Chapter Two | Sansa

The night had been a blur. Seated at Jon's side in front of what remained of the Northern Houses, Sansa's mind strayed back to the Godswood where Petyr had only hours before declared his love for her and laid bare his intentions.

Or what he wants me to believe his intentions to be.

Because who could truly trust Lord Baelish? No one. She was certain of that. She'd seen firsthand what Little Finger was willing to do to secure what he wanted. She'd seen the look in Lysa's eyes as he'd pushed her through the moon door.

And what was that betrayal to him? Only one of a thousand schemes and machinations that he had orchestrated to meet his ends — whatever they might be. But to Lysa, it was everything. She'd loved him. She'd killed her husband. She'd waited. She'd believed. And then she'd died.

She remembered Petyr's face as he'd pushed her. His eyes were calm, perhaps even a little triumphant.

"I've only loved one women my entire life. Your sister."

Lysa had teetered on the edge, time seeming to stop as she hovered in space above her inevitable doom. Her eyes registered understanding and then horror. And then she was no more.

"Sansa. Are you OK?" Jon's large hand covered hers on the table as he leaned into her, his dark eyes full of heat and concern, his voice a whisper to keep his words from their company. She shook off the memory and forced a smile.

"Yes. Of course." His eyes searched hers. He leaned closer, his lips hovering just inches from her ear. Undoubtedly his intention was to block his face from their guests as he whispered to her, but the warm gust of his breath on her exposed flesh sent a deep shiver through her that arrowed to her core.

"You're safe now, Sansa. I swear it. Ramsay is gone and no matter what happens here tonight or in any night that follows, I will give my life to keep you from harm. No one will touch you again."

Sansa's heart warmed at his words, just as her flesh heated. It was a response she was having far too often around Jon. She breathed in the heady scent of him and pressed her thighs together beneath her skirts trying to relieve some of the confounding pressure she felt there.

This was Jon, her brother. Alright her half-brother, but her brother all the same. Sansa didn't know if it was all of the years that they'd spent apart, all of the horror that they'd experienced since, or just the relief of being in the relative safety of her home again, but lately when Jon looked at her something seemed to crackle in the air between them.

She leaned into him, allowing her lips to just graze the shell of his ear with her reply.

"I'm OK, Jon, really. My mind just wandered, but I'm here with you. Tell me what you need." Something flashed behind his eyes, but before Sansa could process it he turned his head from her to the guests gathering before them, taking the measure of them. Then his lips were once again at her ear.

"I need to know that we are together in this. I don't know what the outcome of this meeting will be, but I need to know that I won't lose you again. Winterfell is yours. You are a true Stark. I will never challenge you. I want only to protect you. We have too many enemies now to be divided."

Oh my sweet, noble Jon. How did I not see you when we were children? How did I not know?

A small smile played across her lips. Jon was not a politician. He was a warrior — noble, strong and proud, but altogether unfamiliar with the ways of statecraft. But he had her — she who had studied at the very feet of everyone from Little Finger to Cersei Lannister herself, learning their ways, learning how to maneuver.

"I've spoken with Lyanna Mormont. She'll declare for you and the rest will follow."

"But she's only a child."

"Yes — a child and a girl. And she stood by you in the battle, which you won. They're all here because you won. And when she speaks of how the North remembers and declares for you again, who among them will now be able to deny you?"

Jon looked into her eyes, incredulous.

"But even if that works — Sansa, Winterfell is yours."

"It will work. And Winterfell is ours," she said, placing one hand against his heart under the thick cascade of his wolf skin cloak. "I told you that you are a true Stark to me. I meant it."

The ghost of a smile played across Jon's lips as he studied her. Under his cloak, one hand raised to cover his over his heart.

"Together then."

"Together," she agreed.

"The White Wolf! The King in the North!" Sansa's voice was teasing, but her eyes danced as she looked at Jon. They sat together on the foot of her bed wine in hand, staring at the fire.

A broad grin broke across Jon's face. "I know. Fucking hell." His laugh was warm and deep and Sansa felt her laugh spilling out of her along with him. How long had it been since she'd laughed?

"I will probably fuck this up, you know. I was raised for the life of a bastard." His tone was playful, but she sensed the unease beneath his worth.

"And I was raised to cross stitch," Sansa replied wryly, raising her wine to her lips. The truth behind her words suddenly struck her and she laughed again until tears pricked in her eyes. When she calmed herself, Jon was looking at her, his face a mirror of her mirth, but possessed of something else as well. He reached for her hand.

"You were amazing tonight, Sansa, truly. This is all your doing."

"Winterfell is ours. No one will ever take our home from us again."

"Never," Jon agreed.

Sansa ducked under the arm that held her hand, snuggling into Jon's side. It was funny, she could never remember touching Jon as a child — not even once. But something in their relationship shifted when their eyes met at Castle Black. He'd walked toward her as if seeing ghost, his face now hardened into the hard lines of a man's face, his eyes wild with something she'd never seen before.

