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captian-switch · 15 days ago

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Like a rotten dog: part I

The Hound x Handmaiden reader

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV

summary; how would meeting the hound as a new servant go... just fluff - no smut (yet) might fuck around and make this a series. not sure yet. Divider not mine. From @zaldritzosrose

You’d been scrubbing dresses for hours. Hands pruned. Eyes stinging with salt of your sweat, and soaps. Nearly chafed your knuckles raw.

You fell into a trance of it. Your work. Watching the pretty red, gold and peachy skirts billow out in the cloudy water. Before you’d peg them out to dry in the searing sun, then start on another. The embroidery so fine on them. One dress cost more than you’d ever earn in two years. Twined with pink flowers or rose vines, intricate gold beads that formed stars.

You’ll never get stars or flowers. You worked as a handmaiden. All you got was leftover scraps, dirt and toil.

You were a step up from a kitchen wench in a soiled russet dress near worn to rags, that was true enough. But you’re not sure the leers from hungry filthy guards, the occasional cup of watered down wine, and long hot hours of work are worth the meagre station.

But you’ve never really known anything else.

A harsh bellow of your name roused you to attention. It bowled its way to you from the doorway to the kitchen’s. Shattering off the stone in its displeasure.

Standing and stretching out your legs was a welcome relief. Taking your hands from the cloudy water and drying them on a rag. You leave your fellow maid, Alssa, with your workload.

You trudge inside. The heat sticking your thin dress to your back. Hair coated in long strings to your neck. You huff, holding your skirts, and trudging down the uneven steps, sloping drunk with age and gravity, to the bustling, noisy kitchens.

The wall of heat is suffocating when you walk in. It’s a dank cellar with no windows and no natural light. The corners crawl with dirt and rodents. The air fugged with heat and spice. Continuous chopping fills the air.

Candles shake light on numerous surfaces. Some glimmer with blood and entrails from animals being plucked or carved. Some where bread is being rolled. A huge stove where iron pots are stirred over tongues of flame.

Cook is waiting on you. Darria. A permanently cross, elder woman, with meaty arms, numerous chins and jowls, and a grey scowl that could curdle milk. Salt and pepper hair scooped back to sag like old ribbons off her craggy face. Concealed in a linen cap.

“Raela is sick. I’m short a girl. You’re the most presentable. You’ll do.” She snips at you.

“Do for what?” You ask. A simple enough request. But none of the ladies here are quite used to the boldness of your tongue. Time in royal service hasn’t blunted the razor edge of your courage just yet.

“Hells teeth girl.” She curses. Slapping a cloth down on a surface. Fingers caked in dried blood and cooking burns scarred in old rosy flesh up her arms. “To take a tray to a lords room.”

Wafting her cloth in the direction of said tray. Upon sat a flagon of Dornish wine. A goblet. A plate piled high with roast chicken, bread and cheeses.

“Which Lord?” You ask with careful derision.

“The Hound.” She declared. Unfeeling.

She reroutes her attention to wiping down the surface near to her. Ridding it of slimy black blood and chicken guts. Slopping it into a basket on the floor. The red seeping into the cracks of her skin and knuckles.

You sigh. Swallow your dry throat. Because you can’t exactly refuse.

No matter how much stories of his ferocity turn your fellow maiden girls stomachs. You’ve heard tale how he’s cleaved men in half with that sword of his. With no more effort than cutting through a cooked ham. A fierce swing of his huge arms.

He was impossible to miss at court. A towering plinth of armour by the spoilt boy princes side. All growl and bark. A nasty bite too. Lurching along in big strides like a leashed stray in clanking armour.

Always he was armed to the canines. Swords. Daggers. Eyes stormy cynical and hunting for blood. A scowl that could chill hell - made more severe by the twisted flesh of his half burned face. Covered only slightly by an unruly mane of dark waves.

And you were apparently late to deliver his supper.

Starving dogs only made them crueler.

You’ve no choice in it. You keep promising yourself you won’t walk into danger; so careful to creep silent in the shadows to avoid it. Yet here you are; apparently welcome to drop food into its lap.

