A\N: Wrote this months ago and just found it on my hard-drive today. Heh... and since you can never have enough angst in stories, I decided not to let it collect dust and posted it up here. If Robb and Jon get your jollies off, you're in the right place, if not… my bad. Not.
Again, my apologies to GRRM for writing another fan fiction for GoT. I can't help myself, y'know...
Oh, and don't worry, it's not that angsty; I'm pretty sure there's a silver-lining in here 'cause, seriously, I can't write sad-endings for shit.
Title taken from an Of Montreal song, since I couldn't think of one.
Snow fell in great abundance from the pale ashen-colored clouds spread-out overhead, blotting out the golden-sun and ocean-blue sky. It covered the stone-gray court-yards and blanketed the gardens. Buried the rooftops under thick sheets of snowy-slush and froze over the lakes. Suffocated unguarded fires and stole warmth from under even the thickest layers of fur. It interrupted an earlier, outdoor sowing session for the girls and Septa Mordane, when it started abruptly. And brought leisure-time to an end for the smaller children that frolicked through the soaring heaps of snow as it came to be a considerable height; much too tall for the stout legs of toddlers and the like to negotiate without harm. Only those who needed to work for their living dared to venture out into the snow.
Catelyn was a Tully, through and through; born to the gentle warmth, sparkling watercourses, blooming flowers and beautiful, pastel-blue skies of Riverrun—and thus, the frigid cold, no matter how long she spent within the dull, gray halls of Winterfell, was not something she could ever come to enjoy. For her beloved husband and Lord, and her beautiful children, however, she would bear it. The cold and all it had to give; even the maladies that accompanied cold weather.
Bedridden, Lady Stark was waited-on hand and foot by her handmaidens and the like. Arya, Bran and Rickon all crowded into the room and stealing a place for themselves on the wide bed whenever the Maester granted them entrance into their mother's bedchamber. Sansa, believing herself above cooing and worrying, visited just as much as the others did but instead of lying with her mother, she settled in a sturdy wooden chair by Catelyn's bedside and sowed her numerous, handsome fabric-creations. And whenever she ran out of wool, she retreated from the room to retrieve some more.
Seeing his eldest daughter go to-and-fro, twittering excitedly and fidgeting with her needles as she bounced passed him along the wide the corridor, her sanguine tresses thick flame-colored spirals, neatly sorted into a ponytail as they bobbed and swayed with each movement of her head, Ned began to believe she was crafting a suit of armor, rather than an attractive throw, at the rate she gathered and exhausted supplies.
Catching Sansa on the return-trip to Catelyn's and his chamber, Ned gripped the pretty youth by her delicate shoulder. "Sansa," He started, staring down into wide blue eyes. His daughter's cheeks were mottled with pink as she began to speculate that Ned had discovered some illusionary wrongdoing of hers and was now about to administer a punishment. Sansa tried to banish the thought as she would never do anything her parents would disapprove of—if they should discover it so easily, that is—but her father's hard, worn-features and unyielding eyes always made her assume the worst.
"Yes, father? Has something happened? Has the Maester called for us to leave mother be?" Sansa asked, trying to keep the concern out of her voice as she twiddled with the needles in her hands.
Ned laughed dryly, shaking his head gently. "No, the Maester has long since given up on trying to make you children see reason. You may stay with your mother, until she declares otherwise." Sansa smiled then; nodding quickly before she made to retreat to her Lady mother and the others.
Ned, seeing that she was about to flee, grabbed her by the shoulder again. "I am not done, yet, Sansa. I have a request, and please do be quick about it."
"Yes, what is it, father?" She asked curiously, resisting the urge to bite her lip out of nervous habit.
"Find your brother, Robb. Catelyn has been enquiring after him since sunrise, and yet, he has not come nor has he sent word explaining his absence. She is worried, I expect, and the last thing we need is for her not to get any rest." Ned looked more so solemn than he usually did. Sansa did not know whether to be worried herself. "Will you find him, Sansa?"
She shook her head slowly in silent agreement. Ned smiled faintly, before he went to take his leave. "But, father… if no one else can find them, why shall I be able to?"
Ned paused mid-step, thinking of a suitable response. "Because, Sansa, all whom have searched him out, until now, were not his family—you're his sister, you should do just fine." He was gone after that.
