The Night the Wolf Came Out
Sansa was sitting in her chambers, brushing out her hair from the day of heavy work yet again. She could feel her body changing underneath her clothes, bit by bit and day by day. Already dressed in her nightwear – bindings and undergarments still on and a thin shift underneath a heavier, old, grey dress that reached beyond her knees but too short to wear in the cold of winter, Sansa had taken to always wearing many layers. It was not because of the cold. No, Sansa rather enjoyed feeling the cold in her bones and feeling the warmth of activity or sharing her bed so closely with Jon for most of the nights. Both of them still had their night terrors although sometimes just his arm on her was enough to cease hers. No, Sansa could feel the changes occurring within her from the manual labour, from eating and eating and still being ravenous, but she did not want to see them. Handmaidens were still few and far between. There was still no Maester for the house. Often, Sansa would dress and undress herself out of necessity. She preferred it that way. The Bolton handmaidens had never been friendly. The ones in King's Landing were all spies for her enemy, too. And she had never trusted anyone in the Vale. Sansa drew her own bath, or dismissed anyone before undressing for a bath. She no longer allowed anyone to see underneath her clothing. No one should be forced to see how broken she was.
Since Bran's return only a day earlier, Sansa had been made even more aware of how broken she was. Her family now felt broken after Bran's revelation regarding Jon. Something in her heart ached whenever she thought about Jon being a Targaryen and no longer her brother. He was not hers anymore and that hurt. Yet, he had still shared her bed that night just as he had the night before when he was simply a Snow. No, it had been her foolish run out to Bran and then jumping up on to his horse like a child that had reminded her mind of how broken her body was. At the end of every day, her body ached from exertion, her arms from lifting, her legs from walking the length of the castle time after time after time. Her frame was changing, her clothes had ceased to fit as well as they had, that told her how much she had changed. She had gained weight, she was sure of it. Her bindings over her breasts had become tight. They had swollen slightly, but not uncomfortably. And there were gentle curves on her now, not as angular as they had been. She was eating now, not cowering in pain from another beating from Bolton. But she only knew that her hips were rounder because of her clothes. Just as no one's eyes were allowed on her broken body, neither did she allow herself to look and neither did she allow her hands to feel.
There was a knock on the door and Jon walked in. Sansa stood up and winced slightly as she made her way to the bed. She felt more tired than usual and wanted Jon to hurry up so that she could fall asleep beside him. He had tossed and turned too much the night before and so she had barely slept. When he was still she had been mesmerized by his profile, watching him as his brow gave away that he was not in a peaceful sleep.
"How has your day been?" she asked, sitting on the side of the bed, waiting for him to remove his outer clothing and put on an old shirt and trouser set that he kept in her chambers.
"I've tried to busy myself, but I keep wondering about my mother." He sat with a bounce next to her and she wobbled. "I always thought that I just wished that I knew who she was, what she looked like, how she acted and now, I know, but I know less."
"Hmmm," she mumbled.
"I know a bit more of my mother than I did last moon, but I know less of my father and I have lost a father. The only parent that I did know."
"Yes."
"Sansa?" She snapped her face to his, meeting his curious eyes. "When Bran returned, you ran straight out of the gates."
"I knew it was him," she responded immediately. She did not need a telling off from her older cousin. Somehow she had slipped straight in to calling him her cousin. Maybe because she had never treated him as a brother.
"That's not what I-"
"I'm no silly little girl, Jon!" She stood up as she argued back.
"The horse-"
"You believe me to still be a weak, naïve, dreamer?" How dare he come in to her chambers and start acting like a Lord or King in her own home!
"No, but-"
"I knew it was Bran, I can't explain it." She could try and explain that she had felt like a bird, but Jon had enough to try and come to terms with. He would probably think she had gone mad. Maybe that was what warging was, but he barely believed Bran so he would never believe her. Terrible things happened when she was naïve. Awful things happened when she did not act as a Lady should and Ladies did not dream of being birds.
"I saw-"
"I am aware it appears foolish and reckless." There was an anger within her that had built from him accusing her, from him telling her off as a father would a child for doing something that had not caused any harm. How dare he act the Lord now just because he had Targaryen blood! "But it was neither and you cannot control me, Jon Snow. No one can control me!" She was shouting now and he was standing in front of her looking a mixture of confused and angry.
His eyes snapped, leaving only the anger. "Are these moods of yours quite frequent?" He finally spat out and her mouth clamped shut. She knew what happened when a Lady spoke out of place. "I can see why Littlefinger sold you away. Shall I send a raven to dear Petyr?"
She heard the loud crack of her palm slapping his cheek before she even realized she had done it. His jaw clenched and she waited for him to hit her back, for him to beat her over and over until she learnt her lesson. Why wasn't he reacting? She slapped him again, her own eyes stinging. Why won't he fight back? She slapped him a third time. "Fight back!" she demanded with a scream. She slapped him again, weaker. Why? "Hit me!" she begged as she suddenly fell toward him with exhaustion and he grabbed her, catching her fall. Her body had given up. Her face was hidden in the darkness of his chest as her body violently sobbed.
