Sansa

Sansa woke to the press of Petyr's kiss against her temple.

"I'm a lucky man to come back to find you still naked in my bed," he murmured against her skin.

Sansa smiled, turning toward him with a languid stretch, her eyes blinking against the light. The aching in her head from the brandy had dulled, and her muscles still sang with the sweet afterglow of their earlier love making. Petyr smoothed back her hair as she looked up at him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his gray-green eyes warm.

"Better," she said, surprised to find how deeply she meant it.

Then she remembered. Pain lanced through her briefly as she thought about how Jon had looked in the Godswood, his eyes haunted and flashing, his lips hungry and demanding as they took hers — but she pushed the image away. Whatever madness took over when she and Jon were together was just that: madness. That she was even thinking of him in that was—

No. She had to accept what was. And what was, was Petyr.

"Thank you, for last night," she said turning her face to nuzzle against his hand as it caressed her cheek. "And this morning." She bit her teeth playfully into the heel of his palm, enjoying the low growl that it produced in him.

"I'm more than glad to be of service," he said, lowering himself over her, his weight supported on his forearms as he cradled her head in his hands. "Nothing is more important to me than your happiness."

Sansa gladly lost herself in his kiss.

She had come to him the night before out of desperation. Through the haze of the brandy she'd been convinced that his men in the yard were watching her, waiting to report back. And maybe they had — she couldn't be sure. She just knew that she had to protect Jon, to protect herself. So she went to Petyr's chamber, her face still streaked with tears.

She'd found that the best way to move Petyr wasn't with her strength, but with her vulnerability. When she moved against him, he countered so swiftly, glancing away from her — a ghost. But when she opened herself to him, when she let him see her break in his arms, he was hers.

She'd felt the gathering storm of his suspicion from the moment she'd walked through the door, but her tears quickly tamed him. He'd been so sweet with her, gentling and soothing her, giving her exactly what she needed without her ever having to say the words. It stirred something deep inside of her to be loved that way, especially by so deadly a man. To draw such tenderness from him felt like drawing blood from a stone.

She knew it was a dangerous dance, but if she could just get through the next few days—

Sansa pushed that thought away as well. The thought of finding happiness, any kind of happiness, was almost too much to bear. If she'd learned anything in the time since she'd left this castle as a girl it was that there was nothing more dangerous, nothing more devastating than hope.

"Tell me, sweetling, what had you so upset last night?" His eyes were gentle as his lips ghosted over hers, but Sansa knew that the question contained more than just concern. Sansa didn't look away, letting him see the darkness cloud her eyes as she told him a truth — though not the truth.

"It's just…being here again, in Winterfell. I thought that it was what I wanted. It was all that I wanted in the world. But now I'm here and there are so many memories. Memories of my family, memories of Ramsay—" her voice broke around that name, and Petyr's eyes flashed with a raw mix of fury and anguish.

"There's just too much pain here now," she continued. "I just want to leave."

"Then we'll leave," said Petyr, a fierce tenderness in his voice. "Just say the word."

Sansa kissed him with genuine gratitude.

"Soon," she said. "We have to do things in the right order if we want to maintain an alliance with the North. Jon is starting to — well not trust you exactly, but he's starting to come around. If we leave abruptly without his blessing it will undo all of the work that you've done. I can wait out the fortnight."

A smile ghosted across his lips as he regarded her for a long moment. Sansa smiled back offering her lips to him. He accepted, his kiss sweet and gentle.

Sansa was breathless when he finally pulled away. Rearing up, he rose into a sitting position, pulling her with him.

"If we don't get out of bed now," he said darkly, "I'll keep you here all day."

"I like the sound of that," she replied, letting the furs pool around her waist as she sat, her nipples beading in the cool air.

Petyr drank her in with his eyes as they flashed wickedly, her brazenness igniting his desire. With one hand he lightly traced the outline of her breast, the pad of his thumb swiping gently across one nipple. Sansa shivered, her lips parting.

"Someone will be looking for you," he said huskily. "It's almost midday." Sansa's eyes widened.

"Is it really?" she asked. She couldn't remember a time that she'd slept so late. It wasn't like her. And if Jon were to come looking for her—

Petyr laughed as she scrambled out of bed. Standing he caught her wrist, drawing her back towards him, spinning her so that she stood pressed up against his chest, her bare flesh against his fine brocade. The feeling of being naked in the arms of such a finely dressed man was oddly intoxicating, threatening to crowd out her panic and her reason.

Petyr smirked as he saw the sudden shift in her, his move having had the intended effect. He fisted one hand in the hair at the nape of her neck bringing her eyes to his.

"One day soon, when we've left this place, I will keep you in bed for a week. I swear it," he said with a searing kiss. "But today I have preparations to make."

"Preparations?" asked Sansa as he released her, her head still swimming. Petyr held out one of his robes for her and she shrugged into it, belting it loosely around her waist.

