Sansa Stark did not fight fair. She had no honour. Jon burned with contempt when he didn't burn with desire.

She'd leaned over to kiss him good morning, and one thing led to another, as they always did because she had no self control, and pretty soon she was sucking on his fingers and looking up at him through fluttering eyelashes. He'd sighed, and ran his spare hand through his hair.

"What are you doing?"

Sansa licked the length of his finger as though she'd been trained in the art of seduction in some pleasure house all the while feigning innocence, "what do you mean?"

He hadn't been manipulated so easily by an adorable pout since Ghost was a puppy. He didn't even have the heart to pull his hand away, instead it remained wet against her lips.

"You know," he said firmly.

"Just kissing."

He sighed and let her continue. It wasn't hurting anybody, was it? It was all perfectly innocent, really. Perhaps she didn't intend for him to imagine her sucking on something else, perhaps he was the perverted one. He was the baseborn one, after all. It's not like she'd know anything about that sort of thing, and he doubted his wife was wanton enough to come up with anything like that on her own.

But in the end, he'd been willfully naive. He'd been so captivated by the sight of her that he'd succumbed to his baser instincts.

After they'd dressed for the day, he'd excused himself to his solar with his blood still hot and his cock still painfully hard. He'd unlaced his breaches and taken himself in hand, closing his eyes in relief. She always got him so worked up, rubbing herself against his thigh, moaning his name into his ear, somehow rendering 'Jon' hopelessly erotic (though he suspected she could recite his chores for the next day when they were getting hot and heavy and he'd still think about it when pleasuring himself), and so it never took long.

Now he thought of her soft lips and wet tongue, and how much better suited they would be for this than his calloused hand.

When he opened his eyes, she was standing against the shut door. He cursed himself for buying into her doe-eyed routine yet again.

Sansa had the smallest of smiles on her face, and though she was treacherous he couldn't claim he didn't like it. That was the problem. He liked her schemes a little too much, so much that he forgot the oath he'd sworn to protect her.

"I didn't mean to interrupt, Your Grace," Sansa said, the lie so natural on her lips he almost believed her.

Jon re-laced his breaches. Months before he hadn't been able to meet her gaze when she licked her lips. He'd been tempted by the way she licked her lips when she ran a finger across his abdomen or clutched at his biceps. But he was better at pushing the boundaries now, so he rolled his eyes.

"How can I help you, My Lady?"

"The Manderlys are here, and they would like an audience with their King."

"It's you they're here to see."

Sansa shrugged. "It may be my nameday, but Lord Manderly is really here to report to you on his search and rescue mission for Rickon." She paused, "he seems in good spirits…"

Jon wanted his brother returned to him as much as anyone, he would be first to proclaim the seven year old his rightful king. But he did not want to talk about the brother he shared with his wife with a hand full of his own seed.

"Tell them I'll be down in a few minutes."

Sansa nodded, and left him to clean himself up.

Sansa received many gifts for her fifteenth nameday. He had given her four yards of the finest silk gold could buy, imported from Ashaii with help from Lord Manderly. He'd hoped a new sewing project would keep her mind occupied and out of the gutter. Maester Sam had given her a copy the first volume of the history of their house. But it was the Manderly's gift that stole the show. Rickon Stark himself, dressed in Stark colours, presented just before the feast.

Jon had fallen to his knees and opened held out his arms for him. He scooped Rickon into his arms and held him tight, wary of ever letting the littlest Stark out of his sight again. When he turned to look at Sansa, still sitting at the dais, there were tears running down her face.

Jon was just happy Rickon was alive, but he'd proved useful in other ways too. Jon had encouraged Ghost to sleep by their bed. At first it had been a useful deterrent, because no proper lady wanted a dog to watch her in the throes of passion. And Ghost had looked concerned when she began to make certain noises, eyeing Jon up to make sure he wasn't hurting her. But Ghost had become acclimatized to Sansa's low moans, and with each passing week, less and less could put Sansa off.

But Rickon had grown used to sleeping with Osha, huddling together for warmth, and it only seemed natural to let Rickon into their bed. He was barely seven and he had nightmares about cannibals and wights. With Rickon in their bed, and Shaggydog and Ghost sleeping by the fire, he didn't have to worry about the way Sansa's hands would graze the hair on his stomach, and how he'd want them to wander further down.

