"You'll want leathers, my sweet southron lord. Velvet won't fare so well in these northern winds and rains." Ramsay tossed him riding clothing that was far rougher and less ornamented than Dickon's own riding clothes. Dickon held up the leathers to examine them. Ramsay was shorter than him, and leaner too, but they might still fit.
Outside the sky was still lightening as morning stretched over the land—if they rode fast, they'd catch up with the Lannister's garrison on their way back from the Targaryen holdfast, perhaps at the first village past Cerwyn.
"So we'll just sort of...scare him," Dickon confirmed, after they had dressed, as they walked to the Dreadfort's stables. The Dreadfort was a crude, primitive structure, hearkening back to the days of knights and perhaps even beyond that, and the courtyard surrounding the stables was little more than a square of packed earth. Carvings of stone white as bone held the braziers along the wall, and they looked oddly like human hands. In the wrong light, they could have been human skeleton hands. Dickon would be glad to leave the Dreadfort. It made Winterfell look positively cozy.
"It's your call." Ramsay tossed him a leather hood, then strapped his quiver and bow onto his back. "You're my lord now; I'll do as you say."
"I don't want to force you into anything," Dickon said uncertainly, taking the hood and examining it. It looked like an executioner's hood. He pulled it on over his head. Ramsay had mounted his own horse, a muddy grey pony. He pulled his own hood down over his face, so only those eerie blue eyes peered out, pale as a frozen pond.
"My lord," Ramsay began impatiently, "this is for you. We are avenging you. So tell me, what do you want? Forget me, forget your father—forget even Sansa Stark. What is it you want?"
Dickon mounted his own finer horse, the hood growing hot quickly. He pulled at it to let a bit of air in. The leather smelled odd. He remembered it was, technically, animal skin that he was wearing against his own face. I'm becoming a savage, he thought as he kicked his heel into his horse's side and they set off across the narrow bridge leading out of the Dreadfort. A northern savage.
What was it that he wanted? He immediately thought of Sam, of Mother, of the golden fields and blue skies and lush green of the Reach. But he could not have that—Sam was gone, probably dead, and their home was Winterfell now. So what did he want?
His brow throbbed where his father had hit him. Later he had tried not to cry as he hid in the armory and pounded a training sack—burlap stuffed with flour and tied crudely into the shape of a man—until the white stuff poofed out, getting everywhere, and still he punched and hit it, until the urge to cry had passed. What, are you a girl? He had remembered all of the things Father had called Sam. He'd never called Dickon those things, before. Now he did. Ladyboy, cunt, and worse. I'm not a girl, he had thought, punching the bag over and over. I'm not a girl, not a girl.
"What would you do?" Dickon asked, riding faster to join with Ramsay.
"Me?" Ramsay sounded almost flattered. "My opinion is of no importance, my liege lord," he said obsequiously.
"Of course it is," Dickon insisted. "You're the only one helping me."
"I'm a northman, Lord Tarly. My father and I swear allegiance to you, and to the crown, but we are still the savage northerners you have been told the stories about," Ramsay reasoned. "My instinct is to take the Lannister general and flay him 'til he has no more skin, to torture him until he begs for mercy. But you are a sweet, civilized, educated southron man; you don't have such hard, vicious impulses. I'm sure you will do whatever is kind, and show the man the Mother's mercy."
"We are not so gentle in the south," Dickon argued, bristling. "King's Landing is a nest of vipers."
"I'm sure it is, my lord. I'm sure that in between all of the dancing and singing and powdered wigs you have just as much savagery."
Dickon rode faster, rode so hard into the driving rain that Ramsay had to struggle for his pony to keep up with him.
Even getting to the next village took the whole damn morning. They couldn't exactly leave without the horses and artillery—they had not got the Beggar Princess or the Stark girl after all; they had to come back with something—but lugging fifty horses and dozens of trunks full of weapons was slow work. They were about an hour's ride south of Cerwyn when they came to a village. Jaime's leg wouldn't stop bleeding, and he was feeling increasingly hassled. The Dothraki horses were weak, and they even lost a few of them on the short journey to the village.
"The lot was starving, I think," Bronn said as one of the soldiers shot a horse whose leg had been lamed by the uneven ground. It was pouring, of course, because that was what the North did. It was like a woman, crying endlessly, or else raging with wind and snow.
"We'll stop at the next village and feed them and rest," Jaime said through grit teeth. "This is probably folly to take them; most of them are probably past the point of help. And no one knows how to ride the damn things."
At this rate it would be spring before they got back to King's Landing. They stopped at the village, and again the northerners looked upon Jaime, and Jaime alone, with such loathing that it made his skin burn with awareness. They took up the only inn in the village, and the horses sprawled well beyond the stables, and into the fields beyond the village. It was all a mess, an unsolvable mess. He was unaccustomed to failure; he was learning that he liked it not.
