A/N: This is probably the most PG entry for 'Lust' in the history of prompts. You have been warned.
And why, yes, Old Lam is fictional. As for Old nan, I believe she died in the Dreadfort, with Beth. :(
Also, thank you to all who read and review. :D
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Chapter 3 - Lust: Simply For A Touch
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It is a fortnight past, before Sansa can walk into the bedchamber that once belonged to her lady mother and lord father. The furs have been changed, the chamber cleaned, almost daily, and yet, she knows that she could never sleep in such a place. She is keeping it for Bran, she tells herself. She is keeping it for Arya.
The sting behind her eyes are just as strong as when she visits the bedchamber that had once belonged to Robb, and the smaller bedchamber that Rickon would have someday grown out of. They are all perfect, dressed in the Stark colours with furs used in the North. She knows that there is nothing sensible about keeping the bedchambers as it once was. Yet, for a while, she wanted to pay enough respect to the memories of her family, as only few have been buried in the crypt, as they deserve.
She no longer wears the silks that her lady mother once did. She no longer wants anything that reminds her of the South. She wears the wool dresses that are warm in the North, and just as Jon helps their people rebuild Winterfell to what it once was, she helps in the kitchens and the library. She does menial tasks that she would not have done as a child. Yet, through these tasks she befriends all those who have fought for the Stark name. She learns their names and their faces, and she learns that they help make her home different and bearable.
It is past a moon's turn before Sansa recognises Winterfell for what it once was, as when she was a girl. It is past a moon's turn when she finally feels the last of Ramsay Bolton in any way as she walks through the halls. It is then when she laughs. When she loudly, truly, laughs.
Jon, who has been helping the men rebuild the damaged walls, shakes himself to rid the mud from his body as he stands precariously amongst the pigs. He is caked with mud and muck, his eyes narrowed at Sansa who laughs loudly with the men.
"You think that's funny?" he growls, as he tries to step away from the pigs and walk towards her.
Sansa laughs louder, as she hugs the bag of flour she is to take to the kitchens, tighter to her chest. She laughs louder still, just as the men do, when Jon slips as he tries to step around a pig. "I do. A little," she says breathlessly. Her stomach hurts with laughter when the pig gives an angry grunt and rams it's head against Jon's leg. He nearly falls, which makes the men laugh just as loud as Sansa.
When Jon finally steps close to her, his hair muddied, his face indifferent, the only trace that truly warns her of his intentions are in his eyes. Then, with a quirk of his lips, he steps towards her.
Her eyes widen as she steps back from him. "No, Jon… No."
His smile widens as he steps even closer, amongst the hooting and hollering of the men who had been laughing just a moment ago at the plight of their Lord Commander.
"Jon…" she says in a warning tone as she continues to step away from him. "You willl ruin my dress."
"Aye," he says confidently as he steps closer, "It is a pretty dress."
She turns to run just as he quickens his pace. He catches her from the back easily, his arms holding her tight around her waist and causing her to drop the bag of flour in a horrid mess. "Jon!" Sansa squeals amidst her own laughter when he rubs his dirty face along the side of her face, her neck, her back, even as the men and women around them giggle at the Lord and Lady sharing their antics for all of Winterfell to see.
He lets her go quickly, his expression smug. "There. Now you look better."
Sansa hears the haughty laughter of the men behind Jon, as she narrows her eyes at him. The moment he turns to return to the work at hand, she picks up the bag of flour and pours the contents of it over his head to the many hoots and laughter of everyone in Winterfell.
"There," she says just as smugly. "Now we're even."
She cannot stop the laughter that comes from within her as he turns to face her slowly. He looks horrendous with brown mud and white flour from the top of his head, right down to his boots. But, Jon laughs, and she giggles, as he promises that she will pay for her betrayal before he returns to the work he has to complete.
Sansa does not quite notice the happy smile that plays on her lips as she continues her duties for the rest of the day.
Her happy countenance continues, even until Jon enters her bedchamber, as he has done for many days, so that she may read to him before they take leave for the night.
