Inside the inn it was warm, and steamy. The peat-fire burned brightly, and a drunkard sat near the flames, fanning his dirty-brown hands to keep them warm. He blew the tips of his fingers, and swallowed down the thick beer in his wood flagon. Sandor hailed the innkeeper.
"Aye?" She was a tall, busty woman. Her voice was loud and unrefined, her teats bigger than sansa's head, her curly hair the same colour of stray. It grew frizzy from the damned heat inside the inn. "Drinks?" She offered, hand on her ample hip. "A room for the lady?"
Sansa took the pouch from the waistband of her simply nightgown drawstring and handed the coins to Sandor. He furrowed his brow, picked two coppers and a gold, and dumped it into the lady's hand. She curled it into a plump fist and slipped it down her stockings.
"Ale or rum?" She offered.
"Don't like rum. Shits too sweet." Sandor said, gruffly. The innkeep nodded, and tossed a stray curl behind her ear. "Ale it is." She cast her brown eyes onto Sansa. "-And for the girl?"
Sansa opened her mouth but Sandor answered for her. "She'll have rum."
The innkeep glanced at them, inspected Sansa from head to heel, and sighed. His little bird was beautiful, even shaking, soaked through to the bone and streaked with mud. "Water for your bath, m'lady?"
Sansa nodded and smiled, gratefully. "Yes. Thank you, ma'am."
The woman handed Sandor both mugs, the ale deep brown, the rum very purple, the same shade of flowers her lady mother had always liked. They blossomed in the glass gardens, hidden from the winter cold. Sansa found herself missing those flowers, though they'd always made her sneeze.
The innkeeper jerked her head upstairs. "Pick any room ye like, spare the ones that are locked."
Sandor grunted and gestured for Sansa to continue. She did as she was bid. The stairs creaked below, like the wood was screaming beneath Sandor's massive bulk. As Sansa continued up the stairs, her mind began to wander.
They had a bed. A bath, and Sansa could wash her nightgown and dry it. That meant she would be naked, with Sandor in the same room. And Sandor would have to wash up, too. Which meant . . .
Sansa couldn't help but smile as she opened the door to the bedroom. She glanced around appraisingly. Sandor laid the mugs down on the small table infront of the fire. There was no peat nor wood in the hearth. Sandor decided he'd go down for both and keep the little bird warm, save her from getting a chill.
But the bed looked cosy. It had a simply patchwork quilt, two pillows and an eiderdown for the mattress. There were two candles in the drawer beside the bed. And the window curtains were green, faded and worn, tied with old brown cord in a bid to look pretty.
Sandor was thankful the roof had beams. He'd have hated to crouch, if only to stop him banging his head. Sansa looked around. Sandor lifted the mug to his mouth, took a long drink, then smacked his lips and wiped away the trickle of brown beer that had spilt down his chin.
He turned her around. She giggled, somewhat surprised when he leaned down to kiss her. He tasted of beer. He smelled like the earth, pine needles and dirt, a little more human than the others. "I'll get you home soon, lass." He promised, when he'd pulled away. "I've no interest fucking your cunt here."
She frowned. "Must you be so . . . Vulgar?"
Sandor smiled and rested his forehead against hers. "Disappointed, little bird?"
She stumbled over her words. "W-well, i think that . . . I mean, I'd like to but-"
His hands crept downwards. His fingers were deft as he untied the laces of her bodice, his scarred lip smiling. Her chest rose and fell with every breath she took. The door knocked.
Sandor's nostrils flared with ire and he stormed over to the door. The innkeep stood waiting, eyebrow raised suggestively, trying to hide a smile when she saw sansa's bodice had been unlaced. So that's what the grumpy bigger had been up to. She'd dumped a huge, steaming tin bucket on the wood floor. The water bubbled. Sandor reached for it.
Sansa thanked her and closed the door. They heard the innkeep's feet slap against the wood floor as she left, the heavy groaning of the stairs beneath her bulk.
Sandor turned to her. "Time to clean yer cunt." He said, enjoying her squirm. She hated when he used such crude, nasty words. He liked watching her grow red. He wondered, on his warped way, if she'd get red all over. Sandor's hand itched to touch her again.
She smiled and backed away. "No." She said, firmly. She tossed a strand of bedraggled, wet hair behind her shoulder. "Not until we're clean."
Sandor snorted through his nose. His nostrils flared and he punched the bridge as though he had a headache. "Bugger that." He rebuked and reached for her again. She darted away, stumbling, her back against the wall. She was smiling, lips half-pursed. He crouched lower and she pushed him in the chest, teasing. "You smell like a farm. Clean." She demanded.
He rolled his eyes but stepped away, giving her room to slip out from the space wedged between them. Sansa darted over to where the large brass tub was and, sighing happily, she gestured for Sandor to empty the water. Some splashed at him, and he hissed. "Buggering-"
She kissed where it had hurt. Her warm lips did nothing to staunch the sharp pain the boiling water had, but it was only a little. Nothing compared to fire, Sandor thought bitterly.
Sandor went first. Sansa went for the towels.
.