The Targaryens were more organized than he had initially assumed: they had clearly had an escape plan ready and waiting in the event of attack. No one had even seen the Targaryen girl, nor Tyrion, and the men who had remained at the holdfast had been ready to fight to the death—and fight to the death many of them did. They were also far more disciplined fighters, and many of them—rather, most of them—not Dothraki at all.
And then, Jon Snow...Jaime could have killed him, skilled and talented though the Targaryen boy was, so why had he not? Why had he thrown his sword? He had known he would do it even as he had crested the ridge and seen the boy dragging the Stark girl. He could have shot him; he could have simply shot them both. Perhaps it would have been the kindest thing to do.
He had no idea of how many of the Targaryen force had escaped the holdfast, but if even a tenth of them remained, they were still far stronger than anyone had realized. And the rumor was that Jorah Mormont and Davos Seaworth had joined the cause. So Daenerys Targaryen now had a veteran soldier—Mormont—who had once been one of the royal army's best fighters, and a legendary smuggler—Seaworth—and Tyrion, a famed strategist, and, if the word of Bronn and the other men was to be believed, some of the most vicious and disciplined fighters they had ever seen. And she also had Jon Snow, the best swordsman Jaime had ever seen in his life. Rhaegar had been somewhat talented but he had fallen easily. Jon Snow was his own breed.
And now Daenerys had Sansa Stark, too, thanks to him. And this was no small thing. Sansa Stark had been gifted with a fine mind, finer than too many realized. She was as clever as Tyrion, and her knowledge of both the Northern clans and Southron families was vast, extensive, nuanced. Not to mention she was as symbolic of the North as Winterfell itself. If Daenerys wanted to rally the Northern houses behind her, she now had been given the single most valuable tool to do so.
No wonder his father so often called him the stupid one.
Tense and irritable, Jaime took to his room, where Bronn helped him bandage the wound that Jon Snow had given him. They did not speak; Bronn seemed to sense Jaime's mood, and wisely did not test him.
"We'll need to find a place to camp, first," Jon said as they trudged through the sodden grass. "And we need food."
"Where are we going in the Barrowlands?"
"We've got a man there, acting as an outpost. He's a former member of the Kingsguard—"
"—Not Sir Barristan Selmy?" Sansa asked in surprise. Jon's gaze snapped to her.
"That's right, you must have known him."
"Of course. I remember the day Joff banished him. I wondered what had happened to him. I always thought Joff was a fool to banish him, and now I have proof," she said with some satisfaction. "He went to the other side after all."
Jon was trying not to smile at her smugness. There was a lightness, a brightness, about her that was infectious, even in the pouring rain. She seemed to float.
They came to another copse of trees, set into a smaller ridge dotted with stones. On the other side, the ridge hung over the ground, pinned by rock, to create a decent enough shelter from the wind. It was late afternoon now, and soon darkness would fall. They needed to set up camp now.
"We'll camp here for the night," Jon said as they huddled into the hole against the wind and rain. Already it was a relief just to be out of the downpour. "I'll see what I can hunt."
"What about me? What should I do?" Sansa pressed, as he dropped his weapons in a sodden heap.
"Get dry." Sansa was wringing her hands, looking so eager to help. Jon cast his gaze about the campsite in exasperation. "Try to build up the rocks, I guess, against the west wind. The rain'll be coming from that direction tonight, most like. But don't hurt yourself," he warned. "You've not eaten in days, don't forget."
"Neither have you," Sansa argued. Jon gave her a half-smile.
"I'm used to it," he pointed out. He turned and set back out into the rain with his bow and arrows. There was a run of trees that he thought might bring him some luck. When he glanced back, Sansa was struggling to lift a rock, her face set in determination.
Jon became a blur in the rain, and Sansa set to work gathering the rocks to build a wall, but it was harder than she might have guessed. The rocks wouldn't stop rolling, and all too quickly, she began to feel dizzy and weak, and had to sit down, panting. When she looked at her progress, she became furious. It looked like she had done nothing, and it certainly wouldn't do anything to block out the rain.
After half an hour of struggling, she decided to give up. She had piled up all of the rocks she could lift, and they made a neat little wall that was pretty but useless.
She might be able to build a fire, though everything was so wet, and she'd never built one before. She wandered around the ridge, looking for sticks that might have been a bit sheltered from the rain. She found a decent number, and dumped them in the shelter of the wall of dirt, and then took some of the rocks from her little wall and built them up around the sticks, to protect them.
There. Feeling immensely pleased with herself, she looked around their little campsite, thinking of what else she might do, and quite suddenly, she realized they would be sleeping together.
Her whole body seemed to flush with embarrassment. They had no sleeping skins, no blankets, no beds—only the cloaks on their back.
This is what the smallfolk do, she told herself bravely. I'm no lady anymore; I will do what I must to survive.
But she had only a lady's skills. She knew only how to dance and sing and curtsey and weave. She could identify precisely the type of spoon necessary for every kind of soup, and she knew what colours were acceptable to wear to every kind of wedding, and she could name all of the important families in the kingdom and identify their heraldry—but she did not know how to start a fire, or hunt for her own food, or even how to set up a campsite.
