A/N: This chapter, from what I recall (I wrote it months ago), was one of those that brought me the most joy while writing it. It was entirely unplanned and just wrote itself almost in one go in a surge of Inspiration (and it also happens to be the longest as far). I hope you can enjoy it as much as I did! Smutty phase continues!
Enjoy and stay safe, wherever you are!
Winter was already here - Sansa could feel it in every part of her body. She was wearing her warmest gown, a heavy coat, and the thickest fur she could have found, but she was still cold. It surprised her slightly - as a Northerner, she should be used to varying degrees of cold. Had the years in the South changed her tolerance for low temperatures, or was it the Tully part of her speaking up? She didn't know but as she looked at the other people around her she noticed no one else was trembling. The horses, at first stumbling in the thick snow, quickly learned to lift their legs higher. Everyone seemed accustomed to the harsher conditions, everyone but her.
Winter sun shone brightly and as it rose higher the snow started sparkling, making her reconsider whether the journey was such a good idea after all: her eyes narrowed at the contact with the light, shying away from it, her head sending her a single warning. No, she couldn't be sick again. She will win against it this time. She had to.
Ignoring the pain in her eyes and slight tingling in her head Sansa tried to focus on the beauty of her surroundings instead. She had missed those landscapes for so long, and finally, she could witness them again in their full glory. The summer child watched the winter lands all around her with girlish fascination, the snow speaking to her, calling her home. The fields of thick, sparkling white spreading up to the horizon. The trees, some only dried barks and sad, desperate branches devoid of leaves, others blossoming and thriving as it was their season - reaching high into the sky, proudly presenting their green needles and ripe cones. The feel of magic permeating the air as memories rushed back to her, strong and nostalgic, making her smile in fond remembrance.
They had set out at dawn in a small company of her handmaiden, her personal guards, and some soldiers, enough to protect them if anything was to happen, and not too many to leave Winterfell unguarded. Besides, it was supposed to be a quick journey: in case anything dire was taking place at home, they would most probably make it back on time. Sansa didn't know who would be in direct charge of the castle during their absence; Roose had to have someone he more or less trusted with the task, otherwise, he would have never left Winterfell walls. She will find it out some other time - every information about people loyal to her husband was precious, but right now there were more pressing concerns at hand.
A few small huts spurted from the white ground here and there on their way North. Sansa wished to make some acquaintances, but the people were hiding in their houses, and she didn't feel well enough to truly press on it. Maybe on their way back she will be more accustomed to the conditions and could do something to make the smallfolk trust her enough to leave their wooden shelters.
Ser Osbern's keep was located at a two-day ride distance from Winterfell; Sansa believed they wouldn't even make a stop if it weren't for her presence, but her being here demanded they found a place to sleep at night. Was she feeling her usual self, she would insist on traveling non-stop; in her current condition, though, she didn't feel the strength to be on horseback for two days straight, and would truly appreciate lying down in a warm bed someplace nice. They were heading for the inn nearby when a peasant appeared at the edge of the road. Her soldiers immediately drew their weapons, but she calmed them with a gesture of her hand and approached the man.
"Lady Stark!" he beamed and even though she felt cold dread running down her spine at the use of her family name, she smiled graciously down at him. Did the people of the North have no self-preservation to be running around and calling her a Stark in Roose's presence? "I... I wanted to meet you... to thank you for the people you sent, they're so much help."
People she had sent? Only now did she manage to recognize the man as the very first Northerner who had come to Winterfell to ask for her help.
"I'm glad to hear that." She smiled at him again, satisfied the man associated the help he had received with her personally.
The farmer hesitated visibly, looking at the soldiers surrounding her, their shields displaying the most hated sigil in the entire North.
"You may speak freely," she encouraged him, though she wasn't entirely sure as to why exactly. She was curious what it could be about, and felt the deep need to help him again, was he in need. After all, he was the one who started a wheel of change and gave her more confidence in performing her duties to the North, unknowingly to himself and anyone else but her.
"I don't have much, m'lady..." the man stammered, wringing his hands, "...but I'll always have a warm hearth for you, a-and a meal, not rich, I'm afraid..."
Sansa dismounted from her horse and walked closer to the peasant, her guards following slowly behind. She took his hands into hers and smiled at him.
