Okay, finally time for some Jon backstory. Also, some quasi-smut and a shit load of dialogue that took me five hours to perfect. It flows, it's effortless, and it comes full circle. It's my favourite kind, and I'm proud. The next chapter features that one thing that's been coming since the very beginning - d'uh - and a few more hounds so expect drama. But, in the meantime, enjoy this while you can because it's gonna end with the tenth chapter. You're welcome for that spoiler! ;) Anyway, read and enjoy, and let me know what you think because I seriously love the response to this piece!


The smell of burnt heir somehow manages to captivate Sansa's senses, and she can no longer wait for their supper.

He'd suggested she redress after their encounter, and she had. He'd gone out the back of the cabin to fetch something for dining on then, and reemerged some dozen minutes later with a dead animal and some untouched leaves.

She'd scoped out some old bread from one of the dingy cupboards above the rusty old sink, and had forced it onto a stick to wave above the fire keeping them warm.

It hadn't taken long to cook the heir. Peeled quickly and cut up finely, it looked surprisingly delicious.

The food is barely put down on the table before Sansa is tucking into it, all bared hands and hungry mouthed.

She shoulders off her cloak and rests her elbows on the edge of the table as she divulges on the meat. The grilled bread she had found and prepared proves a worthy side.

It is no meal Granny would ever have cooked - she preferred her potatoes and vegetables - but it will suffice until they reach her.

When they're all done, and Sansa is munching down on her last piece of stale loaf, she mumbles, "I hadn't realised I was so hungry."

"You worked up an appetite." Jon suggests, and then he gets up and wipes the table with one old rag from off the side of the sink and Sansa is finished.

She wonders how cold he must feel, dressed in only his breeches and boots and shirt. It's a dark look, but she admires it with girlish longing. Black and brooding and black.

He goes to sit back by the fire then, and he's pulling on the untied strings at the waist of his breeches when she approaches him.

"Why do you brood so often?"

"Melancholy, Sansa." He speaks her name and she finds it strange, odd to hear him usher those five letters rather than the four of his affectionate pet name. "I've been this way for years."

"Why?" Curiosity has gotten the better of her. Well, curiosity and a few sips of whatever had been in that old bottle of ale beside the bed.

He doesn't look sure of himself, doesn't look certain that he should tell her of whatever is haunting him at night, keeping him up for countless hours. But then his face changes, and he clears his throat, and he husks,

"I had a wife, once." His gaze is set on the fire, brown eyes somehow turning black despite the light from the flames.

She hadn't expected such a revelation, hadn't prepared herself for him to be so forthcoming. He holds back, usually, doesn't offer insight into who he really, truly is.

"Oh." It comes out as a question, as though she is stunned and confused yet curious all at once. Suddenly her face grows warm and her cheeks flush from the overwhelming heat.

"Aye. A wife I had, and a wife I lost."

A wife is a woman, is someone worthy of love and intimacy.

She is but a child to him then, surely, nothing more than a young runaway searching for freedom and ignoring her mothers' cries. What does she know of love and loyalty and loss? What could she possibly know of the bond between a man and his wife, a lover and his muse?

"Was she lovely?"

It's a silly question, Sansa thinks. Of course, she had been lovely. Of course, because this man had married her and this man deserved a loving woman.

"She was lethal."

"Lethal?"

Jon nods once, twice, and then he turns his head until he is looking at her and a frown adorns his face. "Not you."

Sansa is swept by his words then, though she isn't sure if he had meant them kindly or with disgust.

Not you, because I wish she were here with me in your place.

Not you, because now that I have met you, I fear she will no longer hold my heart.

She has never felt so lonely, so envious of this lost woman's lasting mark on him.

"Does that make me lovely?"

"If you want it to."

He doesn't talk much, doesn't delve deep into his soul and spurt out screaming words. He doesn't share, not too much, only little. He doesn't let her in, never too closely at least, never in the way she wants to be welcomed.

"How did she die?"

Jon wipes the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand, and then he pulls his gloves on, taking the time to reflect on her question.

She understands his trepidation, his unwillingness to share.

