Chapter Twenty-Four: Fangs

She remembered the early morning she would sneak off from her embroidery lessons to watch Robb and her Lord Father spar in the courtyard. She remembered their dexterity, their grace; the sounds of metal clashing against one another as they battled for supremacy and dominance. While Robb was zealous and eager, his movement akin to a wolf on the chase of its prey, Ned was matchless and fluid, as if the sword were but an extension of his arm.

"The steel must be part of you, sweetling. You are but one sword, that is all." That was a lesson. Her first lesson in swordplay.

Sansa had been ten the first time she held a sword in her hand. Catelyn had been appalled, outraged that her eldest daughter and prize wanted to partake in something so barbaric and primitive. "A lady does not fight!" she would reprimand, her lips pursed and tight, blue eyes dilated in disbelief and horror. Sansa scoffed and rolled her eyes, Ned quirked a smile-a brief one-before Cat turned her annoyed gaze his direction. He was in for it now. Hw would have to speak with the merchants and have some fabrics ordered. He had heard that a new shipment of Myrish lace had come in from the Free Cities. Cat would look absolutely splendid in dark green...

Ned had initially been against his daughters learning, believing that such things were not done in the North. He had been adamant in his refusals, immune to their pretty pleadings and tears. Yet, theirs was a difficult world, an arduous life where they hurt little girls with no hesitation or qualm. Soon-much too soon-they would have to leave the warmth and sanctuary of Winterfell and encounter bigger monsters than the grumpkins and snarks of childhood nightmares.

"The world is a dangerous place, Cat. The girls must learn." Catelyn was angry, sure, but eventually relented. And soon, the lessons ensued.

"Keep your eye on the angle of my shoulders. They will give clue to my next move." Her Lord Father would oft remind her during those early morn trainings with Robb, Arya, and Theon. Although his face was wet with exertion, he was proud of Sansa. She was like a cat-quick as a shadow and light as a feather. In this moment, she reminded him so much of Elaynna.

She remembered the first time Theon had challenged her to a duel, scoffing at her skill and questioning what she had learned. "Your brother and Lord Father might have gone easy on you, Little Flower, but I will not." Robb had been livid, threatening Theon with castration should harm befall his baby sister, yet Sansa had been ready, prepared. Theon had lunged at her, trying to make her lose focus, but Sansa blocked it easily.

'Watching is not seeing. Seeing, but true seeing...that is the heart of swordplay.' Sansa remembered those words, ingrained them within her heart. It was all but a lesson.

Theon was a worthy opponent, reliable, but Sansa had been better. One quick thrust later and he had been disarmed, a dirtied heap in the muck. He had been embarrassed, disgusted that a lady-a girl-bested him. Robb was superior, lauding his sister's skill.

Yet, Sansa had heard none of it, her eyes solely on Theon's face and the crimson streak that ran from his brow to jaw. Oh gods...She had made him bleed!

The scar was thin, but a hairline width; barely noticeable to the passing stranger. Yet, despite the superficiality of the wound, Theon had bled like a stuck pig. A small smile graced Sansa's lips as she remembered how much the ward ranted and raved, for he had always been a vain man. "It's an improvement," Robb asserted, his blue eyes gleaming at the hilarity.

For a brief moment, Sansa had been appalled at what she had done, for inflicting harm on another. Ladies are supposed to be docile and meek. Yet, Ned was hearing none of it. "All men are made of water. If you pierce them, the water leaks and he will die. That is the frailty of life and the imperfection of man."

Watching Theon bleed like that caused something within Sansa to shift. It was in that moment, Sansa realized that she could take a life, make a man bleed. Once, Robb had told her about a land in Essos, where both the narrow and Shivering Sea meet, Braavos. In Braavos, she had heard that the people lived by a specific creed. "Valar Morghulis," Robb repeated, the words awkward and halting on his tongue. "All men must die."

It had been a long day, a particularly taxing lesson. Robb had not gone easy on her. Aye, all men must die, Sansa concurred, wiping the sweat from her brow, her face dirtied by grime. "But I am no man."

XXXXXXXXXXX

Jon's sword was lying just at her right, resting upon a stool in the corner of the hut. Sansa eyed it, calculating. She could make for it, the distance was not that great. Mayhap just five more steps…

Yet, what would be the risk? She was standing in the middle of Jon's hut in nothing save a tunic. Sansa was not stupid; men only wanted one thing from a pretty girl. While some men got it using pretty words and false promises, others, like Rattleshirt, just took it.

