That night Tormund tossed and turned and barely slept.
Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?
What the sight of her trembling before the fire had led him to imagine?
He kicked the covers at his feet savagely.
Gods, he was a fool.
Unable to sleep, he got up from bed and went to the window, pulling back the curtains and looking out at the moonlit castle grounds. He remembered when he'd first seen Winterfell. He'd been in awe. That so few could have so much.
That was a little how he felt about Sansa. Awed. Stunned. Wide-eyed and idiotic.
This is Jon's little sister, he reminded himself. The lady of this castle. She trusted him to train her in combat and that was all. She wasn't interested in himas a man. A wildling with nothing to offer her but his sword and shield?
The idea was laughable.
Girls like Sansa Stark would want a castle of their own. Lands. Fine clothes and jewels.
And even if he did survive the coming battle, he wouldn't have any of those things. He didn't want any of those things. Did he?
Tormund groaned and ran a hand down his tired face.
He needed a woman.
Badly.
He could go down into the wildling camp, he thought. From his room he could see their fires burning. Pinpricks of light in the darkness. There would be plenty of willing women there.
The thought did little to excite him.
He got back into bed then, and fell into a fitful sleep. His dreams were full of her.
Sansa stretched out before the fire. Green eyes blazing. Sansa in his bed. Long legs tangled in his sheets.
Sansa. Sansa. Sansa.
In the morning she was waiting for him in the courtyard.
A dream made flesh.
But under her eyes were shadows, and her cheeks were pale.
Had she been plagued by the same sleepless night?
"Good morning, Tormund," she called out to him as he drew near.
She wore an overlarge tunic that must have once belonged to her brothers and a pair of doe skin breeches. Her hair was braided and draped over one shoulder.
"Morning."
She looked bashful in the early morning sunshine. Bashful and beautiful with sunlight on her hair.
"About last night…" Sansa began.
"You don't have to apologize, girl." He told her, his voice gruffer than he'd intended.
Her eyes scanned his, head cocked to the side like a little bird.
"I wasn't going to apologize."
"No?"
The yard was full of the sounds of men. Armor clinking, horses whinnying. Men laughing and arguing and talking. But the silence between them was heavy and awkward.
She stepped closer to him but before she could speak, he interrupted, whispering in her ear.
"We have an audience."
Her eyes flickered around the yard.
"Where?" she breathed.
"Southern rampart."
She glanced where he'd told her and then away.
"Littlefinger is always watching," she told him, voice soft.
"Then lets go somewhere he won't follow."
They took their horses and Tormund guided them out of the castle, down the narrow road that led from the western-facing gate, and into the woods that surrounded the lands. Out here, in the wild, the air was heavy with tree sap and leaf mould. Tormund breathed deep. It had been a long time since he'd felt this free.
They dismounted in a small clearing. The ground was covered in pine needles and a light dusting of snow.
"What did you want to tell me?" Tormund asked. "Back there in the yard."
"It isn't important."
She wouldn't meet his gaze so he waited.
"Tormund, when I'm around you I say things that I shouldn't," she began. "I do things that I shouldn't. It isn't how a lady should act and I just wanted to tell you that it won't happen again."
He didn't respond. Just looked at her, standing there in the snow, telling him he could never have her.
"I've been drinking far too much," she continued with an embarrassed laugh.
"I like you when you drink," he admitted. "Your true self comes out."
"Tormund…"
He cut her off before she could say any more.
"Are we going to fight or what, girl? I don't have all day."
She nodded. Chastised.
He drew his sword from his scabbard and tossed it on the ground at the edge of the clearing, along with several knives he kept concealed in his heavy layers of fur. Finally, he pulled a small carving knife from his boot and tossed it in the snow by Sansa's feet.
"Pick it up," he told her.
When she did, he adopted a fighting stance, feet apart, knees bent.
"Now, come at me with the knife. Try to bury it in my skin."
"What?" Sansa asked, appalled. "Are you insane?"
