Chapter 2

The young servant girl blushed.

Her own fantasies, though she’d had them for as long as she could remember, continued to embarrass her. She knew that it wasn’t proper of her role, to fantasize about her mistress like this. Her life was one of service, not of pleasure. It was not her place to imagine Sansa naked, or to ever think that she was worthy of being touched by the young Stark girl.

Worse, she normally contained these thoughts for when she was alone, touching herself. She’d imagine that it was Sansa’s hand between her legs instead of her own, gently touching, probing, caressing.

She’d imagine that Sansa would spread her legs, and allow her servant to do the same to her.

She didn’t even have a name. Why did she think that the future Lady of Winterfell would ever allow her to pleasure her in such a way, let alone return her affection?

It was foolish. It was sinful. It was wrong.

And here she was, thinking these wicked thoughts in front of her Lady. In front of her Lady, and her future Lord.

The melody shifted, and so did the servant girl’s fantasies. She remembered the day that she’d met Sansa’s husband-to-be. She couldn’t have imagined a more perfect beau; he was a divinely attractive creature, and kind. So kind. He’d smiled at her, where most noblemen didn’t even acknowledge her presence.

He’d smiled at her, and that smile had soon entered her fantasies.

The young servant girl had memories of what happened when a man and a woman made love. She knew that it could be messy, and when she was alone, she’d imagined that they would allow her to clean it up. She pictured the two of them married. She’d imagine her new Lord, after finishing inside his bride, calling her into the room.

“Time for clean-up,” Sansa would say, smiling down at her kindly as she entered, naked. She was always naked in her fantasies; it helped remind her of her place. If her Lord and Lady were naked, so should she be.

She’d enter, naked, and they would point. Between her Lord’s legs, his hardness would be coated in a combination of their juices. As their servant, it was her role to clean it up, and she’d get to work with gusto, licking fervently.

Sometimes she’d fantasize that her efforts cleaning would be enough for his erection to sustain, but sometimes she’d be more realistic. If he had just finished, he would be softening.

Then came her favorite part. He’d point between Sansa’s legs, and it would be her job to clean there, as well. She’d use her long tongue to reach deep within her Lady’s crevices, trying to capture each and every drop of mess. Her Master’s seed would slide down her tongue, down her throat, and she’d swallow it happily, knowing that she was doing her job, and doing it well.

But, best of all, her efforts would serve to excite Sansa. Her Lady would moan and pant, her eyes would flutter. The young servant girl would use her fingers to scoop out the Master’s seed, and this would cause Sansa to react even more strongly.

Then, just as she was about to draw back, having cleaned up everything that could be cleaned, her Master would grab her head, and hold it there. She would obey, of course, and continue to run her tongue up and down her Lady’s lower lips, shivers running up her spine.

Sansa would grab her hair, her fingers intermingling with her husband’s. She’d press her fragrant rose up against her servant’s head, and buck up once, twice, three times. Then, as if she were a puppet whose strings had been cut, she’d collapse back onto the bed.

“Thank you,” she’d say warmly, and the pair of them would smile down at her.

The servant girl would finish herself, picturing those smiles. But of course, she couldn’t finish herself now, not in the garden. Not in front of her Lady, and her future Lord.

The stranger put down the flute, and smiled at her. That smile.

He wasn’t mad. It was as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, what she wanted to do. It was as if he owned her, more than Sansa ever had.

He owned her, and she knew exactly what he wanted.

Slowly, cautiously, more than a little nervously, the servant girl moved one hand to her breast. Her Master nodded, a small, subtle nod. He nodded, and she obeyed. As she knew she always would.

He didn’t need to say anything; she knew exactly what he wanted. Without making a sound, she began fondling her breast, enjoying the feel of the expensive silk fabric against her skin.

Her other hand moved between her legs. Again, he nodded, and again, she obeyed. Silently, she rubbed the small nub above her opening. She knew how much pleasure it would bring, and she was not disappointed.