Sansa vs Myranda 2 by Mickster and Nuxrivern

A Comment on Age

All characters in this story are 18 years or older, despite their ages in the original fiction.

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Betrayal and kindness didn’t often go hand in hand, which was likely why she hadn’t often witnessed others use it as a tool. Or at least not successfully, because every time Sansa was thrown a false smile, she had been able to look through it. Her years with Petyr, and the wise words he had drilled through her mind, had taught her as much.

Do not trust. No one.

For any reason. Ever. She had enough experience to know that he had been right, as she, as the Lady of Winterfell, had enough reason to doubt everything she was ever told. People rarely did anything to or for her without some sort of ulterior motive.

However, over the past months, Sansa had become rather skilled at the act of mixing betrayal with kindness herself. She moved through life with an aura of positivity, sitting through every duty and every ladylike task with a small, gentle smile on her face. It hid the fact that she had little to no interest in playing the role of political tool perfectly, as those around her were evidently starting to fall for it, believing that Sansa, aside from her continuous fights with Myranda, simply wanted to be a good, respectable stooge.

She didn’t.

She was nice to the servants, treating them with a kindness they, without a doubt, weren’t used to receiving from the Boltons. Happy about the change, they appreciated her company, engaging in friendly conversation that indicated that their jobs had become much more enjoyable than they had likely ever been — hadn’t it been for her, they would still be stuck in the same rut, disregarded on daily, while being scolded for every mishap. That was not the treatment Sansa gave them, knowing the power of kindness. Oh, the things it could achieve, because in return for her kindness, the servants had started to trust her, which in turn caused them to want to prove their loyalty. Sansa had no doubt that, if it were to come down to it, the servants would side with her.

Perhaps they were not the people she needed to win over most, but it certainly was a start, and overtime she had learnt, too, that no start was too small. After all, small starts led to big developments. And they had, because what had started with comforting just one handmaiden, crying over something gruesome that one of the Skinner had done to her, led to the foundations of Sansa’s good reputation. It barely took another week for all those servants to cling to her, working alongside her as she vowed to them that, soon, with her help, life would be better.

And those servants were not the fools that Ramsay and his gangs had taken them for. They still had their connections, and they still, despite being strictly prohibited from doing such a thing, knew how to get in touch with all those other nobles from the North. In the end, when blatant fear could not be achieved by her hand alone, kindness would prevail, and Sansa would get what she wanted without causing herself any sort of harm in the process of it.

Aside from her various fights with the dog girl, that was, because she still carried her wounds around on her skin. Sansa, however, treated them like nothing but necessary battle scars.

What kind of rebellion stood a chance if it didn’t start with a serious bout of agony, after all?

And what distracted better than a series of desperate fights that she engaged in only to hold up the pretence that she was the jealous wife that Ramsay longed to lay claim to? Perhaps, Sansa thought, the Boltons (and Myranda’s sorry self) were the only fools in her presence, as all her precious husband cared about was the thought of Sansa’s hands against Myranda’s tits, tearing her to shreds as she was just as easily on the receiving end of those bruising touches.

However, there was no denying that such thoughts shocked her. Often, she could not get her head into her plan of leaving Winterfell, and instead put all of her focus in the destruction of her enemy. It was hard to remain rational, after all, when Myranda was an infamous representation of everything Sansa wanted to end. The fact that Myranda had won those fights from her time and time again — although, of course, almost as often as she had lost them from Sansa — made her all too determined to settle the scores again. She could not let go of the thought of her, the sneering taunts playing in a loop in her head, and her blood would boil so severely that she would forget about her greater plans to end whatever suffering Myranda represented.

But, no, she still knew how to pull herself back and to think rationally. Besides, her motives were more than clear, and so was her drive to end this part of her life for once and for all.

The rebellion, whatever that may entail, was only seconds away from being hers.

Whose tits would end up being torn off, however… Well, that was a question for her stamina, determination and, unfortunately, rationality to answer.

The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, setting the dogs barking, the horses whinnying and twisting off the path. Ramsey’s men glanced at each other.

The howling of wolves came again.

Sansa quickly calmed her horse, allowing herself a smile as she watched Myranda struggle to do the same. However much she wished it, the dog-girl would never pass for a lady.

“Here. I’ll do it.” The redheaded Stark grabbed the reins and steadied the horse, in the process allowing her thigh to bump against Myranda’s, her first contact in weeks with the body she had grown so familiar with. She wheeled her horse around to face the men. “Take the dogs back to Winterfell. There are wolves in the forest, it isn’t safe to hunt.”

“No, let them hunt the wolves. Meat is meat. Why should a wolf not be prey for a dog?”

Myranda touched the crossbow at her side as she spoke the counter-order and the men waited, all of them aware of the enmity that existed between the two women who vied for command of this outing as they did for so much else.

Sansa stared coldly at her rival. Since their fight in the bath the redhead no longer felt any need to prove her worth. Instead she had felt the kindling of a new desire. To torment someone as she had so often been tormented.

“The dogs go back to their kennels. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and you follow my orders, not the whimpers of some dog-girl still reeking of the hole she grew up in.”

The cruelty of those words, and the obedience of the men, who at once prepared to depart, caused twisted fury to appear on Myranda’s face. As the hunt turned for home, she instead urged her horse into a trot in the other direction, on a path that would take her deeper into the woods. “A crossbow will do for the wolves,” she snarled. “Tell my Lord I will be bringing him back a pelt.”

Soon she was gone, vanished in the falling snow and twisted branches of bare trees. Sansa waited where she was, turning her horse in a circle, her cunt wet under her layers of winter clothing. So eager to tangle with the dog-girl once more, but so aware that her goal lay elsewhere. Finally she made her choice, and urged her horse on, away from Winterfell and into the forest in pursuit of Myranda. She had been riding for five minutes when she came upon Myranda’s horse tied to a low branch in a clearing. She dismounted and tied her own horse alongside. The snow was swirling, here in the open the wind would not let it rest and Sansa found herself barely able to see as she looked around for any sign of her enemy.

