Sansa vs Myranda 4 by 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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“Everything seems a little different now, doesn’t it?” There was a blank stare on Sansa’s face. It didn’t represent what she was feeling on the inside, but it felt important not to show him even the smallest glimmer of it. For once she had the upper hand, as Ramsay Bolton stood before her, forcedly bent over by two of her men. She was no longer Ramsay’s political tool and, instead, it was he who now served as a tool for her to right all wrong that had been done to her and her family. “Have you got anything to say?” 

Smug as ever, Ramsay didn’t seem the least bit scared. It was as though he somehow managed to get strength out of being in the spotlight; as though there was a plan on his mind, somehow designed to get Sansa where it hurt. It was as though he could simply refuse to feel his pending fate. Sansa couldn’t afford to waste a second wondering about how that was possible, as the thought alone would likely remind her of his neverending cruelty too much. “I don’t think so,” he spoke honestly. Even through his exhaustion, having fought for himself while knowing he would not stand a chance against Sansa’s rebellion anymore, he looked almost amused. Sansa thought it revolting, causing almost a shudder. Her stomach churned. “What you are going to tell me now, my sweet loyal wife, is not going to come as any sort of surprise to me. You will have me executed, it goes without saying. Why else the exquisite foreplay?” 

After Ramsay had been captured on the battlefield and the battle itself had come to its end — Sansa’s victory — he had been brought before her in the Winterfell courtyard. The execution was attended by the major houses of the North, standing around her in a circle. The executioner stood with a sword between his hands, waiting for Sansa’s words to indicate it was his time to bring an end to the terrible, unjust reign of House Bolton. 

Sansa sneered. Even in his predicament, Ramsay had somehow managed not to grant her the satisfaction of giving him his sentence. Her hands balled to fists in anger. “I will, indeed.” 

“And is that going to make you feel any…” he let out an exhausted breath, “…better?” 

“I think that goes without saying too.” It was getting harder not to speak with emotion now, but she was going to have to pull through. There was no way she was going to allow herself to explode. Not during a moment that marked the beginning of her new life; her better life. “All I’ve ever wanted is to see you dead. You must have known that for a long time.” 

A laugh escaped his lips, after which he tiredly shook his head. “I don’t think it’s me who you want dead.” He threw her a look, a smirk spreading out over his features as he looked her over. He even licked his lips, expressing how pleased he was with what he was seeing. “It’s the bitch from the kennel, isn’t it, Sansa?” 

She felt an ache in her tits. Every time she was reminded of how sore her body was from everything that had been done to it, the pain of it grew stronger. Flashes of memories shot through her vision, lasting a few seconds up to a few minutes. She felt short of breath, practically able to feel just how violently her tits had been pulled and pulled and pulled, how sucked dry they had been, how her cunt had been scorched, punched, ridden raw and dry and wet all at once. She remembered her thirst, her need to drink from the bitch’s nipples as if it was going to bring her any relief. She winced, her heart beating rapidly. The space around her, although in the open air of her courtyard, suddenly felt much too narrow.

“I do not need to go into any sort of discussion with you,” Sansa spoke firmly, desperate to prevent him from saying too much. 

Ramsay laughed once again, with a little more strength this time around. “What is it, Lady? Don’t want to be reminded of what hides beneath your clothes? She’s— You are ruined. Your body has been damaged and beaten by a measly little piece of trash of a worthless woman. You have lost your mind over her, become obsessed, and now you think you are going to get any satisfaction out of sentencing me to death. As if it matters, when all you can think of is a woman who is every bit the whore you are.” 

Enough!” she spat, fury rising at the comparison. She stepped over to the man holding the sword. Her heart beat fast, but with the anger within her she knew what she was meant to do. This was not what they had agreed on, having come to the conclusion that Sansa would not be the one to swing the sword. However, when another wave of humiliation had hit her within her own courtyard, having raised some eyebrows of the members of the major Houses of the North, it was essential for her to keep to family tradition. 

“You hardened over the months, haven’t you? Might it have something to do with all those months of fighting a—” 

“Get him ready!” Sansa interrupted. She spread her legs slightly, biting back a wince as a result of the physical trauma she had suffered. The shortness of her breath returned to her, making her tremble slightly once again. 

Now that his fate was before him clear as day, Ramsay seemed to have found his place in reality. His eyes trembled in its sockets, as his breathing became more unsteady. He said nothing, his body shaking as his head now lay upon the chopping block. Sansa took his moment of silence and his lacking taunts to calm herself down, willing herself to, despite her overwhelming anger, execute Ramsay with the composure of a Stark. 

She sucked in a deep breath. The sword felt foreign in her grip, but she grabbed a rather firm hold of it all the same. His words had poisoned her mind, instilling an anger that was difficult to control. Another flash of terrible memories shot through her mind and she saw Myranda, her sadistic grin as she’d stood there with her torch, knowing what harm she would inflict upon her as she lowered it to her cunt. She winced. She still felt how hot it had been, searing so painfully that she almost lost her grip on the sword altogether. 

She closed her eyes to, once again, compose herself instead. She put the sharp point of the blade down against the ground and leaned on it. When she’d found her peace — or the illusion thereof — she rested her weight upon its hilt. Then she looked around, the scrutinising looks of the Houses of the North aimed straight at her, and she knew how to set it right. “I, Sansa Stark,” she began. She cleared her throat, sucked in more air, and continued with more conviction. “I, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Queen of the North, sentence you to die.” 

Ramsay’s eyes were on the blade. Once Sansa lifted it, he began his squirming. Finally, the reality of the situation had come down on him, and Sansa, angry as she was, took a few

seconds to revel in it as if to allow it to help her let go of her fear. It managed to, causing her to swiftly take on a pose. Her heart beat fast, nostrils flaring. 

An image of Myranda flashed before her eyes once more, and she lowered the blade, swinging it hard against Ramsay’s neck. When she opened her eyes, blood shot from the clear wound. Ramsay let out a noise, gurgling through the courtyard. Sansa trembled for only a second until she managed to let it annoy her more than anything else. She saw Myranda again. Why wouldn’t the bitch just die? 

“Again,” she was advised. “Quickly. Silence him.” 

It took her a moment to see Ramsay again, but when she did, she wasted no time but to end the suffering. She wanted him dead, as if to forget all that had happened. She swung the blade again, lifting it over her head and aiming for the slice she had already made. Then, she did it again, and again, until there was nothing to swing at anymore and the head of the one who had tortured her, emotionally as well as physical, lay upon the ground. 

As his body laid there to bleed out, she heard a scream. It was a loud, shrill one, followed by the hollow sound of a cry. Then she heard a moan, a groan, a grunt. She heard pain, lots of pain, which managed her throat to tighten and to flinch in anticipation. What was going to happen now? How was she ever going to end this? 

She snapped back once more, seeing Ramsay and attempting to, if even for a small moment, feel the victory. It was a victory, after all, as for months upon months she had worked towards this. However, no matter how victorious and symbolic it should have been for her to swing the blade at his neck, decapitating him with the firm belief that the man did, in fact, deserve to die, the moment had been taken by the crazy memory of a woman she could not shake. It did not matter that whatever the Boltons had done to her and her people was far worse than what Myranda had done to her, but in the end it was not Ramsay who had torn her body half to shreds. 

As the courtyard around her fell entirely silent, Myranda occupied every orifice of her mind with her deafening screeching. 


She could not let go of it. Whenever she was congratulated — whether it be in words, or with the glances she was thrown — she faked a smile. Of course, there was relief within her, but it hadn’t yet managed to push itself to the forefront of her mind. She couldn’t feel it as all she felt was the torment of the woman against her cunt, rubbing voraciously to force yet another painful orgasm out of her that she did not want to have. All she could feel were the stings of her words as they tried to get through to her, the taunt that had been spewed, the humiliation she had suffered in the sole company of a dog. How could she forget and, even worse, how could she not? 