"We wouldn't like to endanger your supplies," she assured him, wondering. The "we" evoked a glint of panic in his features as his eyes skipped through the people surrounding them. Then his gaze returned to Sansa and he smiled sheepishly.
"It ain't enough for everyone," he admitted in an apologetic tone. "But enough for m'lady and... m'lord."
It would be best for her to mingle with the people, even the poorest. Chaos is a ladder, sounded in her head. Maybe the road to the top led exactly from the bottom of that ladder. But she could hardly imagine Roose agreeing on spending the night in the farmer's hut without the soldiers, not to mention letting her stay here alone.
On the other hand... what exactly she had to lose?
"Thank you for your kindness. Please, allow me a moment." She let go of the man's hands, trying to ignore the fact her gloves were now stained with the dirt from his skin. Her soldiers shadowed her until she reached Roose, who had also dismounted and was looking at her expectantly. "The kind host invites us to be his guests, my lord. You and me."
She could feel the men around her shift in their saddles. Not a good sign, whatever it could truly indicate.
"It could work wonders for the morale of the Northerners," she added quieter, so only Roose and her guards could hear her. "For this positive image of your house we're trying to implement. Our joined houses. If you'd get the reputation of a gentle lord, the Northmen could be more likely to close their eyes to other things."
Roose tilted his head and she thought she truly pushed it too hard this time.
"If I wished for a reputation of a gentle lord, I wouldn't be standing here right now. Gentleness is the easiest path to getting yourself killed."
"I understand that. Forgive me, I misphrased it. What I meant was that lying a layer of gentleness and kindness onto your unwavering reputation of fear and horror could be beneficial. And you know that, just as well as I do."
She was pushing him hard, but she was certain he agreed with her in a political, coolly calculated way. He was too smart not to see that.
Suddenly, she decided to push him even farther. Again, what did she have to lose?
"Do it for me," she blurted, her cheeks turning redder, this time not from the cold. She had no idea how he would react; it probably meant nothing to him, but it could be a lot for his game of making her trust him.
He stared right back at her for the longest moment in her life, and she wished he would just say something, anything, as she was freezing from the inside. She also wasn't sure if whatever she was doing made sense in his lord-ish view of the world: it was one thing to stay at a lord's or a knight's keep, though it was still a lot. But for the Warden and Wardeness of the North to spend a night at smallfolk holdings? That had to be unprecedented, and definitely beneath them. She would have surely shared this view six years prior, and she still harbored some reservations deep inside her; it wasn't about what she wanted or needed, though, but rather what she could gain by doing it.
And she just wished to feel warm again, as soon as possible.
"If this is my lady's wish, then so be it." She couldn't believe her own ears; her lips formed a full, cheerful smile. "But I'm certain our kind host will find some place in the shed for our men, even without food," Roose added much louder, so the peasant would hear him.
The man visibly tensed, puzzled and uneasy, but nodded nonetheless.
"Of course, m'lord."
Sansa sincerely hoped they would not leave him any poorer than he already was.
"Lead the way." Roose handed the reins of his horse over to the nearest soldier and offered Sansa his arm. She accepted it without hesitation, and together, they followed the farmer into a small side road, secluded from the view by the large trees growing along it. The snow here reached up to their knees, the branches hanging low, scraping their clothes. Sansa's hold on Roose's arm tightened on its own as she leaned on him while having to lift her legs particularly high to be able to thread the thick white all around them. He didn't say a word, helping her silently whenever she had trouble crossing the more difficult areas.
Despite the inconveniences, Sansa felt so satisfied with herself she forgot about the cold and general uneasiness she experienced in her body until Roose spoke up.
"You're shivering," he noticed, and she gazed up at him, taken aback. She got even more surprised when he stopped, took off his outer fur, and covered her with it.
"Th-thank you," she stuttered, genuinely shocked and grateful, wondering for who this show was performed because it definitely wasn't an act out of concern for her well-being, stemming from the goodness of his heart. The Boltons didn't even have hearts.
He didn't comment on it, only urged her to move forward. She felt warmer now, and safer when she could lean onto him for leverage against the snow.
