Kissed by Fire is an erotic Game of Thrones fanfiction, not a XXX porn parody. If that's what you were looking for stroll back to the story index, there are a ton of tales there far better than this one.

However, if you are a fan of GoT, please read on! This short story is based on events that happened during the TV series, not the books (A Song of Ice and Fire), and occurs right after the Season 6 finale.

If you haven't watched Season 6, consider this fair warning: there will be spoilers. And if you've never watched any episodes of Game of Thrones, what the heck are you waiting for?!?

One last thing, I wrote this story well before the release of Season 7. If the events there don't agree with this tale, don't blame the writers!

~ * ~

Sansa hugged her furs close as she watched the strangers stagger through the gate, silhouetted by the heavy, wind-driven snow that had hammered down four days straight, at times so thick it completely obscured the direwolf banner flying once more over Winterfell.

"Who are they?" she asked, as the ragtag band trudged through frozen mud and snow and entered the courtyard.

"They call themselves the Brotherhood Without Banners," Jon Snow said. His breath was frosty as he watched the last of them come through the huge main gates, now newly mended and showing few signs that barely a fortnight earlier a giant, the last of his kind, had nearly torn them from their massive hinges.

The newcomers gathered in a rough assembly in front of and below the covered walkway where Jon Snow, the King in the North, and his sister Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, waited. Surrounding them on all sides were loyal warriors, northmen and wildings both. They had followed the siblings south from the Wall to recapture their ancestral home and were fiercely determined not to lose it again.

Ignoring the men surrounding them with hands on hilts and arrows nocked, one of the Brotherhood limped haltingly forward. He brushed the frozen mantle of snow from the shoulders of his black cloak and grinned as he stared up toward the covered walkway with one eye, the other covered by a worn leather patch.

"Greetings, my Lady and my Lord, or should I address you as Your Grace?" He smiled and offered the barest hint of a bow. "My name is Beric Dondarrion and this is Thoros of Myr."

Sansa barely noticed as a red-robed priest stepped forward, and the balance of Beric's words went similarly unheeded – another had caught her attention.

He stood near the back of the small company, trying to stay unnoticed, but his size made him stand out almost anywhere. He wore a dark green cloak with the hood drawn up over a studded leather jerkin and brown, roughspun tunic, but the hard eyes and scarred face that scowled out from beneath were unmistakable.

Jon noticed his sister's interest was elsewhere. With a brother's instinct, he followed her gaze. "Who is that man? He's huge."

"Sandor Clegane," she whispered, as if just saying the name frightened her.

"The Hound? Here?" Jon straightened, trying to get a better look. "I still remember the last time he was in Winterfell, when King Robert took father away. Clegane never left Joffrey's side. He's loyal to the Lannisters!" His hand instinctively went to the snarling wolf's head hilt of the bastard sword at his side.

"No!" Sansa clutched her brother's black sleeve to stop him. "He deserted them after the Battle of the Blackwater, but when he was in King's Landing he...was kind to me. I'd feared he was dead."

"He looks alive enough to me. Wait, where are you going?"

Sansa had let go of her brother's arm and turned back toward the main building. "I'm cold and very tired. You can meet with these men. If you need me, I'll be in my chamber."

She strode away and two guards accompanied her. As one opened the wooden door to the keep, she stole a last look at the tall, menacing figure lurking near the back of the motley band, his half-burned features now hidden by the driving snow. Glancing back toward her brother, she said, "If you do talk to him, the Hound I mean, let him know if he can spare the time that I would like to thank him for the kindness he showed me."

"Of course," Jon said. His sister disappeared through the doorway and he turned his attention back to Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr, but as he listened to them talk his gaze kept wandering to the man in the back, a man he knew had stood side by side with the Lannisters the day they took his father's head, the Hound.

~ * ~

Sansa shut her eyes as she pressed her cheek against the smooth granite wall, and smiled as she felt the heat from the ancient hot springs beneath the castle radiate through the thick stone.

The room had once belonged to her mother, Catelyn Stark, and Sansa had fond memories of sneaking into the bedchamber when she was a little girl just to touch the well-worn stones. Their warmth was comforting and familiar, but little else about the chamber was.

After her mother had left, never to return, the Ironborn had come, and after them came the men of the Dreadfort, flying their frightful flayed man banner. Their leader was Roose Bolton's bastard son, Ramsay. He finished the job the Ironborn had started, razing the wooden portions of the castle with fire. Of the home she had once known, only stone walls remained.

But Winterfell still stood.

After defeating Ramsay and reclaiming their ancestral home, Jon had ordered all of the Bolton's furnishings destroyed and tried to refurnish the bedchamber as it had been when Sansa's mother was still alive. Now, there was a Stark in Winterfell once more; it was only everything else that was different.

A gauntleted fist hammered on the door. "You may enter," Sansa said.

The door creaked open and a guard stepped into the warmth of the chamber. "Pardon m'lady, but Lord Snow – I mean, the king – he said you wanted to see this man?" Behind him, the Hound stood in the hallway with guards on either side.

"Yes," Sansa said, "thank you for bringing him. He may enter."

The guard hesitated, as if wondering if he'd somehow misheard her, but stepped aside to allow the Hound to pass. He ducked as he entered the chamber. Once inside, he turned to the guard and growled, "Be a good little soldier, fuck off!"

The guard's eyes went wide and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.

"Thank you!" Sansa said. "You may leave. Now."