He enters with weary shoulders, his smile small when he sees her, even as his eyes give away his fatigue.
"You're tired," she says in disapproval. She watches him as he winces while he sits on the rug near the fire. Sansa stays seated on the long chair where she usually does. As her lady mother once taught her to do.
"Aye, building walls is tiring work." He shifts, groaning slightly so that his shoulder lightly touches her knee.
"You need not do that work. We have plenty of men."
He looks over his shoulder at her with a knowing smile. "You need not work in the kitchens."
"I don't do much in the kitchens. Old Lam doesn't let me do anything. She only asks me to fetch things, and that is only to make me feel better."
His chuckle is low as he turns his face back to the fire, his shoulder bumping her knee slightly.
"We can read another day," she says softly.
But Jon shakes his head, his very action weary. "No. I like hearing your voice as you read to me."
Sansa smiles, her cheeks warm.
"Well then, if that is what you wish…" She gracefully climbs unto the floor beside him, tucking her knees under her as a lady would. "Come." She taps her lap and looks at him expectantly.
Jon eyes her with surprise, his eyes confused by her actions. But, Sansa thinks of her Little Robin, and how he used to rest his head on her lap as she read to him on days he was particularly out of sorts.
He means to voice his objection, but she speaks before he can. "I am not reading to you unless you learn to rest when you need it. Old nan would not hear of it."
He laughs at the memory of the woman. "Aye. She would have boxed my ears and told Father that I was stubborn."
"You are as stubborn as Father."
"And you, as stubborn as your Mother."
Her smile falls swiftly, as does his. She thinks that the loss of her good spirits is what makes him lower himself so that his head rests on her knee.
"You should read quick, lest I fall asleep. Sam tells me that it is hard to move me once I rest my eyes."
"Are you heavy then?" she asks good-naturedly, earning a hearty laugh from him.
"Aye. As heavy as a horse."
A small laugh escapes her as she opens the book they are to continue. She begins her reading from the place they stopped from the night before, her words soothing, regardless of how tedious the subject is, that she reads.
It doesn't take long before she feels the heaviness of Jon's head on her. She pauses in her reading to observe the man, once a boy, who has fallen peacefully asleep on her lap.
The moments where she can truly study him, without his knowledge, are few and far between. She has seen him more in the passing months than she had seen him when she was a child. She remembers what he was like; always brooding, his expression far from happy or joyous as Robb and Theon's were.
She has seen him smile and laugh so much more with each passing day. He makes jokes, he teases her, and he laughs heartily with happy eyes. Where was this happiness when they were young? Why was it reserved only for Arya and Robb?
She watches the light of the fire as it shadows and lightens his features. He is handsome, she knows. Even after they claimed Winterfell, she would be amiss not to hear the giggles young girls whisper as they see him walk by. Gently, Sansa touches the scar across his face. She knows the stories as told by the Wildlings of how he was once a Crow that became a Wildling. Her fingers brush against his closed lids, the bone of his cheek, and then his jaw, the backs of her fingers being scratched against the stubble of his beard.
He is older, and she has seen it in his eyes, just as surely as she can see it in his face. His face is hardened, not boyish anymore. His shoulders broader and his arms strong. And his lips…
Sansa's fingers pause as the tips of her fingers rest on his lips. She wonders, briefly, what it would be like to kiss him. She wonders if his burned hand would rest on her cheek and if he would kiss her sweetly, just as he has kissed her on the cheek time and again. She wonders if—
Her breath hitches as she pulls her hand away, a shiver running through her body as she feels the panic rise in her chest.
She thinks of him as a brother, nothing more. Her thoughts were not her own. They could not have been. She has been through so much, it would not do well for her body to betray her in this manner. She has been hurt and abused and beaten. Yet, with her half-brother, she feels none of these things.
She feels safe around him, that is all. Her panic is for naught. Lightly, she places her palm on his chest, studying the rising and falling of his breath.
Yes, she thinks, as she feels her nerves begin to calm. He is her brother and she feels safe. That is all.
She focuses on this one thought, her hand on his chest, as she falls into a blissful slumber.
