A/N: A new chapter before a new season. Please do comment your thoughts on the story. I would love to hear them.
I have the wolf's blood, Sansa thinks. I am a Stark within the walls of Winterfell. No one will harm me. No one will harm Jon.
The air from outside is ice and goose pimples form on her flesh. The footsteps are heavy and coming toward her. When they appear within the perimeter of the bed Sansa clasps her hand over her mouth, even as she hardly breathes. They have the silhouette of a man's boots and they stop dead in front of the bed to the left of her.
The person crouches down, places their palms on the floor, and lowers their head.
Their eyes meet hers, black in the darkness. She can make out a flash of teeth- a man is smiling at her like he has just found his prey.
Before Sansa can scream, the man jumps to his feet. There is a sudden clash of steel. It's Jon, Sansa realizes. He's attacked.
She'd seen men fight up close only once in the tourney at King's Landing. It had made her cling tightly to her lord father, and when she'd seen blood spurt out of a man's neck like juice squeezed out of a lemon, she'd screamed. Only seeing something terrible was better than just hearing it. Without sight, the imagination runs wild. She doesn't know which of them is winning or losing, if blood has been drawn, who's grunting in pain.
It's a struggle that is not loud enough. There is no commotion outside and one comes to help them.
Sansa sees the scuffling of feet and she can't make out which are Jon's and which are the man's and has only the sound of steel to know that the struggle is ongoing, that Jon still stands.
She wonders if she should come out or if that would be folly. Staying hidden seems wrong—though it's no use when the man had already found her. What if Jon needs her help?
Just then, there is a growl that is unmistakably Jon's, but the man is silent in his advances whatever they are. Only briefly she thinks she can hear panting that isn't Jon's.
There is a crash like wood splintering and someone falls to the floor. There is the clang of a sword falling after. Sansa can make out a form struggling on the floor, and only when they roll out of the way from an incoming strike and towards the bed does Sansa realize it is Jon, his hair a mess of curls undone in the struggle. For a moment their eyes meet and then he is on his feet again.
He's without a sword, Sansa thinks. Her heart is beating so fast she thinks she is sure to die before the man can kill her first.
Any moment now she thinks she will hear Jon cry out as a sword pieces his heart. Without a sword, how long can he go on? This man moved into the room with a purpose, and for the brief moment she saw him she recognized the dark intent in his eyes, they were Ramsay's eyes, a hound's eyes.
It could be hours that she hears the same shuffling of feet, the grunts and shouts. It remains dark outside from what she can see of the window and that is how she knows it hasn't been days.
Another sword drops to the floor. The opponent's, Sansa thinks—or maybe it is Jon's again after he reclaimed it. Then there is the sound of something awful. A different kind of struggle, with strange breathing. Sansa dares to crawl forward to the edge of the bed for a better view.
There is a pair of feet kicking oddly, as if the person is reclined and tapping the floor, like dancing. There is the shuffling of clothes against clothes and a wet, raspy noisy from someone's throat. Choking, Sansa realizes. It doesn't take long before the sound is cut short, like a taut string being cut. A body hits the floor heavy. Sansa can only see the feet. One foot twitches, then goes still.
Sansa's blood is rushing and she cannot make out the man left standing from her position. She hears breathing but it seems distant. Would it matter now, if she stayed hidden? If it was Jon on the floor, then she would be dead even with heart still beating. If it was Jon on the floor, she would not care if it beat or not.
"Sansa?"
His voice comes out raspy and coarse like stone. Sansa crawls out, stumbling in her rush. He stands with chest rising and falling and hands in fists clenched on either side of him and she steps over the hand of the man on the floor so she can grab him.
He's sweating, the fabric of his arm is wet where she grips it. She realizes it might be blood but she doesn't care because he is standing, not kneeled over bleeding, not the man on the floor.
Jon stares at the man on the floor like he might stand again. He might. Somewhere in the strength of his own hands there'd been a fine line between life and death to snap and he isn't sure he had.