The guard blinked at Sansa, bewildered by the realization that he was the one she wanted to leave, not the hulking menace beside him with the half-ruined face. But he edged past the Hound, who was easily a head taller than him, and retreated back into the hallway to join the other two guards.

"Please shut the door," Sansa said.

When the guard didn't move quickly enough, the Hound gave him a threatening glare. "You heard her, shut the fucking door!"

The guard scowled back at him but grudgingly pulled the door shut. When it was finally closed, Sansa smiled warmly at the Hound. His hooded cloak was gone and he wore a studded leather jerkin over a brown, roughspun tunic. He didn't smile back.

"You don't seem very happy," she said.

"I'm not. Your bastard brother took my sword."

"He's the king now."

"He's not my fucking king." He wandered past her, and as his gaze drifted around the chamber his mouth twisted into an insincere grin. "Looks like the little bird has finally flown home."

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"That so?"

"Yes."

"What about wine? Any rule about having fucking wine in Winterfell?" He picked up a pitcher from a side table and stared in disgust at the water inside.

"I'll send for some," Sansa said.

"Piss on that," the Hound said with a dry rasp. "I'll get it myself."

He turned to leave, but Sansa said, "Wait!"

He glanced back over his shoulder so only the unburned half of his horrific visage showed, his face gaunt and his long, lank hair hiding the half still in shadow. "Why?" he snarled, as he glared at her with one fierce grey eye. "Why did you send for me?"

Sansa's mouth suddenly seemed very dry. "I...I wanted to thank you," she said, her voice a whisper.

"Thank me?" He turned toward her, and the torchlight caught the ruined half of his face and cast it into cruel relief. "Thank me for what, girl?"

Just the way he said it made her feel like a girl, the same stupid little girl who had gleefully followed her prince to King's Landing naively thinking he would make her his queen. She smoothed her pale, wintry blue gown and tried to regain her composure. "I wanted to thank you for...being kind to me."

"Kind?" he said with a sneer. "You mean when I gutted those beggars for tearing your pretty dress? I was a member of the Kingsguard. I was only doing my duty."

"None of the others came back for me."

"I said it was duty, girl, nothing more!"

Sansa lowered her eyes. "Was it duty that drove you to my bedroom the night of the Blackwater?"

He took a step closer and she couldn't help herself as she took a step backward. His mouth twisted into a cruel grin. "You wouldn't be thanking me if you knew why I was really there that night, little bird."

"You were there to rescue me," she whispered.

His laugh was like a bark. "You are a stupid girl!"

"I am not," Sansa said. "I know you'd been drinking. You wanted a song and a...a kiss. But you told me you'd take me with you. You promised you'd bring me home."

He opened his mouth as if about to reply, but stopped and shook his head in disgust as he turned away.

"Wait!" Sansa clutched at his sleeve. "I should have listened to you that night. I should have gone with you!"

"Leave me be, girl." He tried to pull his arm away from her. "I need some wine."

"Please, I only want – "

"I said, leave me be!" He snarled as he tore his sleeve free from her grasp. "I've had my fill of Stark girls!"

Sansa blinked in confusion, not sure she'd heard him right. "Stark girls?"

"Aye! You and your sister!"

Sansa's eyes went wide and she seized his wrist. "You've seen Arya?!"

A shadow crossed the Hound's face. "She never returned here?"

"No! Where did you see her? When?!"

"A long time ago, near the Bloody Gate. She was traveling with me. I was supposed to be taking her to your aunt, but when we heard she was dead I decided to take her to your brother instead, the fucking King in the North."

"But Brienne said she met her on the road and a man was with her...that was you?"

"That's right, I was with your little sister when we met Brienne of fucking Tarth," he said, every syllable dripping with disdain.

"She asked Arya to come with her, but she refused. She said my sister left with you and that was the last time she saw her."

"Is that the way she told it? That big blonde bitch nearly killed me, tore half my fucking ear off!" He pointed at the mangled stump for emphasis as Sansa grimaced.

"But...why would Lady Brienne want to fight you?"

"Lady?" the hound growled. "She's no bloody lady. That bitch fights dirty. If I wasn't wounded, I would have killed her!"

"But, if Arya isn't with you, and she isn't with Brienne..."

The Hound saw the despondent look on Sansa's face as her voice trailed off. His tone softened. "Don't worry, little bird, your sister isn't dead."

She stared up at him, her eyes glistening with tears. "How can you be sure?"

"That girl's too full of hate to die."

Sansa turned toward the window, hiding her face as she hurriedly wiped her tears away. Outside, the snow was still falling. "I should have been with her, with you. If I'd only listened and gone with you the night you came to my room."

"Don't be foolish, girl. If I'd taken you with me we'd both be dead. I barely made it out of King's Landing with my own neck intact. I know it was a hard thing, but you were right to stay."

She shook her head as memories of what had happened to her since that fateful night threatened to bring the tears back. "You have no idea what it's been like, how hard it has been."

He grunted as he looked around the bedchamber. "Things seem to have worked out well enough. You've got your brother back. You've got your precious Winterfell back."

Sansa smiled bitterly. "When I was young I used to beg Old Nan to tell me tales of knights, and in her stories they were always handsome and gallant. But all of the knights I've ever known have been vain and cruel...except you."

The burned side of his mouth twisted into a sneer. "Piss on that. I told you before, I'm no fucking knight."

"Maybe not by title," Sansa said, "but by deeds you are a truer knight than any of them."

