The Harlot and the Hound

2

The woman with hair like spun embers and skin of cream wondered about the man who would finally tear her veil. 

Old Robin had told her he was a fine knight, strong and of sound body. With a heavy purse.

A fine knight. She almost laughed aloud. The woman had never known a fine knight.

At one time, she would have wondered what kind of man would buy a woman’s virginity, but she didn’t have to wonder. She knew. She’d been married six times.

And each time, before her husband could take what he’d paid for, he’d died. Falling towers, strange fires, poison, drowning, jousting… Even the strange island king with his harem had choked to death on a chicken bone. 

The island king’s soldiers sold her to a passing slave ship and even in the brothel that purchased her, those who only used her mouth or her arse suffered from luck so ill they whispered her to be cursed. The brothel would have slit her throat when no one would purchase her wares, but the old man bought her to help him in The Nag’s Head.

Even here, in this place, they’d heard of her. Not a one touched her when she served ale, or made lewd comments. No one would even meet her eyes. The woman was a pariah. She was sure there was no one in the seven kingdoms who hadn’t heard of the cursed virgin whore.

If the knight was kind to her, she would say a prayer for him. The gold he’d paid for her body would keep her and 

Old Robin fed for the long years of winter, if they were careful.

The woman who had once been Sansa Stark still remembered her courtesies.

She smoothed her hands down over her gown and knocked lightly.

“Come,” said a voice so low she could barely hear it.

Sansa opened the door slowly and saw the room was bathed in shadow. There were no candles or lamps, only the dancing fire in the hearth. It cast warm orange slashes across the room that writhed and twisted.

The man who’d bought her was a giant; his powerful legs dwarfed the great chair he’d chosen to sit in, the one that swallowed her like a lion would a mouse. His large hands rested at his knees and she knew instantly they were the hands of a killer.

Those hands would be on her body, kneading her breasts, spreading her thighs. But it wasn’t so horrible a fate, they were nice hands. Large and broad, thick-fingered, but clean.

And scarred. She liked that. A spiderwebbing of white flesh was bright in the small light from the fire and it comforted her. This man, whoever he was, had bled and suffered for something he believed in.

Or so it soothed her to think.

The only men who’d ever been kind to her had all been damaged in some way—marked by their trials. It was the pretty ones that were venomous like brightly colored snakes.

Sansa had the overwhelming urge to see his face. She peered into the darkness, but all she could make out was a length of dark hair around powerful shoulders.

She closed the door behind her carefully and began unlacing her gown.

“Step into the light. I want to see the color of your hair,” he said in that same low tone.

Sansa obeyed, turning her face away from him so he could see hair as he’d asked.

“There is a scrap of silk on the table. Cover your eyes.”

Sansa did as she was bidden, unafraid. There was nothing he could do to her now that hadn’t been done before—except for what he’d paid for. He could do as he liked with her.