How could she not? She is little more than a stranger to him. She is nothing more than a body keeping him company and a mind keeping his own at ease. No matter where she has let him lay his mouth or press his hands, she is a stranger to him, and he is to her, too.

"A villager came looking for Ghost." He stops, shoots her the smallest of glances before he ducks low and pries out his jerkin from beneath the chair.

"Armed?"

"And ready to fire at whatever or whoever happened upon his path."

"And your wife-"

"Ygritte," Jon corrects, informs her, "came out in a fury when she heard him shouting for the wolf. There was no controlling her, calming her. Never had been."

Sansa can only nod, try to retain his gaze and offer her condolences in one stare. She cannot imagine such a scene, such a crime. It's a pity, truly. He hadn't deserved to lose someone he loved like that; carelessly and cruelly.

"And she knew the man who lived here?"

"A friend. Tall and bearded. He was like a brother to her, or a father. I was never sure which was more fitting." He frowns, shifts those greying brown eyes from her face down to his body, watching as his own fingers fiddle and fondle with the fastenings of his clothes. "He went searching for her, never came back."

"You mean…"

"Aye. I never saw her, only the pool of liquid blood where Ghost licked and the tracks in the dirt. It snowed straight after, covered the bloody path."

She doesn't question why Ghost hadn't followed, searched after his dying wife and the murderer from the village. He's a hunted wolf; the pray instead of the hunter.

"I gave up. After two moons came and went, and I wasted too much time and effort. She was gone, and I don't think I must have loved her all that much. How could I have given up so easily?"

"Perhaps you decided to grieve and move on, to accept her fate?"

Sansa drops to her knees, running her hands down her thighs, resting them on her covered knees. The tops of her feet are cold on the floor, but the flames from the fire keep her body warm.

She crawls over to Jon, lifts a hand to rest it on his right knee and she smiles faintly, "Perhaps there is a chance she is still alive."

"And she never came home to me?"

"Would you have wanted her to?"

He must have loved her, surely, for he married her. And Sansa is fairly certain nobody could have ever coerced him into doing something he hadn't wanted in the first place. He must have loved her, surely, for he married her and settled for a loving life of isolation.

"No."

Or maybe it had been eventual desolation he'd sought, wanted upon marrying.

"I made peace with her fate, with my own fate."

She doesn't move voluntarily, doesn't flinch at all when he cups her cheek and draws her face closer to his. Her knees shift and her back straightens and she is facing him directly. It aches, the sweltering heat of the fire dancing off of her back, almost burning her skin through her clothes.

"Have you made peace with your fate?"

"I might, if only I knew my fate."

The night is dark, Stark girl. But the flames have spoken and what you seek may not be what you think. You'll find him, Stark girl. And he will guide you.

With a gulp, Sansa pulls her face away, pressing her hand over his own.

"Are you my fate?"

"I might be, aye." He removes his hand then, but his face leans and his forehead presses against hers and she can feel his breath against her lips. "But it wouldn't be a very pretty ending for you."

"Oddly, I happen to find you very pretty, wolf." She grins, letting her top teeth scrape her bottom lip as it curls.

"You aren't a lamb after all, are you?" He murmurs quietly, eyes on her neck and voice hushed dangerously low. She admires his accent, the northern gruff, and blushes when his hands both encase her face. His nose brushes along her own, all skin and warmth and Sansa holds her breath.

"Am I a wolf, too?"

"Would you like to be?"

"What would it require?"

It's symbolical, metaphorical. Surely no biting will be necessary. At least, not too much biting.

"A mating."

"Would you make me howl?"

"I would make you scream."

"Would it hurt?"

"For a little while," he frowns again, pulls away a fraction of an inch, "and then it wouldn't. And you would be begging for more."

Sansa ducks her head, lets her nose graze his chin and her hair fall down his half-bared chest. "How would I beg? How would you make me beg?"

"With my mouth. With my lips on your very soft skin." One hand slips to her hair, and she feels the leather twist as he pulls on her loose braid. It hurts a little bit, but she simply bites her lip and waits for more.

It's vicious, this game he's playing, this game she started.

