A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read and review.
Warning: A little bit of violence described in this chapter.
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Chapter 2 - Greed: To Want and Want and Want
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There are fires burning in Winterfell. There is music in the air, and the happy singing of soldiers as they drink their ale in the name of their fallen comrades, are faint to Jon's ears. Yet, he stands in the dungeon of his father's house, watching the dogs of another Bastard as they rip the last of his flesh from bone.
"The guards found him like this," Davos says, his throat clearing before he continues. "What would you have us do?"
Jon watches as the starving beasts lick the bones they have between their paws clean, the leather and cloth and boots lying forgotten amongst the carnage. "Let them finish their dinner. His bones have no other place here unless it's inside his dogs' belly."
Jon prepares to leave when Davos' words stay him. "And the dogs?"
Briefly, Jon thinks of killing them swiftly with arrows to the heart. Would that not be a fitting end to the last of that Bolton Bastard's possessions? "Give them to Tormund." He says instead. "If these beasts can be tamed, I know of no other who can be of such a use."
Jon does not wait for Davos to say more, as he leaves the dungeon and the bones of a man who's death he has dreamt of countless times while at the Wall.
The night is cold, warmer than the wall, brisk and crisp as if the North knows that a new day is upon it. He hears the laughing, the jesting, the singing of songs that are reminiscent of his memory of Winterfell before he left. For a moment, he could almost imagine a great feast was upon them, while Lady Catelyn requests him to be at the stables, as fitting a Bastard of the North.
Arya would be by his side, on most nights, demanding that he come inside, regardless of what her lady mother thinks. Robb would bring him ale with Theon by his side, they would tease him and speak of the young girls in the village. Rickon, following Bran, would get bored with the adults and come to the stables to play with him. Sansa… Sansa would not have cared. She would be inside the Great Hall with her mother, and Jon would not have thought of her. Not once.
Tonight, she is all he thinks of.
He is weary. His bones feel frail and his skin feels taught under leather too tight. He needs to sleep, yet his mind demands him to find her first.
She is in the kitchens, near the hearth, a bowl between her fingers. Not for the first time, Jon thinks of her as pretty, as the firelight causes her hair to almost glow against the grim stones.
There are women moving fast around Sansa, trying to feed an army that is greater than their provisions. She stays seated, unaffected by the noise and yelling that is going over her head.
As he takes the seat beside her, she raises her head, her smile small and welcoming.
"Have you eaten?"
Jon shakes his head, grateful for the warmth of the bowl of soup Sansa gives him. He takes a generous sip before handing the bowl back to her.
She lightly pushes the bowl back into his hands. "I can't eat. And you need it more than I do."
Her glance falls on the fires once again, her expression resigned, yet Jon finds himself unable to stop looking at her.
"Thank you," she says it too softly for him to catch it at first. She keeps her eyes on the fire and away from his. "I know you didn't have to, so thank you."
"Did it help?" He knows what it means to get your vengeance. He knows what it means to lose a part of the man you once were to get a part of you that was lost. He knows what it means to be unsatisfied because the pain that was caused never truly leaves you.
She pauses for a while, her thoughts private. "A little," she whispers finally. "But not really."
When she faces him, her eyes are wild, wilder than he has ever seen before. "I want him back. I want him so I can burn him. So I can hang him. I want to see his head cut from his body and see his horses quarter him. I want to see him boiled in hot oil and bleed to death, slowly. I want to see his dogs rip him apart again and again and again."
Her eyes widen in panic before she turns her face towards the fires once more. He can see the way she tries to calm the rapid beating of her heart, how she tries to settle the beast of vengeance that is still inside her.
"What he did to you…" Jon says cautiously, his voice hard.
"No one should ever do to another," Sansa whispers. She pulls her furs around her tighter, her fingers shaking despite how tightly she buries them in her cloak.
"Aye," Jon says softly. "But you got your vengeance, which is more than any other person he has ever met. He is dead because of you. And he suffered for what he did to you."
She eyes him hopefully, reminding Jon of the little girl she once was. "Did he suffer enough?"
To this, he has no words.
"I want more, Jon. Sometimes, I want to see him suffer more than I need to breathe. I want more. He has taken something from me that I may not get again." She looks away from him, her tone sad. "I don't feel safe anymore. I don't think I'll ever feel safe again."
Jon leans forward, the bowl of soup forgotten on the floor as he causes her to look at him. "You are safe now."
She rolls her eyes, which makes him feel a ghost of a smile touch his lips. That is a sign of the old Sansa within her, the little girl who believed in knights and songs more than she believed in other tales.
"You are safe with me," he says sincerely, his voice rough. "Do you doubt that I would protect you?"
"No, but—"
"Then don't doubt me. I swore that he will never touch you again, and he didn't. I swear to you now, that you will never be touched again by anyone, unless you want them to. You will not be taken away from Winterfell, unless you want to leave. I swear, on my honour, that no one will ever hurt you so long as I live."
Her smile is sad as she places a warm hand on his cheek. "Do you swear to live? No matter what?"
Jon hesitates a moment before his own hand covers her hand that rests upon his face. Her hand is soft, unlike his, long delicate fingers that caress his cheek. "Aye," he says softly. "I swear."
He knows that words are mere embellishment without action. He knows that he is a man of the North, and so his words cannot come easily. His words mean nothing without action and so these words cannot be said unless there is truth behind them.
She understands, he knows, from the way her eyes widen before she let's her hand fall from his cheek.
"Don't swear that," she says harshly. "No one can. Father couldn't, neither could Robb or my mother. Rickon never had the chance to swear it."
Before he can say more, she speaks.
"I know you can protect me. I know that you will. I never doubted it, not for a second. But I can't feel safe when I'm only with you," she says desperately. "I need to feel safe away from you too. Do you understand that?"
He does, and so he says softly, "Aye. What do you need of me?"
She smiles as she takes his hands in hers. "Nothing. You have been perfect, regardless of how awful I was to you when we last lived here."
"That doesn't matter."
"It does."
She laughs softly. "Do you remember the stories old nan used to tell us? About the knight who used to do what was right no matter what? I always thought that every knight was just as they said in songs. I didn't know that they could be so much different, so cruel…"
"Sansa…"
"But, you are like those knights in songs. Father was right to be proud of you."
Jon looks away, his chest tight from the mere memory of his father.
Sansa moves her head low so that their eyes meet. "He was proud of you. You do know that, don't you?"
Jon stares back at her, at this girl who once called him Bastard even before she knew what the word meant. "It will get better. I know."
Sansa smiles as her hands slip out from his. "I hope so."
As she takes her leave, Sansa places a light kiss on his cheek. Jon does not mean to close his eyes at the mere touch, but he does.