She looked round at the tall reeds and the sparse trees. She couldn't even see Jon anymore. Was there any game to be had here? She didn't even know what sort of game they would find. Rabbits? Deer?
Jon walked back to the campsite with two rangy rabbits strung on his bow. Even from a distance he could see Sansa's bright hair. The campsite came into view, slowly in the rain. She'd built up a little structure in the middle, he could see. He was not looking forward to attempting to start a fire in this weather. If he could find any dry kindling, it would be a miracle.
When he reached the campsite, he almost wanted to laugh. Sansa had built a tiny little wall with a mason's accuracy, demarcating the edge of their shelter, and had used the rest of the rocks to make a little mound in the middle, just out of the rain, that was filled with sticks. She rose to her feet when she saw him.
"Did you find anything?"
"Not much. Rabbit," he said, swinging his bow down to show her. She flinched at the sight of the rabbits, but did not comment on them.
"I tried to find some dry wood, but there wasn't much," she rambled anxiously. "Hopefully the wood has dried; I tried to keep it out of the rain."
Jon studied the kindling she had collected.
"That's good," he said with a nod. "That should be enough to start a decent fire." She was still looking at him, biting her lip, waiting for him to tell her how she could help. "...We'll need three sticks, to make a spit. One longer one, to span the fire, and two to hold it up. About this high," he said, holding his hand above the campfire she had built. Sansa nodded and immediately ventured into the rain once more.
She had made two little seats out of stone, out of the rain, before the campfire, and she'd dug out a bit of an alcove into the packed earth, big enough for a body to fit into. Jon settled onto one of the seats heavily, with his two rabbits in tow, and took out his dirk.
They'd have to share the cloaks. There was nothing else to be done about it. He told himself that it would be no different than sharing sleeping skins with Jorah or Davos or Daario or Grey Worm, as he had done so many times. Nothing unusual about it, nothing to be awkward about. Survival tactics, he reminded himself, his face flushing, as he stripped the furry skin off the rabbits.
Sansa soon returned, with about ten times as many sticks as they needed, and dumped the bundle in front of him.
"Will any of these work?" she asked breathlessly, kneeling beside him and spreading them out. He tried not to laugh at her sincerity.
"Those two," he pointed out with his dirk, "and that one there. Here, watch." He took the longer of the three and began hacking at either end, making it come to points. "This'll make it easier to turn. Give me the other two, now." Sansa quickly handed him the other sticks, and he cut into their ends, then made sharp points at the other ends.
Wordlessly, they built the spit over the firepit. She'd actually done a surprisingly good job of building the firepit and keeping the kindling dry. She watched him intently, biting her lip in concentration. "Now we have to start a fire," he continued. "It has to get pretty hot before we can start cooking."
She nodded fiercely, her gaze trained on his hands as he started the fire. It took a few tries, because the wind was blowing hard and wet, but soon the kindling caught flame, and they watched the pale yellow flame curl and lick about the leaves and twigs. The flame snapped and crackled, as they angled their bodies to protect it from the winds.
His first few months with Daenerys kept coming back to him, from watching Sansa. Viserys had still been alive, then, and Jon had been so anxious, so on edge, so determined to earn his place with them. He'd been so grateful to have a family, but so painfully homesick for Winterfell, and so fearful of the future. He'd been a boy, then, so accustomed to being ignored by Catelyn and her brood, and was ready to fight for any chance of acceptance, of warmth. He had lost all designs of status, of esteem, and would have done anything that Viserys or Dany asked of him.
"I'm so hungry," Sansa suddenly said in a rush. "I can't even look at the rabbits. They make me want to cry, but I also want to eat them," she laughed.
"They weren't particularly endearing," Jon consoled her. "Every animal stops looking like a sweet pet when you're hungry enough."
The sky darkened as they tended to the fire, and for a brief time, the rains even let up. They sat in their shelter, poking at the fire, watching it grow hotter and brighter between them. Jon watched Sansa watch the fire, wondering what she might be thinking. She looked like she was somewhere far off, somewhere he could not go, as she stared at the flames.
And for the first time since that morning, he allowed himself to think of his duel with Jaime Lannister. He had never met a finer swordsman. Jaime Lannister could have killed him, would have killed him, with just a few more swings of his sword. Yet he had unmistakably cast his sword down.
Hell, he could have killed them as soon as he'd caught them on the ridge. He'd had his rifle aimed at Jon, and Jon would have bet his sword that Lannister was as sure a shot as he was with a sword.
So why had he let them go?
Something in the man's face had changed when they had each watched Sansa drop to her knees in cold horror, as she realized she would have to go back to King's Landing. The very tone of her voice had scalded him, but Jon was not ruthless. He was weak, he knew; he was soft-hearted. It was Lannister who was notoriously ruthless—after all, he had won the royal army more greatness than any that had come before him. He was a war machine, a weapon unto himself, and his deeds of greatness and terror were practically legend at this point. Before Jon had even learned to duel with a real sword, Jaime Lannister had swept nations, killed thousands. He was without mercy, without fear.