Eventually, the path widened into a clearing - they reached the man's premises. A field with winter crops to the left, a few small wooden buildings to the right. Sansa gazed around curiously - had she ever been to the Northern smallfolk residence? She couldn't remember anything like that ever happening. In any smallfolk hut, for the matter. She had been traveling the high roads, and those weren't the best circumstances to witness any peasants. Not that she would have cared, back then. Everyone had been just the same to her eyes that looked down on them with superiority.
She was no longer that person.
"Me buildings are for your use," the peasant murmured, looking at the soldiers. Their men dismounted from their horses, tied the reins to the wooden fence surrounding the premises and headed to the sheds and stores. Sansa sincerely hoped they were civil enough to use the food they had brought with them for the road, without damaging the man's possessions.
Her handmaiden and a few guards stayed by their side, not moving an inch, making the farmer uneasy. Sansa had a thought it was more for the sigils on their shields rather than the soldiers themselves.
"This me house." The peasant led them to the central building, the smallest one of them - a wooden hut that didn't look like it could survive the Winter. "And that's me grandson."
There was a small boy, secluded by the shadows of the building. Sansa smiled at him, trying to make a good first impression, but the boy didn't move into the light.
"Foolish lad," his grandfather quickly scolded him. "Come pay your respects."
"That's quite alright." Sansa smiled back at him, waving her free hand dismissively. "We should let children be children."
Her heart stung at the thought of her younger brothers, viciously murdered by someone they had considered a family. They hadn't lived long enough to leave their childhood years, their short journey ending in suffering at such a young age. She had to blink a few times to fight back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.
The peasant anxiously returned her smile, his mouth missing a lot of teeth. The ones that remained were yellow, some almost rotten; it effectively diverted her attention, her stomach churning. It reminded her of some faces she had seen in King's Landing, her clothes being torn as the mob wanted to defile her; that memory made her lean into Roose some more, instinctively seeking protection. He gazed at her askance and tightened his hold on her as well. Realizing what she had done, Sansa wanted to straighten immediately, but stopped herself at the last moment - trust, it was all about building trust. Her involuntary reflexes like that one only served in her favor, even though they made her uncomfortable for the sheer fact of occurring somehow beyond her control. His touch had become a common sensation, and it felt... secure against the unknown.
The farmer hurried to the door to his hut, opened it, and invited them inside with a gesture of his hand and a bow. Sansa made a step towards it, but Roose didn't move and their joined grip stopped her in her tracks. She gazed up at him questioningly; he lightly nodded towards the soldiers before answering.
"For your safety, my lady." The guards passed the farmer and went inside the hut. She should have seen it coming - saying Roose had some trust issues would be a severe understatement.
She nodded in understanding and discovered she actually did understand. Trusting a common Northerner wouldn't be the smartest move - they couldn't know what kind of a man he would turn out to be. Maybe she was still a little bit too naive and gullible for her own good.
The soldiers returned and indicated there were no dangers inside. Only then did they move to the hut; the door passage was too narrow to hold two people at once, so Roose let her go first. After a small entryway, she saw a rather spacious area that probably had to be a witness to the family's most daily activities. There was a table with a long bench, pots and other utensils for cooking, a fire pit on the floor, a loom that seemed to be unused for ages. Not much more. Sansa hungrily took it all in, swearing to remember it to make the Northerners' lives better and to truly understand their needs.
The man, though skinny, dirty, and probably unhealthy, didn't seem miserable. He had so little, yet wasn't bitter about it. She had so much, and still...
She had so much? She laughed internally at that thought. In reality, she had nothing, even less than their host. Nothing she could truly call hers. Not yet.
Soon, she will have it all.
"Please, m'lady." The farmer showed her to the table and quickly filled a pot with some hot stew. Hesitantly, he filled a second vessel and put it next to the one he had offered her.
Sansa turned around and looked at Roose, who still stood near the door, taking his surroundings in without a trace of interest. She thought they both had to look out of place in a room so poor, but he fitted it better than her. Deprived of his outer fur that was still draped around her, and covered with snow, he looked much more a seasoned warrior, rather than a lord, not accustomed to the rich style of life. Strict, severe, demanding; not needing a lot, but desiring so much more, with unsatiated ambition. Harboring an untamed lust for power, ruthless and calculated, yet somehow different from the likes of which she had already encountered, like Littlefinger. Looking at him and drawing these conclusions, Sansa felt her own lust appearing out of nowhere, and she swallowed hard. He just looked rather... good. His rough, slightly ragged appearance spoke to her senses, awakening something within her, something primal and beyond her control. She hadn't seen him like that before or ever thought about him this way. It was something new, affecting her deeply, especially combined with some snippets of the last night coming back to her. Disappointment started growing within her at the thought they wouldn't repeat it this night, or any other in the nearest future.
