Chapter 4! Hooray.
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He gives her his chambers to stay in (even though they are rightfully Edd's rooms, by now), and has a cot set up for Brienne in the antechamber until he can figure out more permanent accommodations. Castle Black has never really had women before, except for Gilly, and she had stayed in a tiny room close to the barracks. Such a room is not suitable for Sansa and her lady knight, and unfortunately there aren't many private places here. So he goes back to bunking with the rest of the men; he finds he doesn't mind.
Sansa spends her days sewing and reading and tending to the pretty grey mare they'd stolen from the Bolton soldiers, which she names Winter. Brienne and Pod are always trailing after her, unless they are practicing in the training yard. He discretely redresses her wounds every night, keeping a close eye on the infected cut on her ankle. Even after seventeen days away from Ramsay, her bruises still linger. He begins to wonder if they will ever go away; but eventually, to his great relief, they start to turn yellow, and her cuts continue to scab over.
Within two weeks of treatment, the infection disappears.
He has spent his time getting Castle Black in order, and pondering his potential war against the Boltons. He has done inventory, seen to the food larders, and talked with Davos and Tormund about strategy and the number of soldiers they might be able to squeeze from the Northern houses.
It is not encouraging.
Then he receives a letter from Ramsay Bolton himself, and it changes everything.
"You will watch as I skin them living—"
He cuts himself off, the air knocked from his lungs as scorching, unadulterated fury ignites in his bloodstream.
"Go on," his sister says, sitting across the table with a tragic sort of awareness shining from her eyes.
"It's just more of the same," he mutters, his voice low and rough with barely controlled rage.
She snatches the parchment from his fingers, and he looks on helplessly as her eyes scan the foul words on the page.
"You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister," she says, her voice trembling only briefly. Hearing the words out loud only makes him angrier. "You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother—" Here she pauses, and takes a shuddering breath. "Then I will spring your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see." She exhales. "Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
His heart pounds out a terrible rhythm against his breastbone, and the blood that has been poisoned by death is a sickening noise in his ears. "Lord of Winterfell," he says darkly, "and Warden of the North."
"His father's dead," Sansa says, her arms crossed on the table, her eyes filled with resentment and cynicism and anger. "Ramsay killed him." She speaks with absolute conviction and, remembering what had been done to her, he knows that she is right. "And now he has Rickon."
His protest feels futile. "We don't know that—"
"Yes we do," she interrupts, her eyelids fluttering. Once again, there is no uncertainty in her voice.
Tension stretches between them, the air thick with anxiety. Tormund breaks the silence. "How many men does he have in his army?"
She frowns, and looks up at the ceiling. "I heard him say five thousand once, when he was talking about Stannis' attack."
Jon immediately turns to Tormund. He hesitates—he hates asking. But all he can think about is his little brother sitting in a cold, dark cell—and Sansa's ruined body. "How many do you have?"
"That can march and fight…" He pauses. "Two thousand. The rest are children and old people."
Jon casts his eyes down. It is not enough. He looks at his sister. She looks especially pretty today—somehow noticing it only serves to make his anger and disappointment worse.
Her face is hard, her eyes blazing with emotion. "You're the son of the last true Warden of the North," she says, her voice strong and even. "Northern families are loyal, they'll fight for you if you ask."
Yes, but I'm not a Stark. He stares down at the table. He has never felt so hopeless. He jolts when she reaches across the table, forcefully grabbing his hand, gripping it with cold, pale fingers.
"A monster," she says furiously, "has taken our home and our brother." She traps him in her angry stare. "We have to go back to Winterfell and save them both."
His eyes drop from her face. He thinks of the last time he'd seen Winterfell—of the last time he'd laid eyes on his little brother. He thinks of the free folk, and of trying to fight five thousand trained soldiers with two thousand wildlings. Of trying to fight mounted cavalry with infantry.
Maybe she is right, though. Maybe he can rally some of the noble houses to his cause. Their cause. Perhaps there is still hope.
