A Special Thank You
Though most stories in this section were written entirely by me, though with the guidance of another, this story, like my other two GoT stories were written in concert with the requesting person. Writing it with them was a pleasure and I continue to believe that this story is one of my best.
A Comment on Age
When I was enlisted to write this series of stories, I was instructed that all the characters I would be writing would be 18 years old or older. That either, the characters were 18+ in the original fiction, or that they would be that age in this alternate universe we were constructing.
I did not understand or believe that the change of age was conceived of as an excuse to sexualize minors, or a work-around to let us do the same, as when I wrote this tale I had never seen the show or read the books, and always thought of the characters I was writing as mature and of-age. Had they been younger than 18 either in the pitch or after a wink, I would not have written this story, or allowed a similar story to be published on this site.
With that as your guide, read on.
There is no sound, like the echoing of water droplets surrounded by stone. It is calming, soothing, and what Sansa Stark focused on, as a woman she knew not washed her body with soap and scrub. It was a ritual she had become accustomed to given her high birth. No such bathings had felt warm, however, wanted or safe, since the young lady left Winterfell, and traveled to King’s Landing. And yet the sound of drip after drip falling from sponge to bath, helped the 20-year-old red-headed girl silence her mind. Of war. Of lost brothers, sisters, and parents. Of all the horror her family had suffered, and all the cruelty Prince Joffrey had inflicted upon her.
Sansa took such a moment to focus, not because she was weary or worn, but instead because so very much was at stake for both she and Lord Baelish. It was he, Petyr, as Sansa had affectionately come to call him, who saved one of the last remaining Starks. A woman every noble in the North sought to marry, and every lord in the south sought to execute for both treason and regicide. It would have been easy then, for Sansa to weep and sulk, as she had before. To once again play the role of witness to her house’s hurried march towards destruction. But Petyr, in the true softness he reserved for Sansa alone, had opened her eyes, and made her see. That she alone had the skills, strength, and opportunity to avenge Robert, Catlyn, and all others the Boltons had murdered in cold blood at the Red Wedding. It was that opportunity that had led her to accept her part in Petyr’s plan, and her betrothal to Lord Ramsay, a monster — a torturer — a deviant beyond description or comparison, if even half the rumors were true.
Whilst such dangerous bindings were made, Petyr would be elsewhere, amassing and preparing the many Knights of the Vales. In his absence, and at all moments not spent escaping Ramsay’s madness, Sansa was to secretly rally the northerners to her side, while with equal subtlety sowing discord among the Boltons.
It was that task on which Sansa focused, as the drops of falling water echoed about her. That is until the woman with whom she shared the moment spoke. Not of flowers and dresses, jewelry or castle gossip, but instead of Ramsay, and those boring women with whom he had grown tired.
Listed them she did, not just their names but their appearances, how the young bastard Bolton had murdered them, and most importantly to Sansa, in what way they lost Lord Ramsay’s interest. Each tale was gruesome and outlandish, but the Stark girl doubted not the authenticity of the stories as told, for Ramsay’s darker proclivities had been revealed to her by Petyr, one of the few who knew of them.
With that knowledge, Lord Baelish prepared Sansa for the sadistic nature of the monster lord. Teaching her not only how to best manipulate and control him, but also how to avoid suffering at his hands. With those warning came others, such as the presence of a potential challenger, a rival for the affection of Ramsay. For until only recently, Ramsay was a bastard boy, without name or title, and no doubt had women worthy of that status or lack thereof, who would not so quickly forget his oaths and obsessions.
As such warnings were relayed, both student and teacher felt confident that Sansa could handle Ramsay and any challenger who still clung to his feels, despite his new title. For she had dealt with slutty husband-stealing whores before, and survived a life betrothed to one sadist already. Not only that, but Petyr had taught and trained the Stark girl. So much so that even the memories of the training sessions sent blood to Sansa’s cheeks, and desire-born tingling to her cunt. For the lord hired women from brothels across Westeros. Each teaching her something different. How to kiss. How to use her fingers, toes, and teeth. How to fight and fuck, and even how to do both at the same time. There was even one Dothraki girl, who taught her how to induce agonizing pain without ever breaking the skin, it being from the last teacher she learned the most.
“And then there was Holly, the butcher’s girl,” the woman said as she slowly drug a cloth across Sansa’s naked back, ”she had such a pretty face, though less pretty once the dogs been through them. We sent her body to her father and he thought it was pork, how funny…. We had to bake him into a pie when he found out about it.” The unending and unnerving sound of her handmaiden speaking with delight at such barbarisms brought Sansa’s mind back to the present. For the girl, skinny as she was, spoke with a cheery innocence, as if she were gabbing about a handsome stable boy that had caught her eye.
The tone, tenor, and topic chosen made it clear to Sansa, that even if this girl was not the challenger Petyr spoke of, she wanted to be. She has a beauty to her, admittedly, though her accent betrayed her place of low birth. And yet, despite that dichotomy of descendance, with every word the girl tried to impress upon Sansa how quickly Ramsay tired of boring women, and how terrible their fates were when he did. When Sansa was younger, and before all the horrors she had felt and seen, she would have been terrified, though the same could not be said of today. For that Sansa, the innocent one, was dead and buried, replaced by the creature Petyr had begun to forge in his own image and desire.
“What is your name again?” Sansa asked softly, gracefully hiding her feelings on all that had been said, she having learned long ago to camouflage her thoughts when speaking to anyone of import or threat.