Sansa buffed her cheeks out as annoyance found her. Squeezing the sowing-needles in her grasp, she wondered why she had to find Robb. Arya was capable of doing so—she would probably enjoy getting all gross and sweaty, trudging through the snow. Tucking her needles into the folds of her floor-length skirt, she sighed before heading off.
On the way to the stairs, she passed one of Catelyn's handmaidens. Interrupting her treacherous trek through the hallway with a basin filled with steaming water, Sansa told her to inform Lady Stark of her absence. When the handmaiden asked what to tell Catelyn, if the older woman questioned her on why her daughter suddenly decided to take her leave, Sansa huffed. "Well, tell her that I went to pick some flowers for her…?"
The handmaiden looked skeptical. "It is not my place to judge, m'lady, but do you truly think that your Lady mother would believe that? Surely, it will sound just as much of a lie to her, as it does to me."
Sansa scrunched her nose up. "You think of something, then!" She snapped, her irritation reaching and surpassing the threshold of her self-control as she scooped up the excess fabric of her skirt and fled to avoid any more probing and plotting.
Sansa had a general idea of where her older brother may have gotten off to as she knew him to haunt only a few places—especially, if the weather got to be this bad. Alas, she did not find him in any of those locations.
Not the stables, the armory, the training-yard—or even the Godswoods. Nor did she find him in the market. Sansa felt herself break out in a full-body cold sweat as she trudged through the snow with increasingly fatigued legs. If she did not retrieve Robb soon, she would fail her father as she was poised to give up and retreat back indoors at that very moment. However, if luck had found her—when she did eventually find him, she would slap him and then proceed to berate him for being so selfish and not visiting their mother in her time of need.
Sansa's fingers began to sting with numbness; the cold was more effective at stealing heat than Arya's mangy Direwolf Nymeria was at eating Arya's unwanted food from the girl's hand under concealment of the table. Thinking of the Direwolf's thick, unkempt fur, the auburn-haired girl began to long for the comfort of her own pet, Lady—or, the warmth of a roaring fire. Drawing her cloak closer to her form to keep the frosted wind from getting under her layers, she prayed she would find Robb before she froze to death.
Her prayers were answered a short time later; after she had finally given up her search and began venturing back to the beckoning balminess of her mother's bedchamber. As she trudged over the slick cobblestone pathway back home, she heard whispered words being exchanged behind a particular dense thicket of trees. Recognizing the voice to belong to Robb, she crept as quietly as she could, what with the thick snow crunching under her boots. Holding her breath, Sansa reached through the heavy foliage and peeled it back. Peering through the small opening, she gasped at what she saw: Robb and Jon, up against a tree, necking ferociously.
Robb's trousers were bunched around his knees. His pale, quavering thighs wrapped around Jon's waist; which coincidentally concealed his modesty from Sansa's view. Robb's head thrown back, his eyes clenched shut as he moaned and begged in ecstasy. Jon's dark curls bounced as he nodded and grunted in response.
Sansa's whole face flushed a deep red color as she watched her brother and half-brother partake in an act most wicked. The biting cold was forgotten as she flushed in embarrassment and gaped in horror. They moved together in tandem, rutting passionately and grunting breathlessly as they did so. Robb was keening like a whore, while Jon whispered words of love and praise into the curve of his shoulder.
She… she should go tell someone. Sansa held her hand to her mouth to keep from making any undo noise. What they were doing… it was wrong. She needed to tell father. Put a stop to this—this… whatever it may be. Oh, she knew what it was that they were doing. She just could not bring herself to say it. For giving a name to the act would make it viler than witnessing it for herself.
They were brothers. And though, Jon was a bastard and Sansa was well-aware that he had no claim to the family name and the like; they all shared the same father, the same blood. Not only that, but Robb and Jon they were both men. And Robb, he had marriage-prospects, he would inherit lordship of Winterfell from their father, one day. If anyone knew of this indiscretion, he would be disgraced…
Sansa clenched her teeth as she tried to avert her eyes. She was no fool, if word ever got around… who knows? All the Starks could very well be disgraced. It only took one bad apple to spoil the bunch, her mother once said. Tears prickled in her eyes at the thought that her whole life could be ruined, just because—just because Robb had let himself be manipulated by the bastard Jon. Yes… it was Jon's fault. He was the one who tainted Robb!
