There.

Sansa's shift drops to the floor. The sight that greets her runs chills down her spine. She turns to one side then to the other, her eyes trailing down her body and taking in every inch of her pale skin. She has not looked at her own reflection since marrying Ramsay. Sansa had not been able to stomach what she knew she'd see.

Now with her home finally returned to the Starks and Ramsay long dead, Sansa has to see. She has to see the extent of what he did to her – the bruising and puckered skin, barely healed. She wants to memorise each wound and etch them into her heart so she is never left vulnerable again to another man's machinations.

The neighing of horses reach Sansa's window and she turns from her reflection to glance out towards the evening sky. Dusk is upon them and with it a silence she has not heard in too long. It is the sound of peace – perhaps short-lived but it is peace nonetheless.

Sansa does not stray too close to the window for fear of being seen but she is close enough to feel winter's first breath on her bare skin. It is frigid and stings like ice but winter is in her bones. Sansa closes her eyes and remembers the faces she still loves so dearly and tries to find the strength inside of her, but seeing the wounds so unforgiving on her once innocent skin makes her feel dirty and it is hard to remember to be strong when she hates the weakness inside of her.

Sansa wills herself to breathe past the ache in her chest. Sansa will not lose every part of herself to him. She is a wolf and Ramsay was only a dog no matter how mad.

For a second, Sansa shudders. Her flesh rises in goose pimples and she runs her hands up and down her arms. The familiar smell of the North drifts around her. It is crisp and there is pine mixed in with smoke from the burning fires roaring through Winterfell. Everyone is desperate for warmth.

Jon was right. Winter is here and the Long Night soon approaches.

Her heart immediately swells at the thought of her bastard half-brother. Sansa never thought she would ever see him – ever see any of her family again. Under the hands of Ramsay, she had been so sure she would die bleeding and alone. Sansa did not think she deserved any more. It is her fault Father is dead and it is her fault Ramsay sat in Winterfell and destroyed the Stark home as she watched idly beside him. She thought maybe the Gods were punishing her for her weakness as a Stark.

Until she saw Jon.

Strong, handsome and fearsome, he stood out in a sea of black-clad brothers of the Night's Watch. His beard so overgrown she hardly recognised him at first but those eyes drew her in before she could even utter his name in question. They were as grey as a storm out at sea – and so dark, so sad. She didn't think another could share in her sadness so wholly till that moment. To hold him in her arms then was a relief – a breath of life into a dying woman. Sansa could never begin to thank Jon for that – nor would she even know how to. It would be impossible to explain to him how Ramsay had destroyed her hopes in ever finding comfort again in another's touch – especially that of a man's – but how Jon had restored it in one single moment.

Sansa turns from the window and walks back to the vanity. Her cheeks are nipped pink by the cold air coming through the window. It matches the pink skin around the scars marring her body. Sansa tentatively touches a fresh one by her rib and hisses upon contact.

Jon can't fix this, she thinks as she stares at herself. Fresh tears brim in her eyes. He would probably be disgusted if he saw her like this. Sansa never placed weight in his claim to protect her but she worries now he might take it all back if he saw how damaged she is.

Shame transforms into anger and Sansa feels a pool of heat rise through her, turning the blood in her veins to boiling fury. She grabs a hairbrush from the wooden table nearby and throws it at the mirror. Glass shatters everywhere in a loud devastating crack of sound. The tears are unrelenting as she falls to the floor. She feels small shards of glass cutting into her bare skin but Sansa is too distraught to move.

The door bursts open a second later and framed underneath is a panicked Jon. His brows are furrowed closer together and Longclaw is unsheathed in one hand. Sansa would laugh if she had any energy to do so.

Jon's eyes travel over her naked body in surprise, a flush of red visible even underneath all that hair and beard, but then he sees her bloodied knees and hands and his arms are instantly around her. He pulls her against his body, Sansa's head lolling onto his hard chest, and stands up. Jon kicks the door close before carrying her to her bed.

Sansa's tears had subsided but feeling how gentle he is with her now she starts to cry again.

"No – oh Sansa," he murmurs against her. Sansa loops her arms around his neck and holds him close. Jon repositions himself so he is sitting on the bed and wraps his arms around her waist. He murmurs in her ear. "Do you want to talk about it?" She shakes her head. "Shall I call the maester then?" She shakes her head more furiously this time.

It is to Jon's credit that he actually stays with her till her sobs quiet and she is only sniffling into his tunic. When she is ready, Sansa releases her hold on him and sighs back into her bed. "Thank you."

"There is nothing to thank me for, Sansa," Jon says quietly. "I am here for you for as long as you need me."