“Myranda, m’lady.” The brown-haired girl responded with a well-acted sweetness, she still pretending to be polite and warm, though Sansa could hear the true meaning behind every word.
“And how long have you loved him, Myranda?” Sansa paused after speaking the question to which she needed no answer, letting it linger before continuing. “Did you imagine that he would be with you forever, is that it? And I came along and ruined it?” Sansa’s words had turned from gentle inquiry to mocking, as she failed to restrain her disdain for another silly girl’s dreams of love and romance, when the world allowed for neither.
“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home. And you can’t frighten me.” Sansa spoke in a calm, soft voice, almost as if discussing the weather, leaving the embers of their kindling rivalry to be known to only they two. A trick learned from Petyr, who oft mentioned that threats were more effective when whispered.
“Are you done with your bath?” Asked Myranda, her nerve having been somewhat rattled by Sansa’s fierce response — it matching none of what she had heard about the Stark girl’s timid nature.
“No. I … WE are very far from done. You keep describing these “boring” whores that died — the ones Ramsay lost interest in…. It seems to me you are not too different from them yourself. Just a boring common slut he uses to satisfy his lusts.” Though still sitting in the small wooden bath with her back to Myranda, Sansa turned as she spoke, so her quiet words could be heard without mistake or mishearing.
Myranda wasted not a moment in responding, her jealousies set ablaze by Sansa’s biting words. “No, he LOVES me! I am special!” The kennel master’s daughter insisted, sounding almost childish as she did. “It is YOU who are not. Soon, you’ll be like all the others that tried to take him from me, after you’ve given him an heir, of course.”
“Well, let’s see what’s so special about you. Take off your clothing.” Sansa commanded, her voice suddenly going from sweet to iron, before she turned to face forward, as if the order given was no different than any other from lady to servant.
“What!?” Shock Myranda felt, at the sudden and brazen demand — not out of modesty mind you, but of an excitement at the prospect.
“I said: take. Off. Your. Clothing.” Sansa, despite her emphasis on every word, did not turn and look at Myranda, or to see the effects each word spoken had upon her. And though she did not examine or eye, silently, within her own mind, the Stark girl celebrated the confusion she heard in the other girl’s voice, a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
“And why would you want that, m’lady?” With a smirk, Myranda asked, she already growing gleeful at the thought of such a boring little cunt challenging her.
“You think I am just another girl. You think that you are better than me. And that you can run me off as you have the butcher’s girl, and whatever other creatures Ramsay has forced you to endure.” Sansa explained, still not having looked at her servant, her sapphire eyes affixed to the fire next to the bath.
“Well, I DO think that you’re boring, m’lady. To the very core of your high-born heart.” With the facade of their ‘polite conversation’ abandoned, Myranda stood up from her kneeling position, rounded the bath, and stood before Sansa, watching her closely for a response.
“I told you to take off your clothing. Do so, NOW, or do I need to do it for you?” Finally Sansa broke her gaze into the fire, and looked up at Myranda, hoping to enforce compliance with her eyes.
“Yes, m’lady.” Myranda responded in acquiescence, her voice soft and falsely accommodating. Slowly then did the brunette daughter of the kennel master lower her fingers to the laces of her leather vest, thereafter untying it, and letting it fall open. As she did, she watched Sansa’s eyes to see if she looked on with interest or disgust. Finding no discernible reaction at all, she then removed both the leather, and the ragged cloth shirt that had laid beneath it, revealing that she wore no breast brace, a result of breasts only slightly larger than a boy’s. Quickly did she then untie a pair of small leather strings which hung about her waist, only to pull down the mud-stained pants from which they dangled a moment later. As they hit the floor, she stepped out of them, her eyes still trained on Sansa’s, almost hoping that her rival would examine her. Wanting so very much for her to know how beautiful and thin she was, intending to scare the girl off with the mere sight of hip bones and figure.
But Myranda received no such allowance, for once she had completely disrobed, Sansa’s eyes kept their level, not spending even a moment to examine the body of her new rival. “Get into the bath with me.” She then added sternly.
“Are you daft? There isn’t enough room for the two of us.” Myranda commented, her eyes breaking from their mutual stare to examine the tightness of the bath.
“Then get out, if you are afraid of a true challenge, you low-born upjumped whore.” The sudden insult was meant to sting and it did, causing Myranda to without response or delay, climb into the tub with Sansa, and squeeze herself into a seated position. There they sat, cramped beyond measure, each having their legs together, knees pressed against their chests, and their feet on the floor of the tub, facing one another.
“You think you’re going to prove something to me?” Myranda asked, as both women continued to adjust their bodies, searching in vain for a more comfortable way to sit in the small wooden tub together.
“I intend to discipline you. Here, on this night. So that we will have no more doubt about who runs this household.” With the comment, Sansa intended to make her intentions clear, though Myranda could not have found each of them less moving.
“I can tell when someone is too boring for Ramsay, m’lady. I’ve seen it too many times. Seen the look in their eyes when first they wince at the sight of blood, or touch of pain — the first time they shy away from Ramsay’s touch, or MINE!” As she spoke, Myranda had let her feet slip under Sansa’s raised knees, and just as she said the word ‘mine’, jammed one forward, driving her extended large toe directly into Sansa’s exposed cunt. The entrance was not soft or patient, instead it was violent and painful, causing Sansa’s confident expression to contort in equal parts shock and pain, an expression which faded, even as the toe lingered.
