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After the third time Sandor Clegane saved Sansa Stark’s life at Winterfell, Jon Snow made him her personal guard.

Brienne of Tarth was assigned general command of the Lannister irregulars that Ser Jaime had brought north with him--she was the only one who could be trusted to manage a Lannister.

Arya Stark already followed the Hound around like a puppy, nipping at his heels, looking up to him, literally, for advice and trusting in him with the abiding faith that a child has in its father.

Ghost, even, said that the Hound was fit to guard the King’s sister. Ghost sniffed him all over, up and down, sniffing his crotch not once not twice but three times, sniffing his hands, sniffing his mouth and beard and then licking his face. Finally Ghost sat back on his haunches and demanded a chin and head scratch. The Hound complied. It was quite a sight to see a full-grown dire wolf demand to be petted like a lap dog.

The third time was when the Hound slaughtered five and maimed two infiltrators from the Golden Company who had taken positions as Stark guards at Winterfell. Queen Cersei had tasked them with killing the remaining Starks, but Sansa first and foremost. When Sansa took to the godswood alone one night, determined to pray for her family at the heart tree of their own Old Gods, they set upon her. At some point Sansa had started wearing a stiletto strapped to her calf. She had some instinct that warned her the crunching footsteps in the snow were enemy not ally, and was able to pull the knife and stab her first attacker through the eye, but relinquished the blade to her attacker's flesh and thus was left without a weapon.

The remaining attackers had her, and were fit to tear her apart, when the Hound appeared, in a rage that mercenaries fighting for gold had no hope to match.

Arya, trailing behind her Hound, took down two. Sansa's one, Arya's two, the Hound's five and two? All told there were ten.

The ones the Hound left behind maimed--a leg and hand missing from each man--were for Jon Snow and his wolf to question. Arya wanted to end them but the Hound reminded her that you can’t interrogate the dead.

Sansa, pulled to her feet, made to speak, but sputtered and coughed up blood instead. The Hound roared again, as he had during the combat moments before, but now it was a roar of rage mutated by fear and pain. He grasped her to him and saw that the back of her dress was wet with blood.


“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Help me up.”

“Fuck no,” he growled. “You need to rest.”

“I need to work. You guard me, you don’t have the privilege of preventing me from doing my duties,” she said. She pulled herself out of bed, gently, a little frail, moving slowly after the two days under the weight of milk of the poppy and no food to speak of.

She wore a white shift. Her hair was loose and wild. Her eyes were moist, and he was afraid to look at her. She walked ever so carefully over to the fire and leaned over the chair where he sat, so that she could take a log of firewood from the stack beside the fireplace and toss it onto the waning flames.

Too close. She stood over him. Tall. She’d always been tall for a girl. Her shift was thin, and as the flames rose, he could see through it well enough: the dusk of her pebbled nipples, the copper curls at the apex of her thighs.

“I’m fine. Let me show you,” she said. She turned away from him, and pulled at the hem of her sleeping shift. Up, now over her head. Naked. She stood before him naked in the firelight, the curve of her bottom nearly in his face, the shadows between her legs just below. He thought about touching her.

She pulled the curtain of her hair off her back to show him the healing stab wound. “See,” she said, “Closed. Never much to speak of. I’ll heal.”

He inhaled, shakily. She looked down at him, over her shoulder, the intention clear in her eyes.

“I’m fine. I’m strong. I’m ready,” she said. Her eyes flared then, and she shivered and he saw her fingers clutch into fists.

“Very well,” he said, challenged. He ran two fingers down from the closed wound, along her spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, until he reached the crease where her ass cheeks split and led to her cunt. He slid his right hand between the back of her legs. He grasped her hip with his left. She rolled her hips, pushing into both hands at once, grinding, instinctive, rhythmic.

His cock hardened more each time she rolled her hips. He shoved his right hand further between her legs, his index finger on her clit, hooking and pulling at it. Her cunt opened for him, warm and wet, dripping down on his whole palm.

He felt his cock begin to weep, and he was so hard against his breeches that he couldn’t sit still anymore, so Sandor stood, and he pulled her back against him as he did so. “Bend over. Hands on the stones of the hearth. Do as you’re told, girl,” he said, running his hands over her naked shoulders and down the sides of her back, giving her hips a gentle shove. She was a good girl and bent in half, bracing her hands against the fireplace stones. As he unlaced his breeches, freeing his aching cock, he stroked himself again and again while he left her there, bent before him, cunt wet and pink and open.

He released himself then and trailed a finger up and down the length of her pink shell. She pushed back toward him, angling her hips even higher in the air.

“You think you’re ready to go back out there but every time I let you out of my sight someone tries to kill you,” he murmured, running his hands up and down the smooth arc of her back, past the puckering scab, red and raw and tight, where the blade had bit her. Another scar for you, Lady Stark.

The curve of her back reminded him of the swans that had lived in the mill pond at Casterly Rock. They said Lady Joanna brought them to the Rock as part of her dowry.