"With my very pretty face between your soaking wet thighs."

It's a deadly game, sick even.

"Would I beg because I'm wet?"

"You would beg because you're innocently asking to be fucked, and I would be very slowly complying."

"But you could comply faster, couldn't you?" She moves onto her knees properly, drops her hands down his chest so her fingers toy with the bottom of his open jerkin. "You could fuck me fast."

"I could, and I might. But not at first."

"What would you do at first?"

"Lay you out on my table and enjoy my meal."

"Will you spread my legs?"

"I would. And you'd keep them spread open for me or I'd punish you."

Face flushed, Sansa briskly moves until she is stood on both feet, dress still parted at her chest where she has foregone tying it, and full clothes suddenly much too heavy. She wants to be rid of them, to be free of her constraints and bared and with him.

But they have little time before they have to move, and she isn't sure this fantasy will ever become reality. So she will bask in its existence, in this imaginary affair, and she will enjoy the wicked temptation.

She does not know their fate, much less her very own.

Tossing one leg over his lap, she pushes her palms down on his shoulders until she straddles his waist, dress gathering in his lap, heat over heat, flushed skin radiating through her clothes.

She shifts his free hand so it rests on her hip for a moment, and then drags it up until he is cupping her right breast, the patch of skin between his thumb and forefinger encasing the mound.

"How would you punish me, if I closed my legs and refused you?"

"If you refuse me, I won't punish you. If you refuse me, it isn't my place to demand anything."

With only the slightest of scowls, Sansa grips his wrist tighter, digging her nails into his shoulder with her other hand. "How would you punish me, if I closed my legs and teased you?"

Jon smiles at that, but she cannot decide if it's more of a smirk. His upper lip curls and his teeth bare as he lowers his head to base of her neck, lips at her covered collarbone. "That depends on how you tease me."

She realises he is playing this game better than her, and suddenly she feels a little out of her element. Until she remembers that he has been encouraging her to speak freely and confess her deadliest, ugliest desires to him since they met only some days ago.

"I would make you watch." She licks her lips, pushes a strand of falling red hair behind her ear when his hand slips from her breast to her backside, taking his time to trace her curved waist.

He grips one cheek in his hand, taps her fleshy backside a little too roughly with one smack, her flesh moulding in his hand.

"I would make you watch as I kept my legs closed and slid my hands between my thighs. It would be so tight, too. I would make you watch as I slipped one finger inside and pressed others against my centre. But you wouldn't see much. You'd only hear me. Because the space between my legs would be oh, so tight, and I'd be whispering your name because it'd be your face I was imagining."

"My very pretty face?"

It's hot against her dress, his voice, and Sansa sniffles, feels a fever from the rising heat of the room coming along. Mother would make her wrap up beneath the covers, and she'd make her a hearty supper to feed off the sickness.

"Your very pretty face, wolf. Yes. Your very pretty face forced ever so tightly between my soaking wet thighs. Your very hungry tongue lapping at my very juicy peach."

"Would you scream?"

"I'd howl. Like a wolf, like you'd want me to. I howl when I hit my peak and leak my sticky sweetness all over your table. But I scream when you grab my ankle and pull me forward and lick at me like a cat drinks its milk."

There's a smack again, against her bottom, and Sansa almost jumps forward at the surprise. It's rough, but not harsh, and she finds it alarmingly arousing.

What is happening to her? This man is no boy, is a stranger, is a widower with only a wolf as a companion. This man is little more than a ploy in the twisted game of chess she has been playing in her head.

She hates this realisation, hates herself for her handling of him. He is harmless, seemingly, and she is using him for her own enjoyment.

But he knows this, and he is letting her do it anyway.

"You sully my table, do 'ya?" He appears to grin, again, but Sansa barely has a moment to witness his expression before he is pulling her by the hair and dress, and forcing her sideways over his lap. Her knees bend, and suddenly she feels as bare as she had wanted.

"I do. I ruin your table. You'll never be able to eat off of it again. You'll have to burn it." The bottom of her chin is pressed against the side of his leg, her hands dropped onto the floor, her back arched and her toes curled.

