The title is pretty clear, but just in case you didn't pay attention... Warning for underage activities. If you feel uncomfortable with it, you should probably not read this chapter. Now you're warned. As this chapter makes me very nervous, any feedback will be appreciated!
Chapter 10: Bedded
"You must be over the moon," Serrett told him with a smirk.
Sandor had just left the balcony where he had met Lord Eddard Stark and the pipsqueak from the Neck who was his friend, when he met Serrett on his way to the Maidenvault. The Red Keep still looked like a maze for Sandor, but he knew that Tywin would be in the Maidenvault and would need his service. Serrett was leaving the long slate roofed keep as he called him out. Sandor stopped mid-stride and gazed intently at Gerion's squire, wondering about his remark.
"Why would I be over the moon?" he asked Serrett.
The squire snorted, but as Sandor took one step forward, he noticed the boy's red eyes.
"'Cause Banefort is dead," he spat. "That makes you Tywin's one and only squire. It seems that you have the luck of the devil, Clegane."
He frowned in disbelief, ignoring what Serrett implied.
"But how?" he said.
Banefort will be knighted soon, probably by King Robert. He can't die now.
"Lord Tywin sent House Banefort and loads of crossbowmen to the harbor," Serrett replied, sniffing. "Banefort was among them. Some sailors resisted and Banefort got killed during an ambush."
Serrett went silent, observing Sandor's reaction. After staring at his reddened face for a few heartbeats, Sandor averted his eyes, bobbing his head. So that's why I didn't see him in the Great Hall, when Gregor and Amory Lorch presented the corpses of the Targaryen children to Robert...
He peered at Serrett who seemed furious.
"I'm sorry," he said flatly. "Banefort was a good squire."
"As if I didn't see you fighting with him!" Serrett hissed. "You hated Banefort, you double-faced bastard, so don't tell me you're sorry. Now you'll squire for Tywin. You'll have everything you wanted since the day you arrived in Casterly Rock. Oh, it didn't take you a long time to achieve your ends... Only a few months, fighting with other squires, licking Tywin's ass..."
Sandor stayed perfectly still, slightly shaking, but keeping a grip on himself; after what he had seen in the streets of King's Landing during the day, he felt nauseous enough not to hit the first prick who provoked him. His lack of reaction made Serrett frown; he finally understood that Gerion's squire looked for an excuse to brawl, and he expected Sandor to start the fight. As a way to conjure his sorrow for losing a friend? After all, he had seen stranger things.
"You know what?" he told Serrett, moving past him. "I don't care about your opinion on me. I don't care about squiring for Tywin or for someone else. You're an asshole if you think I rejoice in Banefort's death and-"
Before he could finish his sentence, Serrett jumped on his back and tried to strangle him; the boy kicked and squeezed Sandor's throat with all his might. Even taken unaware, even in the aftermath of the sack – or perhaps because he had witnessed so many horrors that day – Sandor didn't feel like striking back: he seized Serrett's wrists and forced him to release his hold, then shrugged the squire like a useless cloak. Serrett landed on his hands and knees, cursing and choking back tears. The blond boy looked so miserable at that instant, Sandor couldn't help staring at him before walking away.
Banefort's death had made him Tywin's squire overnight and Sandor was not very comfortable with the ensuing responsibilities, especially when Tywin and Gerion took him to the Tower of the Hand, for an encounter which took the appearances of the Small Council. Ill-at-ease, he stood by the door with the other squires – Robert's squire and Lord Arryn's – who stared at him in astonishment, while the most powerful men of the realm sat down around a long table.
A squire shouldn't be burnt or as young as I am. Tywin's squire should be a perfect youth with a stately bearing and a flawless skin... The two boys standing next to him most likely belong to noble families serving House Arryn or House Baratheon for centuries, while his grand-father was a kennelmaster brought to nobility by Lord Tytos. Somehow, he was living that day the same troubling experience his grandparent had faced when he became a landed knight; a half-smile pulled the corners of his lips when he realized it. Yet, in the little world of squires, people measured the one's fame by looking at the seat of his house, and by scrutinizing the moss covering the walls. The bigger and older was your keep, the more noble was your family: Clegane's Keep was small and looked way too new, by their standards. Tywin could have any squire in the Lannister host, still he chose me. Maybe he finds a secret pleasure in taking with him someone who doesn't fit the part.
