Tormund looked for her at dinner that night, and lied to himself about the reason.
But every time someone entered the great hall, his eyes immediately went to them and fell away. Disappointed.
Jon too was absent.
It was late when he finally got up from the table. The food long cleared away and the hall mostly empty. A few men were buried in their cups, asleep and snoring. Others were talking among themselves.
A few Vale knights watched him warily as he stood and left the room.
They didn't trust the wildling raiders, no matter what Jon and the other lords told them.
Tormund smiled in their direction as he left.
He hoped they wet themselves.
On his way back to his chambers, he passed the doorway to Jon's rooms, the glow of firelight spilled out into the hallway and he paused on the threshold for a moment.
Sansa was inside sitting on the floor by the fire talking animatedly, her feet tucked beneath her on a bearskin rug, a few pillows scattered around her. Jon was there too, in a high backed chair across from her, and he was laughing. Several decanters of wine were scattered around them, in varying stages of emptiness.
"Tormund!" Jon called, when he spotted him. "Come and join us."
Tormund watched Sansa's face as he entered, afraid he was intruding on a private moment between her and her half-brother, but her face only seemed to grow brighter at his approach.
"We're playing a game," she told him as he settled on the floor between them. "Do you want to play?"
"What kind of game?" For some reason, her smile made him wary.
"The best kind." She replied. "I learned it from a friend in the Vale. You ask a question, and everyone in the room must answer truthfully. If they cannot, or if you catch them lying, they have to drink. But if they tell the truth, everyone else drinks."
"We don't have anymore cups," she told him. "So you can drink from this."
She passed him the nearest decanter. It was half-full of a deep dark wine. When he lifted it to his nose, it was cloyingly sweet. He made a face.
"Tormund doesn't like our Southern wine," Jon explained.
"He doesn't?" She turned her smiling eyes on Tormund. They were dark in the half-light of the fire and full of mischief.
"Do you think it's too weak because it came from south of the wall? Or are you simply afraid that once you develop a taste, nothing else will compare?"
There were undercurrents to her words that swirled between the two of them.
"Both," Tormund answered, his eyes on hers.
And she smiled, slow and sweet, and took a sip of her wine.
"Your turn," she said. "Ask whatever you wish to know. We have to answer truthfully."
What did he want to know? His eyes darted to Jon, who was staring off into the fire. Most of the questions her really wanted to ask her would have resulted in Jon putting a sword through his throat.
"Why does that Southern lord, Littlefinger, stare at you like he wants to eat you?"
Tormund didn't know where the words came from, but the thought had been bothering him all day. Ever since he'd noticed the silver haired lord watching their training session from the ramparts earlier. The lord's face had been still and expressionless, but his eyes were jealous. And they'd promised retribution.
Sansa looked away from him, and sighed.
"You're surprisingly good at this game," she told him, her fingers toying with the edge of the rug.
"Stop evading the question, Sansa," Jon said from his chair by the fire. "I'd like to hear this too."
"Fine. He wants to marry me. He wants to rule the Seven Kingdoms with me by his side. Because I look like my mother and he loved my mother his entire life." Her cheeks were stained pink with embarrassment or anger and she turned her gaze on Tormund.
"I answered truthfully, so you have to drink."
And so he did. The wine too sweet on his tongue.
It was Jon's turn.
"And what are you going to do about Lord Baelish?" he asked her.
"This is an extremely one sided game all of a sudden," Sansa retorted.
She ran a hand through her hair in frustration.
"I don't know what I'm going to do yet. He controls the Vale's forces at the moment, and there are rather a lot of them encamped within our walls, if the two of you hadn't noticed. So for now, I'm going to keep the peace until I can decide otherwise. Happy?"
Jon and Tormund drank again.
"My turn," Sansa said, rubbing her hands together. "Lets make this fun again, shall we?"
Her eyes darted from Tormund to Jon, then back again, and she smiled.
"This question is for both of you. Describe your ideal woman."
Jon laughed.
"She's punishing me," he told Tormund. "Because I made her tell me about her ideal man."
"And he was…?" Tormund asked, intrigued.
"Loras Tyrell."
"I did not say that!" Sansa exclaimed, sitting up and slapping her hand on the stone floor.
"You didn't have to," Jon laughed. "I already knew."
"Who the fuck is Loras Tyrell?" And where does he live, so that I can kill him?
"The prettiest knight in the Seven Kingdoms," Jon replied, a mocking tone in his voice. "Curling brown hair, doe brown eyes, beautiful muscles. Right, Sansa? He moves like a dream, didn't you say?"
"Shut up, Jon."
But she was laughing.
"So you like pretty boys?" Tormund asked her.
He didn't know why he felt so annoyed all of a sudden, but he felt like he could squeeze the decanter in his hands until it shattered.
"You don't get to ask questions. It's not your turn," she replied sweetly. "It's my turn and I asked you a question."
"Easy. I like them willing," he replied.
"That's it—willing? That's all it takes? Not blonde or brunette, short or tall, fat or skinny? Just willing?"
Tormund shrugged.