“Careful of what you ask. They say I am more dog than girl. I bite.” Myranda warned, as she swirled her toe within her rival, searching the Stark girl’s face for any signs of reaction or weakness. And even though she looked long and hard, in Sansa’s crystal blue eyes she found only fire and strength. Such a sight surprised Ramsay’s devotee, as she had expected, as most would, that like all the other ‘pretty girls’ before her, Sansa would flee at the first moment of conflict, or immodest engagement.
“Have you seen what a wolf does to a bitch, dog-girl?” Sansa growled, while slipping her own feet in a mirrored position to those of Myranda’s. Once in place, the Stark kicked, stabbing her big toe into Myranda’s cunt, just as was done to her. Her foot then landed, and digit drove in, Sansa’s remaining toes pinched the dog-girl’s labia. The sudden engagement caused Myranda to tremble, as a wave of pain shot through her. The kennel master’s daughter held her face still, and her eyes open, her only reaction being a wicked smile, one bought by her glee at Sansa’s willingness to fight. Happy and confident though the hunter was, she felt compelled to mimic the Stark girl’s labia pinching, not wanting to let the redhead think that she would escape any pain on that day.
It was there, with their big toes buried inside of each other and their other toes pinching at the others labias, they glared, neither filled with hate, but instead the desire to overcome the latest in a long series of women who stood in their way.
“So you can imitate a low-born; I give you credit, m’lad….” Just as Myranda neared the finish of her taunt, Sansa reached out, and with one hand, grabbed Myranda’s nipple, thereafter twisting it as hard as she possibly could. It took only a second for Myranda to respond, she grabbing one of Sansa’s nipples and twisting, thereafter pinching it with her nails, a move immediately copied by her rival.
Torquing and twisting each others nipples, they sat, each trying as best they could to keep their face from speaking of the pain they felt. In the others resistance to reaction, however, both women found frustration. A feeling which drove them to once again rely on their feet, each taking their big toe out of the others body, only to kick it forward again, once more driving it painfully into their rival’s cunt. Again and again they so struck, with each stab forcing a pained moan from their opponent. But as they both remained strong and defiant, the stakes became raised — signified by two sudden gasps of near intolerable pain escaping their lips. It was as said sounds joined the steam that floated about the room, that all motion in the tub stopped, as each of them found an entire foot intruding into their most private of organs, forced in by a most violent thrust from their rival.
Sansa was the first to return from the shock, in response, using her toes to curl and pull at the muscles inside Myranda’s vagina, while sending her other foot to claw and pull at any hair she could find on the dog girl’s pussy. The rebounding attack had caught Myranda off guard, and caused her to let out a moan as a wave of mixed pain and pleasure washed through her. Yes there was pain, but the brunette had been with Ramsay for five years, and was no stranger to such sensations, even if she was commonly on the inflicting end. Driven by a desire to continue that role, Myranda copied Sansa’s feet-based offense, adding on a twist of her own by raking Sansa’s labia with her toes, instead of aiming to pull and yank at pussy hair. In response to such additions, the Stark girl let out a yelp of surprised pain, causing Myranda’s smile to grow wider in celebrations.
Together they tortured each other for minutes on end, as the gentle sounds of water lapping against the bath’s walls mixed with their whimpers, gasps, and the grinding of gritted teeth. Each did their worst, with both girls aiming to wound their rival, and punish them for their obstinance, and yet, despite their ferocity, neither found themselves able to elicit a submission. Until finally, driven by irritation at the other’s resilience, they each reached with their last free hand and grabbed the others second nipple. Thereafter they each began to twist, Myranda adding a violent pull and pinch, trying anything she could to somehow force Sansa to admit that she was not capable of standing the pain. Sansa, for her part, pulled both of Myranda’s nipples as she twisted, tugging the dog-girl’s tiny breasts up and off of her chest as far as they would go. As together they languished, pain took to them both, as a soft melody of tolerated pain continued to escape their smiling lips.
Their twisting, pulling, and pinching of each others nipples lasted for close to 20 minutes, until the pain had become their new norm, each feeling it only slightly, as their real war below the waterline continued. There, beneath them, Myranda scrapped her long toenails inside of Sansa, while Sansa focused on digging her claws into the former’s labia, doing so hard enough for the dog-girl to release a single hand from the Stark’s nipple. Thereafter, she went to use it to forcefully pull the redhead’s toes away from her cunt. But just as Myranda’s hand broke the waterline, Sansa taunted her.
“Can’t take it, dog-girl?” The question stopped Myranda’s hand cold upon its utterance. It having forced Myranda to come to the realization that though she did want to free herself from Sansa’s attack, she would be admitting she could not take the pain inflicted, if she fought her foot away. That in mind, the pain-rattled huntress then decided to use her retreating hand to instead reach out and attempt to claw out Sansa’s beautiful blue eyes. As her hand traveled, however, Sansa, who still held and twisted both of the brunette’s nipples, and who expected such a move, struck out with her mouth. In so doing, the red-headed girl caught Myranda’s thumb between her teeth. Doing so not only to wound her rival, but also to dissuade her from coming near her face again with hand or finger. At the feeling of the Stark girl’s hard bite, the rest of Myranda’s claws came to a sudden stop, just as the began to dig in sharply to the wolf-girl’s lower eyelid.
