AUTHOR'S NOTE: I don't write fluff, and I care not for your feelings.

Chapter One | Petyr

He'd imagined it a thousand times before — maybe more. Definitely more. In his quiet moments, it was always there, flashing behind his eyelids, slithering like a sickness through his gut, haunting him. Devouring him from the inside out.

Her red hair seemed impossible in the firelight, the strands dancing like the flames themselves, pooling around her as she sank back into the thick furs strewn across the bed. Her breath came rapidly, her red lips parting lushly around a moan so full of unhinged desire that it was almost a sob. Beneath the silken, white column of her throat he could see the quiver of her pulse as her breasts fell free from her gown.

Cat.

In all of the Seven Kingdoms, of all the wonders that he had seen, of all the riches and pleasures that he had earned and plundered, never had there been anything so beautiful as she. He'd been driven mad by it long ago — a madness that had driven him inexorably from the glorified backwater over which he was lord, to the hallowed halls of power in the Red Keep.

Having held her in his arms, having felt her heated flesh yield to the ministrations of his reverent fingers — even if only that once — what could ever compare? What could sate the hunger that was sparked in him lying in the green summer grass all those years ago?

He'd found nothing thus far. He hoped that the world might be enough, but the closer he got the more uncertain he became. There was only one other thing…

Cat.

And here she was finally, just as he'd imagined. His eyes drank it all in. It was death to look, but he was powerless to turn away. The exquisite curve of her back as it arched off the bed, the swell of her breasts as the rose petal pink of her nipples beaded harshly into aching points, the curl of her toes as one alabaster thigh rose up from under her ravaged skirts — no detail was lost on him. He couldn't breathe.

But just like every time before it was Ned who was there, lowering himself onto her. His dark hair fell across his face, skimming a strong, wolf-like jaw that was clenched with brutal and unbridled passion as he kissed her. He could see the strain of his muscles working against themselves as Ned thrust his hands into her hair, visibly fighting himself, trying to go slow — always the gentleman, always the Lord of Winterfell. From his spot in the darkened passageway a bitter smirk crept across Petyr's lips even as the sickness inside him roiled.

Ned's eyes were locked with hers, the fire reflected in them a mere shadow of the fire that was raging behind them. Slowly at first and then all at once, something inside him seemed to dissolve and give way. He lowered his forehead to hers and breathed her name.

"Sansa..."

Because, of course, Cat was gone. And so was Ned. And here now in her place was Sansa, her daughter, likeness, and equal in every way — his Catlynn in the full bloom of youth returned to him finally after all this time. But once again, it seemed, he'd lost her to a brutishly noble Northern Lord.

"Jon. Please, look at me." He could hear the tremble in her voice, though her words were barely above a whisper. Jon opened his eyes and looked down at her with an unfathomable look, pain and desire churning together under the black of his eyes.

And her eyes. Oh, her eyes… The sickness that had been sliding through him grew to a cold boil. Her eyes were soft and vulnerable, glistening with unchecked tears that pooled and then spilled across her flushed cheeks, tracing glistening rivers back into her red hair.

He could remember the last time that he'd seen her that way, in the throne room of the Eyrie after Lysa fell screaming through the moon door. He'd held her as she'd wept — a frail and broken thing crushed against his chest, clawing at him like she couldn't get close enough.

She'd been trembling when he left her in her chambers. Everything in him ached to stay and comfort her, but Lysa was dead and that would need to be answered for. The only way to protect her was to leave her there, shaking like the last leaf before winter.

But when she rose the next day all of her softness was gone. Her perfect white skin now encased something stronger than steel — and colder as well. He'd felt the dagger of her change profoundly, though he knew in many ways it was better. She'd need to be something stronger than steel in the wars to come.

Yet now here she was spread beneath Jon Snow, opened to him, clinging to him, a sheen of perspiration causing her skin to glisten in the firelight despite the cold northern night that wafted snowflakes in through the open window. She was no longer cold. She was an inferno. He felt himself being consumed as he watched her.

Jon's eyes left hers and drifted down to where his fingers traced the red stain of her parted lips. His other hand pinned her wrists to the bed above her head, trapping her, but it was clear that there was no need to subdue her. She'd given herself over to him completely. One milk white thigh hitched wantonly around his waist.

Her tears were a silent river now, her eyes wild and her skin intoxicatingly flushed. And then she said his name again, "Jon…Jon, please…" She trailed off, unwilling or unable to give voice to her desires. For his cock, for his love, for his protection, for all three — Petyr couldn't be sure. But he knew that no man could possibly resist such a plea from a woman such as Sansa — not even a Stark Lord. Not even when he believed her to be his sister. There was no way to deny her.

Petyr took three slow, quiet steps backwards from the slightly opened door before pivoting on his heels and disappearing back into the dark passage way. He had no doubt that she would get what she wanted, but he couldn't bear to watch another man give it to her.