Chapter Five | Sansa

Jon did not appear for supper, nor in the hours that followed. Sansa had hours earlier fallen mindlessly into the tasks of running a household hosting several hundred guests. She quietly thanked whatever gods might be listening that Ramsay had been prepared to withstand a long siege at Winterfell, allowing them to accommodate so large a number with relative ease.

Still there were a thousand small matters that needed to be tended to, and in Jon's absence it fell to her. Whatever small resentment that she felt was quickly replaced by a sense of relief at having such a consuming distraction.

She felt Little Finger's eyes on her throughout the day as he glided along the periphery. He gave her a wide berth, but whenever her eyes scanned the room she found him there watching, his eyes full of something unknowable. Sansa cast him a cold look and turned away.

Her blood still boiled when she thought of his words as they stood on the battlements. To hear him speak of her father that way — her father, the most noble and honorable man who had ever lived —

And yet, under her anger there was something else — a deep and growing unease.

Sometimes when Little Finger was speaking to her she felt as if she were standing in the middle of a vast and roaring river, her feet straining to find purchase on the riverbed below. She felt herself losing ground, moving down stream, getting further and further from home. In his presence she was never entirely steady, never fully sure.

And his touch stirred something in her — which infuriated her. It was not like what she felt with Jon; it was something darker, something perverse even, but it stirred her all the same. As she worked she kept remembering the feel of his gloved hand on her cheek, remembering the slow and measured way that he used to kiss her when they were alone. His kisses never lasted for long, just a few gentle sweeps of his lips, a tentative caress of his tongue that always tasted somehow like tobacco and black cherries, though she'd never seen him with either.

She'd accepted his kisses placidly, never rebuffing him, but never fully reciprocating either. He would pull back from her when he had finished, his hands still on the side of her face, his eyes searching, waiting for some sort of sign which she never gave — would never allow herself to give.

Yet, when he would pull away, straightening himself, smoothing his perfectly groomed hair as if he'd just come in from a storm, she'd find herself gritting her teeth against the unwelcome hope that maybe next time he wouldn't stop. Maybe next time he wouldn't be so in control.

She shut her eyes hard against the thought. Little Finger was a disease in her mind — a disease that she needed to be rid of once and for all. When she'd denied his kiss in the Godswood — the first time she'd ever denied him — she'd thought that she had freed herself for good. They'd retaken Winterfell. She had Jon. She didn't need him anymore.

But Jon — oh, how had she fucked things up so terribly?

The night had been so perfect. They'd been together. They'd been a unit. She'd watched him all night, full of pride, full of love, as he'd spoken to the heads of each house. For a reluctant King, he'd fallen into the role easily, quickly gaining the love and admiration of all who spoke with him.

He'd kept her close to him all night, his eyes darting to her often as he spoke. As each new round of Lords approached him to pay their tribute, he had inclined his head toward her, whispering in the shorthand of two people who've known each other all their lives.

He clearly deferred to her on matters of state and politics and smiled at her with pride and gratitude as she apprised him quickly of marriages, alliances, and connections to King's Landing. Her heart ached now as she remembered the way that his hand had squeezed hers discreetly under the table — the way that he'd pulled her hand into his lap under the cascade of his cloak, his fingers gently tracing the soft flesh of her wrist, his fingertips grazing lightly over hers as he spoke.

And as the crowds had dissipated and the men had stumbled off to their beds for the night, he'd lead her up the stairs, his hand warm in the small of her back as they walked. They'd lingered in the passageway outside her door, their talk of politics quickly giving way to laughter, both of them so filled with relief, wine sloshing clumsily from their goblets.

She'd shivered, standing there in the drafty hallway with him. Always the nobleman, he'd smiled and lead her, still laughing, into her chambers, quickly rebuilding the fire that the servants had made hours ago, stoking the embers until the chill of the room was chased away by the steady blaze.

And when he'd kissed her, his hands roaming so greedily, claiming every inch of her, every inch that she so willingly gave —

"Pardon, my Lady, but you wouldn't happen to know where your brother is, would you?" Her heated thoughts were interrupted by Ser Davos. She felt herself flush and hoped that he would attribute her reddened state to the wine and the roaring fire.

"I'm sorry, Ser Davos, I —"

"He's in the Lord's Chambers," Lord Baelish said, appearing over Sansa's shoulder. "The King's Chamber's, to be more precise." He lowered himself into the seat next to Sansa.

"My father's chambers?" she asked.

"Yes, my Lady. He had his things moved this evening. It seemed only proper," replied Lord Baelish, his eyes meeting hers.

"I suppose it can wait until the morning," said Ser Davos, finishing his wine in one gulp. "I'm ready to retire myself." With a bow and the appropriate pleasantries, he was gone. Only Sansa and Little Finger remained.

"You were perfect today, my love," said Petyr, leaning toward her, his eyes dark and flashing like a blade in the firelight. "It's quite a burden to bear on one's own, running a kingdom, but you seem to have the gift for it." Sansa turned to him, considering him with tired eyes and a weary heart.

"Good night, Lord Baelish," she said finally rising from her chair.

"My lady," he said rising with an elegant bow. "Until tomorrow." Sansa didn't reply, only her skirts whispering as she made the long walk across the great hall.