“Where are you dog?” she shouted. “The wolf is here, and she is hungry for her prey.”

There was, perhaps, the faintest hiss audible above the wind before the crossbow bolt struck home. Pinning Sansa’s greatcoat to the trunk of the nearest tree.

“Here I am, bitch.” Out of the snow came Myranda, grey furs wrapped around her skinny frame as she came closer. “Is the wolf caught in a trap?”

Though she hated to, knowing how undignified she must look, Sansa struggled awkwardly to free herself from her coat, finally able to pull her arm loose and straighten up to face Myranda as the dog-girl advanced.
“You’ll be cold without your coat, m’lady.”

“There are ways I can warm up.” Sansa loathed most of all when Myranda made mocking use of a servant girl’s tone. And even without her coat she wouldn’t acknowledge weakness.

Their eyes locked, they raised an arm and wrapped fingers round the other’s throat, ready to pinch the airway shut. Sansa’s nipples hardened to points and she was sure Myranda’s must have done the same under her layers. Red cheeked in the biting cold, they began to take their enemy’s breath, when the wind gusted, blowing away the snow for long enough for both to see a stone structure at the edge of the clearing.

It was Sansa who gave up her grip first, and though Myranda tried to shame her with a taunting smile the highborn lady ignored it. She set off through the snow toward the building revealed by the wind, smiling herself because when she called over her shoulder for Myranda to follow, the dog-girl came along behind like the whipped bitch Sansa intended to make of her.

Their eyes locked, they raised an arm and wrapped fingers round the other’s throat, ready to pinch the airway shut. Sansa’s nipples hardened to points and she was sure Myranda’s must have done the same under her layers. Red cheeked in the biting cold, they began to take their enemy’s breath, when the wind gusted, blowing away the snow for long enough for both to see a stone structure at the edge of the clearing.

It was Sansa who gave up her grip first, and though Myranda tried to shame her with a taunting smile the highborn lady ignored it. She set off through the snow toward the building revealed by the wind, smiling herself because when she called over her shoulder for Myranda to follow, the dog-girl came along behind like the whipped bitch Sansa intended to make of her.

The building was only one of several in the clearing, most of them had seen their roof or walls collapse and would offer no shelter for their fight. The inside of a forge was exposed, an anvil covered with a layer of snow. Thinking of Myranda’s skinny torso, Sansa imagined hammering at it with her fist as the dog-girl lay stretched out over the anvil. Lost in the savagery of her thoughts, the highborn woman had to control herself with an effort when Myranda’s familiar voice came from right beside her ear.

“There’s wood stacked up there, m’lady.”

Sansa turned quickly and saw what Myranda had seen, a stack of logs piled beside a cottage less ruined than the others. She smiled grimly, a smile matched by the dog-girl, and Sansa was sure they had the same reason for pleasure. Without a fire it would mean their death to shed the layers of clothing they both wore, but with those clothes in place neither could get at the other the way they wished, all of their familiar vulnerabilities hidden beneath furs. A fire meant the chance to hurt the other properly.

Sansa pushed open the door of the cottage, snow blowing in along with the two women whose breath made clouds in the air. Looking around, the redhead at once understood why someone had chosen to stay here. An empty chest, its lock forced open, stood on the floor beside a narrow pit. Evidently, some passing traveller had rested here and found the owner’s valuables where they had been hidden beneath the floor. Another crime on Stark lands gone unpunished, Sansa thought, sadness coming to her at how much had changed in the North since Ned Stark had been summoned to Kings Landing. But thoughts of crimes led her back to Myranda and her many misdeeds. At least Sansa could see that the kennel bitch didn’t go unpunished, even if that punishment were an unusual one.

She joined the dog-girl in bringing in wood, the work making her sweat beneath her furs. Myranda accepted her help without comment, and soon they had enough for a fire. Sansa went to push the door shut and did that as well as she could, though already enough snow had built up to prevent her from closing it fully. When she turned round, Myranda had the crossbow in her hand.

“You conniving bitch!” Sansa said. “Put that away unless you want my teeth in your throat.”

Myranda smiled and took the quarrel off the weapon, touching the sharpened barb against her finger. “It’s needed for the fire, m’lady. To make the spark.”

“I know how to start a fire, dog,” Sansa snapped back, colour in her pale cheeks.

Myranda knelt in front of the hearth, smiling as she showed her back to her highborn rival.

There had been fear in the Stark bitch’s voice at the sight of the crossbow, the kennel girl was sure of it. Just like she was sure that Sansa had passed out first at the end of their last fight, moaning as Myranda’s fingers clawed her anus, though it was true that neither hadmade it back to their rooms that night without assistance. Still, Myranda knew she was breaking her enemy’s will. It had taken longer and cost the dog-girl more pain than she would ever have believed possible from looking at the redheaded slut, but by morning it would be over.

The fire kindled to life and Sansa felt the anticipation flood through her. It would still take time for the air to warm but now the fire burned Sansa wasn’t interested in waiting any longer. “Strip,” she said.

“You first, slut,” Myranda replied. The dog-girl’s eyes flashed in the firelight and Sansa smiled grimly, glad for the end of

Myranda’s pretence at obedience.

“Insolent bitch, I’ll take every hair from your diseased cunt for that,” Sansa spat back.

They removed their clothes together. It was Sansa who decided to pile them in the empty pit in the floor, and watching each other they dropped furs and leather and cloth until the pit was close to filled with their garments, resembling a sunken bed in the middle of the room, while wolf and dog stood naked with that bed between them, flesh prickling in the cold.

With no words, suddenly, Myranda reached out and caught a fistful of Sansa’s red hair. With no words, Sansa did the same with Myranda’s dark locks. Each curled their toes to grip at the filthy floor beneath their feet and tried to dig in with their heels, each pulled hard to try and drag their enemy down onto the bed they’d made.