Apart from Tywin, Gerion, the king and Lord Stark, there was Lord Arryn – the new Hand of the King – he had already seen in the Great Hall. Two strange men he didn't notice so far shared the end of the table with Lord Stark: one was bald and plump, clad in a green silken tunic and the other one was an old maester Sandor identified thanks to the long chain he wore over his robe.
Tywin had said something about a Maester Pycelle who had convinced Aerys to open the gates for the Lannister host; Sandor therefore understood the bearded man with deep-set eyes was the late king's advisor, the one who had set the cat among the pigeons.
It was even easier to recognize the plump man wearing a fancy green tunic: before they arrived in King's Landing, many bawdy jokes men told at night were about a eunuch named Varys and his missing manhood. Their tasteless humor made Sandor wonder rather than laugh. Why in Seven Hells would someone cut off a man's balls or cock? It didn't make any sense; yet the bald man peering at Tywin could only be Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers and his presence in the Tower of the Hand, along with the Grand Maester Pycelle proved a strange continuity with the Targaryen era existed.
The conversation began and Lord Stark soon demanded that Amory Lorch and Gregor be brought to justice for the murders of the last Targaryens during the Sack.
"Ser Amory Lorch and Ser Gregor Clegane are mine," Tywin answered softly after listening to the Northerner's question. "Mine to chastise or to reward. In this case, I'll reward them."
He looked so threatening at this moment, despite his exquisite manners and clear-cut tone, that Pycelle shivered. Reward them? The acid taste of bile hit the back of Sandor's throat.
"They got rid of three persons who stood in King Robert's way to the Iron Throne," Tywin added. "Your address makes me question your loyalty towards King Robert, Lord Eddard."
A seething rage took hold of Lord Stark; as he was sitting at the end of the table, Sandor saw him glaring at Tywin.
"I'll lend enough gold to rebuild most of the places ruined or destroyed by battles. It's a good deal for the Crown," Tywin added, glancing sideways at the king. "No need to say that I would reconsider my offer should my Bannermen be brought to justice."
"Why are we talking about this, in the first place?" King Robert asked.
"Will you agree with me, Lord Tywin, if I say you brought the children's dead bodies to our new King as a token of fealty?" Lord Stark went on.
Tywin nodded slowly. At the thought of what his brother had done, Sandor couldn't help shifting from foot to foot.
"What kind of loyal liegeman were you when you sacked and burned the capital? When your men killed or raped the townsfolk?"
"Enough!" the king bellowed.
When Gerion opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, Tywin raised his hand in a commanding gesture that shushed his brother; Gerion sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Beside Lord Stark, Varys kept staring at Tywin, fascinated by his demeanor. The Lord of Casterly Rock let out a sigh expressing his annoyance in front of an assembly so unworthy of his cleverness, rooted his elbows to the table and looked at them over steepled fingers.
"I won this city for King Robert and I prevented the mad king from burning it. Do you think he would have set fire to a bunch of inns like some of my men did? No. If I had not interfered, you would have seen green hues in the sky, green flames devouring houses and people alike. Your host would have waited for one night and one day, until the ashes went cold, before crossing the gates. Nothing of this" – his hand showed the room a sweeping gesture – "would remain. I did save the city."
Undeterred, he scowled at Lord Stark.
"And what would it look like if the men who got rid of the remaining Targaryens and secured the dynasty your friend King Robert is about to start were beheaded? Smallfolk would not understand such a decision. However, there's something I understand quite well, Lord Eddard. You don't care for the late Dornish princess, nor for her children, nor for my Bannermen. With your accusation, you only mean to harm my son, Ser Jaime."
Lord Stark immediately pushed himself from his seat, his brusque reaction startling the Grand Maester who cringed on his seat.
"I will not have you talking to me this way, Lord Tywin. Instead of accusing me, you should consider your own actions. You betrayed the Mad King soon after promising him your help and you butchered the largest city of the realm. As for your son, he discarded the vows he had taken and stabbed the king he once swore to protect. I'm sad to observe that the such a conduct could go unpunished, after a war that meant to free us from the unfairness of the Targaryen era."
"Wars aren't won with promises and pledges, Lord Eddard," Tywin lectured him.