"Aye, so I've been told."
She threw the knife back into the snow.
"I won't."
"You will, girl."
She crossed her arms across her chest. Eyes narrowed. Lips pursed.
"No."
Tormund studied her for a moment. Waiting. When she didn't move he walked up to her and placed one hand on each of her shoulders.
She felt fragile in his arms. He could have snapped her bones like a twig. And yet, there was a passion burning in the depths of her eyes. She looked away from him then.
This close, he could see the dark line of her lashes against her pale cheek.
"Sansa, you aren't going to hurt me."
"I could."
She still wouldn't meet his gaze but color bloomed in her cheeks.
"Your concern is touching," he told her, bending down to retrieve the knife from the snow. "But if you can best me in a fight, I deserve whatever damage you manage to inflict."
He took her hand, and placed the knife's hilt in her open palm, curling her fingers to make a fist around it.
Her eyes flashed back to his, then. They were worried and something else too.
"Can't I just—I don't know—practice on a tree or something?" She begged.
"A tree? I thought you wanted to learn to protect yourself from evil men, girl. Not evil trees."
"Very funny."
But a corner of her mouth turned up in a small smile.
"You promise I won't hurt you?" Sansa asked. "It's just…I've lost so many people, Tormund. And I'm just starting to like you."
"The feeling is mutual, girl," Tormund replied with a smile of his own. "Trust me. I'm going to be fine."
So Sansa did as she was told. She came at him with the knife. But half-heartedly.
Tormund disarmed her easily and knocked her to the ground.
"Try again," he commanded.
The next time, she came at him with more conviction. She managed a swing of the knife before he grabbed her wrist, grinding the bones hard until she cried out and dropped the knife into the snow. He swiped her feet out from under her for good measure.
When she got back up to her feet, she was fuming, and this time she didn't hesitate to pick up the knife.
She made a wild lung at him then, but he blocked her blow almost lazily.
"Anger makes you stupid," he told her. "You have to fight smart. Think of the knife as an extension of your arm and remember our earlier training."
They practiced for nearly an hour and by the end she managed to glance a blow off of Tormund's forearm, cutting though a layer of his fur outer coat.
Sansa's face was horrified when a thin line of blood began to seep through his sleeve.
"Tormund, you're bleeding," she said, letting the knife fall from her hands as though burned and taking his arm in hers.
Her fingertips were cool on his skin.
"Aye, so I am," he said as she inspected the cut.
Two inches long and shallow, it was hardly more than a scratch.
Still, Sansa tended to him as though it were a mortal wound.
He hid the smile that tugged at this lips.
"I think we may have to amputate," he told her gravely.
Her eyes jumped to his. Wide and concerned and so very beautiful.
There were snowflakes melting in her eyelashes. And he couldn't take it any longer.
Tormund reached out and cupped her chin gently in his hand.
"Sansa…" he began.
A voice cut between them like a knife.
"What's going on here?" asked Lord Peter Baelish. His voice colder than the frost-covered ground under Tormund's boots.
The lordling wasn't alone. A mounted Vale knight flanked him on either side, the pale sunlight glinting off their shining armor, their horses' breath steaming in the winter air.
Tormund cursed under his breath before releasing Sansa's face.
He stepped in front of her, creating a barrier between her and the mounted men.
The knife lay at his feet, and he bent down casually to retrieve it. One of the Vale knight's hands strayed to his sword belt, but he did not draw it.
Tormund's own sword lay across the clearing and was of no use to him now.
"I'm afraid you startled us, Lord Baelish," Sansa said, stepping out from behind Tormund's back. "Tormund is teaching me to fight. We were just practicing."
One of the Vale knights snickered, and Tormund wanted nothing more than to bury his knife between the knight's eyes.
Let him snicker then.
"You shouldn't be so far from the safety of the castle, my lady," Littlefinger said, his eyes on Tormund all the while. "Next time, you should bring your guards with you."
"Why?" Sansa asked. "Tormund can protect me."