"I can't burn it." She can feel his hands run up her legs, over the backs of her knees and under the material of her wool gown.

He stops his left hand on her lower back, holds her steady as he pulls on the edge of her creased dress with his right hand. It pools around her waist, all crinkled material and rugged edges.

It scrapes, when he forces it up over her backside, fast and rough and hungrily. "It can't be burnt because I'm going to fuck you on it."

"Fast?"

"Slow."

"That isn't fucking then."

"And what would you know of it?" Sansa glances over her shoulder to look at him, to note the almost boyish frown on his face.

He doesn't grimace, doesn't appear displeased, however, and she grins devilishly, and he spanks her again.

"I've dreamt it. These woods made me dream it." She isn't sure the woods are working any magic anymore, isn't sure they ever were. Perhaps it had been her all along; thirsty and lonely and innocently curious.

"You mean to say it's the Winter Woods that have led you to be so wanton?"

"Perhaps I was always wanton. Just unwilling to act on said immodesty because I couldn't find a suitable partner."

"And I'm a suitable partner, am I?"

"The Woods seem to think so." These woods and that witch and my gut feeling.

He smacks her again, and she can feel the burn his gloved hand leaves behind. It would be soft, smoother without the leather restriction, she proposes, and Jon agrees.

They will have to leave soon, and they will eventually have to redress completely.

"Trees don't speak, Sansa. They don't think or feel. Only you and I do." It's truthful, and honest, and she wants to hate him for it; for reminding her of her feelings and struggles.

She knows this is wrong, strange, but she had been choosing to ignore the fact for the sake of her curiosity.

"You and I also kiss and touch and breathe each other in. You and I also speak, and don't speak, and settle for these predicaments." She raises a thin eyebrow before lowering her gaze to the ground again, feeling all blood rush to her face as she bends back over his lap and pushes her bottom upwards. "You and I also have places to be and things to do, and each other to fuck into oblivion. Is it so wrong of me to imagine that tree talk and snow whispers? Is it so terribly sadistic of me to hope that one day soon you won't just talk of loving me, but actually love me?"

She reaches back and grabs his wrist, holds his hands against her cheek and smoothes circles with the ball of his hand.

"Touch me here, and touch me there." She enunciates and swallows a breath, "Touch me, or fuck me, or something, because you have made me feel something and I want to burn it to memory."

"I never spoke of loving you." When her grip around his wrist loosens, Jon slips his hand beneath the edge of her small clothes, palm tickling her cheeks as his middle finger seeks her out.

"You spoke of fucking me."

"You wanted me to."

"Would you love me if I asked you to?"

He doesn't reply at first, only drags his fingers against her mound and waits for her to push against him and swell at his fingertips. "No."

"That's a shame." Sansa gulps, letting her eyes close as she feels tears begin to mount behind her lashes. It's unspoken of, what she feels, how she feels. "Quite a pity."

"It is, aye." He grunts, trails his hand on her back to her neck, wrapping his palm around the back of her neck, fingers intertwining with her unbrushed strands of hair. "What a pity that you love me and cannot tell if I love you back."

He runs his fingers up and down her centre, creating friction against her flesh, waiting for her to moan out the gentlest of cries past her pink lips. Her cheeks flush, match her lower pair, and he pulls at the hair of her neck, forcing her up to look at him.

He has her sussed out. He has played her game, and won.

The young woman remains with closed eyes as he nears her, breath dancing along her slightly parted lips. It's tense and she waits with heavy pants for him to kiss or caress her.

He does neither, though, only slips a finger inside of her for the briefest of seconds before he retracts his hand from her clothes and rests it on her lap.

"I barely touched you."

"Yes, I'm aware." She nods once, sighs a regretful breath of musty air. "And I'm drenched."

"It must be because you love me so."

"Why do you assume I love you?"

"Because you act as my wife once did."

"Perhaps your wife never loved you then."

Forcing herself to stand and withdraw from him, Sansa shrugs off his hands and attempts the lightest of smiles.

"She did. It was me who was never sure of my feelings."

