💖ali🐻

“My apologies. Ser. I didn’t realise it was my lords guest of honour you were seeking. I thought you were after one of our girls.” Margan stated. Folding his wrists to cross over his front.

“What kind of fucking whore house needs armed guards?” He sneers. Growling around at the men surrounding him. Teeth sharp. Eyes mongrel hungry for violence. For split skulls and unrest. What he’s so used too.

“The civilised kind.” Margan answers brightly.

You come level to him. A ratty black hood half folded over his ruined scars. The dirty black cloak enveloping his body. But the apparent flash of dull armour underneath adds extra bulk to his already hefty frame. Made Tallin’s men weary.

“Finished your grousing?” You raise a brow. Arms crossed over your chest. Amused. Smiles to counter his frowns.

He looks to you. Mouth closes into a grim line. Treating him like an errant squalling brat in need of a smack.

“Came to…. To make sure you weren’t…” He can’t finish the words. Motions towards you with his sword. Maybe he didn’t care to finish his words in front of present strange company.

“As you can see. I am in one piece. Unmolested. This is one house in Kings Landing that won’t see me harmed.” You tell.

He scowls around him. Until the men surrounding him move back a couple steps. The stance to fight in his posture eases only lightly. Not that they’d pose him much trouble. He could wipe them out with one swing of his huge arm.

“We’re not used to soldiers from the palace frequenting our establishment.” Margan informs him.

“Happy to be an inconvenience.” Sandor grits out.

You roll your eyes. Heap any more testosterone onto this moment and someone would end up with their skull bashed in.

You put yourself between him and Margans guards.

“Why don’t we go have some supper. Seeings as we’re both here. Think I’ll be needing more wine.” You supply. Tone heavy with annoyance.

You gather your skirts and turn. His ensuing bark follows you.

“I’ve not coin enough for this fancy fucking place.” He snips.

“I don’t need your coin. Clegane. Just your company. Now come. And put your fucking sword and fangs away.” You tilt your head in the direction of the tavern across the courtyard.

You go through the brothel to get to it. Across the courtyard and down the steps. Well concealed and only for those who know of its presence. It’s not for the rabble like the taverns across the way outside these cherished golden walls.

He eyes Margan sharply. All side eye and venom.

The man steps back with a clever - too knowing - smile.

“Enjoy your evening. Ser.” He nods his head in a bow.

Sandor grumped, as he stalked off after you. All ill temper and wrath. The heavy clunk of his steps in situ with the rattle of his armour.

You lead him through the courtyard. Even now, under growing dusk, the sky lost to peaches and copper and pinks, slanted sorbet shades, the activities haven’t lessened. Girls frolicking naked in the fountain. Sprawled across clients laps. Noises of pleasure bleeding out from the side rooms. His size gains a few new sets of eyes as you both walk by. Man that big couldn’t not be stared at.

When you come to the curtained door, swathed ochre velvet, it’s pulled aside for you. He ducks through, dipping his massive head so as not to hit the uneven stone archway.

A serving girl guides you both to a table. One cloaked in half gold light and the swallow of shadow. Private and intimate.

You take a seat at the conspicuous tucked away table, hiding in the corner. A tapered white lit candle flickers patterns on the old wood. Two glasses wait for you. Yves’ touch, you’re sure. A small white flower sits in some water in a mishapen vase. Snipped of the vines just outside. Sugars the air.

He lands himself opposite you. Wood groaning on the bench seat. The air in here is all perfume too. Too fucking sweet. Like honey. There’s no raucous noise or stumbling crowds. Just people feasting and drinking in a gentle murmur. This beats the scrappy back alley pubs he’s used to frequenting.

The air coming from the kitchens down the stairs smells like roasting waxy lemons and chicken. Potatoes seared in beef fat. Enough to make his stomach clench.

Some noncy bard plays soft ballads in the corner. The ceiling has flower vines scrawling over it like green veins. Popping open with white blooms. Fucking poncy if you ask him.

