandor’s sworn men — red-faced, eyes darting to the floor. He bowed low.

“It was… consummated, Your Grace.”

Joffrey scoffed. “He probably mounted her like a stray. Gods, I pity the girl—”

“She was on top,” the guard mumbled quickly.

The room went still.

He swallowed thickly. “She said—uh… she said, ‘My Hound, please… be gentle and slow. I want to feel every bit of you.’”

Silence.

Then a loud, cracking laugh from Tyrion, who nearly choked on his wine.

Sansa turned sharply, her cheeks burning, though the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

Even Cersei narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight, as if trying to decide whether the embarrassment or the scandal was greater.

Joffrey slammed his palm down against the arm of the throne, face twisted in rage. “Summon her!” he shouted. “I want her brought to me. Now.

The Red Keep’s throne room was cold in the morning light. Not cold in temperature—though the stone still held the chill from the night—but in presence. It was the way the light filtered down like judgment, the way the Iron Throne sat jagged and too high, the way silence clung to the walls like it was listening.

The doors creaked open.

She walked in alone.

No guards. No fear. Just the sound of soft silk brushing the floor, her sea-green skirts gliding like mist over stone, bell sleeves floating at her wrists. Her hands were clasped before her, posture straight, unshaken. Her silver hairpins caught the light as she bowed her head, not too low, not too long—just enough to be respectful, not submissive.

Joffrey looked at her like one might a puzzle that refused to be solved.

She was far too calm.

Far too lovely.

Far too untouched by the cruelty he had come to expect from the world he bent beneath him.

“You,” he said, voice sharp and uncertain. “You can’t possibly mean it.”

Her head tilted slightly, smile warm, unbothered. “Mean what, Your Grace?”

“That you’d lie with him. With a dog.” His voice rose. “You expect me to believe a lady of your name and standing would lower herself to that?”

She offered him a gentle shrug, silk whispering as she moved. “Do you take me for some fool?”

He snapped upright in his throne, jaw clenched. “Yes! I—”

“I take you for a king,” she said, cutting in with soft authority. “Whether you are a fool or not… is up to you.”

The throne room froze.

Even the guards glanced at each other, uncertain if they should breathe.

Sandor had been standing stiff and silent beside the dais—let out a short, amused breath. A low rasp of a laugh he didn’t bother to hide.

Joffrey’s face twisted. He rose, nearly knocking his goblet from the arm of the throne. “You—”

But she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she turned to Sandor, her voice kind but sure, as if they were alone.

“I would like to take him home with me. To Driftmark. My home.” She turned back to Joffrey. “I will leave twenty guards behind. And gold, if that is your price.”

Joffrey scoffed, lips curling. “I don’t need your coin for that pity of a man.”

The words hung, suspended.

“So be it,” she replied. Calm. Clean. Final.

And they turned to leave.

Her chambers were already being packed when they returned.

Her maids worked in silence, folding fabrics, fastening trunks. The air was warmer here, filtered through gauzy curtains that fluttered against the stone window frames. She moved through it easily, barefoot, shedding the tension of the court like a cloak left behind.

The door to her chamber clicked gently shut behind them. A servant had lingered to bow, then gone without a word. Outside, the keep still moved like a stirred anthill — talk of the Velaryon bride, the dog-husband, the Driftmark exit. But in this room, time had slowed.

The warmth hit Sandor first — the difference. The air inside wasn’t the cold stone of the barracks or the reeking stalls of the city. No, this smelled of orange blossom and salt, of soft powder and faint perfume. The sea lingered on her belongings, like her homeland refused to let her go.

His boots sank into a thick woven rug, seafoam green, surely imported, and he felt out of place already. He lingered at the threshold like a soldier returning to a battlefield, stiff and unsure. Her back was to him, delicate fingers unfastening a silver clasp at her collar.

“My rooms at home are bigger,” she said softly, not looking back. “Higher ceilings. Open air. You can hear the gulls and smell the tide. And my windows… you could lean right out over the cliffs and let the wind wrap you like a shawl.”

Her voice was wistful. Not bragging. Just remembering. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the silk of her gown. Sea-green, again — the color suited her. Or perhaps she suited it. She belonged to it.

