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seoness · 3 years ago

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Greed not Gratitude

Summary: The Hound comes across a woman not long after the Battle of Blackwater. Casual sex turns sweet.

The meadow greeted Helen as it always did, bumblebees bopping from one bloom of wildflower to the next. Once she would have stepped out from the cover of the forest without a second thought. Run through the tall grass to reach the lake on the other side. That was before. Before the war. Before the Mountain that Rides had put the Riverlands to the torch and its fire spreading throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

The homesteads raised by the shore were nothing more than charred black beams of black jutting up into the blue sky, and the only ones that shared the forest with her now were broken men. Them, and now... a horse?

The black stallion nibbled away at the grass, only briefly lifting his head to look at the treeline. That wasn't some draft horse of palfrey—a warhorse. But the air wasn't filled with what followed such kinds, no smoke or rot. Perhaps it had bolted away from some battle. Helen saw no rider. A trap? Some ambush to lure a fool out of the woodworks?

The temptation was too great.

Helen prided herself in not being that said fool. She wasn't. She was, on the other hand, very much desperate. A group of broken men had taken refuge in a cavern nearby, far too close to her hut for comfort. Helen could leave with that horse, and it would not mean abandoning everything she owned. The woman had no husband to support her. It was her own work that kept her fed. When these lands still contained more living than dead, she had been sought after for her drafts and to mend broken bones and stitch up wounds. One needed tools for that. What point was there to flee only to starve?

"How strong you look," she commended, having gathered the courage to approach.

The stallion stomped at the ground, nostrils flaring. No outlaw had jumped up and swung a sword at her. Granted, that might not be needed. This horse seemed more than willing to kill her on his own.

"I offer you care if you let me ride you," she continued.

Cursing in her mind for not paying more attention when old Bertrum talked about his time as a stablehand to Lord Hogg when she had come over with his weekly treatment for gout. Being a woods witch, everyone expected the woman to be intuned with animals. How sorely mistaken they all had been.

Helen tore off some grass, holding it out to the stallion. "Plenty more if you don't throw me off, more still if you take me south."

The rattle of metal made Helen freeze. A shadow fell over her and she spun on her heel. Idiot! Why did she have to be so dumb?

"Polite," the stranger grunted, his voice deep and raspy, "for a horse thief."

The dark plate was drenched in blood. The face caked with mud and gore that had dried to a mask. Thin strands of hair clumped together and Helen could smell it. War. Smoke and charred flesh wrapped together in the sourness of bile and wine. The man already loomed above yet the woman still shrank under those dark eyes, drunk and sullen.

"Pardon Ser," she piped, jumping back.

The mask cracked as the stranger scrounged his nose. "Not a knight."

Squinting the man looked around, grumbling beneath his breath, "Where am I?"

"Not so far from Sow's Horn," Helen replied. "Are you a friend of Eskel?"

"No." The stranger looked over toward his mount before meeting her gaze again. "Who haggles with a horse?"

Helen knew better than to respond and as he made his way towards the saddle, the woman walked around in a half-circle, to keep from being within reach.

"The Ivy Inn, it's near here? Know who controls it?"

"It is, but no, I stay away from such places these days," she replied.

So the stranger wasn't one of the broken men under Eskel. That man had roared out his presence throughout the forest since the first day he and his men arrived. He thought himself fearsome. Helen thought it made him sound afraid, like a cat bristling up its back an hissing. The woman had run into them once, harvesting, and those men's want of her was more than apparent.

So not a knight, but perhaps some freerider that had run into bad luck? Even if he was a deserter, maybe he was a polite one. She'd not get herself twisted up for the sake of some noble she didn't even know. The woman couldn't have his horse, so maybe he could be her solution. After all, everyone loved gold.

"If you're not a friend of Eskel, could I offer you work?"

"Not intersted."

Her stomach twisted into knots as he took to the saddle. "You look strong and there are some outlaws nearby, they aren't many. I-"

"You deaf?" His snarl made the woman jump.

"I-I have gold, not a fortune but enough and I could treat any ailment you have... you look hurt and-there-is-plenty-of-wiiine," the last part flowed out of Helen as the man glared. "Please? I will reward you plenty, and if you need a roof over your head for the night my hut can give it."

The hand that had travelled to the hilt of his longsword hadn't pulled up, but neither had it gone. Did he consider it? It was hard to tell, Helen couldn't even see what he looked like underneath all that grime.

"A spring... there's a hot spring near my hut where you can clean yourself and wine, I have wine."

The dark eyes narrowed. "How many?"

"Four."