"A pledge I made months ago is precisely the reason why I am here today," the Northerner retorted.
"I pity you, then."
Tywin thinks Lord Stark has an idiotic and nonsensical attitude. Sandor somehow understood his liege lord's opinion, now that he had seen what war was like. Promises and vows don't matter once in the battlefield. The king and his Hand remained silent, thus showing they wouldn't take their friend's side.
"Anyway," Tywin added, "I won't let you punish my Bannermen – let alone my son – but... I wanted to chastise some of my men who overstepped my orders. If King Robert wants to make an example of these men, I'm ready to hand them over. Tell me Gerion, what happened with the plunderers we caught near the Great Sept?"
"Master Symon and your squire took care of them," Gerion replied. "We should ask Clegane."
Turning around, he motioned Sandor to come, while Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys suppressed a shiver. Because of my burns or because of my name which reminds them of my brother's crimes? He took a few steps forward and stopped in front of his master.
"Where are they, Clegane?" Tywin asked.
"Master Symon and I locked them in the dungeons."
"Wherever you go, Clegane, you can't help visiting dungeons," Gerion commented.
Despite the circumstances, he didn't lose his deadpan sense of humor. Impressed by all the men observing him, Sandor remained very serious, glancing from time to time to Pycelle who adjusted his lorgnon on his nose, probably to have a good look at his burned cheek.
"Go fetch Symon and bring back these men," Tywin ordered. "Lord Eddard wishes to make an example and I want to oblige him."
Sandor nodded, turned around and walked to the door. As he closed the heavy door, he heard the Grand Maester's quavering voice.
"May I ask if I could examine this boy's extraordinary burns?"
Sandor froze, waiting for Tywin's answer. Please, no. Just tell him I'm fine. After a never-ending silence, his liege lord's tone sounded dry and despising.
"The boy is mine, and he'll go to the maester only if I tell him to do so."
Right after, Sandor heard chairs creaking against the tiles and understood the meeting was over; he hurried to the Maidenvault, eager not to meet Pycelle again.
I'll be responsible for their death. The prospect made his head spin, as he followed Master Symon in the spiral staircase leading to the Red Keep dungeons. After the meeting between the new king, his counselors and the Lannister siblings, Tywin had ordered him to bring back the plunderers they had caught the day before so he could show them to Robert. Robert Baratheon the first of his name... it sounds odd. He'll be the first king in three hundred years not to bear a Valyrian name... The thought disturbed him, but not enough to make him forget about the two poor devils who awaited their fate in the dungeons underneath the Red Keep.
Because of the stairs' uneven surface and the feeble light, Master Symon carried a burning torch. The master-at-arms had first offered it to Sandor, before thinking better of it and silently taking the piece of wood soaked in pitch. The boy was grateful for Symon's attention and kept a reasonable distance between him and the flames. From time to time, they heard droplets falling from the ceiling; receiving some water on the top of his head, Symon cursed and wiped it immediately. As they progressed deeper under the luxurious rooms of the Red Keep, the drop in temperature surprised Sandor who soon shivered in his crimson tunic.
"So the man I talked to said there were four levels of dungeons in the Red Keep," Master Symon rasped, breaking the heavy silence.
"I don't understand," Sandor replied. "When we locked the foot soldiers, we only saw one floor, and most of the cells were empty. Why are there four levels?"
Symon turned around and in the flickering light of the torch, his ugly face took a devilish appearance.
"Seems that we only saw the first floor, where common criminals are confined. Each level has his purpose. The high-born captives stay in the second level, where there are no windows and only torches burning to give them some light; the third level contains black cells, with no windows nor torches. It must be terrible to spend days and nights in the black cells..."
"What about the fourth level?" Sandor asked as the master-at-arms resumed his descent into the bowels of the Red Keep.
"The fourth floor is used to torture prisoners and neither you nor I want to see this."
Sandor repressed a shiver.
"Are they going to torture them, Master Symon?"
"I don't think so, boy. Torture is meant to make people confess their crimes. King Robert doesn't care about what these men did, he just wants to make an example... What?"
He cast a glance at Sandor and noticed his frowning; as usual, he misunderstood the boy's expression.
"Nothing," Sandor answered. "Some men don't use torture to make people confess their crimes. Especially when there are no crimes to confess."
