The guards couldn't subdue him. Even bound in rope and wrapped in chains, even wounded and exhausted, he was more than a match for the half dozen men who were trying to corral him to her chambers. He kept struggling, and wedging himself into doorways so that he couldn't be moved, and eventually smashing his own head against a wall in an apparent effort to brain himself.

At last Melisandre took matters into her own hands. "Put him on his knees," she ordered. Even that was a trial; they had to batter him savagely and bludgeon him about the legs before he could be dragged down and held there.

…And still. Even from the floor he pulled and struggled with all his fantastic strength. More men came to help and then, once he was finally held immobile, he threw his head back all the way to bare his throat. "A blade," he gasped, to the ceiling. "For pity's sake do it. Someone do it, please, someone."

Melisandre stood looking down at him, into his face, watching his mindless animal desperation. "Be quiet," she said firmly, and let her hand hover over him. She meant to rest it on his mouth but he whimpered and flinched from her, hiding his face in his shoulder.

"Please no," he said. "Mercy. Don't. I've-... had enough."

"Be quiet," she repeated, "And calm yourself. We are not taking you to execution."

He shook his head and she could still hear him muttering, high and broken. Senseless.

She sighed. "You will kneel here until your wits return to you," she declared. "We will wait all night if necessary."

It didn't take all night. Not ten minutes passed before he was breathing again, before his great hunched shoulders relaxed, before his head dropped in defeat. He was shaking – and she could hear sobs – but he was not hysterical, not any more. Perhaps now he could listen.

"You fear me," she said, standing close over him again. It was not a question – when she'd picked him out from among the captives, his legs had buckled and he'd collapsed like a maiden. She could smell that he'd lost control of his bladder too.

He pulled away from her as best he could. "Aye," he said into his shoulder. He would not even look at her.

"You fear me because of the god I worship – and the manner in which I worship him."

"I fe-hear you bec-c-cause you f-fucking burn pe-heople alive." His voice was hitching and shaking so badly that the words were almost unintelligible.

If he wanted to discuss the mechanics of it, the mundane practical details, she had no objection. And she would not even need to lie to him. "The stake they are raising in the courtyard tonight is not for you," she said. "I swear it. I need you for another purpose."

She could see him warring with panic. Not winning.

"Look at me," she ordered. She turned his face towards her and cupped it in both hands, stroking her thumb over where the scars met flesh. "The touch of god is already on you," she told him calmly. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing."

"So?" She could feel the scars pulling as he tried to swallow. "The fuck do you want with me?"

"What I want with you tonight," she said, "Ought to be nothing that displeases you." She kept her face smooth, giving him only a twitch of eyebrow for suggestion.

She saw at once that he understood – though he didn't believe her.

She released him and drew a finger over his lip. "Will you come quietly? Your courage will be rewarded if you do."

He sucked his breath in and bowed his head. Rocked his weight back. (The guards had unwisely relaxed their grips on him. She didn't chastise them, though, since it hardly mattered. She only rarely misjudged men, and she knew she was not misjudging this one.) "So help me," he said at last – rough and rasping. "If you're lying to me..."

This time, a light touch under his chin was all it took to make him raise his head. She looked into his eyes for a long moment. "I do not deal in lies."

He focused on putting one foot in front of the other. It was no easy task; he was in sorry shape after the battle and the capture and the frantic fighting with the red woman's guards. He hurt everywhere.

He didn't let himself think of anything other than the hurt. He followed her up stairways and down corridors, not looking at the torch in her hand, breathing through his mouth to try and avoid the smells of soot and wildfire that still clung to him.

He was hobbled so tightly he could take only short steps – that didn't help. He was constantly losing his balance and tripping, so that the red woman's guards had to yank on his chains to keep him upright and stumbling in the right direction. The yanking hurt; he swore a lot. When one particularly bad trip sent him careening facefirst into a wall, the red woman turned around and gave him a look of annoyance. "Are you drunk?"

Somehow, the implication that he'd let himself become impaired made him angry. He spat on the floor. "Piss on that; I'll get drunker if you let me."

She continued on her way with an exasperated sigh, but didn't talk to him again.

When they reached the room she planned to use for her unholy little revels (which he still only half-believed was the purpose she'd culled him for), she held her hand out for his leads. "I will take him inside," she said to the guards. "You prepare a bath. Large tub, hot water."

He followed her in, feeling ridiculous – the chains were almost too heavy for her to carry, let alone control him with. He could throw her to the floor just by jerking his weight around a little.

As if reading his mind, she stepped around behind him and placed the loose ends of the chains into his bound hands. "You might as well hold these yourself." She went across the room to open a window.

He stared at the cascade of her red hair down her red back. She'd given him her back. He couldn't help but feel disrespected. "You know I could-..."

He could. Even tied and injured, he could easily.

"But you won't," Melisandre said, without even bothering to face him. She began lighting candles. "My work here is not yet finished. If I am struck down before I'm ready, the Lord will breathe life into me again so that I can continue. If that happens..." She turned, a long match in hand, and the jewel at her throat reflected it so perfectly he could have sworn she was wearing a tiny flame. "I won't be pleased."

"Understood," he managed at last. He swallowed. And then, lest she think he was just taking her lying whoring word for it, he added: "I've seen the red god's work. Thoros of Myr resurrected a dead man right in front of me. One of my dead men." He didn't like that. Didn't appreciate having all his hard work undone.

She smiled at him, finally. Small and full of promise. "If you were impressed by Thoros of Myr," she purred, "You'll cream yourself when you see what I can do."

She blew out her match and set it down, absently reaching up to adjust her dress with her free hand.

Or perhaps not absent. The way her fingers skimmed the curve of her breast could not be an accident.

He didn't trust her. Not for one second did he trust her. "What do you want with me?" he said.

She came closer. "First I want you to bathe," she said, flat and matter-of-fact. He didn't blame her.

Then she knelt down and started unwinding the chains from his legs. "And then..." Looking up at him from beneath eyelashes whose like he'd never seen, "I want you to take everything you have… all of your power… your anger and your pain… and come to me with it."

She leaned in and pressed her lips against his thigh, and by some impossible sorcery they were hot through his clothes. (His bloody, sweaty, pissed-in clothes. But she didn't take any notice of their condition at all). He tried to pull his mind together. "Why me?" he said roughly. "You're the first to ever accuse me of a pretty face – but that's not enough. Shouldn't you be fucking Stannis or something?"

"King Stannis is a good man," she said. "A just and righteous man. But he has never been a passionate man, and right now his fires burn lower than ever. What I need for the Lord's work tonight, my king cannot give me." Her eyes were wide and serious. Not bedroom eyes but damn him if they weren't working just as well. "You can."

TBC.

Only a fire priestess can push his buttons in exactly the wrong ways :o)

Why yes, kids, we are in for a dark, twisted hatefuck. (Censored on this site, full version to be found at AO3). I'm gonna warn for dubcon, because Melisandre is a creepy succubus witch and Sandor isn't exactly in a position to say no, and I'm gonna warn for violence, because he's not real happy with her and it shows. If you don't want to read that, then you should probably exit this fic now.

Otherwise, stay tuned! And let me know what you think so far...