Quickly turning her head towards the pot to avoid such thoughts, she patted a place next to her on the bench and waited until Roose would join her. He did, the soldiers coming to a stand at the doors, her handmaiden uncomfortably taking a position next to them.
"Thank you for your hospitality," Sansa smiled at the nervous peasant, his features brightening in response. She waved her hand slowly above the pot, letting the pleasant scent reach her nostrils, the warmth filling her from within. It was a simple dish, only vegetables, but as she had her first spoon she discovered she was starving. The taste was rather dull, unable to move her taste buds; it didn't blunt her appetite, however.
She was ravenous.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Roose wasn't eating. Irritation suddenly filled her, and before she could think twice about what she was doing she sighed rather theatrically, took his spoon, and tasted his stew. Her acting started to become her second layer of skin, so natural it no longer needed the mind to participate. Roose watched her cautiously, and she could sense he was rather taken aback by her actions.
"See? It's safe," she announced proudly, returning to her own meal.
"That was rather unexpected," he commented, taking the spoon in his hand. "If you're that hungry you could just ask, I would leave you my portion."
She cast him a dark glare.
"Just eat."
He smirked in response but obliged nonetheless. Sansa cleared her vessel, still a little bit hungry; she wasn't going to either ask for a refill or accept Roose's offer, though. She didn't want to exploit the poor farmer nor give her husband satisfaction. There was still some dignity left in her.
"Thank you, it was delicious." Sansa turned to their host with a thankful smile. It wasn't true, but he didn't have to know that. Besides, she would eat more, devour the whole stew if she only could, so it couldn't be that bad either. "I'd be glad if you showed us your crops and told us about your hardships in the morning."
"Of course, m'lady." The man bowed awkwardly, his frame slightly shivering.
"If you could lead us to a place of rest now, I'd appreciate it." She was tired after the journey and since the bliss of a warm meal had filled her senses she became more than sleepy, almost exhausted.
"Of course."
The man led them to a small adjacent room, and Sansa realized it was all his hut consisted of. There was some wooden furniture, a pile of straw that made for a sleeping place on the floor, a rather narrow bed located by the opposite wall, and a hole designated for fire, the flames barely twinkling. Sudden draft almost put them out, freezing Sansa to the bone, making her remember how cold she had felt. Shivering, she pulled Roose's fur tighter around her body.
"Forgive me, m'lady, this is so little, but everything I have," the man stuttered. Sansa turned to him and smiled widely once again, her whole face brightening.
"This is more than you should give us, thank you."
"Goodnight, m'lady." The man cast a wary glance at Roose before adding, "M'lord."
He closed the door which looked like it had been installed there earlier that day, and left them alone.
Sansa took one hesitant step deeper into the room, tugging absent-mindedly at her gloves. Sudden realization hit her: they had never actually shared a bed through the night. No sleeping together had ever been involved. Was she ready for that step?
What choice did she have, though? She won't tell him to sleep on the floor. The bed was narrow, half the size of her own, but it was definitely designed for two people, spending the night at close quarters. Really close. Besides, it had been her idea. She had made her own bed, and now she would have to lie in it.
She turned around and gazed at Roose who was busy undoing his sword belt. The sight of the weapon stirred something else in her mind. This seemed like a perfect opportunity for the last part of her plan - they were alone, away from Winterfell, somewhere no one would ever discover what truly happened. She could leave, deceive the soldiers outside, and go to Ser Osbern's castle.
But how could she go straight to the last part of her plans when she was still at the beginning of them? That was the first argument against, but there were so many others. She didn't know how to use any physical weapon. If she got caught, she would be given to Ramsay and that would be a fate worse than death. If she got caught, the poor peasant would be flayed for his kind heart.
No. Definitely not a good idea.
Hoping she didn't stare at the sword long enough for Roose to notice, Sansa approached the fire and knelt next to it, putting her hands over the flames for some additional warmth.
"What are we doing here, my lady?"
