Game of Thrones: Kissed by Fire

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.