He was a large man, larger than even Tormund, but he was quick with the alacrity and swiftness of a hunter. He could easily overwhelm her, crush her within his fist like a butterfly. She could scream, he was likely anticipating it, wanting it, but then what? He would more than likely slit her throat before Jon arrived.

No, Sansa would not scream, nor would she beg. There would be only one person walking away tonight. And it would not be him.

"I watched you, waiting for you to come back alone. You were so beautiful tonight. Like a water goddess." Rattleshirt came closer, eyes never leaving her. He stumbled slightly, but quickly regained his footing. It was then Sansa realized that the gods had granted her a small bit of mercy-Rattleshirt was drunk. For as long as she had lived, Sansa never recalled her father deep in his cups, claiming that too much alcohol dulled the senses.

"Did you fuck him? Give him a taste of your ginger mint? He was always such a greedy bastard, never thought to share the spoils."

Sansa took a step to the right, to the blade; small steps, not too quick or sudden. All the while her eyes remained on the leviathan barring the door. "You will die this night, you know this."

It was not an idle threat, something tossed out of anger and frustration, but a promise. Sansa meant to kill this man. One way or another.

Never hesitate...hesitation leads to mistakes….

He advanced closer, she could smell the ale on his fetid breath, her stomach churned. "Come now. If Rattleshirt must die tonight, I will see the White Wolf's bitch to the afterlife with me." Sansa lunged towards the blade, mere inches away. Yet it was too late.

With a hiss and a cry, Rattleshirt had grabbed a handful of Sansa's hair, pivoting her around to the front, his face buried on her neck, inhaling her scent. "You will remember this night-my body pressed against yours. You trembling and helpless as I ram my cock into you. You spilling from everyone of your tight little holes."

One morning, when Sansa was two and ten, her father had sent for a master fencer from Braavos up North to instruct both his daughters. Syrio Forel was the man's name and a former First Sword. Quick and lithe, his fighting was different from the swordplay up North, his movement fluid like and Arya had been entranced by him, by his matchless grace and precision. "We Braavosi don't fear death. We don't fear it because we understand."

Arya scrunched her face, confused. "Understand what?" her grey eyes both intrigued and annoyed. She was frustrated, just as Sansa had been; they had teamed up during practice to best him and he had beaten them both. Soundly.

"We understand that unlike you Northerners with your old gods and you Southroners with your Light of the Seven, there is only one god worth revering-the God of Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: "Not today.""

Quick, much too quick, with a speed and deftness that surprised her, Sansa again lunged forward to Jon's blade, this time succeeding. Spinning around swiftly, before the wildling had a chance to react, she lodged the sword into the brute's neck, burying it to the hilt. Rattleshirt dropped to his knees, his eyes bulging in disbelief and faint hysteria. The look of the damned, Ser Forel called it. The last look of the dying before The Stranger seized him.

Kneeling before her now, Sansa looked at the languishing man and felt...nothing. No sadness, no fear. Only emptiness. Aye, it had been necessary, for this man tried to rape her and gods know what else. If it had not been him than someone else. She was a killer-like Father, like Uncle Benjen, like Robb. She supposed she was now condemned, along with the rest of them, to the deepest pit of the Seven Hells.

Extracting the knife from the giant's neck, Sansa leaned forward, maintaining eye contact. He was fading, the light slowly diminishing, and yet he still looked feral and angry. No doubt damning her to perdition. Yet it was all too late; she was already there.

"I am far from helpless."

The wildling spat the ground, his blood thick and crimson, and died. The look of contempt and hatred still upon his mein. The dragon may breathe fire, Sansa thought absently, and the lion may have brute strength, yet the wolf has fangs. There was movement to her left. Jon.

"I killed him." It was not a question, but a statement. A rather stupid one. "I killed that man."

Sansa did not remember her arm being divested of the sword, or Jon holding her face in his hands. Nor did she remember the trembling of her hands, the blood coating the fingers; the rufescent liquid bright against the dying fire of the hut. Everything was a hae, a blur of confusion and disorientation. Someone must have changed her tunic, for it was different-smelled differently.

All that she remembered in that moment was leaning into Jon's touch, slow and deliberate, her lips meeting his. He moaned, deepening the kiss, leaning into her. Sansa pulled back, and Jon let out a growl of frustration, chasing down her lips. Gods, but he would never tire of her, never tire of this feeling of completion that she alone invoked.