She gazed up at Roose; he was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Why did he look so good, so… alluring? Something of the thoughts she had conjured earlier returned, stirring her own fire, so she quickly looked away from him and stood up. It was unbelievable how quickly her urges changed, from wishing to kill him to desiring his body in a matter of mere seconds. Truly astonishing.
"We are leaving a positive impression," she answered while approaching the bed. It wasn't going to be a comfortable night - a thin piece of material that had probably been white once was draped over the wooden frame, with only a little filling underneath it. The cover was leather, with a fur lining, but Sansa felt it wouldn't help her shelter herself from usual low temperatures, not to mention today when she was feeling so dreadfully cold.
"By sleeping in a peasant's hut." It was neither a statement nor a question.
"Yes." She was tired and wanted to sleep, preferably somewhere warm, but that was out of the question. She sat down experimentally, and the wood creaked beneath her. "The peasant tells other peasants that he invited Lord and Lady Bolton into his home, and not only wasn't he flayed, but he was repaid for his hospitality with kindness and help, and treated gently. And the Lady looked rather pleased with the conditions he granted her."
She cast him a quick look, then continued, at the same time shedding her furs to use them as cover. It was the first time she addressed herself aloud as lady Bolton, but she managed to say it without missing a beat.
"From the peasants, the word spreads to their direct landlords, and then the higher lords hear the message, which leaves a positive impression."
She stared at Roose's fur in her hands and decided she would take it for her cover as it was much thicker than the leather from the bed, and leave that to him.
"That's what you believe they will think?"
"Yes." She lay down, covering herself with a cloak and two furs. The materials and the wooden walls weren't enough to shelter her from the cold, though, and the fire in the floor was barely burning. She shivered under the furs and, to keep her mind occupied with something else, rested her head on her forearm and turned onto her side. "But you don't like it," she commented, staring at Roose. "You think it's beneath you."
That new kind of nervousness revolving around the idea of sleeping together returned, increased tenfold. How would it feel like to sense his presence the whole night? Would she even be able to fall asleep, feeling his body pressing against hers all the time? Somehow, it seemed... intimate, to share such a small chamber, to spend so much time together in a restricted space. That had never happened before.
"I don't like it," he admitted. "And don't pretend you don't feel the same."
It was beneath them, he was right. But she needed the smallfolk, she needed their hearts. And in the game she played, he needed them as well, superficially at least.
This time, she decided to pour out her heart's contents and be entirely honest. As much as she could be, speaking the truth intended to his ears only, of course.
"Maybe it is beneath us. Maybe it's weird and no other lord would do that. Maybe they would feel we've lost our minds, or suspect us of false intentions. It may all be true." She stopped for a moment, thinking about the right words to use. "But Winter is coming, and it can't be about false intentions or positive impressions. The people need us. And we need them. Everyone needs to support everyone else, otherwise, we won't survive. You perceive kindness as a weakness, but this is not about it. It is the core of our survival. Maybe it is a weakness if you don't know how to use it properly, if it's too much or caused by false intentions. But don't mistake it with foolish naivety. You only know how to install fear, and you perceive small acts of kindness as ruining whatever you established. Maybe you don't believe in loyalty, maybe you don't believe in trust or anything rather than terror, but it was not terror that helped my family reign the North for so many years." She hesitated but continued after a while, her voice intentionally quieter. "It wasn't terror that made me want to help you rule the North, but the opposite of it. How you treat me when we're alone. People want a just ruler, and even when they fear you they need to feel confident enough to ask you for help. If they don't, they'll rebel and turn to someone else, and we wouldn't want that. If they rebel, if they turn against us, they would turn against the whole North, and the North would not survive the Winter. We would all die. The North would die." She had no idea where all of it was coming from, but she felt fiercely confident about everything she was saying. "Let me help you. Let me guide you through the meanders of human emotions you don't fully understand."
The majority of those words left her throat on their own, without asking her mind for consent. It surprised her, not only because of what they meant but also because she felt that in a way, they weren't immensely false. That variable truth crafted for him turned out to be much more than that, and the raw honesty hearable in her own voice moved her deeply. She had never spoken to him in such a way.
Roose was just looking at her for a while, expressionless as always, then stood up and perched next to her on the bed.