It was Myranda who had her back to the fire, and as Sansa worked to get her off balance the thought came to the high-born redhead that were she to let go of her grip, the dog-girl would likely be sent falling backward into the flames. But such was their hatred for the other, the thought only spurred Sansa to pull harder on the drab brown hair in her fist, not wanting the fire to do the work she intended for her own hands.

“I’ve missed feeling you bleed,” Myranda taunted her rival, her nails having broken the skin on Sansa’s scalp. “If I was afraid of your claws, bitch, I wouldn’t have come after you.”

Still, Sansa was uneasy in her thoughts until she too, felt her enemy’s blood on her fingers. Time passed, their necks began to ache with the strain and their scalps burned. The two studied the other’s body, naked together for the first time in weeks their eyes searched pale skin for signs of what had gone before. In the flickering light of candle and fire, it was hard to be sure, but did the dog-girl’s tits still bear the jagged scars of Sansa’s nails?

Sansa couldn’t see enough to know, just as she couldn’t know if the cuts on Myranda’s labia had healed, covered as those lips now were by a thick bush of hair. And that line running across the pale flesh of Sansa’s thigh. Was that a shadow or a scar?

Myranda’s lips peeled back into a smile as she concluded that it didn’t matter, the slut would have fresh wounds soon. But more eager than their eyes were their ears, as each listened for the first sound of pain that would signal a failure of will. That sound came from Sansa. The redheaded Stark whimpered as her head was twisted violently. Seeing her enemy’s smirk, and disgusted with herself, she stepped down onto the pile of garments while at the same time doubling her grip on Myranda’s hair to pull the dog-girl down with her. And when Myranda couldn’t find her footing, her grip on Sansa’s hair brought both of them tumbling into the mass of furs and leather and cloth. Frantically they reached for the other, sinking in the pile as they struggled, until they found themselves at the bottom of the pit, the light of the fire giving what little they could still see an orange glow.

Groping through snow soaked cloth, Sansa’s nails found flesh and she dug in. Once hooked, she then dragged her fingers until she felt the kennel girl’s cunt hair and at once began to rake at her labia, thumb stabbing for Myranda’s clit.

Their feet kicked together, toenails raking down calves. Sansa sobbed into her own smallclothes as Myranda’s hand grasped her rear and then two fingers dug deep into her rectum.

For both of them, the pain was too much to fully master, and they found that without sight of the other’s suffering it was more difficult. So with their free hands they kept pushing and dragging at the heavy fabric of their clothes until finally Sansa shoved away wet fur and saw her enemy revealed to her.

At the sight of their foe, close enough to lick the tears off her cheeks, both sneered and then raked harder with their nails. And now each brought their other hand into the fight, as Sansa twisted dark pussy hair and Myranda pinched Sansa’s pink nipple between thumbnail and finger. There, in the den they had made beneath the wet pile of their clothing, the two women got their wish, and they tortured each other.

Minutes passed in that confinement. The growing heat from the fire they’d made caused each to sweat and their wet clothes to stink. Suffering came in waves, each was at times overwhelmed by the pain and their fingers stilled, only to gain new strength from the desire to snatch away the joy they saw in their enemy’s face. They bled together, calves and ankles cut many times over by the cruel work of their toes. Believing that through experience each had found the other’s weakness, they did not alter their attacks, Sansa used both hands on Myranda’s pussy while the kennel-girl left Sansa’s cunt untouched to claw her anus and tits.

“I’ll tear open your shithole, highborn,” came the taunt from Myranda. They had been fighting for half an hour, blood on their fingers, and on their lips where they had bitten down to suppress a sob. The orange glow in the room above was brighter. Their tempers were like fraying string.

It was not only the words but the sour warmth of Myranda’s breath that drove Sansa to act. She moved both hands from the dog-girl’s cunt and reached for the cloth above their heads. Myranda’s smallclothes. The redhead wrapped them round her fist then shoved them into their owner’s mouth, deep enough to choke the slut.

“I’ll hear no more from you, dog,” Sansa snarled. And she bit Myranda’s nose, closing off her airways.

It seemed that then, one had finally found a way to best the other. Unable to breath, Myranda tried to bite the fist invading her mouth, but the movement of her jaws only allowed Sansa to force the dirty gag further down her throat. The dog-girl kicked her feet, her tired body thrashing. Only when her bloodied fingers reached for Sansa’s face was the redhead forced to turn away or risk her eyes, and Myranda could once again breath through her

By moving her head, Sansa was now looking upwards at the ins ide of the cottage. And what she saw there were flames, flickering above the pile of clothes that they were buried beneath. The cottage was on fire.

The melted snow made everything heavy as she urged her tired, pain-wracked body to rise.

Pushing off the floor of the pit to stand up, the heat beat on her nakedness and she swayed, lightheaded. As she climbed out she kicked down savagely, her heel digging deep into Myranda’s skinny stomach. The highborn redhead then crawled across the floor beneath the smoke now filling the cottage, pausing only to take Myranda’s greatcoat. But as Sansa stumbled, coughing, from the building, she realised that for the moment at least, she wouldn’t need its protection against the cold. For the fire had leapt from the timbers of the cottage into the trees, and the whole clearing burned, buildings and trees both, a fiery circle that already had begun melting the snow beneath Sansa’s bare feet.

Sansa cursed the gods as she urged her tired, pain-wracked body to rise. The melted snow made everything heavy, but she pushed her way up off the floor of the pit to stand up. The heat beat on her nakedness and she swayed, lightheaded. The timbers in the roof were aflame and it surely would not be long before everything inside would be consumed by the fire. That includes you, slut, she thought, and she kicked down savagely, her heel digging deep into her enemy’s skinny stomach. She then crawled across the floor beneath the smoke now filling the cottage, pausing only to take Myranda’s greatcoat out of the pit. But as Sansa stumbled, coughing, from the building, she realised that for the moment at least, she wouldn’t need its protection against the cold. For the fire had already leapt from the roof of the cottage into the trees, and the whole clearing burned, buildings and trees both, a fiery circle that had melted the snow beneath her bare feet.

