Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Note: This story will be a short sexual drabble, nothing more. A bit PWP with our two fav GOT characters. Cheers!

Sansa

Sansa Stark hated the constant noise and smell of the army encampment, but knew it was a necessary evil. She'd fought long and hard, been through so much both physically and emotionally, that she felt ancy being so close to the end. Her daring escape from Winterfell, from Ramsay Bolton, had paid off in a big way. She'd found her way to safety, back to Jon, and they were going to take back their home. This was what was driving her now, forcing her to be on the front lines of a battle that would be of epic proportions.

Running her fingers through her hair, she continued to write her pleas to some lower lords to support them. Jon had taken some men and was attempting to garner more support before they were to strike, she was responsible for persuading them in written. Some wars were won with armies and pure strength, others were won on the wings of ravens. The battle of Winterfell would be won by both.

Her tent flap opened, a young captain stuck his face inside. "My Lady, there is a man approaching the camp."

Sansa was in charge during Jon's absence, a lone man approaching the camp was cause for alarm. Perhaps Ramsay wanted to treat with them, or he was sending a spy. The possibilities ran through her head as Sansa mucked her way through the mud of the camp. She'd taken to wearing black leather pants, riding boots and a green doublet. It was masculine in her opinion, but it was the only way to move practically though the dirt and the grime of where she was. Jumping on her horse, she followed the captain to the edge of the camp.

"Lady Stark," the lookout addressed her. "It's a man on a horse, we don't see any house colors on him." He handed her the spyglass.

Holding the large piece of equipment to her eye, she looked in the direction of a dark grey dot heading in their direction. It was a man, that much was clear just by the sheer size of him. But there were arrows sticking out of him and blood on his side, his slumped posture made it clear that he wasn't there to treat with them.

"Do you know if he's alive?" She asked the lookout.

"No my lady."

Sansa peered again into the glass, taking stock of the man on the black charger. There was something about the horse that was familiar, then there was even something about the armor that was familiar. Then she spotted the helmut.

"It's the Hound." She said, turning to the Captain. The man seemed flustered, not knowing what he should do.

"Ride with two men out there, if he's alive bring him to me."She paused, "Even if he's dead bring him to me."

"But my Lady, he's a Lannister man." The Captain argued.

Narrowing her eyes at him Sansa continued, "He's a Lannister man no more. He is a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and he will be treated as such in this camp. Do you understand?"

"Yes my Lady." He answered, calling two other mounted men.

She watched them gallop toward the the Hound and turned her horse back to her tent. That was when her heart dropped to her stomach. After all these years and all the rumors, the Hound was alive. Her protector, her secret ally, the only man who had treated her with an ounce of respect was alive. There was no doubting that she had harbored an attraction to him, even before she left King's Landing. The most feared warrior in the Seven Kingdoms had never changed his gruff, straight talking attitude toward her. He had, however, always treated her with a gentle kindness few saw.

Her hands trembled as she took out the things she had pilfered from the Maester's cabinet. Salves to prevent infection, needles, gut ...all the things she might need to fix him were laid out on her table. Her bed prepared for him. The commotion outside her tent lead her through the flap. Stranger was nipping at anybody who tried to pull Sandor Clegane from him. Still protective of his master, not knowing if he was alive or dead.

Walking up to the horse calmly she stared the animal in the eye, holding her hand out. Stranger snorted but looked toward her, sniffing the air. Taking another step forward she placed her hand on his nose and grabbed his reigns gently. The wild black charger moved slightly, then relaxed under her touch.

"It's ok to take him off now." She said, looking at the men staring at her in surprise.

It took five grown men to take Clegane off his horse, then move him into her tent. Holding her hand to his throat, a wave of relief swept over her to feel a faint pulse.

She looked at the men in her tent, "You, take the horse away. You and you remove his armor and his clothing."

The men stood there, frozen by her words. Cocking her head to the side Sansa realized suddenly, 'They're afraid of him. The Hound is half dead, clinging to life and these men are still afraid of him.'

"You know he's a man of flesh and blood. He's the same as you under that armor." The men then reluctantly turned to the jobs she had assigned them.

"Break the arrows off at the fletching but leave them for now." Sansa ordered.

Traveling in the camp had exposed Sansa to many things, how to care for wounds had certainly been one of those. She had been surprised to see she was good at it. Apparently all those years watching the Maester at Winterfell and all that wasted time spent doing needle point had been good for something.

When she turned back around, a bucket of water in one hand and some clean rags in the other, the hound was naked, her men arranging his armor and sword on the floor next to her bed. He was a fallen god, a warrior just as intimidating without his armor, as he laid there unconscious. She understood why the men were afraid of him, his body was a landscape of violence. A horror story of victory, defeating opponents through sheer strength and skill.

'How many times has he outwitted the Stranger?' she wondered to herself as she took him in, looking for fresh wounds on his body.

"You can leave now." She told the men, glaring at them when they thought to protest.

The Hound had been shot three times by an exceptionally skilled archer. He'd taken two arrows in his shoulder and upper back area and one to the side. He'd lost more blood than he should. Sansa knew there were body organs there, knew that if any had been pierced that perhaps she would not be able to save him. Taking the wet rags, she wiped away the blood from the sites to get an idea of how bad the damage was.

One arrow had passed through him completely, clearly fitting in a small uncovered part of his flesh where the armor had provided him protection. The other two had not passed through, their momentum stopped by the armor. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the first arrow in his shoulder through, watching the blood spurt out on the other end. Then she breathed in deeply, pushing the second arrow in his side through. It came through easily, something the Maester had told her was a good sign that it had not hit bone or an organ.

'You're lucky.' She thought to herself. She stuck a finger in this wound for good measure, unable to detect bone fragments.

Sansa cleaned the wounds as much as she could, poured some of the salve for infection over them and rubbed it in. She couldn't help but be in awe of his build, even unconscious his body was firm, his muscles sculpted by his years as a warrior. Taking the needle and gut she began to sew up his wounds. She took care, doing her best to sew up his skin in a neat line. Once finished, she brought her hand to his head to check for a temperature. He was ok. She brought her ear to his barreled chest to listen for a heart beat, there was one, slow and steady.

She looked him over one more time, her eyes settling between his legs. Then immediatly admonished herself for admiring the literal trunk that hung there. Covering his lower half quickly with some furs, she looked back to his scared, disfigured face. He would need to pass the night.

"Please live." She whispered, knowing he could not hear.