Author's note – Smut next chapter for sure. Sorry if you were looking for it here. This story has an absolute mind of its own and keeps getting longer and longer. Yes, I know "she and he" is grammatically incorrect. This story is meant to give insight into Sandor and Idla's thoughts and feelings more than anything and sometimes thoughts don't follow the rules of grammar. I like the way it flows so, as the Hound would say, "shut up about it". Also, there is a shameless chicken reference. I couldn't help myself. I do hope everyone is enjoying the story. I have many more chapters worth of material and will more than likely go back to start on the beginning of this tale after the next chapter. I do not own GOT or any of the characters from said world. I'm not making any money.
Yup, Idla is our OC. Her name means "battle".
He left the bath before she did. He'd never done that before. He always waited for her to leave first, most likely to get another look at her naked form. She'd nearly been asleep when he rose from the water, daydreams of him and her writhing in bliss whirling through her mind. She opened one eye in a reversal of roles and took in his bare backside as water poured off of his body when he climbed from the bath. Gods she swore. The Maiden help her she'd never seen a man built like him. For a moment she recalled a time when he had been bared to her before. But that time was much different. He'd been filthy with his own blood and waste, while he spoke delirious incoherent words in the throws of a hellish fever. He didn't resemble that man now at all. He stood proud and large and broad. He made his way to his clothing and even with the limp he still had an air of absolute strength about him. She wanted to bite him again and realized, with a shock, that she'd begun to salivate. Like a dog with a choice cut of meat. She swallowed, embarrassed, before she made a mess of herself.
He didn't give her the pleasure of turning to face her as she had done for him earlier. He kept his back to her as he dressed in his breeches and tunic. The plain robes and hood that most of the men of the Isle choose to wear went over top the other garments. Sitting on a bench, he hauled on his boots and then made for the door. He caught her eye just before he exited, giving her a nod and a last knowing look. And that was one of the wonderful things about she and he. They didn't need words to say what they meant.
She dawdled in the bath a bit longer before rising and trying to sort out her still sopping wet clothing. Growing irritated with the twisted smallclothes she finally threw on her robe and synched it tight, praying it wouldn't fly open on her way back to the woman's quarters. The bell for the final meal rang and she quickly balled up her smallclothes as tightly as she could and flew up the stairs to the kitchens, out the back door and down the short path to the woman's cabins.
Back in her room, she tossed her damp clothing onto the back of her only chair and dug through her chest for something dry to wear to dinner. Sandor was right, she thought, as she pulled on fresh smallclothes and a plain, dark blue woolen dress. It wouldn't do to meet here. Though she did have her own private space, there were three other rooms close by housing six women total. She was the only one that currently had her own room as it was deemed important for her, as a healer, to be able to rest when she could and to have space to work and study. The other women bunked two to a room but that would soon change when the babies arrived. Marie was already past due and she'd been making the expecting mother walk and drink raspberry tea every day in an effort to speed the delivery along. Jocelyn still had two or three months until her babe would be born. When that happened there were two other cabins they could all spread out to.
And besides, she went back to thinking about him, how would she get him in here without someone else taking note? He certainly wouldn't fit through the single small window in her room and the great room of the cabin seemed to always have someone in it reading or sewing or talking. No, his hut was a much safer and discreet option. While their host did not expressly forbid relations between men and women they were most assuredly not encouraged, especially before marriage. As if Sandor Clegane would ever marry she snorted. It wasn't that she deemed him unworthy; rather, she had the distinct impression that a man who had no patience for the vows of knighthood or religion would also hold no interest in the vows of marriage.
Tossing a shawl around her shoulders and slipping into her evening shoes, she made her way back outside to walk around to the front of the large main building. All of the other women had already left and so she walked quietly and alone for a few minutes. She could already hear the chaotic noise that was supper as she pulled open the towering front doors of the great hall where meals were shared and council taken. She made her way over to the woman's table against the far right wall and sat down in the space between Marie and Dea. Again, it wasn't as if the Elder Brother forbade them to sit with the men but, out of respect for the Brother's chosen path, the women had decided to eat amongst themselves.
