Chapter Six | Jon

There are so many ghosts here…

Jon drank deeply from his goblet as he leaned against the cold stone of the window looking down onto the courtyard. He could see Robb there still, and Theon, Rickon and Bran. Watching the snow dance and swirl in the torchlight below, he could still hear the echo of their shouts and laughter as they'd played there as boys, swinging wooden swords, dreaming of glory and war.

But there is no glory in war — he knew that now. There is only death, chaos, and despair.

His father must have known that. Jon remembered the way that he had laughed with King Robert as they reminisced about fighting in the rebellion, clearly reveling in the retelling of the conquests of his youth. It was one of the last memories that he had of his father, and it stood frozen in his mind. He'd returned to that image many times — after Robb had died, after the siege at Castle Black, after the horrors he'd witnessed at Hardhome — and wondered how his father could stomach the retelling. Jon knew that no matter how many years had passed, he would never look back on these years of endless war and laugh. There was only darkness.

Robb could have laughed. Robb, noble and strong, the very spitting image of his father — Robb could have taken all these blows and more and remained standing.

"It should have been you, brother," Jon said, making a toast to the courtyard below. "You should be here instead of me."

Now here he was, a lowly bastard, a crow on the Wall, somehow now the King in the North. The world must really and truly be going to shit, he thought.

This was Robb's place. These chambers should be Robb's chambers. These burdens should be Robb's, as well. He'd know what to do next. He'd know how to rule.

And he could have kept his hands off of his own sister.

Jon clenched his jaw tightly. Sansa…fuck. He'd spent all night and most of the day in the Godswood drinking and staring into the frozen pool beside the weirwood hoping to find some kind of answer, some kind of sign, some kind of way out of this hell of his own making.

He didn't want to rule, but he could bear it. He didn't want to face the horrors that winter would bring, but he would. But how did he keep himself away from Sansa? How did he resist the inexorable pull of her? Like a moth to a flame, like a madman, he was obsessed. And in his moment of weakness, as he'd pulled her into his arms, as his hands had claimed her so intimately, she'd yielded to him without reservation. She'd clung to him, crying out his name against his skin as she trembled beneath his touch —

If only she'd turned him away. The pain of that would have slayed him, but at least it would be done. He would never push her, would never hurt her.

But he had hurt her. Even if she'd opened herself to him willingly, the lamb to the slaughter, she was still his to protect. Who knew what horrors Ramsay Bolton had visited upon her, and what effect all of those nights of terror had…

And he was her brother, her guardian, her champion. And in the sickness of his lust for her he'd exposed them both to scandal and the dangers inherent therein. True or no, the whispers about an illicit affair between Cersei Lannister and her brother, the Kingslayer, had upended the Seven Kingdoms — and he had not one one thousandth of the power, money and resources that they had. He would not be able to shield Sansa from the whatever came next.

He would have to marry. That was certain. The bids for a match had already begun, and before long he would have to show good faith with the great houses of the North and choose one of their daughters as his queen. He could do his duty, and he would.

But Sansa…

How would he marry her off? How would he bear it when she left him? How would he be able to draw breath knowing that she was lying in another man's bed. And yet, how could he keep her here? Even if some way he could manage it all without the critical alliances that her marriage could bring, how would he watch her walk these halls and pretend to be only her doting brother?

Everywhere that he turned there seemed another impossible choice. His desire for her grew in him like a fever that wouldn't break. He couldn't keep her and he couldn't send her away — both were death.

And the worst part was that, in his sickness, he even believed that he was in love with her. He leaned his head against the cold stone of the window well, pressing his forehead into the jagged rock, trying to drive out this madness from his mind.

He was in love with her. What he'd felt for Ygritte had been beautiful and true. He never spoke of her, but he held her in a quiet corner of his heart that would only ever belong to her.

But what he felt for Sansa was something so much more — it was all-consuming. Yes, he lusted for her. Just the brush of her hand against his was enough to make him hard. He longed to spread her naked across his bed, to spend hours devouring every sweet inch of her petal-soft flesh, to push his cock into her, filling her to the hilt, to hear her scream his name once more. Having felt the rapturous way that she had given herself over to him, he was certain that he could keep her in bed for days and never tire. There could never be enough of her.

But he didn't just need her in his bed. He needed her at his side. He needed her wit and her steady gaze. He needed her confidence and her advice. He just needed her. He couldn't rule on his own. She'd gotten him there, they were a team, and he knew that he couldn't go forward alone.

Jon was shaken from his thoughts by Sansa's voice outside his door. "He's my brother and I need to speak to him. Tell him I'm here."

All reason was suddenly cast to the side, and with a days-worth of wine still swimming in his veins, Jon strode to the door and flung it open.