"That was a speech worthy of a queen," he commented, and she blushed immediately. A queen? There had been a time she was supposed to be the Queen, but that time was long gone. Unless…
Unless he meant the Queen in the North…
Did he want to make her the Queen in the North so he could rule as her king? Was… was that what he was really up to?
But no one in their right mind would ever call him the King in the North, and he had to know it. If she was ever to become the Queen, it wouldn't be good for him. She would never have him by her side, not as a husband, definitely not as a king. It was probably just a figure of speech, and nothing more. Besides, he would never let his true intentions be known to anyone other than himself. Those were just words, meant to throw her off guard.
She shuddered suddenly as a wave of chill spread through her body.
"I'm cold," she quickly explained, not wishing him to have any wrong notions. There was a brief spark in his eyes as he leaned over her and proceeded to pull her covers away. "That won't make me feel any warmer," she murmured, keeping them close to her despite his efforts.
"Oh, but it will."
At first, she didn't realize what he meant, but then she felt his hand sliding underneath her covers and her gown, and suddenly it was all clear.
Heat rising to her cheeks, she immediately closed her legs and on instinct tried to push him away, which resulted in her fist coming in contact with his chest. Only after the fact she realized what she had just done, and felt slight terror at the thought of how he might react, mixed with a hint of anger at him for taking her for granted, and herself for wanting it so much it almost hurt.
He didn't seem to mind her actions, not moving an inch. His hand was still beneath her gown, between her legs; there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he looked up at her, asking silently.
"We can't. Not here." She shook her head, though her body was telling a different story. The fire had already been born, and she couldn't deny his previous statement - it could help her feel warmer. She had thought about it so many times that day, but it was important to present her opinion and stand her ground. At least momentarily, because she had no doubt she would eventually lose herself in her physical desires. "We're guests here, we shouldn't..."
He cut her short before she would be forced to actually name the thing.
"Everything in the North belongs to us, including this bed and the man's life. We may do as we please." She shuddered at the menacing meaning behind the words, even though his voice was as smooth as ever. He stared right back at her as his hand ventured further up her legs.
"Someone might hear us," she weakly tried to protest some more, but her body already gave up on resisting, opening up to him and the fire, warming her from within. Her legs parted, allowing his hand a free passage.
"Do you have any other reservation apart from people hearing us?" he asked almost innocently as his fingers traveled up her thigh.
"N-no," she stuttered because she truly did not. She wanted it, she wanted to feel that warmth, that fire, that pleasure, and there was no denying it.
"Then you ought to be quiet."
His fingertips slid down her riding clothes where she needed his touch the most and she shuddered, barely withholding a gasp. It was just a brush, but enough to gather all the fire she had experienced that day and culminate it into this moment. Her eagerness must have been obvious, as she believed there already was a wet patch of her arousal on the material. Somehow, she was not ashamed of it.
She watched him, mesmerized, as he lifted her covers and buried himself underneath them. Awaiting what was to come with a thrill and anticipation, she lifted her hand to her mouth and bit hard on it. She thought he had to really like her taste down there, otherwise, he definitely wouldn't do that so often. Not that she complained. Quickly all coherent thoughts vanished as he spread her thighs further apart and, after getting rid of any material that might obscure her most sensitive parts, gave one lustful lick along her folds. It would make her immediately cry out in pleasure if it wasn't for the hand in her mouth. She was already feeling much warmer.
When his fingers circled her opening and finally entered her, one by one until she was completely filled, she discovered that biting her hand won't suffice. To add to it, she dug her nails into her skin, dug hard until it hurt. Somehow the joint sensations of pain and pleasure made the fire even more intense, and she felt engulfed by the flames. There was also some weird sensation of a forbidden fruit conjured by the new situation - they weren't in Winterfell in the confines of her bedchamber, they shouldn't be doing what they were doing. Another thrill was brought by the fact they were both basically fully clothed, and she couldn't even see him as he was secluded from her view by the furs still covering her. She had already got used to the sight.
He worked her mercilessly, his fingers curling inside her, hitting something so pleasurable she bucked her hips almost violently, doing her best not to scream as he continued to lap on her folds, his tongue encircling her most sensitive bud, driving her insane. Tears fell down her face at the mixture of sensations, her teeth and nails digging so hard droplets of blood appeared on her skin. She could stand it no more and finally came apart, mewling through the hand in her mouth, clenching around his fingers as she felt every drop of one of the most intense pleasures so far.
