"I can dress myself, thank you very much." Jon's voice was heard from the other room.
Sansa listened to Podrick scurrying out of the bedchamber, she could just see her King through the gap in door, she returned her attention to the fire. It had consumed her interest, ever since she had heard the scream. She didn't let on to the red woman the reason she was hovering so close to the fire, she said she was merely cold.
"Are you sulking in there?" Jon called, as if that would coax her into dining with him. Sansa shot a glare through the gap, he wasn't in it. He was out of sight, probably brooding. Hearing the rustle of fabric, took all the anger out of her, it was replaced with that fear. Just look at the fire. It was spitting, no screams were emitting from it, but she held out hope. The second time around she will be able to identify the screams.
CREAK
She looked across the room and wished she hadn't, she saw Jon standing shirtless, unabashed, in the doorway. Consume yourself with the fire. "What do you want?" Don't ask that.
"Looks like you made a start to getting ready, what happened?" He mused, strutting into the room. He nudged the bath with his boot. "You made a bit of a mess." He stood over her, she used the mirror to view him, it was much easier, except for the fact he was still shirtless in the reflection. There were faint scars across his abdomen, nothing that took away from the whole physique, but enough for her to want to trace them... Just look at the fire. Jon had some bumps up and down his torso, some were probably bone, but there were some uniform bumps lower down- like he was carrying pups. She stared hard as if waiting for the bumps to move, or kick.
"Did your handmaiden abandon yer?" He touched her hair; it was still sodden, and sticky. She remained as silent as the grave. "Not talking, is not the way to go."
"I dismissed her, she's probably somewhere." Sansa finally spoke, and at the same time became aware she was wearing her chamber robe. It was gaping at the front, hopefully the monstrosity that was her hair- distracted him from that part of her anatomy. She adjusted it and stood. "Just leave, I can take care of this."
"Clearly not, that's been sitting in your hair for hours. Did you sit here waiting for an absent maid to wash it out?" He started to pull at it, every hair was attached to another and all tugged on her scalp.
"Stop it. I got distracted, I had a strange afternoon." She shuffled back from him and knelt to test the water in the tub, it had remnants of oil already in, but it was a lot less than what was on her head. She then bent over the rim and dipped her head into the bath, using her hand to swish out what she could. "I had a visit from an old friend of yours." Since he was still there watching her bending over into a bath, she might as well talk to him. He ended up squatting over her.
"The water is drowning you out." He, without warning clasped her hands to halt her ministrations. "Say it again."
"I had a visit from the woman in red." She didn't milk it further, since he was too close, she thought he would move off of her once he got a reply. But he still hung over her like a shadow, lean stomach on her back, his arms either side of her head, with a fist full of her hair. "I've got to get this out, release my hair."
"The red priestess?" He ignored her request, and began to manipulate her hair himself, cupping water and pouring it onto the back of her head. "She shouldn't be here, how she get in?"
"Sorcery." She mumbled. "No one should have that kind of power."He was almost sitting on her back, she couldn't even try to move away, not without flooring him.
"She may have power, but she can't influence me." He was good at rinsing; she supposed it was because he had an unruly mass of curls he had to wash repeatedly himself. His hair must get full of blood. It felt like he was approaching the end of the wash, since he was wringing her mane. Sansa tried to take control, by fingering through the ends of her hair and reversing through his legs. "Hang on, sweetheart." He was gripping it tightly like reins on a horse. And he steered her back between his legs. How undignified.
"I can do the rest." She protested, and he put wet fingers into her ear. "Uck, not the ears." He was removing the oil from them, and taking his sweet time too. The wringing started again. "Done?"
"Yep, oof." Then he dismounted her, Sansa knew she was free, except he still had a handful of her hair. She slowly stood up, but it felt like he was winching her with the mane. "There." He reached either side of her head and split the mass into two pieces and brought them over her shoulder. "Kissed by fire." He had trouble releasing the last strand, as the opportunity would go once it fell through his fingers.
She didn't know what he meant, the word fire had rung in her ears most of the day. For the past two nights she had dreamt her Jon was dancing in a pyre, and with the possibility of Jon being a dragon, it made sense. Sansa dreamt of that, and howling wolves. Ghost wasn't much of a howler, though she knew there were wolves in the neighbouring forests, but her instinct told her she was dreaming of lady. The queen was pining for her long lost direwolf.