So why had he let them go?
It could not have merely been Sansa's whisper of horror as she had dropped to her knees, he was sure of it. Lannister had had too many opportunities to kill him before then; as they had been running back up the other side of the ravine, he could have easily shot Jon. Then as they had both come into the clearing, he had had a clear shot of Jon then, too. And certainly, the moment they had crossed swords, he could have ended his life.
No, he had never intended to kill him or take Sansa. Jon was sure of it.
Jon speared the two rabbits on the spit, showing Sansa as he worked. She went a bit pale at the sight of all of the blood, but she didn't mention it.
"Where will Daenerys go now?" she asked as Jon turned the spit slowly, watching the meat cook.
"We have supporters in some of the clans, but we're at a standstill," Jon said honestly. No point in hiding it. "She can't march, yet, and the Crown is too intent on getting rid of the threat she poses, so she can't walk freely."
"If she hides much longer, any spark she might have started will go out," Sansa reasoned, hugging her knees to her chest. "They laugh about her in King's Landing. We called her the Beggar Princess. No one ever called her by name, but it seemed that in every play, she was a character of folly. Even in the papers, they would make fun of her by reference."
"That was Tyrion's doing," Jon said. "When he was still part of the royal council, he started her smear campaign. He told us his strategies himself. Now he wants to use those same strategies against King Joffrey. It worked, in Essos."
"But Joff doesn't rule Essos," Sansa countered. "What does it matter?"
"It helped us get this far. We'd never have gotten the ships to cross the Narrow Sea without it."
"I don't think the North will pay attention to those strategies," Sansa said now. "They're not united the way they are in the south. There's no central place of culture, the way there is in the south, and even in Essos."
"Aye, the only way is if the Northern clans band together—"
"—Which they haven't done since Father stormed King's Landing with King Robert," Sansa finished for him. "They laugh about the northern clans in King's Landing, too, and they're not wrong. The clans are too busy fighting each other."
"Not all of them." Jon slid the cooked meat off the spit, and began cutting it with his dirk. "The Mormonts—"
"—Karstarks, Umbers, and Tallharts, yes, and even supposedly the Boltons," Sansa said in exasperation. "But Roose Bolton is not to be trusted, and the Karstarks are still bitter. And no one likes that Jeor Mormont passed clan leadership onto Maege Mormont. Not to mention the other clans that are fighting each other for petty things, as they've done for hundreds of years. There's nothing to unite them but religion, and even that is a weak point. No one cares about the old gods. Everyone is converting to worshipping the Seven. You saw for yourself: Mother raised us on the ways of the new gods. We grew up worshipping in the Sept, not in the godswood. Only father did that."
"You don't think they'd fight for their old gods?"
"They would, if their gods were threatened, if their ability to keep the old gods was taken away," Sansa conceded. She bit into the rabbit and screwed up her features. Jon couldn't stop his laughter from coming out.
"Freedom tastes good, doesn't it?" he teased, and Sansa laughed in spite of herself, covering her mouth.
Soon, they had finished their meat, and the fire began to die as it burned through the little kindling they had. "We might as well sleep," Jon said heavily, turning away from her to needlessly organize his bow, his arrows, his dirk and sword. He heard her clear her throat.
"Right, yes," she stammered.
There was nothing to do but get through it.
"We'll have to—"
"I suppose—"
They each faltered and looked away.
"We'll share cloaks," Jon said, clearing his throat and clenching his fists, as he stalked to the little divot she had dug out. "If we keep the fire going, that should be enough warmth."
"Yes, makes sense," Sansa said, rising and brushing off her dress and cloak needlessly. "Should I—"
"—You lay first, I'll just...go behind you," Jon said, not looking at her, gesturing to the divot. "If you face into the earth, you'll be warmer. Take off your cloak, and we can put it on top of mine."
She shed her cloak. Her dress was hopelessly muddy underneath, utterly ruined. He realized she had a corset on underneath—how in the hell had she run in a corset? He thought of her panting and gasping and felt a fresh stab of guilt. He was an idiot, truly. He watched her awkwardly lay in the dirt and turn onto her side, her copper hair pooling in the dirt.
"Is this—"
"Aye, that's fine," Jon interrupted, and he shed his own cloak. He set his weapons off to the side, near where his head would be, and then fidgeted for a moment, pacing and turning, before he lay down behind her, a mere inch from her. He cast both cloaks over them, and had to wriggle forward some to get underneath the cloak completely. They both stiffened when his chest brushed against her back. Her hair tickled his face, and he pushed it away. "Are you—"
"—Yes, are you—"
"—Yes."
"Right. Well," Sansa began tremulously, "...sleep well, I suppose."
