#(cherry.)

the way your exposed slithers of flesh spill out, the way your clothing takes that little extra tailoring to perfect. your father tells you that you’re beautiful, and at least you won’t catch your death in the north’s cold. ‘insulation’, he often jests with kind intent. he means well.

your cousins, jon and robb, don’t much worry about needing to ward off potential suitors. which they don’t much mind, not when they have sansa to look out for. but it’s the girls they instead must make effort to protect your dignity from. how they love to mock and jeer.

so you’re carrying a little extra weight? beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and you don’t recall the width of one’s waist being a factor. men like big things.

big swords, big keeps, big horses, big bank and big feasts.

and hounds do love some meat on their bones.

he watches you across the banquet. you’re seated with sansa and arya, enduring the snarky comments that jeyne poole throws your way. arya tells her to shut up, jeyne calls her horse-face. you sit and pick at your food, afraid that if you take a bite, you’ll be subject to further belittling. so arya digs her spoon into your bowl and catapults it right at jeyne, then another at sansa. robb and jon’s laughter carries across the hall. ned smirks, clearly proud. catelyn elbows him.

you lift a hand to your mouth, trying to hide your smile. sandor can see it from here. it could be the summerwine, but he feels a warmth surge through him. your cheeks are rosy, your bust all flushed and the stray hairs that escape your up-do appear awry and wild. the amused glint in your eyes he gazes into from afar is perhaps the first sign of happiness he’s gotten from you yet. you’re always so. . . sad. so distant and adrift.

then you excuse yourself, stumbling a little when you rise from the bench. you pat arya’s head on your way out, who scrunches her nose up at you before glaring back at her sister who attempts to pick potato out of her auburn hair, and repeatedly stabs her knife menacingly into the table’s oak.

‘little psycho’, sandor’s inner monologue drones before his dark eyes find you again, as if drawn by magnetic force. he catches the tail-end of your leave as you disappear towards the wine cellars below. he turns to the king, ready to make some fuckass excuse about fetching more wine. no one will notice his absence if he says nothing, no point in lying. sandor hates liars. hates everyone really.

you gasp when the scuff of old boots scrapes the ground and you twist toward the cellar doors, the bottle of wine you picked almost slipping from your grasp. “oh.” you place a hand on your chest. “it’s just you.”

he cocks his brow. “aye, just me.” he joins your side, eyeing up the bottle in your hand. “you don’t want that shite.” he grabs it from you and returns it to its crate before reaching up to rummage around a few feet above your head. you frown. “i did, actually.”

“nah.” he finds what he was looking for, blowing on the bottle and dusting it off with a gloved hand. a dust cloud drifts over your face and you splutter, taking a step back. “this is the stuff.” he removes the cork, stiff and practically crumbling within his grip. with a pop, he yanks it out and brings the bottle to your nose.

you jerk your head back, grimacing when a stale waft burns through your sinuses. “seven hells, how old is that?”

“your guess is as good as mine.” he snickers down at you, crooked teeth glinting in the low-light. “wine’s better when it’s aged.”

“i bet this cellar was built around that.” you joke. “that bottle’s been here longer than winterfell.”

“aye.” he humours, then takes a generous swig. his good eye twitches, the burnt one squinting shut when he swallows. “fuckin hell that’s some good wine.”

you smile. “i’ll take your word for it.”

he watches you, three strands of greasy but also somehow straw-like hair draped over his burn. “what’re you doing down here, girl?”

you shrug, averting your eyes. his don’t leave you once, captivated. he’s never seen such a pretty thing. they say sansa stark is the most desirable girl in the north, sandor begs to differ. “it’s very loud up there.” you finally say, dragging a finger back and forth atop one of the kegs.

he nods, hovering the bottle at his mouth. “sensitive little thing, aren’t you?” then he takes a long chug, maroon trickling down his neck. his stare won’t leave you.

“~little~ is not the word i’d use.” you chuckle, but it does not meet your eyes. you swallow and purse your lips, taking extraordinary interest in your surroundings.