He doesn't oppose to her leaving his lap, to her standing and tying her dress shut and fiddling with her small clothes so they fit right into place. She looks at him amicably, doesn't show any signs of ennui or irritation. Perhaps the game has not ended after all. Perhaps he has not won and she still has a chance of regaining control.

Jon follows her lead, brushes off his breeches before sliding his gloves back over his hands and finally pulling his jerkin closed.

"If you were never sure of your feelings then how come you're so melancholy over her loss?"

"Widower's guilt?" He tries, offers as a solution.

Jon walks back over to their belongings then, shoving fresh things into her basket, and rummaging through it for that strange bottle. He unwinds the cap and takes the smallest of sips, pulling a face at the taste.

Sansa has not had any, does not know of its contents. She frowns, lacing up her boots, when he puts it back into place and slides her basket across the table, basically telling her to hurry.

"I wish we hadn't wasted so much time."

"That?" He points his sword over at the fireplace before he sheathes it, where the roaring fire is dying and embers are colouring the dark air. The sky is midnight blue, and it's safer for them to travel. "I wouldn't call that a waste of time."

Unwilling to dance around the matter, Sansa pulls on the string of her cape with a rough tug, and asks, "What would you call it?"

"A realisation."

She whisks her basket up quickly, forcing the handle down her arm and pulling up the hood of her cape with gloved fingertips. It has been a day in here, but she never wants to leave this place. It's warm and as lovely as it could be.

But time is fleeting and cruel men are after them, and she needs to get to Granny's.

She needs to get there because she has told herself as much, but lately her thoughts have been contradictory and she sees no purpose.

She could go home, return to the village and abandon all hope of getting to her grandmother's house in the deep woods. She could go back to the moderately safe tranquility of her home and pretend she had never left.

But if she does this, goes back instead of forward, returns to normality instead of attempting adventure, she may never forgive herself.

What awaits her, truly, if she goes home without Granny's aid? A lifetime of loneliness in a caring family.

What awaits her, really, if she goes home without anybody help? A lifetime spent in an unhappy marriage to a madman she despises.

What awaits her, concretely, if she stays with Jon and never leaves his side? A lifetime of uncertainty.

The prospect is frightening, and she cannot tell him this.

"What have you realised?"

That you are unworthy of being loved. That you are unloved. That you are an infection and I need to rid myself of you. That I have been too kind and I should stop. That I am dangerous and shall act on my impulses. That you are a lamb and I am a wolf and we are sick.

"The truth." His ever permanent frown is clear, and he is trudging out to the back of the cabin as he speaks. "That I am better off alone because you are disruptively wanton."

"Oh." She follows, practically runs after him when he leaves through a blocked up back door, kicking it through.

It's cold, freezing, and snow is falling lightly on them. Ghost is nearby, a few feet ahead, dirtied white fur heavily coated in elegant white snow.

"We're back to this again, are we?" She marches alongside him with her voice low, hands wrapped around the sides of her cloak to keep it tight and close. "Do you not think we're talking in riddles, in circles?"

"No." He mumbles, tone low and heavy. If she didn't know any better, she would think him angry. But she knows better. And she doesn't know how this came to be. "I happen to think speaking in short sentences is better for us. Lets fewer feelings spill out, and all that."

"Fewer feelings? Would that not require you to have feelings in the first place?"

"It might." He nods once, twice, and then glances at her out of the corner of his eye as she trails beside him, trudging through the snow with downcast eyes. Her face is ivory, her lips clear coral. "Perhaps I do have feelings for you after all."

"You wouldn't tell me if you did." Her inner romantic is screaming; that small part of her that had once wished for a prince and a carriage and a decorated house is shrieking in bliss. And she hates herself for it. It's silly, foolish.

He is no prince, but a woodsman. There is no carriage, but there is an oversized wolf. He has no decorated house, only a crumbling cabin in the middle of the Winter Woods.

Her inner romantic is a complete and utter fool, Sansa decides once and for all, and she rolls her eyes at her internal struggle. And Jon grins.

"No. I wouldn't." He squints, eyes the path up ahead with the faintest of smiles, "Where would be the fun in that?"