He laughed in spite of himself and watched her hair billow against his breath, revealing the soft skin of the nape of her neck for a flash, before it settled again.
"Sleep well," he said quietly.
The soldiers were singing, drunken and rowdy, as they ate supper. The inn had felt stifling, and the innkeeper, a fat woman with a shining, ruddy face, had stared at him with such open disgust that Jaime had been compelled to leave. Bronn, still clearly sensing his foul mood, had let him go outside alone, and Jaime was both annoyed and relieved.
The rain had let up, at long last, and the little garden on the side of the inn was quiet. The cool air was a blessing. His leg throbbed where Jon Snow had cut it, and his teeth ached. He'd been grinding them all day.
He paced for a bit, and heard crunching on the loose gravel path. He turned, and the innkeeper, the fat ugly cow, was staring at him. She too was clad in tartan.
"Is it some sort of northerner's holiday," he asked in greeting, gesturing to her tartan dress. "I've never seen so many people in tartan."
She swallowed, her jowls wobbling.
"It's the Stark tartan," she said now, raising her voice. "For Sansa Stark."
Jaime wished he were a drinking man. He felt that only alcohol could make this less shit, at this point. He smiled with all his teeth at the woman. Don't make me sing the Rains of Castamere, he thought, watching her take in his smile. I'm Tywin's son before I'm anything else.
"Ah, Sansa Stark. That's it. I thought I recognized it. A bit drab, isn't it? I don't think grey is most people's best colour," he remarked. Hatred gleamed in her eyes, and she blinked, tears streaking down her cheeks.
"This is for the Starks," she whispered, shutting the kitchen door.
A man came from the shadows, tall and impossibly broad, and clad in ugly, brutal-looking riding leathers and a poorly-sewn hood. He had an impressive sword sheathed at his hip. He pulled off the hood now, revealing a square jaw and mussed, sweaty brown hair. He had a foul purple and green bruise above his brow. It took Jaime a moment, but quite abruptly he realized who the man was.
"Dickon Tarly," he said in surprise. "I'd say you look well, but it would be a lie. Seven hells, did you lose a fight, man?"
Dickon approached him with a clenched jaw and angry eyes. The innkeeper had disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving them alone in the garden.
"You have no honor," he said in a low, shaking voice.
"So I've been told, by every man just before I cut his head off," Jaime retorted. "That doesn't bode well for you, I must say."
Dickon drew his sword, and just as fast, Jaime drew his own. "Are you really going to fight me?" he asked in disbelief. "I've seen you fight, sweet boy, and I can't say I was terribly impressed."
Dickon swung his sword; he was too big and broad to be a good swordsman. He'd've been better with an axe, but you couldn't tell Randyll Tarly, more of a climber than ivy itself, something like that. Jaime easily blocked the blow, feeling torn between laughter and confusion. "What in the name of the Seven is this all about—"
"—Sansa Stark, that's what it's about," Dickon yelled, dropping his sword for a moment. "We all know what you did, the whole north knows—"
"—Then you should be thanking me, you stupid brat," Jaime shot back incredulously. How could anyone know what he had done? It had only been he, Sansa Stark, and the Targaryen boy in that grove. "If it weren't for my actions, that snake Littlefinger would be getting ready to—"
It happened fast. Dickon let out a yell and swung his sword, and Jaime saw the opening and, almost instinctively, went for it. There was a curious whistling past his ear, and then blinding pain in his right hand, halting his progress.
In a clatter of noise, it was done. His sword lay on the ground, and Dickon's blade cut a long gash in his shoulder; he had been too surprised to step back far enough in time to completely avoid it. An arrow, painted black, with blood red feathers poking from its end, was lodged firmly in his right hand.
Even Dickon seemed shocked.
"Wh-what?" he breathed, and both men turned to look to the right. A slender figure emerged from the shadows, pulling down his own hood, his bow still drawn. In the light, Jaime could see the man's face better, though he did not know him. Pale eyes studied him as a clever, sharp mouth curved in delight. "Ramsay, I said—"
"—Oh, come on, my lord, did you not hear what Lannister just said? It wasn't enough for him to befoul your lady; he's taken her from Baelish, too. Will you really let this man continue to stand?"
Jaime knelt to snatch his sword, but even he was not fast enough. Another arrow hit him, seemingly out of nowhere, in the thigh, precisely where Jon Snow had cut him, and Jaime fell back in shock and pain. "Are you a man, or a sweet southron boy?" was the last thing he heard the man say. Dickon Tarly stood over him, and grabbed him, and a hood was pulled over his eyes. He struggled, and then there was a sharp blow to the side of his head, and everything disappeared.
Sansa awoke at dawn's first light. Her whole body ached, and her stomach seemed to have folded it on itself from hunger. But there was something warm, and hard, pressed against her back.