“aye, i’ve heard what they say.” sandor offers you the bottle, its aroma enough to inebriate you in itself.

you size it up for a second, then huff in defeat and allow him to put it your lips. he puts a hand under the soft flesh of your chin and tilts it with the bottle. it’s warm on your tongue and scorches a path down your throat, dry and bitter. “i suppose you agree.”

he focuses on the way it’s stained your pouty lips, swelling them slightly too. “they’re not wrong, you’re a big girl.” when he first arrived at winterfell, you were the first thing to catch his eye. not because of your size, but because of how you held yourself. fair skinned, surprisingly delicate-looking. like a porcelain doll.

you nod, fiddling with your fingers. “pardon me, ser. i must make sure arya is not causing too much mischief.” you try to sidle past him, muttering an awkward ‘sorry’ when your front presses against his side.

a large hand stops you, the thick stubs of his fingers biting into the chub of your upper arm. “i’m no ser.” he practically growls at you, the stench of wine that carries in his breath far stronger than that of the entire cellar.

you try to pry his fingers from you. “please, ser, you’re hurting me!”

he shakes you, leaning down so he can see the way your cleavage plunges as you struggle. “stop that.”

you look up, tears pricking in the ice-blue of your eyes. “please, ser!”

“not ‘ser,” his blunt nails pinch you. “do i frighten you?”

you stop squirming, hand stilling atop his whilst the other lands on the leather strap of his cloak. “i would not say your presence brings me comfort, ser— sandor.”

his eyes narrow and he tugs you closer, almost lifting you from the ground which astonishes you. a gasp falls from your mouth, then clamps shut when you feel a large palm rest heavily on your hip.

the thin flesh of his lower lip disappears between his teeth for a moment, pupils sinking below the realms of socially acceptable when they dance over your bosoms, then a little lower. he drinks you in, practically fucking you with his eyes.

“you’re a woman.” eventually he drags his gaze back up to yours. “have you ever laid with anyone?”

“no.” you shut him down, pushing on his chest. he doesn’t move. “you flatter me, but no.”

“but you’ve bled.” he ensures, not budging.

you’re shocked by him, mouth hanging open. “my womanhood has bloomed, yes.”

he snorts. “aye, so why’ve you never been taken?”

your eyes flit between his, heart hammering. “i— i’ve not yet been promised.” then that usual sadness returns to your expression and you start to weaken in his hold, leaning into him slightly. “not that my father hasn’t tried — he arranged a betrothal but. . .” you trail off, absent again. “when he met me in person he. . .”

“didn’t want you.” sandor finishes, loosening his grip on you. “who was it?”

the unfamiliar gentleness in his tone throws you off. “oh, um. . . loras tyrell—”

you’re startled by the bellowing guffaw that rips itself from sandor’s chest, deep and hearty. you shush him, smacking his stomach as you look between him and the staircase that leads to the king’s feast. “ser, please! lower your voice!”

he pinches the wide bridge of his nose, allowing his laughter to distill into a low chuckle. you can’t help but smile up at him, baffled. did you just make sandor clegane laugh?

“not a ser.” he reminds you. “and loras fuckin tyrell is about as straight as you are slight.”

you stare up at him, perplexed. “i beg your pardon?”

“he was disappointed by your lack of cock, you daft girl, not your. . . shape.” you continue to stare blankly, not sure how to process what he’s saying. he flashes you a wonky smirk. “you didn’t know? oh, come off it. every cunt and his grandmother knows that loras tyrell, knight of fucking flowers, takes it up the shitter.”

you gawk. “sandor—”

“what?” he’s beaming, rather enjoying himself. “he couldn’t handle you anyway. what was benjen stark doing trying to marry his daughter to renly’s little bitch?”

you become brittle to his touch, rigid and unimpressed. “i don’t know, he probably yearned to rid of me. loras was probably his last resort. besides, it was my uncle’s idea. my father travels with jon and lord tyrion to the wall at sunrise.”

“that’s why you’re down here, is it?” sandor challenges, resilient against your resisting. “drown your sorrows. . . bury them at the bottom of a bottle?”

“i needed to get away.” you take his bait, biting immediately. “why are you down here? did you follow me?”

“so what if i did?” he leans closer, finally releasing your arm to rest his hand beside your head. you realise he’s pinned you against the wall and your heart lurches.

you exchange silent expressions, yours one of uncertainty whilst his is hard to read. it’s a little haunting. then he backs away and you feel strangely cold, the weight of his hand departing from your side leaving you feeling feather-light. he lowers himself to sit on the wooden wine barrels in front of you, his scarred face hidden in the lowlight.