His face darkened. "You have no idea of the things I've done, girl. I'm no shining knight from one of your storybooks. I'm a killer. That's why the fucking Brotherhood asked me to join them. They need men killed and that's what I'm good at."

"That's not true."

"It is true!" he shouted, his face so close she could see the hint of bone where the flames had seared away his flesh.

It took every ounce of willpower Sansa had not to turn away. "I know that you have killed men, but they were bad men."

"Bad men?!" he said with a hoarse laugh. "Was your sister's little butcher boy a bad man? She could have saved me, you know, after that fight with Brienne of fucking Tarth. She could have run for help, but she left me to die. I'm starting to think she's the only one of you with any sense."

Sansa shook her head. "No, you only killed Mycah because the Lannisters ordered it. If you'd refused, it would have been your head on Ilyn Payne's block."

He grabbed her wrist and squeezed it hard. "Are you stupid, girl?! I did it because I'm a killer. That's what I do, I kill people. I murder them and then I rape their fucking corpses!"

"No," Sansa said, louder this time, ignoring the pain shooting through her wrist. "That's not true. That's your brother. That's Ramsay and Joffrey. That isn't you. You want me to be frightened of you, but I'm not. You would never hurt me. You saved my sister. You saved me!"

The Hound let go of her, shaking his head as he turned away. "I need some fucking wine."

But Sansa grabbed his sleeve and spun him around, pulling him toward her as she pressed her mouth against his. The Hound pushed her away and reeled back, his eyes wide with shock as he wiped the back of his hand against his hard, scarred mouth. "Careful, girl..."

"I'm not a girl," Sansa said. She could still remember how it felt, his cruel mouth pressed against her own in the darkness as green fire filled the night sky over Blackwater Bay.

She stretched her hand toward his scarred cheek and he backed away. "I warned you, girl, I'm not one of the knights from your storybook. You don't want to tempt me."

"Why not?" Sansa said. "I'm not the girl you knew in King's Landing. I'm a woman now."

"A woman?" he rasped. "You think your fancy title makes you a woman? I'll tell you what it does: it guarantees if your bastard brother comes through that door and catches me kissing you I'll have his sword through my guts!"

She stepped past him and slid the bolt to lock the door, then pressed her back against the solid oak. Her eyes blazed as the flickering torchlight caught her copper-sheened hair and turned it the color of fire. "What's wrong," she whispered, "do I frighten you?"

The Hound stumbled back from her and turned toward the window as if ready to jump through it. "Seven Hells," he rasped, "I need that fucking wine!"

Sansa moved toward him, fire in her eyes. "That night you came to my chamber, you asked me to sing for you. Is this the song you wanted?"

She tugged at the laces of her tight bodice, and as they fell open the Hound turned away. "Stop that," he warned.

But Sansa didn't stop. She gently brushed her fingers against his scarred skin, letting them slide across his jawbone and along his cheek, grazing the hard, fissured flesh as she turned him back toward her.

"I said stop that," he rasped. He grabbed her wrist, this time with a delicacy surprising for such a big man as he pulled her hand away from his ravaged face. But his grey eyes were like black coals as he growled once more, "You don't want to tempt me, little bird."

Sansa met his fierce gaze. "I'm not frightened of you."

"You should be," he said, his tone harsh as he towered above her, half his face in ruin. "You should be frightened of all men."

Sansa slowly shook her head from side to side as memories flooded her thoughts: the memory of Joffrey's cruelty as he forced her to look upon her father's decapitated head; the memory of Meryn Trant's malice as he beat her with mailed fists; the memory of Ramsay's inhumanity as he tortured her body and soul; and above them all, the memory of Sandor Clegane, the oft-maligned Hound, tenderly wrapping his white cloak around her when she was at her lowest.

"Not you," she whispered. "I will never be afraid of you."

"Then you're mad, girl. Tie your dress back up."

He let go of her wrist, but instead of retying the laces she slipped her hand inside her gown, exposing porcelain flesh and the ripe curve of her breast as she pushed the silken fabric over her shoulder.

"I said stop that!" the Hound snarled. He lunged forward and grabbed her gown, but instead of stopping her he yanked her dress downward, tearing the delicately woven cloth with a violent rip.

Sansa gasped and clutched the remnants of her ruined dress to her ivory skin; her slender arm across her pale breasts the only thing keeping the ruined garment from falling away and leaving her completely naked.

The Hound's chest heaved. His eyes were wild. "You think this is what I want?!"

He was more than twice her size, studded armor across his massive shoulders while her own frail shoulders were bare. But Sansa boldly lifted her eyes to meet his. "This isn't about what you want, it's about what I want."

And as she lowered her arms to her sides, the torn fragments fell away.

She was naked before him, willowy thin and pale as snow but with a woman's curves. The girl of summer was gone; the woman of winter had arrived. But as Sandor Clegane's eyes lingered on her exposed flesh his countenance darkened and a shadow crossed his face.

"Tell me who did this to you," he said, his voice choking with fury as he eyed the scars crisscrossing her delicate frame, "I'll tear them open and strangle them with their own guts!"

"You're too late. It was Ramsay Bolton and he's dead."

He winced as he eyed her scars, every single one a fresh wound to his heart. "Tell me it's true, girl. Did your brother really feed Bolton's bastard to his own dogs?"

"No, it is not true. I fed Ramsay to his dogs, and don't call me girl. I am Lady Sansa Stark, ruler of Winterfell, and this is my home."