It was then that the two froze, neither wanting to force the other to cross the blood red line. Myranda’s nails were positioned perfectly to gouge out one of Sansa’s eyes, and Sansa needed only to bite down to sever Myranda’s thumb.
In that state, with Sansa’s squeezing and clawing at her labia, her two nipples being twisted and pulled, and her finger now caught between her rival’s teeth, Myranda found herself confused and shocked. She had expected none of this. Sansa Stark. A high-born. A girl notorious through the kingdom for being a weakling, a slave to King Joffrey, and anyone else in the Lannister family. And she had endured? And she had inflicted? What madness had taken the world? What road had such a girl walked to have made her so strong? Myranda asked herself, as she and her rival sat in stillness, waiting for the other to speak first.
Sansa was as much in shock as her opponent. Yes, she had expected some opposition from a handmaiden too bold for her own good, but this was something different entirely. So far, this slut has traded claws for claws and nails for nails with her, her resistance giving Sansa some insight into the true extent of her new husband’s sadistic nature. ‘It was for the better then, making it all the sweeter when I tear his house down’, she thought to herself, as the pain she inflicted and suffered continued. But it was not her opponent’s toughness that surprised, per se, but rather her own. For she was holding her own, this time against a truly fierce opponent, an opponent that would have overrun the scared little girl in King’s Landing in a matter of seconds. On such amazement did she focus, before deciding that it would be she who broke the moment of inaction and stand-off.
“Come any closer to my eyes, and I’ll bite your thumb off.” Sansa snarled, her words garbled by the digit in her mouth. “Not before I gouge your eyes out.” Myranda snarled back as she increased the pressure of her nails against Sansa’s lower eyelid, her thumb joint aching from the wolf-girl’s teeth. Neither wanted to stop, or end their attack upon the other, each beginning to find a perverse pleasure in the others pain. But in the speaking of threat, Sansa’s mouth opened just enough for Myranda to pull back her hand, which she did. And though it was free, it wore a fresh new set of bright red teeth marks. The sight of it, and the lingering pain about Sansa’s eye, established in each of their minds an unspoken rule: anyone going for the face would lose a finger for it, and anyone biting a hand would lose an eye for it.
After such a precedent was set, though with each rival looking to move past it, Sansa decided to press her advantage, by freeing a hand from one of Myranda’s still-twisted nipples, only to then use it to reach out and claw at whatever soft flesh she could find on Myranda below the neck.
In response, Myranda decided to add another limb to their battle, specifically the foot that was not ramming in her rival’s cunt, the one nearest her side of the tub. Intending to bring it to bear, she raised it up, and thereafter, latched it to Sansa’s exposed nipple. Then, with her opponent’s small areola clutched tightly between her toes, the dog-girl twisted, and pinched, with perhaps more force that she could have with her hand. Sansa began to bite at her lower lip to keep from screaming, a state made worse as Myranda began to drag her nails across the top of the redhead’s freckled tits.
Not wanting to be outdone, or left to fight with one fewer limb, Sansa tried to use her own free leg, to mirror Myranda. She did so by pulling it out from amongst their torturous toe-fucking battle, only to then try and raise it up to grab the brunette’s nipple. However, in her attempt to raise it, Sansa found that her frame was too big, and her legs too long to accomplish the task. In that fact, once realized, Myranda reveled, knowing that it was truly she who had the advantage at that moment. In celebration she twisted harder with both toes and nipples, jammed again her foot into the Stark’s cunt, and with as much violence as she could, clawed at the high-born slut’s pretty tits, which dwarfed her own.
Sansa, who had earlier had such a clear advantage, began to give into the pain, finding herself unable to keep herself upright, instead falling forward, so that her head landed on Myranda’s shoulder.
More confident than ever that she was on the verge of victory, Myranda whispered into Sansa’s ear. “Don’t worry, we’ll give you to the dogs after Ramsay grows BORED with you, they won’t even be able to tell you from one of their own, you little bitch….” The words spoken were just enough to not only galvanize Sansa spirit and sense of purpose, but also enough of a distraction to the hunter to slow her, and lessen the ferocity with which she attacked. Sansa then struck back, again using her teeth, but this time to bite down on Myranda’s shoulder as hard as she could, the taste of small droplets of blood immediately coating her tongue.
Once her jaw had locked, Sansa then released her last remaining hold on Myranda’s nipples, and with her two free hands, she reached around their bodies, and under the water on either side of the bath. Then, after pulling back her foot, she used her fingers to attack, latching her nails onto Myranda’s labia, knowing that such an attack, even with weak toes, had left the dog-girl on the verge of tears. The attack sent chills down the spine of the kennel master’s daughter, as she fought off the desire to scream out in pain. And though such a humiliation was avoided, Myranda could not avoid herself crumpling over, just as Sansa had, she too resting her head on her rival’s shoulder.
Not wanting to copy the high-born’s attack, Myranda remained committed to her nipple twisting with both foot and fingers, and her clawing, which had moved on to focus on Sansa’s back. With a wicked smile surrounding her biting teeth, the Stark girl not only continued to claw, but then began to grab and pinch, twisting and pulling at the lips. Myranda’s pussy began to deform and bend in Sansa’s grasp, threatening to rip off of her body completely. In response Myranda gasped in pain, not just at the attack, but also as the hot bath water flooded into her body and made contact with the sensitive inner wall of her vagina. The pain became so great, that eventually Myranda did let go of Sansa’s nipples, and ceased her scratching at the wolf-girl’s back. So badly did she then want to counterattack, but she did not — could not, instead she merely rested, enduring the punishment, her mind too broken by agony to do otherwise.
