Sansa approached the steps with a conscious determination. Itwas, after all, the first time she had returned to the north tower since her fall. But despite her resolution, she could not help stopping at the base of the steps and looking at the ground. It was here that she had been so badly hurt, and how she had lost her child; and it was where she had fled the ended love affair that still haunted her conscience daily.
"Would you like a hand up these steps, my lady?"
Lady Sansa's steps, she thought. She had returned to check the stores with her husband's uncle, Mors, called Crowfoot, who now lumbered heavily toward her in his furs and, probably, halfway in his cups though it was not yet midday. Today he wore his dirty white leather eyepatch over his lost eye, which had been replaced with a chunk of glossy black dragon glass. His appearance had frightened Sansa when she first came to Last Hearth, despite the fact that she knew too well how little appearances meant in regard to kindness. While neither Mors nor his brother Hother had warmed to her, they had never been unkind or disrespectful…except when they spoke privately, she knew. She knew from having overheard them that they made crude talk of her and their lord: riding his red wolf was how they termed their married relations and so Sansa sometimes found it uncomfortable to be alone with either or both of them. Still, he had offered her a courtesy, and Sansa always appreciated courtesies.
"You are kind to offer; I just- I just needed to stop a moment."
He looks her over and nods curtly. "Least you can stop of your own will this time; you were a frightful sight when they found you, they say: bruised and broken," he tells her bluntly, and nods again. "Always seemed a might too gentle and quiet compared with us, but you proved yourself strong enough in the end. It was good to see you on your feet finally but the lord won't stand for you to be hurt again so," he offers his arm to her and nods insistently this time, "go on and take it; I don't bite the parts off ladies…only crows."
She smiles gratefully now and takes his arm, and feels foolish for her hesitancy. They climb up to a storeroom and find it is still more than half full, and there are more stores in rooms up on the next floor. Two floors higher is Lord Jon's tower room; but Sansa is unsure if anyone else is aware that it is there.
"Have we enough stores for the rest of winter?" Sansa asks. She thinks there is plenty but she does not remember a true winter, and Mors' answer equals her own sense of caution.
"Depends how long winter lasts," he replies bluntly, "and how many we have to feed: should it last too long, commons will come looking for shelter and to eat…in particular if those murdering, thieving wildlings come for their stores and their women," he adds angrily, "then the commons'll come for refuge as well. Too many inside the walls means we'll all starve before Spring comes."
Sansa cringes inwardly at his anger, but she believes that she understands him a little: he had lost his wife to the birthing bed, both his sons on the Trident during Robert's Rebellion and his only daughter to wildings. She thought if ever a man had cause to be angry or unhappy, Crowfoot had. Sometimes, his anger and drunkenness, along with his disfigurement, reminded her of Sandor Clegane.
"Thought them wildings had taken you too when they could'na find you," he tells her now.
"Yes," she acknowledges, remembering what Berena had told her then. "I am so sorry to have caused such distress to everyone…and…and to bring back bad memories."
"Had no cause coming here on your own," he snaps, "just as she had no cause to go out on her own," he tells her, referring to his daughter. "Women have no cause to go off on their own: not ever. We try to protect you and you defy us at every turn," he grumbles. "See you don't do it again: the lord don't need the grief…my lady," he adds grudgingly.
Words of protest and explanation rise to her lips but she stops them. She knows the reason she had given for being where they found her had been a lie: she had been in the tower to meet her lover, and so she had no real excuse.
"I hope never to cause my lord grief again," she says honestly instead.
"Well…good," he replies, mollified. "He's right fond of you; more than's good for him, I expect. Come along then: we're done here."
Her next trip is too the kitchens, where she is more respectfully treated; and she discusses what foods can be prepared and served to best preserve their stores. The cook suggests to her to begin reserving the better meat stores for the family but Sansa is gently adamant: soldiers and labourers need to eat heartily, and so they will share stores equally. They must boil the dried meats and keep the bones from roasted meats for broth. All drippings must be used to fortify dried pease and barley, and roasted vegetables, and lastly for fried bread. Milk is to be served first to expectant and nursing mothers and to children; and the bread and cheese is to be rationed to smaller portions. All kitchen and table scraps were to be collected and saved to feed the dogs and pigs. No waste could be tolerated: their very lives depended on it.
As she leaves the kitchens and enters the great hall, she finds servants cleaning floors and tables and so she stops to greet them and to praise their hard work. When she turns away from them to continue on her rounds of the castle, she sees her husband in the doorway watching her, and he smiles with his whole face to see her. Sansa smiles brightly too: she is always happy to see him now, and she hurries across the hall to greet him. She sees him furrow his brow as she does, and she tilts her head questioningly.
"My lord?"
"No need to hurry yourself, Sansa. I'll never tire of watching you walk, and here you are denying me the pleasure," he laughs his great laugh.
Sansa walks right up to him and speaks close and low: "Forgive me, my lord: I should hate to deny you…pleasure."
"Now that's what I like to hear," he tells her and takes her hand and leads her from the great hall and into a hallway proper. It is darker and drafty since there is a door leading to the yard nearby, and because Sansa and the castellan uncles have rationed the use of lamps and torches in daylight hours. "Gods be good, it's like the crypts in this passage," he complains.
"Rationing is necessary to ensure that we survive the winter, my lord," she explains.