Sansa's presence doesn't register as anything but a non-threat. He doesn't feel the weight of her hand on his own arm until she squeezes it. She's saying his name, he realizes.
There's a roaring in his ears and Jon thinks she tells him he's bleeding. The thought doesn't concern him. He steps away from her grip and kneels in front of the man. He checks for breathing. The man's chest is still. If he has a heart, Jon doesn't feel it there, either.
He spots Longclaw on the far side of the room by the window. The man had knocked the blade out of his hand after they stood sword to sword for half a minute, feet digging into the floor. His arms ache from the resistance still. He crouches to pick up the sword.
He makes for the door, looking at Sansa only once in passing to make sure she isn't at death's door.
Joren Mormont is still bleeding out from his neck when Jon's feet stumble over him. The blood sticks to his fingers when he puts his hand at Joren's throat. There's no pulse, he didn't expect there to be, but he can't stop himself. Two hours ago he had heard his voice announcing Lady Stark's arrival. His eyes were blue but softer than the ice of a walker's eyes. Jon shuts them closed, leaving smudges of red.
In the courtyard below he can see the kennelmaster locking the kennel door and turning to leave for the servant quarters. It takes Jon a few tries before the man hears him and goes to him. He runs for the guards upon hearing the urgency in Jon's command for them.
Jon's shouting is heard by those in the guest house parallel to the Great Keep. Half of them emerge half-asleep, the other half looking giddy and ready to fight.
The guards sound the horn and soon enough all of Winterfell is awake.
Jon goes back into the room. Sansa is sat the bed, staring at the assassin still body. More so, it's like she's staring past him.
"Are you hurt?" he asks her. She shakes her head 'no'. He looks her over again to make sure. He'd heard men say they felt as good as a holy man with gaping holes in their chests.
The guards arrive and he only has time to tell Sansa to stay in the room and ask them to swarm it before he is out the door again.
Ser Davos, only a few doors away, has emerged from his chambers at the sound of the commotion. He goes to Jon's side instantly, looking at him like he'd just come back to life again.
The guard at Sansa's chambers has the same bleeding throat. The door is shut but the lock is undone. From behind it comes a whining and a scratching against the door. Jon pushes it open and Ghost barks at him.
There are no rough markings on the door. The assassin had been savage with everything but the locks. He picked this one too. Either Ghost stopped him short, or he realized Sansa was not there.
Jon instructs the men to search the perimeter of the castle for signs of intrusion, and to make sure no one else was creeping in the shadows. The guards have looks on their faces like they are afraid he might chastise them, but Jon gives out commands without malice, only volume. He will deal with whoever was on guard at the gates tomorrow. Or rather, when the sun is well up, he realizes.
The stable master is a heavy sleeper. After knocking for a full minute, Jon is ready to have the guards take down the door in case the man had fallen victim to the assassin when a light emerges from the crack beneath the door. A heavy set man opens it, squinting from behind a candle. When he recognizes Jon, he blubbers out an apology. They need four horses for four men, Jon instructs, to scout beyond the walls of Winterfell and near the edge of the Wolfswood.
"Do you anything about this man?" Davos later asks him when Jon is making his way back to his chambers. Ghost trots behind them. Jon feels hot like fire even without his furs. He wants to douse himself in the cold.
"We'll search his body but I doubt we'll find a house sigil," Jon says.
"Are you hurt?" Davos asks, struggling to keep up with Jon's quick pace. Jon remembers there's cuts on his face and blood on his hands, and something burning his skin below his left armpit, but he's forgotten it in the rush.
"I'm fine," he responds.
The movements of the assassin come back to him. It was a style of fighting like nothing he'd seen; the man glided on his feed and wove his sword through the air like it was weightless.
He mentions as much to Davos.
"He may be from the Free Cities," Davos says. "He sounds like a swordsman of Braavos."
He came one many times too close, Jon thinks. Still, he wasn't quick enough, even in the dark, even when he'd disarmed Jon. Jon's stretches his fingers. He can still feel the bob of the assassin's throat where he struggled to breath. There are scratches on his hand where the man tried to claw him away.