"Unfortunately, yes," he said. "Your brother has asked me to take my best men and accompany the wildlings to their new settlement to make sure that no one disturbs the peace. I leave at first light. It should only be a few days."

Sansa found herself surprised at how much this news distressed her. She'd only just spent the last three nights with Petyr, but she found herself suddenly anxious about spending the night without him.

When she didn't reply he turned to her, his eyes softening when he saw her face and then flashing with a quiet triumph.

"I'll miss you," she said simply, her voice small.

"Oh, my love, I'll miss you, too," he said pressing a kiss to her forehead. "But we'll be reunited soon, I promise."

Sansa nodded.

"Come," he said, "I've had your things brought from your chamber. You can't very well be seen in what you were wearing last night. Let's get you dressed."

Sansa slipped into the small dining hall just as the bells in the distance struck noon. Her stomach was growling from having skipped breakfast and dinner the night before. If her absence had been noticed, no one said anything, the room full and bustling with their many guests.

Tormund's great bellowing laughed echoed out across the room, and Sansa stopped short, her heart catching in her throat when she Jon seated beside him. His face was dark and brooding as he stabbed at his meat, his eyes distracted and unfocused. Tormund didn't seem to notice, another great guffaw pouring out of him at whatever bawdy joke he'd just made.

She'd hoped that Jon would take his meal in the council chambers as he had done lately, working through his midday meal and well until after the sun had set. But here he was.

And by the gods he was beautiful. His hair was pulled back from his face revealing his strong jaw and black eyes, the scars from battle somehow only made him more handsome. Everything about him was brutal and yet finely carved, savage and elegant.

And the heart that beat beneath that broad chest—

Sansa felt her mouth go dry. She couldn't stay here. She was about to turn to on her heels to leave when Tormund called out to her.

"Sansa! Come sit with us! Maybe you can lift your brother's spirits before he ruins this perfectly good mutton with all his stabbing!"

Jon's eyes shot up, finding her the crowd. The jolt that they sent through her took her breath away.

Without thinking she turned, walking as quickly as she could toward the door, resisting the urge to break into a run.

She couldn't face him.

She kept telling herself that this fever would pass, but it only seemed to grow by the day, her growing connection with Petyr doing nothing to lessen it. When she was with Petyr she could almost forget. He stirred true feelings in her of passion, desire, and even love. In time, she believed that he could make her happy.

But the draw that she felt to Jon was overwhelming, and as the reality of her feelings for him crashed over her she was filled with a tumult of warring emotions — dread, horror, and disgust coursing through her mixed with the warm, thick elixir of her desire for him.

He was her brother — her own flesh and blood. It was wrong. It was dangerous. It could be the ruin of them both.

And what of the man whose kiss she could still feel on her swollen lips? How could she give herself to him, blooming so easily under his touch? How could she confess her love to him and still harbor this sickness inside her. What was she that desire for her own brother could drive out all sense and reason, to say nothing of the genuine emotion that she felt for Petyr.

Sansa reached the door to the spiraling stairs of the east tower and pushed the heavy door open. She began her climb, taking the stairs two at a time, but heard the door catch behind her.

"Sansa, wait." Jon's voice stopped her cold. "Please, don't run from me. I can't bear it."

"But I can't bear to stay," she said, keeping her back to him, her voice almost shrill with her desperation. Through the small window she could see a hawk flying far in the distance against the cold blue sky.

"I'm so sorry," said Jon, his voice low and filled with anguish. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Sansa. I can't explain what's happening, I just— I promise that what happened last night — it won't happen again. I swear it."

Sansa remembered the feel of his lips on hers, the way that his strong arms had cradled her against him, the clean, earthy scent of him — it felt so utterly right. When she was in his arms she was Sansa Stark of Winterfell once more. She was home. Without him, she didn't know what she was.

She wanted to sink to her knees and sob right there on the stairs. She wanted to turn and rush into Jon's arms, to kiss him until all the torment and pain left them both, but he was her brother and their kiss could only ever rend them apart. It couldn't heal, it could only destroy. So instead she kept her eyes on the hawk as it circled slowly above the naked tree branches etched in black against the stony sky.

"Forgive me," his voice was a serrated whisper behind her, the sound of it ripping through Sansa leaving only desolation and grief in its wake. She turned to him slowly so he could see her face, needing him to believe her words.

"There's nothing to forgive," she said her voice hollow. "But it has to end."

His face twisted bitterly, but he nodded his ascent.

"I know," he said, "and it will."

"Good," she said, fighting to keep her voice from breaking as her tears threatened to fall. Before he could see them she turned away and continued her climb, leaving him.

Author's Note: Thank you again for all of the amazing reviews and messages. It's getting to the point where I can't keep up with them all. I wish I had time to reply to everyone, but just know that they mean the world to me and I love you for writing them. (Well, most of you. Lol.)