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Eva Sarsfield was cold on her wedding day. Granted, it was a cold day, with a strong easterly wind blowing that seemed to seep through the stones and under her yellow cloak. It had been well-aired, of course, before her new husband had draped it over her shoulders, but she imagined that beneath the scents of wool and moth-killer she could smell the perfume of the woman who had worn it before her, still warm although her body was far colder than Eva's.
The bedding was a perfunctory ceremony. Eva tried not to meet her father's eyes – she thought he might have the decency to be ashamed of this match, and didn't want to cause him further pain by letting him know her own feelings about it – but she could hear him laughing along with the rest of them, a hollow, strained sound. His daughter was marrying the Mountain that Rides.
His grandfather had been a kennelmaster, but the family had risen somewhat since then. It was not a perfect match by any means, and Eva knew it was somewhat below her station, but still, she didn't hesitate when her father first proposed it to her.
"Don't anger him," he had cautioned her sternly before they left home, "and be sure to do everything he asks of you." He had sounded nervous then, and Eva could guess why, or thought she could. She had heard the stories about what had happened to her betrothed's first wife, just like everyone else in the Westerlands, and no doubt beyond. So too they had heard whispers about Elia of Dorne's fate. Eva tried not to think about it, and smiled shyly at her betrothed when they first met. Gregor Clegane did not smile back.
The smiles were few and far between as the guests bundled her into the bedchamber, the customary jokes strained and unfunny. She had thought some of them might stay a little longer, but they made their hasty retreat back to the relative warmth and safety of the dining hall and left her there, alone with her husband for the first time.
His bed was built on a scale to match his body, so that it seemed to cover most of the floor, and he reclined in it, wearing nothing beyond his smallclothes. She hadn't noticed the female guests undressing him, so he must have done it himself. "Get over here," he told her, and she obeyed, crossing the short distance to the bed's edge and then crawling up onto its wide expanse. She was still more than arm's reach away from him, so she crept closer, gooseflesh crawling and nipples hard as fingertips. He took her chin in one huge hand, turning her head one way and then the other before making her face him. "Pretty," he grunted, and then shoved his other hand between her legs without further preamble.
Eva had sometimes imagined, in a vague, maidenly way, what it would be like, but she hadn't pictured this relentless pushing, tearing open, the crushing of hips, being trapped as if beneath an avalanche, helpless to resist the force bearing down on her. Her hands pushed back against his wide, muscled chest to no avail, and when she cried out he only thrust into her all the harder. She twisted under him, trying instinctively to end it, and he grunted. Experimentally, she tried it again, and soon he groaned, shuddered, and at last slithered out of her, soft and wet but, she guessed, far from weak.
"You can fight back more than that," Gregor told her once he'd caught his breath. "It's not as if you can hurt me." He laughed at that, obviously finding the thought amusing. "I liked it when you screamed," he added a little while later, sounding only half-awake. "You can scream all you want."
He draped one arm over her before he slept, so Eva couldn't even roll away from the wet, sticky spot beneath her. She lay there stiffly, aching, listening to her husband's snores, and tried to rest, but sleep wouldn't come. She thought instead of poor Bessa Bettley, and how they used to play together as girls, weaving crowns of flowers and chasing each other through the tall, waving grass. She wondered if this was how Bessa had felt in this very same bed, if she had been frightened, if she had opened her legs willingly or had them forced open by those rough hands. If she had bled. She hadn't bled in the end, at least not according to the rumours Eva had heard. She'd choked instead. On a bite of meat, the official story went, but servants whispered of thumb-sized bruises on her throat, and how her dress had been on backwards, laced clumsily, when they found her. No, Eva very much doubted her friend had been eating when she died.
A little after dawn, Gregor stirred. She pretended to sleep, but felt him stretch and roll over. He shook her by the shoulder, none too gently, so she reluctantly gave up on her pretense and turned to face him. "Fuck, my cock's like a tent-pole this morning," he said, pushing himself against her leg. A hint of her fear must have crossed her face, but she thought she managed to keep the revulsion hidden. "If your cunny's still sore, you can use your mouth instead," he grumbled, obviously feeling magnanimous.