“nothing wrong with you.” you hear him grunt. your brows furrow and you push yourself off the sloped bricks behind you. “it just means you’re eating; means you’re putting the food away.” he looks up, brown eyes appearing almost golden in the candlelight that tumbles down the stairwell. “and you fill that out nicely.” he motions to your dress of traditional stark blue, cotton and layered.

your eyes water and you smile sadly at him. “there’s nothing wrong with you, either.” you approach him, tentatively. reaching for him cautiously, you brush the locks of hair he’d combed over his burn. he flinches from your touch but you shush him, tucking his hair behind what remains of his ear. “and i’ve heard what they say about you too.” you whisper. “you did not deserve that.”

his eyes meet yours, legs parting to accommodate the curves of your hips. sat down, he still towers over you. “i was only playing with it.” he murmurs, reflecting on the night he was pressed to the coals for playing with his brother’s toy.

you nod and flatten your hand against his cheek, feeling the waxy bumpiness of it. the texture of his healed tissue would disgust most people, but you find it rather marvellous and utterly devastating. “i’ll never be like the other girls.” you sniffle, responding with your own tear-jerker.

it’s silent for a moment, except for the noise above that echoes down, and the occasional dripping of water from the ceilings.

then he’s on you like a ravenous dog, which in some cases you suppose he is. you stiffen like a board but soon relax, melting into the kiss with glad submission. he cups your supple frame, groping your soft flesh with fidgety hands that can’t decide which part of you they want to touch. one claws at your hair, the other alternating between the small of your back and the plumpness of your buttocks.

you moan into his mouth, granting him the opportunity to invade yours with a greedy tongue, his saliva more potent than the wine. you feel drunk on him, your blood thawing in your veins. it all goes straight to your head, dizzying. you’ve never felt such a buzz.

he groans, pulling you impossibly closer in a crushing embrace. the kiss is almost painful, no rhythm or skill. just raw and deep, teeth and tongue. you don’t have any other man to compare him to, but you’re confident in assuming that none kiss quite like this. hungry and desperate.

you struggle to breathe, panting into his mouth. he does the same, stealing your breath for his own. he sucks you in, hands roaming the pillowy curves of your frame. he loves that he can hold your flesh without feeling bone beneath it; that he can appreciate a woman who possesses a beauty that can’t be amplified by leanness. you look healthy and mature. like the perfect environment to grow a litter. oh, how his cubs would pad you out all the more.

and with that he emits a noise somewhere between a snarl and a groan, separating his mouth from yours with a slick pop he meddles with your underskirt, hiking it up your legs. your fingers curl into his fur-clad shoulders when he glides his hand up the inner crook of your thighs. they’re plump and wide, and his mind paints a picture of his face sandwiched between them whilst he dines on you. its a stunning mental image, one that will remain engraved for some time.

his fingers find your centre — warm and needy. you’re fucking soaked, he knew you would be. he feels your cluster of nerves twitch when his fingertip coasts it, your entrance pulsating for something it didn’t much crave until now.

you’ve explored yourself amid boredom or loneliness but never did it feel this good. his thick thumb meanders through your slit, snaking back and forth. you mewl like you’re in season, which you might as well be. his mouth seizes your chest, nipping and suckling. you throw your head back when his digits tease your tight little hole, hands hurrying to tangle in his matted hair. the commotion upstairs fades into the background and you forget yourself, allowing a throaty moan to slip from your parted lips.

one of his hands remains at your backside, pinching and kneading at the fatty muscles, claiming it for his own. one large finger slides into you with surprising ease and the stretch is glorious. one can only imagine how much his cock would split you open, parting your insides and opening you around himself. if anything the thought eases you open for him, letting him puncture you knuckle-deep. it stings but it stings well, the discomfort fizzling in a second.

you feel him tense, finger bending within you. his teeth find your neck, nibbling and tasting. he laps at the sweat that beads there, licking his way back to your mouth. you invite him in gladly, knotting your tongue with his. the salt from your skin’s arousal paired with the sharpness of winterfell’s finest wine makes for a head-spinning combination and you lose yourself, clamping around his fingers when he adds another. they pump in and out, calculated and much more precise than his kisses. practiced and diligent.

you shudder, gushing around his fingers. he swallows your moans, coaxing you through your release. but he frees himself of you suddenly, tearing you from a pleasant and gradual retreat. his fingers leave your cunt gaping and weeping, your face wears a similar expression. you fix your dress, slumping onto the barrels to collect yourself. he stands when you sit, like he can no longer stand the sight of you. he wipes his hand with his cloak and clears his throat, gravelly and husk.

it’s then that you notice you have company. robb stands at the bottom step, eyes wide and switching between the two of you.

sandor doesn’t hang around. adjusting the waistband of his trousers, he shoves past the young lord, no backwards glance or word of farewell. you slouch, avoiding eye contact with your cousin.

“i came for more wine.” robb tells you. “what was that?”