The image of the bitch plagued her in bed at night. When she would drift off, she would once again be reminded of all the mornings she woke up exhausted, rubbed to rawness and soreness. Her eyes would shoot open, almost expecting to find the dog standing above her,

grinning down at her as though she was about to kill her with her bare hands once more, and then she would have to spend time reminding herself that she wasn’t there, and that she wouldn’t be there. 

When she finally would fall asleep, she would dream of her. She would feel the presence of Myranda creep up on her, attacking her when she least expected it. She dreamt of her infiltrating Winterfell, catching her in her sleep and dragging her out in the open to do what she had done to her for months. Of course, Sansa would fight back without any sort of reservation, but it was the fear that she would take a beating in front of the whole world to see that had her nearly shattered. It could not happen. She could not give it the chance to. Never again. 

With all those thoughts and dreams, Sansa knew it wouldn’t be long until obsession would become obvious and that it wouldn’t be long until everybody would notice that, despite her victorious return, she was not able to let go of something of the past. She needed it to stop, so that she could go on with her life instead of needing to dwell on the simple fact that the bitch she wanted dead perhaps even more desperately than she had wanted Ramsay, was still somehow alive. 

How could she, after all, stick to the duties that came with being the Lady of Winterfell and the Queen of the North? 

She had ended them all — all of the House Bolton and all its sympathisers— and sentenced them to die one by one. At one point she had thought the same about Myranda, to have her executed in a similar way that Ramsay had been. A couple of times, she had even thought about what it would feel like to slice her nice open, blood pouring out. There was satisfaction in it, in knowing that the dead bitch wouldn’t be able to taunt her anymore, but then she would hear Myranda’s imaginary words roaming through her mind: “What is it, highbred fucking whore? Think you can only win it if you play to your privileges?” and Sansa would find herself shuddering again. 

Doing it like that, she knew, would only ensure that she would never be able to let go of Myranda, even after she had already been put to death. She would always continue hearing those words, and Sansa would always know that they had been right. She could not be the highborn Lady of Winterfell that Myranda took her for. It simply would not be fair, and ultimately leave Sansa entirely empty. 

Her chest had felt tight upon the decision, but soon she had come to realise that there was truly no other way to end her torment than to face her again; to look at her face and take in her anger, and to finally kill her like that. If she truly wanted Myranda to die, then she had to make clear that the kennel-slut knew she deserved it. The only way for that to come across was to fight her, and to make her lose more clearly than she had in any other one of their fights. 

She had given it a few weeks. She had instructed for Myranda to be fed well enough for a final fight between them, and Sansa too had worked on rebuilding her strengths. She rested well, sleeping upon the bed that belonged to her while being plagued by nightmares, some days spending in bed and wishing, desperately, for her body to just heal. If she was going to

go through agonising amounts of pain again, then she needed to at least be able to no longer feel the existing damage. 

However, no matter how badly she wanted to be well rested, the nightmares and the flashbacks were making that terribly hard. The more time that passed, the worse her mental state began decaying. She began seeing Myranda more and more frequently, her face haunting her wherever she went. Whenever she would roam around Winterfell in order to find some peace, she would feel the bitch’s presence creeping up on her. When making her way back, any servant she would encounter would have Myranda’s features. They would all sneer at her in the way Myranda had done, and look at her tits as though they were all out to destroy them; to rip them off her chest. 

It had to end. And it had to end now. She couldn’t cope with this, no matter the state of her still broken body. 

When she had decided on the date, time and location of their last fight, things had become a little calmer. Sansa now knew that the confidence she felt in winning would make up for her illusions and for the most part it had. That wasn’t to say that the feeling of dread didn’t persist, but at least she knew that the torment would soon come to its end. When she would rip into her and feel her bleeding flesh between her fingers, it would all be over. If she had to endure, she would, and then she could go on, and finally forget. 

She had ordered for Myranda to be brought to Godswood, where Sansa awaited her impatiently. She had come early, finding some peace in the solitude. She hadn’t had much of that over the months, always having needed to busy herself with her duties. The very last moment of solitude had been those few minutes in the Crypt, before Myranda had come to put an end to it forever. 

In front of the white tree with its wrinkled face, Sansa felt strangely at peace and strangely protected. It was the reason she had chosen for Myranda to be brought here – it’s almost as if the woods, the ponds, and the great Heart Tree called to her. For a brief moment, she saw her father sitting in front of the tree, cleaning Ice, the great Valyrian steel sword in the dark murky pool. She stared at the carved wooden face on the tree trunk, with its sap red as blood dripping out of its wide gaping mouth and empty eyes, frozen in a silent wail. But instead of the slight terror it had caused her to feel as a child, she felt strangely at peace. If she would just get through this, and make her mind free of all her time with House Bolton and therefore Myranda, she could finally move on to rebuilding her family legacy. 

She stared at the tree, unable to take her eyes away from it. Behind her, she finally heard the footsteps, tightening her throat as her nostrils flared. It was as though she could smell her, the foul scent of wet dog. It made her heart jump up towards her throat, making her feel sick with dread at what she was about to feel. However, wasn’t this her duty as much as being a Queen would be? 

When she turned around, Myranda was standing there. Much to Sansa’s surprise, the dog girl didn’t look the way she had imagined her to look. She looked like she had been eating enough, but there was something about her expression that reminded Sansa of the one she

saw in the mirror every morning. It was Ramsay’s words she heard droning through her mind now, as she was looking at Myranda, the woman who was every bit the whore she was

They said nothing for a moment, simply staring at the person who had undoubtedly been on their minds for a few weeks now. Behind those stares, blank and empty, were two expressions of severe hatred. Perhaps that hatred ran even deeper now than it had over the whole duration of their acquaintance, but it showed differently. Perhaps because they both knew now that, no matter what would happen, only one of them was going to make it out alive. 

How she had ever come to agree with that concept was a mystery to Sansa in itself, but she supposed that she could hardly make sense of anything to do with Myranda after everything that had already happened. 

“So, there we have it, then,” Myranda said, finally breaking the silence. Sansa grimaced, taking victory in it. It was as though breaking the silence implied that she had already been the first one to break. Her voice was different, however, unfamiliar, as though she hadn’t used it a while. “The highborn Lady, having gotten everything she wanted again.” 

“Didn’t I make clear that I would? Don’t tell me that you hadn’t expected this to happen, because I wouldn’t believe it,” Sansa retorted. 

Myranda hummed. “Oh there you are with your delusions!” She’d raised her voice. “You must be used to getting people to lie for your sake. I suppose you’ve all of those highborn connections and those undeserving privileges to thank for that, haven’t you? If you expect me to do the same, it’s best to try and think again.” 

“Isn’t it clear that you are on the losing end?” she spoke. There was a coldness in her voice. “But it doesn’t matter anymore what you may think of reality, does it? It is still you who is standing here with nothing, whatever you make yourself believe is no longer important.” 

“And yet you’re the one who brought me out here for, what, my Lady, another fight?” Myranda looked her over, throwing her a glance as though she was looking at the most repulsive thing she had ever seen. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you haven’t got everything you want, after all.” 

She was silent, but she knew that her silence would sound like agreement. It twisted her stomach, filling it with another wave of hatred, especially as Myranda threw her a smirk in return. The smirk may have lacked what it had previously possessed, but it still looked no less vile. “That is what you want to believe,” she stated, unwilling to give in. “But, for me, this simply the most appropriate means to put you out of your misery.” 

It was a laugh that escaped Myranda’s throat. It was void of humour or amusement, but still it managed to send shivers down Sansa’s spine. “That isn’t even what you believe, is it?” She smirked. “You are obsessed with me. You’ve been thinking about me. You haven’t sentenced me, because you can’t bear to have me die in any other way than how we started. Isn’t that true?”

Sansa bit her lip. “It sounds like you should know all about that. Is this your way of admitting that you have been thinking of me that way? When you are sleeping alone in a bed and not with the dogs in the kennel because I allowed it.” 

Much to Sansa’s surprise, Myranda shrugged, as though it didn’t make a difference to her. In her voice, though, she could hear that something was changing. She could hear some anger through her somber composure. “Have you ever fought with someone who has nothing left to lose? You think your victory gives you an advantage, but you should only wish that were the case. Just because you took everything from me, doesn’t mean I won’t take everything from you now.” 