“From this day on, you will live, as you deserve, under my crotch, dog-girl. With Ramsay only visiting you when he moves you aside to fuck me.” Sansa whispered into Myranda’s ear, as the latter began to fade from battle to blindness, one brought about by the agony being inflicted upon her.
The comment, like the one whispered to Sansa, lit a fire within Myranda, driving her to finally respond. Ramsay’s devotee doing so by locking her own jaw around the redhead’s shoulder, and as was done by her rival, to reach her hands under the water. There, Myranda sent her grasping fingers to Sansa’s cunt, though rather than focusing on its exterior, she turned to its interior, driving her fingers and claws deep into the wolf-girl’s vaginal canal.
In reaction to the attack, Sansa released the first sob to pass the lips of either girl, and nearly, and without control of her own body, jumped out of the bath, she having only been kept within it by she and Myranda’s bites upon each others shoulders. With that sign that her attack had worked, and the momentary cessation of Sansa’s attack, Myranda explored her rival’s cunt, clawing and scratching every surface she could find within.
As her rival tortured, Sansa took a moment to recover, her mind filling with fears of what the dog-girl would do to her were she to give in. But as quickly as those thoughts entered her mind, her survival instinct kicked in, and she heard a voice, her own voice, telling her “You are a Stark of Winterfell. You survived King’s Landing and you survived the Eyrie. You are trained by Lord Petyr Baelish and you do not bow down to a kennel girl.”
It was then, after having reforged her will, that Sansa’s attacks began anew, bending and prying at Myranda’s clit, labia, and lips, all while her rival gouged at her insides. Waves of pain washed over each of them, as Myranda joined Sansa in her sobbing. Together they continued their violence until each went numb below the waist, and their bites upon each other became loose and painless, in place for support more than offense.
Nearly an hour had passed since they had begun, and in it each had experienced so much pain, and spent so much time punishing the others cunt that their fingers, hands, and feet began to ache and tire. That is until finally, frustrated at the fruitlessness of their mutual torture, and feeling of going dizzy from the pain, Myranda broke off, releasing her bite, and removing her hands from Sansa’s cunt. In so doing, the dog made it clear to the wolf, that for a moment, they should have peace. Sansa responded in like manner, each of them then separating, their eyes studying each other for a signal of what was to come.
“What, had enough?” Taunted Sansa, though she knew full well that neither she nor her rival had approached their true limits yet.
“Only in your dreams, high-born, but this is taking too long. So I thought we might spice things up a bit, or it may be years before I’m done with your insensitive body. That is if m’lady isn’t too afraid to play with some toys.” Chided Myranda, as her back rested against the tub’s side.
“A dog barks a challenge to a wolf, not wise. I’ll play whatever little games you have in mind and make you rue each of them.” Sansa said in acquiescence, her spirit lifted by the idea of a change of positions, and even a momentary cessation to their battle of wills.
Her terms having been accepted, Myranda climbed out of the tub, and walked to a nearby set of drawers, doing so with a limp, as jolts of pain shot from her embattled loins. From inside its wooden confines, the dog-girl produced two long leather belts with layered wool insides, and an ornate wooden box, from which she produced two pairs of leather gloves, tipped with long crude metal nails.
“Claws of the Harpies, it is said that gladiatrix in Mereen use gloves like these when they fight each other to the death. I remember carving out a girl’s heart with these once. How she had screamed….” Myranda bragged, hoping to intimidate her opponent, though in truth, she had never used them before.
“You have never taken a life with your hands, I can tell. But I have….” As the comment drifted through the moist, steam-mixed air of the bathing room, Sansa beckoned the dog girl back into the tub — back into their rival’s embrace.
Myranda responded to the summons by walking back to the tub, her heartbeat increasing in speed from an unexpected excitement, an unwanted nervousness, and a lust for her rival that had only just begun to nip at her heels. Once she was in reach of the bath, the dog-girl laid the two belts on the side of the tub, each ending just short of the water, and then handed Sansa a pair of gloves.
Quickly Sansa equipped them, before taking a brief moment to inspect their deadly features. In her mind the Stark could certainly picture slave women pulling each others throats out with such claws. But the pair she had been handed, and the pair Myranda slowly pulled over her fingers, had been modified slightly, the tips of the claws forged into tiny little balls, instead of razor sharp nails. The effect of such an alteration, meant that though each claw was still sharp enough to hurt, punish, and leave their mark upon a body, they were certainly not hard enough to carve a heart out. In that, Sansa took both solace and disappointment, having been almost delighted by the prospect of ending this battle quickly — consequences be damned.
Sansa’s focus on the gloves and their use as weapons was suddenly interrupted, as Myranda beckoned for Sansa to stand. “Why don’t we make ourselves more comfortable, m’lady?”
Sansa’s eyes narrowed at first, partly from suspicion and partly from excitement at the new rules of war, as she brought herself to a stand. “And how will we make ourselves more comfortable?”
“Like this.” Myranda said simply, as she stepped up, and took a seat on the side of the tub, her legs spread wide like castle gates at the return of the king.
Sansa quickly matched her rival, taking a seat on the opposite side, and spreading her legs, each girl taking a moment to examine the damage they had done to each others cunts.