The fireplace roared in front of her, and there was another heat source behind her- playing with her hair. Confound the gods, for creating such a puzzle. Sansa withdrew from the space he had held her in, the other chamber beckoned her, and that room wasn't on fire. She noted there was a dress on the bed, one she was expected to wear."I'm still not-"
"-What did she want?" Jon was dithering behind her, she heard something thud on the other side of the room, and with a quick inspection she found he had removed his boots and kicked them at a chest of drawers.
"What she wanted last time." Sansa merely toyed with the sleeves of the dress on the bed, she always got hypersensitive when people were busying themselves changing their clothes or undressing in her presence. I'll never get used to it.
"She said she wants to serve me, well she can't. Her way of serving me is..." Jon rumbled, and she heard everything, even the cuss at the end. She thought he was going to say sacrifice, but it was a crude term he used instead- nothing a good woman should hear. Sansa saw his trousers land on the chair by the bed. "She'll be lucky." He rumbled. "She didn't stand a chance when I was in the watch, she's not going to stand a chance now I'm married." He slid into her peripheral vision, rummaging through a wardrobe. She secreted the dress back into the wardrobe while his attention was diverted, and pulled out her nighty.
"I doubt marriage teaches a man discipline." Sansa was saying it to herself, but she voiced it very openly. She bit her lip when she heard him close a drawer heavy handily.
"You'd be surprised."
Sansa couldn't bite her tongue, probably since she was facing the other way it gave her an air of confidence. "Men do what they like, it's the order of the world, why do you think the world is full of bastards?" Careful.
"That's not the type of husband I'm going to be." His voice was too distant for him to be facing in her direction. Maybe, he was scared of her too?
"But you'll be my husband, grudgingly-"
"Ey, are you starting again?"
Now she knew he was facing her, it sounded different. But luckily she still couldn't see his face."If she doesn't stand a chance now that you're married-"She imitated his voice. "Are you saying she is still in with a chance otherwise? she's an attractive woman- you so would have had her. As if parading our marriage around in front of me was going to make me feel any better, that you are going to restrain yourself for the sake of me, then just forget it." Was it supposed to be bittersweet? The air was charged again, and she knew he would be closer the next time he spoke, he wouldn't let her get away with that. Sansa already felt lousy she had gone back on her promise to herself she was going to be submissive. Now she had to contend with the shadow of a dead man being cast over her.
"Why would I need her? When I've got you." Oh lord, this would be a very strange sort of punishment. His arms were slow, they wrapped around her tight, across her arms, locking them to her chest, where she had balled them in defence. It was probably too late to protect the cord of the robe, but she could protect the neckline. They were fused together. There were only two thin sheets of fabric between her buttocks and the sword, and she didn't have a clue what to do. Her soaked hair was being pressed into the back of her robe, it was bleeding through to the skin, and she was certain he had rivets of water running down his chest. "I'd have to be mad to go elsewhere." She heard him say.
That is touching, but right now- she wanted to be elsewhere. He didn't know of course, she couldn't offend him this time. With her hands still clenched, she froze, she refused to whimper. If you reject him so many times- something horrible could happen. The horrible was unimaginable; literally, she didn't see rape, or death, but banishment into the unknown, annulled marriage, followed by another marriage more frightful, or spinsterhood. They'll wonder why you have been rejected 3 times, they could come to the conclusion you are barren. What if she was? Sansa was lucky not to have been impregnated by Ramsay, and when her flower did bloom, she bled heavily all week. That earned her a beating from Ramsay.
Black curls filled her side vision, and she felt them against her cheek, they were soft, but the beard a little coarse, he was pecking at the side of her neck. It wasn't that bad, the bristle was scratchy, but tickly, and the lips were soft, and they were bigger then they looked. He spread his lips over her skin, and moistened her neck as he drew them closed. These were smooches, not bites, not like Ramsay. Ramsay would bruise or tear her flesh. Early days she would cry during such administrations, cry until she was numb. So his consummations were like flogging a dead horse during her final days as Sansa Bolton.
Jon un-caged her gently, stroking her arms as he withdrew. She was surprised, her arms dropped back to her side and when she unclenched she saw welts on her palms, she masked them as Jon appeared at her side. "They have lemon cakes, downstairs."
The Queen met his expression of mirth, with one of her own. "Damn you."