Sansa’s breathing sped up. This was perhaps the first time the two of them had spat their insults in such a calm way, but she could already feel that her own walls were starting to crumble. Her teeth gritted, but beneath that was the fear that Myranda might indeed be right. Not that Sansa would stand for it, because she would win this. She had to, to move on. “You people, or not even you, just those you support and stuck with, never managed to. Not really. You won’t now either.” 

Myranda stepped towards her then, as if to prove something. She sneered straight at her. “I will tear you to shreds, whore,” she said. Every bit the whore you are. “I will fucking end you like you think you ended me. And then what is Winterfell going to do, without its beloved Lady? All that fucking work for nothing, hm?” 

Sansa stood still, frozen but almost ready to flinch. Dread rose within her chest, which ached in response. Now with the dog so near her, she could feel the harm that had been inflicted upon her all over again, making her aware of the swelling in her tits, and the throbbing burn in her cunt. “And what is the bitch before me going to do if she survives, hm?” Sansa retorted. “Die at the hand of someone else? You know there is nowhere for you to go, so maybe it might be better for me to put the dying dog out of its misery before it spreads its diseases to others.” 

It was that statement that apparently hit too close to home, making her lunge forward in Sansa’s direction. Her hands were on her coat immediately, grabbing firmly. Like this, Sansa could smell her, to which her stomach twisted violently in response. She had not been able to get it out of her nostrils, and now the scent seemed to be the fuel to her own mania. She had thought too long about this for it not to cause an immediate response within her. 

As Myranda yanked at Sansa’s coat, violently working its way down Sansa’s shoulders, Sansa grabbed a hold of Myranda’s all the same. They rid each other of clothes just as rapidly as they had done every time before, but there was something different about this. Although the hatred and fury were stronger than ever, Sansa knew that this was going to lead somewhere different than it had all those times before. This time, there was no walking away afterwards. This time, Sansa knew she was going to have to be prepared for a damage she might not be able to physically handle. 

It wasn’t long until their tits sprung free from their clothing, the rest of it coming off with a few rips here and there. What Myranda was wearing wasn’t hard to tear into, probably the same thing she had been wearing all this time, at least if she hadn’t been naked. Sansa wasn’t

wearing anything much special either, as class hardly mattered when she knew she was going to bring this bitch to her end. 

Their tits could now be compared to another. Sansa had never been able to see the damage she had left on Myranda after everything that had happened inside of the crypt, but now it was once again obvious that they had been equally aggressive and equally hateful. Both their breasts were equally swollen and tormented by internal damage. For what was about to happen now, it was to hoping that her hatred towards Myranda for what she had done to her psyche, her body, and all of her thoughts wouldn’t be overshadowed by the hatred Myranda undoubtedly felt towards her for murdering the one she had loved—if that could even be called love, rather than just an insatiable desire for sex and power. 

Either way, she would take her. She would take her now. She wouldn’t allow Myranda’s anger to take the upper hand and, if she was smart, she would manage to use it to her advantage. 

Not that her rage was any less blind, because once they were both undressed, tits and cunts free of constricting material, they flung at one another simultaneously. Perfectly in sync with one another, it began with a painful squeeze around their breasts, already able to draw gasps from their throats. They may have been getting some time to heal, but nothing would have been enough to heal that swelling. She could still feel Myranda’s mouth on her nipple, sucking it dry of blood and lymph, and she could still taste hers. 

It caused Sansa to kick forward, kneeing Myranda between her legs at the burnt skin of her cunt. Myranda wailed, knees buckling, after which she moved one of her hands to grab a hold of Sansa’s skin instead. Instantaneously, her nails dug into Sansa’s firm breast, and then she began to tug so hard that Sansa’s eyes blurred all over again. She didn’t know, however, whether it was out of pain or, annoyingly, out of fear. 

At this stage, neither one of them could come up with a taunt. Their bodies were, after all, equally damaged. Every insult they might think of, could be turned around, and no one would have the upper hand. It would sound like desperation, and the very last thing Sansa wanted right now was to feel the humiliation of being called desperate and obsessed another time. Although the fight would soon run entirely on impulse and instinct, she shouldn’t be reckless until there was no choice but to be just that. 

Having her cunt grabbed like this made her squirm upon her feet. Then, a yank at her tit made the dread feel even more severe. She could do nothing but allow a moan escaping, after which she began doing the very same thing Myranda was doing to her. Her nails dug into the skin of her swollen breast and her hand moved to grab a hold of her cunt. Gasping, between moments of closed eyes and teeth dug in their bottom lips, they looked at each other. With each glance, they grunted, and then pulled harder, until the pain became so severe that they, like some sort of unspoken agreement, sunk down to the ground beneath them. 

Leaves sticking in their asses, sore against the rough surface, they let go of each other’s mounds as the hands on their tits remained, the yanking and squeezing continuing. However, as they both seemed to know, there was no way they could keep this up for long.

Sansa’s tits already felt like agony, making her screams sound throughout the forest, and Myranda’s were no softer for that matter. That’s why, once again perfectly in sync — every bit the whore you are — they began focusing on each other’s cunts instead. 

However, their fingers didn’t focus on the squeezing and pulling like they had done before. Instead, they moved their fingers between each other’s slick wet labia and located each other’s undoubtedly sore clits. From there, screams turned into grunts that disguised pleasured moans, and the fight turned into something it had resembled all those months ago. It almost felt easy to Sansa, attuned to the way Myranda’s ugly body worked. 

It came to no surprise that Myranda, knew Sansa’s just as well. 

They said nothing about this either, simply circling their aggressive fingers against the sensitive skin of each other’s clits. At the same time, they sped up their movements, trying their best to drag their orgasms out of one another. Sansa needed it to happen fast, as if winning the first would make Myranda break the character she had always perfectly put up in her presence and submit to her inevitable downfall. It was as though she hoped that achieving such a thing would make the bitch beg for mercy, even if she knew that was never going to happen; she knew Myranda well enough after all. 

The way Myranda rubbed against her, two fingers wagging at her, was interrupted by a scratch of her fingernails against her painful clitoral hood. It made her scream, after which Myranda continued with the pleasuring touch again. The pain, followed by unwanted pleasure, caused an involuntary moan to erupt Sansa’s throat. She felt something building within her in response to it, making her feel filthy and angry enough to switch it up. 

They had already stopped pulling at each other’s tits and were instead holding onto them as though neither one of them wanted to admit to how painful it was. Their grips, however, were weak, barely squeezing; barely doing anything at all. Perhaps that’s why Sansa didn’t find it as difficult to let go of Myranda’s swelling tit altogether and instead move her free hand in between Myranda’s legs as well. The one that wasn’t busying itself with Myranda’s clit, moved to the bitch’s entrance. There, she had no reservations in sticking her fingers up her cunt, spreading them apart and locating, with ease, the bitch’s most sensitive spot. “Must have…” Sansa’s voice was meant to be as powerful as she felt angry, but instead she whimpered her words, overcome with the unpleasant sensation of involuntary sexual pleasure. “Must have missed that. Something…” she groaned once more. “Something fucking… Inside of you, hm.” 

They locked eyes for a moment, in which Sansa could see fury. She should have thought twice about rubbing in her kill, because it only prompted Myranda to continue her furious wagging. The dog-girl’s unoccupied hand moved towards Sansa’s cunt, mimicking what Sansa was already doing to hers. She slipped her fingers inside, fucking them in repeatedly as the scratching and rubbing persisted. Sansa gasped, her noises echoing throughout the woods around them. Her moaning was so disgustingly loud that it cracked through the sky like thunder, causing her to dig her teeth into her lips as if to keep the inevitable loss from washing over her.

When she came, she came furiously. She hated the sensation of it, the arousal swirling around in her stomach like nausea. She didn’t want it to feel the way it did, her nipples — albeit ruined — hard and erect to the sensation. Her skin resembled gooseflesh, shivering as she sputtered against the touch. She hated it, her orgasm washing over her like the fire that her cunt had been scorched by. 