He held her as she sobbed, gently stroking her hair and rubbing her lower back whilst he made comforting shushing noises. After a long while, her sobs subsided and she turned her head to rest her cheek upon his damp chest. "Do you feel better?"
She nodded her head and a muffled sound came out of her mouth as she tried to apologise.
Forcing her to look at him, he put a finger to her lips; no apology was needed. "I came to see you to enquire about your health," he explained. "I saw you look pained when dismounting Bran's horse and your movements have been slower."
There was no stopping the blush that covered her cheeks as she realized that she had completely exploded at him over his concern for her welfare. It was a concept foreign to her. Her embarrassment caused her to try and turn away, his hand on her cheek stopped her. "When it was just us three alone, talking, your face showed pain on every laugh. By the end your smile barely reached your eyes."
"It was the riding." She had been healing from her injuries, but jumping from Winterfell's battlements, trekking to the Wall on foot, wading through freezing cold streams and then riding a horse before the Battle was won, they had all taken their toll on her fragile body. She had no idea how to explain any of that in words to Jon so instead she stepped away from him, but kept her eyes locked on to his. With shaking fingers, Sansa began to remove her outer clothing. His eyes showed confusion as he reached out and put his hand on hers.
"Sansa-"
Shaking his hand off she explained, "You need to see to understand." He remained where he stood as she continued taking her clothing off, until she was left in just the bindings that covered her breasts and a petticoat. Her eyes were tightly shut yet she could feel his eyes simply on her eyes. With every ounce of strength that she possessed, Sansa forced her eyes open and met Jon's. Biting her lower lip slightly, her head nodded the smallest amount and his eyes left hers. She watched his eyes, waiting for the shame and disgust. Bolton always had a look of disgust, hatred and arousal when he looked upon her, though she knew that the arousal had nothing to do with her sex, just her scars.
"Do they hurt?" His voice was barely a whisper, as if speaking louder would cause harm to her damaged outer shell.
"Mostly, no, not anymore. Until the riding. I think it agitated some things." Tentatively he reached out the fingers from one hand and paused just before they touched her. His eyes snapped up to hers, seeking permission and she nodded whilst holding her breath. Then his fingers touched her where no one had touched, not even herself, in almost two moons. The touch was unlike anything she had experienced before. It was not as homely as she remembered mother and father holding her. It was not the soft, harsh hands of a king or the knuckles of the Kingsguard. It was a rough and calloused touch, like the Hound, but there was a softness that no Bolton had ever considered. His fingers moved to a rib just under her bindings. It jutted out at an angle and was what had been hurting her when laughing or exerting herself like on the horse or running away from Winterfell. It would forever be broken.
His eyes asked what happened?
"The King would have his personal guard beat me before the court for father's crimes, for Robb's crimes, for my own."
His fingers crossed her stomach and found a mess of fine line scars. They intersected. They stretched on and on. They had been inflicted slowly and meticulously. His eyes asked her again, this time refusing to leave her eyes as she answered. He kept his fingertips on the healing skin.
"Bolton liked to see me bleed when he…" She may have found the courage to show her wounds, but she could not talk about everything that the monster did so her voice trailed off as she bowed her head. With as gentle a touch as he used on her body, Jon's hand lifted her face and forced her eyes up to meet his. He shook his head telling her that it was not her fault. "I'm still broken," she whispered harshly with fresh tears in her eyes and she suddenly whipped herself around. There was no point in stopping half way. Taking a deep breath Sansa moved her hair across her back and draped it over her shoulder, exposing her back to Jon. Both of his hands, she could feel all ten digits separately, began touching the scars and the fresher cuts that might yet become scars. She believed that she could remember each and every mark, exactly how she got each individual one. They were mostly from Bolton. "He would prefer, mostly, to take me like a dog, a beast, but still wanted to see… the blood. To hear my screams." Her voice was barely above a whisper and she wondered for a moment if Jon had even heard her. It might better that way, she considered.
And then his hands grabbed her waist, his forehead crashed against her shoulder. She tensed in fear, her breathing quickening until she heard him apologizing. Over and over he apologized. "I'm sorry, so sorry." Wrenching herself free from him, Sansa turned herself back to face him with a furrowed brow. His hands cupped her face and he leant his forehead against hers. They were so close that she could see a wetness in his eyes. Was he crying? "I want to kill them all," he rasped. "I want them to feel what you felt, still feel." His eyes closed and then looked down upon her and he moved away slightly, moving his fingers over an angry red welt just poking out from her bindings. "What?" he demanded angrily, harshly and she gulped in fear, shifting her bindings without hesitation. "Are those teeth?" Sansa nodded. "He bit you?"
She pulled away from him and started to lift up her petticoat layers. Her thighs were what hurt the most after riding with Bran. Again, she never looked at what she could only imagine was a mass of bruises and bites. Since riding Bran's horse, she could feel the pain with every step, every time she sat or stood. His hands stopped her, making it clear that he did not want to see, that she was disgusting in his eyes, but then he bent slightly and forced her to look at him. There was no disgust in his eyes only anger and concern. "No one will ever touch you again. I promise." And he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her.
After all of the distrust she had learned in King's Landing and the Vale, there was something about her cousin's words and arms that made her believe him.