Limping, she stumbled across the muddy ground toward the forge, sweat and blood drying on her skin. With a crack like thunder, a great branch broke off from one of the trees to crash to the ground. It was that sound that saved Sansa. She turned to look and saw Myranda crossing the clearing behind her.

The dog-girl tossed the candle she was holding to the ground and broke into a hobbled run. Sansa in turn dropped Myranda’s greatcoat and braced for her rival, bloodlust pumping strength back into her tired limbs. Both saw the other’s lip curl into a cruel smile in that last instant before their bodies came together with a slap of naked flesh and they fell, sliding together toward the tumbledown forge.

“Even the red god didn’t want you, kennel slut,” Sansa panted. They clawed each other’s backs and thighs as they rolled in the mud. On their knees, they stretched out a hand, thumb and finger enclosed a stiff nipple and sought to crush it.

Myranda reached with her other hand for Sansa’s throat, when something gave her pause, and she lowered her arm, without ceremony jamming three fingers into Sansa’s sex.“ Someone wants me, though. Don’t you, you little bitch. Chased me through the forest you wanted me so bad. Got a wet cunt for me too, highborn.”

Sansa whined and closed her eyes as she was fucked, shifting her knees in the mud to better open her legs for Myranda. Her groping hand found the dog-girl’s pussy. Eagerly she twisted what was left of the hair there around her fingers and gave a tug. At the sound of her enemy’s moan, she opened her eyes and glared hatefully.

“Your hips are too narrow to birth a child, you stink of the privy you were born in, and you have smaller tits than a boy. I rode you down to put you out of your misery, bitch.”

The words cut deep. But Myranda felt the sudden clench of the redhead’s cunt, aroused by the hurt she inflicted, and so the kennel-girl held her tongue. Instead, when Sansa tore the hair from her pussy, she made no effort to hide her pain. She moaned in vivid agony. Again, she felt Sansa’s cunt spasm around her fingers. “Slut,” she said.

“Dog,” Sansa spat back.

Myranda had seen Sansa orgasm, but never yet while not in the throes of her own. Now she watched the highborn whore with clear eyes as Sansa tilted her head back, her throat shining with sweat, her nipples hard as iron. Her breasts were bloodied but they bounced on her chest as Myranda’s smaller ones never would, her pale thighs squeezing Myranda’s wrist while she screamed and came, and all around her the clearing burned in the moonlight. The kennel-girl removed her fingers from Sansa’s cunt as Sansa put her hand in the mud to support her slumped frame, red hair falling messily in front of her face.

“Your blood. Your shit. Now I’ve got your cum on my fingers, highborn. Next I’ll have your tears.”

“Come near my eyes and I’ll bite them off, dog,” Sansa said, with as much threat as she could muster. Wearily, she righted herself and readied to face Myranda. They came together, and for once the contest between their bodies was not an equal one. Drained by her climax, Sansa could not hold her ground and a shove sent her sprawling in the mud. Myranda stood up and dragged her by the hair into the burning ruin of the forge, the heat intense, waves of it, making both of them sweat. The dog-girl’s nails reopened the cuts on Sansa’s scalp.

Sansa sobbed as she was thrown belly down across the anvil and Myranda pummelled her back, the kennel slut threatening to beat Sansa’s insides to mush against the unyielding steel. Sansa clawed at the hard floor, trying to pull herself forward, through the puddles of melted snow to where a stack of rusted tools stood against the wall.

“Bitch,” Myranda said. She grabbed for Sansa’s bloodied ankles but the redhead kicked hard and found her rival’s cunt, sending Myranda stumbling to her rear end with an animal howl.

Sansa’s grasping fingers closed round a rusty poker and she stood up brandishing it.

“Come on, dog!” she screamed above the sounds of the fire. Myranda was back on her feet when from above them came a tremendous creaking sound.

An ancient oak, its trunk aflame from root to tip, was listing badly, and as both women looked to it, it began to fall. The kennel girl ran back, away from her rival, and the great tree crashed to the ground where she had moments before stood. Divided by a wall of flames, the two enemy’s glared at each other with thwarted hate. Sansa tried to walk along its length, but the heat from the flames was too intense, and she couldn’t find a safe path. The ache of her wounds sapped her strength, and at last she lay down in the mud. She dreamt of orange flames, and of Myranda.

Morning came. Sansa woke to the sight of dwindling flames, the burned shells of buildings and blackened trees. But mostly she woke to the renewed cold and the dull pain of her wounds. She looked round for her rival but saw nothing alive save a few birds in the snow.

As she explored the clearing the redhead found some wearable clothing trampled in the mud, and in the ruin of the cottage where the fire had started she found her boots. She emptied her bowels in the shadow of the forge, cursing the kennel bitch for the soreness in her back passage.

As she put on Myranda’s greatcoat the sleeve brushed against her face and she inhaled the familiar scent of her enemy. Deciding that she would rather risk the cold than endure that stink on the ride to Winterfell, she shrugged the coat off herself and used the heavy furs to wipe her arse, making sure to smear the collar with shit.

Dragging the fouled garment through the mud behind her, Sansa walked slowly back to the
place she’d tied her horse.

“Back for more, highborn?” Myranda said. The skinny slut stepped out from behind a tree

and Sansa smiled. The old gods had granted her wish. “Or are you trying to leave? You know I won’t let you do that without a fight.”

“I’ve got your coat, dog.” Sansa threw it on the ground, grinning savagely as Myranda picked it up and smelt the filth on it.