The images he tried to forget had come back without warning, as disturbing as ever. Violence is just Gregor's way to entertain himself, when he's bored. Or pissed off, or whatever. Symon looked at him intently, his self-confidence vanishing in the dark staircase and his jaw dropping with fright when he realized what Sandor meant and who he was talking about.
"We won't visit the fourth floor," Symon told him firmly. "And the plunderers won't be tortured, I give you my word."
"You don't need to promise me anything," he retorted, barely concealing his anger. "Promises are for fools."
Symon put his torch in the nearest sconce and stared at him. The master-at-arms had the same look Sandor had seen in his eyes the day before, as he carried the dead girl to her bed: puzzled, sad and somehow tender. The kind of look that made him feel ashamed; he suddenly wanted to eat his words.
"I'm sorry," he said flatly, eyes downcast. "It's just that they're going to die because of me."
Symon seized his shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze.
"They're thieves and probably murderers. You caught them. I should be the one who feels guilty because I didn't lift the little finger to save this poor girl."
While Symon confessed his weakness, he felt more pressure on his shoulders, as if the man leaned on Sandor.
"Why did no one try to help her? We could have done something before leaving the square."
"We were obeying orders, boy. That's what soldiers do. But I don't want you to feel guilty; they deserve their chastisement. And never forget that Lord Tywin sent you to bring them back yesterday, then decided they'll end up on the gallows, to please King Robert."
The master-at-arms sighed heavily before letting go with Sandor. We're pawns, he thought bitterly. I thought I was doing something good when I chased them in the streets of King's Landing, but I was just a pawn, like the plunderers, in the little game Tywin plays with the new king and Lord Stark.He felt like a cog in a wheel, trapped in a monstrous clockwork. If he didn't want to obey orders, all he could do was run away. The images of his stay in the woods before he arrived in Casterly Rock flooded in. As Symon took the torch and grabbed the keys hanging from his belt, Sandor shook his head. Not now. Someday, when I'm ready.
"You killed your first man before bedding a girl," Symon said with an inebriated voice. "It should be the other way around. The Gods... the Gods have forsaken us. Trust me, Clegane, this world is crazy."
Wine induced tirades didn't really surprise Sandor now that every member of the Lannister host was more or less drunk. Around him and the master-at-arms, the lords, knights and foot soldiers were drinking all kinds of alcohol one could find in King's Landing, from the most expensive wines imported from Essos to the piss-poor ale and cheap strong-wine the commoners loved; the only difference was that the lords and knights drank their Volantene wine in the Queen's Ballroom, while Tywin had bidden the archers and lancers to stay outside, in the Red Keep's inner yard.
Sandor and Symon stood at the threshold of the Queen's Ballroom, between the two worlds observing each other without mixing. The boy was accustomed to the nobility's despise toward him and to the smallfolk's distrust; he simply didn't belong to either group. However, he had never realized Symon felt the same: in fact, he ignored Symon's past.
"Can we stay here with the commoners or should we go inside?" he asked the pot-bellied man.
"As long as I can drink, I don't give a fuck about it, boy."
He took another long gulp and chuckled, almost choking on his wine.
"Are you a knight?" Sandor asked again.
"I'm the youngest son of House Vikary. People said a Reyne bastard founded our house. A Reyne bastard! That makes me less than a shit in Lord Tywin's eyes, since he killed all the members of House Reyne and destroyed Castamere. My father had the strangest idea; the year Tywin came back from Castamere, after he had crushed the rebellion, he sent me to Casterly Rock. I wasn't welcome there, and I was neither good-mannered nor smart. But... I was good with a sword and that's why his father, Lord Tytos, let me stay as a master-at-arms. I knew I could never be a knight, so now I tyrannize the knights-to-be!"
He burst out laughing and poured more wine in Sandor's goblet. Remembering his terrible headache after his first night of bender, the boy resisted – feebly – then took a sip. So Master Symon is not as old as I thought. He's not older than Tywin. Stroking the dark stubble covering the lower half of his round face, Symon looked at him with a bawdy smile.
"Aye, Clegane, it's a shame you killed your first man before bedding a girl. But at least, we can find a solution."