It had taken hours to fall asleep. She had been self-conscious of every breath, every swallow, every urge to move, every growl of her stomach. She knew Jon hadn't fallen asleep for hours, either. They had simply lay there stiffly next to each other, not speaking, for hours. She didn't know when she had fallen asleep, but she knew it had been late.
Jon had not migrated much closer to her in his sleep, but she could feel his deep, even breathing tickling her neck.
She had never shared a bed with a man before.
She knew that men became hard in the morning—she had heard enough jokes about it—but her dress and his riding leathers proved enough separation that she couldn't tell. The curiosity flitted through her mind, then she felt guilty for it. She had imagined waking up next to Dickon so many times even during their brief engagement that it had become almost a comforting ritual, imagining waking up to his scent, his arm slung over her hip, holding her like she mattered.
She had never imagined anything like this.
Her hips ached from lying on the hard ground, and she longed to stretch her legs, but she held still, her whole body tensed.
Did he and ever Daenerys sleep together, after they...? It was hard to imagine it. Oh, gods, and then she found herself turning red as her mind wandered to what it might be like—oh, gods. She was going to lose her mind. Most girls, she reasoned, lost their maidenhead so much sooner. She had passed her twentieth name day years ago, and still was a virgin. Most girls lost that particular innocence, one way or the other, by their seventeenth name day. Perhaps this was all just due to her remaining innocent for far too long. Her mind was doing strange things to her, making her think strange thoughts.
She did not even know if she really wanted to be bedded, beyond the satisfaction of having one great mystery solved. It seemed such a complicated, confusing, embarrassing affair. It would be best, she resolved, with someone gentle, and understanding; someone who could laugh at the awkwardness with you. Someone who would guide you without making you too conscious of what you didn't know.
And how could it even be fun? Everyone seemed to like it so much, and yet, to think through the mechanics of it all, she thought it was such a strange and embarrassing activity. None of it made any sense. It seemed so...messy, and complicated. Her mind kept trailing back to the image of Daenerys' neck, the bruise upon it, like a locked door, behind which contained something wonderful, if only she could find the key. Why, she wondered yet again, would anyone like having their neck bit? Why would anyone want to do it? Why could she not stop thinking about it?
She felt Jon shift, sighing in his sleep, his breath along her neck, and every hair along her body tingled with awareness. She knew he was waking up, and she both dreaded having to confront the fact that they had slept so close together and wished they could simply get it over with.
He was awake, now. She felt him shift away, and cold rushed against her back, and she reflexively curled in on herself. She waited a moment, and pretended to wake up, making a show of yawning. Jon had got to his feet and was scanning their surroundings. There was blood red patterned with pink in the east, beyond the black marks of trees, a riot of passionate colours. Everything else seemed grey and lonely.
She sat up and watched Jon look around, his lean body all rigid lines to brace against the cold. He'd left both cloaks over her.
"Good morning," she said into the wind. He looked over his shoulder but did not turn to face her. There were imprints on the right side of his face from sleep, and his hair was wilder than ever.
"Morning," he said stiffly. "As soon as you're ready, we should start moving again." He would not look at her, and his tone was harsh, gruff.
What had she done wrong? She felt ashamed, as though he could read her mind, could know her traitorous thoughts. Flushed and embarrassed, she got to her feet, and shed one of the cloaks.
"Here," she said, not meeting his eyes, as she held the cloak out to him. He took it without looking at her and strapped on his bow and quiver.
They walked in silence for a long time. Her shoes had not been made for trekking along the moors, and she was conscious of every rock, every twig, but she could not bring herself to speak of it. The corset made it harder to walk quickly, to match Jon's strides, but her pride disallowed her from speaking. She could not say why she felt like some sort of ill-behaved, unruly child; she did not know how things had so swiftly turned sour since the evening. She had thought they were growing closer; now, it felt as though all of that had been undone.
It wasn't raining today, at least. For hours they trekked, in complete silence, and she simmered in agony. What had she done? Had he decided she was too much trouble? Was he regretting taking her along? She didn't see his face for hours, only his stiff shoulders as he relentlessly beat on ahead of her.
There were no signs of civilization for miles. Once they passed a mill, but Jon would not let them stop.
Tears began to burn in her eyes. She felt ridiculous. If he had decided that he did not want to drag her with him, he ought to simply say so. Why was he torturing her like this? Perhaps she had done something wrong; she had never intended it, though. If he would only tell her, she might be able to solve it.
But all day they did not speak, and at long last, the sky grew pink with the threat of sunset. They'd have to set up camp again. There was a lump in her throat; she dreaded having to face him, having to interact. He'd have to go hunt again, and she would simply sit there, useless, with nothing to do and no way of helping. She watched him scan the countryside with eyes narrowed.
"There's a stream," he said suddenly. "We should be near the Wolfswood."
"Oh," she said tentatively. "Is that...?"
"We've gone too far north," Jon explained unhappily, still not looking at her. He led them to the stream, whose banks were dotted with trees. Beyond the stream, flaking birches were tangled with pink thorny vines, the same pink as the sky.