Her anger made her fingers curl deeply inside of Myranda, whose cunt clenched around them. Her moans grew louder and more severe, and it only took another moment — another circling finger — for Myranda to slip into the same state as Sansa. Wetness, more wetness, collected around her fingers and Myranda sputtered, her eyes closed and her head falling backwards. She looked just as furious as Sansa knew she was herself. 

Simultaneously, without waiting for each other’s orgasms to settle, they scooted forward and locked their cunts together. They were sensitive and wet against one another, and Sansa’s hatred at the thought of their fluid mixing together into one made her thrust her hips into Myranda’s with rage. It was this emotion that had been locked deeply within herself for weeks now, finally able to come out of her and crashing down on Myranda’s burning cunt. 

It hurt. Not for the reasons it may have hurt all the past times this had happened, but because her skin was still burnt and her clit still felt raw. She hadn’t been able to touch it without wincing, nor had she felt any desire to do so as everything would remind her of the bitch against her, who grinded against her with the same amount of anger and the same amount of stamina. 

The two rode it out against one another while leaning back on their arms. They didn’t look each other in the eyes, probably not yet ready for the confirmation that this was not where the fight would end. Sansa may have given herself hope before — and so had Myranda, for that matter — but she knew that it would be in vain. Myranda was not going to give up and allow herself to lose. Myranda was going to keep fighting until they would both pass out again. Same as Sansa. 

Myranda’s tits were swollen and badly bruised, bouncing along to the movements she was making. There was a wince on her features, indicating that this bouncing hurt more than it would have done a few months ago, but Sansa felt no victory in it. After all, her tits were in a similar state: bigger and heavier than they were before, each movement sending shocks of deafening pain through her nerves. 

They moaned and groaned, shivering violently, but were unable to say anything else. They forced each other through orgasm after orgasm, once again to the point where Sansa had lost count. The only thing Sansa did know was that they had won an equal amount off each other, the screaming and pulsating against Sansa’s cunt indication enough of what was happening inside of Myranda’s body. Through her own, she could feel her orgasms stinging and burning, forcing tears to her eyes that she was unwilling to let out in a way that would make her seem weaker than Myranda was making herself seem. Therefore they stayed in her eyes, droned out by the moaning, wailing and whining that cracked through the air. 

They looked at each other at the same time. There was no agreement on what was about to happen next, but there was a mutual understanding that this wasn’t going to get them

anywhere. The last thing Sansa wanted was to pass out and be found here once again, and have to live through the same type of torment she had felt through the past couple of weeks. The bitch needed to die in order to stop living inside of Sansa’s mind, and if she wasn’t going to accept her fate by admitting to her losses — perhaps not in the fights by themselves, but in general — then Sansa would have to get her there with violence. 

She flung upwards, pulling her cunt away from Myranda’s. In between her legs, she could feel herself leaking her own fluid down her legs. Knowing that some of it belonged to Myranda, made her more angry than she knew to control. “You’re…” she winced at her own voice, hating how filled with exhaustion it was, but she would continue. “Stupid to think that this will end… well for you.” 

Myranda shifted, sitting on her knees. She reached behind her, grabbing a hold of a thick tree branch that she then pointed in Sansa’s direction as if to threaten her. “Will it?” she hissed, but her voice was just as broken and exhausted as Sansa’s had been. 

After Myranda made it clear that she was about to attack Sansa with the branch she had picked up, Sansa seized the opportunity to lift herself up on her knees and grab a hold of Myranda’s cunt. The skin felt raw underneath the burn marks that adorned it and Sansa wasted no time twisting it in her grip. It had Myranda wailing, the stick instantly falling from her hands in a desperation to inflict the same amount of hurt on Sansa. Knowing this, Sansa took everything from those first few squeezes that she could manage, making Myranda’s skin feel sore before she’d gotten the opportunity to do anything to Sansa. 

It wouldn’t last long, as the moment of relatively inactive pain was suddenly replaced by a severe agony. Sansa’s hands were on Myranda’s mound, but Myranda’s fingers had slipped further down. They’d grabbed hold of her labia, which she twisted instantly in her grip, squeezing it with as much force as she could possibly manage. In response, Sansa’s nails dug into the burnt skin, making Myranda scream louder than this type of touch would have done months ago. It prompted Sansa to continue doing it, almost hoping that the way she was inflicting damage and pain would ease the excruciating agony she was feeling herself. 

Of course, that hope was entirely misplaced. As it always had been, the more hurt Myranda felt, the more severe her infliction of it grew. She pulled harder, twisted further — as far as she could go — and left Sansa grunt through gritted teeth. “This is the last time…” Myranda spoke, fire in her eyes and venom through her teeth, “…that you’ll ever have to feel this.” 

Her nails dug into Sansa’s skin as she continued to tug. She’d wanted to respond, but not a single word managed to escape her lips. Instead, she had no choice but to cry out and let her pain fuel her from damaging the mound even more roughly. That’s when her nails clamped hold more deeply, digging in and twisting in the hope they would tear through her already damaged skin. By the noises that left Myranda’s throat, she could hear that it was working. 

Then, her other hand reached between the bitch’s legs. Further down, she grabbed hold of the lips of her cunt, twisting them in the same way she was doing to Sansa. Her nails dug in just as deeply and in every fibre of her being she could feel a lust to make her bleed, to make her wail, to stuff her face into the ground and leave her body for the wolves. Sansa, if

she could, would watch every second of it, happy to watch the bitch’s naked body being ripped to nothing. 

The intense hatred she felt could barely be comprehended, possessing her so thoroughly that it momentarily overshadowed the excruciating pain she felt in her cunt. This tortured her from within, coming out in an explosive rage that made it hard to see straight. In the moment, she didn’t even have the ability to be terrified of that feeling, which would later, if the end was to lead them anywhere other than death, get the best of her. Right now, however, it only added fuel to the roaring aggression inside of her and she allowed it to consume her from within. 

But even the deepest surges of aggression had to come to an end, dying down promptly and making her feel just how severely she was hurting. Her cunt had been burnt, barely recovered, and now the friction of Myranda’s prying fingers were making it all the more unbearable. Myranda seemed to know that, because in her eyes she could see the tears beginning to well up all the same. She felt them in her own eyes, burning, making her heart bound through her throbbing tits. 

She wondered, for a moment, whether this was truly the last time she was ever going to feel this. She locked eyes with Myranda, seeing the bitch’s blurring vision and she knew that, yes, this was the last time she was ever going to be able to feel this quite like this. Just not in the way Myranda had probably meant it. 

She grunted and squeezed her eyes closed. Her own wailing made her feel sick, but worse than that was the pain that she now felt coursing through every fibre of her body. It stung, and the way in which Myranda continued to twist her skin, torturing it with friction, was making it difficult not to make the stars appear in her vision. Her tits pounded in that same familiar way they had over the weeks, reminding her of the pain the bitch was capable of consuming. 

It was then that Sansa moved one hand away from Myranda’s cunt and allowed it to focus on her tit instead. There, she squeezed the swollen, bruised skin so hard that it felt like the fluid inside of it was squished up towards her nipples. It made Myranda wail out, her damaged tit sore as could be. Tears streamed down her face, after which she seemed to look around herself just to be able to find a way out. Sansa could practically feel the hatred, pain and — surprisingly — fear, pounding through the bitch’s tits. When her vision couldn’t keep up with her severe need to find something, her instinct seemed to bring her hand to Sansa’s tit all the same. There, Sansa could finally feel what Myranda must be going through right now herself. 

The pain expressed itself in a loud screech, even before her brain had caught up with the agony of it. It washed over her, the burn making her gasp for air, as though none of it naturally made its way inside of her lungs anymore. Her cunt was not doing much better, being tugged and squeezed and pulverised by a desperate grip. However, Sansa was not sure whether that desperation came from her unwillingness to consider the possibility of losing, or whether it was a desperation not to feel the pain she was currently being forced through.

