Updated test
The Hound gruffed, taking another swig.
"Aye, and what you want me to do about it?"
"I...well, I was hoping you might, uhh... escort me to a garderobe."
The Hound laughed, heartily and rich, but cruel, forcing the smell of dornish sour from his throat, and letting the fermented fragrance consume the air between them.
"And you think it wise, that I let you off your leash? Not only is it naught past dinner yet, people will still be roaming the night. If someone were to see you apart from your chain -"
"Well, take me on the chain. I don't care. It's getting unbearable."
"The consequences would be disastrous, and I'm not risking your pretty face because you needed to take a royal piss."
Sansa sighed.
"A chamber pot, then? Is all I ask." She squeezed her legs together, the sensation fast becoming uncomfortable. The Hound grunted and stood, and forthwith loomed above her. He made quick work of emptying the dog dish filled with kitchen scraps and handed it to her. She took it with a disbelief.
"You surly don't actually expect me too..." "No, I don't - but do you see any piss-pots round here with perfectly painted pretty Tyrell roses on them? And, unless you can sew shut that cunt between your legs, you are going to need to piss - and no matter how you wish it so, I'm not risking either of our necks to make the experience more comfortable for you."
The Hound was an awful drunk. And she bluntly realized that was the way he aimed to present himself to the world. The drinking killed any soft undertones he had whilst sober, and enabled him to become obscenely primitive and even more so terrible then usual.
"What about you? Won't you need to use the garderobe."
"I'll take two steps out this room and piss out the nearest window. You going to piss out the window girl?"
"No."
"Well, then." He tucked one food behind the other, opened his arms wide and nodded, mocking her curtsy.
"Piss or don't, but good luck with the latter if that's what you choose."
His expression was difficult to place, but he turned and sulked back into the darkness with naught another looked down at the dish in her hands.
It was filthy, grubby. Foul. Small pieces of old dried meat crusted the steel, and bits of kitchen scraps and mud coated it in it's entirety. She couldn't imagine the kind of germs that were associated with the mouth of hounds - and instantly the young woman blushed, forgetting her former thoughts and seeing vividly the shameful context that crossed her mind now.
Of him. Between her legs.
It happened that way most of the time. She'd be focusing on her stitching or taking a stroll in the gardens, when something sparked it, and he would appear. His voice in her head, his grotesque face, his fierceness and courage, what his kiss might be like. Mostly his pain would be the front runner, and she would lay claim to be his hero. She would be the one to make his sadness disappear. But sometimes, intense sexual notions took ahold of her indignity and the pounding in her chest would grow so strong she thought it might give her away.
It was only ever at night when she truly meant to turn her thoughts to him. With no one around to see her venerability. Then, once a dream befell her, she could blame all her impure thoughts on the silly sleep time that couldn't be helped.
"Stop your worrying girl, trust me - worse things will get closer then that dish, mind you. That Imp of yours, well - though he might vomit his courteous at your feet, he'll be having you soon, and he'll be wanting you, thats for sure."
"Turn around." She ignored his unpleasant conversation and heard shuffling and clanking of armor, suggesting he'd turned face down on the steps. But not yet satisfied, Sansa gathered the dish in one hand and the candle chandelier in the other. With chains rattling, she re-located herself around the other side of the pillar.
Gathering her skits she misplaced her small-clothes and stuck the dish between her legs, making sure she was touching it as little as possible. In her room, using a chamber pot was simple and non-eventful, her only thought was hurrying to get back to the warmth of the bed. In the Throne room, however, with the most hard-hearted man in the seven Kingdoms as a witness, was an exceedingly different experience.
"Cover your ears."
Perhaps it was another threat that escaped his lips, or something quite equality as vile, but the words were much to muffled to tell. Sansa was unsure if he did exactly as he was bid, but she couldn't wait for a moment longer.
The noise rang out, splattering into the dish like water leaking from roof in a thunderstorm. The nose was so loud, Sansa thought, vibrating against the walls, ringing out in the echoing room. She cursed the Gods for making bodies the way they did, and was glad when she was finally done. She abandoned the dish, not knowing what else to do, and sat back on the cot, wrapping his cloak around her, breathing in his smell, and hugging her knees to her chest.
Despite her utter discomfort, there wasn't any tension in the air. The Hound didn't seem to give much care about the situation. All she herd was his heavy breathing and the sloshing of wine as he drank it. He didn't laugh at her. He didn't comment or belittle. He didn't say or do anything at all. He was so unfazed by her indignant moment, and now that the act was done, she felt what laid behind her was just a simple, forgettable action in a life filled with ongoing momentum.
"I don't want to marry him, you know." She said.
The night had grown old and blind, the candles long out by the time the Hound responded.
"If he so much as touches you in any way that you do not wish it, I'll -"
"Castrate him?" She interrupted sleepily, smiling, but the Hound did not laugh.
"No, little bird." He gruffed. "I'll skin that urchin alive. From his deformed miniature toes to his pretty blond Lannister locks."