.. / ..-. . . .-.. / .-.. .. -.- . / .. .----. -- / -.. .-. --- .-- -. .. -. --.

The sack hit against the stone path that twined to hut's doorstep. The roughspun fabric seeped in blood. A head rolled out, wide eyes bulging so far out Helen thought they would pop out of the skull. There were more still within his sack.

"You killed them?"

The stranger shrugged. "Tried to drive them away. Wouldn't go."

There was a time such a sight would have made the woman wail, but that was before. Now she had seen enough suffering for ten lifetimes.

And so Helen turned in her doorway. "Throw them away. I'll serve supper."

She had spent the day preparing. Ensuring that if the man returned with his life, he wouldn't go to bed hungry. Two of her hens had been sacrificed, feathers plucked and skin rubbed with honey and thyme. If that was not to his liking a thick rabbit stew bubbled away in the kettle with roots and cuttings from her garden and she had fished out the flagons and wine from the earthcellar and the pleasant smell of freshly baked bread filled the hut.

The only window was the hole in the roof, venting out the smoke of the hearth, making her home dimly lit even during the day. It wasn't much, packed earth and thatch, but it was hers.

"You wouldn't want to eat by that table. You're only on it if I'm to stitch something up or saw someting off," she warned as the man made his way to it and signed towards one of the logs by the hearth. "You never told me your name."

"You mentioned wine," he rasped.

Fine, but she took point to not introduce herself either. The woman brought him a flagon, then a platter of rabbitstew and one of the chickens and some rolls of bread. Then another round, and another. In the end, Helen gave up on serving him and put down everything close to the man before seating. Stretching out her legs with a sigh.

The stillness made the woman able to get a better look of her guest. Muscles made his arms thick like logs and those hands didn't belong to some haughty highborn. A burn by the right side of his face crept up into his hairline and disappeared beneath strands of brown. Where flame hadn't touched was a weathered face, and the man had more than one winter under his belt. Helen had spent moons without a soul to keep her company. That was her excuse. Be it a good or a bad one, as her blood began to rush. Shifting her legs, the wetness had already made her inner thighs slick.

"If I may?" Helen's mouth had dried and her voice spun, "You have worked hard, you could always visit the spring before turning in for the night."

The stranger watched her with weary eyes, and Helen knew her cheeks had flushed, the skin prickling.

"Already agreed to my reward," he grunted, scratching his stubbled chin.

"I believe your are mistaking my greed for gratitude."

Silence stretched on as he studied her. Only the crackle of flame filled it. Perhaps she wasn't his taste? A shame. Helen was no maiden and the virtue septons and septas preached wasn't so alluring when they already condemned her for being a witch. The only thing she would have gained was pleasure.

As the man rose, putting aside his bowl and cup, excitement tugged at her lips. "I am not intruding on a wife's claim? A loved one's?"

"Only whores," the man said.

Helen's laughter hit against the walls of the hut. "Forgive me, I just- Perhaps I should be grateful then. Making moon tea has kept me fed." She made sure to make her smile warm, show him that she had no intention to belittle. The tincture was quite a speciality of hers. Most healers could boil the brew but few could make it palpable.

The stranger rounded the fire carefully, as if going to quick would startle her and make Helen flee.

"I would like a name," she said, "if you wouldn't mind."

"Sandor."

"Helen."

The woman could taste the tension in the air as his gaze lowered and she began to unbuckle her belt. Helen allowed the layers of linen and knitted wool to part until air met her bared breasts. It was strange. This tingle inside, she had felt it many times before but it had been too long since last. It had become something foreign. Gods she had missed it. To tease. To have someone strong wrapped around her finger. It was too good to pass up.

Sandor's hands came down but Helen was already gone from her seat, slinking past with ease.

"A bath?" she asked and savored the glare.

The sun had begun to set, and not before long, Sandor stepped out stripped of his armor and the tunic and breeches hid little. His hand rested by his belt, the longsword still hanged from it. She woudln't ask him to leave it behind, the war had made the forest far more dangerous and not all those dangers came from men.

Helen walked backwards toward the path, hands drifting to the shoulders and the first outer layer dropped to the ground. Stepping over the bundle.

"Eager," he noted.

"Does that threaten you?" Helen smiled before turning to face the trail.

The man only answered with a snort. It earned him the drop of her apron. Helen finally felt alive. The forest rose high around them, and the scent of pine was heavy, and behind, Helen could hear his footsteps. The spring was within view when the final layer, a white chemise, bunched by her feet. The skin was rough against her waist as his hands clamped down and Helen gasped as Sandor pulled her back. The gasp turning to a mewl as she felt his cock press against her. Catching her chin, Sandor made her crane back until she looked up at his face, not that she could keep his gaze for long. His left hand finding her breast. Kneeding until the fingers found her nipple, already stiff, and tugged ever so slightly.