Thanks to the darkness, the master-at-arms couldn't see how red and burning were the boy's cheeks. Sandor swallowed hard, then cleared his throat.
"Girls don't like me. I scare them," he explained.
The master-at-arms patted his shoulder and shook his head.
"You think girls like this?" he asked Sandor, slapping his paunch. "Do you think they want to kiss my big nose? No they don't! That's why we're going to the brothel tonight."
"You said you would take me to the armor-smith," Sandor said, a little too promptly.
He didn't mean it, but he sounded a bit disappointed. Symon let out a raucous laughter, called the nearest group of archers and pointed at Sandor, as if he wanted the men to back him up. The archers ignored what the master-at-arms found so hilarious, yet they burst out laughing all the same. Symon finally calmed down.
"So you're the kind of boy who prefers buying swords than fucking girls? Come on, Clegane, we can do both!"
A look of feigned dignity on his rubicund face, Symon raised his right hand.
"I, Symon of House Vikary, promise to take you to the armor-smith tomorrow, on the condition that you first come with me to a pleasure house. Tonight. You won't keep your sword forever in its sheath, boy."
As Sandor's unease became palpable, the master-at-arms stopped his banter and went serious.
"Listen to me, boy. You don't have to be ashamed. Whores exist for fat men, old men..."
For scarred men?
"I often go whoring, because no woman wants me for free," Symon added. "You can be whoever you want in a brothel. You can pretend you're a handsome youth like Ser Jaime Lannister, if you want. Whores exist for ugly men like me. Or..."
He hesitated, then glanced at Sandor's ruined cheek.
"Or boys like you. I suppose all boys go to the brothel, first. What kind of girl do you like?"
His question puzzled Sandor. He didn't even know men had usually a kind of girl they preferred.
Symon insisted on freshening up before going to the brothel, so he went back to his room, fetched a basin of water and washed hastily. Then he donned his best tunic and joined Symon in the corridor.
On their way to the Street of Silk, a long street housing most of the capital's brothels, the master-at-arms kept talking and ranting under the influence of alcohol and Sandor settled for nodding and not contradicting him. However, the prospect of sleeping with a girl scared him so much he didn't listen to Symon.
He had seen animals in Clegane's Keep, he had heard men talking about women and boasting themselves in the Westerlands and on the road to King's Landing, yet the possibility that he could someday touch a girl was disturbing and remained an abstract idea. Girls don't like me. I scare them, he repeated to himself. They only see the scars.
Over the past moons, his body had changed and, in Casterly Rock, Tybolt's curious look whenever Sandor got undressed had confirmed he was not a child anymore; only his high-pitched voice, this embarrassing anomaly, betrayed his age. He was taller than the oldest squires and still growing up; while the other boys of two-and-ten were generally lanky, his muscles allowed him to carry heavy shields and weapons to help Symon. The master-at-arms had even told him he could someday wield a greatsword with one hand and knowing that he would be able to do such an uncommon thing was a source of pride.
But it's not about height and muscles, tonight. He had had disturbing dreams lately, and had woken up in the morning, pouring sweat and feeling odd. Sandor had a vague idea of what was going on, but as he always did when something confused him, he had decided to shrug it off. Yet he couldn't pretend this night was ordinary. Declining Symon's offer now would turn his only true ally away and Sandor rejected that thought, slightly shaking his head. Next turn of the moon, I'll be three-and-ten, he remembered. I'm a grown man, now.
Symon went silent and suddenly stopped in front of a thick wooden door, before tapping the door knocker. Sandor's heart skipped a beat. It's too late, now, I can't avoid it. He realized he felt more afraid than when they had crossed the Lion Gate and he called himself an idiot. Maybe I'm not a craven but I'm a bloody fool. I fear them more than our enemies. Them, the whores, he said in petto, trying to get used to the word.
All of a sudden, as the door creaked open, he saw them. Standing in the entrance hall and half hidden by a red velvet curtain, behind the old woman who owned the place, they were three very common girls, probably born in Flee Bottom or in some village near the capital, chatting and glancing at the visitors. The owner was as short as skinny; under a shock of grey hair, Sandor noticed the deep wrinkles furrowing her pale skin; she looked up at them and grinned when Symon touched the leather purse hanging from his belt.
"Please come in, Sers. Welcome in Naya's pleasure house!"