She offers a small smile but she doesn't say anything more. She is distracted by the lines on his face. He has his own scars and she wonders if they bring him as much pain as hers do. Sansa absentmindedly traces them across his skin and she feels him shiver.

"I am trying to remember you as a boy," Sansa murmurs. "But I can't."

"The boy is dead," Jon says and his face darkens abruptly.

"But the man lives," Sansa finishes for him. "A good man. An honourable man."

"I am not good, Sansa."

Her eyes flash something wicked as she grips his face in between her hands and forces him to look at her. "You are a great man. I won't have anyone say otherwise. Not even you, Jon Snow."

Jon smiles and it is so rare an occurrence she thinks her heart has taken flight at the sight. She wonders why that is. It is truly a bizarre reaction and one she has never experienced before. The closest she can remember is the first time she saw Lady. She thought then her heart could never love so fully for another being or creature.

"Are you positive you will not see a maester?" Jon asks again. "You're hurt and…"

"They are scratches," Sansa waves him off. "I will survive."

Jon sighs but he doesn't argue. After so many arguments before the battle with Ramsay, she suspects he has learned his lesson. This brings her a tremendous amount of joy. To have such an effect on a man who will not only respect her wants and needs and her intelligence is something Sansa did not think was possible.

"Jon, are you well?" she asks when she notices the flush of his skin. Sansa places the back of her hand to his forehead. "If you are unwell because you are refusing to light a fire in your chambers, I will…"

"Sansa," he says. "I am very well. I…" Jon looks away then rubs his face. "You are still…"

Sansa glances down and she realises she is still as naked as the day she was born. Hastily throwing the furs over her body, Sansa pulls it up to her chin then reaches out to take Jon's hands from his face.

"I am sorry…"

"What do you have to be sorry for?" Jon asks, and he keeps her from pulling her hand away.

"That…" Sansa swallows and forces the tears to stay away. She will not cry again in front of him. "That you had to see what he did to me."

For a long moment Jon doesn't say anything and Sansa finds she cannot read his eyes. She begins to feel unnerved by the silence and it conjures up unwanted thoughts and insecurities birthed by her time with Ramsay but then Jon is leaning back to pull the tunic from his breeches. She is too startled to stop him or to say anything when he lifts the tunic halfway over his body, exposing angry wounds deep in his chest.

"I never wanted to be Lord Commander," Jon says quietly. "But I had people who were looking to me to lead them through the Long Night and I couldn't let my brothers down. I tried to do what was right but it wasn't enough. I was still killed by my own brothers." He shudders as if he is reliving the memory. "Every time I see these, I am reminded of my failure as a leader."

Mesmerised by the wounds across his chest, Sansa sits up and roams her hands over them. He stiffens under her touch but she takes no notice. "They are the failures," she says. "They failed you – not you them."

Jon tilts her head up to look at him with the tip of his finger. "Mayhaps but your scars, Sansa… Everyone failed you. I made my choices and I faced those consequences. You were forced into yours. You faced cruelty and injustice and you survived. There is nothing more beautiful than that. Don't ever apologise to me or to anyone for your scars."

Sansa doesn't know who moves first. She doesn't think she cares because when their lips meet, she feels her heart jump to her throat and every inch of her comes alive just by his touch alone. She feels his hand cupping the side of her neck as he pulls her close to deepen the kiss. Sansa leans forward enough so that she can wrap her arms around his neck once more. The furs drop in between them and he pulls her tighter into his body, her breasts flushed against him. Somehow even though she is naked, Sansa thinks there is still far too many clothes between them. She tries to tug his tunic over his shoulders but Jon clasps hold of her hands and trails light kisses along her cheek till he reaches the sensitive spot behind her ear.

"Sansa," he whispers her name, his hot breath fanning across her skin, and it requires all of her will power not to settle herself in his lap. "We can't do this." She makes a frustrated growl as she pulls on his curls. Jon's short laugh rumbles against her body. "I'm sorry. I have to leave."

He pulls away from her, quickly rearranging his clothes to appear appropriate, but he can fix himself up as much as he wants, the redness of his lips speak plenty of what they did. Sansa decides she likes that.

"Good night, Sansa," Jon says as he lingers half in her chambers and half out in the corridor. His eyes hungrily trail down her naked body before he flushes again and disappears behind her closed door.

Sansa knows she should feel shame in what just happened but she can't. She feels only desire and want, and after living for so long expecting – and wanting – to die, Jon makes her feel alive and she can't find any shame in that.

Let the Gods judge her. They have already taken so much from her. Sansa deserves to take a little back for herself – and she's going to start with Jon.