She wasn’t made for stone walls and whispers.

She turned slowly.

The dress had loosened at the collar. Her hair had fallen a little, tendrils slipping over her collarbone. Her eyes searched his face—those bruised, stormy eyes, too clever for their own good.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “Did Joffrey’s venom sink that deep?”

“No.” The word was low. Hard. “It ain’t him.”

Her brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly.

Sandor’s hands moved toward his pocket without thinking. His fingers fumbled against the worn leather pouch at his belt, callused fingertips scraping the seam. It felt heavier than usual. Wrong in his hands. Like it wasn’t meant for this.

Still, he pulled it open. The sound was loud in the silence — the coins inside shifting like bone dice.

Her eyes dropped to it.

“I should… pay you.” The words scratched at his throat like gravel. His eyes burned. He didn’t look at her. “For pretending. For being kind. For making me feel like—like…”

His voice cracked, the rest lost to the air.

“I thought I could walk away,” he muttered, jaw tightening, “but… fuck, I don’t want to.” She watched him. His face was turned half away, his mouth a grim slash of regret. But his hands were trembling, white-knuckled around the coin pouch.

Her chest ached.

She crossed the space between them in silence. Each footstep was soft — not because she was afraid, but because she was deliberate. She moved like water: graceful, slow, unable to be stopped.

Her hand touched his, gently, just enough to still his fingers.

“Sandor,” she whispered.

He glanced down at her, face unreadable — except for his eyes. His eyes were wide, helpless.

She took the pouch from him and set it on the low table beside them without breaking his gaze.

“You can still be sworn to my father,” she said softly. “Still serve my family, if that’s what you want. No shame in that.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. His shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for the goodbye.

“But you’re still my husband,” she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You still hold that title. And if you want it, my lord—” she reached up, cupping his scarred cheek with one warm, steady hand “—you may keep it.”

His breath caught. His hand twitched at his side. “Don’t mock me,” he muttered hoarsely

She stepped closer. Pressed her body against his.

“Your brute charm…” she smiled, voice like silk against his throat, “…has worked on me.”

He made a broken sound—half breath, half laugh—and then she felt his arms come around her, not forcefully, not desperate, but like the closing of a door against the cold. His head lowered into her shoulder, resting there a moment as if he didn’t quite believe she was real.

Her hand moved through his thick, dark hair. “You’re mine,” she whispered.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

Set at the end of the Street of Silk, not far from houses of greater renown, the brothel was the perfect place for those who sought discretion yet would spare no expense in the pursuit of pleasure. It had not been long established, yet the array of women, beautiful and compliant, left it with little to envy in the offerings of older brothels. 

You had been the latest acquisition, three moon-turns past. Laden with the debts of your late father, with an elder brother you had heard little of to see them paid, you were fair enough, young enough, and willing enough to serve as passing sport for any man with coin in his purse. It had been years since you’d lost your maidenhood, taken by your uncle’s squire in a struggle that ended with you bent beneath the bridge that spanned the road to your father’s house. Too fair to resist, he had said when it was done. The coupling had been painful, yet it taught you the cruel truths of the world, and hardened you for what was to come.

The men who came to claim your father’s debt were fearsome, swift to impatience. So you had taken to the streets, earning your bread and honing the arts of love and pleasure to fetch a higher price. But the streets were perilous, and when that woman of the Street of Silk found you and offered a place in her brothel, you had not hesitated. It would allow you to keep paying down the debt without risking your life in the alleyways, albeit slowly, for the mistress claimed the lion’s share. For you? Only crumbs, though sweetened with the promise of her protection.

The mistress ran her business impeccably. The house’s patronage followed a pattern that allowed her to arrange the rooms, be they private chambers or shared spaces veiled in fine silks. In the same way, it allowed her to rotate the girls and set her prices according to the night’s demand.

The first to come were most often sailors, soldiers, and men who had set coin aside for the chance to spend a night between the many treasures the brothel had to offer. For such clients, the beer and wine poured was of middling quality, yet they might choose whichever girl they fancied, so long as she was not one of the mistress’s protected doves. Later would come the lesser lords, the sons of middling houses, or newly made knights, who might be served finer wines. These would often take more than one girl to make up for their pride, so long as the price could be met.