“Now join me.” Myranda said sweetly as she slowly lowered herself into the tub, still clinging to the vestiges of their relationship as master and servant girl.
“Do not presume to give me orders, dog-girl.” Sansa snapped, as she too began to lower herself, matching Myranda’s speed. In such a way did they together slide down the wet sides of the tub, the brunette’s left leg squeezing under redhead’s right, and vice versa, until their injured cunts met at the center of the tub. Each winced and yelped at the contact, every inch of their pussies swollen, scratched, sensitive beyond belief, and now sealed together.
There they sat together in a scissor, each having their arms stretched out and resting on the sides of the tub, both still getting used to the feeling of having their engorged clits pressing into one another’s. Then, just as they are about to tear into each other from their new position with their new weapons, an idea dawned on Myranda.
Thus far, the Stark girl has been able to withstand and match her cruelty, which she began to realize should not have been a surprise, if half the rumors about King Joffrey were true. But at that revelation came a wonder: were the rumors about Sansa still being a virgin true…? Such a weakness, the dog-girl intended to test.
“Now what?” Sansa asked, itching to bring an end of this arduous affair.
“Now I want you to permit me, m’lady.” Ramsay’s devotee said cryptically, explaining not what she asked leave to do.
“Permit you to do what?” Sansa asked confused, her eyes examining Myranda’s face, which seemed to have softened since first their engagement began.
“This.” In a single word Myranda responded, before suddenly she began to move her hips, both around and then forward, pushing and rubbing her swollen womanhood into and against Sansa’s. Together they both gasped at the feeling of both pleasure and pain, with Sansa’s eyes growing wide, and her mouth dropping open, her training with Littlefinger suddenly forgotten.
“Slut!” Sansa spat, more out of surprise than actual desire to insult. “I thought we were fighting….” She added in a soft whisper, seeming almost afraid that anyone would hear her voice whilst such intimate contact was had with a rival.
“We are.” Myranda said confidently, in reaction to Sansa’s sudden nervousness.
“Then why….” The Stark girl suddenly found herself shocked and speechless, as Myranda thrust into her again, causing sensations she did not expect or want to enjoy to course through her body.
“Shhh…. I just want to see it.” Myranda half-explained, as she continued to roll her hips, pressing her labia into Sansa’s.
“See what?” The redheaded high-born asked, as she desperately tried to recall her lessons with Baelish’s whores, trying to remember what she had been taught about sexfights and tribbing.
“Your face when you are enjoying something.” Studied, Myranda’s eyes did, the face of her rival, watching as confidence turned to nervousness, nervousness turned to fear, and then fear turned to a fierce desire to resist. “So that I know how far you are from it when I’m torturing you.”
“I will see such an expression on your face first, dog-girl!” Suddenly, all the lessons she had on how to best another woman sexually returned to Sansa, causing her hips to immediately begin to roll within the tub.
“Bitch.” Sansa muttered, as she focused on the pain that came from each thrust, pain caused by the wounds the woman who now fucked her inflicted.
“Wolf.” Myranda responded in a similar manner, she focusing now on the pain, and the pleasure, rather than Sansa’s pretty face as it contorted with each press of clit to clit. It was then that with arms still laid flat across the sides of the bath on either side, each of them began to slowly lose themselves in one another, forgetting for a moment what role each played in the others life. What they wanted. Who they wanted. And how they would deal with each other, were either of them victorious. In that wandering ecstasy, they built and built, each closing their eyes, even against their will, until each found themselves on the very edge of orgasm. Until suddenly, at the last possible moment, they together opened their eyes, each seeing exactly what they had wanted, a look of abject happiness on the face of their rival. Driven by the disgust and shame of the feelings their face betrayed, each brought their gyrations to a stop, and instead lashed out.
Myranda bringing an end to the moment of pleasure by digging her glove-aided claws into Sansa’s tits, and and Sansa by digging hers into the inside of one, and outside of the other of Myranda’s thighs. Each thought that the sudden stoppage to their tribbing would bring an end to their building orgasms, and it did, for a moment. That is until their claws dug into the others flesh, and each saw their rival’s ecstasy-etched face turn to one marked by agony. Such a sight set them each on fire again, causing them even more pleasure than when they had been focused on causing such a feeling alone. The result of such reaction, sent each girl into an incredible orgasm, one that took them each by complete surprise, forcing them to release upon the other, their bodies to quake as if caught by a shaking, and their hands and arms to fall limp at their sides.
Moments passed, as each tried to reforge their will, though both found that the orgasm took something from them. Not their will to fight, but energy. And at its loss, each found themselves beginning to tire, not of the pain, but the of the physical exertion each had endured already.
“You fuck like a bitch,” mocked Sansa, her breast heaving gently from the exhaustion, “did some dog teach you that, or was it from your low-born whore of a mother?”
The insult stung, and Myranda wasn’t going to let it rest, “The last girl who called my mother a whore turned into this pair of gloves. I think when Ramsay is done with you, I’ll tell him to send you to your parents. Ohh, I suppose I can’t since they’re dead. Did you know? We gave Eddard Stark’s bones to the dogs….”
The brunette’s words were too much for Sansa to bear, and so Enraged, she struck first, by reaching out and slashing her claws across Myranda’s tiny breasts. Myranda responded, by bringing her hands up into the air, and then bringing them down harshly, driving them into Sansa’s clavicle on either side of her neck. There she dug, pressing harder and harder, until Sansa, in an attempt to lessen the pain began to slide down the side of the bath. The effect of such an attempted escape caused each of their womanhoods to smash together again, and with force.