He slipped a long finger into Sansa's wet heat. She was dripping wet and so tight. He put in a second finger, and she shuddered against him, pushing back against him again, desperate. He thought about edging in a third, but instead he removed them both.

Instead, he palmed her creamy asscheeks and then smacked the right one with his open hand. The pink spot left behind by his hand pleased him and he also felt a clenching pain his heart.

She was still beneath him. There was too much silence in the room. He roped her ribbon of copper hair around his hand and gently pulled her up, flush to him. He slid his free hand around her belly, palming her soft flesh and muttering into a spot between her forehead and her temple, “That was for getting stabbed. Don’t do that again.” She leaned into the arm he had wrapped around her, exposing her neck further. Somehow he could feel her benevolent smile, lips grazing his bicep. She seemed to be trying to nuzzle under his collarbone with the back of her head. Her grace made him angry. “Bend over,” he grunted. And she did it, same as before: Lady Sansa of House Stark, bent in half before him, ass in the air, white cheek, little brown bunghole, pink-purple-brown cunt with steaming wet hot copper curls, exposed to him, his for the taking.

He knelt down behind her and nosed her cunt. She smelled of the sea, and she was quivering. Shivering? He licked her then, and then again, and again. He was a dog, after all. He heard her whimper, and her knees wobbled a little, and that pleased him. As he plunged his tongue into her cunt, delving into it as though he were giving her a lover’s kiss, he ran his hands up the inside of her thighs, because he wanted to touch her and because he thought she might collapse and he’d hold her up from within if he had to.

He ran his fingers through her curling pussy hair and inhaled the smell and feel of her desire and sweat, like so much juice from a peach.

He rose to his feet then, and he heard her plead, ever so quietly, “Please. Sandor. Please.” She’d never said his name aloud before, and then he slapped her ass again, harder than before, and then he palmed that sweet spot and soothed her sopping cunt with his whole hand, and he pulled her back toward him, her back against his chest.

He ground his raging erection hard into the small of her back, and then he stopped breathing so as to not explode all over her right then.

“That was for trying to walk out of here and go back to them. They don’t appreciate you. They’ll take everything they can from you and never give a thing back. They keep trying to hurt you, my sweet wolf,” and the last part was more of a choking sob than anything, and all he could do to still himself--to keep from breaking down--was bring forth the memory of blood on snow.

It was his only comfort, knowing that his blade had drawn the lifeblood out of the traitors and ingrates and mercenaries who had come to hurt her. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her blood on his hand and her wide, frightened eyes looking up at him, the discovery of her injury as much as a surprise to her as to him. She’d been in shock, and it had protected the both of them, but as soon as the wound was found out, she started shaking violently in his arms, clinging to him, arms around his neck. He swept her legs up in his other arm and lifted her up and carried her inside.

He’d been sitting at her bedside night and day ever since, watching, silent, enraged, as the Tarly boy and the maester fussed over her. Goodwives came and went, and a tiny copper-haired scullery maid who could have been Sansa’s own daughter came up from the kitchens every other hour to bring fresh broth and water and without fail the little one patted him on the knee on the way out the door and said that she would pray for him and Lady Sansa both and that she knew the gods would watch over Lady Sansa as Lady Sansa watched over all the people of Winterfell.

Jon Snow came and brooded for a time, holding his sister’s hand and eyeing Sandor dolefully.

Arya came and never touched her sister, but each time put her hand on his shoulder and tugged on his beard and told him not to look so awful.

And then he could hold out no longer.

She was his woman, his, and she could have died. That they weren’t too late was...She was one woman, with one stiletto, against ten and how they failed to gut her from neck to cunt was a mystery. They’d failed. But it was so close. Too close.

He smacked her ass again, one last time, and then wrenched her hips up to his groin, pulling her cunt back onto his cock the way a sheath slips over a sword. He spread his legs wide so could he find and fill her cunt below him--as tall as she was, and as open as she was, and even straining up on her toes, he was still that much taller, that much bigger.

“That last was for letting someone like me touch you, Lady Stark. What can you be thinking?”

And then he let loose, with no thought for her pleasure, just rage and blood and the impossible crush of her red hot wet tight sweetness surrounding him. She braced herself hard against the stone and gasped with pain every time his cockhead rammed her, smashing the entrance to her womb with all the violence he dared muster. Soon he was blind and deaf to anything but the throbbing of his cock and the rising pleasure that wasn’t just in his cock but an overwhelming energy that rolled up like a storm across his whole body, up to his clenched jaw and down to his toes, curled and tense at once. He rammed her and rammed her again and again and again everything was Sansa and then he felt his balls tighten and with a ripping guttural groan he unleashed himself into her, spurting his seed, his hot blood itself, into her, feeling her silky cunt drain him of every measure of feeling he had for her, good and bad.

He didn’t think she could have been wetter, but then her thighs were sticky with his ropey white seed, and even as he softened, he couldn’t bring himself to pull his cock out of her cunt, so he pulled her bodily back with him and collapsed into the chair where he had sat vigil over her.