She squirmed her way down until her head was level with his groin, which was thick with dark hair that spread across the tops of his thighs and up onto his stomach. She hadn't had a good look at his manhood the night before, but now she had a clearer view than she would have liked. It jutted up hard, fat-veined and red. It was difficult to imagine how it had fit inside her, let alone what she was going to do with her mouth. Eva hesitated, uncertain how to proceed.
"Get on with it," he snarled at her. "Or do I have to show you how?" He gripped a handful of her hair, not pulling it out, not yet at least, but using it to force her down onto him. She opened her mouth as wide as she could and squeezed her eyes shut as the broad-domed head passed between her lips. He moved her like a puppet, working her head up and down on his prick, up to the tip and then down until he met the back of her throat – still no more than halfway down his length, though it made him groan even so. She gagged a time or two, and wondered if this was how poor, sweet Bessa had met her end, choked on a different kind of meat. Finally she started coughing and couldn't stop.
He yanked her off him, hard enough to make her scalp sting and her eyes water. "You need more practice," was all he said. He was starting to soften anyway, she noticed. "Too much wine last night," he muttered. "I have to take a leak." He pushed his huge bulk up on one arm and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. He bent to seek the chamber pot, but groaned as he leaned over. "My head's fucking spinning," he said, turning to her. "You get down there and fetch it for me." She must have looked surprised, for he cuffed her across the face. "Hurry, you bitch, before I piss the bed."
She jumped to obey, scrambling over to his side of the bed. His feet could touch the floor, she noticed, while she had to clamber on and off the high mattress. She knelt on the thin carpet, which gave her knees little protection from the cold stone of the floor, and felt around for the pot under the bed. She found it, empty thank goodness, and held it up to him. He looked down at her, taking himself in hand, and a slow, unsettling smile crossed his face. "You hold it," he ordered her, "right there against your belly."
Confused, she did as she was told. The metal basin was chill against her stomach. When the first gush of hot urine hit her between the breasts, she recoiled involuntarily. Quick as lightning, he reached out and grabbed her by the hair, holding her in place despite her struggles. "Don't you dare fucking spill it," he ordered her, "or you'll get worse than this," so she settled. The warm streams coursed down her body, some finding their way to pool in the bottom of the pot, others trickling down her thighs before finally soaking into the carpet. He groaned as it poured out of him, almost as he'd done while rutting with her the night before. Her face burned with humiliation, and she longed to throw the basin in his face and run, but she knew it would be the death of her. She closed her eyes instead and tried not to feel the steady flow running over her stomach, the thin rivulets worming their way between her thighs.
It seemed to take forever, and when he was finally down to the last few drops her arms were quivering. "Done," he grunted at last. Almost pathetically grateful, she lowered the chamber pot carefully to the floor. He looked down at her, at the piss dripping from her breasts, and grimaced. "Clean yourself up, you're a fucking mess," he told her, and rolled back into bed, pulling the blankets up over himself until he seemed no more than a series of featureless hills and valleys, harmless as landscape.
Eva managed to pull herself to her feet and walk slowly, carefully over to the ewer and basin that stood in one corner of the room. The water was icy cold, but nevertheless she washed herself eagerly, scrubbing until her pale flesh was red. She had expected him to have a temper, she had braced herself for beatings, but she hadn't anticipated this… this casual degradation. It was as if he was a dog marking his territory, demonstrating that he owned her utterly. And, of course, making sure she knew that there was no one to whom she could possibly complain. She glanced over her shoulder and shuddered at the thought of climbing back into bed with the monster she had married, but she knew it had to be done. As she curled in beside him, she added her anger and shame to the knot of hatred she had held in her chest since she'd heard about what he'd done to her childhood friend, and told herself that, when the time came, it would make it easier to finish him off.