Myranda noticing the sensation, could not resist the urge of commenting. “You give a girl a taste, and she’s back for more. No wonder there are no Starks left, the girls are all lesbians.” Enraged by the further insult to her family, Sansa raised her gloved hands from her reduced angle, and drove the tips of her claws into the base of Myranda’s neck and throat, the center digit of which began to stutter the dog-girl’s breathing.
In response, Myranda pressed her claws deeper into Sansa’s clavicle, drawing a faint trickle of blood. The attack was working, causing pain, and driving the Stark girl further and further down into the tub. The auburn-haired girl yelped in pain as the wounds on her shoulder and clavicle made contact with the steaming bathwater. But even with that, the brunette knew she could not outlast the Stark’s claws impeding her breathing. For a moment, Myranda thought about clawing Sansa’s face. It was so perfectly placed for it, with the pretty girl’s eyes looking up at her, each welling with tears. She even had gloves, this time, to reduce the effects of a bite. But even in that advantage, she decided against it, deciding instead to leave one clawed-grip on Sansa’s clavicle, but use her other to spread her fingers wide and drive them down into the redhead’s exposed and near lateral stomach. Sansa began to whimper in pain as the claws lowered into her, causing her to scoot back up from her position. The claws of her rival, digging down into her clavicle made such the move painful, drawing even more blood as Sansa pressed on, suffering through it until finally she had returned to an upright position. As Sansa pulled herself back up, Myranda made sure to scoot down, keeping she and her enemy’s clits locked together, not wanting to leave herself exposed, or for the sensation caused to stop.
She had repositioned herself yes, but the Sansa remained committed to driving her claws into Myranda’s throat, pressing harder, and then harder still, until Myranda began to choke, and blood began to drip from where the claws dug too deep. Out of desperation, and a realization that she would soon blackout, the dog-girl ended her attacks on Sansa, and brought her hands up to the Stark’s hands, thereafter grabbing at her wrists, trying in a panicked fashion to pull them away. When her own strength failed to break the blue-eyed girl’s hold, Myranda began to dig her claws in the red-head’s wrists, just beneath the gloves. At the sight, Sansa smiled, knowing that it was her rival who had been the first amongst them to blink in the face of pain.
Sansa’s grip was strong, and her attack painful, but even she knew she could not hold on for long. And so, in a desire to hold on to her choke, the Stark girl let loose one of her hands, so that she could reach over and grab one of the belts which Myranda had brought to the tub. Once in hand, Sansa whipped it around the dog-girl’s neck, and when it had been fully tightened, she released her other hand, and grabbed both of its ends. Then, she squeezed, pulling the belt tighter and tighter around Myranda’s neck, until the latter began to cough and wheeze.
Myranda’s eyes grew wide as she realized what was happening. Desperately then, meaning not lose footing to Sansa or consciousness in their battle, she too reached for a belt. Quickly wrapping it around Sansa’s throat, as was done to her, doing so only moments before she began to see spots from lack of oxygen.
“What’s the matter, dog-girl? Can’t breathe? Good, a low-born like you shouldn’t breathe the same air as me.” At the very end of the venomous insult, Sansa began to pull her belt tighter, watching as it began to cause Myranda’s fatless skin to bulge around it.
Enraged by the comment, and knowing that only seconds remained before she would pass out, Myranda pulled herself to Sansa by Sansa’s shoulders, and headbutted her. Not in the nose or the mouth, but in the forehead, a blow meant to knock her back and disorient her. An effect which occurred, as Sansa found herself thrown back against the side of the tub, with her belt-aided grip at Myranda’s neck loosened.
It was then, after Myranda gasped for air, and steadied herself, that she sought to become the aggressor. In such desire, she tugged at her belt ends, yanking Sansa up and back to her, so their faces came not centimeters apart. Then and there, she began to squeeze, as Sansa almost hung from the belt, her knowledge of her whereabouts still dislodged from Myranda’s headbutt.
Slowly the Stark girl began to come about, her mind clearing, and her grasp upon the belt she still held tightened. There, together, they began to strangle each other. Not as a form of foreplay, or test of will, but instead to kill each other — each driven beyond the point of politics by the words of the other.
The threatening darkness came quickly, as each of their holds grew tighter and tighter, until it was the belts they pulled at that started to stretch and thread, each, like they, nearing the point of breaking.
As each clung tightly, trying to keep their grasp upon not only their belt, but their consciousness, the could feel it — that at any moment they might pass out, or the belts might break. Though both feared such an outcome, Myranda acted first to avoid it. Doing so by lunging forward, and latching her teeth onto the lower jaw of Sansa, which had hung upon in a desperate gasp for air. Then, with a quick twist of hand, she tied the two belts together, holding their heads in place and freeing her hands for a painful journey across Sansa’s smooth, white back…
Sansa eyes widened with pain, as a half-muted whimper began to escape her mouth. Having no other choice but to respond in like manner, Sansa let go of her belt, relying on Myranda’s knot. With her hands then free, the Stark girl dug her claws into Myranda’s thighs, just as she turned her head sideways, and bit back, chomping her teeth down into her enemy’s cheek, and upper jaw. The taste of it came, Myranda’s flesh and the blood beneath her pale white skin, just as her teeth sunk in.