"I'm a simple man with simple tastes," he said.
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"So you're telling me that when you close your eyes at night, you don't picture anyone in particular?" Sansa asked him, leaning in close so that he could smell the perfume in her hair.
His eyes drifted to her full lips. To the soft skin of her throat, illuminated by firelight.
She had him there.
The last few nights he'd gone to sleep, he'd pictured her in his mind. Pictured her naked body stretched out beneath a pile of furs. He would have told her, except Jon was watching them closely.
So he took a long drink of wine instead. And he found, to his surprise, that it no longer tasted so sweet.
Sansa laughed.
"Tormund Giantsbane! Afraid of answering a question about his ideal woman. Jon, you'd better watch this one."
"Maybe I will," Jon replied. His eyes on Tormund were a little suspicious.
Tormund cleared his throat loudly. "I don't hear you answering her question, Snow."
Jon smiled.
"Willing," he replied.
"You both are no fun," Sansa complained. "They play this game much better in the Vale."
"I'm sure they do," Jon replied.
Sansa pulled a pillow out from behind her back and threw it at him, smacking him soundly in the face.
"Alright, I get to ask another questions, then," she said. "Since you both are such cheaters. Your first kiss. Describe it."
"Sansa, if I won't tell you about my ideal woman, why do you think I'll tell you about my first kiss?" Jon asked her.
"Because if you don't you have to drain your cup. I'm tired of being the only one here answering truthfully."
"Fine. My first kiss was in an ice cave north of the wall," Jon replied. "Her name was Ygritte."
"And was she pretty?"
"She was. Her hair was red like yours. Kissed by fire, the wildlings say. And she was wild and free."
"And what happened to her?"
Jon stared into the fire for a moment before draining the rest of his cup.
"I don't want to play anymore, Sansa. I'm going to bed."
He kissed her softly on the forehead before turning to Tormund.
"Make sure she makes it to her rooms safely."
Then he retreated into his bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him.
Sansa and Tormund were alone.
The room felt smaller someone. Closer. More intimate.
"I upset him," Sansa said.
"Aye, you did. But it's because the girl died. Shot through the back by a Crow. And Jon blames himself."
"Oh." Sansa traced her finger along the rim of her goblet causing it to emit a low, ringing sound. "I didn't know."
"Jon doesn't talk about it."
They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the crackling of logs on the fire.
"Do you remember your first kiss, Tormund?" Sansa asked, trying to restore their earlier jovial mood. "Or have there simply been too many?"
Tormund smiled. "Aye, I remember. A girl in my village named Shiva. But we were children, then. It was nothing special. And what about you, girl?"
"Stop calling me girl. I'm not that much younger than you," Sansa reminded him. "My first kiss was taken from me during the battle of Blackwater Bay. While the river burned green with wildfire outside my window. He took a kiss and left me a cloak, and I haven't seen him since. I don't even know if he's still alive."
She trailed off.
"Gods, everything is so sad, isn't it? We can't even play a game anymore without practically weeping."
"It doesn't have to be," he told her.
"Teach me then, Tormund," Sansa said, leaning in close, her eyes fixed on his face. "Teach me how to live without being buried by loss."
And she was so close. He could practically feel her breath on his face. Could practically see the pulse leaping at the base of her throat. And he thought about taking her right there. In front of the fire. On the bearskin rug. Thought of making her forget for a time all the sadness in her eyes. Making himself forget everything for the span of a few glorious, exhilarating moments.
Then he remembered where they were.
And who they were.
That she was a lady. And he was a wildling.
That she was far above anything he'd ever hope to have.
"I should take you to your rooms," he said to her, leaning back on his hands and putting some space between them again.
Sansa blinked at the sudden shift.
"I don't need an escort in my own home," she muttered.
"Jon thinks you do."
"I don't care what Jon thinks," she said, standing. "And I don't care what you think. I don't need either of you."
He'd made her mad. That much was obvious.
"You did well today," he told her, standing too. "Training, I mean."
She ignored the compliment.
"You think I'm a fragile little girl, Tormund. But I'm not. I won't shatter when you touch me," she said, her voice low so that no one passing by would overhear.
"I never said you would."
"But that's what you think, isn't it? Poor pretty little Sansa. Used by all the men around her like a pawn in their games. No choices of her own."
"You're free to choose whatever you want."
"Am I?"
Her eyes were fixed on his face.
"Are you?" she asked.
How could he answer that?
He wanted to break something. And he wanted to pull her against him and bury his hands in her hair and steal the words from her mouth.
But he couldn't do any of that.
How free was he really in this land of lords and ladies?
"I'll see myself to my rooms, thank you," she told him icily, when he didn't respond.
"Sansa," he said, grabbing her arm as she swept past him.
She turned and looked at him. Looked his skin on hers.
Her expression half defiant and half afraid.
"It isn't as easy as you think," he told her.
"Nothing ever is," she replied sadly.
And then she was gone. And Tormund was alone.
Author's Note: Medieval drinking games existed. I'm almost sure of it. :) Hope you enjoyed. Bit more angsty this time around. As always, would love to know what you thought.