Myranda opened her mouth, searching for a taunt — or a way to make it stop, Sansa wasn’t sure — but no matter the amount of breath she managed to suck inside, nothing came out. It looked all too familiar, as Sansa was just as short of breath as Myranda was. However, Sansa did agree with the silent plea for it to stop. She too could no longer bear it, tears streaming down her cheeks and staining her skin. Her teeth were gritted, making her jaw feel sore and her body feel all the tenser. It was impossible to know what to do, as it was impossible, in this state, to feel any type of rationality for what was happening. 

But, then again, hadn’t that already left them a very long time ago? Wasn’t that lack of rationality why she was here in the first place? The thought, for some reason, hurt so badly that another cry sounded through the forest. How could it have gotten here? 

Their eyes locked. Whereas otherwise they would have seemed determined and convinced they would be able to hold out for longer, they now seemed nothing short of exhausted. Perhaps that’s why the mutual understanding they came to in that moment had nothing to do with determination. Instead, they now seemed to agree that this had to stop. Neither one of them was going to give up first, so therefore they had to do it at the same time. 

Not that Sansa would ever decide to stick to her deal of that silent agreement, because the very second the pair let go of each other’s cunts and tits, Sansa was already looking for a way to make sure she would maintain or regain the upper hand. That’s why, the second they let go, she forced herself forward, wrapped her arms around Myranda’s body, and pressed herself close to that of the bitch’s. It was difficult to understand why she was doing this, but merely judging by the way her own tit was sore and tortured, this was the only way to ensure that Myranda would keep feeling it. Her sanity had evidently suffered, unable to have come to the understanding that the pain Myranda would feel now, would be felt to an equal extent by Sansa. It should not have been so hard to understand that if Sansa were to press her body agonisingly close against Myranda’s, that Myranda would, with her filthy hands and her disgusting body, do the very same thing Sansa was doing to her. 

In a tortured embrace, the two kept each other insufferably close. Sansa tried to suck in some air, but with their swollen tits pressed together, putting more pressure on the damaged tissue, breathing was almost too difficult to do without wailing. Her stomach heaved, breathing coming out in tortured gasps for oxygen, as she tried to focus on the way her cunt stung instead. She had hope that focusing on that lesser, yet still agonising pain, would lessen the agony in her tits. Unfortunately, though, it didn’t. All it did was make her weaker, giving Myranda an advantage in pressing herself closer to Sansa and, therefore, controlling the way their pain shifted through both their bodies. 

“Has…” Sansa wailed. To end, she wanted to add, but those words would never come out through her constricted throat. 

Her hands moved up Myranda’s back. Still pressing close, Sansa grabbed hold of Myranda’s hair and yanked at it. Her grip was close to Myranda’s scalp, yanking just to get some space between them. When that happened, Myranda’s neck snapping back for a fraction of a second, Sansa let one of her hands wander around her in search of something. This had to end and quickly, or she was certain that her tits would never manage to heal again.

When Sansa grabbed a hold of something, she felt her own head snapping backwards by the force of Myranda’s hand. Their nipples brushed against one another and, through her pain, Sansa felt an insatiable desire to rip them straight off her body. Pain made space for a tingling sensation, and she hated every second of it. It was perhaps that hatred that caused her to bring her hand between them both, no longer trying to keep them together but to tear them apart from one another. Then, when all of that was done, Sansa smashed the object — which she now realised was the bony branch of the Heart Tree behind them — against Myranda’s damaged tits. It had Myranda yelping, the smack leaving a thin red line across her skin. Was it not for the hand in her hair, Sansa knew she would’ve scurried backwards and away from her. Now, however, she was left hanging somewhere between Sansa and the ground beneath them, as Sansa continued to press the branch firmly against both nipples, and her beaten sack of swollen fat, blood and lymph. 

Myranda let go of Sansa’s hair and frantically, writhing with pain, reached around. Merely a second later, her hand was around a similar branch that Sansa was holding. It caused Sansa to grunt, despising whatever universe had given them the tools for yet another entirely equal fight. 

Although Sansa was rubbing the raw material of the branch against Myranda’s tits, making it ache miserably, Myranda had come to a different idea. Instead of tormenting her in the same way, she locked the branch underneath Sansa’s tits and pushed them upwards against her own skin. There, she began pushing against her body, making Sansa screech out as the fluid was pushed up towards her nipples again. She could feel it all moving internally, and her heart once again beat just as rapidly as it had done over the past couple of weeks. The pain seemed to have gone on forever, which Sansa didn’t think had ever quite happened between them like this before. Whatever had happened in that crypt had scarred her, and now the only way for her to bring it to an end was to allow herself to go through twice the amount of physical torture, just to bring this cunt to her death. 

The pain was severe enough for Sansa to mimic it. She stopped the beating and the chaffing, instead bringing the stick underneath Myranda’s breasts as well. She left them bleeding, tiny wounds in her nipples oozing red puss. 

In exactly the same fashion, she pressed the material of the branch tightly against her body, folding her tits back against her chest. She let out an angered grunt as she began pressing back against her, squishing the fluid towards her nipples and making all of the fat and lymph collect in the very end of her useless, swollen tit. 

The two locked eyes for a mere small moment. Both their cheeks were stained with tears and Sansa had to admit that neither one of them had probably ever felt this miserable during a fight before. The pain had brought them to practical insanity, whereas the exhaustion had settled within them so deeply that there was nothing driving them to do this besides their severe need to bring this to an end. 

However, pushing against one another like this was difficult. With both their arms outstretched, pushing as hard as they could to damage each other’s tits, it became almost impossible to keep their balance. Their hearts were pumping with rage, determined to hold on to this small moment of fight within them. Neither one of them wanted to be the first one

to fall backwards, especially because falling backwards would, under these circumstances, mean that they were done for. Falling would mean getting attacked, and Sansa did not want Myranda to get that upper hand. She had to keep her body upwards, pushing into the pain rather than away from it. She just had to… endure. 

It was the exhaustion that made her fail it. After sucking in a deep air of breath, she could feel a surge of nerves and fear, after which her body began to lose it to gravity and she could feel herself falling down on to the ground beneath. Gasping, she raised herself back onto her knees just as quickly, surprised to catch Myranda in exactly the same predicament. They’d both yelped, fallen at the same time, and now they were equally determined not to grant the other even a little bit of the upper hand in this fight. 

They did nothing for a second, as though they were blinded by both fear and anger as their bodies stung in the aftermath of all that fluid being pushed up. Sansa’s areolas were throbbing and, judging by the swelling in Myranda’s, she knew that the bitch from the kennel must be feeling exactly the same. They both still held the branch in their hands, their fingers clamped tightly around their weapons. They raised it practically at the same time, hearts pounding in an incredibly rapid fashion. The thought of stopping the fight altogether crossed Sansa’s mind, but the thought of going on as they had done those past few weeks was so unbearable that another grunt escaped her lips. The same thing must have happened to Myranda, because a second later they were attacking each other again. 

This time, they scooted in close to one another. They exchanged another hateful glance, and then they seemed to move almost automatically. Again, they attacked one another with their branches. This time, their tits were pressed together and moved up their chests until every inch of the underside of their tits was pressed together. Then, Sansa moved her branch to the upper side of Myranda’s tits and pressed them more tightly against her own. Myranda did the same, torturing her bosom with immaculate pressure that now, more so than before, strained against her painfully sore areolas. It made her gasp, but when Myranda’s grunt sounded after applying more pressure, she grunted too as she did the same. 

She rolled her branch closer to the top of Myranda’s tit, closer to her nipple, and then pulled it so aggressively towards her own that the sack of swollen flesh bulged at the end. Sansa could feel the fluid building up in there, being pushed up so close to the surface that it felt like the bitch’s tit was going to bust. Sansa wanted to push harder, to see the fluid squish out of her already chafed nipples, but by that time Myranda had moved her branch closer to Sansa’s nipple too. With a grunt, and then a scream, she began doing the same, wincing profusely at what she was currently being forced through. 

