.

.

Ser Brienne ordered him to stay behind. To protect Lady Sansa — the girl Podrick admired from a distance since their youth. For her natural beauty and for the resilience Lady Sansa has proven in surviving the worst of queens and lords and men.

One of the Northern men bows to her, standing below the grey stone-platform leading up to the noble-table.

"Milady, I wish to grant an audience with the Lord of Winterfell—"

"You are speaking to the Warden of the North," Podrick interrupts. He nearly misses the faint quirk of a smile on Sansa's lips. His voice booming in the Great Hall. "The younger and trueborn brother Brandon Stark of House Stark has cast aside his title."

The man gives Podrick guarding from the wall, and Lady Sansa behind the table, an overly sneering look.

"Forgive me, he is still the Lord of Winterfell by right of blood—"

"Lord Tallhart, do you command the armies of Hornhill? Are you the rightful heir to Lady Hornhill's people and her lands?" He stammers nonsensically as Sansa gazes down, informing him coolly, "No… that inheritance goes to your son Rycark Hornhill. You married into her family, but you do not have the claim by blood."

"… Of course, milady," he mutters, bowing his head deeply.

Lady Berena Hornhill speaks up, pleasant-faced, taking over for her husband and informing Lady Sansa about the death of their maester. Their castle and the surrounding towns have been experiencing a mild pox sickness, and would soon need a new maester to assist them. Lady Sansa grants them Maester Henly. He will ease their children's fevers, assisting in their household and giving counsel when appropriate.

When the rest of the guards and company of Hornhill disappear, Lady Sansa turns her head.

"Podrick, stay."

The soft, lithe command burns his blood, sending it south. Making that part of him between his legs as heavy and firm as rock. Once they are alone, Podrick joins her one of the oak-trestle tables. "You received them quite well, my lady."

Lady Sansa breathes out, rolling her eyes. "Men believe they're the greater power no matter what the truth is."

"How very wrong they are…"

He echoes Lady Sansa's grin, eyeing her, feeling her slender, leather-gloved hands resting to his shoulders. Her lips over his. Podrick melts into the wet, warm kiss, gently touching Lady Sansa's waist. She's been through enough.

All that Podrick wants is her trust about romantic intimacy and her happiness.

Upon the table's edge, Lady Sansa pulls up her skirts, exposing black-leather straps to her hips and thighs, and a leathered, knobby bulge. Podrick remembers vividly how it widened him open, sliding and fucking in, reducing him to shivers. He half-hoped to feel Sansa's lovely, tight cunt, but he gladly abandons the notion, grinning again and feeling Sansa's heartfelt, low laughter passing through their mouths, Podrick's fingers unlacing his trousers, his hole clenching in anticipation.

He's no less a man for being fucked. Podrick only wants his Lady.

.

.

GoT isn't mine. Requested by Lady Anja (FFN): "Sansa having good, consensual sex with someone who knows about her trauma, and/or Podrick having good sex with anyone." YOU KNOW I'M ALL ABOUT THAT PODSA LIFE. BIG OTP ENERGY FOR SEASON 8. EVEN IF THEY NEVER HAPPEN.