She grabbed the front of his jerkin and, with surprising strength, pulled him down toward her. She crushed her soft lips against his hard mouth and when he tried to pull away she tightened her grip and kissed him even harder.

Sandor Clegane towered above her, twice her size, but as his scarred mouth melted against hers his hands wound their way around her narrow waist and she was soon enveloped by his massive arms.

He slid his hands across her soft skin, tracing every scar, then dug his fingers into her flesh and pulled her naked torso hard against him until she whimpered.

"Am I hurting you, girl – I mean – Sansa?"

"No," she said, her mouth raw from his fierce kisses. "It's your jerkin, the metal is cold."

In an instant his jerkin was off, and as he dropped it on the stone floor Sansa slid her hands beneath his roughspun tunic and pushed it as high as she could. Sandor helped, pulling it over his head, and while his brawny arms were in the air she let her fingers roam across his thickly muscled torso, tracing his own fearsome scars through the coarse black hair that carpeted his chest and trailed toward his abdomen.
"Your scars seem far more terrible than mine," she said, as she delicately touched one that crossed four ribs and looked as if made by a hatchet.

He brushed his fingers against her cheek. "No, little bird, they're not."

He went to pull her close, wanting to kiss her again, but she put her hand to his chest and stopped him. She lowered her fingers to his breeches, pulling at the knot as she started to untie them.

His hands caressed her pale shoulders. "Are you sure about this?"

She nodded as she kept working at the laces, and as his breeches fell away her eyes went wide.

"Do I frighten you?" he whispered.

Sansa shook her head from side to side as she slid her hand between his tree-trunk legs and lightly brushed her fingertips against the impressive length hanging there, thick and ready. He trembled at her touch. She grew bolder, caressing his cock, so big she could barely fit her fingers around it. And as he grew harder she whispered, "Well...it is a little frightening."

He scooped her up as if she were weightless. She wrapped her slender arms around his strong neck and gently bit her lower lip in anticipation as he carried her toward the bed on the far side of the chamber.

Sandor laid her upon it, the featherbed mattress and goose-down pillows soft beneath her weight. One more time, he whispered, "Are you sure this is what you want, little bird?"

She nodded, and then she took his hand and drew him onto the bed. It groaned beneath his bulk. He immediately spread her legs and went to mount her, but Sansa pressed her hand against his massive chest. "Wait!"

His face was a mix of frustration and confusion. "You just said – "

Sansa gave him a reassuring smile. "I know, but we don't need to rush." She slid out from beneath him. "Lie on your back."

Sandor grudgingly obeyed her, but was obviously uncomfortable. She couldn't help wondering if this was the first time he'd ever been naked in a lady's bedchamber.

As if to confirm her suspicions, he mumbled, "It's cold as a septa's cunt in here. Get under these blankets."

"Not yet." Sansa smiled shyly as she stopped him from dragging the covers over both of them. "I want to look at you."

He stared at her as if she were mad, but when he realized she was serious he settled reluctantly back on the bed and lay there as if waiting for a maester to begin his examination. And as Sansa gently brushed her fingertips across his broad chest and trailed them lower, down his thickly muscled midsection, his pulse quickened.

She let her fingers drift between his legs, teasing him as she grazed her perfect fingernails across his most sensitive parts. Then she curled her fingers around his erection and stroked him, sliding her hand up and down his thick length as she bent forward and flicked her tongue against the head of his cock.

Sandor groaned and shifted, but his eyes never left her. She flashed him a teasing smile and wrapped her lips around his cock, but she'd barely started sucking him when he grabbed her shoulder and wrenched his member out of her mouth. Sansa stared at him in stunned surprise. "Am I doing it wrong?"

The Hound stared at her in horror. "Doing it wrong? Seven Hells! You're a lady – you're not supposed to be doing it at all!"

"Oh...when I was married to Lord Tyrion – "

The ruined side of Sandor Clegane's mouth twitched and his face darkened. "The Imp made you do this for him?"

Sansa shook her head. "No, Lord Tyrion never touched me. We didn't even sleep in the same bed.

"What I was about to say, before you interrupted me, was that Tyrion gave me a maid and she taught me how to do this. Her name was Shae, and she was good and true."

Sandor gave her an incredulous stare. "Good and true? And this is what she's teaching you?!"

Sansa blushed. "You have no idea how many hours we are forced to spend alone together, it's not all needlework. Shae said this was a skill all women should know and she showed me how to practice on a piece of fruit...but it wasn't nearly as big as this."

She wrapped her fingers back around his cock and slowly stroked her hand back and forth as she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Now, can I keep practicing or do you wish to protest some more?"

The Hound didn't say a word, but as he lay back on the goose-down pillows and stared up at the ceiling he gave her the only answer she needed.

Sansa lowered her head and wrapped her lips back around his length, barely suppressing a moan as his cock filled her mouth once more. She felt his hand behind her head, but this time it wasn't to stop her. He tangled his fingers in her glorious red hair and locked them there as he showed her how he liked to be sucked.

She embraced the task, relishing the feel of his thick cock as it slid between her lips, her soft tongue teasing him while her hand kept pumping up and down with a twisting motion just like Shae had taught her to.

Sandor let out a long, low groan and Sansa jerked him even faster, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure as she lashed his cock with her hungry tongue, her moans the perfect accompaniment to his groans. But just when the two of them were about to hit their crescendo, she felt his fingers tighten in her hair and he forcefully yanked her head back.

Her mouth popped off his stiff cock with a sloppy, sucking sound and her hands flew to her head as she tried to pull her hair free from his tight grip. "Ow! That hurts!" she cried.