"I take you as I want, and you can take me as you want," he said. "Fair?"

She might have a name for him now, but this man was still a stranger. His want? Well, that could be anything. Fear made her heart race but it only heightened the pulse in her lower. Helen's hand slipped between them, searching around against skin and cloth until a groan left Sandor's lips as she found him.

"If you can go more than once," she said, "and I take it we begin with you?"

Helen's hands and knees hit the dirt. His fingers came first. Inspecting that she was wet before he entered... it wasn't bad. Just... mindless. Sandor's hips rutted against her and the only thing that made it escape the territory of boredom was his size. Stretching against his thickness, each thrust danced between pleasure and pain. When Sandor's pace grew quicker, so did its strength. Helen braced herself on the ground and the man began to plow her into it. The large hands getting purchase whereever they could. Without warning, Sandor pulled out and a sticky warmth hit her lower back. Was this what sex was to him? A waiting game? Stick it in, pound and retreat?

Tipping over to her back, Sandor's hand gripped her legs. "I've hurt you."

Hurt is a bit much, ache more like, she thought, but the man's eyes were fixed on her knees. The ground had rubbed the skin raw, and tiny pearls of blood rose from her knees making the man's face twist.

"Oh, there's no need to feel bad. This is nothing," she said, waving his hands away. "Some fyremilk and broadleaf, and I'll be as good as new:"

Pulling his breeches up, Sandor hooked his arms underneath her before Helen had time to stand.

"It's a graze, I've not turned cripple," she said, but the objection didn't keep her from enjoying every step the man took to the spring, lowering her into the milky warm waters. "Thank you."

For every word this man spoke, at least ten were chewed, a slew of muttering left Sandor as he removed his clothed and seated himself in the waters beside her. Gaze fixed on the knees kept above the waterline as she curled up her legs.

"Believe me, if it had angered me, you would have known it," Helen tried.

"So what will you have me do? Never tasted a woman's cunt, but-" the words stopped when he met her eyes again, the voice growing to a snarl. "What?"

"No, it's fine," Helen piped, cursing herself for looking so stunned.

"Clearly."

Her hand darted up as he rose, catching his, but seeing him bare pulled the words out of her mouth. Sandor had entered the waters so quickly that Helen hadn't gotten a good look. Dark hair coverered most of his skin. Sure, armor was worn to shield but it was also to impress, and Sandor was far more impressive without. The chest broad. Each part of him spoke to his strength. Hair travelled down his stomach like an arrow pulling her sight lower. The cock no longer hard had yet it had not lost its size. Making her mouth drier still.

"Please, we made a bargain and I didn't mean to mock you," she said softly. "I just... I've never met a man that make such offers."

Sandor's body tensed as she leaned forward, seating herself on her knees and placing a light kiss by his tip.

"But that's not what I want," she whispered and placed another kiss above the last, then another so that when coarse hair tickled her nose, Sandor had hardened. His cock resting against her cheek. "Please..."

Let me take care of you.

Seating himself on the edge Helen used his legs as armrests, lowering until her lips closed around his cock. The warmth rested against her tongue when his hand stroked her hair.

"You may only touch me if I ask you to," she said. "If there's something you want me to do, ask and I'll grant it. Maybe."

The tingle grew to a steady pulse as he gripped the edge, knuckles whitening. In this moment, this stranger, this man, was hers.

"Can you do that for me?" Helen spun.

"Aye, just bloody start again."

The woman would be merciful. Heed his first want. Slowly her mouth filled with more of him, sucking gently, tasting the salt on his skin.

"Faster."

But Helen pulled back just as slow, meeting his gaze. The pulse turning to a throb in her lower. Those dark eyes, it was like he could see right through her. No man had come close to this. That delicious frustration burning in his eyes.

"Don't stop," Sandor cursed as she released.

"I'm not." I'm rewarding you. And so she went lower, the tip of her nose brushing against his length until her lips brushed by his root. Helen's tongue grazed below his cock, making the man's legs jerk around her.

"May I continue?"

But Sandor didn't answer. His jaw clenched. Chest heaving. It oozed out of him, his hunger, a heat wrapping tight around them. Helen cocked her left brow.

"Get on with it," Sandor commanded.

"Not a very kind response," she replied.

