Soft snows fell outside Sansa's room. The red-head's eyes followed every movement of the snow flakes. Her soft blue eyes fixed on the delicate dancers, she barely noticed the soft footfall behind her until two hands snaked around her waist, and she was pulled back from her trance at the window.
"You should be careful, My Lady, you might catch a chill," the voice declared dramatically. "Someone once told me these northern winters are dangerous, you know."
"Jaime..." Sansa squealed, turning her head to face the Lord Commander.
"I apologise, Sansa," Jaime answered, but the grin on his face refused to hide, spreading across his sharp features. Sansa answered him with a playful slap on the arm and turned back to the window.
"You know we can't be seen," Sansa whispered – to herself more than to him, although the sudden disappearance of his arms from her waist alerted her to his acknowledgement of her words.
"I know."
Sansa twisted her head sadly. "I love you, Jaime. I'm sorry it's like this. One day, soon, I'll tell them," she promised earnestly. "Just not yet."
"And for now we'll just continue as we have," Jaime finished. "I'd better go before someone sees."
Sansa's eyes followed Jaime as he left her room, watching as he hesitated and turned back, dropping his head to place a soft kiss on her cheek. Sansa closed her eyes when he left and as soon as the door shut, the weight of her bones sank into the hard stone of the window ledge. A tear slid from her eye, tracing a hot line down her cheek as the wave of secrecy flooded the very core of her beating heart. Sansa hated the secrecy of their relationship, having to hide it behind guarded faces and concealed kisses. She hated how it hurt Jaime: she knew how much he disliked hiding his feelings. That was one - of many - reasons that she had appointed him Lord Commander of her Queensguard when she had returned North. Queen Daenerys had granted her rule of her family's dominion, and Sansa had gratefully accepted, with only one request – to take Jaime Lannister with her. The Queen had naturally been puzzled before Sansa explained that too many had died already in this war, and that Jaime could be of use, in a place where he could be under careful watch. There was nothing to be gained by burning him alive, Sansa argued: instead, he could live, punished by feeling the loss of his family. Except Tyrion, all of them were dead at the hand of the Queen, or rather, her dragons.
Sansa had already been in love with Jaime, but they had told no one, knowing it would likely mean a death sentence for both of them – him at the very least. After nights of sleepless shaking and hushed whispers they had concluded that they simply had to continue playing the game if they wanted to survive, together – even if their relationship was only known to them and no one else. Sansa primarily worried about Jaime's safety in case the Queen discovered their affair, knowing that even the Queen's favourable disposition of her would not save Jaime from the ephemeral but excruciating bite of dragon flame.
Only, Jaime worried about Sansa.
He knew that she was in just as much danger as he was, and that, if Daenerys discovered what they were up to, betrayal by Sansa Stark – a valued friend and advisor as well as a trusted ally – would turn the Queen's rage on the steely northern queen he served and loved. Jaime would not live to see that happen. He did not even trust her own people, fiercely loyal as they were, to continue their strong allegiance with the Queen in the North if they found out she had given herself willingly to a Lannister. He was still the Kingslayer after all, the man who had pushed her brother out a window. The man who slaughtered her father's men. The man whose father murdered her brother and mother in cold blood. Not for the first time, Jaime wondered why Sansa had not simply killed him when she had the chance, back in King's landing before Daenerys arrived or had merely stepped aside for the Queen and let her three dragons tear him to pieces.
Jaime let his head fall as he stood outside her rooms in his usual stance, guarding his Queen. He let his head fill with thoughts of his time with Sansa. He found that despite his twenty years with Cersei and his remaining sliver of love for the mad woman she had become, Sansa had consumed him in a way Cersei never had. Sansa's strength, coupled with her kindness, intelligence, and sense of honour – the traits of her family – had carved her into a leader that was not half as icy as the lands of the North but seemed forged from steel herself. While Cersei held the same qualities, she was wilder, like a brazen green flame, all consuming and uncontrollable. Whilst Jaime had drowned in Cersei's madness, he swam in Sansa's controlled passion.
He paused in his reveries, pulled himself back to the present and listened to the sound of Sansa from behind the door. Her steady breathing, as she, he imagined, tried to sleep, comforted him. His only priority now – as her Lord Commander and her lover – was keeping her alive.