She longed to be useful, to be worthwhile, so she tried scanning the area for a good place to camp, but nothing like their little ridge stood out to her, and besides, she didn't even know what made a good campsite or not, beyond having shelter. The lump in her throat grew.
"I don't know what would make a good place to camp," she confessed, trying to keep her voice even. Jon paused at the stream, looking up against the current, scowling.
"There's no good place to camp. We should have been there by now," he said shortly. "We'll stay here; at least there should be some game. Just stay there. I'll be back." And he leapt over the stream at a narrow place, and disappeared into the birch trees, leaving Sansa standing there helplessly on the bank.
She would not cry. She would not. Bracing herself, she hunted along the bank for rocks. He had seemed to like the camp fire she had built last night; she'd try that again.
She finished relatively quickly, for as it hadn't rained, there was far more kindling this time. She tried to mimic how he had started the fire last night, but she couldn't get it to work, and tears blurred her vision. She was so, so hungry, and so tired, and so thirsty, and she did not know what she had done wrong. A wild thought, that this was no different than King's Landing, struck her. Here she was again, all at odds no matter what she did, unable to fix it, unable to know what it was she had done. Waiting to find out, desperately trying to make amends for crimes she did not know she had committed, desperately trying to make amends for nothing more than simply existing as she was. Furiously she tried harder to start the fire, but she got nothing, not even sparks.
She was in agony, so she desperately sought something to soothe her. Tall reeds grew around the stream, and she absently tore at them in fistfuls, and began knotting them together, weaving them in and out. They were soft and pliant, and knotted well together. Her heart slowed and her eyes stopped burning as she worked methodically.
Jon missed two shots, and lost an arrow in a tree. Furiously he at last caught one rabbit, but it had taken nearly an hour, and it was already dark by the time he walked back to where he had left Sansa.
She had built a campsite again, though no fire was going. He saw her kneeling by the stream's edge, doing something with her hands, but it was too dark to see what. Jon stopped in his tracks, still shielded by the birch trees, and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
When he got to the campsite, she did not look up. She was wrapped tightly in her cloak, and a net of reeds was growing beneath her pale, chapped hands. The knotwork was precise, intricate.
"I only got one rabbit," he confessed. She still did not look up.
"Well, it is winter," she conceded in a low voice. "I...couldn't get a fire started."
He could see the scratches on the rocks where she had tried, and he felt another burst of rage. He turned away from her, and knelt before the campsite.
"You need the right type of rock."
"Oh. I didn't know."
Of course she didn't know. Jon started the fire with the flint he'd kept from last night, and they watched the kindling she had placed catch flame. She had built a spit, too, and he ground his teeth as he set it up, swearing under his breath when he pulled the wood too hard and the pointed end dug into his palm. In silence, he skinned the rabbit, while she continued to weave.
And then, out of nowhere: "What did I do?"
Her voice was thick, and Jon's gaze shot up. Her eyes were wet in the firelight.
"W-what?" he stammered. Sansa blinked and shot to her feet, unexpectedly.
"Y-you've been silent all day," she scoffed. "I clearly did something, but I can't figure out what it is, so just tell me!"
He could only stare at her, dumbfounded.
"What?"
"You're mad at me, and I don't know why!"
He might as well have been doused with cold water, and a creeping shame crept up his spine. He had been sour and silent all day, but he'd not thought she'd noticed. "I cannot bear it, alright? I cannot bear not knowing why you're upset with me. I know I'm difficult to travel with, and I don't know how to hunt or start fires—"
"—I'm not upset with you," Jon interrupted, getting to his feet. Sansa stared at him.
"Then why have you acted like such a—such a—" she cast around helplessly, as though she could not come up with a word to accurately describe him, "—a brat!" she finally settled on, her shoulders rising and falling, chest heaving. "I didn't ask you to take me along. I'm not making you. If you don't want—"
"—You did nothing," he said shortly, heat rising to his cheeks. "Just—just ignore it," he insisted, turning and stalking away.
"Ignore it?" she scoffed in disbelief from behind him. "Ignore it?"
"It has got nothing to do with you," he snapped.
Well, that was a lie. It was hardly her fault, though. Jon rubbed the back of his neck. He turned around, almost afraid to look at her. Her eyes were red, her chest heaving. "I...am sorry," he tried this time. "What—what's that you're making?"
"You didn't speak the entire day, and you've obviously been in a foul mood," she insisted, tossing aside the net she had been making, ignoring his admittedly pathetic attempt to sidestep the problem. "You say it's not me, but how can I possibly believe you? Your mood changed overnight, and it's just us here. The only possible cause is me. Can you just—can you just tell me what I did? Don't—don't lie," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "Whatever it is I've done—" she cut off abruptly and turned away.
Jon stood frozen, holding the half-skinned rabbit.
"Sansa," he said more gently, "I'm sorry. I really am. I—" he worked his jaw furiously. He had never been good at this sort of thing. "—I realized this morning how...precarious our situation is. And I don't know what to do. I don't even know if we're going in the right direction."