He pushes the thought away when they arrive at his chambers. He turns to Ser Davos.
"Whoever's awake will want to know what's happened. Tell them the truth: there's been an intrusion but that there's no longer danger."
"What will you tell them come tomorrow?"
"Until we know more, nothing," Jon says.
Davos nods. He places a hand on Jon's shoulder. "See the maester, lad, though I can't tell where you're bleeding from. And take your sister too, perhaps." He motions with his head at the door.
The four guards had shut the door and stood with swords drawn, but moved aside when Jon made to enter.
They moved out the body but there were still smears of blood on the floor. Jon doesn't remember where he'd cut the man but it is sufficient to know that he had.
Sansa is still sitting on the bed when he enters. A candle has been lit and sits on the table. It makes shadows dance on the wall when the wind blows in from outside. The window has been closed shut. The wooden chair that Jon had broken in a poor attempt to disarm the assassin lies on its back on the floor, its back splintered in half. Sansa looks up when he shuts the door behind him and Ghost.
"What's happening?" she asks, voice quivering. Ghost goes to her and pushes his nose into one of her hands, whining because he doesn't like her being afraid.
"The men are searching to see if there are more intruders."
"Men with his intent usually acts alone."
"Just to be sure," he says.
She looks him over, then asks, "Are you hurt?"
"Just a few scratches."
"There's blood."
"It's not mine." He remembers the guard. Lyanna Mormont will have to bear the brunt of the news on the morrow. His stomach twists.
Ghost curls up at Sansa's feet and looks up at Jon with questioning eyes, as if to say, Are you certain?
The North still spread word that he was the greatest swordsman who ever walked, even more now, after the battle. There was the problem of how he died and come back. Yet he felt more mortal now than ever, realizing how closely he brushed hands with death. Unconsciously he strokes the pommel of his sword. Longclaw was a part of him. When the sword fell to the floor, everything that followed was a gamble. What would have happened if he failed in footing, or moved out of the way an inch too short?
Jon walks to the stone basin against the wall, grabs the block of soap on its edge, and begins to scrub his hands. "He tried your chambers first," he tells Sansa. "Either Ghost stopped him or he knew you were elsewhere."
"He came to kill us. Or just me." Her voice sounds deepened, and cold, like she is used to saying this and is more angry at whoever sent the assassin than scared that she'd almost died. Losing his sort meant gambling with her life, too. If he'd been struck down, she would have followed. The thought makes him look at her, but her back is to him, her shoulders stiff.
Whatever the fault was in keeping the castle secure, he knows it was his own doing. He'd overlooked something, put men in the wrong places.
"We'll find out who did this, Sansa." The words come out weaker than he wants them to be.
The soap and blood begins to swirl together in the basin. He picks at the blood that's dried and matted on his skin.
"We'll make them answer for it," he says, firmer this time. It is a promise he will keep. He doesn't need Sansa's faith in it, only what burns red-hot inside him.
She is silent for a moment before asking, "Was anyone else hurt?"
The coldness melts there into something that makes her sound like a queen who gives her people reason to love her. The thought stirs something inside him, something else warm, but not the bloodthirst of a moment ago. He'll need her by his side tomorrow in the Great Hall, he knows, for her words.
"No. Not that we've seen," he tells her. He glances over his shoulder for a moment, noticing the disarray of the room—the blood, the chair, the unlit fireplace, his own stink of blood. He has half a mind to call in the servants and give Sansa a chance at relief. "There are four guards at your chambers now. Mine will escort you. You should rest before dawn comes."
She gives no response. He hopes he has not offended her. He does not want her to go, not truly, but that was the order of things.
It would be wise to take his suggestion and go to her rooms and wash herself of the dust she had gathered from being under the bed, and of the small bit of blood she'd taken from his sleeve.
Instead, she says, "He found me under the bed." She feels a knot forming in her throat. "I thought—"
He's preoccupied with washing his hands but the water stops splashing and she knows he's looking at her.
When she doesn't continue, he asks, "Sansa?"
She sucks in a breath, her shoulders rising unsteadily. "I didn't know where you were."