Grunting, Sandor fell back and laid himself across the rock, "For fuck sake, wom-"

Evil. How to woman loved to be it. Helen's tongue had returned before Sandor finished his complaint, flicking a wonderful spot, a strand that ran below every man's cock and she had yet not found one who didn't pray to every god under the sun when she tended to it. Her hands stroked what, not long ago, had pounded deep inside her. Had that point been reached? No, not yet. She had him for a bit longer.

"There's a place just a bit lower..."

"You're not buggering me, woman," Sandor replied, struggling to keep his breath steady.

That possibility hadn't even been in her mind and Helen smiled as he propped himself up on his elbows. Sandor was adorable. All glaring and sullen.

"Not that, it's above," she explained and her finger traced by his inner thigh to sign where her mouth would go. "I want to care for you there. I won't go lower, not unless you want me to."

Cursing underneath his breath Sandor waved for her to continue.

Helen stayed, her tongue only giving way to her lips, and around her, this man that had put stop to an entire band of broken men was quivering helplessly. Needing to see his face, those eyes again, the woman began her climb.

"You're beatiful," Helen whispered as she straddled his lap.

"Blind then."

"Would handsome be more accepted?" Helen asked, but the man only grimaced. "Comely?" Clearly not. "Pretty seems an odd pick for someone so rugged..."

His hands closed around her waist and the man rose enough so she sat in his embrace. Helen's hands travelled up his arms. Aren't you a strange man. So honied words is your weakness. How cute.

"Handsome," she confirmed.

His length brushed against her lower but when Sandor shifted his hips to thrust inside, Helen followed with. Holding her breath as his cock only stroked against. To feel every part of him slide against, rubbing her clit. The woman bucked up, spreading, her entire body pleading for him not to stop. Shutting her eyes she gave into it, to feel only his touch. The deep chuckle, his scent, the growing warmth were skin met skin devoured her. Helen's mind playing catchup as hair brushed against her fingers, the firmness of his mucles beneath, before his stubble prickled around her mouth. The man was as rigid as stone as Helen's lips began to nibble his. I'm kissing him? Breathless she pulled away.

"I'm sorry, I should have asked." With each pull of air she could taste his breath on her tongue.

He was so close. Something to resist, and her insides fluttered as the man lowered his face. Sighing out in disappointement as his mouth brushed past hers until she felt a sharp sweet pain by her ear. Sandor bite turned to a tug before his mouth travelled down. A shiver ran along her spine as his hands found place by her ass, beginning to kneed.

"Sandor..."

Grinding against him, his grip urging the woman on. You were the one to be wrapped around my finger, but the thought didn't feel so bitter as his teeth sank into the nape of her neck, enough to leave a mark but not so deep to draw blood.

A grunt left him as she shoved with a strength the woman didn't even know she possessed. Helen knew what he was doing, she'd not let her be trapped just so easily. Leaning forward his cock rested between her legs, pushing up against her as Helen's mouth began to travel. A kiss by his ribs, a slight bite by his nipple and enjoying the growl rumbling from his throat.

"You can't be real," she whispered before catching his lips again and his tip brushed her lower, barely reaching after her climb up.

The arms snapped around her and Helen cried muffled against his lips as Sandor bucked up with his hips. Entering. Not mindless like the last. His hips flushed against her skin, the woman tightened around him. She was more now, more than a quick pleasure to make him spent. The limit of were he ended and she began erased.

"Here," Helen sighed and guided his hand to the lower of her stomach. "Press here."

And Sandor heeded her want. The woman couldn't explain why, she just knew that when a man pressed down there anything he did was heightened. Each thrust, deeper. Helen grinded against him. At parts his hard thrusting gave way to her slow and steady pace. The air filling with her breathy moans.

"Don't go," she pleaded as he began to tense and the dark eyes met her again. "Stay, I'll make the tea if you want me to."

Sandor frowned until he, for the first time, looked at her truly stunned. "Let me feel every part of you," she whispered.

It no longer felt like a man was inside her. Sandor rose, lifting her like nothing, and the water of the hotspring didn't even reach the man's knees. It wasn't long. Helen couldn't tell how many thrusts it was, each one numbed her mind, until his grunt cut through it. Sandor's arms tightened around her before he lowered into the waters. Panting for air.

"Fuck, woman."

But as he was to pull out she rutted against, making another curse leave his lips.

"Let it stay, please. I want to feel it go," she said.

And Sandor allowed that want too. Helen rested against his chest as she felt the hardness inside soften, listening to the heartbeat slow.

Above her, Sandor's rasp lulled her deeper into the calm, "How many did you say there was?"

The woman considered the man's question for some time and a soft smile formed on her lips.

"Eight."

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