I wrote this for the SanSan Russian Roulette, for which the challenge is to write a short snippet between 500 and 700 words going off a given prompt. I couldn't keep to the set limits, but I tried.
Timewise, this drabble is situated somewhere between the end of AGOT and the beginning of ACOK.
A.N: Though her name isn't mentioned in the text (and apparently not an option on FF), the prostitute the Hound is with in Chataya's is Dancy, who figured during a few lines in ACOK. Since she was a redhead, she fitted the bill of the prompt perfectly. Due to a continuity error (or hair dye, idk) she switched to blond in ASOS, but I used the description in the earlier book. For those interested: ACOK p. 331, Voyager paperback 2003.
He grasped her freckled bottom, wrapping his fingers around the curve of her hips. The naked whore giggled and turned her head toward him, locks of her long red mane pleasantly brushing the skin of his hands as she swept it over her right shoulder. "Shall I be milord's bitch?" she asked in sultry notes, grinding herself against him. Fuck, why did I pick the talkative one? He hated it when whores put on a show.
"Be quiet, turn around, and let me fuck you, wench," the Hound growled, as he positioned her over his shaft on the featherbed. He expected a frown, but the girl only raised an eyebrow and smiled. Good enough, he thought. He angled himself at her entrance and thrust inside her bluntly, grounding her soft behind against his pelvis. The girl released a whimper, and he felt her quiver beneath him. After a few tentative strokes the Hound settled into a rhythm, keeping a tight grip on the whore as he rocked against her, grunting with every plunge and bloody sweet friction. She moaned softly beneath him, arching her back.
She's a pretty thing. Young, supple and soft, with perky teats and fiery red hair above and below. Her ass is quite nice as well, he grinned inwardly as he slapped his hips against hers and elicited another mew from the girl. He closed his eyes, focusing on his pleasure.
A good tight cunt, too. Maidenly. Not that the Hound had ever tumbled a maiden. He had paid for worse though, usually when drunk and desperate. Never felt any desire to fuck an actual one, anyway. To hear it tell by boastful men-at-arms in the King's service, the conquest of a maidenhead was paved on dedicated wooing and glib persuasion, and it was always surrendered in tears. It was a hunt the Hound had no stomach for. Or the face. He would chose an honest whore any day above the doubtful allure of innocence in bed…although…Sandor Clegane felt his manhood throb and warmth pool in his underbelly as his mind conjured and roved the nakedness of another girl. Kneaded the lovely breasts that her perpetual too-tight bodices teased. Ran his fingers along her silky thighs, probing the folds of her cunt. Tasted her sweaty skin on his tongue. Buried his nose in her auburn tresses. Buried his cock in her.
"Bloody-," he swore under his breath, taken aback by the vigor that burned in his veins. He teetered on the edge of his release. Panting, the whore mumbled some incoherent words, gripping the tepid sheets of the bed tightly with her hands. He could've deceived himself in believing her locks held a deeper red than he knew they did, shrouded as they were in the badly lighted room. But when he bent forward and ran his nose down the soft strands of her hair, the incongruent fragrance of cinnamon and heady clove broke his thrall. Instead of the spike of bliss, his release ignited an agonizing emptiness.
As they untangled themselves, he shoved the whore away with more force than he intended. Who did you think you were fucking, dog? he derided himself.
It wasn't the unheralded fantasy about Joff's little bird that rankled him, or the lust enkindled by a child who was barely a woman. It was the indefinite instant he had made himself believe it might be real. Sansa bloody Stark willingly spreading her legs for me. The pathetic delusion left an acidic taste in the back of his throat. When did he become this weak again, indulging in a dream that was a lie? The Hound shut out the image of a wooden toy knight that surfaced.
"You still need to pay me, milord." The remarkably less sultry voice of the girl brought him out of his brooding. She stood at his bedside, an expression of polite address on her face, though he detected a hint of annoyance.
"Your fee and dwarf penny's on the table," he told her gruffly.
As he observed the girl inspecting her coins, his thoughts turned dark again. His money could buy him every pretty whore at Chataya's; it could buy him every whore in the whole buggering street. It could never get him Sansa Stark, however. Yet, the memory of the little bird peeking at him as he wiped the blood of her lip stuck in his mind. She might not have need of my money, he thought darkly, but there will come a time she could use my sword…