Immediately, a mailed fist hammered on the door. "M'lady!" a muffled voice shouted through the thick oak. "Are you alright?!"

"I'm fine!" Sansa shouted. "You don't need to stand outside my door!"

The Hound relaxed his grip and let go of her. As Sansa straightened up and combed her fingers through her tousled, tangled hair, she gave him a hurt look. "Why did you do that?"

His eyes were squeezed shut and his chest heaved as he tightly gripped his cock. Through clenched teeth, he groaned, "The next time you see that good and true maid of yours you can let her know you've learned your lessons well – too well!"

His words caught Sansa by surprise, but when she realized how obviously close to coming he was she broke into a smile. Gently biting her lower lip, she leaned forward and teasingly brushed the back of her fingers against his purple, engorged flesh.

He winced and a vein on his temple throbbed as he squeezed his cock even harder. "Don't touch it!" he hissed.

Sansa couldn't help laughing and he glared at her with one eye. "Think that's funny, little bird?"

She nodded and he growled as he moved with surprising speed, pouncing on her as he pinned her playfully against the mattress. She shrieked in delight and this time when the guards pounded on the door she ignored them.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, her Hound, was above her. She stared shyly up at him as she parted her legs, ready. But he whispered, "Not yet, little bird."

He nuzzled his coarse mouth against her collarbone and trailed rough kisses across her porcelain flesh, only slowing down when he reached her small, perfect breasts. He worshiped her pale pink nipples with his mouth, teasing the tiny buds erect with his tongue. Then he moved lower, tracing the faint lines of her ribcage with his fingers and leaving soft kisses on her belly as he edged toward her sex.

Sansa instinctively covered her mound with her hand, but he pried it away, murmuring in approval as he got a closer look at the downy, strawberry-blonde triangle between her thighs.

"Don't try to tell me you're shy." He slid his hand between her legs, his thick fingers surprisingly gentle as he parted her tender folds.

Sansa's heart was pounding. She instinctively went to squeeze her legs together but he pried them apart, holding her by her thighs as he buried his half-ruined face in her cunny.

She gasped as she felt his rough tongue take her, licking and thrusting. Sansa squeezed his massive shoulders and forced her eyes shut as she tried to enjoy it. But unbidden images of Ramsay flashed through her thoughts, memories of him sitting in a chair, leering at her with a flaying knife in his hand and a cruel smile on his lips.

Sansa cried out as the monstrous memory nearly overcame her and as she shoved Sandor away she squeezed her legs shut.

He stared at her in shock. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she whispered. "Not you."

A guard hammered at the door again. "M'lady!"

"Go away!" Sansa shouted. "I'm fine!"

"You're not fine," Sandor whispered, sliding up beside her and pulling her into his arms as the hammering from the other side of the door finally relented.

She curled against him, her copper-colored hair soft against his chest. "I am fine...now...but some things are hard to forget." She turned her face toward his and brushed her delicate fingers against his scarred cheek. "Can you make me forget?"

He nodded and gently laid her back as he propped a pillow beneath her head. He eased her legs apart and carefully moved between them as the bed groaned under their weight.

He positioned himself above her, and as his erect length prodded the soft flesh of her inner thigh Sansa instinctively flinched. Ramsay was the only man she'd ever known and everything about him, even his manhood, had been stunted and twisted.

Sandor was different. He was a big man, one of the biggest she'd ever seen other than his brother, the Mountain, and Hodor. And now that he was naked and on top of her she knew for a certainty every inch of him was in proportion, his impressive member twice the size of the only other she'd ever seen.

She'd barely been able to get her fingers around it. Her jaw ached from sucking on it. And as he nudged the huge head of his cock against her tender opening she stiffened, squeezing her eyes shut as she clenched the sheets with both hands and prepared to be split in two.

The touch of his fingertips against her cheek startled her. Sansa's eyes popped open. His face was close and his eyes warm as he reassured her, "Don't worry, little bird, I won't hurt you."

He eased forward but Sansa only clenched the sheets tighter, wincing as his thick cock forced her apart. "Ow! It hurts!"

Sandor paused, the head of his cock barely inside her. "You need to relax," he whispered.

She craned her neck forward and winced again when she saw the huge pole plugged into her tiny opening. "It doesn't fit!"

"It will," he growled, "if you'll just relax."

Sansa's mouth was bone dry; her heart hammered beneath her breast.

"If you want me to stop," Sandor said, "I will."

His words caught her off guard. She stared up at his half-ruined face. Once she'd feared those cold, grey eyes; now, as she searched them, she saw only tenderness and concern. She took a deep breath and shook her head from side to side. "No...please...don't stop."

She lay back on the bed and released her grip on the sheets, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth as she tried to relax. His hips rolled forward and she arched her back, biting her lower lip to keep from crying out as his thick cock stretched her even wider.

He eased his way into her, slowly, taking his time, letting her get used to his size. "Are you alright, little bird?"

Sansa's head was turned to one side with her eyes squeezed shut and her breath coming fast. "Yes," she moaned, sliding her hands to his hips as she encouraged him to keep pushing.

A grunt of pleasure escaped him as he worked even more of his thick cock between her legs and finally, with barely half his length inside, he began to slowly fuck her.

Sansa gasped as he raised his hips to draw his cock out and groaned as he drove it back in. He fucked her with a steady rhythm, every stroke working more of his cock inside her, every thrust driving her deeper into the bed.

