Work Text:
Sansa had just finished bathing, and was briskly rubbing herself dry. The air of the bathhouse was warm, but she still wanted to dress again as quickly as possible. She drew her shift on over her head and was combing some of the tangles out of her hair when she heard the sound of heavy footfalls outside. Without thinking, she stepped back behind one of the screens instead of simply making for the door herself, and so found herself an inadvertent witness to Sandor Clegane's bath.
There must have been a mistake somewhere, she thought, panicked, as she tried to make herself very small in the hopes he wouldn't notice her there. She had thought this section of the baths reserved for women, but perhaps she had misunderstood. From her hiding place she could hear him disrobing, and squeezed her eyes tight shut, but it didn't stop the images in her mind.
At last there came the splash as he lowered himself into the steaming water. She risked a glance between the slats of the wooden screen, trying to see if she might escape without him noticing her. Unfortunately, he faced the doorway, and would surely see her if she so much as poked her head out around the edge of the screen.
Without really meaning to, she peeked at him again. She could see his chest, broad and lined with scars, and the thick muscles of his arms above the water. His eyes were, she thought, closed, which made it easier to keep watching, although she knew she ought to look away. A lady did not spy on a man in his bath, she was quite sure of that.
It took her a few moments to realize what he was doing when his arm and shoulder began to move in a slow, steady rhythm, and when she did finally understand, she thought her cheeks might catch fire. She shut her eyes, but he was not even being decently quiet as he pleasured himself, and each grunt and groan seemed to pierce her straight to the core. She bit her lip, becoming acutely aware of the way her damp shift clung to her body, of the growing warmth between her legs.
She could feel her heart beating down there, pulsing with each sound the Hound made, and pressed her fingers against herself, through her shift, whether to try and stop the feelings or to spur them on she wasn't certain. The thin fabric stuck to her secret wetness, and she crouched down for fear that she might stumble or fall, giving herself away. He would never forgive her for seeing him like this, she was sure of it. Her fingers pressed harder, and she had to stifle a moan. The thought of him hearing her, of him finding her like this, was terrifying and yet it aroused her.
Suddenly there was a louder noise from the bath, a frantic, strangled cry. She risked another glimpse, and saw that the Hound's movements had stilled, and his head was hanging down against his chest. His ragged breaths were the only sounds as, silent and startled, Sansa made herself come.