He moves somewhere behind her, but she doesn't dare turn around. He can't see her face. What a helpless girl she would be, if she showed him her face. It would be like showing a mother a bleeding knee and crying like the Others had come when it was only a scratch.
"I stayed hidden for advantage," he says somewhere close behind her.
She shakes her head because he doesn't understand and because that's all she can do. The knot in her throat hurts now and if she speaks she knows her voice will betray her.
The bed shifts from his weight when he climbs onto it. "Did you think I would leave you?"
She can't help herself when a sob escapes her. Sansa wishes he hadn't come close. Now he will see her pathetic tears and wet nose and think nothing of himself, even when he is the one covered in blood. Sweet, honorable Jon. They should sing songs about him. They will, surely, after all the fighting is done. And what is she? Nothing but the girl who needs his protecting without giving anything in return but tears.
"Come here," he says. His voice is low and gentle. The sincerity is something she longed for from someone for so long; it feels sweet to give in, and there's no use in hiding now. He puts his hand on her shoulder, and she doesn't resist when he tugs her to him. She turns to face him and sinks her face into his chest.
There's still blood on him she can smell, metallic and sharp, mixed in with the leather scent of his jerkin. He wraps his hands around her and rests his head on top of hers.
He lets her cry into him and Sansa realizes she can't remember the last time she had done that—truly let her tears flow without a thought to the consequences.
"I won't leave you," he murmurs into her hair. "You're safe here."
When he's close like this, arms wound around her tight, she believes him. Just this once, she thinks. Just this once she'll pretend she lives at the happy end of a song.
The last time she'd cried to someone like this must have been before she'd left Winterfell, to her mother. Often times she'd wept into Catelyn's dress because of something Arya had done to her treasured possessions. A torn dress or a stolen hairbrush, and Sansa had been in ruins. The thought of it makes her laugh in between sobs. What she would do to have Arya be the reason for all her unhappiness again.
Jon's massaging the back of her head with one hand and it soothes her, though she can feel her head begin to ache like it always did after a bout of tears.
She turns her head so that her ear rests against his chest and wipes at her eyes and nose with the sleeve of her dress. She is far from being a lady now, but she doesn't care. Jon has his blood, I have my mess of tears, and now it's all mixed together.
"I had a doll once," she mumbles.
Jon moves his hand up and down across her back. "A doll?"
"The best dollmaker in King's Landing fashioned it for me. It had silks in its dress. Beautiful enough for a princess."
She still remembers where she left it: on the vanity in her rooms at the Red Keep. It always sat straight, she made sure of it, and she glanced at it whenever she was being fussed over or wound tightly in a dress, remembering who gave it to her. It was never a happy remembrance. It was gone now, no doubt— thrown away with the rest of her possessions. Maybe a child in Flea Bottom had it, and treasured it more than she did when it was gifted to her.
"Father gave it to me. I told him that I didn't play with dolls anymore. I was so angry at him for killing Lady, but I should've thanked him for what he did to her."
"You were only a girl."
"Arya wasn't like that," Sansa protests. If Arya fell over, she got up and dusted herself off. I only cried, Sansa thinks. "She knew how much Father loved us. Why didn't I? I disappointed him." She still remembers how torn he'd looked when she gushed about wanting so much to stay in King's Landing to marry Joffrey. She made him think she hated him for wanting to send her away.
Jon pulls back to look at her. A frown is deeply etched in his forehead. His hair is in a slight disarray and Sansa isn't sure if it's dirt or blood dried at his temple. His thumb grazes over the soft skin under her eye, wiping away a tear. "Father loved you. If he's watching over now, he's nothing but proud."
"How could he be? I'm a coward. He was never afraid." Even walking up the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, Eddard Stark was firm-shouldered, she remembers. He could only spare her a glance then. The last time he looked at his daughter, she was standing side by side with Lannisters, asking him to lie.
"He was a good father, letting you think that," Jon says. She looks up at him with a frown. He shakes his head softly. "But he was always afraid, Sansa."