“Of course.” You come for the tray and hoist it into your hands. The edge digging into your middle.

“Step lively.” She barks at you. “Wouldn’t do to keep the big brute waiting. Lest he knock the pretty teeth out your head.” She threatens. A smirk showing her twisted teeth. Ill delight.

“Excellent.” You remark archly. Under your breath.

If she heard your sniping comment, she doesn’t show it. Too busy you suppose. Feeding near 200 people was a trial on its own right. As she reminded you all so often.

You make for the steps and begin the climb from out the warm twisted bowels of the keep. Air becomes clearer. More civilised. Threaded with roses rather than dirt and sweat. You see gardens and gilded rooms. Climbing flowers reaching round yellow stone columns. Footsteps echoing off tile and courtyard. There’s pattering fountains and pleasant oasis gardens to stroll in.

You pass a group of guards posed outside a door. A royal bedchamber. You feel their glistening eyes wander and climb over you. Like you were juicy quivering prey waiting to be devoured. Some of them call after you. Their words harsh and lewd. You don’t pay them any mind. Let the words roll off your back like beaded water.

Another thing about this cursed keep. You too had to guard your steps. Tread soft as velvet. Keep a shining dagger from a smith in Volantis concealed in your skirts. You never dare invite attention in this poisonous snake den.

You travel along corridors and wind up more stairs. Eventually coming to the hounds lair. Or kennel, as Joffrey often calls it.

Fetch my dog from his kennel.

You get a whiff of the strong deep red wine as you shift the tray and knock upon the door with your elbow. A growl from within tells you to come.

He’s at table when you enter. Blocking out half the light from the window.

Sat curled on a chair at the round table in his room. The chair he occupied pulled back far from the hearth. Almost turned with his back to it. Like he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Really for one of his station, his room is sparse. Monklike even. Really he’s lucky they didn’t just put straw down for him. Throw him a hambone and keep him chained til they have use of him.

His rooms boasted hardly any decoration. No saffron curtains, and ornaments. No frills or statues like the rest of the knights or golden lannisters rooms you’ve seen. Those lions certainly lived for their fucking gold.

He has one very wide chunky wooden bed. All solid sturdy oak. Thickly carved with a white linen canopy curtain messily tied at all four post corners. Cushions sagging, and covers messed and mushed in the middle.

One trunk at the end of it. Worn. A faint insignia painted on its top. Gold background with three running black dogs.

A chair nudged between the shaded windows. Light spotted in patterns through the wooden shutters. Casting a shaft, one that danced with dust mites onto the floor like spilled cream.

“Took your fucking time. Where’d you go for those shagging chickens girl? Essos?” He growls.

“My apologies ser. We were short a maid.” You apologise. You won’t turn meek. You’ve learnt to keep your back to the door. Be snappy. Be polite and then turn your heel and flee.

He grunts. Inconsequential.

You cross the room and set the tray on the table. Out of habit you take the flagon and pour the wine into the goblet.

Then you discover the reason why every word he says, comes dragged through a vile growl. Why there’s sweat beading on his forehead. How he seems to curl into himself like a wounded animal. Teeth ready to bare and snap.

He’s injured.

His shirt is half pulled off his shoulder, fingertips left blood smears in the linen, he’s trying with fumbling too-big fingers to mend a jagged wound to his shoulder. Lacerated at the edges. Not a clean sword wound. It looked more like a bite. You could see indents of teeth where they’ve made their home deep in his trapezius.

You put the flagon down. He snatches hungrily for the goblet. Blood coming in slow thick rivulets down his shoulder. He wipes at it with woven cloth.

He grunts in pain again. A low simmer of a growl coming under his breath.

That’s when you let your eyes and mouth stray; just enough. Just when you were busy being careful.

“That will fester if you stitch it up without washing it.” You warn.

“Don’t bother, maid.” He snarls. Hiding his pain behind a shield of anger, and then a wall of aggression. He was more shielded than a fortress. Wine sunk its heavy spices onto his breath

You take a step towards him. “I’ve tended wounds before, Ser-“ you begin to explain.

The chair scrapes the floor like a dying wail when he stands abruptly. Strange for a man of his size to move so quiet as he did.