“And I’ve got yours, slut.” From behind the tree, Myranda dragged out Sansa’s greatcoat and tossed it on the snow. As befit a noble lady, a Stark of Winterfell, Sansa’s coat was made of the finest fur, thicker and smoother to the touch. But like Myranda’s, it too was matted with shit around the throat.

At the sight of the stain, and the stink of it, fury rose in Sansa’s breast. And though each wore only a thin layer of leather, they were ready to tear at each other afresh. Until the wind came, freezing and bitter with cold, and each knew that to do that would mean death for both.

When the answer came to her, Sansa met it with a wide array of emotion. She was determined not to show the other any, and draped her furs over her shoulders. With a few motions, she gestured for Myranda to do the same. Then the solution seemed to click for Myranda too, after which her eyes showed a thrill induced fire. Her lips curled upwards into a smirk, as Sansa battled to stay composed and unmoved.

With the sleeves hanging empty, they stepped closer together, and from there, they each understood what needed to be done: they began tying the arms of their coats together, trapping them in a constraint of fur, with their breasts trapped together, and skin moving against skin. The environment around them certainly began to feel a whole lot hotter, but Sansa wasn’t sure whether that had anything to do with the coats, or with the fact that Myranda and here had consciously decided to rip each other apart within the borders of this constraint.

Sansa could already feel the pain before Myranda had even moved a finger to inflict harm upon her, as well as the momentary satisfaction that tearing the bitch to shreds would cause.

Again, she caught herself wondering how she could have let it get this far, but only a taunt was enough to let go of that smidgen of rationality.

“Always thought I’d knife you on the privy like they say happened to that old lion. But here will do. At least you’ll still have the same stink in your nostrils when I strangle you.”

With fingers numbed by cold, each reached for the leather vest of their rival and untied the laces, so that it hung open. Then followed the string round their waists, loosened enough that hands could slip inside the thin cloth, so that each was both as protected from the cold, and as vulnerable to the other, as could be.

Myranda hissed as, without warning, Sansa seized her tits. The redhead had twisted her wrists so that her fingers were dug in on the inside of the dog-girl’s breast flesh, meaning that when she pulled, the breasts were stretched apart.

“I’ll tear you open, kennel slut,” Sansa spat, her teeth gritting with fury. She clenched her grip around the bags of flesh, squeezing as hard as she possibly could. The cold around them made her grip feel like fire, burning through her, and therefore also stinging the other bitch more so than she would have done in a warmer environment. “What’s left can feed the wolves.”

They stamped their booted feet in the snow and shifted their bodies in the confines of their coats, testing how much room they had. Myranda matched her rival’s grip, digging in with nails already dark with Sansa’s blood from the previous day’s fight. Soon each one of them whimpered and whined at the punishment inflicted on their tits, the pain coursing through their veins. Instead of prompting them to let go of each other so the pain would stop, however, the two were fueled only more. Even more so, neither one of them wanted to lose. Neither one of them wanted to show the other that there was a limit to their pain, as that would certainly be used against them in their next fight — if that would even come.

Sansa could feel how the tissue underneath her skin was starting to swell, causing her to throw her head back with pain. She moaned out with it, stomping her feet into the ground as she tried to deal with the overwhelming pain of it. As expected, though, this pain only prompted her to tighten her own grip too, capturing the kennel-bitch’s small, pathetic tits in her palms. As she dug her nails into her skin, her hands were full of them, enabling her to yank and yank, until the bitch was weak in the knees. The groan she let out sounded like a cry. Her craze had her sob, though no tears left her eyes, making it clear to Sansa that she was getting closer and closer to a momentary breaking point. Despite the agonising grip, she tugged harder, after which Myranda’s knees gave in and she dropped straight through them within their cocoon of fur.

The two were forced to let go of one another and although Sansa would have seen this as a momentary victory, she soon realised that that was far from true. Myranda grunted, filling Sansa’s ears with unwelcomed taunting. Before she could reason why the mad dog-bitch was doing this, however, she was soon painfully presented with the truth. Myranda grabbing a hold of her cunt, grabbing the skin of her mound in a burning grip.

The bitch looked tortured as her own cunt touched the soft snow underneath her. If Sansa would have had the strength, she would have thought about shoving a fistful of the frozen flakes straight into her rectum. Instead, however, she went nearly blind in the aftermath of the searing sensation.

She knew she had to do something, though like this, any move she’d make seemed like a sign of weakness. Sinking down to Myranda’s level would be a sign of pain, but remaining here would give her no possibility to fight back, and would ultimately give Myranda the head start that Sansa really couldn’t allow her to have. She opted for a middle route: grabbing a hold of the dog’s hair, yanking at it and, despite the agonising pain, kneeing her in the nose.

Myranda, despite not wanting to, felt her body weakening. Was it not for the coat, she would have fallen back into the snow, but instead she hung inside of the constraint and tortured Sansa’s ears with a loud grunt. From that moment, Sansa knew that the fight was fully back on again, as Myranda most certainly would not forgive Sansa — the highborn slut, in her mind — for having given her such a hit. However, Sansa had the upper hand now, which she used by letting themselves fall to the floor and, therefore, landing on Myranda’s stomach.

Myranda yelled out loud, gasping to the sensation. It was clear, however, that no oxygen made it into her lungs, meaning that her body was too stunned to take anything in. Sansa merely seized the opportunity by reaching between the bitch’s legs to grab a firm, stinging hold of her labia. She tugged at it with a sneer. “That’s what you get, kennel-bitch.” She pressed her elbow between the bitch’s tits and pressed down hard, Myranda’s face going entirely red. “And now you look like you’re going to fucking die. Ah, maybe you are.”

Of course, Myranda wasn’t having this, and it was a wonder that Sansa still didn’t know how to keep herself from taunting the hound. It never led to anything good, and now her point was being proven by the knee that hit her wherever it could reach, tormenting her with pain that she didn’t even know how to place. Sansa gasped with pain and, as her grip unfortunately faltered, Myranda was back on it again. Sansa was thrown off, landing on her side and feeling the ice of the cold snow through her coat, and Myranda did not waste a second to readjust the coat over her shoulders so that she could face Sansa and to grab a hold of her already stinging cunt. Almost in an automatic response, Sansa grabbed for Myranda’s pussy, yanking at it with an equal amount of strength.