She melted into the satiny soft sheets like a snowflake as his hard cock pumped in and out of her, stripping away her pain and leaving only bliss behind.

He pressed his rough mouth against hers as he fucked her and Sansa tried to return the kiss, but her efforts were in vain. She couldn't concentrate. She couldn't do anything, other than desperately try to hang on as waves of pleasure cascaded through her slender frame.

A delicate sheen of sweat coated her snow white skin and her glorious, crimson hair fanned across the pillow like a flame. She pulled her lover nearer, eager to take every inch of him, and an image flashed through her thoughts: an image of the Wall, desolately towering above her; in a narrow fissure on its cold, bleak face a small ice-blue flower.

The men of the Night's Watch told her it was called Alysanne's kiss and it was only found near the Wall. In that place, where nothing living was meant to survive, it had. And as Sansa melted beneath Sandor, letting the fierce intensity of his passion scour the scars of her past, she knew – like that pale flower – she, too, had survived.

The bed rocked beneath them, their bodies locked together in perfect unison. Sansa's hands were on his hips, guiding him. Sandor obeyed, every muscle tense as he thrust his thick cock in and out, tenderness abandoned as he fucked her fast and hard.

Sansa arched her back and spread her legs wide, digging her nails into his flesh as she let the intensity of their lovemaking consume her. His moans filled the chamber; her sharp cries echoed off the walls. Outside, a guard hammered at the door.

"Go away!" Sansa and Sandor shouted in unison, and when she realized what they'd done she burst into laughter.

Her smile made him grin. He pressed his coarse mouth against hers and their tongues danced together as their hips moved once more in perfect harmony, her graceful frame meeting every one of his heavy thrusts.

He rocked against her, his thick cock pumping in and out as she caressed his back and buttocks in encouragement. "I'm going to come," he rasped. But when he tried to pull out Sansa desperately dug her fingers into his flesh, hooking her ankles behind him and arching her hips, driving him as deep as he could go.

The Hound's face twisted into a desperate mix of confusion and concentration. He tried to keep from coming, but he was too far gone and he groaned as his thick length pulsed uncontrollably and filled her with his seed.

Sansa's eyes went wide and she caught her breath, but when he tried once more to pull out she tightened her hold, locking her arms and legs around him as she kept him close, kept him inside.

Her eyes fluttered and she came, hard. Now it was his turn to hold her, savoring the feel of her as she shuddered against him, an orgasm trembling through every inch of her pale, delicate frame.

When she was finally finished coming they collapsed together on the bed, spent. Sandor rolled off her and as his thick length slid free she quickly cupped her palm between her legs to keep his sticky mess from sliding free.

His chest was heaving as he lay naked on the sheets, his half-hard cock slick from being inside her. "You're certain this is what you wanted, little bird?"

Sansa nodded weakly as she kept her hand cupped to her sex, an enigmatic smile on her lips and her eyes half-lidded with pleasure. She turned her head toward him and reached for his hand, and as their fingers locked together she whispered, "Seven Hells, I need some wine."

~ * ~

Sandor Clegane entered the Great Hall first, dressed once more in his studded jerkin and roughspun tunic. The northman who had taken his sword on Jon Snow's orders still held it, and Clegane gave him a thinly disguised snarl as he took the blade back.

Sansa entered the hall moments after, and those seated hurried to rise to their feet. She was dressed in an intricately embroidered, dark-green velvet gown, and as she made her way toward the dais where Jon Snow stood waiting she nodded graciously at their guests, beseeching those still standing to sit.

But an unexpected voice nearly caused her to stumble.

"All hail Lady Sansa Stark, ruler of Winterfell!"

He was on the far side of the hall, accompanied by a half dozen valemen. His grey-green eyes glittered like the mockingbird sigil on his chest as he lifted his goblet to salute her. Littlefinger.

"Lord Baelish," Sansa said, obviously caught off guard. "I had not expected to see you again so...soon. I thought you returned with Lord Arryn to the Eyrie."

"Indeed, but urgent tidings from King's Landing demanded my immediate return. I sought you out upon my arrival, but was told you were...indisposed." Littlefinger bowed graciously toward her, but his eyes were on the Hound.

Sansa nodded and forced a smile. "Thank you, Lord Baelish, we celebrate your return. Your counsel is always welcome at Winterfell."

"I had honestly hoped so," Littlefinger said, as his smile faded, "but I confess it distressed me to discover upon my return that Winterfell's ranks now include outlaws."

A murmur rippled through the hall and Jon Snow raised his voice to be heard over it. "The Brotherhood Without Banners are not outlaws, Lord Baelish. They fought for my brother's cause in the south and have journeyed here to ally themselves with us for the battle that comes."

"My pardon, Your Grace," Littlefinger said, as he gave a conciliatory nod toward Beric and Thoros, "but I wasn't referring to the Brotherhood.

"I was with your father the day he commanded Lord Beric to gather a force and bring to heel the renegades led by Gregor Clegane which were then rampaging through the Riverlands. The Mountain was a monstrous man, his appalling crimes well known, crimes matched by the outlaw I refer to – his brother, the Hound!"

As Littlefinger stabbed an accusing finger at him, Sandor Clegane growled, "You little cunt, I'll clean my sword with your guts!"

In an instant his hand was wrapped around the well-worn hilt of his longsword and a cry rose around him as all nearby went for their own steel, but before he could wrench his blade free Sansa's slender fingers locked around his wrist.