At the table, he took up as much space as he liked. Blessedly, without asking permission. Here, he was freed. Somewhere Lannister influence didn’t hang like vultures. Or rules of employ stick to the corners like cobwebs. He folds his hood back off his head. Leaves it open at his sides. Sits and looks at you opposite.

Light turned to blackened gold at the rooms edges. Stuck to other figures like mud. Made them dull. Unimportant. Light rolled over and flattened them.

The enfold of candlelight seemed to do the opposite for him; to you, it brought him out.

Every rough crevice. Every bump of scar. Naked yellow light unforgiving. The flicker of the candles writ sonnets across mean skin. Shines in the slick of sweat gathered in the base of his neck. Settled into those deep brown sad mutt eyes like it could live there.

Of course he’s sweating. Hauling all that metal armour and hard edged anger and suspicion around.

“So…” You begin. Laying your arms on the table.

“Following me, were you?”

You drum your fingers on the table. One hand tucked under your chin. Elbow on the scarred wood table. The drums of your fingers ripples the candle. Makes a gold and black dance across the table surface.

His mouth twitches to the side. Whiskers tugging stubby on his chin and around his lips. That move you’ve noticed he does when he can’t use his gauntlet fists or steel to smash his way out of answering.

“Not a safe place for a maid. Out here at night. Among the rats and whores. And fuck knows who else lurking down a dark alleyway.”

“Evidently you were lurking.” You answer back.

“Kings landing is a lawless fucking place. Pardon me for wanting to keep you from all the rags and rats and filth. That rabble outside aren’t kind when they see a palace uniform.”

“I can assure you there’s more danger for me roaming inside the keep, than out of its walls.”

“You don’t fucking know that.” He snaps.

You soothe his agitation. “I’m armed.” Making motion to the dagger that never left your thigh.

“Suppose it’s someone you can’t outfight. A gang of them. Maybe. Follow you down a dead end. Cut you off. They’d toss you around like a cut of meat and slit your throat when they’re done.”

You remain unmoved. Placid.

“You’re painting a very dark picture of my evening off.” You frown. Commenting dryly.

“Just being honest. Red.” He stares at you pointedly.

“That’s what we do isn’t it? Honesty?” He looks at you a tad too hard.

“Well. I need a drink in my hand for that….” Turning your head, cool as anything, beckoning a serving wench over.

She walks in a way that makes her her hips rolling and sultry. Smile bright when she sees you. Recognition flickers across her smile. Brightens her eyes.

The gathered fabric up her legs tightens to her every step. Snug to the ride of her hips. Hair glossy dark, spilling down her back. She’s Lorathi colouring. Beautiful small links of gold rests on her smooth sternum. Looks like liquid gold dripping down her neck it’s so fine.

She clings to your side when she arrives. Steps smooth as velvet. Sultry as a panther. She pours wine heartily into his cup. Right to the brim. No half measures in this house. Wine flowed freely all night; and that wasn’t the only thing that came offered.

His eyes follow the smooth charming path her fingers take. Sliding along your shoulder. Under the curtain of your hair. A fingertip dances a sultry circle on your bare shoulder. He knew now-

You’d had women before.

“Will you be needing company tonight, mistress?” She seeks. Voice so sweet you’d think her throat was lined with sticky husky honey.

Your hand kindly closes over hers. Softly. Fingers wrapping to the gaps of her fingers. You look up at her and smile. It’s full of myth and secrecy. A side to you he’s seldom seen, how comfortable you are with her touch.

“Thank you. Arina. But just the food and drink is all I’ll be having. I have a friend with me this evening.” You politely decline. Nodding your head across to him.

She turns her head. Doesn’t even turn a hair at the terrible grotesque sight of him. In fact, she eyes him up like you first did.

A huge haunch of a man, large set, with thick shoulders, broad thick arms. Surely a fat long cock to match the rest of his huge hulking stature.

His eyes narrow back in an uncertain scowl.

“We will gladly welcome your friend too.” She purrs. Her head tilting to size up the set of his hunched shoulders.

“Is he as big as he looks?” She teases.

“Perhaps next time.” You finish.