From here on, the fight turned into a battle of stamina and determination. Sansa knew how this went, and how she would need to hold onto this bitch’s pussy just in order to avoid the humiliation, but she also knew that this was going to be difficult. There was a fire in Myranda’s eyes, like a dog gone rabid, and Sansa knew there was not a way in hell the bitch would let go of her easily. It would take a lot. The cunt was obsessed, after all.

As she pulled at Myranda’s skin, Myranda matched her. The two groaned and thrashed their limbs around in a similar fashion, until they both — almost at the same time — realised that this only heightened the searing burn. Sansa twisted her wrist, then yanked hard at the squeezed-together labia and watched how that pain only fuelled Myranda to do the same. They both cried out, heads throwing back and visions going half blank. This amount of pain was almost impossible to imagine, consuming their bodies until the previously agonising cold became nothing but a dull background ache. Their bodies were on fire. Positively so.

Myranda tugged and twisted her cunt violently, her nails digging into the skin to add skin to the burn. It had Sansa wailing, moaning with a desperation to be let go of. There was a difference between this and being hit and punched, as the height of those lasted only seconds until it would fade again. This pain, however, was continuous and never ending, creating so much friction that it almost felt as though her skin was being torn off, while the tissue underneath was slowly beginning to swell.

“Hurts, hm, bitch?!” Myranda groaned. Again she sounded sadistic, and the sneer on her lips looked quite the same. Sansa realised, in that moment, that Myranda had little care for how much she would get hurt, as long as she would get to hurt Sansa.”Does the little lady need a rest?”

“Shut your mouth,” Sansa sneered back. Tears were starting to sting behind her eyes now, but she was determined not to let the other notice. “Your taunts are pathetic for someone so full of anger. Perhaps you’re not so easy to break after all, but I suppose that makes sense, given what excuse of a life you were born into.”

The noise that escaped Myranda’s lips was crazy, causing her to pull so hard that it had Sansa’s vision go white for a few seconds. Sansa screamed out, her voice travelling through the forest around them and she thrashed her limbs all around again just in order to find a way to deal with this. When she realised that nothing would work, her other hand reached out to Myranda’s tit again, which she grabbed a fistful of. Beginning to twist it, along with the way she twisted the labia of that kennel-trash, she could now truly see the effect this had on the bitch. She was gasping with pain, letting out noises of agony as her previously strong grip loosened in reflex.

“Weak fucking bitch,” Sansa taunted. “Can’t take it when you are on the receiving end?” However, Myranda seemed to disagree with that, as she matched Sansa’s grip by crushing her breast with her fist first, before grabbing a hold of the tissue and starting to squeeze it in her grip. She pulled at her tit as hard as she pulled at her cunt, and the agony in her expression now turned into aggressive fire. She grunted through gritted teeth, spit spewing out from behind her teeth. Sansa would be taken aback by this, had she not been so overwhelmed with pain and fury herself. “Take it, bitch. Fucking take it!” Myranda sneered. “And know that your position in this world would be nothing but undeserving was it not for sheer luck.”

Luck. The word droned through Sansa’s mind. Luck.

How could the dog speak of luck when Sansa’s life had been nothing but a collection of misfortunes? As tears seeped from the corners of her eyes, she let go of the bitch’s cunt only to grab an even bigger part of her skin. The bitch’s tit, she squeezed until she’d felt every inch of painful tissue, making sure to swell the pathetic little sack of fat to something of a more decent size.

“You know nothing,” Sansa hissed, moaning as another tug had her head pounding with pain. Her voice didn’t sound like her own anymore, but at least she could console herself with the fact that Myranda’s didn’t either. The amount of pain they both felt was equal, and both of them — especially after this most recent taunt — were equally determined not to lose this. Neither one of them could afford to. “You know nothing at all.”

And that was true. Myranda knew nothing of what was going on behind the scenes. She knew nothing of the fact that this godforsaken fight might be one of the last ones they would ever have, because not luck, but hard work, would finally bring her back what she so deserved. She would take everything Petyr had ever taught her and she would run with it, to run this bitch and everything she was in love with, straight into the damned ground. All Myranda cared about were those temporary victories anyway. She didn’t have the ability to realise that something bigger than this was even happening in the first place. That was an advantage as well as a disadvantage, because now Myranda could afford to be as crazy as she fucking was, while Sansa had to keep her head in the game, just to make sure she would lose it in her momentary quests to rip Myranda to shreds.

“I know enough,” Myranda groaned, until laughter — her mind was set on achieving her victory — filled the forest. “I know this, for example.”

With that, Myranda’s focus shifted to Sansa’s nipple, which she grabbed a hold of between her index finger and her thumb. She pulled it towards her own body and the mania reached her eyes all the way again. Sansa wondered whether the cunt had even a single coherent thought left in her brain, as all of it seemed to be possessed by — what was it? — bloodlust.

The pain it caused was immeasurable. A nail, sticking into her skin, made it feel like she was about to be torn to pieces. Myranda’s gritted teeth didn’t make it look like her chances were improving, as the cunt looked like she was about to go into a frenzy. Sansa couldn’t have that happen, and it took no more than a spark of almost panicked intuition to know how to prevent that from happening.

She grabbed her labia in a pinch, digging her nails in all the same. As she did that, she yanked at the skin before quickly releasing the pull again. Doing this repeatedly, she knew, would allow the lips to suck some air inside, flowing against her sensitive flesh. It wouldn’t be much, but blended in with the pain of her grip, Sansa knew that it would create involuntary pleasure. After all, Myranda was crazy enough to find herself pleasured by pain. She could already see the expression in Myranda’s eyes change a little, from firey to slightly hazy, as her teeth dug into her bottom lip.Sansa began yanking at the lips of Myranda’s cunt, almost as though she was jerking her off.