She squeezes his hand so hard it is almost painful. He looks back up at her, sees the desperation in her eyes and the determination etched into the lines of her lovely face.
He nods.
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It takes six days for them to prepare for their journey. She manages to finish the cloak she has made for him, and presents it to him in the courtyard as Podrick holds her horse.
"A new dress," he says lamely, gesturing to her as she approaches.
She smiles. The look in his eyes makes her uncomfortable—but it pleases her, somehow. Even if she can't quite identify it. "I made it myself. Do you like it?" She does not know why she asks. She does not know why she thinks he'll care.
"Yeah it's…" He clears his throat. "I like the wolf bit," he says awkwardly. His smile is tight.
"Good," she says, amused by his manner. "'Cause I made this," she continues, holding out the new cloak, "for you."
His eyebrows furrow, and he takes it from her, his gloved hand brushing her own.
"I made it like the one Father used to wear," she says, suddenly feeling nervous when he does not say anything. She shrugs, and feels a pang in her heart. "As near as I can remember."
He runs his finger over the wolf design in the leather strap. When he looks up at her, his expression is one of deep feeling. Gratefulness shines from his eyes. "Thank you, Sansa," he says softly.
She smiles, pleased. "You're welcome," she replies. Then she leaves him, striding over to her horse to avoid looking too closely at the strange gleam in his gaze.
She is not sure she wants to know what it means.
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It is just over an hour's ride to the wildling encampment. Brienne and Podrick are gone, having left their company a few miles back. She finds herself missing the comforting presence of the lady knight and her squire already; she hopes they stay safe.
They dismount, and Sansa observes her surroundings with watchful eyes, walking behind Jon as they make their way to the tent where the remaining wildling elders gather.
Jon and Tormund make a good team; together, they convince the free folk to help them. Davos says nothing and Sansa follows his example; it is not her place to speak here. As a legitimate Stark, she has standing with the Northern houses, but the wildlings don't recognize such things. They respect Jon because of his actions—because of the history that they share. It has nothing to do with the fact that noble blood runs through his veins.
One thing Sansa notices whilst Jon and the free folk talk is that wildling women seem to wander by every few seconds, their eyes glued hungrily to her half-brother as if he is the last piece of meat in winter. Their intentions are plain to see in their eyes.
She sweeps away her irrational, unexpected jealousy in favor of being amused.
"So, you must be the sister."
She turns to her left, and her eyes fall on a pair of women that sit by a fire, roasting some sort of fowl on a spit. One is stocky and blonde, the other black-haired and black-eyed, with skin just a shade darker than the snow.
She nods. "I'm Sansa Stark," she says, turning to face them fully. Jon is speaking in hushed tones to a tall brunette man, and Sansa senses it is private, so she diverts her attention.
"I'm Rosa," the brunette says, "this is Gridget." She holds out a wine skin; with only a moment's hesitation, Sansa takes it. She takes a tentative sip, and coughs, choking it down. Then she cocks her head, and takes another sip.
She doesn't know what it is, but it's strong, and different, and she likes it. It doesn't remind her of the fancy wines and meads of the South.
"This is good," she says, handing it back to the lovely wildling. "Thank you."
"Fermented goat's milk and rice wine," she says. "I'm impressed. Not many fancy ladies take to it."
Sansa smiles at her, unoffended. "Have you met many fancy ladies?" she asks, her tone teasing.
Rosa grins. "You have a point. Perhaps they aren't all soft."
Sansa shrugs. "Only most of them." She smiles bitterly. "I was once soft, too. I spent far too long in the South. But now I'm back in the North, and winter is coming, and there's no place for softness anymore."
"You've got that right." Her eyes flicker to Sansa's right, and she looks over her shoulder to see Jon look over at them briefly, still caught up in conversation with one of the elders. "A fine man, your brother."
Sansa smirks. "You all certainly seem to think so," she says with a raised eyebrow, gesturing to the two-dozen women that stare unabashedly at her half-brother.