She slides her hand under yours. Brings it up to kiss your knuckles tenderly. “We miss you. My fiery one.”

Your cheeks warm a little at the compliment.

Sandor eyes her like a threat. Until you tell her to be so good as to leave the wine jug.

She doesn’t seem swayed or deterred. Merely a smooth shift of her hip, slips her arm off you, and she’s back on her way through the tables. A wake of sandalwood and vanilla teases after her like a lingering kiss.

He raises a brow at you. Nearly makes you flush even more.

“I’m no green maid. Sandor.” You state.

“I can see that.” He says. Referencing the wine wench. His eyes follow her over the room where she sways to pour more wine and smile sinful invites. Clearly you’d known comforts at this tavern. Flesh and otherwise.

“And I don’t think the whores hereabout would offer me much trouble...” You joke all brazen. Smile crawling across your lips. Finger circling the rim of your cup.

“You got a cock under that skirt, Red?”

Your smile is wide enough for teeth to flash in the candlelight. Makes his stomach feel light. It was as if the apple of your cheeks were gilded in gold leaf. A rare treasure for him to enjoy.

“Who says you need a cock to enjoy a whore… plenty of ways to get around that. She showed me a few of them.” You tease.

He shifts in his seat. Best not think too long on that particular image. He can’t help but think of her hands roaming your skin the way his do. Fingers moving over your breasts or between your legs. Throwing your head back in pleasure with her long hair tangled in your hands.

He gives you the hard corner of his eyes as a look that’s intended to sting like a punch.

“Women don’t offer threat. It’s men. Low-born men who come sniffing for a pretty thing like rats to feast when the lights are low.“

“Then I thank the gods I have a big scary dog here to see those rats off.”

“Don’t know why I fuckin bother trying to keep you out harms way. Red.” He grunts.

Thankless fucking task.

That makes you grin. Nails sliding under his skin he wants to bat away. But can’t seem to bother. You’ve hooked him close with them like meat hooks. He doesn’t want to shadow your steps and worry about you. Yet here he fucking is.

“I thank you for your attention. Trouble does seem to make a habit of finding me, however.” You remark.

“Ain’t that the shagging truth.” He awards gruffly. Lifting his small cup to his mouth. You admire the way his huge thick fingers cover nearly all the metal from view.

“Yet tonight. Seems you’ve found me instead.” You press. “You tracked me here. Don’t deny it. You wouldn’t have found it otherwise.” Your eyes narrow. Sharp as diamonds and as sparky as gunpowder.

He fidgeted. Slurped back wine. Avoided your eye. Guilt.

“Let me speak plain. Sandor. I don’t think I owe you much of an explanation you grumpy fucking git. But I’ll give you one anyway….”

“Despite what you think. I didn’t come here for sex. I came here to acquire something. Something I’ll be needing if we are to carry on the way we have been.” You elucidate.

Now you have his attention.

“My cousin owns this establishment. And his wife and I are close. And very dear to me. I asked her for something and I came to collect.”

You’ve piqued his interest.

“And what’s that? Red.”

“Moon tea.”

Eyes snap to yours. Panic writ in them. Dancing gold. Face stoic.

“Rest easy. I’m not. But I’m taking precautions. To be certain there are no unwanted mishaps in our future.”

“Why didn’t you just fucking say that.” He snips.

Your head tilts. Dangerous. Your eyes - those devastating eyes of yours - spark in the dark.

“Why didn’t you trust me.”

You stumped him there. He grits his jaw.

Trust doesn’t come naturally to him. That’s why. He’s found a small kernel of it in you. But he’s always been and always will be wary. It’s kept him alive thus far.

“I don’t trust any damn cunt in this shit city.” He spits. Gulping more drink.

You do see that right enough. Neither do you. Two burned sides of the same warped coin.

“You could have made a good start by trusting me. Clegane.”

A hound never lies. Well. Neither does his bitch.

He looked sore. A little shamed.

“Aye. I know that. Now.” Was apparently the only concession you’d get out of him.

“Don’t be so fucking mysterious next time.” He barks.