"Ser Dandrick, let her pass." The young knight — one of Little Finger's retinue — stepped aside with a bow.

"My apologies, You Grace," he said.

"My sister is the Lady of Winterfell. This is her home. She may go wherever she pleases. You have standing orders to let her pass. Let the other men know my command."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Jon's eyes finally met Sansa's. Though her tone just seconds before had been cool and commanding, she looked suddenly shy and uncertain standing in the passageway. Jon longed to draw her to him and shower her with kisses of reassurance and promises of his love, but instead he squared his shoulders and stepped back from the door.

"Sansa," he said, "What can I do for you? Please, come in." Sansa lowered her eyes and glided into the center of the room as he closed the door behind her. She stood facing away from him, her long red hair falling artfully to her lower back.

"Where have you been?" she asked finally.

"Drinking. In the Godswood," he sounded ridiculous, like a child, and he knew it. Shame filled him as he lowered his gaze to the floor.

"Why?" she asked without turning.

"Because I'm a coward." The truth of his words burned through him. "Sansa —" he began, but his words fled him, driven away by a flood of despair.

She turned toward him finally, with tears streaming down her face, her blue eyes made even brighter by the flush of her cheeks.

"Jon, I'm so sorry, I —"

"No!" he bit out, he words coming more harshly than he had intended, "Don't apologize. I can't bear it if you apologize." She fell silent, chastened by his tone, her tears flowing freely. Her beautiful face, marred with anguish, was like a white hot poker in his chest.

Without thinking he had her in his arms, smoothing her hair, kissing her cheeks. Her name was a litany on his lips, mixing with the salt of her tears. "Sansa…Sansa…my love, I'm so sorry…Sansa, forgive me, Sansa." She wept against his shoulder, her hands fisting in his night shirt.

He meant only to hold her, to soothe her, but as her lips found his, his will gave way as though it had never been there at all. He fed ravenously on her mouth, the taste of her awakening a feral desire in him. His cock strained furiously against his leather pants as he hooked his arms behind her thighs and lifted her, wrapping her legs around him. He carried her swiftly to the table by the window, sweeping aside the maps that lay there, knocking candles to the floor, their flames sputtering against the stones.

Placing her on the table's edge, standing between her splayed thighs, his hands were once against free to roam. They ran down her sides, over the swell of her breasts, then up her legs, pushing her skirts up and out of his way until he could feel the heat of her sex pressed against his engorged manhood, radiating her desire to him through the thin fabric. He was a man possessed.

He knew he had to stop. She arched her back, the soft crush of her body against his as she moaned his name inciting a fire his blood that he felt sure would consume them both.

He had to stop. Her hands left his hair, seeking out his hardness, their tongues and lips still in a desperate tangle. He thrust himself into her hands shamelessly. Her palm pressed flat against him through his pants, feeling the weight of him, and the small purr of desire that escaped her made him feel as if would lose his mind.

He had to stop. The blood was roaring in his ears as her fingers began to undo the laces that kept him from springing free.

"Enough!" he roared, wrenching himself away from her. His hands fisted as he spun himself around, his eyes unseeing, his pulse thundering. He staggered aimlessly around the room, trying to shake himself of his crippling need. Finally, he stood by the fire, his face pillowed on his hand on the mantle.

"We can't do this, Sansa. It's madness," his voice so heavy with despair that it didn't sound like his own.

"We can. You just won't," she said, the tears in her voice mixed now with anger.

"You know that we can't, Sansa. You know the thousand reasons why."

"You died, Jon," she said, her voice full of a quiet fury. "And I may have kept breathing, but I assure you that I died as well — more than once. In this very room, I died over and over again, every night for months on end." Her words cut him to the bone, but he did not turn to her. He could not trust himself. He gripped the mantle tightly, willing himself to stay anchored there.

"You are not my brother," she said as she stood, "and I am no longer your sister. I'm something else now. So are you. I can feel it." She began to cross the room to him, but he held up his hand halting her.

"No. Sansa, please. No more. Whatever else I am or am not, I am the King now and winter is here. There are thousands upon thousands of people who have no idea what is coming for them, and I have to find some way to protect them — to protect us all. We can't do this." She stood silently, and he kept his head bowed to the mantle. He knew that even one look would be his undoing. He wouldn't be able to stop himself from taking her on the cold floor like an animal.

"You should have run with me when I asked you," he said. "We should have gone south. We could have started over where no one knew our names."

"You're right," she said, her voice suddenly ice cold. "I should have gone with you. Because now instead I have to stay here in this hell with you and watch you lead us all over a cliff because of your stupid honor."

With that, she swept out into the passageway and was gone. Jon crumpled to the floor by the fire, watching it until long after the last embers had died.