There the two rivals sat, gnawing at each other’s mouths. Their breasts and nipples hovering closely, and digging into one another when either would adjust themselves. Their gloved hands wandering across each others bodies, each frantically trying to bleed the other, and hurt them in whatever way they could.
Whilst the battle was fought with tooth and nail above the surface, their cunts waged a war of their own. Locked in place by one another’s strong thighs, each girl tried to bite down on the other girl’s labia. It being only after several irritating scrapings, each which sent waves of pain and pleasure through the bodies of the wife and the mistress, that they finally got what they wanted: each having the others labia cornered in their clit. Immediately they set to grinding, each trembling as the damage they suffered from their previous attacks came back to haunt them.
Strands of red began to dance in the steamy hot water, as the two girls opened their eyes. One hand from each had found its way near their rival’s anus and was poised to strike.
Trembling with fear and excitement for what is about to come, they searched for answers in each others eyes. Then, they found it, in the bright flames burning in their gaze-locked eyes, each accepting the challenge issued, their teeth and jaws trembling all the while. Only moments later, after each felt that the time had come, they dug into each other’s body for the second time, inserting one finger into the rectum and clawing the other girl’s insides out.
Minutes passed, then tens of them, as they chewed on each others face, clawed at each others body, dug fingers into each others dark hole, and continued their duel of clits beneath the water. Drool and trickles of blood began to seep from their mouths, over each others bodies, and into the water, which had already began to turn a faint shade of pink.
With their tongues, oddly placed as they were, they could taste each other. Sansa wondering how much of the flavor was Ramsay, and Myranda wondering how Sansa’s would change with the addition of the same. Nearly half an hour passed in their violent and destructive embrace, until, when their jaws had grown tired, they began to slip away from each other. The effect of which caused the belts that had been tied together and wrapped around their necks to snap, broken by the increasing need for them to keep each upright.
The release sent each of them falling back, and slamming into their respective side of the tub, splashing pink bath water all over the room. Each at speed tried to raise themselves and re-engage, but found that they were too tired — too spent to do so. And so in one final act of war, they each reached up, and with a gloved hand, sealed each others mouths and noses shut.
Again their eyes grew wide, as each realized they could no longer breathe. In defiance, each resisted the urge to pry at each others hands, each believing that it was they who would remain conscious after their rival had given in, and passed out.
Knowing that the end was coming, and that one of them would soon lose, they spoke with their eyes, glaring hatefully at one another, even as the fire in each began to dim. Then, reaching for the last of their strength, they launched a final frenzy of strikes. Sansa, used her remaining free hand to rake across Myranda’s chest, adding dripping red wounds with every stroke, while Myranda aimed for Sansa’s thighs, tearing new openings here and there, turning the water around their thighs redder than Sansa’s hair. In the hot reddening bath water, their sexual war waged on, nearly without intention, the two continued to rub, ram, and bite down at their opponent’s clit with their own. Thrusting into each other. Rolling their hips, as to inflict both pleasure and humiliation upon each other, despite their state of utter exhaustion.
The battle continued until there was only a flicker left between their affixed stares — one that went dull and lifeless at the very moment they reached a devastating orgasm. One that was violent. One that was debilitating. One that took from all that they had left, and caused them together to pass out, with their rival’s hands falling weakly from their face just in time for each to let out a final scream of passion, one so loud that it could likely be heard across the North, and even beyond The Wall.
It was then, that after Ramsay had finished feeding of Reek, that the guards found him, reporting that they heard screams from Sansa’s room. Expecting that something erotic, and treacherous was going on, the Bolton hurried to his wife’s bedchamber.
What he found, after he broke down the door, left him both shocked and enthralled. There was water and blood everywhere, and in the middle of the room, in that heavy wooden tub, his two beautiful girls’ bodies laid bare, bruised and bloodied, with their womanhoods pressed tightly together, with the water in which they sat turning from pink to red by the second.
What truly excited him though, was not just that his playthings had found each other, but instead that Myranda was as badly bruised and hurt as her auburn-haired opponent. He had seen Myranda fight, other girls, before, he had arranged such engagements in fact, but such fights soon bored him as Myranda without exception overran her opponents with ease. But this, this was something entirely different. Subconsciously, Ramsay licked his lips, rubbed his hands together in excitement, just before he called for the maester.
No one knew exactly what happened that night in that room. The maester having been forbidden to say anything of what he saw, he, as Bolton’s men, knowing better than to disobey the bastard. It was four weeks before anyone saw either of the two girls again, the rumor in their absence being that Ramsay had given them to the dogs. And though the two girls, both dog, and wolf acted as if nothing had transpired, the tension in the air between them was at all times palpable. Some servants swore that on the night in question they heard moans and screams coming from Ramsay’s bedchamber, but even they knew better than to gossip about their master’s many games.
Eventually, people at Winterfell grew accustomed to the bi-weekly screams which came from Ramsay’s chambers. Such cries eventually providing to everyone within the walls enough evidence to decide for themselves what was happening. And though no one said anything, Sansa and Myranda would continue to disappear for several days after each such night. The tensions between the wolf and the dog girls never ceased or ebbed. Despite that, somehow they found a way coexist in public, without lunging at each other with daggers or claws, their lives going on. Or at least they did, until one day, fourteen ravens flew into the castle, and forty flew out.
Dark Wings. Dark Words.