Sometimes though, when she was feeling unusually brave, she would plunk herself down next to Sandor and talk about her day with him. He didn't say much back but at least he had eventually stopped looking at her like she'd spit in his stew. Recently, if any of the other men got too cheerful with her he would give them a look that clearly said they could fuck off. Other times, when he had been particularly rude to her during the day, she would walk past his place, grab his cup of wine and take it over to her seat with the other women. He would never come ask for it back; just glare at her for the rest of the meal. She would raise the cup in salute and drink it all up in one go. She'd stopped doing that after he'd replaced the wine in his cup with vinegar one evening.
She served herself some of the duck and boiled potatoes on the table, adding a few carrots and a piece of brown bread to the mix. Dea started nattering on about the crows in the garden while Marie went over names for the baby for the hundredth time. She pushed her food around her plate not having much of an appetite. She was getting a bit nervous about later that night. It had been nearly two years since the farmer's boy had taken her maidenhood. She hadn't taken another lover since and while she knew her basic ins and outs it had been awhile ago. The opportunity and want had never presented itself to her again since those few summer tumbles. Not until he arrived.
What if he wanted a maiden she suddenly thought, her stomach fully locking up on her now. She hadn't thought of that before. What if he was expecting a blushing green thing still intact? They'd never discussed it. They hardly ever discussed anything of a truly private nature. Maybe he didn't care she tried to reassure herself. It wasn't as if he was pure as snow. Why should he expect more of her? But then again, if he wasn't expecting her to be untried maybe he wanted someone a bit more experienced? She knew what went where but the poor farmer's boy had been too excited every time they had coupled to be of much use to her. There had been little time to explore his body and none at all to pay attention to hers before he would spend himself atop her. Crone's teats she cursed. She'd have better luck at feigning the maiden than she would at playing a wench.
A bit panicked, she sought for his face in the hall. If she could see him, see his eyes, maybe she could tell what he was thinking. There! She spotted him three tables over and a bit to the left. It wasn't hard to do. He stood a head taller or more than any other man in the room. He didn't look her way. He was engrossed in his food, shoveling in fistfuls of blackberries and cheese and quaffing down great mouthfuls of ale. He belched and reached for a whole loaf of bread and, Gods, was that an entire chicken carcass in front of him? No, she corrected herself, there were two. What in the Seven Kingdoms was he doing? He wasn't known for his table manners but she'd never seen him have at his food like this. She sat transfixed watching him eat like a starved animal. He was eating like he didn't know when and where his next meal would come from. He ate like the men before the Tourneys she had watched in her youth. They would wolf down enormous amounts of food in preparation for the long day of hard labor that lay before them and oh! She could feel her face turn bright as a holly berry.
Glancing down at her own plate she was keenly aware of the food she'd barely touched. She wasn't going to keep up with him by eating like a little bird she thought as she began stuffing her mouth with roast duck. She kept at it until her plate was clean, gulping down a hefty portion of potatoes and nearly choking on a bit of carrot at some point. She washed it all down with a large glass of dark red wine before looking to him once again. He was staring right at her, a great smile upon his face. She couldn't recall a time she had seen him smile so true. He raised an eyebrow at her in a decidedly naughty way and saluted her with his mug of ale before polishing off the last dregs. Then he heaved himself up off of his bench, seized another loaf of bread and went out through the back door of the hall.
He stalked out of the great hall, the loaf of bread tucked under his arm. He was feeling well now that he was full of food and sated with ale. He preferred wine but it was apparently only available to the women this evening which happened from time to time when supplies ran low. No matter he thought as he made his way through the kitchens, grabbing a wineskin off a neglected table and continuing on his way. A Clegane knew how to gain what he wanted.
He stopped at his hut first, tossing the bread and wine onto the table before making his way to the stables. Brother Pentnook was already there brushing down the mares. Stranger stomped in greeting and he took a moment to scratch at the great beast's head before continuing over to the feed barrels. It was good that Pentnook was here tonight. They could finish the work in less than an hour together and he could ready his room for her. The horses tucked into their supper as he and Pentnook took their leave of each other.