She was still turned away from him, arms folded tightly over her chest. "We don't have water, and there's almost nothing to hunt here, and every house or dwelling we see, I wonder if they're working for the Crown and will kill us on sight."
It was partly the truth, though not all of it. He swallowed. "I've led you into the wilderness, and ...I can't even promise I can keep you alive."
"You are an idiot," she said tightly, still not turning to look at him. Her shoulders shook slightly. His anger flared.
"I am an idiot," he agreed furiously. "You are right."
He wanted to stalk off, to get away from her, but he was still holding the bleeding, half-skinned rabbit, and he was so hungry he couldn't see straight. Seething with an anger he secretly knew was unreasonable, he sat down and skinned the rabbit so violently that he lost half the meat, swearing under his breath the whole time. Sansa kept her back to him, and after a while, sat down and resumed toying with her net. He kept waiting for her to speak, but she wouldn't.
Well, if he was such a bloody idiot, then he wouldn't bother her with his idiotic conversation. His hands slowed as he held the meat. He did not want to have to speak, to tell her that he was going to cook the meat, to offer her share to her, but he could not let her be hungry, either. He speared the meat on the spit over the fire, furious at how quickly the meat cooked. "The food's...almost ready," he finally said rather lamely. He saw her wipe at her face discretely, and he cleared his throat. "Um, I don't know if you heard me—"
"I heard," she said quietly.
The silence was awful, deafening and claustrophobic. He was at fault, he knew, but it was utterly unfair. He had done nothing wrong, except not make conversation. Was it such a crime to be silent? Why in seven hells was she weeping over this? He chanced another glance, but she was still faced away from him, her fingers clutching the net far too tightly. Words were stuck in his throat.
She had been kind to him, had shown him gentleness, when he had been hurting.
He moved the spit out of the fire's path and got to his feet, and walked to sit beside her. He dropped down next to her, not looking at her face.
"Davos tried to teach me knots, but I didn't listen," he admitted, picking up a corner of the quickly-growing net. He heard her let out a shuddering breath.
"It-it's not difficult," she said. "You just need to make sure you're keeping the right tension. It's a bit like making lace."
"I am well-known for my lace," he said wryly, and he heard her laugh, then stifle it quickly. She swallowed, and reached out, hands guiding his.
"Like this," she said, twisting his hand. He was grateful they were sitting away from the fire, in the dark, so that she could not see his face. "Over and under and around..."
He did as instructed, and realized he had inadvertently made a slipknot. He watched as she patiently undid the knot, her nimble fingers never breaking the reed, fragile as it was.
"Let me try again," he said, and he took the reeds from her. His fingers were clumsy from the cold, and it took him a few attempts, but he finally did the right knot. "It's a bit like a fishing net," he said as he took the next two reeds to knot.
"I'm worried the gaps are too big, though." She snapped another reed from the pile next to her, threading it in effortlessly among the others. Jon tested the gap with his hand.
"Depends on the kind of fish. Might be too big for the fish in this stream, but it would be good for most whitefish." He finished another knot, but it was unruly and messy compared to hers. "Why are you making it?"
"I don't know what else to do," she admitted. "I thought...well, I don't really know what I thought." Her hands stilled. "I'm sorry." Neither looked at the other. "I just...get upset if I think someone's angry with me."
He thought again of the horror on her face when Lannister had told her she would have to return to King's Landing. It was a horror that had stilled both men's swords, had made them both pause.
"You have nothing to be sorry for." He bit his lip, tying another knot. There were so many things he should have said, should have asked, but the words were lodged in his throat. Why was it so difficult?
After a time, they paused to observe their work. A long net stretched between them. Jon got to his feet, holding it up in surprise, and tugged on it to test its strength. Its weight was unexpected. "It feels like a real net," he remarked, shaking it slightly. Sansa stood back, looking almost shy, her arms folded over her chest.
"Not like a make-believe one?" she teased, her voice wavering a bit, and he couldn't help but laugh.
They lay it down next to the campfire, and sat on it together, as Jon moved the meat back over the fire to warm it again. They ate in silence, and then sat for a long time, watching the flames wither in the wind, with no kindling to keep it going. "We'll get there tomorrow," Sansa said quietly into the dark night.
"Aye," he replied softly.
Wordlessly they got up, after the last flame died, and Jon smoothed the net out once more. It would not stretch his full height, but long enough if they were curled up on it. Sansa shed his cloak, and he looked away hastily as he took it from her. I am a fool, he thought once more.
She lay down on the net, facing the campfire, and after a moment, he lay down behind her, and pulled both cloaks over them. "It's almost like a bed," he tried after a long moment.
"A make-believe one," Sansa said wryly, and for a moment they were laughing again, and then it died down once more.
His blood was singing in his veins. He clenched his fists. I am a fool, I am a fool, I am a fool.