The two were holding each other up with their branches, pulling as hard as they could. The amount of pain Sansa could now feel, even more severe than it had been before, made her vision blur and her head pound. She let out a cry, after which she applied even more pressure to the bitch’s tit, until the both of them were wailing with exhaustion and agony, deafening one another and making each other feel sick. 

Sansa could feel the fluid inside of her tit moving, straining against her areola so badly that she had no idea how it wasn’t pouring out already. At the same time, Myranda’s tit was oozing something, blood pouring out from the tiny small wounds. Myranda was looking at it,

to which Sansa became aware of the throbbing inside of her tit again. With her heart beating with rage, the kennel slut moved herself down a little and, with one rough movement, managed to lock her mouth with Sansa’s nipple. 

There, her teeth dug in, beginning to grind to freshen the wounds that had worked on healing themselves slightly over the past months. It prompted Sansa to pull the branch more tightly, practically yanking at it in order to make more liquid pour from Myranda’s nipples. It seemed to come out in small bursts, but Sansa was waiting for it to snap and explode. The same could probably be said for Myranda, because the pain she felt in response to the pressure on her nipples only expressed itself in the increasingly aggressive grinding of her teeth, 

Sansa could feel herself being split open, making her heart beat so rapidly she could feel it in her stomach. She could clearly feel how her nipple was being torn open, and in response she could feel blood starting to be squeezed out of her. Along with the fluid buildup within it, she knew what it would look like and, by the looks of it, Myranda now knew what it tasted like. 

As soon as Sansa could feel herself pouring it, Myranda moved on to her second nipple, repeating the process just as rapidly. Being occupied with her mouth, however, meant that for a moment she didn’t have the strength to apply an equal amount of pressure on the branch against Sansa’s tits. It gave Sansa the opportunity to pull harder herself, until eventually Myranda screamed so hard that her mouth was forced to let go of the bud altogether. 

From then on, the tugging became like a war by itself. Every time Sansa would pull and press harder, Myranda would do the same. It was almost as though this battle came down to the strength of their tits, as the stronger pair would possibly let them hold out a little longer. With both their nipples now bleeding and dripping, however, Sansa could already feel that it wouldn’t be long until the fluid inside of them would eventually want to make its way out. The feeling of it felt like agony, and the pressure of it wasn’t far removed from making her feel like they would never recover from it. 

That thought made her feel like it was enough, forcing her to apply more pressure than she had for the entire duration of the fight. She had to be the one to get Myranda there quicker, so that the pain would grow overwhelming enough for it to come to an end altogether. Myranda, however, seemed to have the very same idea, because the very second Sansa started to give it her all, Myranda did so too. 

Every bit the whore you are. She could hear it clearly, taunting her as the feeling of what was happening to her grew more severe. She wailed, then grunted and applied more pressure until eventually, with more pain than she might have ever felt before, her body — her tits — were brought to their inevitable explosion. 

When it finally happened, it felt like torture, liquid oozing from her tits unlike it had ever done before. The sensation it caused was also different from everything she had ever felt. Myranda might have grind her nipples between her teeth, and drink from the lymph and blood back when they had been in the crypt, but it was nothing in comparison to the burn and the sting that the eruption left. Her nipples were pouring it and Sansa could not help but

throw her head back and scream. She could not move because of it, her grip on the branch as tight as it had been before. Her muscles were cramped like this, as though the only way to deal with the overbearing pain was to be as tense as she could possibly manage. 

When the height of the pain hit her, she finally lost the grip on the branch. It felt like she was hanging on by Myranda’s grip for another second, until Myranda suddenly let go of her as well. Then, Sansa could finally hear the screaming of the naked bitch in front of her, and the two wailed for what felt like minutes as their tits poured an excessive amount of liquid. Sansa couldn’t even reason what it was anymore, but she supposed it was fair to say that after all of this had been leaking from her nipples, which were now open in a variety of different spots — entirely split open — her tits would not be the same again afterwards. She would need a miracle for them to get to the same state again. 

Wailing, they cupped their breasts as tears streamed down their faces and noises made it through the woods once more. Nausea washed over them as their heart rate increased in response to the ache. Like this, just lying there, Sansa became aware of all the pain coursing through her, momentarily making her feel like she was inhabiting a broken shell. Myranda was wailing similarly, but the throbbing within Sansa’s own body was enough to drone that out. Her ears were ringing with it, and she shook her head from left to right upon the surface beneath her as if that was going to make her deal with it better. 

Writhing, she tried to make sense of what was happening. Even more so, she tried to make sense of what still needed to be done. It was difficult to come to the conclusion that this needed to escalate even further, when all she really wanted was to run away from it forever. But, no, she could not do that. There was no going back without doing what really needed to be done. Without this bitch, this whore from the damned kennel, life could return to how it was meant to be. Without interruption; without the fear of interference. 

With weakness inside of her body, she lifted herself back up. The branches had fallen between them, but at this point Sansa wasn’t sure whether she would be able to keep her grip on a weapon. Instead, as her hands clenched to fists, she leaned over Myranda and, with the sensation of the life dripping from her tits, gathered the last smidgen of strength for her attack. 

However, instead of slamming her fists down against Myranda’s tits, Sansa could feel herself falling forward. There didn’t seem to be a way for her to keep herself steady, her mind spinning so fast that it was hard to find anything to keep up with. Besides, it was hardly like she had Myranda to keep up with, because the bitch was in exactly the same predicament as Sansa now was herself. If anything, Sansa has the upper hand, as it was Sansa’s body that clattered down on top of Myranda’s, tits falling against tits, dripping against one another. 

As Sansa lied there, the agony preventing her from moving herself up, Myranda lied there writhing underneath her. The pressure applied to her tits was too much for her, causing her to fight with whatever little energy she had just to get Sansa off herself. 

There was hardly anything Sansa could do about it, which was why she had no choice but to let her body fall downwards another time, leaving them next to each other, naked on the ground of Godswood, with their tits leaking empty. She had expected, almost in a panic, that

Myranda would find the opportunity to throw herself on top of Sansa, but instead fairly little happened. There were just the noises that indicated that Myranda no longer had it in her, just like Sansa. They had been driven to exhaustion, and now there was no way either one of them was going to be able to force the other through torture. 

Lying there, her face was turned towards the tree. Her heart skipped a few beats and her body twitched. She had forgotten about her surroundings, but now she could see its face again. In the moment she took for her face to be turned towards it, she saw its features change, but there was no way for her to know whether that was real, or a pain-induced illusion. It caused a tightness in her chest, as if she was that young girl again, being afraid of nothing at all while years of genuine torment lay ahead of her. In this case, however, she supposed that those potential years of torment lay right beside her. 

But, no, it had to end. She had no idea how many more times she was going to need to convince herself of that, when all she wanted was to step away, cup her tits and let them heal, never to think about this bitch again. 

There was but one way to get that done. No matter the fact that she probably felt much too weak to actually achieve it, it was the last thing that was meant to happen. 

She waited for a moment, getting her breathing as control as it possibly could. She could tell she was unsteady, as the more she tried to suck some air into her lungs, the worse she sounded. She was wheezing, writhing, until after a grunt, she suddenly managed to get enough strength to speak with. “Have you had enough?” she asked. She could hardly recognise herself, and the tree she could see, looking at her, only made that worse. “Are you finally ready to… Give up?” 

No response followed. It prompted Sansa to turn her head into Myranda’s direction, but she could still see that the bitch’s eyes were open and that she was – unfortunately so – still breathing. Instead of trying to find the energy like Sansa now was, Myranda was trying to find some calm and composure. What the purpose of that was, Sansa had no idea, but at least she could tell that the slut was close to her ultimate breaking point. 

“Have you… Have you had enough?” Sansa repeated. “Tell me… Tell me you’ve given up. Tell me I’ve…” won

The slight chuckle that followed was barely audible, and was then followed by a severe wheeze. If it wasn’t already clear that Myranda was in just as much pain as Sansa was, then it would be now. Sansa shivered at the noise of it, the sound of severe exhaustion hitting her worse than it ever had before. She wondered for a moment, again, how it could have come this far – even further than all their other fights had brought them – but of course it had. Would there ever have been another way to get rid of the bitch? Would there ever have been a chance? 

