.

.

There's nothing to do but wait.

Sansa pulls herself forcibly out of her chair, lips thinning together. She places down her quill.

Guards have rotated in and out of her bed-chambers since Jon has been alerted about dead men marching, but she has ordered Podrick to close the heavy wooden door this time. He leans against the grey castle wall, Podrick's hand resting on his brass sword-pommel.

He blinks, dumbfounded, as Sansa paces with her back to him, unbuckling her sable fox-trimmed cape.

"Milady?"

"You're perfect, aren't you…?" Sansa says dully.

Podrick gazes back at her, chin raising. His head tilts slightly.

"When I was little, I dreamed of marrying a highborn man who was handsome and courageous. He would treat me like a princess," she admits, dropping the cape onto the floor and turning around. Sansa's hands flutter like pale doves. "He would sing to me and kiss me." Podrick's face goes a deep ruddy colour when Sansa motions for him, hoisting her red hair from her nape and exposing her dress-buttons.

It takes a long, hesitant moment before she feels Podrick's fingers expertly slipping them apart.

That's infuriating almost.

"You protected me from the Bolton soldiers," Sansa points out, keeping her voice leveled. Despite her pulse quickening in her dry mouth and her body aching for his warmth denied to her through linens and wool. "You've been in the shadows behind Tyrion and Ser Brienne, never questioning your position or asking for recognition you earned."

"I don't want it."

Sansa flattens her expression, facing him once more. Her leather-armored bodice peeling off.

"As I said…" she answers. "Perfect."

Podrick's throat clenches.

"Lady Sansa…" he murmurs breathlessly, clutching over Sansa's hands yanking the neck-lacings. She's been left to her under-dress and smallclothes. It's the first time someone in Winterfell has dared to touch her.

A twirl of rosy heat pools inside her.

"You wouldn't be despoiling my honor," Sansa tells him, quiet as birdsong. "I don't have any left."

"Of course you do." Podrick's dark eyes squint, filling with awe. "You are… by far stronger and happier than when I first saw you in King's Landing. Lovelier. You've always been lovely," he confesses, half-laughing. "But I am only a squire to your ladyship."

With the folly heart of a knight, Sansa thinks. Her pale-pink lips twitching.

"Ser Brienne ordered you to serve me, Podrick," she whispers, easing out of Podrick's loosening grip. There's madness in this, she's sure. Her naked, fair skin gold-glowing against the light, trailing over her shoulders, wrists and inner thighs. Sansa wants to know what it feels like to be loved by a man true to his word. Gentle and admirable. "Can you do that?"

Podrick drops his eyes, and then nods, snorting softly in disbelief.

Sansa returns his nod with a clearly playful look, listening to his buckles unstrapping and armor thumping, waiting for Podrick to join her on the bedding. She curls to herself thoughtfully.

A little girl's wishes aren't all absurd.

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GoT isn't mine. MY BABIES. I LOVE THEMMMM. Requested by pistonsfan75: "SansaPodrick; she remembers him fighting to protect her and wants him to be with on their last night before the Battle for Winterfell."

((Want a request for GoT? I'm doing 100-500 word drabbles of any ship + any prompt until S8 ends. Rules: you need to comment here and provide a ship and prompt, as well if you want NSFW or SFW. The only requests I'll be looking at is if you ALSO commented about the fic you just read as well. It's only fair. You came to this fic to read it and me doing something for you later on is a sweet bonus!))