Her soft, mild voice sounded a bit soapy.
"We're no Sers," Symon protested.
The old woman tilted her head and smiled playfully.
"Oh, what are you, then? Lords? Two men like you can only be knights or lords. Naya can tell."
Symon turned to Sandor and gave him a knowing look. Is it what he meant when he said we can be whoever we want in a brothel? Naya observed them as they stepped in the entrance hall and she closed the door made of dark oak.
"Hmm, let me guess," she said softly, "an experienced warrior like you needs to forget about the terrible battles he fought with a curvaceous woman. A blond, maybe?"
The master-at-arms hesitated for a heartbeat then nodded. Naya gestured to one of the whores and she stepped forward, puckering up in the flickering light of the candles; she was a pale fleshy blond with long braided hair. Like the two other girls, she wore a see-through gown; hers was blue and enhanced the color of her eyes. Symon seemed pleased enough not to bargain the price Naya announced.
"And what about your friend?" Naya asked, as Sandor's good cheek went red. "A young girl. Not too young, though, he needs to be reassured."
How did she know? He sucked in deeply when the old woman brushed aside the dark strands he had flatten on the left side of his face. Despite his humiliation, he tried to stay still and clenched his jaw.
"Hmm-hmm, go fetch Emerald," Naya ordered and he clearly saw the two remaining girls heaving a sigh of relief before vanishing behind the velvet curtain and hurrying in the corridor.
The same old story. He glared at the old woman who cautiously stepped back and turned to Symon.
"I'm afraid there will be an additional cost," she told the master-at-arms.
"An additional cost?" Symon boomed. "What for?"
Naya sighed and tilted her head, ill-at-ease.
"Listen, I don't want to scare my girls. And I think this" - she pointed at Sandor's burnt cheek - "allows me to ask for a compensation."
As the old woman and the blond whore glanced at him – Naya wondering how much she could ask Symon and the blond with a sparkle of concern in her washed-out blue eyes – he was shaking like a leaf. A heavy silence fell on the entrance hall until a brown-haired girl with a surly face emerged from the corridor.
"This is Emerald," Naya announced, smiling and partially recovering her spirit.
As soon as she saw Sandor, Emerald froze; she was a bit taller than Naya and her yellow see-through gown hardly concealed her slim body. Without her sullen expression and her constant frown, she could have been beautiful. She looked hard at Sandor and tugged Naya's sleeve, leading the old woman in the corridor to protest. In the meanwhile, the blond woman grinned and gave Symon her best bedroom eyes.
Although Naya and the young whore whispered, Sandor caught snatches of their conversation and easily imagined what he couldn't hear.
"I said no..." the girl said. "I'm tired...always fucking babes..."
"No way... I already told them... more coin, Emerald!"
"His scars... Disgusting..."
"You don't need to look at him, girl," Naya said, adamant, and they both went back to the entrance hall.
Behind the old woman, the girl looked furious and she glared at the other girls who repressed a chuckle. Naya planted herself in front of Symon and extended the palm of her wrinkled hand; Symon took his purse and gave her the price she demanded: five stags. Finally, the old woman gave a little flourish with both her hands and Symon left Sandor to follow the blond woman, who wriggled her hips and rewarded the master-at-arms with a languid gaze. The boy's heart skipped a beat; in front of him, Emerald folded her arms, and observed Sandor suspiciously.
"Come on, Emerald!" Naya said, grabbing the girl's wrist with a hint of impatience.
Someone had just knocked at the heavy door and the old woman didn't want to lose a customer. Emerald frowned again and exited the entrance hall without ever looking at him. The corridor, half concealed by the red curtain, was long and dimly lit. On either side, Sandor saw wooden doors. Some were closed and probably busy; a few ones were open and revealed the same furniture: a large bed, one console table supporting a pitcher and a basin. On the wooden floor, there was a chamber pot.
Emerald stopped in front of one of the open doors, at the end of the corridor and sighed deeply before entering the tiny room. As he stood on the threshold, she turned around and gave him a condescending look.
"Are you coming, boy? Maybe you want me to call your mama?"
She mocked his young age, but she wasn't much older. Probably no more than eight-and ten, he decided as his mouth went dry. And I'm a grown man. Or at least, I'll be a grown man when I'll leave this room. He stepped in and closed the door.
