Because of the rain they had stopped early and taken up residence in an abandoned house in a little village. It was neither burned nor plundered, which could neither be said of the local inn nor the other houses. Fresh graves could be seen around the street altar of the Seven. A few refugees from further ahead of the road were resting some other rooms of the empty house. Sansa and Sandor introduced themselves as Lana and Grenn Rivers.
“You're travelling in the wrong direction!” a middle-aged, portly man named Oscar told them. He didn't seem to be overly afraid of Sandor. Most likely because The Hound was blind. And because he didn't recognize him, however this was possible with his unique burned face and size.
Sansa asked, referring to the man's statement: “Why is that so, good man?”
She had become guarded in King's Landing, but she thought that this Oscar was as trustworthy as one could expect in these dire times. After all, he had a complete family with little children at his heels, and he looked clean and trim.
“There are skirmishes between fighting groups of soldiers, m'lady. Someone like you, who looks like a red-haired Tully, better shouldn't bump into them. And there's a group of bandits in the northern direction as well. Only one out of ten travelling parties gets through unmolested. My wife, my children, my sister, her husband, her children and me have been incredibly lucky. But had we stayed in our place I'm sure we'd be dead already.”
“Is it safe here at the moment?” Sandor wanted to know.
“I hope so”, the man said. “And we have discovered a field with salsifies and carrots and turnips. In the backyard, there's also some parsley, thyme and sage. The children are already cutting some herbs. If you help us with harvesting a bit of the crop on the field we could all have a good, warm dinner together.”
At first, Sansa was a little reserved – she had never worked in a field to obtain a meal! Then, however, she thought that this was neither the time nor the place for arrogance, and she said: “If you show me what I must to – of course.”
“Fuck me sideways! The Little Bird doesn't feel it's below her to be a field worker??” Sandor thought as he was trudging after her. Who would have thought that of the fine lady, who had only dreamed of knights and songs and needlework?
When they arrived where the plants were Sandor had to fumble on the earth, blind as he was, and half of the time he pulled out weeds instead of the plant he had aimed for. But if the oldest daughter of Eddard Stark wasn't too fine for this task, bugger him twice, if The Lannister Hound was!
After a while, Oscar stated: “M'lady, it's clear as daylight that you have never done this before. Judging by your looks – ARE you of House Tully?”
The Little Bird laughed nervously.
“Yes... yes... you're actually right. A... a natural daughter of Ser Brynden Tully.”
Oscar erupted with hoarse laughter.
“HAHAHAHA, so that's why the Blackfish never wanted to marry! Had a sweetheart amongst the commoners! How very romantic!”
Sandor wrinkled his hooked nose. Fuck, Sansa was such a bloody bad liar! They could be grateful that her nervousness could be ascribed to her being a bastard of the Blackfish! Well, at least the Little Bird had had enough sense not to give herself away.
In the evening, they were all sitting around a nice fire in the kitchen and enjoying their meal. Oscar's wife had really worked magic: the vegetable stew, simple as it was, tasted bloody delicious! While they were all munching their food they exchanged information about the status on the road. Afterwards, Sansa started to sing. “Jonquil and Florian” and such rubbish. Her voice, however, was so very sweet that it caused the children to fall asleep, and even Sandor noticed how he was getting tired.
“Right, Little Bird, time for bed!” he finally growled.
Luckily, there were enough rooms for everyone: the children, the parental couples, and Sansa and himself. Even some cots had been left behind by the former owners. So they retired. No warm bath tonight like in that inn. Couldn't be helped. The Hound stretched himself. Sansa lay down, and he scrambled behind her. The blasted cot, happy as they could be to have one – was fucking narrow for the two of them, so that they'd have to sleep like two spoons. How bloody fantastic. Sandor growled inwardly.
Sansa seemed to have gotten accustomed enough to him to be pressed against his oversized body without panicking. And Sandor tried not to think of her sweet female scent and taste and actually attempted to sleep. At least until his efforts were blasted to all seven hells.
It started with a female sigh next door.
“Oh shit, please no!” he thought.
A giggle. Followed by a moan. Followed by a darker, male moan.
Bleeding Stranger, did Oscar's goodbrother have to fuck his wife here?
Sansa tensed a little against him. Shit, so she had noticed, too. Noticed and understood.
In the other room regular movements and gasps and moans could be heard. And the speed and the volume increased.
“Oh yes, please, deeper, harder!”
Seven hells, the idea of becoming harder was bloody contagious! His own cock was swelling against Sansa's little arse. And his wife surely had to notice by now. It accounted for her deeper, faster breathing. That did nothing to help him relax. The memory of her wonderful cunt and her lustful songs were too fresh in his memory.
“Ahhh, you feel so good! Put your legs around me!”
Fuck, couldn't they get to an end? How long did the man want to pump into his wife?
To The Hound's distress the sodding bugger seemed to be a very capable and... enduring lover. Sandor's own cock was already leaking, just by listening and fantasizing of the Little Bird's body that was pressed so flush against him. What on earth was that other man doing? The woman was freaking out now. The Hound hoped it would be over ... but no. The damned twerp wasn't contented with one female orgasm.
Sandor was close to getting up and beating the man's face to mush.
Instead, he growled into Sansa's ear: “We'll both roll around now.”
“We'll. Both. Roll. Around. Now!” he snarled through gritted teeth and moved his body accordingly. In this way, his cock wasn't pressing against the Little Bird's bum any longer. He was still so hard that it hurt, but it was better this way. No, he wouldn't give in to his primal instincts as he had done before. If he could handle his need for alcohol and withstand, so could he with regard to Sansa! He wouldn't overstress her again!
“Aaaaaah! Yesssssssoooooohhhyessss! Gaaaaaaaaads!!”
A simultaneous, deep, long groan.
At last the couple in the other room had had enough. Even so, it took Sandor two more hours until he had relaxed – and softened – enough so he could fall asleep. By then, Sansa was already snoring slightly against his broad, muscled back. A seemingly perfect little lady. Snoring. Who'd ever fucking believe that? Those were the last coherent things Sandor managed to think before slumber took him.
The next morning, Sandor felt immediately that something was wrong with the Little Bird.