His whole body engulfs your attention. Designed to intimidate. Wide shoulders. Huge chest. He couldn’t half move quick - sharp. Ruthless as a hot knife through butter - when he needed too. In his case you’re sure it was life or death; the matter of being quick on his feet.

“I don’t care if you’ve fucked the shagging maester before. I don’t need help.” He spells out plainly. Grunting every word harsh. They fall like rocks from his mouth. With crushing intent.

His shadow fell over you. Big as a damn grizzly bear. Made you think of the tales spun to you as a child, of when they used to pit bears against lions in the arena for sport. Big. Lumbering. Ferocious temper and teeth to match. Carpeted in dark fur. Get on the wrong side of them they’d maul you to shreds.

That seems to apply to him too.

You couldn’t fail to notice he was as hairy as one. His shirt had fallen even wider from his shoulders. Over his sternum now. The wide neck draping down over his shoulder. Nearly down to his pectoral.

His chest was carpeted in dark hair. Every muscle was crude and rounded. He was so widely built, you couldn’t take your eyes away.

“I need wine.” He snatched the flagon and poured more into his cup. Nearly sloshed it over the edge.

“Having a belly full of wine won’t help you stitch it.” You point at his shoulder. Voice laced with derision.

He gave you a look that was all thunder and cut glass. His hair shading his ruined eye. “Works fine for me.”

“I’ve seen bigger bastards than you, succumb to wounds smaller than that.” You warn.

He twisted his face into a sneer. Lip curled. Showed his blunt teeth. The ruined side of his face twitched and pulled with it. He sinks back into the chair. It’s hard to know what groans more. The wood or him.

“Aye?” He challenges.

“I’m big fucker. Tougher to kill.” He assures you. Grunting as he tries to mop away more blood.

“I can’t imagine the prince would be pleased to lose his loyal hound to infection.” You intone darkly. He glares.

“Shall I send for maester Pycelle?” You offer.

“Fucking doddery cunt.” He growls. You take it as a ‘no.’ He continues trying to stab at his shoulder with a curved needle and slowly reddening thread.

You turn. Taking his onerous mood and the lull in the speech as your queue to leave. He didn’t exactly strike you as one who waved or dismissed servants at his leisure. He was high-born but he didn’t act it.

His voice stops you when you hand touched the door.

“Not seen you here before, little maid.” He snarls the name at you like it’s filth. He grits his jaw around the words.

You step back. Face him across the room.

“I joined not sennight ago. Ser. Whilst the King was away in Winterfell.”

He grunted again. You come to realise that’s how he answers most questions.

“What kind of maid knows how to sew bloody wounds and pretty dresses?” He seeks. Dark look blazing your way. Searching into places you’d rather he didn’t dig.

A true hound with a bone to pick.

“One who hasn’t spent all her life in a wretched slum in flea bottom, living on scraps.” You answer snappily.

“And where has the little maid spent her life?” He asks.

You frown. Tilting your head. He barks at you. Tried to intimidate you. Bites your head off at every word. And now he’s asking after your life before this keep. The duality set your head spinning.

“The North. Living on scraps.” You tell.

“Where?”

“The cold bit.” You jest. Eyes narrowed.

“Your accent isn’t northern.” He points out.

“No. I’ve worked for many houses since I left the north.”

The slightest curl of his lip tells you he almost found that comical. He almost had a reaction. Almost let a huff of amusement crash through his chest and out his nose.

“You stitched up lots of men then. Big northern fuckers too.” He stated.

“Aye. And even spitting fury at their worst, they were still more polite than you.”

He laughed. It sounded like stones and grit grinding against each other. An underused noise, you feel.

“We can have this very illuminating conversation or I can leave now and let you bleed and fester to death. Pass me the fucking needle.” You open your hand.

He has the brass balls to look mildly impressed that you, a handmaiden, is daring to raise your voice at him. It makes a healthy change from stares, grimaces, and wailing children who cry at his very monstrous appearance. From people scurrying away from his glares.

“Stubborn wench. Aren’t you. You gonna call me to heel girl?” He challenges.

