Both the Greatjon and his son are breaking their fast with the soldiers of the garrison when Sansa arrives in the Great Hall. Her husband sees her enter and his voice booms above all the others.
"Sansa! Come sit with us! Let the soldiers see what they fight for when they fight for House Umber and the Last Hearth!"
As she approaches the tables, men rise and bow their heads and Sansa demurs graciously.
"Please do not rise; finish your plates, for I know how hard you all train," she tells them. "You must be hungry."
The men sit and eat heartily as they fill themselves with porridge and boiled eggs and fried bread and sausages. Pitchers of cold cider are passed and they drink in hurried gulps and wipe their beards with the back so their callused hands. A servant places a wooden chair at the head of a table next to the Greatjon and she sits gracefully at his side.
"Will you eat," he asks, and then leans closer, "or do you still have the morning sickness?"
Truthfully Sansa feels queasy watching the soldiers stuff food into their mouths with their hands or on the points of their daggers and chew noisily and belch loudly, but she has not eaten and knows that she must for the sake of the child she carries. "It- it has passed already this morning, my lord, I-"
"Good!" he exults. "A plate for Lady Umber," he shouts at a passing serving girl who thumps a bowl of porridge with glistening knobs of butter before her. Sansa picks up her spoon.
"My lady," the Smalljon calls, and she looks up to see him leaning forward from between other soldiers further down the table. "Might I ask…how fares my sister this morning? I fear I upset her-"
"She slept peacefully, Lord Jon; you are kind to ask after her. How…how does young Eddard enjoy his training?"
"He watches us mostly; and we explain what he has seen and then let him try some moves with is wooden sword. Sometimes the younger boys who have begun training will practice with him. Four is quite young to begin; we simply try to make him familiar with it for now."
"He is as eager as you were at that age," the Gratjon tells his son, "but you had no older brothers to guide you. He's lucky to have you, Smalljon. You are good with him, and the boys you train. You should be having sons of your own: is that not so, Sansa?"
Her husband has tried to sound offhand but she knows this is the encouragement that he hopes that she would give his son, and so Sansa looks down into her porridge and draws breath to gather her courage. "Every good man should have sons of his own, my lord," she says softly, and she looks up at her lover and holds his gaze and she sees his face change imperceptibly and hopes that he has understood. He returns her gaze for a long moment and turns back to his plate. When Sansa resumes spooning up her porridge, she hears him speak again.
"Do you attend the meeting of the guilds in the village this day, Father; or shall I go in your stead?"
The Greatjon considers over a cup of cider. "Best I go this time. I'm still lord of the castle and needs show my face on occasion; though I'd sooner show them my arse when they start their endless jabbering-"
Sansa was no longer listening, for the Smalljon has locked eyes with her and gives a slow nod.
"Shall I accompany you, my lord?" Sansa heard herself ask.
Her husband pats her hand. "You stay here, Sansa," he counsels her, "and see you lie down at some point in the day."
Sansa lies on the shearling rug in the north tower with her skirts raised and legs wrapped around her lover and her arms around his powerful shoulders. She has the fingers of one slender hand twisted into this thick hair. "Again," she whispers against his lips.
He pulls back with his hips so that his hard member is once again poised at her entrance and then he fills her slowly and deeply so that she sucks in her breath sharply and sighs. "Oh, that is so lovely…"
"Gods but you're tight and wet," he breathes in a rush. "How can you not think you are enough for me? You are more than enough, my lady: you are everything." He is looking down at her and she smiles tremulously and looks up at him with warm blue eyes full of love and promise.
"Then have everything from me, for I am yours, my sweetest love." Her body fells warm and liquid: like a bladder full of posset, she almost laughs. She runs her fingertips languidly down his bare chest, for he has shed his jerkin, tunic and shirt, and she watches the tightening of the highly carved muscles of his abdomen as he pulls back and thrusts in, pulls back and thrusts in and his breath catches in guttural grunts from deep in his throat. She can see he is watching the rise and fall of her breasts against the tight bodice of her low, round-necked gown. Though she still does not show in her middle, her breasts have already swollen and so more of her milky, rounded flesh appears to tantalize him. Even her husband had cast his eyes to her bosom as he bid her farewell when she saw him off from the doorway nearest the stables,she thinks fleetingly now; but now she is with her lover and so nothing else in this world matters. Nothing else makes her feel like this: like she is loved, as Jonquil and Jenny of Oldstones had been loved. She closes her eyes and sighs, lost in a dream of happiness.
