Kissed by Fire is an erotic Game of Thrones fanfiction, not a XXX porn parody. If that's what you were looking for stroll back to the story index, there are a ton of tales there far better than this one.
However, if you are a fan of GoT, please read on! This short story is based on events that happened during the TV series, not the books (A Song of Ice and Fire), and occurs right after the Season 6 finale.
If you haven't watched Season 6, consider this fair warning: there will be spoilers. And if you've never watched any episodes of Game of Thrones, what the heck are you waiting for?!?
One last thing, I wrote this story well before the release of Season 7. If the events there don't agree with this tale, don't blame the writers!
~ * ~
Sansa hugged her furs close as she watched the strangers stagger through the gate, silhouetted by the heavy, wind-driven snow that had hammered down four days straight, at times so thick it completely obscured the direwolf banner flying once more over Winterfell.
"Who are they?" she asked, as the ragtag band trudged through frozen mud and snow and entered the courtyard.
"They call themselves the Brotherhood Without Banners," Jon Snow said. His breath was frosty as he watched the last of them come through the huge main gates, now newly mended and showing few signs that barely a fortnight earlier a giant, the last of his kind, had nearly torn them from their massive hinges.
The newcomers gathered in a rough assembly in front of and below the covered walkway where Jon Snow, the King in the North, and his sister Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, waited. Surrounding them on all sides were loyal warriors, northmen and wildings both. They had followed the siblings south from the Wall to recapture their ancestral home and were fiercely determined not to lose it again.
Ignoring the men surrounding them with hands on hilts and arrows nocked, one of the Brotherhood limped haltingly forward. He brushed the frozen mantle of snow from the shoulders of his black cloak and grinned as he stared up toward the covered walkway with one eye, the other covered by a worn leather patch.
"Greetings, my Lady and my Lord, or should I address you as Your Grace?" He smiled and offered the barest hint of a bow. "My name is Beric Dondarrion and this is Thoros of Myr."
Sansa barely noticed as a red-robed priest stepped forward, and the balance of Beric's words went similarly unheeded – another had caught her attention.
He stood near the back of the small company, trying to stay unnoticed, but his size made him stand out almost anywhere. He wore a dark green cloak with the hood drawn up over a studded leather jerkin and brown, roughspun tunic, but the hard eyes and scarred face that scowled out from beneath were unmistakable.
Jon noticed his sister's interest was elsewhere. With a brother's instinct, he followed her gaze. "Who is that man? He's huge."
"Sandor Clegane," she whispered, as if just saying the name frightened her.
"The Hound? Here?" Jon straightened, trying to get a better look. "I still remember the last time he was in Winterfell, when King Robert took father away. Clegane never left Joffrey's side. He's loyal to the Lannisters!" His hand instinctively went to the snarling wolf's head hilt of the bastard sword at his side.
"No!" Sansa clutched her brother's black sleeve to stop him. "He deserted them after the Battle of the Blackwater, but when he was in King's Landing he...was kind to me. I'd feared he was dead."
"He looks alive enough to me. Wait, where are you going?"
Sansa had let go of her brother's arm and turned back toward the main building. "I'm cold and very tired. You can meet with these men. If you need me, I'll be in my chamber."
She strode away and two guards accompanied her. As one opened the wooden door to the keep, she stole a last look at the tall, menacing figure lurking near the back of the motley band, his half-burned features now hidden by the driving snow. Glancing back toward her brother, she said, "If you do talk to him, the Hound I mean, let him know if he can spare the time that I would like to thank him for the kindness he showed me."
"Of course," Jon said. His sister disappeared through the doorway and he turned his attention back to Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr, but as he listened to them talk his gaze kept wandering to the man in the back, a man he knew had stood side by side with the Lannisters the day they took his father's head,
the Hound.
~ * ~
Sansa shut her eyes as she pressed her cheek against the smooth granite wall, and smiled as she felt the heat from the ancient hot springs beneath the castle radiate through the thick stone.
The room had once belonged to her mother, Catelyn Stark, and Sansa had fond memories of sneaking into the bedchamber when she was a little girl just to touch the well-worn stones. Their warmth was comforting and familiar, but little else about the chamber was.
After her mother had left, never to return, the Ironborn had come, and after them came the men of the Dreadfort, flying their frightful flayed man banner. Their leader was Roose Bolton's bastard son, Ramsay. He finished the job the Ironborn had started, razing the wooden portions of the castle with fire. Of the home she had once known, only stone walls remained.
But Winterfell still stood.
After defeating Ramsay and reclaiming their ancestral home, Jon had ordered all of the Bolton's furnishings destroyed and tried to refurnish the bedchamber as it had been when Sansa's mother was still alive. Now, there was a Stark in Winterfell once more; it was only everything else that was different.
A gauntleted fist hammered on the door. "You may enter," Sansa said.
The door creaked open and a guard stepped into the warmth of the chamber. "Pardon m'lady, but Lord Snow – I mean, the king – he said you wanted to see this man?" Behind him, the Hound stood in the hallway with guards on either side.
"Yes," Sansa said, "thank you for bringing him. He may enter."
The guard hesitated, as if wondering if he'd somehow misheard her, but stepped aside to allow the Hound to pass. He ducked as he entered the chamber. Once inside, he turned to the guard and growled, "Be a good little soldier, fuck off!"
The guard's eyes went wide and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.
"Thank you!" Sansa said. "You may leave. Now."
The guard blinked at Sansa, bewildered by the realization that
he
was the one she wanted to leave, not the hulking menace beside him with the half-ruined face. But he edged past the Hound, who was easily a head taller than him, and retreated back into the hallway to join the other two guards.
"Please shut the door," Sansa said.
When the guard didn't move quickly enough, the Hound gave him a threatening glare. "You heard her, shut the
fucking
door!"
The guard scowled back at him but grudgingly pulled the door shut. When it was finally closed, Sansa smiled warmly at the Hound. His hooded cloak was gone and he wore a studded leather jerkin over a brown, roughspun tunic. He didn't smile back.
"You don't seem very happy," she said.
"I'm not. Your bastard brother took my sword."
"He's the king now."
"He's not my fucking king." He wandered past her, and as his gaze drifted around the chamber his mouth twisted into an insincere grin. "Looks like the little bird has finally flown home."
"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
"That so?"
"Yes."
"What about wine? Any rule about having fucking wine in Winterfell?" He picked up a pitcher from a side table and stared in disgust at the water inside.
"I'll send for some," Sansa said.