Jaime shifted back to his usual stance. From Sansa's room, he thought he had heard a shift in her breathing, her soft breaths becoming more erratic, but he brushed it off as another nightmare, knowing he would need to go in and wake her before she hurt herself in her sleep. It had often happened before when her nightmares were of an especially violent nature. The breaths were coming in quieter now, and Jaime could have sworn he heard a whimper, almost a cry, and his breath hitched. An abrupt cold feeling had swept across his bones, and he felt his insides clench before he got the sickening feeling that something was wrong and shoved the oak door open with a quick bang.
There was a man with his hands around Sansa's neck.
Sansa let out a choking attempt at a scream, muted by the hands of her attacker. Her eyes met Jaime's for a second, and then Jaime lunged at the attacker with an angry roar. Jaime punched the black-cloaked man, tearing his thick, clammy hands from around the pale white column of her neck. He registered Sansa's desperate sobbing gasps as the man unceremoniously released her.
"I will not let you touch her!" Jaime all but growled, drawing a dagger from his belt as he pinned the man to the floor. The man lay struggling, seething bitterly at Jaime. "Now, tell me who sent you."
The man attempted to fight back, whilst maintaining a protesting silence. Jaime pressed him harder against the floor as he brought the blade up to the man's own throat. A quick glance at Sansa told him she was alive.
"He got in through the window?" Jaime asked. Sansa nodded, rubbing at her slowly bruising throat. Jaime turned back to the assassin he now had at his mercy.
"I'll not ask again. Who sent you?"
"Death. Death sent me." The man laughed half-psychotically, as Jaime's brows furrowed and he pressed the blade harder until a drop of blood fell from the man's neck.
"Name. Now."
"Cersei."
Jaime halted, pulling back in shock. Before he could comprehend how or when or why the fuck killing Sansa mattered to his dead sister, the man on the floor took advantage of Jaime's momentary lapse of concentration to lunge at the Lord Commander and punch him squarely in the stomach. Jaime doubled over and groaned; he heard Sansa's cry. Fortunately, he managed to make a quick recovery and use his fallen dagger to stab the man in the side. After pushing the blade into the man's thick flesh a few more times to ensure he was dead, he stood up, pulling Sansa towards him. She sank into his armour-clad figure, a few remaining tears falling down her rosy cheeks.
"Hey, I'm all right... You're safe." He saw her gasp in relief and was just about to ask her if she could breathe properly, when he saw her slip away from his grasp and her sharp blue eyes widened in terror.
"Sansa..."
Jaime looked down and saw the thick red bloodstain spreading in waves over the metal armour. He let out an unaccounted gulp of surprise.
The realisation hit him like glass on stone. "He had a knife in his hand..." was all Jaime managed to say before he slipped backwards, falling to the floor with a broken crash. He heard Sansa scream painfully, jumping off the bed to fall next to him as her wide, frantic eyes searched for the wound and began to try to stop the bleeding with bed sheets ripped in a desperate panic.
"No, No... Jaime... No, Jaime, you cannot do this to me." Sansa yelled through a curtain of hot tears. "I am your Queen, and I command you not to die!"
"...I am... sorry, my... Sansa I'm so sorry..."
"Jaime!" She cried.
"There are some orders I cannot obey." Her little red head shook feverishly as her hands worked harder to press against the stab wound through the layers of armour. He slowly pressed his large hand over her small one to still her movements. Her look of shock prompted him to comfort her.
"I don't want to leave... but you don't... need me, Sansa..." He rasped, clenching her pale hand. "I'm scared, sweet girl, but you... you have to stay strong. You don't need me... not like I need you. I love you."
"I know," she whispered. Accepting. Her head fell on his and, although she wanted to fight, he knew she was allowing death a victory tonight. He wished death did not take so much from her.
"I love you, Jaime. I always will." He caressed her hair with his hand, breathing in her smell – the pine trees and the snow and the winter flowers – as she rested in his arms, her body splayed across his. Her nightgown slowly sucked up the blood and tears until, finally, his hand has stilled, resting on the crest of her russet hair.
At first, Sansa thought she should move; pretend that she has not sat sobbing over the Kingslayer's body. She ought to let everyone go on believing that her Lord Commander died protecting his Queen. That he died serving, as he should.
Selfish for once, though, she cannot move. The man Sansa loves – for he will never leave her – just died to allow her to continue ruling. Living. Avenging.
She will let them know what she avenges.