Jon clenched his jaw as he watched his sister dance in the arms of another man. He refused to do the polite thing and ask any of the ladies who sat with him at the high table to take a turn around the room. Lord Manderly was eager for Jon to take his daughter as his queen and had nearly pushed Wylla into his lap, but Jon mentioned a sore ankle. "I'm not much of a dancer anyway," he said in consolation.
"You're a much better dancer than I'd expected, for a man of the knight's watch," Wylla said, pushing her green hair behind her ears.
"Lady Sansa has trained you well," Lord Wyman agreed.
Jon managed a close lipped smile. "She'll be pleased to hear that."
And with that they resumed their discussion of the coming winter. They had hardly had enough time to restock the grain stores and would rely on White Harbour's trade with Essos. The summer after the war had been short, and the autumn shorter still. Earlier that morning he had seen his breath in the frigid air as he made his way through the training yard. The new maester told Jon that it was the seasons coming into alignment once more, but Jon felt as though time had begun to move so fast he couldn't keep his footing.
Winter may be the reason the North had gathered in Winterfell once more, but it was dreadfully boring conversation. Wylla extricated herself to find a more willing dance partner, and Jon tried his best to keep his attention on the paltry harvest and not how low Tormund's son's hands drifted down his sister's back.
As the song came to an end, Sansa approached the dais with a hearty smile. Her face was flush from the exercise and she was laughing with the new wildling Lord of the Dreadfort.
"I shall need to retire soon," Sansa said when she reached them, "but I'd fancy another dance before the night is through."
She could have been talking to any one of the half dozen lords from the way she refused to meet Jon's eye. But all of the men, even Sansa's most ardent suitors, knew it was her brother to whom she spoke. They know more than they say, Jon thought. He couldn't oblige her even if he wanted to, he had a feigned ankle injury to attend to.
"Lord Manderly was just saying the same thing," Jon said with a wry smile, nudging the old man with his elbow. Lord Manderly was quicker to his feet than Jon had ever seen him, eagerly taking Sansa's hand.
After the feast, Jon had another flagon of ale in hand as he sat in his solar. He couldn't seem to sleep. He couldn't push Sansa from his mind. The way men looked at her got under his skin, but it was the look upon her face as she held Gilly's new baby that haunted him.
Not many wildling babes were doted upon by the Lady of Winterfell, but Sansa had a soft spot for the little thing. Jon stood there watching her for awhile, taking no pains to hide his fondness for his sister from any prying eyes. It was Sam's awkward look in his direction that turned it all to dust. The stab wounds he took to his chest had never entirely healed, one of the consequences of being undead, and they pained him more now than he could remember.
There was no life for the pair of them. No life for him. He was damned, and bringing her down with him was not an option.
It was hours past midnight when his sister pushed the door open.
"There you are," she said with a yawn. "I've been waiting for you in bed."
Sansa's billowing robe fell open as she made her way across the room to him, exposing her silken smallclothes. Even with her hair crumpled and tired eyes, she was a beautiful sight. She leaned down to kiss him, and he fiddled with the hem of her nightgown. He was tempted to bend her over his desk and take her from behind. Or else loosen his breeches and pull her down onto him. She liked to be on top.
Just one last time, he thought as he kissed her back. That was what she'd come here for, after all.
"You don't need to hide from me," Sansa murmered against his lips. Her hands wandered beneath his breeches, and she bit down on his bottom lip when she found him already hard. He winced at the pain but couldn't manage to pull away. "I forgive you for refusing to dance with me."
He had delighted in Sansa's feminine attentions and the curve of her spine. He had grown used to the way her hands felt when she ran them through his hair or when they drifted under the table as they sat on the dais. Jon had thought it would go on forever, somehow. He had been so miserable for so long, so unaccustomed to easy bliss, that he had let himself believe that their lives could always be so sweet.
But they wouldn't be. They were just fooling themselves.
Sansa climbed atop him and straddled his hips.
