"Fucking starving." The low rasp bounded down the stairwell, sending a rat scurrying back into its hole. Prince Joffrey had been insufferable this evening, throwing food at his sister, refusing to eat anything set before him, and demanding that as a prince he should get to do whatever he wanted. It was so bad that Robert even pulled out of his drunken haze long enough to give his son a thorough and very loud dressing down in front of the whole court, leaving the boy in tears. Jaime had sought to calm him, but Joff had summoned his dog instead, and ordered to be escorted to his chambers.

The bloody ankle-biter had had no intention of sleeping, of course. Sandor had sat there for hours playing chess with the prince, a game he was rather good at, despite not having played in years. But of course he'd had to let Joff win every single round, lest he go off again. Only when Cersei arrived, rather tipsy on wine, and requested a word with the child in private, was he finally released from his own private hell.

that. so here he was, half-asleep, stone-cold sober and famished, picking his way through the pitch-black castle at midnight all because Jaime had put it in the wrong hole a decade ago.

Fuck my fucking life.

The kitchens were deserted, of course they were. Who wanted food at this hour?

An overworked old dog.

The place looked eerie in the gloom, with pots and implements hanging from the ceiling, the remnants of that night's calf hanging over the ashes of the large oven set into one wall. He could probably pick at that, and there'd be bread in the pantry, and cheese… Did they lock the cellar at night?

Orange light, a gasp. "Who's that!"

Well, perhaps this venture had not been a complete waste. The Wildling girl stood in the doorway, lamp in one hand, dagger in the other. She was dressed almost like a boy; in beige cotton breeches and a loose white shirt, her feet bare on the cold floor, and her hair loose and disheveled, as one roused in the middle of the night by the snufflings of a stray dog.

She relaxed at the sight of him. The only person he'd even seen relax in his presence. "...Hound?"

"Uh…" It had always sounded like such a harsh title. When he'd first used it to scare Jaime's new squire, when people had started to whisper it behind his back, when they'd all begun to bark it at him in place of his own name. She made it sound nice, with her soft voice and that lilting accent. "I...erm…"

She stepped forward, a smile on her lips, the little halo of light encapsulating them. "Looking for food?"

Shutting his stupid stammering mouth, he nodded.

"Right, I'll take care of you." She held out the lamp and he took it without thinking. Only when she strode past did his eyes fall to the flickering flame. Heart stopping in his chest, he near dropped the damn thing before slamming it down on a nearby table. She turned at the sound. "Could you give me some light, please?"

He noted the sconces on the walls, and the few stunted candles stuck to the surfaces. Surely she didn't mean for him to…? He glanced over to where she was busying herself slicing pieces off the carcass in the hearth. She had already lit the candles on the counter. When had she done that? How long had he been fussing about this cursed lamp?

Covering his hand with the sleeve of his tunic, he lifted it. Then he remembered how easily cloth could catch and immediately switched hands. She wouldn't need all of the sconces. Of course not. Just the ones where she was working, and there were only six. Moving slowly, steadily, he went from one to the other, using the tiny flame to start a piece of flint before panickedly tossing it on the coals. She was behind him now, peeling potatoes and a carrot and throwing the pieces into a pot. He was not much fond of carrots. He said nothing, but leaned against the counter, bumping his head ever so slightly on a cupboard in the process. She did not seem to mind him there. Hardly seemed to notice him, in fact.

She was taller than he had thought. Not as tall as he, of course, but she was, as his mother used to say, 'man-high'. Where most women tended to lose their figure to such a physique, however, she most certainly was not lacking in anything.

She shifted, making him jump a mile, but only lifted one foot to scratch the other. Was she not cold like that? She was making him shiver, with nothing covering her toes like that. The breeches did not reach down all the way either, but stopped a few inches above the ankle…

He narrowed his eyes. There. On her right ankle. Was that dirt? He tilted ever so carefully to look. No. It was a mark. A little symbol etched into her skin with blue ink. Someone once told him the Dothraki did such things. Or had it been the Qartheen? One or the other. Had she been part of a Khalasar? Had she been taken by one? Had she-

"Oh, I forgot!" She wheeled around and he snapped up like a whip, cracking his head on the cupboard. "Oh… Are you alright?"

"Fine." He mumbled.

"I bet you do that a lot, huh?"

"...aye."

She smiled. "My brother's a good bit bigger than you. Had a head full of lumps by the time he was twenty."

He imagined a brother the size of Gregor and quaked.

"You'll really be needing that wine now, eh?" A wink. A wink. "Watch that pot, will you? Mind it doesn't boil over."