“Tell me…” she repeated, sounding more desperate this time around, but that only made the soft laughter sound more severe. “I know there’s no… denying it… You just have to…” She couldn’t finish her sentence, overwhelmed by breathlessness. 

“I’m not…” Myranda spoke quietly, finally. “Going to tell you any such thing. I never will.”

The words instilled a quiet anger. At first, Sansa was unable to do anything with it, but then, while cupping one of her tits with one hand, she managed to raise herself up on the other. She looked at Myranda, who didn’t move at all. It was clear that she had lost the will to fight, but even more so, it was clear that she, indeed, was never going to admit to her obvious defeat. 

“Then there’s only one…” thing left to do. Once again, she could not finish her sentence, but she would finish the fight. Properly. 

Myranda hummed with exhaustion, which almost made it seem like she no longer cared what Sansa would do. In a sense, Myranda might have felt as though she had already won. In the midst of having nothing left to live for, she had found it within herself not to surrender. Like that, her win was clear. She would prevent Sansa from being able to move on entirely, and she would maintain whatever was left of the dignity that had, at least according to Sansa, always been dubious at best. 

Awakened by what she knew was her very last surge of fury-induced energy, she grabbed hold of the branch she had previously held. Covered in blood and lymph, she brought the thick material in between Myranda’s legs. She slammed it against her bone, making Myranda grunt out in pain, until she had no choice but to spur into action again. Of course, however, the two were weakened, and the fight no longer resembled what it had ever been like. They were fighting for their lives without any sort of energy, which was why Sansa knew this was the last part of fight they would ever have again. 

As Myranda lifted herself back up, Sansa felt fear. If the pain was about to drive Myranda mad, and if Sansa was just as weak as Myranda was, then was there a chance that Myranda might overpower her one last time? No, she told herself. There was not. Myranda had nothing to live for, and therefore nothing left to fight for. Sansa, on the other hand, had everything to fight for. 

Without sparing it another thought, Sansa penetrated Myranda’s cunt with the tree branch. It had Myranda grunt with pain and exhaustion, after which her hand moved to the branch inside of her. She scurried backwards to prevent Sansa from being able to push it in further, but did not pull it out. Her hand was firmly wrapped around it, preventing it from moving altogether, until she eventually locked eyes with Sansa. 

Sansa, despite being so dizzy that her vision was spinning, understood exactly what she meant and, without sparing it too much thought, she scooted over with her legs spread. 

She didn’t have the faintest idea why she was doing this, but considering everything they had been forced through, this was the only logical way in which it could end. After all, Sansa sincerely doubted that she was going to be able to end the bitch any other way. There was no strength within her, so what other way was there to bring the bitch to her end than using the means of the very cunt Myranda had inflicted her damage upon, time after time? 

As she scooted closer, she grew hesitant. The pain this would cause would be insufferable and she knew it, but it was the spike of insanity that had caused her to agree to this. Her heart rate sped up, nausea following another rush of anxiety. She thought of backing away

again, realising that there was no way she could agree to this, but by that time it was already too late. 

Myranda had flung herself forward, and, before Sansa had had the chance to scurry backwards again, she had impaled the other end of the branch straight into her cunt. 

Sansa’s eyes shot wide open as she felt it, making her swallow before she managed to let out another noise. Then, Myranda pushed herself forward, apparently clenching her own muscles around that branch so tightly that she managed to get the thing deeper into Sansa, rather than inside of herself. Sansa could feel it deeply inside of herself, scraping against her walls and going in so deeply that the end of that channel was already starting to protest. She leaned back on her elbows, which were starting to have difficulty keeping her balance, and then did what Myranda was doing, but she was determined to do it with more strength and more determination. 

She clenched her cunt against the branch, its sharp edges sticking more firmly into the soft flesh of her channel and then thrusted herself forward. The success of this action erupted from the back of Myranda’s throat in the form of a loud wail. Sansa could feel that she tried to push back somewhat, but that the will to go in all the way had long since left her. She was only responding to the attacks, but no longer initiating them. She had initiated the end, even taking that satisfaction from Sansa, and she had made it clear that the end was going to befall them with Myranda’s false sense of honour still intact. 

“Give… Give up,” Sansa grunted. “Say that you… give up.” 

She wanted badly to hear those words. She wanted to stab a sharp point of one of the branches straight through her chest, straight after Myranda had admitted to her blatant defeat. Then she would never have to think about this again with anything on her mind other than the satisfaction of having won everything somehow, and the entire situation would, hopefully in a few years time, be like nothing but a small dent in her life’s story. 

For now, however, there was nothing but the severe pain to think about. So, as the words didn’t leave Myranda’s lips, the words seemingly not even registering inside of the bitch’s brain, there was nothing Sansa could do but to go on with what she was meant to do. Begging for Myranda to admit to her defeat was the very last thing Sansa was meant to be doing. 

“I won’t…” 

As she scooted forward, with as much force as she could muster, she could feel the branch slipping deeper inside of Myranda. A little more force that she applied to another thrust had Myranda lose her balance and, just like that, she fell to the ground and lied there, staring up at the sky while her clenching pussy tried to stop the majority of the force that Sansa was using on her. Unfortunately for Myranda, Sansa’s determination had now taken over, and the more Myranda decided to clench her muscles, the harder Sansa managed to thrust. The aggressions in those actions came out in the form of a few deep, furious grunts, blended in with the wails that the pain caused her to feel.

After all, it was not like Sansa was managing to come out relatively unharmed. She too could feel the way the branch pierced through her cunt. With every thrust inside of Myranda, impaling her, the thing shoved more deeply inside of her. She couldn’t even feel anymore who it was that had the stick deeper inside of them, but Sansa could only guess that it was Myranda. After all, Myranda lay there lifelessly, consumed with her own pain as she almost allowed Sansa to do what she was doing. Her breathing shallowed a little and, when Sansa looked down, she could see blood leaking from her cunt, staining the tree branch inside of her with a bright red. 

Sansa gritted her teeth upon the sight of it, but she did not stop. Lifeless like this, Sansa pierced her quickly, and the pool of blood seemed to increase. Even deeper, probably so deep that the branch had found its way into her internal organs, and Myranda’s eyes slipped shut. Then she lay there trembling, her chest rising and falling more quickly for a few seconds until the entire thing slowed down again. Mistaking it — quite insanely so — for Myranda’s success at finding a way to deal with the pain, Sansa thrust in one more time. It was the hardest one thus far, as if she had already known it would be the last when she forced all her energy into it. 

Then Sansa’s ears began to ring. She gasped for air as her body felt numb for a good few seconds, until the pain came back in tenfold, making her scream so loudly that she was out of breath by the end of it. Then she lay there writhing, her elbows giving in and making her fall down in a similar manner. She could feel the blood pouring out of her all the same, large puddles dripping out of her cunt and, somehow, from a spot somewhere near her back. It burned, the dirt undoubtedly making her wounds feel worse than they otherwise already would have done. 

She could not move anymore after that, though her awareness lingered. She felt like a bleeding shell, liquid pouring from every sensitive part of her body. She felt the branch buried deeply inside of her and, somehow, she could hear that the bitch across from her was no longer making her noises. Her heart responded to it by speeding up its beating, as though for a brief second she knew that it was over now. 

It may not have been enough to numb the searing pain, but at least the knowledge that, in one way or another, this truly had been the last fight she would ever have with Myranda. 

The bitch was dead. And Sansa… Well, Sansa had no idea what she was herself. All she knew was that, right now, she possessed neither the energy nor the will to come to a logical conclusion. 


Silence has returned to the Godswood, broken only by the gentle rustling of leaves as winds pass through the blood red leaves of the great Weirwood. Before its wooden face, two bodies lay on the forest floor, their life blood slowly seeping into the earth, reaching the white bony root below. 