He knew what he ought to do, what a good man would do, but Jon Snow was no longer a good man. Jon had no honour left. He was barely a man at all after the war, resurrected from death not once but twice. Oftentimes he forgot to feel guilty for what they did behind closed doors. This was all that mattered to him anymore. And so it was a miracle when he finally pulled away from her.
"We can't," Jon said.
Sansa laughed and ran her hand against his cheek. "What are you talking about? Of course we can."
Jon shook his head, "it has to stop, Sansa."
Sansa's lips parted as she looked him deep in the eye, questioning his resolve. When he didn't break, she swallowed. "I see."
"This isn't — this isn't good for you. You dreamt of children and chivalry and marriage," he said. He couldn't give Sansa what she wanted, though gods knew he wanted to.
"No," Sansa said, shaking her head. "That's not me anymore. That girl is dead."
"Don't say that." Jon lowered his head and closed his eyes. He couldn't bear it to look at her. "We've lost too many people already."
Sansa is quiet for a moment. He expected for her to be courteous in the face of his rejection, to steel herself against him. He'd prepared himself for that. He had not prepared for her to whimper, or for her to still be on his lap half dressed. She begun to sob and he pressed his fingernails down hard against the palm of his hand. He could endure many things, but not hurting her.
"This is my home. I won't leave," Sansa said.
Jon opened his eyes again. "I'm not kicking you out. I couldn't, in any case. I have no right. I just won't be the reason you stay. I can't let you waste any more time on me."
Sansa's blue eyes were rimmed with wet tears but she did not look away. As much as it pained him, he kept her gaze too. He had looked at her like this with their limbs entwined at least a hundred times. Once he'd thought her eyes were pure blue, but by now he'd become well acquainted with the flecks of yellow in them. Sansa leaned down and pressed her forehead to his. She was the first to break this time, letting her eyes close.
For a moment Jon thought she was going to brush her lips against his. He was not strong enough to refuse her again. But with one last sniffle she pushed herself to her feet. She re-knotted her robe and walked away, not sparing him a single glance.
Sansa went to bed that night dreaming of the first time she and Jon had made love. It was as close to the truth as she could remember but it rang as false as a mummer's show. She watched from above, a spectator of that perfect day.
Jon laid out his cloak on the ground in the godswood as Sansa undressed herself for someone else for the first time in years. By then, winter had come to an end and they had grown into their routine. They had burned their dead, and had a statue of their fallen sister sculpted and placed beside their father's in the crypts beneath Winterfell.
The ground was soft and the air was still cool, but his body on top of hers kept her warmer than any furs. This was nothing to her, she had made it through the longest winter on record. Even when Jon had slid his face between her thighs and exposed her bare breasts to frigid air there had been sweat on her brow.
Sansa woke before dawn in a cold sweat beneath the furs. Her dream had been sweet, but she felt as though she had been roused from a nightmare. She wasn't used to sleeping alone anymore, and she reached for Jon before she remembered the night before.
Things had been so very lovely before he decided to make a mess of things. There had been morning in the godswood, and there must have been a hundred times since. As spring turned to summer, Sansa made a habit of sneaking into her brother's chambers. Sometimes he would join her in hers, but he never managed to make it through the night without throwing off the furs.
"I don't know how you sleep like this," he would say, when she inevitably woke beside him.
"I like to be cosy," she said with a grin, taking in his naked form. She never minded his dramatics, for they gave her a chance to admire his muscled chest.
Sansa always managed to find a way to make him stay the rest of the night.
Sansa had tried so desperately to hold on to whatever they were. She'd been foolish, thinking that if she tried her best she could make it go on forever. And what was worse was that she'd known the entire time that it was a fool's errand. She had always known he would leave her, even that first time beneath the Heart Tree. His tongue had always tasted bittersweet, but she'd gotten ahead of herself anyway. Jon was right — the girl she was hadn't died, she was still here getting her heart into trouble.
She tried in vain to fall back asleep for what felt like hours. Only when dawn crept through the window did she leave her bed, pushing the curtains open. She had only meant to open the window to let the air in, but she was rendered speechless by the view. Sansa had never been so happy to see snow.