He positively glowered at it. Was this what he had to go through to get his dick wet? He watched the pot with baited breath until she returned, kicking the barred door to the cellar open as she struggled with a flagon and a rather large cheese plate. All of these she set on one of the long tables by the far wall before coming over to retrieve two cups.

Two? Did she mean to drink with him? Pouring out two drinks, he thought she was only returning to check the vegetables when she closed one slender hand around his wrist, put the other to his back, and brought him over to his seat.

"Sauce?"

"What?"

She frowned. "Do you…" A pouring motion. She thought she had used the wrong word, and he inwardly kicked himself. "For on your food...um...we… I can give you cranberry or… I think the other one is apple?"

He quickly reined his mind away from the hundred other directions whence it had gone. "Oh...ah. I like cranberries."

His eyes snapped shut of their own accord. 'I like cranberries'? You fucking dunce. When he opened them again, she was plating his food, having either not caught or not minded his slip. He took a gulp of wine.

She had heated the meat along with the sauce, and when it landed in front of him his stomach gave an almighty roar. In spite of his wish to the gods, she heard, and giggled.

"You should have told me to hurry up."

Mortified, he turned his attention to his plate, not looking up when she slipped into the seat opposite. For the longest while, he shoveled food into his face while she delicately picked at the platter between them. Maybe she watched him, maybe she simply ate. He did not look up to check. As soon as his cup was empty she took up the flagon and filled it again, topping her own up in the process. That caught his eye of course, and he found her observing him with keen interest. He looked right back, and she smiled again.

"How do you like it?"

The food. She means the food. "It's fine, thank you."

A pout. Joff liked to pout. Sandor had always thought it an impudent gesture. On her it seemed - if he allowed his imagination to get the better of him - playful. "'Fine'?"

Realizing how it must have sounded, he blundered his way through possibly the first compliment of his life. "I mean...it's, uh...I like what you've done with the...erm…potatoes."

A snigger this time. "Don't worry. I know it's nothing special."

Unsure what to say next, he distracted himself by meticulously spreading cranberry sauce on a slice of white bread, covering the whole thing with one of the milder cheeses before chomping into it. Across the table, she tilted her head.

"Is that...good?"

He paused, considering. It was something he liked to do, but others - including Jaime - thought abhorrent. "Yes."

At once she stood up and, plucking the entire jar of sauce up from the counter, proceeded to slather it over her bread, just as he had done.

"No." He interjected. "Not that cheese. That's goat's cheese."

One eyebrow shot up.

"Too sour. Use this."

Placing the indicated slice on her bread, she gingerly took a bite. The expression she made at this alone made his whole evening better.

"No?"

She pressed a knuckle against her mouth. "It's not...bad…"

"Could've fooled me."

"It's just…" She struggled to swallow it. "The texture."

He chortled, Jaime had made similar such comments. Far less eloquently. To her credit, she took another bite. "You don't have to keep eating it."

"I want to be sure I don't -" Her face scrunched up. Somehow, she remained stunning. The bread was hastily cast aside. "I'm sorry, I don't."

He topped up her wine, which she gulped with thanks. The wench then looked him straight in the eye and said: "You know, I don't believe I have ever seen you smile."

He immediately wiped the stupid grin off his face. "Don't often find reason to."

She smirked as the cup rose once more to her lips. "I'll take that as a compliment."

His eyes scanned her. Was she mocking him? Or flirting with him? He hadn't enough experience of the latter to know.

As he judged her, she propped her chin on her hand, leaning over the table in a away that caused the tops of her breasts to become visible beyond the collar of her shirt. He did not believe she was wearing anything underneath.

Flirting?

"So why do they call you The Hound, anyway?"

Flirting. Fuck, what was he supposed to do now?

"I...uh…" He cleared his throat. "Because I never let my prey escape."

She was toying with her hair now. Seven hells it looked so soft. "Prey?"

Why on earth had he said that? Who in the Seven shagging Kingdoms used the word prey in casual conversation?

A dainty little finger on the rim of her cup, nonchalantly tracing the edge. "So if I were to get on the wrong side of you… You'd hunt me down?"

"Um." What was he supposed to say?

Both palms flat on the table now, and she visibly shifted forward.

"You know, I'm a hunter, too." She said. "So where does that put you?"

Good question. He was getting more lost by the second, not knowing if he wanted to be caught or rescued.

Unfortunately, fate chose for him, and he saw his captor huff grumpily as the kitchen door creaked open.

"Hello, Margaret. I take it you know Lord Clegane?"