Last of all, in the deep hours of the night, perhaps for the discretion that darkness bestowed, came knights of high rank, men burdened by vows of chastity, and even lords of great houses, these last resting until the break of dawn to spare themselves the wrath of their wives. For such as these, the finest Dornish brandies were poured, fruits brought from the Summer Islands laid out upon silver trays, and the most pleasurable and beautiful women were offered as yet another exotic delicacy.

With such clientele, the takings were more than enough for the mistress to keep recruiting fresh blossoms of beauty, as well as to hang tapestries that lent the house an air of refinement. As a certain brothel keeper from a nearby establishment was fond of saying, “Whores make better investments than ships. They seldom sink, even when boarded by pirates.” 

That night was already well advanced. The first tide of sailors had already arrived, loud and in number, and many of the rooms and girls were already engaged. It was one of those nights when Madame seemed well pleased with both the attendance and the profitability of her business.

You had not yet been assigned a client and were enjoying, along with six other women, some chatting and giggling that drowned out the melody of a half-drunk lute player. Your half opened gauze gown bared your breasts as you leaned forward while another woman lined your eyes with kohl. She was young, with a sweet voice and an eastern accent, and had taken you in as both friend and confidante to help you learn the house’s rules. Bless her for it, though you still lacked the cunning of the others.

As the front door bell announced the arrival of new clients, some girls hurried to spy on the men who entered. The mistress had told them a thousand times not to be nosy and to wait for her to make the assignments, but the women always allowed themselves this little mischief. Since your friend was still giving small touches to your eyes, neither of you noticed that the other girls had vanished, until seconds later you saw them rush back into the main hall, breasts bouncing beneath their gowns as they tried to hide behind curtains.

“It’s just one, but he’s hideous!” one of them cried. “Tall as a tower and frightening…”

“He’s a monster! I pity the poor girl who has to take care of him!” whispered another.

Your friend stood immediately and gripped your wrist to help you hide, but you were not fast enough. Madame entered the common room, brow furrowed at the sight of the women scattering, already taking note of the reprimands she would deliver later. Then her gaze settled on your retreating back and hardened further.

“You,” she said dryly and you froze mid-escape. “Upstairs. The room with the big bed. And see that the lock holds this time. He wants privacy.”

Though the rooms were usually prepared in advance, Madame always kept the clients lingering a few minutes to give the girls time to settle in. A pitcher of wine -which you suspected was among the watered down ones- had already been brought up by one of the apprentices. You blew away whatever dust might have gathered on the cup that accompanied it, set a small cushion to shield the rather battered wall from an ebony headboard as large as the bed it framed, and were lighting a stick of incense when your friend arrived to help you.

“Have you seen him?” you followed her with your eyes.

“…yes,” she avoided your gaze as she fluffed a pillow.

“... and?”

She didn’t answer.

“Is he that horrible?”

The woman crouched by one of the bed’s legs to check its sturdiness. 

“Well,” she said, “he is… tall, indeed. And drunk…” She knew all your expressions well, and moved swiftly to reassure you. “I heard he just won the Hand’s tourney." 

You sank onto the mattress. A knight. The victor of festivities you never have even heard off. Were you meant to feel honored to lie with him? You laughed in bitterness and covered your face with both hands.

“Listen…” the woman sat beside you and pulled your hands away from your eyes, holding them for a moment as she looked at you with a small smile. “The mistress has made him pay twice for the inconveniences.”

“What? What inconveniences?”

She pinched your cheeks to bring some color to them, pondering something for a moment. But whatever she’d been about to say, she decided to spare you. 

“You’ll manage. You’ve handled worse men,” she lied.

As you opened your mouth again to voice your doubts, you heard Madame’s voice as she climbed the stairs. 

“I picked one who won’t flinch. Steady hands and a soft tongue. Both ready for a man who knows what he wants...”

“Scream if he gets too rough,” your friend cupped your face and waited for your nod before slipping quickly out of the room.