You smile. That was his forgiveness. A rare small gem of it bestowed on you. Rough cut and spat your way crude, of course. Nothing about him fell softly.

“We’re not wed. I don’t need you to know my every movement.” Your eyes can’t half pierce a man when they need too.

“Wanted to be sure you weren’t walking into danger.”

“Got that loud and clear.” You state. Pouring him more wine. Inching your fingers over to cover his fingertips. “I trust that about you.”

The look he gives is sour. Voice deep warning. “Don’t rub it in.” He warns. You chuckle.

Your conversation is halted by the sudden arrival of food. A serving girl slides a huge jointed roast hen on a heap of fried potatoes onto the table before you on a wide oval platter. Another platter too, this one heaped with fine and exotic cheeses, warm steaming breads, butter and fat plump fruits.

You shove the meat his way. Sup back more wine and pluck at the fruits. Watch him devour the chicken with a barely restrained hunger. He leaves the plate in the middle, nudges some back your way. You refuse it.

“I’ve eaten.” You state. You drink instead. He tears more meat off the bone. Rabid hungry dog.

Which grants him cart blanche to leave nothing but the bare bones. You fully believe he’ll have the pattern off the plate too. Man as big as he is with a huge appetite to match.

“The fuck does your cousin do to warrant a place like this?” Sandor asks through a mouthful. Scouring his hard cynical eyes over this poncy place. Flowers snapping into bloom on the ceiling. The whores wearing gold silk. The luxuries that drip off every single guest. This place is drowning in riches, and then some.

“He’s high up in the Iron Bank.” You tell. “Never really asked what he did to be honest. He owns this mansion and a few more like it in Kings Landing. He also has vineyards and villas in Pentos and Braavos.”

“All this and you never asked?” He ribs.

You pick up your cup and tip and roll the wine around in it.

“When the wine is this good, I say nothing.” You beam. Before you take a pull from it.

That actually pulls a rare smile out of him. You mirror it. It feels nice.

This feels suddenly, alarmingly intimate. The full sweeping wash of a realisation takes you. This may be the first time you’re sat eye to eye with nothing ulterior.

No work or chores, duties, tearing you away. No motive that leads to sex. This may well be the longest conversation you’d had. One where you keep your clothes on. It feels like he’s paying court to you - of sorts. Definitely not traditionally. Nothing about this pairing is going to follow tradition.

“One thing about you I still don’t get. Red.”

“Just the one?” You seek.

“You’re not curious. Are you. About anything. All the times we’ve been together. You’ve never even asked me about it.”

“About what?”

He gestures with a thick finger to the burns across the side of his face. The ones that dip and warp the skin. Half hidden by his long waving hair.

You hold his gaze. Seriously. “Figured it was your business.”

He narrows his eyes like he doesn’t get you.

“Surely you’ve heard rumour by now. Run rampant at the keep. Do they not?” He challenged. Looking between you and his food.

Maids and servants do gossip.

“I don’t put much stock into whispers and heresay. Or to sly rumours bred by nastiness.” You offer. You’ve heard rumour certainly. But they pass over you like river water. Running endlessly away. You let nasty rumours with growing teeth sink in elsewhere.

“You want to tell me? Then go ahead. I’m not going to dig into someone else’s pain to sate any questions. If I wanted to know, I’d have asked. I suspect I will not enjoy hearing the answer of why your face got melted away.”

He chuffs a sound that could be a laugh. An exhale of air through his nose.

“You are fucking different. No two ways about it.” He almost says it under his breath.

“Yes. I’m a spiky difficult bitch. According to most.” You beam.

“Spiky.. hmm. Yet the first time we met, barely knew me, you told me about the scars on your back.” He nods. Gesturing to your shoulder.

“Because you asked.” You shrugged openly. Like it made such hale sense. Hands wide on the table top each side of your wine goblet. Holding nothing back.

He seems amused. Smile tugs the corner of his bristled mouth. Nods slightly.

“Maybe it’s because I didn’t see any real danger to you. For days when starting my position everyone told me what a brute you were. Tried to make me scared and see me shrink down with tales of you slaughtering men with one swing of your sword. Making maids and servants cower and scurry away when you walked past…Told me how cruel you were.”