Walking back inside his small hut, he grabbed the wineskin first and drank deeply from it before removing his robes and hood. The damned things were itchy and hot but he wore them in thanks to the Brother's and their generosity. The simple clothes did a good job at covering his face as well, which was his wish now. He didn't need an outsider, a stranger, finding out what really happened to the Hound. Not until he'd regained his full strength and sorted out what exactly the next step in his sorry life was. The anonymity of the cowl was a blessing for the time being.
He turned, facing the cold stone fireplace. He rarely ever lit it. Better to freeze than face fire. Sometimes he'd invite Pentnook or Mirkel in for a drink and suggest that they start it while he poured. Sometimes the Elder Brother would visit and before he could hint at it the devote man would march over to the hearth and set the kindling ablaze, mumbling about "starting to get old and chilled" to save him his pride. He didn't have much trouble throwing logs at the fire once the flames had caught. It was the beginning that was the problem. Sparks were unruly and you had to get so damned close to them in order to get them going. He always stomped it out before he went to sleep.
But she had said she would come and the air had begun to take on a chill in the night. Soldier up he told himself while leaning down into the hearth. The kindling took the flint almost immediately and he sat back on his heels in relief. The fire would warm his hut well for her. And if not he would find other ways to keep her warm. He drank more of the wine finding it half gone already and wished he had grabbed another skin. There wasn't much else he could do now but wait. The hut had very little in it to begin with so there wasn't much to set to rights. He'd made the bed this morning and though the sheets should have been washed days ago there was not a thing he could do about it now. With nothing more to occupy his time but the red he found himself starting to doubt.
She would come wouldn't she? He had watched her plow through her meal like an army marching through turf. It had given him pleasure to see her eat heartily. Aroused him even, to think she was preparing for tonight just as he was. But time had passed from then till now and he still wasn't sure of himself or her promises. Then again, she wouldn't just not show up he told himself. That wasn't like her. No, if she had changed her mind she would be honorable about it and come tell him to his face. His face. He sneered as the wine started to speak to him. That was it then. She would turn him down gently her eyes full of pity and revulsion. He'd started to grind his teeth again.
Whores were easier. Pay them a coin, or three in his deformed case, and it was simple from there. They didn't look at him like he was normal, they didn't touch him unless told to do so and they never talked so damned much. She was complicated. She wasn't being paid to smile or touch him and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why she continued to do so. In any event, he hadn't had a woman in -he started using his fingers to count back past the injury and the time to recover, back past the time with the wolf bitch, back past the night when the Little Bird had plucked out his heart with her choice, back to a night before the Blackwater burned- a year? Could be more. A little twig of a whore had serviced him that night. A man takes care of his needs when he's not sure how much time he's got left. That one had been shaken by his face but there were no other slags available at the time so he'd told her to turn round, had taken her from behind and made it as quick as possible, tossing her an extra coin when he was through.
A year. It had been a year since he'd had a woman. It was a wonder his cock hadn't fallen off from disuse. Did he even remember what a wet cunt felt like anymore? Yes, his mind quickly supplied. The memory was hazy but not gone. Like new doe hide gloves soaked in thick, warmed oil. He wanted it again. He wanted it with her. She had said she would come and, Gods, he would have her. He'd fuck her seven different ways and send her off with a limp to match his own.
His breeches had gown tight thinking of cunts and tits and all manner of flesh on a woman. He finished the last of the wine and considered taking himself in hand. If she came to his bed there'd be nothing in the Seven Kingdoms that could make him last and if she didn't then he'd have taken care of his problem himself. He could acquire some more wine and drink himself into forgetful oblivion. Either way was a win though he new which one he preferred. His hands reached for the laces on his breeches. They were half undone when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. He groaned at her timing.
"The Smith's Iron Cock!" he cursed. He wished again for more wine. That would help him keep from spilling all over her for a bit. "It's open" he shouted while quickly tying his laces back up.
She stepped over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind her and all the while keeping one hand behind her back. "I've brought you something," she offered as her hand came out from behind her clutching a swollen wineskin.
He decided that she was perfect.