Madame always instructed the girls to receive clients with enough light for them to see what they were paying for, so you busied yourself with a set of candles bright enough to illuminate half of Westeros. When the door opened, you didn’t see the man duck his head as he entered, but the wood that always groaned under a big pair of boots nearly splintered.

“Welcome, sir,” you said, wick in hand and without turning to him.

A metallic clang that you guessed was his armor against the door preceded a slurred, “bugger me…” 

Your friend had been right: he was drunk. What she hadn’t told you was that his mood was even worse than his balance.

“Congratulations on winning the tournament, sir.” You forced yourself to speak, with a politeness so rehearsed that you might have been taken for a lady. 

“Spare me your niceties, woman,” was his dry reply.

You didn’t often see the cream of society, but the sheer rudeness of this man made you snort. “Yes, sir.”

He grunted, showing no care to conceal his annoyance, then poured himself a glass of wine as he muttered, “too many cursed candles. Leave but one.”

You didn’t like being nearly blind with a man you hadn’t even glimpsed yet, but the client commanded, and as the mistress had warned, he wanted privacy. When only a single flame remained burning, you prepared to turn around.

“No. Keep your back to me.” 

Your brow furrowed. 

“Very good, sir.” 

There was something about the man every time you gave him that title. You could almost feel him bristle and you didn't understand why.

“Take off your gown.” 

His voice made your skin crawl. You obeyed, feeling his gaze sink in your shoulders like sharp teeth as you shed the gauzy fabric. Beneath it, you wore only sheer stockings that reached mid-thigh. No corset or smallclothes to cover your feminine parts. Believing that he demanded full compliance, you bent down to remove them.

“Leave them,” he rasped, and you released the ties at once. He wasn’t the first man you’d encountered with… peculiar tastes.

Behind you, you heard the man shedding his metal shell. He grunted when some piece resisted. You had seen knights disarm themselves many times, and they usually needed help with certain pieces, but you wouldn’t offer unless asked. He didn’t. From the time he was taking, he must be fully armored, yet it wouldn’t be a problem; the room had space enough for two, sometimes three men, to leave their belongings.

You didn’t hear him approach. Large fingers as thick as tanned leather landed on your hips, kneading your flesh upward until they groped your bare breasts. Your client panted as he pawed the most tender parts of your body, and you indulged him when those hands that could strangle a bear guided you toward the bed, one broad palm pressing between your shoulders until yours met the mattress.

“Up. On hands and knees,” his breath was thick and fruity with the scent of wine.

You climbed onto the bed, and immediately noticed him fumbling with what remained of his garments. One hand clamped onto your hips again as he guided your ass backward toward him. You bowed your head, and caught a glimpse of the only thing you could: the bulk of his frontal thighs behind you, strong and covered in hair, adjusting clumsily to your smaller height. Several curses later, he growled and shoved a pair of cushions beneath your knees so you were lifted as he wanted. It was rude and forceful, and you swallowed the urge to turn around and slap him.

With one rough hand still at your hip, his other spread your ass cheeks, prying your southern lips open in an impatient and far from gentle check. A heartbeat later, it was gone, and you could easily imagine where. What pressed against your womanhood next was daunting in both hardness and size, like the rounded head of some great drawbar from the gates of King’s Landing, if iron could pulse with the warmth of living flesh. 

He pushed forward, blunt and graceless, trying to force his way through sheer stubbornness alone. Though he was right about the path and the place, you could tell he was not used to such closeness. His attempts were ill-aimed, shifting from one angle to the next as though brute insistence might win what precision could not. For all his effort, he scarcely managed to breach you more than the width of a fingertip.

“Stay still or I’ll make you,” he grumbled.

“I haven’t moved an inch,” you said in your defense. It was true.

The man growled with frustration behind you. What had he expected? He was built like a warhorse, and you’d been given no time to prepare. His manhood would break you, you were sure of that. You could feel your body tense and recoil instinctively, denying him like an inexperienced maiden. He pressed again, harsher this time, and his fingers clawed at your hips as he angled your ass up and back towards his center. Then with one last forceful shove that drove the air from your lungs, your body finally yielded. The sudden bite of pain drew a pained groan from you. 

He stilled. 