"Yes, yes," he dismisses her words testily, "but it's cold and dark and I want to kiss you: how can I kiss you it I can't see you?"
Sansa hops up to kiss him and laughs. "There, did that help?" she giggles.
He grabs her upper arms and pulls her closer. "Not enough," he growls. "Come upstairs with me."
Sansa flutters her eyelids daintily. "But, my lord, I needs visit the women who are sewing and knitting, and I haven't seen the maester about the sick yet today-"
"The women will still be sewing tomorrow, Sansa; and the maester will see to the sick without you: so come with me and let me unlace your gown and unbraid your hair and kiss you from your head to your feet where it's warm and lit!"
Sansa smiles, and takes his hand. "I only wish to do my duty as Lady Umber, my lord; I want to be a good wife to you but also a good lady to your people, as my mother was to my father's."
He looks at her and nods. "Very well, let us continue to your duties, Lady Umber."
The women knitting woolens and sewing garments for the garrison and the castle are surprised to see their lord with their lady, but they answer his questions and smile to receive his praise and titter like young girls when the lord and lady leave hand-in-hand together, gossiping and laughing about whether they will grace the hall at meal time or dine alone.
There are few in sickbed despite the biting cold and the slippery ice around the castle yards, but those abed are happy to see their lord visit with their lady and take heart at their concern with their care.
"Do I have to be sick before you visit my bed?" the Greatjon jests after they have left the sick room.
Sansa pauses to think. "No, but…mayhaps you needs be quick!" With that, she gathers up her skirts and runs down the length of the hallway, laughing merrily to hear him curse and then follow with his heavily booted, large feet thudding against the wood floor. As she reaches the stairs leading to the floor where their chamber is found, she hears him call in alarm:
"Sansa, wait!"
Sansa stops short and turns suddenly to see his face is grave with worry; and she realizes that he thought she might run into the stairwell. She shakes her head now: "I will never again give you cause to grieve, my lord," she assures him gently.
"I'll hold you to that, Sansa," he growls and grabs her wrists and pulls her to him forcefully while ducking his head and body so that she is thrown over his shoulder and he lifts her easily. Before she can catch her breath, he heads into the stairwell.
"My lord," she squeals breathlessly, "please, set me down! Anyone might see…"
"Let them see: you're not naked!" Then he stops on the stairs and chuckles low. "Not yet," he adds.
Sansa holds on to the wide belt that circles his waist around his furs, and hopes that no one sees them: she feels that she must look ridiculous and that they have already given the castle too much cause for talk. She cares for him truly; but she wants the respect owed to her as lady of the castle as well. She also worries he will undermine his own position.
He's right fond of you; more than's good for him, I expect, Mors had said; and she wondered how caring for her too much could hurt him, and if he was thinking of the lord's positon or of the passing of his first wife.
But she had no more time to think once they reached their chamber and the Greatjon set her down on her feet. Sansa looks up at him challengingly for having handled her so.
"You're angry with me," he observes.
"No," she replies softly, "only I believe we should consider our position-" she begins; but he laughs delightedly.
"I've been considering positions since I saw you in the great hall, Sansa; and I think we should attempt them all!"
She laughs now; he can be incorrigible but so very much fun at times like these. When she had dreamed of songs and romance long ago, she had never thought that marriage could be fun.
"That's better," he says leaning down closely to her. "Now if you start on that braid; I'll start on your lacings."
Within short time they are naked, and have kissed and touched each other and he has her on her back and, with their fingers entwined, he holds their hands above her head as he sways and churns his body over hers. In her desire to be closer, Sansa arches her body into his and wraps her legs around his waist before bringing her knees up so high that her legs are wrapped around his back. He hitches and grunts and begins to thrust sharply and quickly, and she strains to angle her own hips to meet his until they are nearly frantic in their lusts.
"Mph," she gasps into his mouth before breaking their deep kiss, "yes, oh yes: that's so….so…ah!" She keens and writhes beneath him as she reaches as shattering completion. Her husband thrusts even faster and then lets go of her hands to grasp the large wooden headboard of their bed and pulls himself deeper inside her as he rears over her and muffles a prolonged groan before collapsing on top of her. When he attempts to move off of her with a muttered apology, she stills him.
"Stay," she whispers as she gently lays her hands on his broad back. "Please, just …stay."
He does not move until his heavy breathing subsides and then raises his head to look at her.
"What is it, Sansa?' he asks kindly.
"I like being close to you," she whispers without opening her eyes.
"Why are you crying, then?" he whispers back.
She can feel the tears leaking out the side of her eyes. "I-" I love you. "I'm very happy," she whispers instead.
"Why are you happy?" he croons close to her ear.
Before she can answer they both hearing footsteps running towards their chamber, followed by a shove on the door that is blocked by the lowered bar. A timid knock follows with the sound of their son's excited voice:
"Father! Mother! Smalljon is nearing home! They say he's riding toward the gate with the Night men! Hurry," he entreats them. "Please," he adds after a pause.
"Run to the yard and greet him, Eddard; but mind the horses. We'll be right behind you," his father shouts. He lifts himself from Sansa and looks at her. She smiles gently now.
"Please go ahead," she urges him. "I will need some time to make myself presentable again," she blushes. She is still sprawled out on the bed, flushed and naked with her long auburn hair fanned out loose.
"You could not look more beautiful to me," he murmurs. But when he stands he says: "but I would kill any other man who sees you looking like you do now." And he smiles.