She was already drained from energy, sweat glistening on her forehead, droplets of blood trailing down her hand; still, the introduction had to have its follow-up. Trying to steady her breathing and failing in it miserably, she watched as Roose sat up, discarded the furs covering her, freed his manhood from his breeches, and positioned himself at her entrance, looming over her like he usually had done. She waited in anticipation, staring right into his eyes. He stared right back, his irises dark.
When he entered her she sighed contentedly. Somehow she felt complete, like that was what she had been missing the whole day, like all the tension amounted to this moment to be finally resolved. Relaxing completely, she suddenly yelped from surprise when he forced her hand out of her mouth.
"We wouldn't want lady Stark to have wounds on her hands," he explained with a glint in his eyes as he grasped her other hand and put both of them over her head, holding them tightly by the wrists. He called her lady Stark - probably because for the people they were visiting, she was and will always be a Stark. Never lady Bolton. It might also be some indirect comment regarding her previous use of her new house name; at the moment, her mind was not in a place to analyze it.
She looked at him with indignation but said nothing, determined to show him she was able to withstand it without problems, at the same time retaining the eye contact.
Only one thrust was enough to prove she will have problems; how could she remain silent when she felt so much? But she had to, she had to stand it for her own pride.
The task turned out to be even more difficult when with his free hand he pushed her skirts up and let his fingers return to her oversensitive bud, teasing her, tracing out slow circles only to speed up, all the while setting a relentless pace of his thrusts. The bed creaked with his every move, her hips bucked to meet him, and she could only whirl underneath him, withstanding the torture as well as she was only able to.
Sweat trickled down her forehead while she tried her best not to make a sound, to close her throat, at the same time shattering into thousand pieces; she attempted to wriggle her hands out of his grasp, but he held them firmly in place, his grip slightly bordering on being painful. She was unable to look him in the eyes as she had previously planned - it was too much. The last thing she could do was to bite onto her lower lip and close her eyes, focusing on the sensations while not letting her throat express them aloud. It should work.
The bed creaked more and more, she thought it could break from the force it moved with them. Her fire grew and grew, the cold long forgotten, building up to something grand, and she surrendered.
"Come for me, Sansa."
Her eyes shot open, and as she met his darkened, demanding gaze she didn't need anything else. Her name on his lips without any title found her unprepared; it was completely unexpected, and in such a vulnerable moment that it took her off guard. The way it sounded... the power it had... it was even worse than she had thought it would be. And definitely sufficed to help her fulfill that request.
She was too caught up in her surprise to be loud, staring straight into his eyes, forgetting about the iron grasp on her wrists, forgetting everything apart from Sansa in her ears, apart from his irises, reflecting her own. Three more erratic thrusts and he followed her into the bliss, even quieter than ever, holding her gaze.
They stared into each other for a moment, Sansa desperately trying to get her own name out of her head - or maybe rather trying to mentally force him to say it again? She couldn't be quite sure. Steadying his ragged breathing, Roose eased out of her and covered her with the discarded furs. She felt wet down there, their joined juices dampening her thighs, her riding clothes, and her gown; that definitely won't help her feel warmer in the night, but there was nothing to be done about it. Besides, she wasn't sure she even cared.
Come for me, Sansa.
The words were filthy, weren't they? But her name... oh, it was some hellish power to be able to mesmerize another human being with a voice alone. With five letters said in this voice, to be more exact.
She couldn't look away from him and he noticed it, reaching his fingers to wipe the blood from her chin that had spilled from her lip. Sansa briefly thought where these fingers had been barely moments ago, and burnt in shame, though she discovered the shame was lesser every single time she experienced it.
"I hope it warmed you enough, my lady." He said serenely and laid down next to her on his back. This way, to feel comfortable, she would either have to sleep on her side or snuggle up to him. As the second option was unthinkable, she turned to the wall, deciding not to comment on his words. They both knew she wasn't able to pretend when it came to the matters of pleasures, which made any answer unnecessary.
Wondering how she would be able to fall asleep feeling his overbearing presence so strongly behind her, hearing his voice in her head over and over again, she immediately drifted off to sleep, even before she could finish the thought.