"Ungh… Harder!" He shrieked, cutting into Sansa's thoughts as he made lustful demands of their half-brother.
Sansa was taken aback, for it was Robb who was truly orchestrating this… this… wrongdoing, and not the other way about, like she had originally thought. How—how was this possible?—why was this happening? Robb seemed so… perfect in her eyes. He wasn't crude like Theon, wasn't distant like their father, he wasn't too young or naïve like Bran and Rickon. He was loving and passionate, handsome and brave—he would make a great Lord, she thought, and to think that he was capable of this… Sansa wept against her open-palm, feeling wholly betrayed.
Her shoulders quaked with her sobbing but Sansa was too stunned to make any more noise than a careful mouse creeping through the kitchens. Collapsing to her knees, as she felt her strength draining from her, Sansa could only listen to them finish.
As she heard them exchange doting words of playful affection, she knew she had to leave… but, she could not find the energy to. Sansa felt it impossible to do anything more than cry as her perception of her brother shattered into millions of pieces.
The snow crunched under their boots, as Robb and Jon began to leave. Sansa was grateful that their footfall grew quieter, with each step. They hadn't seen her, which was good. It was horrid enough that she happened upon them, even more so that she didn't put a stop to what they were doing. She felt filthy; no better than them for letting it happen. Sansa waited until they were gone completely, before she stood and dragged herself home.
"Poor child, she's sick as a dog." Septa sighed as she gently pushed open the heavyset door to the auburn-haired girl's bedchamber. "You'd best be mindful of her weak-state. She hasn't been in the mood to talk for a few days, but Maester Luwin believes that that is because of the fever." Gesturing for Robb to enter the room and then grimacing as she heard Sansa cough noisily, Mordane gathered her skirts and went off to fetch the Maester.
Sansa spied her brother in the doorway and felt the flames of anger ignite in the pit of her stomach. "What do you want?" She snapped, turning over in the bed so that her back was to him.
Robb said nothing. Instead, he climbed into the bed beside her, despite her complaining, and buried his nose into the thick curls growing from the crown of her head. Sansa gritted her teeth as she tried to move away. "Robb, please... just go away, I'm not feeling well." She groused.
Robb continued to be silent as he began admiring how much like their mother's hair Sansa's was. So long, so red and so pretty; it tangled around his fingers without any effort on his part. He was amazed how she managed to keep it so well-groomed. His hair was almost always a mess. Robb sighed bitterly as his younger sister resisted and complained as if he was Arya walking across her bed in muddy shoes.
Sansa coughed once again and it was more powerful than any of the times before. It stole her strength and breath in equal measure. She forced herself to settle down as she tried to regain her bearings.
"Go away…" She managed weakly, after a moment of silence. Having had enough of Robb's muteness, she rolled over to face him and felt a stabbing pain in her chest as she discovered his eyes were bloodshot and brimming with fresh tears. "Robb…?" She breathed. Robb looked so young, when he was sad. Barely older than Arya, she noted. But, that was perhaps because she had scarcely seen him cry since the times they all used to bath together which felt like eons ago.
He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as he tried to keep his emotions at bay. Sansa could see how bad he was hurting—how much he wanted to talk to her. At that very moment, she knew. She knew that he knew that she had seen him and Jon. Her breath caught in her throat, and this time, it wasn't because of the bad cough.
"I'm…so sorry…" Robb croaked, half-sobbing, as his guilty sorrow threatened to overtake him. Sansa didn't know what to do, what to say. If she had any tears left in her, she would have started crying, as well. She knew, though, that at times like this, their mother would be comforting, understanding…
She was not their Lady mother, Sansa knew that for a fact, but she would be someone's mother one day. Would she be so cruel to them as she was to Robb just because they were… different? Sansa pulled an unattractive face as she remembered the hate that blossomed in her heart, at catching them in the act. Despite her beliefs, Robb was still her brother—would she truly forsake him? After all the talk of honoring and protecting family, could she really shut him out completely?
Watching him cry, seeing him look so dejected, so fragile, Sansa reached a timid hand out to wipe away a glistening trail of moisture off his cheek. She hadn't had anything to say, but it did not matter, as Robb leaned into her comforting touch and let his grief drain from him.
When Maester Luwin and the Septa returned; Robb was gone and Sansa was finally asleep, after three days without a single wink.
For right then, all was well amongst the Starks.