After a few weeks, the young Lord decided he was ready for his own bed. Jon had no choice but to accept that he would be alone with Sansa once again. It had only become harder to control himself, but when she'd come to his solar to sit in his lap at least there had been a half dozen layers of fabric between them. The first night they are alone again, Sansa appeared in flimsy silk small clothes.

"What are you wearing?" he spat out, feeling himself grow hard at the way the blue silk clung to her breasts. It was cut low and trimmed with lace, and it left most of her thighs bare. When she climbed atop him and leaned down to kiss him he could see almost everything.

"A nightgown," she said, her voice breezy. She leaned down to kiss his jaw again. "I thought you'd like to see me wearing your gift." Her teeth grazed his unshaven jaw as she brought her lips to his ear. "Don't you like it?" she whispered.

The silk had cost a small fortune, and though she was horrible at sums she knew it. She'd been so grateful for it, seeing her smile and hold it up to his cheek had filled his heart with love.

"I assumed you'd make a pretty dress or something," he managed.

Sansa pulled back from his neck to look into his eyes. "You don't think it's pretty?" Her tone was mocking, she knew she'd one upped him this time.

Jon swallowed. "Something people would see you in."

"You're the only one I want to impress."

Her eyes were sparkling, and she sat back up, shifting her weight and making him groan as she wiggled. She must feel how hard he is, she got a perverse thrill out of getting him like this.

He wondered if she'd imagined this while sewing her little nightgown. Jon ran a hand up her thigh, under the silk dress. There is nothing underneath, just her cunt, already wet as she rocks her hips against him. Jon wondered if she'd gotten wet just sewing this dress, imagining trying it on for him. Imagining him giving in. Had she taken it into her own hands? He wondered just how frustrated she got. He'd neglected his husbandly duties this past fortnight.

He was sick of taking walks in the snow hoping to cool down when he had a willing girl waiting in his bed. He rubbed his thumb against her clit. Perhaps he was not so honourable after all. He pushed two fingers inside her for the first time and she sighed. She was easy, slick and desperate, and so it was easy to keep going, to fuck her in earnest with his hands. She threw her head back and jerked her hips, her weight hitting him just right. He groaned and bucked his hips back into hers.

He could take her now. It would be so easy. She'd be happy. He'd finally get some release.

"Sansa?"

"Hmmm?"

"Take it off."

Her eyes went wide, and she nodded eagerly. She pulled the dress up off her head and let it fall to the floor. Completely naked, she didn't stop rubbing herself into his hand.

He saw her now, completely naked and straddling him, and really looked at her in for the first time. Before it had just been glimpses, no matter how inviting her little schemes had been he'd averted his eyes. Having her naked form stuck in his head would only make it harder to pull away when they'd gone too far. She had a few scars, leftovers from Joffreys beatings, but they were nothing, really, she was perfect. Her breasts were full and her nipples hard. As she chased release they bounced, it was as beautiful a sight as he'd ever seen. He reached his spare hand up to her breast. It was heavy in his hand. He pinched her nipple and she cried out, half pain and half pleasure.

"Serves you right," he whispered, unyielding. She seemed to like it though, for the thrusts of her hips did not let up.

"You don't deserve such a wicked wife," she agreed, and reached one of the hands she was using to balance herself on his chest up to her other breast and squeezed her other nipple.

That was too much for him. He pulled his hand away from her and grabbed her hips. He was just as bad as her. The look of desperation on her face and knowing how wet she was tempted him to let her sit there for awhile and deprive her of release. She needed more discipline. She never would have made it in the Night's Watch.

But he didn't possess the self restraint. Instead he moved her hips and brought her to his mouth, so he was covered in her. She braced the headboard so she didn't fall, and looked down at him in confusion. She opened her mouth to speak, but he began to suck on her and she closed her eyes instead. It was quite a sight — the face she made, the flat of her stomach, the heave of her chest. Her thighs tightened around his head.

He liked the way her orgasms tasted. He felt awful smug when she climbs off of him and lies beside him. He wrapped his arm around her waste and pulled her close, so they're nose to nose.

"How was that?"

Sansa shrugged her shoulders, and reached her hands between them and started to unlace his breeches. "Truthfully, it just made me want you more."

Gods help him, but she was impossible.