"My name is Sandor," he said tentatively, assuming that telling her his name was a good start.
She had already taken off her slippers and she placed her pretty shoes under the bed; he could only see her profile.
"Good for you," she answered, shrugging.
"Is Emerald your real name?" he asked, coming closer.
She gave out a bitter laugh, but still refused to look at him.
"My real name?" she repeated, chuckling, and she undid her belt.
Remembering something he had heard in a song about a valiant knight and his lady love, he extended a shaky hand to take her in his arms; she stepped back instantly.
"Keep your paws off!" she hissed. "Don't even think about kissing me. I don't give no kisses. And Naya said I didn't have to look at you."
How are we supposed to do this if I can't touch her nor look at her? And why is she so nasty? He didn't know if she reacted this way because she found him physically impressive and therefore wanted to show she was a tough one or simply because he disgusted her. This time, Emerald turned her back to him and removed her gown hastily. Sandor gaped: he had never seen a naked woman before, and her thin, supple body fascinated him.
Turning again to face the small mirror made of polished metal, she removed one by one the pins that held her hairstyle; as more pins landed on the console table with a jangling sound, her long brown hair covered her shoulders but revealed her small breasts. Symon would have said she was skinny, but Sandor loved her slim waist and slender hips. She must have felt his hot gaze on her, for she looked at him and briefly smiled.
"You look funny, boy. How old are you?"
"Five-and-ten," he lied.
"Like I said. Always fucking green boys. Remove your tunic."
He wanted to protest or to explain her why he was here but found nothing relevant to say. Emerald was already climbing on the bed; she stopped in the middle of the mattress, on all fours, and waited. Sandor took his tunic off, put it on the floor, like she had done with her gown, then removed his boots, but didn't move. He knew what she expected him to do, yet he felt petrified.
"What?" she asked, turning her head over her shoulder and glancing at him. "Naya said I didn't have to look at you."
"I don't know," he stuttered, "I never..."
Emerald sighed heavily, sat up and pinched the bridge of her small nose between her thumb and forefinger.
"Gods, you're a virgin! It's so unfair! This snooty Fraila always have the best customers and what do I have? Babes! Be honest, do I look like a wet-nurse?"
He looked at her slender hips and shook his head as she sat on the opposite side of the bed, her back to him again.
"No," Sandor replied. "You... you're pretty." Or you could be pretty if you made an effort and stopped frowning.
Sandor's flattering remark forced a smile out of her; at least he noticed how her cheekbone became round and pink and guessed she was smiling.
"Sorry, boy, but I can't just answer 'same to you'," she whispered. "Lie down, then."
Without the butterflies he felt in his stomach, he would have shouted at her; instead of getting angry, he complied and slowly lay down on the bed. She'll look at me, he thought. She didn't want to, but she'll do it all the same. And I will hold her in my arms. As the girl was still sitting on the edge of the bed, combing her brown hair, the urge to touch her skin increased. He wanted to feel the smoothness of her creamy skin under his fingertips and he anticipated the moment when he could brush her waist or fondle her breasts.
Back in Clegane's Keep, when Ivy was still alive, he had helped her catch two chickens in the poultry yard, for supper. It had been more difficult than they imagined, but in the end, Ivy had planted herself in front of him, a broad grin on her lips, and pinched his good cheek. He remembered the joyful expression on her face, as she looked up at him – he was already taller than the servant. Sandor had touched her bare forearm, just for a second, and felt the soft skin under his callous palms. He had never thought of kissing her – because she was older than him, and because he didn't want to spoil their strange friendship – but since that day, he imagined every woman had a soft skin and craved to touch it.
Emerald climbed on the bed again and straddled him, but not the way he expected; once more, she had her back to him.
"What are you doing?" he asked her, leaning on his elbows and trying to sit up.
"Stay still. Naya said I didn't need to look at you," she repeated, like a capricious little girl.
Frustrated, he lay down and looked at her pale bottom. Why is she so mean? Is it because the other men are cruel with her? Before he could find a convincing answer, her deft fingers were on his breeches, then inside his breeches. Sandor felt exposed and ashamed that she could look at him while all he could see of her were her back and her buttocks.
He gasped when she touched his manhood and began to rock her hips against his.
