Warning: This is a dark, explicit work of erotica. The sex between the two leads is very much consensual, but there will be plenty of material that pushes boundaries. Read at your own risk: it will not be to all tastes
In the dead of winter dark things stalked the corridors of Winterfell.
Cold drafts blew even into the the warm chambers of Lady Sansa. She pulled a cloak around herself against them chill, but her mind was far away. She held a pile of documents in her lap. A crowned stag seemed to glare at Sansa from the top of the neat stack. She set that one aside. Below was a seven pointed star, and under that, a golden lion. Missives from her King, her Faith, and her husband.
The letter from Stannis had been brutally brief. The Lord of Casterly Rock has a wife, and her name is Sansa Stark Lannister. The King's pen strokes had been deeply engraved in the parchment. His writing was precise and hard, no wasted strokes. A bitter and angry man, she had been told.
The High Septon had sung a similar song. Reports held that the man was a tool of the Faith's establishment, put in place to purge the fanaticism of the High Sparrow. She had hoped … but: No annulment shall be granted without decisive proof of the lady's maidenhead. Vows were sworn between man and wife. In the eyes of the Seven, the marriage is binding.
She didn't know when she had lost her maidenhead, only that kind Maester Tarly had been unable to attest to her purity, even though she had wept and begged his as prettily as she knew how. It could have been a childhood fall, a hard day's riding, even a beating. A parting gift from Joffrey, tying her to the Lannisters forever.
She had not even broken the seal on the last one.
He was not unkind, little Lord Tyrion, she told herself hopelessly. Was it his pride that prevented him from letting me go? She remembered the months that they had lived together in the Red Keep. So many times she had lain next to him in their shared bed, wondering if this was the night that he would decide to make her his wife in truth. But he never did. The mockery of the couriers had bothered him, she had known that. He had his share of pride.
He means to make me his wife now. A raven had come from Greywater Watch. There was a party of knights and men-at-arms with Lannister banners travelling north up the Kingsroad. They had a septa travelling with them, and some lady's maids.
She could not hate Tyrion, but the idea of Casterly Rock … she had heard tell of the that mass of stone, near a hollowed out mountain. She had dreamed of those dark caverns and shafts, of stale air and windowless chambers. Would she die there, she wondered? Would she wither away in those sunless caves, forgotten by the world?
Petyr had not written. No letters had come from the Vale. But she knew his people were here, watching. He is biding his time. I won't go back to you Petyr. I am not yours. I'll go back to Tyrion first. At least all he wants is my body.
The walls were pressing in on her. It was late, and her eyes burned, but she knew she would have no sleep tonight. She put the letters away the bottom of the chest that held her neatly folded clothes, took a cloak from that same chest, and fled the confining chamber.
The halls of Winterfell were deserted. There could not be more than a few dozen people in the place, living in the chambers the Boltons had restored like ghosts haunting the memory of their former home. Most of the others who had sheltered here over the winter had left as the snows melted. They had deserted Winterfell like rats. Good riddance, she thought. Go to White Harbour, you cowards.
She stole past Bran's chambers, careful to make no sound. Her brother had warned her that there were dark things afoot in Winterfell, and she should take care. She had known what he meant. They all did, the surviving Stark children, although they did not dare to say it, even to each other. There is a monster here.
I don't care.
The castle had seemed like a refuge when she had come to it after the war. Now it had become a trap. Even if Bran lets me remain here in safety, she thought as she paced the dark halls, I cannot leave. Many lords would consider it only their duty to give Lord Lannister back his wayward wife. Others might quietly send her to the Vale in return for the Lord Protector's friendship. And would Bran let me stay? Her brother had become distant and strange. Sometimes Sansa imagined she saw more wit in the stable boy Hodor's eyes than those of the young Lord of the North.
There was nowhere else in the North where she could find sanctuary. Her only real friend was Jeyne, but the Lady of the Dreadfort had her own problems and Sansa would not prevail on her. If Bran had joined in her protests when Lord Manderly was named his regent, perhaps they might have had more success. Instead, all she had accomplished was to alienate the Manderlys. They had Rickon in White Harbour. They had the heir to the North. The oldest legitimate child of Eddard Stark was an inconvenience to be disposed of.
Sansa heard footsteps, the heavy tread of booted feet that echoed off the cold stone. He's here.
She shrank back into a darkened alcove, raising her hood and pulling the wool cloak tight around herself. She scarcely dared to breathe. The fabric was scratchy against her cheek, and smelled of smoke from the hearth fires and the dye she had used to cover its stains. She was suddenly conscious of the thin linen bed gown she wore beneath it. She should be afraid, she thought. She was risking being caught out here half clad, alone in the darkness.
A derisive laugh threatened to burst out before she repressed it. Afraid. I should be afraid. They would bury me alive in the Rock and make me birth Lannisters. A sound escaped before she could clamp a hand over her mouth.
The steps stopped. Silence.
Out there, in the darkness, he was listening.
She held herself as still as a statute.
The footsteps came towards her. The pace was steady, unhurried. He was nearly beside her. He would see her if she moved. He would know she was there. She felt like her heart was shuddering in her chest, her breath fast with excitement.
Then he was passing her, walking directly down the center of the corridor, looking neither left nor right. She could hear the sound of leather creaking as he walked. His cloak fluttered behind him. He never seemed to feel the cold any more. She looked at his retreating back: dark hair, dark fabric. It was as if he vanished into the gloom at the end of the passageway.
Sansa gasped. Her heart was pounding. She looked back down the corridor. For a moment, she thought to flee back to her chambers and bolt the door. Instead, she found herself moving down the corridor, into the shadows.
Down a set of narrow stairs, and then another corridor. She found nothing. No one. But the leather hangings had been pushed aside from one of the doors outside. She eased the door open, shivering at the blast of icy air that seemed to go right through her cloak.
The maesters hoped spring would come soon, but the snows still lay deep in the north. Moonlight glittered on crystals where it had melted and refrozen. Icicles hung from the roof edge. The white expanse crossed the courtyard unmarred but for a single line of footprints. They went in the direction of Winterfell's small sept. She closed the door again, and pulled the hangings against the draft.
It took her only a few minutes to circle around to the sept by interior passages. She cracked open the heavy interior door, and looked in.
The sept was plain and small compared to the ones she had seen in the south. Seven carved masks were hung above unadorned alters. It was warm - when it had been installed the heating system had been extended here - and dark. Nobody used this space now except for Sansa, but she had happy memories of coming here with Lady Catelyn in the Long Summer. They used to light the candles—
The candles. She had left unlit candles on each alter. Where were they? Her eyes were drawn to the floor. There they were. They had been swept onto the floor, and were lying in broken fragments on the flagstones.
He was standing with his back to her, facing the altar of the mother. He was as still as a statute. Then she saw his shoulders shift. He seemed to be fiddling with something. Then he was still again. She heard a rush of liquid. A dark stream ran down the altar and puddled on the floor around his boots.
She pushed on the door, hard. It opened in a squeal of protesting hinges. He turned, still buttoning up his garments. His lip curled, and he let out a growl.
"What are you doing, Jon?