It was quiet in the mess hall this evening. At one table, six young guards sat gambling their meagre salary away on cards while the two cheap whores they had snuck in from the city bid each of them as much entertainment as they could afford. Halfway down the hall, Ser Berristan sat in comfortable silence with Ser Ilyn Payne, punctuated sporadically by the old knight's long and convoluted tales about his own exploits. Payne, to his credit, nodded along as though he had never heard them before.

In the darkest furthermost corner of the cavernous space, far away from the sputtering lamps, sat a hulking figure, only really visible to those that looked for him. For this is where he always sat in the hours after dinner, enshrouded in silence, with only a flagon of wine for company.

Presently, he shifted, and lifting the vessel to fill his cup, set it down with a soft thunk on the table. The sound seemed to disperse the shadows to those who paid attention, its meaning clear.

Dornish Red. He likes the Dornish Red. Her soft shoes pattered across the cellar floor, rats running ahead of her fluttering skirts. Holding the flagon under the spout, she watched as the thick liquid dribbled down maddeningly slowly. A gurgle, a few more drops, and the flow stopped. Cursing, she hastily tapped the next barrel, filling the container almost to the brim as an apology for taking so long. Not in Seven Hells would she want to stir his temper.

The hall was almost bright after that vermin-infested dungeon, and she ambled past the revelling guards with as much speed as the overfilled flagon would allow. She imagined she could feel his gaze on her, shining out stark white from his nook as she approached.

His cup was empty, and she prayed his forgiveness as she poured. The Hound paid her no heed, attention seemingly fixed on the party near the door. One of the young men caught him looking and made a lewd suggestion to the whore at his side, who made a face and resumed chatting with her friend. Several of the guards burst out laughing at this, hooting and urging the two prostitutes to 'do the old dog a favor'. The two older men, unseated by all the ruckus, shot them sour looks on their way to the door.

She wavered where she stood, fearful that the lads were pushing for a fight. Terrified that the Hound might rise to their taunts. Should she make herself scarce?

The brush of a hand over her rear made her jump, and she turned to find herself looking straight into Sandor Clegane's scowling face.

"Bring me something to eat, girl." He rasped. "Go on. Be quick about it."

Nodding, she trotted off back to the cellar and saw to arranging a plate with a generous helping of fruit and cheeses. What did he like to eat? She had not a notion. She had never heard tale of him being picky with food, however. Though he had often given servants a talking-to for bringing him ale instead of wine.

Dish piled high, she mounted the rough-cut steps and kicked the door to the hall open, only to met with an unsettling quiet.

The guards were gone, and had brought their companions with them. The rest they had left; cups, bowls, platters, cutlery lay strewn across the table, littered with the remnants of their meal. Under one chair, the two of hearts lay soaking in a pool of brown mead.

But he was still there. She could just about discern the shape of him where he waited in his corner. He glanced briefly down at the platter she placed before him. Not at all interested in its contents.

Before she could move away, strong hands gripped her, pulling her down with insurmountable force onto his lap. She opened her mouth and one clamped down over her parted lips, accompanied by the whisper:

"Now, now I'm not going to hurt you."

Her whole body rigid, she sat silently as his free hand fumbled with the ties of her dress, parting the faded fabric so that she sat there, on the Hound's lap, with her perked nipples visible through her white cotton shift. Her shame rose to her cheeks, and she whimpered into his palm, but he only hushed her, hands moving down the length of her body.

"I only want to touch." He assured her, nibbling on her earlobe. "Just say the word and I'll stop."

Yet the word did not come. As his hands roamed here and there over her prone form, she found herself more enticed than afraid, and quieted, lying back against his warm chest in a move of both surrender and invitation.

Emboldened by this, his fingers found their way under the front of her shift, caressing and pinching where no man had touched in years. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her body squirmed into his touch and, as his lips grazed the soft flesh of her earlobe, she moaned quietly.

An indistinct murmur, and his palms pressed into her chest, fondling her greedily, pushing the breath out of her lungs. Flushing, she arched back against him, cupping his good cheek as he nosed at her,neck, nibbling on her shoulder so that she giggled. Sucking at her pulse so that she thought improper thoughts.

He had his face in her hair now, breathing her scent in deeply as his hands meandered south. She shivered when the night air hit her thighs, only to be set alight by his touch, firmer now.

"A word and I'll stop."

He reminded her, fingers tickling her pale flesh, she wriggled against him, turning her face away, but still she did not hinder him as he reached under her skirts, hands brushing her even through her smallclothes, lips at her neck and shoulders. She gasped as his thumb tranced the dip of her cunt, gently testing her through the thin fabric. She knew she was wet, but could he feel it? Did he...like it?

He pulled her back so that her rear came flush against his crotch, and she knew at once that he was enjoying this, feeling the hardness enclosed in his breeches. As he touched her woman's place, he rocked his hips against her, growling deep in his throat, scraping his teeth along her supple skin.

Contrary to all expectations, she found his attentions rather pleasant, and relaxed back against him as deft fingers coaxed the heat pooling in her core. Did he want to…? Reaching down, she silently untied her smallclothes, guiding his massive hand to her before letting them fall to her ankles. A sharp gasp, and he breathed words of praise, kissing her shoulder as he pleasured her eagerly.

She whimpered, now rocking in time with him, breath catching as his fingers fulfilled her. He pinched her nipples again, sending two blissful jolts of pain down her spine. Her teeth dug into her lip in a futile attempt to quiet herself, and the Hound paused his measured thrusting to observe as she reached her peak, trembling and gasping in his arms.

They both sat there, still for a moment. The only sound her ragged breathing. His hand fluttered over her exposed flesh, but nothing more. In spite of the bulge straining against his laces, he seemed in no mind to act on his own arousal.

Curiosity piqued, she brought her hand back, brushing against him lightly with her knuckles before pressing her palm firmly to him. A sharp inhalation, and he sat ramrod straight. As he did not stop her, she fondled him more surely, smirking at his uncertain grunts.

Now with both hands, she tore his laces open, taking him fully in hand, delighting in the rough gasp that escaped his twisted mouth. Shaking fingers fumbled with her skirts, rolling them up and out of the way so that he might press against her bare arse, member twitching in her fist.

She could easily have finished him in this way, but where was the fun in that?

When she raised herself, the Hound's hands fell away, as though he expected her to withdraw. The noise he made next told her he had certainly not expected this. Had not expected to feel his cock poised at her entrance, or the wetness there.

A pause. Would he push her away? Or would he take her? His fingers gripped her hips now, attempting to pull her down, and she understood the answer to be neither. In fact, the snarl he let out when she sat on him told her he was more than happy to leave everything to her. Save for her dress, which he swiftly yanked away from her breasts so that it fell uselessly to her waist, giving him plenty to play with while she rocked, utterly engulfing him and moaning loud enough to rival his own utterances.

At last he lost his patience, and standing switfly unseated her, pushing her forward over the table. There was nothing gentle about the way he entered her now, and she threw her hands out flat upon the scratched surface, sending his forgotten cup to the floor with a hollow clatter. Taking her hard and fast, nails biting into her flanks, his low snarls became more desperate as he galloped toward release with such force she failed to make a sound, arching taut against him.

Another strangled cry, a grunt, and he withdrew. She felt the warm splash of his seed on her thigh, heard the impact of him collapsing back into his seat, then nothing save their rapid breathing. Should she say something? Unsure, she adjusted her dress silently, only to stop short as his grating chuckle echoed through the gloom.

"Not nearly as meek as you let on, are you?"

A giggle escaped her lips, fingers idling on her front ties. "No, I suppose not."