Chapter Three | Jon

The soft grey light of early morning filtered down through the leaves of the Godswood, and Jon was drunk. He'd never been much of one for drinking, but this night — now this morning, he supposed — he was drinking. He leaned back against the bone white trunk of the weirwood and took another deep swallow of wine.

His father would be horrified to see him drunk here, defiling this sacred space. He couldn't be trusted with anything it seemed.

Sansa…

Even now in the depths of this hell of his own making, even as he bit back bile knowing what he had done, his blood heated at the thought of her. The petal-soft feel of her skin, the way she gasped his name against his lips, the tight, wet, plush little heaven of her —

With a strangled roar he threw what remained of his bottle of wine. It landed with an unsatisfying thud against a neighboring tree, the last of the sweet southern wine — presented to him so ceremoniously by that pretentious cunt Little Finger — spilling out like blood into the new snow.

Little Finger. He hated having that snake under his roof, but seeing as how he wouldn't be under his roof without him, he couldn't exactly turn him and his legion out into the snow. There were wounded men to tend to. He wouldn't be much of a King if he didn't extend his hospitality to the men that risked their lives for his.

He placed his head between his hands and closed his eyes, trying to dull the pounding he felt between them. It seemed absurd to him that he was a King. It seemed even more absurd that anyone should risk their lives for his when he valued his own so little. He'd died once, and honestly, he wished he had stayed that way — until he saw her.

Behind his eyelids he could see her. The snow clinging to her red hair, the way her ice blue eyes had swept the courtyard with a guarded, regal gaze — even in her ragged cloak, her face streaked with dirt, she looked like a queen as she entered the gates of Castle Black.

He should have called out to her as soon as he saw her, but he couldn't. He was transfixed. He was undone. She circled around and her eyes met his.

Sansa…

With his face still in his hands he heard Ghost loping towards him from behind the trees, a whisper of a growl letting him know that someone was approaching. He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve and straightened himself.

"Ghost. To me." Ghost settled near him, looking expectantly into the darkness.

"Begging your pardon, my Lord. Pardon — your Grace." Little Finger appeared from the shadows with a deep bow. As he stepped out into the dim light of the clearing, his eyes landed on the bottle lying in the wine-stained snow.

"That vintage was not to your liking, Your Grace?" A smile played across Little Finger's lips.

"Not at all," said Jon. "If anything I liked it too much."

"It was a night for celebration," Little Finger replied.

"Indeed." They settled into an uneasy silence.

"What brings you here at such an early hour, Lord Baelish?" asked Jon, clearing his throat. "I didn't think that your house kept the Old Gods."

"I am the last of my house. They keep what I keep," he replied, skirting the rim of the frozen pool.

"And what is that?" asked Jon.

"Secrets, mostly." Little Finger's face was grave, but a twinkle in his eye betrayed him. Jon managed a wry smile.

"So, I've heard." Jon considered him for a long moment. "You also kept me alive. You kept Sansa alive. You delivered our home back to us. Why? Or is that a secret?"

Little Finger raised his face to the dawn that was beginning to filter down through the limbs of the trees above, then turned slowly to face him.

"You'd like to know what I want, Your Grace." His tone was direct. It wasn't a question.

"You don't have to call me that when we're alone. I'm here because of you. Call me, Jon." Little Finger inclined his head in ascent.

"But the question remains."

"It does," said Jon. "I need to know what it cost me."

"This time, nothing. In this matter our interests were aligned."

"And what interests are those?" asked Jon, rising to his feet, hoping that his unsteadiness was not as apparent as it felt.

"The stability of the North. The stability of the realm. I think you recognize in me that I have…ambitions." Jon clenched and unclenched his fist, considering his words.

"And Sansa?" His question seemed to in the hang in the cold morning air even as his frozen breath dissipated.

"I loved her mother very much," said Little Finger with a rueful smile. "Out of love for her, I helped Sansa escaped from King's Landing when I could. I wish it had been sooner. I did what I could to protect her."

"You sold her to Ramsay Bolton," Jon replied, his voice full of a fury that he had meant to contain.

Little Finger's face turned ashen, "I didn't know. I thought she would be safe. I thought her name would protect her, especially here. I swear to you — I didn't know."

Jon tried to quiet the roaring of his blood as he looked at the finely dressed man before him. Little Finger's face seemed to bear a genuine and profound regret, and yet he could not stop himself from imagining the crunch of his bones beneath his fists.

Sansa had never told him what Ramsay had done to her, but he could guess. He saw the way that her eyes would sometimes lose focus and her hands would begin to tremble. He'd heard her wake screaming in the night.

At Castle Black, there were nights when she'd come to him, drenched in a cold sweat, shaking, unable to speak. He'd wrapped her in furs and held her against his chest, talking to her for hours — telling her the stories that Old Nan had told them, telling her of things he'd seen beyond the wall — until she'd fallen into an exhausted sleep.

"I came back for her," said Little Finger, his eyes full of anguish. "I couldn't undo what had been done to her, but I could give her back her home." Jon let out his breath in a violent gust, raising his eyes to meet Little Finger's. Lord Baelish was the first to look away.

"I'm sorry. I can't tell you how truly sorry I am. My men and I will be gone by tomorrow." He turned back the way he came, making his way to the edge of the clearing.

"No. Your men need to rest. You'll stay as long as you need to." Little Finger turned to face him from the tree line.

"Thank you, Jon." He turned again to leave and then seemed to reconsider.

"She's lucky to have you," he said, his voice brimming with emotion. "After all that she's been through, after all the ways that she has been hurt and exploited, she's lucky to have her brother to protect her now. I can only imagine what it means to her."

Little Finger had barely turned before Jon's tears began to fall, the weight of his words tearing a hole in his chest through which the cold winter wind howled — and he howled along with it. It was almost dark again before he stood and made his way out of the Godswood.