The She-Wolf was speaking and Jon had to strain to his head to hear."You promised you would not kiss me again lest I asked you." Jon blinked, his heart beginning to splinter in two. No no no...He had been so damned close.

"Sansa-"

She kissed him again briefly, silencing him. He watched her intently, silently. His heart a rapid staccato in his ears.

"I am asking you."

XXXXXXXXXXX

She breathed life into him as she leaned over him, a faint whisper against his lips, her own soft and pliant, sweet like nectar and summer dreams. Sansa's kiss was fleeting, a brief interlude, and Jon was bereft, craving more. She was a drug, more potent than the finest Arbor Gold, and Jon wanted more, more of her. Always.

She pulled back slightly, and Jon reached for her, hysterical and fearful, suddenly incomplete and wanting. She was the embodiment of The Maiden above him, divine and beautiful, a contrast between bright, blinding hope and unfulfilled yearning. Jon was at a loss, afraid to look away from her, afraid that she would disappear, that all of this-this bright hope, this needful yearning-was but a dream that he would soon wake from. He would never wake from her again.

A curtain of fire pooled over her shoulders, mesmerizing him. She was divinity above him, a moon goddess, ethereal colors, crimson hair and eyes of sapphire seas. Jon's fingers threaded through her auburn locks, returning her back to him, kissing her deeply. Sansa smiled as she acquiesced to his voiceless command: a siren's smile, dulcet , honey-sweet and seductive.

Her head dipped down to his once more, tasting him. His breath lost at the feel of her. She was promise. The uncontained hope, the anticipated exaltation and fulfillment.

He stroked her, enjoying the contrast-the soft wetness of her core against the scarred callousness of his fingers. His hands were strong, a man's full grown and strong, fervent and frantic, craving more of what was offered. Sansa began to rock her hips, unbidden, wanting to feel him against her, feel more of his touch.

For the first time, she felt beautiful, wanton, uninhibited. She leaned forward, her hips continuing its undulating beneath his hands, filling him. She needed this, his touch, the gentle firmness of his hands against her.

At that moment, Jon felt drugged, as though he were on a euphoric high he could never come back from. He cupped her sex gently; gasping at her wetness, and felt a moan slowly build within his throat. Sansa lifted her head slowly and arched her back, the movement so fluid, so perfect, that Jon was at a loss. Her skin was of the purest pearl, and she was soft yet lithe, a merging of the divine and the spectacular.

She lowered herself over him, aching and hot, and stilled, waiting. It was strange, this joining and union. Her Lady Mother and Septa had bespoken of the pain, unbearable and searing, white-hot in its intensity. And yet…

Yet…

"Oh."

Jon's hands skimmed lower, at the meeting of her thighs. He needed her-her touch, her essence. He needed to feel her, to touch her. It would never be enough.

Jon pulled Sansa to him, urgent and frantic, unable to wait any longer. A fervency and hysteria he had never experienced before spurring him on. Now...He needed her now.

Sansa kissed him again, silencing his unspoken request. Her taste providing temporary mollification and respite. No words were needed; they were one.

She pushed forward, sinking down deeply. And it was Jon who gasped, lost. She was so warm, so sweet. Never had he felt like this before, never had he felt such completion, such elation.

Sansa began to move, slowly posting up and down on his length, taking him in with shuddering need. She felt so full, so complete, and yet, she wanted more. What is it you are doing to me, Savage?

Jon surged forward, kissing her, tasting her deeply. He needed her-needed more of her skin in his hands, her hair on his fingertips, her seat on his tongue. More than that, more than this need-this craving-he wanted her heart, to capture the wild and untameable essence of her.

Sansa leaned down, kissing him again, gasping. She was close..so very close. At that moment, she felt as though she were standing at a great precipice, that at any moment, something both terrifying and spectacular was awaiting her. All she had to do was hold on…

Jon clenched his teeth, lost to the feeling. Lowering his hand, his fingers touched her nexus, gently stroking. Sansa arched her back, crying out. Her hips began to undulate, moving faster, harder.

Yes…

Then, just when the sun met the earth, burning and radiant, Sansa cried out, lost to a blinding haze of light and color. Jon followed immediately after, his roar of release splintering the calm tranquility of the evening sky.