“Not inaccurate.” He offers. Sipping more wine back. Snapping chicken bones apart to get at the meat.

“I was expecting cruel. And then, I saw you for the first time.”

“Aye. Chewed seven shades of shit out me for not stitching a wound properly. Mouthy bitch.”

“Yes. But that wasn’t the first time I saw you. That was the first time I spoke to you.”

He lowers the goblet from his lips. News to his ears. “Then when?”

“It was in the gardens when I was coming down a corridor carrying a tray. The Princess Mrycella came bolting to your side. After you came back from Winterfell. She launched herself at your leg. You didn’t look down at her. But she wasn’t the slightest bit scared of you, or your scars. Not one bit. She gave you a small blue flower. You grumbled of course, but you took it. When she’d gone… I watched you slip it in your pocket.”

“Silly token from a little girl.” He offers. Making it nothing. Crushing it down.

“Bollocks to that. You kept it too. Don’t pretend. It’s the same one that’s pressed on your bedside.” You add.

He can’t catch you out for this one. Looks at you like he doesn’t know how to deal with someone whose laid him bare. The seat creaks when he leans back. In this apparently, to you, he must be open.

“I knew then you may have been a grizzled guard dog. But you weren’t a rotten one. You were one of the good ones. Just….had a nasty temper. A foul bark perhaps.”

“Funny.” He remarks. Dry as dragon bone. Throwing bare bones down onto the platter when he’s done.

“Glad I can amuse.” You beam.

You let the gentleness of the room and its surrounds stir around you for a moment. The soft strings being plucked. The sound of wine being poured. Dornish gold settling with a swish into a metal cup. The scent of flowers that drifts down from the ceiling. The warm air that glides like silk over your skin.

It’s a barb to think you have to swap this life; this brief window of calm, peace, for more toil and danger up at the palace. Back to being barked at and shoved around from pillar to post because you are not highborn. You best eat your scraps without fuss and be grateful for every crumb.

“When you back on duty…” He seeks.

“Dawn.” You sigh.

“Same as me.”

“Can’t believe the Prince lets you wander very far.” You remark in a ribbing manner.

He looks grouchy with it. Mildly annoyed. Why did you have to bring up that little shit on my night off.

“Hes always got something to squall about. Doesnt matter if im there or not. He has more underlings to bully.”

You nod.

“Just so you know. I have secured a room for the night.” You tell him. Looking down at some torn bread and split fruit on your plate as you said it. You dared to flick your gaze up to find his. Blazing into yours.

“I’m allowed to bring a guest.” You flirt. Eyes glittering fine as gems. Looked like you belonged to this place.

That quirks one side of his mouth. “Are you now?”

You drain your wine. Stand up. Let your skirts fall to your knees.

When you lean over and offer him your hand. He takes it.

Elliott had never felt this level of frustration before, sitting in his small, humid cabin on the beach. He listened to the muffled sounds of the tides crashing against the shore outside and tried to concentrate on writing his novel. 

Moving to Pelican Town was supposed to be his cure-all; an escape from the hustle and bustle of Zuzu City, away from all the noise and distraction. But instead of writing his novel, his magnum opus, he couldn’t help but think about the new farmer in town, who had moved in shortly after he had.

He remembers the first time he met them, the way he nearly stopped breathing at the sight of them. Elliott had heard from others in town about their imminent arrival while having a glass of red at the saloon. But he hadn’t heard that they would be so… captivating. Their kind smile, the way the sun shone in their eyes, and the way they were always so ready to help everyone around them. Shortly after their first meeting, the farmer had visited Elliott in his cabin to give him a gift, a plate of fresh crab cakes they’d bought from Gus and wanted to share with him. His face had burned with embarrassment as he stumbled over his words to thank them, captivated both by the enticing aroma of the food, and the unanticipated generosity of the farmer.