“Someone has too. Dealing with mullish bastards like you. Hound. As I said, I’m not from the south. I wasn’t raised with pretty manners and a silver spoon like every lady you bow before.” You tell him acidly.

“Yet you got yourself here without those pretty manners.” He snipes.

“I’m a good liar.”

“You’ll need that to survive here.” He warns darkly. Makes your stomach drop to hear it.

“Needle. Dog.” You command.

He sneers. “Least you didn’t call me, Ser.”

The needle glints in the candelit as he hands it over. It looked a ridiculous implement in his huge fingers. Like something doll sized. You take it gently. Hand brushing against his. Back of his knuckles wearing the same coarse hair as his body.

“You’re not a ser? You’re of the kings guard.” You explain. Coming to his side. Approaching carefully. Some lingering advice of ring wary when coming near wounded animals. Keep your hand flat and you won’t loose fingers.

“Not a ser. Didn’t want to take the oath. I’ve seen what knighted ser’s do to small folk like you.” He snaps bitterly. You don’t dive into that one. You knew that well enough yourself.

You shift more stringy hair off his neck. Soaked thick with blood. It still followed a wave.

“You’ve soap? A basin?” You ask.

He jutts his chin across the room where it sat next to a bowl and a smeared cracked mirrror. A small cake of misshapen soap in a wood bowl sat to the side.

You cross to it and lather a fresh cloth in some water with the soap. It’s the simplest. Barely any scent. No decoration or gild to anything. It was clear he preferred living without it. Or wasn’t afforded it. You don’t know which is more likely.

He does a double take when he glances at your back. Eyes gliding over your shoulder blades.

Because a twisted scar knots and tugs across the smooth skin of your back. One he recognised but nowhere near as ugly as his.

Your pain wasn’t born by fire. The flesh looked like it had been torn into. By dagger or tooth. It wasn’t clean or delivered by the sword. Great pulls across the flesh, now knitted back together, skin catching almost silver pink and new in the half light.

You had really survived tougher things.

No missish maiden, indeed. They were ten a penny in this place. Clearly you were forged of greater mettle.

Takes a lot for a person to survive wounds like those. He would know.

You bring the jug back. Set it on the table near him. Pour some into the small soap bowl. Begin to wash and mop at the injury. Water trickling down that large chest. Darkening his breeches and his blood smeared shirt.

You feel him tense. The muscles in his shoulders ruck up. He turns his head away.

“I won’t hurt you.” You reassure. Voice softer than dove feathers.

“Are you soft in the head girl? Look at my face. Think I haven’t been hurt before.” He barks. Teeth gnashing.

“I’ve no desire to add to your collection.” You tell.

You continue mopping blood. He winces, grunts at the sting of the soap.

Mending in silence. You continue mopping blood out the way to see what you’d be stitching. Cleaning as best you could as you went.

He drinks his wine. Rolls the taste in his mouth as he considers you.

You’d stepped awfully close to him. Brave.

Soft hands working at his neck to cleanse. Taking away the rotten ruined flesh. One thing he couldn’t get over; the scent of you that now seemed like it filled the damn room. Filled his damn head.

The salt of clean sweat. Soap. Sunny yellow jasmine. The softness of your body draping under that ridiculous pink dress. Braids tied around your neck. Gathering over your tits. It clung to your hips and legs. Certainly a pretty sight.

Your hair is what fascinated him the most. Fell in soft waves over your back. Redder than cinnamon.

Fell past your shoulders. Twined with the scent of those yellow petals like the damn rest of you.

He wondered if he were to take those locks in his hands, how smooth they’d be. How full of scent they’d be if he put his nose to the crown of your head. Silk and perfume. All things good.

How could he dare touch something soft and kind for once in his life.

His big scarred hands had only ever touched, with the intention of bringing back blood. Only knew how to touch with knives and swords. He knew violence. Dealt it. Lived it. Breathed it.

Grizzled old dogs like him shouldn’t sniff after pretty maids like you.

“You got a name, little maid.” He turns his head. Gaze seeking for hours.

You meet it. Again, brave.

“Aye.”

You give him your name.

That tugs a laugh out him. Like pulling something hewn to a rock.

