Author's Notes: This was an entry to LJ's Sansan-Russian-Roulette challenge for 500-700 word flash-fiction for the prompt by Maracuya: Sansa and Sandor on a pub crawl in either King's Landing or Oldtown.+ Bonus points if Sansa doesn't notice she's getting drunk; ++ More bonus points for the Hound singing/rasping about the "Dog and the Maiden Fair"; +++ More bonus points for Sandor and some other ASoIaF character having a drinking contest.

Originally this was one off, from Sansa's POV, but as per suggestion I wrote also Sandor's POV of the same events (despite swearing never to do that again...oh well!). Million thanks once again for darling Wildskysheri for beta'ing this!

Summary: Sansa fleetingly wondered why he was putting on the show under the cloak when nobody could see it.


The Maiden Fair

She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,

But he licked the honey from her hair.

Her hair! Her hair!

He licked the honey from her hair!

The chorus was a cacophony, the vocals slurred. Some voices Sansa recognised, some not. The one closest to her, so close that she could smell the wine-saturated breath, was low and raspy and completely out of tune. Yet it was not the lack of melody that made cold shivers travel down her spine.

"A bear, Clegane, a BEAR! Not a bloody dog!" This speaker she knew; that crude sellsword Bronn, one of Tyrion's men. "Thinking ahead to licking that wench of yours, eh?"

Raucous laughter, whistles and jeers. Sansa shrank even more, huddling inside a cloak covering her fully.

"Fuck your bears!"

"Come then, show us what you've got. Too pretty or too ugly, to be kept so hidden?"

"Don't give a damn fuck about the face. This is what matters." Sansa felt the cloak pushed aside and the Hound's large hand on her breast, squeezing it painfully. Instinctively she yelped and tried to withdraw but the grip of his other hand was like steel on her shoulder. Don't show your face. Whatever happens don't show your face. She bowed her head and tried to ignore the assault on her senses.

His palm was huge, completely covering her girlish breast. Its touch was invasive and vulgar. She trembled.

The singing continued but the hand didn't withdraw as she expected. It lay there heavily, calloused fingers pressing her soft flesh and the warmth of his skin seeping through her woollen dress.

What seemed like a lifetime later he pushed a flagon into her hand. "Drink, girl." She was shaking so she accepted the wine and gulped it down obediently. It was bitter and strong – like the man who had offered it.

Another tavern, a different song. This time he grabbed her by the waist and pressed her face against his broad chest and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. He smelled of sweat and leather and when he lifted her into a better position Sansa's nose rubbed against the ridges of his leather jerkin. His hand flitted up her side, fingers brushing the underside of her breasts. Sansa fleetingly wondered why he was putting on the show under the cloak when nobody could see it.

Yet another winesink and Sansa started to feel better. Stronger. Ribald jokes the likes of which she had never before heard made her giggle. It was not so bad after all, she concluded, now sitting on the Hound's lap, her bottom resting on his thigh. It was thick and solid like a tree trunk.

"Drink up, Hound, or you'll lose the game."

"Fuck your games. I have a game of my own in mind." Despite his growling the Hound lifted his flagon and greedily quaffed it down. Sansa knew what kind of game he meant and blushed. Yes, that's what everyone thought was going to happen later.

The Hound swayed on his seat and suddenly she became worried about how drunk he really was. Wine flowed freely - Lord Tywin's reward to the defenders of King's Landing - and there was nary a sober soul in the city. What better time to plan an escape?

This is just an act. He has to do it so everyone thinks that I am just a common girl and he is just a drunken soldier.

The Hound's hand on her thigh yanked her closer and she felt her cloak bunched up under her in a hard bundle. She wiggled to pull it free, but just as he let out a muffled groan Sansa realised it was not the cloak, but him. All blood drained from her face when the implication sank in.

When he got up and without warning hoisted her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing, Sansa's heart started to hammer in her chest so loud she was sure he felt it against his back. Come with me if you want to leave, he had said and with no questions asked she had followed. Like a stupid little bird fleeing from one predator's jaws to the clutches of another.

Yet it was too late – much too late. The Hound pinched her behind with his thumb and forefinger and just as he started to climb the rickety stairs of the inn up to the sleeping quarters he turned his head and bit her hip.

"Rescued you from the clutches of those lion bitches, didn't I? Deserve my reward, don't I?"