He was taller now with broad, strong shoulders like her father's, but the rest of him was painted in more brutally elegant lines. She'd spent years dreaming of the day that she would see her family again, but in that moment the pull that she felt was something more that her desire for familial reunion. She wanted to run to him, to throw herself into his arms, to —

And then he was on her, crushing her to him, kissing her forehead and cheeks, and she wanted only to be alone with him somewhere away from all of the eyes that preyed upon them.

And now they were alone. She nestled into his side, letting the heat of his body and the wine in her belly warm her — both were intoxicating. She rested her head on his shoulder and looked up at him, his chiseled profile accentuated by the dancing fire light.

He was breathtaking. She couldn't deny it. As the wine stole through her veins she didn't even try. He raised his goblet to his lips and took a long drink, a single crimson drop of wine clinging to his lower lip. Sansa wanted to raise her fingers to wipe it away, to take one gentle sweep of her tongue and taste the wine mingled with the taste of him.

Brusquely Jon wiped his lips with the back of hand and looked down at Sansa with laughing eyes, but something in her face froze him in place. Without looking away, he placed the goblet on the table beside him and raised his fingers to her cheek, gently pushing back the stray strands of her hair then tracing her delicate jaw line until his thumb rested on her chin, just grazing her bottom lip.

Slowly and without breaking his gaze, Sansa tilted her face upward to Jon's and placed a soft, lingering kiss near the corner of his mouth. His skin felt warm under the coarse tangle of his beard, and he smelled earthy and clean like the Godswood after a fresh snow. Letting the wine take full hold of her, she nuzzled her face into his cheek, her arms snaking around his waist soaking him in.

A low growl erupted from deep in Jon's chest and she knew she had gone too far, but as she pulled back, embarrassed, he held her to him. She looked up into his dark eyes which seemed suddenly filled with an unfathomable pain and — something else.

In one swift movement he had her on her back, his arm banded around her waist. His lips found hers almost violently. Sansa felt her body respond immediately in a way that was both foreign and primal. She'd never really known desire before. She'd been too young and full of girlish naiveté with Joffrey, and then too full of hatred and revulsion. Tyrion had been no lover to her, and she was grateful for it. The clandestine kisses and caresses that Lord Baelish had visited upon her had stirred something in her, but she'd always been too wary of him to do anything but mildly accept his advances. And then there was Ramsay…

But this was Jon. Her sweet and noble Jon with eyes like her father's. This was Jon who would never hurt her, who would do anything to protect her.

Sansa's legs parted as Jon kissed her hungrily, his hand sliding up her thigh, pushing her skirts higher. He settled heavily in between them, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips making the heavy weight of his manhood known to her. She gasped against his lips her core clenching greedily at the feel of him against her inner thigh.

His hands moved to her bodice, his finger deftly undoing the laces until her breasts were bared to his eager touch. He captured one nipple between his fingers rolling it between his fingers, the almost unbearable pleasure echoing in her sex. Her back arched, mindlessly seeking a greater friction where she needed it most.

Instantly sensing her need, Jon shifted himself to oblige her. One hand dove beneath her skirts, seeking out her center, pushing the yards of fabric aside like a man possessed. A low, dark sound escaped him as he found her drenched sex. His kisses grew harsher, more demanding as his fingers lightly rimmed her trembling cleft before parting her sensitive folds and thrusting deep inside of her.

Sansa cried out as she clung to him, panting heavily against his relentless mouth. His fingers moved almost lazily inside of her, stirring her desire until she thought she would go mad from it, and just as she was about to beg he placed his thumb against her clit, circling it with a wicked pressure that sent her spiraling over the edge, crying his name.

And still he kissed her, devouring her mouth. With both hands free now, they roamed her body seeking out every undiscovered plane. The pleasure and sense of relief was too much. Unbidden, she let out a sound that was almost a sob. Jon slowed his movements, rearing up over her to look into her eyes.

She felt her tears begin to flow, hot with an emotion for which she had no name but which threatened to consume her. Jon lowered his forehead to hers, his fingers tangled in her hair.

"Sansa…"

It was the first time he had spoken and the serrated sound of her name on his lips cut like hot steel. Under her fingers she could feel the muscles of his back coiling, hardening as something deep within him shifted. Panic shot through her.

"Jon. Please look at me." He pulled his head back slowly to look at her, but where there was fire before there was now only darkness. Desperate, she tried to draw his lips to hers, but he was as rigid as stone beneath her coaxing fingers.

One hand absently captured her wrists, drawing them upward over her head as his eyes drifted down to her swollen lips. He traced them lightly with his free hand, almost reverently — but he was a million miles away. Sansa couldn't bear it.

"Jon…Jon, please…"

He drew his hand into a fist and his jaw clenched. His eyes refused to meet hers.

"I can't. Sansa…I can't."

He lifted himself from her in one swift movement and was gone before Sansa could call out his name. She tried to stand, but her knees wobbled dangerously beneath her. Sobbing, she collapsed back into the furs, letting the grief take her.