“That’s a northern cunt name if ever I heard one.”

You scoff. “Do you talk to all the handmaidens like this? Call them cunts…”

“Usually. On a good day.”

“Bet they love that. You must be popular.” you remark dryly.

Everything you’d come to know about southern bred ladies. Like the rest of your fellow handmaids here.

They were all very docile and easily flustered. Weak as doe deer in the presence of any sort of rough behaviour. Life in service scared some of them. Exposure to men and nobility and their true violence.

Some girls came to this keep green as grass to the ways of the world.

You came to it knowing full well. You held no faith in stories of knights and fair maidens anymore. You pitied those who did.

“Run a mile usually. Cower out of here crying. Clutching their pretty little skirts for dear life.”

You contemplate him a long while. Squeezing water out the rag before repeating your bathing.

Watching that big body slumped in his chair. Curling over like an autumn leaf. Hair curling like a curtain over his damaged eye.

Lords was he big.

He took up all the air in the room the way lightning steals ozone. You swear you can smell petrichor and fresh dirt. Though that could be the grit on his boots from the training field.

It’s his face that interests you more. The rough whiskery beard across his jaw and bearing only his pink lips. The sturdiness of a thick black brow whose twin had been burned away. The slight drooping of eyelid where his eye gazes out with nothing but contempt. Stitched himself together with wine and spite. This is a broken man who never disrobes himself for anyone.

Yet here you stand with your hands knotting his very flesh back together.

If you told your fellow maids you’d tended the hound, they really would call you soft in the head.

“You’re not half as frightening as you think you are.” You admit quietly. Starting to thread the needle.

He huffs. Disbelieving.

“Cross swords with me you’ll soon find out.”

That makes you smile.

He doesn’t know why but he cherishes that a little. Making a pretty maid smile. He tucks that somewhere in his big chest. Some secret pocket somewhere only he knew of. So he could take it out again later in a quiet moment and laugh bitterly at how an ugly old dog could make a maid laugh with him - not at him.

“I just wash the linens. Pour wine. And empty the chamber pots. Remember?” You sass.

“That why you got a dagger in your dress, girl.”

Your spine prickles. A hot sweet fluttering coarses through you.

Especially when one big paw of his lurches out and a finger taps to the side of your thigh. Straight onto the hilt of the dagger. He taps it. Sends a shock rippling right through you.

You shift on the spot. Annoyed. Caught out.

Clever dog.

He winces when you pierce his flesh with the needle.

“I’ve seen worse than you bearing down on me Clegane. Dealt with worse.”

He flashes you the full scarred side of his face. He leered like he should terrify you. A sick smile on his mouth that usually worked in deterring others. “Doubt it.”

“Takes more than the sight of a burn to send me running. If you’re looking to scare me, you’ll be waiting a long wait. I know scaring people gives you joy.”

You concentrate on the stitches you’re making. Pulling the skin taut. Making sure it comes together.

Surprised he didn’t have a squire to help him. Then again, if he didn’t want a title, you doubt they’d offer him a squire for this kind of work.

“Killing gives me more joy.” He insists.

“You must enjoy your orders then. The ones that come screeching out that princelings spoiled brat mouth...”

“Some of them.” He admits.

“But never say that where the walls could have ears.” He warns.

You nod. You know full well what a royal court is. It’s backstabbing snakes and spies and disloyalty disguised as cooperation at every turn. There are those in this castle who would turn on you for very little coin at all. Rife with venom.

People who liked to deal in snide whispers and ill intent. You kept well away. Head down. Did your duties. Cursed the lot of them.

Fuck the lot of them.

You finish looping the thread into his wound.

His hand finally unclenched from a huge fist on the table. Relaxing if only a little. The way a rock relaxed from the onslaught of rain. Barely.

“There…” You say. Finishing with a knot to hold the stitches well and true.

“Try and wash it with soap and keep it dry if you can. Seven help you it should heal clean.”

He peers around and once more makes a guttural grunt.

Your work was neat. Small stitches that spoke of a practised hand.

You wash your hands in the bowl and take the bloodied rags away. Dispose of the ichor stained water. You leave his needle and thread the soap bowl. Knowing he’d need it again.