You closed your eyes, bracing for the reprimand you knew as coming. Another client might have lost patience, demanding the obedience he had paid a high price for, yet to your astonishment, he said nothing. He just pressed the heel of his hand to your groin, just over the artery where your blood was racing, and sighed.

“Calm down, girl. I won't hurt you,” he said, voice hoarse but warmer now.

You could barely breathe. You should have run faster to hide in the hall. You wished your last client had been at least a third as large as this one. That way you would have been properly stretched. But neither the young man who came with his father to lose his virginity before his wedding, nor the father himself as he, in his words, reminded you how a man fucks, were even half as thick as this one.

"Breathe… and stop shaking." 

Were you trembling? You were so frightened you hadn’t even noticed, so focused on grounding yourself on the pillow beneath you. You felt his other hand move to your inner thigh, brushing it in soft pats through the stockings. It was gentle, in truth, though to you it felt more like he was petting a skittish mare.

You allowed yourself an abundant intake of air. Your flanks inflated and deflated with it while his legs remained firm behind you, like two columns holding the weight of a looming fortress you were not allowed to see. Aside from the small pats of his hand, his body remained completely still. You silently thanked him for that. From the next room came a rhythmic pounding against a wall, and then moans from a couple clearly enjoying their time more than you. The filthy sounds made your client’s cock twitch and you hissed, though in truth it served as good practice to help you adjust to his body. 

He shifted his hand so that it was now his thumb that checked your pulse. “Come now,” his wine soured breathing hit behind you, his hardness throbbing in agony and less patient than his master.

You swallowed, and wanting to give yourself a little more time, lifted your head and looked to your side with no particular purpose, toward a window which offered only darkness. There you found his reflection, blurred yet clear enough to let you see he was truly a sturdy and towering man, with long hair that seemed more abundant on one side, and hungered eyes that did not tear away from your ass. His image should have terrified you, yet there was something vulnerable in him that drew you close to what you would have called empathy. 

When his manhood complained again, straining to release even a little of its aching tension, your pulse no longer pounded in your throat. The man seemed to sense it too, for his thumb left your groin as he breathed, “that’s it,” behind you.

His movements were slow at first. Not for your sake, but to give himself time to adjust to the overwhelming pleasure your warmth granted him. No man wanted to blow his load too soon, least of all when the whore had been so expensive. You had never felt so stuffed. Even though he gave you time, the drag of his massive cock as it sheathed and unsheathed stretched the skin around your lower lips, tightening you as no man ever had before.

His hands found a hard grip on your hips. Your breaths turned heavy and uneven, his from the effort of driving into you, yours from the strain of taking him. You glanced at his reflection again. His broad shoulders were taut, his head tipped back slightly. You could not see his face, but the way he fought down his moans told you his jaw was locked tight.

His stones, girthy and heavy, bounced rhythmically against your slit, making the honey pour from it more abundantly. You remembered that time you witnessed the neighbor’s bull mounting your uncle’s cow. It was savage. He wasn’t purebred, and when your uncle tried to tie him, he almost destroyed the stable. You were just a little girl and your mother quickly covered your eyes, but those dark sacks, swaying and overflowing with seed, were etched into your memory forever. Now you were that poor cow, you thought, and it almost made you laugh. 

His pace quickened. The slapping sweetly reached that spot which made women go wild and which so few men ever bothered to explore. Not everything in your duty as a whore had to be suffering and pain, so you indulged yourself in a little pleasure. Trying to be as discreet as you could, you greedily lifted your hips to him. He noticed, both hands clamped to your waist as he muttered a curse, then with a lumbering grunt, he pressed you harder against him. He was not a talkative man amd that was for the best. You could not stand those who leaned over you and whispered stale-breath nonsense. Promises of getting you out of there and of giving you a decent life. Some even told you they loved you, smiling crookedly as they helped you bob your head between their legs.

His hips met your ass harder as he drove deeper inside you. You could feel him everywhere, in your cunt, opening his way through your stomach, you could almost feel his headcock, big as a fist slamming against your windpipe. One rough hand ran up quickly to your breasts, grabbing one in a rough handful. Your perky nipple was caught between two thick fingers that squeezed it almost by accident. You moaned.