"Stop!" she cried out.

The men closest grudgingly obeyed her command, but their hands stayed near their hilts.

"Sandor is nothing like his brother," she pleaded, as a frightening memory of the Mountain gruesomely decapitating his horse flashed through her thoughts. "He was kind to me when others were not. He saved me – "

"Yes," Littlefinger interrupted, "we all know the story of how he saved you from the mob, Sansa. But he saved you for the Lannisters' sake, not yours."

Turning toward Jon Snow, he added: "Your Grace, this man is a known criminal, a murderer with a bounty of one hundred Silver Stags on his head – "

"A Lannister bounty," the Hound growled.

Ignoring him, Littlefinger continued. "Since the Battle of the Blackwater a pack of outlaws has terrorized the smallfolk along the Trident, including a vicious raid on Saltpans. Numerous reports have identified the leader of these butchers as a man in a hound's head helm. And if that is not damning enough, Your Grace, know this – Sandor Clegane was seen at the Twins the night King Robb Stark and his mother were murdered!"

A clamor of anguished shouts rang through the hall, accompanied by the cold shriek of steel being drawn. But the menacing rasp of the Hound, like metal on stone, cut through the cacophony. "Aye, I was at the Twins, but I don't remember seeing you there, Littlefinger. The last time I saw your cunt face you had a knife at Ned Stark's throat!"

The outcry in the hall now became a full-fledged roar, as northmen who only moments before had been preparing to confront the Hound turned on the six valemen who quickly drew swords to form a protective semi-circle around Littlefinger.

"Your Grace!" he shouted, but his plea was drowned by a tumult of oaths and cries of traitor!

"Hold!" Jon bellowed, as he hammered a flagon against the thick table to make himself heard. "Any man who harms Lord Baelish will answer to me!"
The northmen and a pack of wildings that had eagerly joined the mob surging toward the terrified valemen grudgingly stayed their hand, but Littlefinger cautioned the men protecting him not to lower their blades.

Standing on the raised dais at the end of the hall, Jon Snow said, "Lord Baelish, is there truth to what the Hound says?"

"Your Grace," Littlefinger pleaded, "this man is loyal to the Lannisters...a spy sent to turn us against each other."

Jon Snow fixed him with a level gaze. "You haven't answered my question, Lord Baelish. Tell me, before one of my bannermen puts their blade through your belly, did you hold a blade to my father's throat?"

Every eye in the hall turned toward Littlefinger. "A base lie, Your Grace. I don't deny I was there that unfortunate day, but I did everything in my power to help your father."

The Hound barked a laugh. "Was that before or after you took Cersei's gold to betray him?"

The northmen near Littlefinger swore and renewed their shouts of "traitor!" as they shook their swords menacingly at the men from the Eyrie who still surrounded him, desperately trying to protect him.

"Your Grace," he pleaded, as Jon Snow's cold eyes bore into him, "this charge is baseless! Clegane and his brother are loyal to the Lannisters, while I have always been a friend to your family!"

"As you were a friend to my aunt Lysa?"

Her cold tone sliced through the clamor and Littlefinger's face paled when he heard her words. "Sansa – "

"Lady Stark," she said, coolly correcting him.

He nodded and gave her an obsequious smile. "Of course, my apologies Lady Stark. I know when you were in King's Landing this man presented himself as your protector. After he rescued you from Flea Bottom, you may have even believed him to be a hero, but I must warn you – "

"There is no need to warn me, Lord Baelish," she said. "I learned long ago never to trust those who would pose as my savior. My trust is earned through deeds. Sandor Clegane has shown me through his actions, though often violent, to be a man of his word. You, on the other hand, have shown me you are false."

A roar erupted from the mob of northmen and wildings and they lunged toward the terrified valemen, easily disarming them as they threw them out of the way and seized Littlefinger. As they dragged him roughly toward the center of the hall, his tunic tore.

"Your Grace!" he begged, as a wilding forced him to his knees while Jon Snow watched. "I have guest right!"

Sansa answered. "Guest right, Lord Baelish? My brother is the King in the North, but I rule Winterfell. Only I may grant guest right here."

"Sansa, you – "

A hard backhand sent Littlefinger reeling sideways. The northman who had dealt the blow glared at him as he growled, "You will address her as Lady Stark!"

Littlefinger nodded and when he looked up toward Sansa his lip was bloody, his vest torn where his mockingbird sigil had been ripped away. "Lady Stark, please, we've broken bread, shared wine..."

Sansa watched him impassively; behind her, there was a cold rasp as the Hound drew his longsword.

"No," Sansa said. "Lord Baelish is correct, guest right is sacred here."

"Don't be stupid, let me gut him now," the Hound growled.

"No, Sandor, we are not Freys." She turned toward him and calmly took his heavy blade from him. She needed both hands to hold it, and as she turned back toward Littlefinger he was visibly relieved.

"Thank you," he said, with a bow of his head.

She didn't reply. She made her way up onto the dais and took the chair beside her brother, the chair reserved for the ruler of Winterfell, and laid the bared sword across her knees.

Littlefinger's eyes widened, the symbolism of her gesture obvious to anyone who knew the traditions of the North: a lord or lady who bared a sword across their knees was denying guest right.

"Sansa," he whispered.

Her eyes hardened. "Lord Baelish, if you call me by that name one more time I will have Sandor Clegane tear out your tongue with his bare hands."

Littlefinger's face paled as the Hound grinned down at him, his cold grey eyes glittering at the prospect.