She helps him to re-lace his jerkin when he leaves and waits before taking the stairs below. Servants sometimes bring barrels of fried fruit or game or salted fish to store in the lower rooms. She listens carefully and hears no voices, and so she hurries down and through the hallways until she reaches her chamber. Sansa washes quickly beneath her gown and then smoothes down her underskirts and straightens the ribbons at the tops of her woolen stockings. She catches a glimpse of herself in the looking glass on her dressing table and notices her hair is messy on one side.
Thank the gods no one saw me, she frets and quickly pulls the ribbon from the end of her hair and unbraids it. She brushes it carefully and considers leaving it loose with only a pair of combs to pull back the sides when the Greatjon enters and stops in his lumbering tracks to see her seated before her mirror.
"Sansa?" He looks concerned. "Do to retire already? Do you needs rest?"
Sansa turns and rises to greet him. "No, my lord, I am well; only...my braid was loose and so I thought to tidy my hair for your return."
She thinks he is looking at her oddly as he steps toward her, and her heart begins to beat more quickly. But then he reaches out and gently runs his ham-sized hand through her thick hair on one side and swallows visibly.
"You hair is always beautiful, Sansa…you grow more beautiful all the time," he tells her, "every time I look at you." His voice is deep yet gentle, the voice she remembers from their bedding, and she feels herself blush deeply.
"I…thank you, my lord,' she drops her eyes in confusion. Why does he look at me like that? "How- how was your meeting with the guilds?"
He keeps his hand in her hair but rests it on the side of her face, cupping her cheek. He continues to gaze at her but he chuckles lightly under his breath.
"I have no notion…do you now that? I don't think I heard a word of their jabbering, Sansa, because all I could think of was you…standing there seeing me off with your little hands clasped together and your sweet smile like a girl, and with your flaming hair bound and your dress fitting you like a woman."
His hand has let go of her hair and his fingers trace down the side of her jaw and neck and tremble, Sansa realizes, tremble like a green boy's as his fingertips graze the skin below her neck and over the tops of her breasts in her low-necked gown. She is astonished to feel her own body respond to his tender touch: her mouth falls open as her bosom rises when she draws her breath in suddenly.
"My lord," she whispers hoarsely, thinking that he must stop now because this is not how her husband behaves but then he kisses her full on the mouth and pulls her to him so that she needs grab his great shoulders to keep her balance. When he feels her hands on him, he deepens his kiss and wraps his powerful arms around her lower back and waist, making her stretch up on tiptoe, and draws the very breath from her body. Sansa clings to him and kisses him back.
In time he stops and lessens his grip on her but leans and burrows his face and beard into her hair and murmurs into her ear: "My sweet Sansa," and his voice is equal parts honey and gravel, "will you lie with me now?"
She nods quickly with a squeaky whimper. Her lips and skin feel hot and she wants him to kiss her again, even as she knows she should not; she does not love him but another man and she should not want him like this but her heart beats swift and strong and her breath comes quick and shallow. Instead of kissing her he puts his hands on her hips and gently but firmly turns her back to him. She is confused and thinks he means to take her like this but instead he brushes her long hair from the back of her neck and begins to unlace her bodice. He does not fumble, or pull, but works patiently with deft sure fingers to loosen and then spread open the back of her heavy wool gown. His fingers trail down her spine now and make her shiver.
"Your skin, Sansa: it's so warm and soft, and so pale that it almost gives light…like the moon on fresh snow."
She closes her eyes and she can see what he has described and it is so beautiful and so moving that he should think of her in such terms that her throat tightens and she almost sobs. When she feels him draw her gown from her shoulders, she reaches to help and when their hands touch he twines their fingers together and they both push the gown over her breasts and belly and hips and let it fall to the floor. He unties the drawstring of her underskirts and then reaches around her to untie her smallclothes and she leans back into the warmth of his body through his furs and lets her head drop back onto his shoulder when her runs warm hands up under her shift and presses kisses onto the skin of her own soft shoulders and neck.
Sansa's head spins as she tries to still her racing thoughts. This is not duty, and he does not take his rights but speaks as though he loves me…
He is struggling to shed his furs and underclothes with one hand behind her as the other continues to caress her beneath her shift. He cups a gentle hand over her fuller breast and grazes the taut nipple with those deft fingers and her breath leaves her in a quivering hot rush and she pulls her shift over her head and turns to him naked. Her long auburn hair swirls around her shoulders and she looks up at him with a tremulous yearning. With his shirt open and untucked and his breeches half unlaced, he scoops her up easily and carries her to cradle her in the soft furs of their bed. She thinks no more after that.