“Stop that,” he said in a broken snarl. “No mummer’s farce. W-we both know you’re not enjoying this.”

You bit your tongue. For a moment, you thought of telling him you were not pretending, but you refused to feed his ego. You dropped your head and nodded instead, not certain if he saw you or not. Though loving sounds had been coming from the next room without pause, it was yours that drove him wild. His response was to pound into you with all he had. He fucked you as if he hated you; as if he hated the damned place. And above all, he fucked you as if he hated himself. You wondered what had happened to him in the tourney, or in his life, but the rage, the pain as he thrusted his cock as deep as he could made your heart ache more than your cunt.

Stiffing your own sounds was difficult, yet you managed as decently as you could considering the immense stimulation the man provided. What you could not stop was your insides from fluttering around him, claiming his seed like the greedy little whore you were. It was as though your bodies understood one another better than you ever could through words. How contradictory, all the girls fleeing his company, looking at you with pity and worry and there you were, two tears welling up in your waterline as the bastard dragged you to the very edge of pleasure.

Your fists gripped the mattress to brace against his more vigorous thrusts. His hand roamed round your body, furiously, halting between your shoulders and shoving you down the mattress while he kept your ass up. He wanted submission. With another man you would have resisted, despite the direct instructions of your employer, and you even tried, tensing your arms against his impressive strength.

“Down,” he commanded, pressing harder.

The way he said it licked down your back well enough that you shivered, and you obeyed, ass unwittingly slopping up to meet him. His hips rutted into you and your body answered again with a firm clench around his length. He groaned with lust. He was reaching that point where there was not turning back. The hand between your shoulderblades remained firm as steel. His other one stuffed itself into your stockings, tearing the delicate garment on its way down and dwarfing your thigh as he fisted the plush flesh.  

“Ah~” 

His legs jerked, taut abdomen contracting and rrelaxing as he panted hard. What came next was something you knew all too well. A pained, rough groan, followed by a thick warmth spilling inside you. His uneven, jagged nails dug into your thigh, scratching until they drew blood. The bastard did not stop until his balls felt light and empty.

He released his hold, no longer keeping you pressed against the mattress. Your breathing was as ragged as his; your brow slick with sweat. When at last you gathered yourself, you lifted your gaze ahead. The cushion he had set between the headboard and the wall had fallen. The paint was more flaked than before. Your client shifted behind you, likewise struggling to catch his breath as he pulled himself out. His absence almost drew a pathetic whine from you. He leaned forward, clumsy hands rolling down your ruined stockings and fingers pausing to acknowledge each mark on your skin. He clicked his tongue as though reprimanding himself.

“Took me well,” his voice was hoarse beyond anything you had ever known. The praise, blunt though it was, might have touched you had you not heard him stumble backward a moment later.

Having learned well the lesson of granting him privacy, you did not turn around while he armed himself again. It did not take long. He likely fastened only the pieces strictly necessary. Another sign of how little he wished to be there. For the first time, you thought the reason might be shame. 

When the door opened, you sat upon the bed, hoping for at least a glimpse of the man who had nearly split you in two. You caught only the lower third of an immense longsword disappearing through the doorway.

Your friend did not take long to come in. Rushing to attend to you with a set of clean clothes in one hand and a tray bearing a teapot in the other. She set it upon the bedside table, and knelt before you.

“Are you hurt?” she held your chin and tilted your head from side to side, inspecting your cheeks, your neck, and moving down to study your breasts and sides.

You shook your head, still dazed. She sighed in relief, then spread your legs to continue her assessment, and frowned when she reached your thighs.

“Drink” she gestured toward the teapot.

You swallowed the honeyed infusion while she cleaned the mess between your legs, a task that took her a little longer than usual. When you set the empty glass on the small table, she rose on her feet and refilled it to the brim.

“He is a big man, love,” she said as you looked at her with one eyebrow arched.

You forced yourself to drink it when Madame appeared at the door, radiant and pleased with herself, just like after a profitable venture had been concluded. She did not bother to enter, but watched you from outside with a satisfied smile.

“Well done, girl,” you heard her while your friend placed a third glass into your hands. “He will come back.”

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