With her fingers resting lightly on the hilt of the Hound's sword, Sansa continued. "I ask you one last time, Lord Baelish. Did you betray my father to the Lannisters?"

Littlefinger clasped his hands together. "Please, Lady Stark, I beg you to trust me."

"Like my father trusted you? Like my aunt trusted you? You are a liar, Lord Littlefinger, a liar and a murderer. For the crimes you have committed against my family, I condemn you."

"But I speak the truth!"

"You do not. You told me once that there is no justice in this world unless we make it. I loved my family. I will avenge them."

Littlefinger looked as if he were about to faint, but the northmen flanking him seized him and roughly lifted him to his feet.

"If I was my father I would carry out your sentence myself," Sansa said, as she curled her fingers tightly around the hilt of the weighty blade in her lap. "Luckily for you, I am not my father. I will give you the chance you never gave him.

"You have guest right here until the sun rises tomorrow. Before that hour arrives, I suggest you ride north to the Wall and plead with the commander of the Night's Watch to let you take the black. Otherwise, come dawn, I will charge every man here with apprehending you so justice may be served."

Desperate, Littlefinger turned to Jon Snow. "Your Grace, please...stop this madness!"

Jon arched an eyebrow. "Madness? I think my sister shows you more kindness than you deserve. Listen to her, Lord Baelish, go north. We will need every man we can find when the White Walkers come."

The blood drained from Littlefinger's face, his knees buckled. "Please, Your Grace, have mercy."

Sansa smiled. "Lord Baelish, don't let my brother frighten you. Surely a man of your intellect doesn't believe in snarks and grumkins. If the Wall isn't to your liking, perhaps you should ride south? I'd suggest King's Landing, but I fear you may no longer be in Queen Cersei's good graces. As for the Eyrie, I must warn you I can no longer in good conscience keep the circumstances of my aunt's death from my dear cousin Robin."

Littlefinger's mouth moved, but no sound came forth.

Sansa tilted her head in mock surprise. "Lost for words, Lord Baelish? This is a first."

"Please, Lady Stark," he croaked, his mouth dry, "for the love I bore your mother..."

"I almost forgot, that is what you told my Aunt Lysa isn't it? You told her you only ever loved one woman, my mother. But that's not true, you love me too, don't you, Littlefinger?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"In fact, you loved my mother so much that you once fought a duel with my uncle for her favor. Will you fight for me, too? Challenge the Hound, Lord Baelish. I swear on my mother's name, if you win I will marry you."

Sandor Clegane grinned fiercely at him, his mouth twisted in a terrible mockery of a smile. "You heard her, Littlefinger, be a man for the first time in your life so I can clean my sword with your guts."

The wildings surrounding him howled with laughter as Littlefinger shrunk back, blanching with fear at the Hound's words. But his cheeks quickly burned crimson and he straightened himself, pulling his arms free from the men holding him. He looked toward Sansa. "I will accept your first offer, my Lady, and ride as soon as my mount can be made ready."

She arched an eyebrow. "In this weather? There is a storm outside, Lord Baelish, where will you ride?"

His eyes slid between her and the Hound. "Would you believe me if I told you?"

~ * ~

A gloomy silence seemed to have descended on the Great Hall. Wildings huddled together near the fire while northmen drained their cups and glared suspiciously at the valemen, who had refused to accompany Littlefinger and remained behind.

Watching them all from the high seat on the dais at the end of the hall was Sansa, her cup of wine untouched. She said, "Do you think it was unwise to let him leave?"

"You had no choice," Jon Snow said from the seat beside her. "He did have guest right."

Sansa laughed bitterly. "Guest right...why should we still honor it when others seem to have forgotten?"

"Because the North remembers," Jon said. "Littlefinger won't get far. He'll pay for what he has done."

"What if he rides for the Wall and actually reaches it?"

"Then the Night's Watch will welcome him. But with the battle that comes, I fear that too may be a death sentence."

"Good," the Hound growled, as he tore at a haunch of venison near the end of the high table. "I'm sick of seeing his cunt face."

"Clegane," Jon Snow warned. "I don't like the language you use in front of my sister. You will show her respect."

The Hound turned toward him and gave him a menacing grin as he dropped the half-eaten haunch on the table and wiped his greasy fingers on his jerkin. "That's a pretty sword," he said. "Why don't you pull it out and – "

"Sandor!"

The sound of her voice checked him and his smile vanished. The ruined side of his mouth twitched as he bowed toward her. "My apologies, Lady Stark."

She gave him a reassuring smile. "Sandor, you have proven yourself our friend. Call me Sansa, please."

Jon cleared his throat. "My sister is right...Sandor...you have proven yourself to be both a friend and ally. I apologize if I've misjudged you."

His laugh was a cold rasp. "You haven't misjudged me, Your Grace, and your sister can call me by that name, but to you it's the Hound. Now, if you'll excuse me, all this talk is making me thirsty."

He gave them a half bow and then turned and strode across the Great Hall, shoving any northman or wilding unfortunate enough to be caught in his path roughly out of the way.

When he reached the table Littlefinger had occupied the valemen still sitting there scrambled to their feet and backed away from him. But the Hound ignored them as he grabbed Littlefinger's untouched goblet and peered inside to make sure it wasn't water.

He grinned when he saw the dark red wine inside and turned back toward the dais with the goblet held high. Sansa met his gaze with a secret smile and his grey eyes glittered as he roared, "To the Starks!" and drained every drop.

~ * ~