Rosa and Gridget both chuckle. "Ever since Ygritte started bragging about his talented tongue, the free women have been after him like a pack of rabid wolves."
"I wouldn't mind a taste," Gridget says, her voice low and hoarse. She grins cheekily. "Lucky woman, Ygritte. Just look at him. Now that's an arse worthy of sinking your teeth into."
"Who's Ygritte?" Sansa asks stupidly, feeling her cheeks flush as her body stirs unfamiliarly.
Rosa sighs. "Jon Snow's woman," she answers. "She died a while back. She was the envy of the free women, taking up with the prettiest boy in camp."
"Liked to rub it in our faces," Gridget grunts. "Can't say I miss that about her."
Sansa exhales in surprise. She hasn't really spared a thought for Jon's love life—she'd just assumed, as a man of the Night's Watch, that he'd never taken a woman. Now she cannot push the image of him with a lover from her mind, and she hates herself for it.
Just then Jon walks up, the icy ground crunching under his boots. "Stop corrupting my sister," he drawls amusedly, looking pointedly at Rosa and Gridget. "You're both bad influences."
Rosa scoffs, and flutters her eyelashes at Jon teasingly; he rolls his eyes. "Don't worry, Lord Commander," she says flirtatiously. "We were just letting her try the good stuff." She holds up the wine skin. "She likes it. A true Northerner, your sister. We'll make a wildling out of her yet." She winks at Sansa, who grins. It feels strange. She does not smile often, these days.
"Yeah, yeah," Jon says gruffly. He catches the wine skin deftly when she tosses it to him, and takes a long pull of it. He wipes his mouth inelegantly with the back of his gloved hand, and then tosses it back. "I don't believe it for a second." He shakes his head. "I'd stay and chat, but we've got things to do. Try to keep out of trouble."
Rosa stands and stretches, and walks past Jon with a wink. "Perhaps you should try trouble on sometime, Snow." Sansa's eyes widen when the pretty wildling smacks him on the arse. "I think it'd look good on you." Jon's eyes harden with irritation as Rosa walks by Sansa and gives her a familiar peck on the cheek. "But if you're not up for it, I bet I could talk your pretty sister into spending her nights in my tent."
"Rosa." Jon's tone is full of warning, his square jaw clenched tightly.
The brunette throws her hands up in the air in surrender. "Okay, okay," she says, her eyebrows flying into her hairline. "I'll leave off." She smirks at him, and then turns and strides away, swinging her hips as she goes.
Jon shakes his head. Sansa feels her cheeks burn. Gridget looks up at them from her spot lounging by the fire, idly turning the spit with the bird on it. "See you on the battlefield, King Crow," she says with a smile.
Jon nods. "Gridget," he says in acknowledgement. Then he is striding away, and Sansa shares one last look with the blonde before she follows her brother. She flushes again when Gridget winks at her suggestively.
"Nice to meet you, sweet Sansa," Gridget croons. "Come back any time."
Sansa smiles at her shakily, and then hurries to catch up to Jon, who is moving quickly back through the camp towards where they'd left their horses, either oblivious to or uncaring of the many female eyes that follow him.
"Are they all like that?" Sansa whispers to him. She grabs his elbow, forcing him to slow down—her feet are swelling in her boots.
He huffs out a laugh—she likes seeing him smile, she realizes. He has good teeth. "To different degrees," he answers. "I've never quite gotten used to it."
Ser Davos waits with the horses, kindly holding her mare for her to mount. Jon offers her his hands; she places her foot in the makeshift stirrup he provides with his interlocked fingers, and he helps hoist her up. Normally she would be able to mount perfectly fine on her own, but her body isn't healed enough to allow that, yet. She controls the muscles in her face so he doesn't read how painful it is for her to sit astride anything.
She watches as Jon swings onto his stallion's saddle. "Ready?" he asks. She nods, and they set back out to rejoin their group, riding west towards Bear Island.
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Once again, thanks for reading! Please review, if you have the time or inclination.
xoxo
Giraffe :)