“Anything else, my lord?” You ask.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Certainly.” You fire back.

Gathering yourself to move the used utensils and cloths into your arms.

You made to leave across the room. Light treads creaking across the wheezing floorboards.

He chews his teeth around the words lodged in his throat. They finally birth past his tongue.

“How’d you get that scar. On your back?” He asks. Voice grisly.

Hand on the door. You give him your clever answer before you step through.

Your smile is devastating when you explain.

“Mauled. By a hound.”

You shut the door to his sneering expression. You think you almost hear laughter before the door shuts into place.

Some moons later, you trudged back to your room. Fully intending to climb into bed for a handful of hours of sleep if no one caught your attentions.

The kitchen thankfully was dark and empty. The silence laying thick in the keep from outside and within told you that even the rats in the kitchen had gone to sleep too.

You rubbed your eyes. Sluiced in sweat that you’d have to rise early and wash off. Bathe yourself in perfumes and present yourself prettily for your service tomorrow. Run soap and oils through your hair. Make sure your dress was spotless.

You were to be helping see to the Imp on the morrow.

You’d need your wits about you. You’d been warned he was dastardly when he had a mind to be. But he liked cynical girls and sparkling wit. Cook grunted. Said you’d be perfect for him.

You weaved through the labyrinthian corridors where the maids slept. Straw down on the cobblestone floor. Rats clinging to the edge of the halls. You come to your door and the wood whines like a howling gale when you open it.

You were lucky to have the tiny fucking rat trap they called a room to yourself. The maid whose meagre straw bedded pallet stood a hairs width from yours, had wanted to room with another.

You didn’t give two shits. Meant you got some peace and space to breathe when you retired to bed in the small hours. Just when the pink of dawn knocked slanted into your room in rosy lilac hues.

You sunk into the sagging itchy mattress. Only made bearable by thin linen sheets and a semi decent bolster pillow.

The candle on the tiny washstand flickered, melting into a puddle of wonky wax, dripping against the wood. The light cast in flickering tongues up the mouldy mustard walls.

All your earthly belongings heaped in a trunk under your bed. Your very few dresses pegged for dear life on hook in the corner. You hung dried flowers - lavender and jasmine - up to bleach in the sun, in the small spit of a window. Barely enough to shift light into the room that felt more like a cell than decent living quarters.

You hide your earnings in a leather pouch in the wall behind your bed. You know full well maids or little birds come snooping when you’re not there. You sleep with your dagger under your pillow. The lock on your door broken and old. Unserviceable if someone decided to bust their way in.

You lay back in your bed and untie your leather slippers. Your feet raw and throbbing. You sigh with ease. Shoulders straining against the bed.

You’re toeing the line of sleep and consciousness when comes a scuffle at your door. Instantly your hand sinks under your pillow. Snatches for your dagger. Warm in your hand. Deadly.

“Whose there?” You call out. Voice a terrible strain in the silence. It hums. It burns for more.

No answer comes. Just the clank of heavy steps back down the halls. Then you’re left with the silence punctuated by the squeaks of rats outside. Their little nimble tickling footsteps. And the roar of torches that barely light the way.

You open your door. Peering down. Catching the corner of a dirty white cloak and the back of a dark wavy head as it disappears round the corner with a shifting click of armour.

You look to your feet. There sits a small whetstone. With a sprig of yellow jasmine flowers tied in a clumsy ribbon. Merry yellow and green.

You smile as you turn the stone in your hand. The flowers you lift up to savour their sickly scent.

His way of thanking you. Making sure you always had tools to sharpen your dagger. This was his way of giving you the best safety he could. Perhaps the only way he knew.

He really wasn’t the fearsome grizzled old dog they made him out to be.

tagging some hound peeps - i'm new to this guy - be gentle with me! I've tagged based on all the wonderful hound fics i've read off you guys -- @konigslittleliebling @first-edition @catsteeth @castieltrash1 @terry2227 @justagirlwholikesadam @auxmodi @proseandpretrichor @novaursa @jxckerbxtch @mydearviserra @slut4thehound @yeyinde

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