Each time she pulled was harder than the last, despite the pull on her nipple and the hand on her burning mound. More and more suction could be felt around Myranda’s entrance, which Sansa knew for a fact — she could feel it — was coaxed in the evidence of her own arousal. Had she felt any less pain than she was currently in, she might have enjoyed the knowledge of the effectiveness of her tactic, but instead she only wailed.

Myranda opened up her mouth, presumably to throw out yet another taunt, but nothing besides a moan escaped. This enraged her, clearly, as the nails inside of Sansa’s nipples now pinched into her so hard that it was almost enough to draw blood. She groaned, then cried, sobs escaping her throat as the pain simply became too severe. Not that she could give up, because there was no way Sansa would let the opportunity for some inevitable humiliation slip between her fingers. Not now, at least. She needed to win this one, even if only to prove to herself that soon she would be on top of the game again, and Myranda would turn into nothing but a worthless slut from the past.

Myranda’s breathing sped up the faster Sansa yanked, causing Myranda to lose strength in the grip around her cunt. When she noticed this herself, however, she went straight back in with another agonising grip, one that, because of the minutes upon minutes of torturous torment, made even the pinch around her nipple fade into a background ache. She screamed out with it, the burn so intense that she knew she would have to speed up.

And so she did, yanking hard and repeatedly with an urgency unbatched by anything Myranda was capable of doing. The dog’s grip faltered a little again, and then her limbs thrashed in Sansa’s direction, trying to kick her wherever she could. What happened instead, however, was that the bitch’s body went rigid instead, toes curling, after which the pain, caused by another hard pinch, sent her straight over the edge. To enhance the sensation, Sansa seized the opportunity to grab another agonising hold of the other’s tit, which she pulled at just as frantically as she was at Myranda’s cunt.

Sansa might have laughed in celebration, but no more than a cut-off chuckle escaped.

Myranda’s response was frantic. She grunted as soon as her moaning subdued, and tried to get her fingers into Sansa’s pussy again. Unwilling to let that pleasure her in the slightest, Sansa gave Myranda a taste of her own medicine. She let go of the cunt she had jerked to completion and instead entered her, scooping up a glop of her sticky wetness. She didn’t waste another second to move it to Myranda’s still opened mouth, where she began shoving the liquid into her mouth. “Eat it,” Sansa grunted, but then another wave of anger overwhelmed her. “No, choke on it.”

“Bitch!” Myranda tried to insult her, but it wasn’t to any avail. As she did, her throat only opened, giving Sansa the opportunity to shove her fingers down Myranda’s throat. Now, despite the agonising pain caused by her now bleeding nipple, she did begin to smirk a little, as the humiliation of what was about to happen would surely lead her to her victory. It was so close she could practically taste it. Myranda’s throat convulsed around her fingers. It was clear that she didn’t know what to do, because there was panic in her eyes that only increased when Sansa swirled her fingersaround in Myranda’s throat. It didn’t start long for her to start gagging and, just as she realised she had all the freedom to bite down on Sansa’s fingers, it was too late.

Her grip faltered, giving Sansa the opportunity to pull back, and then Myranda’s body tensed up so violently that piss leaked from between her legs. Just a second later, and she was throwing the contents of her stomach up into the cold snow around her. Finally able to squirm out of the heavy coats to tear herself away from her opponent to get back up on her feet, and coming to the conclusion that she had practically won the fight, she determined that Myranda looked an absolute mess. “That’s what you get for thinking you can play with the wolves.” For good measure, she kicked Myranda in the stomach, leaving her to suffer in a pile of her own bodily fluids underneath the heavy, constrictive coat.

The almost overwhelming urge to humiliate the other didn’t end there, however, and she allowed her body to make all the decisions for her, forgetting about the grander plan and the remains of her own humanity. She grabbed a hold of the collar of the coat around her body and pulled it down, looking at Myranda’s vomit-stained mouth. There, now she was relieved from the pain, she finally laughed, certainly willing to maximise the sting of Myranda’s humiliation.

Myranda wanted to fight against it, clearly, as she was trying to fight against the weakness of her body to lift herself up despite the weight of her coat, but Sansa wouldn’t let her. She had won, and she would make very sure that the dog-girl knew all about that too.

She spurred into action, not even caring that the bitch’s mouth was coaxed in a layer of its own vomit and took a seat on Myranda’s face. “And eat that too,” Sansa groaned. “You will be grateful for having tasted something so expensively divine.”

But of course, Myranda had long since started to recover, reigniting a flame of defiance that hit her just as hard as Sansa’s confident words did. She didn’t ‘eat’ it, like Sansa had instructed, and instead she grabbed a piece of Sansa’s inner lips between her teeth and started to tear at it followed by a series of aggressive grunts. “Here,” Sansa could hear her say, between her gritted teeth. “How do you like being eaten now?”

Sansa roared with pain, unable to understand how she hadn’t seen it coming, but that no longer mattered now. She had to fight back, she knew, and therefore she shut her legs, her knees digging in each side of Myranda’s head and she began to squeeze her head between her crushing grip.

Doing this for a few seconds too long had Myranda roaring, until she involuntarily had to let go of Sansa’s cunt. When Sansa felt that, she instantly tore herself away from the bitch and moved herself to lower her knee on her throat instead. Myranda gagged in response, violently thrashing her limbs, which were still constricted by the heavy set of coats around her. Fighting through her took her a while, but when she finally got her arm out from beneath, she grabbed for Sansa’s ass, punching into her hole, which had Sansa fall forward again. She screamed as her body hit the snow and immediately tried to get back up, as the cold snow was nothing short of agonising, which instantly prompted her to grab a hold of the loosened coats and yank them away from Myranda’s body. Now that they were both in the snow, it was all about being the one to stay on top, or at least that’s what she thought. Instead, though, Myranda got back up too, leaving the two to stand opposite one another, completely naked. Sansa was unsure what she needed to fight more. The hound, or the freezing cold.

