Author's Notes: In lieu of a dark red, or a man, I've taken to writing smut in between stories of more merit. Anywho... I'd say I'm sorry, but ... *shrugs shoulders*. I hope this is enjoyed!

Sandor

Grunting over her, feeling her tightness, her wetness, her delicate wrists under his one hand, her firm breast under his other, feeling his blood lust abating for something… life affirming.

The primal instinct to survive: kill and be the last man standing. That had been his whole world for hours that day, and now he was still alive, the battle over and won, but the blood still sang in his veins.

He thrusts, hard and fast, eliciting loud gasps from the camp follower beneath him. He did not want tenderness; her hands were above her, punishment for trying to touch him intimately. Her legs, though, they were free to hug him, to rise and caress his sides.

It was as if it were his last day to live, and her last chance to please him. Grunting in place of laughing, he allows her lean and silky smooth legs to rub against his leathery sides, slick with sweat and blood; if that battle were any indication, he would have many days, perhaps moons, to live. It was her life that was in jeopardy.

She moans, long and loud, swiveling her hips just so, rising and meeting him thrust for thrust. If he didn't know any better, she could have been a whore from the city itself. If he didn't know any better, she sounded like she was having the best fuck of her short life.

He feels his balls tightening, and he's finishing, half groaning half screaming his peak, and soon it's a duet, the ancient song of mating rising to the sky, only to be stopped by the heavy canvass of his tent.

He is on the verge of collapsing, but looks to his conquest first, this rare find he has beneath him. The red haired flushed young woman is breathless, breathing harshly but blissfully, breasts heaving attractively, eyes closed and mouth open in post orgasmic pleasure. It's enough to keep him hard.

Whoever she was with before, the sad sonofabitch is most likely carrion food, the way she was wandering the tents, looking for a new man to pack her along with his supplies for when they next move.

He claimed her; draining the last of his ale he grabbed from the bonfire, led her to his tent, allowed her to pull him on top as if he were her lover, but he had put a stop to that romantic nonsense, ripping both their clothes off and entering her without preamble, and now they were done.

She was tearless, though, and nary a regret or complaint came from her lips, only sounds of pleasure. She had all the span of a blink to get used to his face, and when her eyes now open again, she offered a smile anyway.

He wants to be angry; it is all he knows, to be rid of her like all the others, to shove a bag of herbs in her hands, and to shove her out the tent flap. The truth is, she is looking at him, without fear, without regret, and, if her miniscule moans were any indication, without hesitation for round two.

Her hands, trapped within a cage of his huge hand, her chin, ensnared by his free hand, her lips, stolen for a moment by his. It is one last test, and she passes, moaning and stealing his lips back. He decides he'd rather keep a woman that won't make him angry, and thrusts again.

SANSA

Even in sleep, she remembers not to hug him with her arms. Her legs, though, they remember that he allowed them to embrace him. Her arms curl against her, squashed between their respective, naked chests, while one leg curls around his hip and behind his thigh. It will entice him, come the morning, and even in sleep his body is not immune to her cunt so close to his cock.

Now, however, they sleep. His own arms ironically surround her: one beneath her head, the other round her waist. Arms that promise possessiveness, and hardship should she leave him, either stolen or of her own will: he will fight to keep her.

Her life, is it better, or worse with him? She knows not, but perhaps she will stay with one man for a longer period then she has known recently, and that itself is a brand of "better".

*3* *3* *3*

Post Script: There is more... and certain questions will be answered. How Sansa became a camp follower in the first place, among the answers.