"Mmh- mmh," she commented. "You're a damn green boy, but at least you're big. I suppose that counts for something."
His heart was pounding in his chest as she guided him until he slid inside her; he had never felt something like that before and couldn't tell if was pleasant or disgusting. He grabbed her hips instinctively and gave out a low grunt.
"No, no, no, wait," she ordered, swatting his hands away. "We'll do it my way. Stay still. Stay still or I swear I hurt you. You know I can."
His reluctance to let her go made her chuckle and she laughed for good when he slammed his hand on the mattress with frustration. Feeling this girl laughing on top of him was odd and incongruous, like a bad trick the gods played to remind him that his strength and skills didn't prevent him from humiliation nor helplessness. Somehow, it looked like a role reversal: shamelessly, she had scrutinized his manhood and now she commanded him like a customer in a brothel. I shouldn't have been so submissive, he thought. I tried to be kind, I let her do as she pleased because I believed that she knew and she would teach me, but she didn't.
She rocked her hips at a slow pace, stopping from time to time, careless of what he wanted and moaning like her blood was up. I'm her plaything. Symon took me to this place because he thought I would enjoy my time with a whore, but right now, I'm her plaything.
When her moaning became louder, he disobeyed and grasped her hips. A little cry escaped her mouth but she didn't protest and let him find his release.
The moment following his release disappeared in a sort of haziness; she collapsed on the bed and lay down beside him. They were both panting and Sandor tried to realize what had happened. He felt exhausted and more serene at the same time, yet he couldn't explain why. After a while, he became aware that Emerald still didn't look at him, but instead of rolling on one side to show him her back, she simply watched the whitewashed ceiling – just like he did.
"Congratulations, you're not a virgin anymore," she said, once she had caught her breath, with the same sarcastic tone than before. "But you could have waited. It could have been good for me, too."
Sandor felt so vexed over her attitude since she had seen him in the entrance hall he didn't care to please her anymore.
"No, I couldn't," he answered curtly.
She gave him a fleeting glance; from where she was, she could only see the unburnt side of his face and she seemed more comfortable with this sight. Her shameless eyes roamed over his chest and down to his abdomen; for a heartbeat, he thought she would touch him again and he glared at her. She recoiled instantly, combing her long hair, but locked eyes with him. At last.
"The baby boy doesn't want me to touch him, now?" she teased him.
He shook his head. She's just like me. She probably lost her parents and ended up here. Doesn't allow her to humiliate me, though. They stared at each other, silently, like two young wild beasts fighting for their territory.
"Why did they give you that stupid name? Emerald?" he asked, forgetting all gallantry.
She shrugged, still observing his good cheek.
"You see, every girl here has her customer base. Fraila has the rich ones, Heeva – the blond your friend chose – always ends up with the old men who want to squeeze her tits, those who are into exotic women prefer the girls from the Summer Isles, Alysanne and Jayde have the passing trade and I have the green boys... I suppose Emerald is a perfect name for a whore who fucks green boys."
She seemed rather proud of her flash of wit. Sandor's lack of reaction puzzled her, though, and he saw her biting her lip. She wriggled on the mattress until she was flush against him and she put her hand on his chest, gently stroking the place above his heart. He didn't move, that time; he could reach out and touch her breast or her lower belly, but he decided not to give her any reason to believe he craved for her. All of a sudden, the bad-tempered whore who refused to look at him and mocked his inexperience had turned into a sweet girl, docile and caressing. They stayed like this for a while and Sandor tried not to blush under her stare, then she leaned on her elbow, a half-smile on her lips.
"You will come back to see me again," she whispered.
It was not a question, for she was sure he had loved what had happened between them. Her lips curled up in a triumphant smile when he cleared his throat. She thinks I'm embarrassed.
"Why would I do that?" he asked.
"Because you liked it. Fraila can say what she wants, but I'm better than anyone with green boys."
He rolled on his side so that she could see both sides of his face, the scarred one and the unburnt. She did her best not to flinch.
"I don't think I'll come back," he replied, staring hungrily at her offered breasts.
"Why?"
She smiled, imagining he was taunting her, but when she realized how serious he was, her usual frown came back.
"You're the one who fucks green boys," Sandor explained, locking eyes with her. "And I'm not a green boy anymore."