The snow fell and their breath was like fog. Myranda lunged forward and spat, coating Sansa’s cheek. The redhead glared in disgust. She felt the urge to wipe her face but, unwilling to give up her grip, contented herself with replying in kind, spitting in the kennel slut’s eye, making Myranda twitch with fury, blinking to clear her vision as the saliva trickled like a thick tear down her cheek. So cold was it that the spit soon began to freeze on their faces, and their breasts, exposed to the air, were numbed by it.

Still, they fought on. Sansa wrapped her arms round her rival and pulled her in close, both gasping at the contact of skin on skin. Myranda fought back against her by walking in on her, until she had Sansa trapped against a tree trunk. The wood felt frozen against her back, but it was nowhere near as painful as the way Myranda smashed her head back into it. It stunned her, making her vision spin, as Myranda’s next step was to knee her in her sore cunt.

Myranda did this a few times, but, due to the cold, the kicks lacked the strength that Myranda normally possessed. After a few of them, they grew weaker, giving Sansa the opportunity to awaken from her daze. Her arms wrapped themselves more tightly around Myranda, and she buried her face into the girl’s neck, biting down to weaken her, and to have her wail so loudly that the noise of it practically cracked through the air.

Luckily biting in those circumstances was far easier than anything else was. Her jaw was clenched already, and like this it almost felt as though she was able to suck the warmth — or the remainder thereof — straight from Myranda’s flesh. And it hurt, too, which she could hear clearly in the form of wails, sobs and noises coming from Myranda’s throat. It surprised Sansa that it took her as long as it did for her to counter the attack with her own teeth. Sansa’s grip faltered as Myranda fought back against it, giving the dog the opportunity to grab a fistful of Sansa’s large tit. She brought it to her mouth, and before her teeth captured Sansa’s already bleeding nipple, Sansa could briefly see the immeasurable rage as it coursed through her.

Sansa was determined at first, not to loosen her grip around the skin of Myranda’s neck, but then the sting around her nipple became so severe that not even the cold could be felt anymore. It was just the hotness of the burn, which made her stomp her feet down just to comprehend the pain of it. When Myranda began gnawing, her teeth grinding from left to right and therefore making multiple tears in the sensitive bud, Sansa was forced to tear herself away. Without unlocking her jaw, she did. It only unclenched when the pull caused blood to flow, and she almost felt inclined to suck it up, was it not for her desperation to get away from the burning sensation around her bleeding nipple.

But for Myranda, this was simply an opportunity to get Sansa back for the humiliation she had inflicted upon her. After all, she still smelled heavily of vomit, but it wasn’t something that Sansa had the opportunity to smell anymore anyway. A fraction of a second, and Myranda’s hands, as though she was throwing all of her remaining strength in this act, grabbed a firm hold of Sansa’s hair. She dragged her forward through the snow, to which Sansa fell to her knees, watching spurt out from her nipple. She heard herself screaming, but none of that won her any mercy. Her nipple was loosely hanging onto her in the aftermath of her own fall, and still Myranda wanted her revenge. She dragged Sansa with her by the hair, stomach and tits scraping a red trail through the snow, until they were back at the coats. There, she smothered her enemy in the shit-stained fur.

“Suffocate on your own stink, highborn slut,” Myranda panted, shivering violently. Her voice sounded distant, tormented with frost and weakness. They were almost at their limit.

It was hard — impossible — to sustain themselves against the cold. All Sansa could still do, as her every breath filled her nostrils with another shot of her own foul odour, was to grab a firm hold of Myranda’s ankle behind her.

She yanked at it, and then came to realise that Myranda did not possess the strength nor the stability to keep herself standing on the slippery, frozen surface underneath. She fell, which Sansa only realised to be painful when she felt the kennel-slut collapse on top of her, knocking the last of the lift left within her straight out of her

It wouldn’t take Myranda very long anymore either, her head knocked against the ground as her body lay there freezing to death, along with Sansa.

Until the sound of hooves and the jingle of riding gear came to them through the snow. They each looked in that direction, although their vision swayed painfully with exhaustion. They heard voices coming towards them and a horn sounded. They fell silent, the lights going out. It was over for now, with the agonising frost as their victor.

The first thing she noticed was that she wasn’t freezing anymore. Surrounding her was the warmth of a room, and underneath her was a soft bed. She gasped. In her mind, the last thing she remembered was the smell of shit, but not even that was on her mind anymore.

As the images flashed through her mind, she felt shocked. Had she really let it come that far again? Weren’t those fights meant to be but a distraction? Why was it that she always had to sacrifice her own dignity only to bring as much harm as possible to a worthless piece of dog meat? Why had Sansa, once again, not managed — no, not even tried — to seek for the quickest way to knock the bitch out? In those moments, she only longed for humiliation, blood, and simply as much harm as possible, but why? Why did she possess no self control?

Coming back to reality, and letting go of the foul memories of her last fight with Myranda, she recognised the room she was in, though her ears were instantly filled with noises from outside. She was in the castle, which instantly registered, and those noises belonged to the rebellion she had orchestrated herself, after months upon months of hard work. This was the rebellion she needed. Her rebellion.

Her nipple, now patched up by a circular bandage, ached heavily. It made her stomach churn with nausea. The foul fight between her and the bitch from the kennel — the bitch she wanted to fight til the death — tormented her mind. Had it not been for that fight, she could have played her cards better. She needed to get into hiding, as being out here would do her no justice whatsoever. Oh, what had she done? And how behind was she?

For now, it didn’t matter whether she was fully recovered or not, because it couldn’t matter.

She had to leave. No matter the cost.

The End

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