Quietly, something stirred amidst the roots of the garden, a power as old as the trees and and the grass, the stones and the river, a power as old as the earth itself. Awakened by the forgotten yet familiar taste of blood, the thing slowly opened its eyes. Peering through the

wooden carved eyes of the bony white tree, it gazed on the two bodies laying before it. Something rustled in its mind, a distant echo from a bygone era – a pact forged in blood, a contract wrought with magic that was old before the world was young. A voice rang through its mind – blood for power, blood for life

With eyes made of wood, it saw the two spirits drifting away from the garden. One was familiar, different yet similar to the people who had cared for it when it was still a seedling, different yet similar to the ones who watered it with blood in times long gone. The other is a stranger. It knew what it must do. 

Suddenly, a raven landed on the Weirwood, and a shrill caw pierced through the still morning air. As if answering to a command, wind rushed through the branches of the great Heart Tree. Its many leaves shaped like bloody red hands grasped against the air, as if reaching out to lost souls. Then, one by one, the leaves left their bony branch, drifting down towards the bodies, gently covering them in a thin carpet of red little hands… 

Its pact fulfilled, the power yawned, and slowly sank to the labyrinth of roots beneath the earth, where it would rest until it was once again awoken by the forgotten yet familiar taste of blood. 


She woke up to the smell of decay. It was dark and quiet around her, save from the quiet rustling noises of leaves rubbing together and the subtle noises of small animals. Her mind could not keep up with her memories, which lingered somewhere in the back, but never made it all the way to the forefront. All she could remember was Myranda, somewhere inside of the Godswood, riding against her, pressing against her, torturing her… She winced to herself because of it, but then shook it back to the back of her mind again. 

Her breath hitched as she looked behind her. She noticed a corpse, a skeletal figure that hardly resembled anything at all anymore, and scurried away from it as quickly as she possibly could. Memories of pain crossed her mind at the movement, but then when she looked down at her body, where the pain normally would have come from, there was nothing. Not the wounds she remembered, not the tits that she knew had been squeezed empty, and not the cunt she could still feel had been pouring blood before. 

She had woken up painless, and it caused her to lift herself up on one of her elbows as the other touched all the sensitive spots that had been tainted. Her tits were fine. They felt like they always had. Her nipples were intact, not bitten and split, and her cunt… She could feel her clit, how sensitive and good it felt to touch it, if even for a short moment, and the somewhat slick rim of her hole. No blood, just her own natural wetness. Just what it had always been meant to be. No burn scars, not the permanent damage she knew she had had before. No nothing. 

Perhaps all the evidence that was left of what had happened was the skeletal figure beside her, which she now knew, even with only half her memories intact, could only belong to one person.

Without sparing it another thought — being too tired to think properly — she rose to her feet. Had it not been for the fuzz in her brain, her body would have made it possible for her to walk with ease. It was nothing like what she had felt over the past couple of months. She felt normal. At peace. Finally, would everything finally become as it was meant to be? Could she finally do what she was meant to do, without the trauma; without her hateful thinking patterns? 

Almost automatically, she walked back towards the castle. By morning, she would not remember how she had managed to get herself in her very own bed in the first place, but by that time it would no longer matter. All she would be able to think about was the miracle of what had happened and how the only evidence of her fight had been the two white spots of scars that were visible on her back. She would not need to think about anything else, the gaps in her memory being filled in by her own misconstrued interpretations of the truth. It wasn’t like Myranda was going to be there to counteract her own statements, as Myranda’s body, at least according to Sansa, lay decaying in a pool of water. 


“Is that the last of it?” Asked Sansa, as the steward nervously flipped through his books. 

“Yes, your highness,” answered the steward, staring at the tips of his shoes, “we may have an additional few hundred bushels of wheat as the last of the harvests are brought in, but with winter already here, it is likely the last we will have.” 

Enough to feed the North for 3 months, thought Sansa. and as she looked at the swirling snow storm outside the window, she knew it wouldn’t be nearly enough. 

“You may leave, and send in Lord Baelish on your way out.” She told the steward, who gladly fled to the safety of his books. 

“Queenship becomes you, your grace.” said Petyr Baelish as he entered and gracefully bowed. 

“Take a seat my lord,” smiled Sansa, as she gestured towards a chair on the other side of the desk, “And Jeyne, please fetch us some wine.” 

As the handmaiden left for the cellar, a silence fell on the chamber, as Sasna studied her former mentor. The short man is dressed in an elegant doublet of black and grey, with a dark purple half cape flowing from a silver pin in the shape of a mockingbird. There also seems to be more gray in his hair and the neatly trimmed mustache. 

“I hope the travel was pleasant?” Asked Sansa, deciding to break the silence. 

“Most certainly, though I’d hate to return to the Vale by sea,” smiled Petyr, “The seas are rife with storms at this time of the year.” 

“Perhaps you may wish to stay with us for a while longer?” offered Sansa, “Just until the sea calms?”.

“Your grace is too kind, but I must decline, I wouldn’t want to add another mouth to feed.” So he knows about the food supply. “No, I think it’s best that I return as soon as my business here is concluded.” 

A silence fell once again, as Sansa briefly wondered what new scheme her mentor has been plotting. And then, it suddenly dawned on her. “One hears such hardship and suffering in the Riverlands.” smiled Sansa. 

“Indeed, fertile soil yet no one to till them” said Petyr, with a hint of pride in his voice, “and with Lannister soldiers burning and looting across the Riverlands, trampling crops and fields carrying off sheeps and cattles, Queen Margaery has charged me to convey an interesting proposition.” 

“Allow me to guess,” interrupted Sansa, “Queen Margaery, wishes me to attack the Lannisters, and in return, she will let me keep calling myself “Queen of the North”. She offers me a crown that was not hers to give, in exchange for my help against enemies that are hers to fight?” smiled Sansa sarcastically, “I believe you taught me too well for this.” 

“Almost, your grace.”, replied Petyr with a light in his eyes, “Her grace, Queen Margaery, wishes that there would be peace and prosperity between the two kingdoms, and hopes that your highness would strike the Riverlands. Now, if the Lannisters had already left the Riverlands by the time the Northern army got there, then that would be most… convenient.” 

“And I take it that you have reasons to believe that such convenience may arise?” Asked Sansa, almost sure of the answer. 

However, before Petyr could answer, an urgent knock came from the door, and the maester, with his great chain clanking around his neck, stumbled into the room. 

“Your grace, a raven arrived with urgent message,” panted the old man, as he handed a scroll of parchment to Sansa. Unrolling the parchment, Sansa glanced through the content, her eyes widening as she read. 

”A corpse was found by the Trident. Face was slashed to bits, but they say the hair was yellow as gold. More gold on her head than in her coffers, they say.” read Sansa, “They are saying it’s Cersei Lannister.” 

“A body is just a body.” Petyr shrugged, “You’d be shocked at how difficult it would be finding someone with hair to match that radiant color. Once the beasts have been through it, it is whoever people say it is. Without the eyes, lips, nose, a face is just a face.” He spoke with a tone of playful mock-frustration as if a royal corpse was like finding a stain on his shirt. 

“And King Tommen Baratheon had committed suicide, grief stricken by news of her mother’s apparent demise.” continued Sansa. Briefly, she tried to remember Tommen, and felt a pang of pity towards the chubby innocent little boy. But innocent little boy don’t stay that way for long in this world.

“How very shocking and tragic”, drawled Petyr, in a tone that clearly indicated he was neither shocked or saddened. “King’s Landing finally lived up to its name. A pity no one was there to console the young king when he heard of her mother’s death.” 

“And nobody stopped him?” Sansa pried in a detached tone, studying the window curtains as if they proved more interesting than the conversation. 

“I suppose his servants must have left him alone in his room.” Petyr breathed a short scoff of amusement. “Must have been their breaks. I have contact with a good number of them, and I must tell you they are just dreadful at keeping a good schedule.” 

“So with Tommen and Cersei gone, the Lannisters have no one left but Princess Myrcella to rally behind” mused Sansa. 

“And they will be marching against Margaery before the next moon, leaving the poor people of Riverlands completely unprotected.” Petyr finished with a wicked smile, “Royals out for royal blood: business as usual, as you surely know by now.”

The End

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