What happened in Jon's solar didn't seem to matter anymore. Sansa dressed in a hurry and made her way down to the courtyard. Despite the winter's feast they'd had the night before, Sansa was not prepared for winter to come upon them so soon. She wore only her fall furs and earmuffs. Her cheeks were cold but she couldn't stop smiling. She took a walk in the godswood, and found Ghost hunting. He abandoned his pursuit and fell to her side, pushing his head into her hand.
When Sansa returned, the courtyard was filled with men who had come to treat with Jon. They had all fought beside her brother and his direwolf in the war for the dawn and none of them feared the beast.
Sansa was drawn to a horse drawn sleigh that had appeared outside the stables. She'd never seen it before. It was covered in furs and painted as white as the snow beneath their feet.
"Perhaps you'd fancy a ride?" the young Lord Glover asked with a suggestive smile.
Sansa had danced with the new lord twice the night before. She was not a maiden, she'd been married twice. She knew what a ride entailed, and what he wanted. Despite the fact that the lad meant nothing to her, she nodded. "Perhaps I would."
"I think I'd like a ride too," came a firm voice from behind her. Sansa turned and saw Jon eyeing her suitor. She hadn't recognized his voice, it seemed colder than she was used to.
"It's only big enough for two, Your Grace," Lord Glover said.
Jon pursed his lip, "would you mind?"
A moment later she was somehow beneath thick layers of furs with the man who'd cast her aside only the night before. Had she dreamt the whole thing? He'd been so possessive. As they left the courtyard and rode towards the wolfswood she kept looking over at him out of the corner of her eye. She wanted to question him but uncertainty filled the pit of her stomach and so they sat in silence.
After some time, Jon finally turned to her. "Did you hear that?" he asked.
She did. It sounded like like a crying baby. It made her feel unbearably sad. "We need to help it," she said, "before the baby freezes to death."
Jon stopped the sleigh and they followed the direction of the cries. As they drew closer, Sansa wasn't sure the sound was a baby at all. The noise was familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. All of a sudden the sound it stopped and she realized how cold she was. She wasn't sure she wanted to find it anymore. She was tempted to tell Jon they should turn back, but she kept walking further off the path into the dark woods beside him.
She heard footsteps in the snow and turned to see Ghost with something in his mouth.
"Ghost, here," Jon said, but Ghost came to Sansa instead.
He had a grey wolf pup by the scruff of the neck. Sansa looked at the pup and felt a shiver down her spine. Gently, Ghost laid the pup down at her feet. Her breath caught in her throat. Instinctually she leaned down and picked the it up. She brought the pup to her chest, burrowing it beneath her furs.
"We should take him home," Jon said.
Sansa nodded. "It's a her," she said. She had no way of knowing for sure, but she could sense it.
"I think you're right," Jon said, and Sansa laughed. If last night hadn't happened she would kiss him.
On the way home she recalled Jon's words from the night before. She imagined leaving Winterfell, going south to some castle and marrying a nice lord, or perhaps wedding a knight and bringing him home with her. Once that had been all she'd wanted. But now Sansa was not sure where she would go, or who she would marry. She had never had very much luck with romance. To be sure, there were always men around. Even as Jon's lover she had her fair share of suitors. But they did not see her as anything but the king's sister — or perhaps a pretty face. It was her claim — or her body — that they wanted.
Even if they had been bewitched by her as Petyr Baelish once had, she knew she would not care for them. She already had what she wanted. Sansa rubbed her finger behind the direwolf's ear.
They were almost back to the castle when Sansa turned to him.
"I think this is a sign."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "A sign of what?"
"The Old Gods still smile upon us. Despite…" Sansa paused to consider her words "… what we've done..." and what we will do, "that it's alright."
Jon reached an arm around Sansa's shoulders and pulled her close, keeping one hand on the reins. She nuzzled her head into his neck and kept it there until they made it out of the woods.