She nuzzled his beard and reached between her legs and touched where his cock was still fitted inside her and cupped his balls in her hands and he roared again. Too much. And yet the blood rushed to his cock just the same, and he twitched and stiffened inside her.

She pulled off him then, and stood and turned, and he felt a loss, because he wanted to gaze at the healing wound on her back, the place where the knife had slipped between her ribs and cut her open. But she wouldn’t allow that now.

His Sansa. Naked. Her hair was a sordid tangle of tousles and knots. He thought there might be a bruise forming on her hip where he had gripped her, clenching on to her too hard.

Any man living would know what he’d just done to the woman, even if she hadn’t been naked.

And then she knelt before him.

Girl. “You’re some kind of glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” he said, sated enough to feel a little wry about the whole thing.

She just giggled and removed his boots, first the left and then the right, and gestured for him to shuck off his breeches all the way, so it wasn’t just his cock hanging out as if he’d forgot to tuck back in after taking a piss.

He sat up enough to push his breeches over his hips and down his thighs. She pulled them the rest of the way. Lady Stark. Lady Stark. Lady Stark.

Lady Stark knelt between his legs and tugged at the hem of his tunic and he shucked that off too. His cock jumped under her gaze.

This was harder. Not just his cock; sitting in this feeling of looking at her face and living with what had happened to her and with what he felt for her. Her hooded eyes were laughing blue and dangerous when she turned them on him. Her lips were red and dry and split in two places, one upper, one lower, from two days without enough water and food. Her face looked thinner than it had when he’d seen her in the great hall just before the attack.

He wondered vaguely if there were any pieces left of the two he’d suffered to live. Jon and Arya and Ghost had probably carved them up already, but he’d like a piece of them now, to heal what hurt in his heart at the sight of those cracks on her lips.

She ran her hands over every part of him except his cock. He could smell his own seed seeping out from between her legs as she knelt before him and ran her fingers over every part of him she could easily reach. She touched his big toe, and found the measure of his foot as surely as any cobbler. She ran her hand up his calf and kissed the inside of his knee, and ran her fingers through the curly black hairs on both his thighs. She fingered the coarse hairs around his cock and he wondered what he’d do if she yanked on those hairs but she merely toyed with the fur of him, same as though she were a shepherdess examining wool she had harvested her flock.

She brushed her cheek and her chin against the divot missing from his leg and she brushed her lips against it and he felt what wasn’t so much a kiss as the merest twitch of her mouth.

And then she clambered up on top of him, and he inhaled, deeply.

She smiled at that, a kind of silent laugh and pulled his face to her breasts and he inhaled again, the smell of the sweat dried in the valley between the mounds of her sweet, pert, lovely breasts. He gnawed at the swell of one and plucked the nipple of the other with his fingers. She gasped at that, and so he pulled harder, and then she whimpered, and he had the feeling she’d meant to touch more parts of him but had lost her way, so he felt her slide over his waiting cock instead, her wet lower lips enveloping and surrounding his cockhead and shaft and drenching them with her hot wetness.

Sansa pulled up then before him, gazing down at him like a queen, and she found his waiting cock with her hand and positioned it below her entrance and then with a murmur of pleasure, impaled herself upon it.

He gasped at the sensation of being back inside her. She finally took his mouth then, gently at first, just a quivering lip and an exhale and then he opened for her and she lapped up his tongue and at the same time began grinding down on his cock, roughing her clit against the hard muscle and coarse hair between his navel and his shaft.

Sansa rode him easily, the rhythm a known thing, an easy given. He sucked on her tongue and then sucked on her nipples as she arched back and ground against him, again and again, and he clutched her ass tight and stroked the round curves of her ass and soothed her hip where he’d smacked her, and then her moans became high-pitched pants that rose to a long high scream as she came on his cock.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her to him, her legs hanging over his hips, her body boneless and melted.

He was pleased because he thought she might rest now, after all that.

As soon as he thought it she disabused him of his notion. “I still have to get up. But Arya told me you’re my personal guard now,” she said into his earlobe, her arms encircling his head, her fingers scraping against his scalp through his hair.

He frowned deeply in the direction of her face, displeased. She giggled and pulled up to kiss his burn scars and kiss his cheekbone slowly, dragging her lips down the ridge below his bad eye, and then she kissed him chastely enough, on the lips, like some man’s devoted, faithful wife of 20 years.

“You’ll be amazed how many places in this castle I can find for us to fuck in,” said Sansa, teasing and yet authoritative. “But I do have to go out and fuss over everyone. The stablehands are close to rioting because they don’t like the way the Dothraki harness their horses. I have to speak with Redney for starters, which I should have done two days ago but being laid up got in the way. That’s just the first item, but I promise I can think of at least three different places in the stables where we can be alone.” She petted the heavy ropes of muscles on his shoulders, and thumbed the curly black hairs at the base of his throat. He tried to remember being furious with her, but now all he could think of was what she was going to wear and if it would be warm enough and how much trouble it was going to be to lift her skirts and get through all her smallclothes in some dusty room full of grain bags and straw bales.

“Shall we?” she smirked. Yes, girl, we shall.