Elliott often felt alone in his cabin, sequestering himself away from the rest of town to focus on his work. But despite all his efforts, he hadn’t found the inspiration needed to even get past the first page. Elliott had asked the farmer what kind of books they liked to read; perhaps their reading preferences could help light the spark of inspiration that he was so desperately looking for. When they’d answered romance, Elliott grinned. Maybe focusing his efforts on such a classic genre would secure his spot as a world-renown author, like he so desperately hoped. 

Now, the farmer is gone—left his cabin with a chipper “see you later!”, off presumably to tend to their crops or perhaps brighten another townsperson’s day. As soon as the door closes behind them, Elliott rushes to his desk to scribble down the ideas that swarmed in his head as soon as the farmer had mentioned romance. 

Unfortunately, minutes pass without a word written. As he holds his pen to paper, he realizes his mind isn’t filled with ideas fit for his novel, instead it’s filled with images of the farmer. Their smile, their thoughtfulness, their body…

He thinks about just how perfect—how utterly romantic—it was for him and the farmer to arrive in the same small town at the same time. How picture-perfect their dynamic is; the heads-in-the-clouds amateur author who sits at his writing desk for hours in solitude, and the down-to-earth farmer who is constantly on the go and whom everyone adores. He thinks about how special he felt when he opened the door to see their wide grin and plate of his favorite food… no one had ever brought him a gift unprompted before. But that is just how the farmer is, always thinking of others before themselves. 

Elliott also guiltily thinks of their body, which was undoubtedly strong from hard labor on the farm and their journeys in the mysterious mines. He thinks about how when he passes the farmer in town, he not only catches their friendly greeting, but also a whiff of their wonderfully intoxicating aroma of freshly turned soil and wild grape blossoms. How he wishes he could bottle that scent and keep it with him wherever he goes, so he needn’t miss the farmer when they’re gone. He also wishes that he had asked the farmer to stay, so he could’ve pulled them in close and surrounded himself with their electrifying and alluring presence…

Elliott shakes his head, trying to clear those thoughts from his head and focus on the task at hand, growing ever more upset as he continues to stare at the blank page. He tries to imagine a romantic scenario for his readers to enjoy… a romantic scenario that did not involve the farmer, that is. 

With no such luck, he sighs in frustration and decides to turn in for the night. If he can’t write so soon after seeing the farmer, he might as well get some rest so he can get an early start on his work in the morning. But even after getting ready for bed and tucking himself into his cotton sheets, he finds no respite. His imagination runs even more wild with thoughts of the farmer, thoughts that grow ever more desperate and debauched. 

Elliott feels himself grow hard imagining what the farmer’s powerful body looks like underneath their boxy overalls. He thinks of what they look like with a sheen of sweat on their brow… What they would look like if they were lying in bed with him right now. Elliot can’t help but reach under the blankets to grasp his cock and lets out a low groan of relief. He pictures the farmer beside him, their hand tugging his cock instead. They would whisper sweet nothings in his ear and suck sloppy, wet kisses on his neck and shoulder that would become purple bruises by morning. The farmer would glide their thumb over the slit on his cockhead just how he likes, wetting their hand with his precum and cupping his balls with their other hand.

Elliott gasps as this scenario plays in his mind like a movie, now jerking his cock rapidly. He thinks he should feel guilty for imagining someone he only just met a matter of weeks ago, someone he considers a new friend, in such an unbecoming and lustful way. But he only feels growing want and desperation as he nears his completion. 

The fantasy in his mind shifts to the farmer on top and lowering themselves onto him. They would moan wantonly, grinding their hips into his as they seat fully on his hard member. Fucking themselves on him, Elliott would give the farmer full control to take whatever they wanted, however they wanted. They’d call him their “good boy” as he lets out increasingly shameful moans, watching their face through hooded eyes as they fall apart on top of him. With the image of the farmer convulsing orgasmically in his mind, Elliott’s cock twitches in his hand and he spills ropes of cum onto his stomach. He gasps for several moments, trying to even his breath. Quickly taken by exhaustion, Elliott falls into a satisfied, dreamless sleep. 

Even if he hadn’t gotten any writing done today, the farmer had in fact sparked his imagination after all.

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.