Littlefinger's answering smile did reach his eyes.
"Can he? That's good to know. Still, one man may fall to many, no matter how fierce a fighter he is."
The threat in his voice was unmistakable.
"And you know much of fighting then, Lord Baelish?" Tormund asked.
Sansa squeezed his arm in warning but he ignored her.
"I know very little of fighting," Littlefinger admitted. "But I know a lot about winning. And isn't that the point, in the end?"
"Has something happened, Lord Baelish?" Sansa interrupted, before Tormund could reply.
"The lords of the North are gathering in the great hall," Littlefinger said. "You presence is required."
"We were just finishing up anyways, weren't we, Tormund?" Sansa asked him pointedly.
"Aye, I suppose we've done enough for today."
"Excellent." Littlefinger said. "We'll just escort you back to the castle then, shall we?"
The knights flanked them on either side, and gave Tormund little opportunity to speak to Sansa until they reached the castle gates.
She looked back at him then, as she dismounted, her face a mask but her eyes concerned.
And he gave her a small reassuring smile.
Then he watched as Littlefinger placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her inside.
And Tormund realized that unless he was mistaken, he'd made an enemy today.
Tormund joined them inside the great hall after he'd stabled his horse.
Sansa was seated at the dais with Jon. She'd changed out of her fighting attire and into something more befitting the lady of Winterfell.
The lords of the Vale and North were gathered at the lower tables. So Tormund joined the other wildling commanders at the farthest table. Davos was there too, he noticed. And Littlefinger was lurking in the shadows like a spider. His eyes watchful on Sansa's face.
The room was dark, though candles had been lit and pale winter sunlight trickled through the windows.
"You can't expect the knights of the Vale to side with wildling invaders," a pompous balding man cried out from a few seats down, looking disdainfully on Tormund and his men.
"We didn't invade," Tormund replied wearily, already tired of this conversation. "We were invited."
"Not by me."
Arrogant swine.
Tormund knew how this would be decided in a wildling camp, but here, surrounded by castle walls and men who were supposed to be his allies, he was at a loss.
"The free folk, the northerners, and the knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we won," Jon said, his chair scraping the stone floor as he pushed it back to stand. "My father used to say, we find our true friends on the battlefield."
"The Boltons are defeated," a young northerner cried out, interrupting him. "The war is over. Winter is come. If the maesters are right, it will be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms."
"The war is not over. And I promise you friend. The true enemy won't wait out the storm. He brings the storm," Jon replied.
How could these fools not see the truth before their eyes? They'd lived protected behind their Wall for a thousand years. And in that time they'd forgotten what winter really meant. Forgotten eyes like chips of blue ice, cold and merciless. Forgotten villages put to slaughter by dead men wielding swords that cut through flesh and bone and armor like they were water and shattered steel like glass.
The room dissolved into separate arguments and Jon's voice was lost in the cacophony.
"Have you ever seen a body rise from the dead?" Tormund asked the Vale knight who so disdained him. "Because I have. And so has Jon Snow."
Those around him quieted and listened.
He thought of Hardhome. Of the armies of the dead that waited just beyond the Wall.
His eyes fell on Sansa.
"I've seen eyes that were brown in life, turn blue in death. I've seen a man dead for hours attack his own village that same night. Seen him slaughter his children and not blink an eye. You thought the Boltons were merciless? They were nothing compared to what is coming. Listen to Jon Snow, or else everyone you've ever loved—everyone you've ever known—will die."
Silence greeted his words.
"Tormund is right," Sansa said from the dais. "We must unite, or we will fall."
The little she-bear, Lyanna Mormont stood then.
"House Mormont remembers," she told the room. "The North remembers. We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. I don't care if he's a bastard. Ned Stark's blood runs in his veins. He's my king. From this day until his last day."
The other houses stood then. Glover and Manderly and others. Great houses and small houses. And they lifted their swords and cried, "The King in the North. The White Wolf! Jon Snow!"
Afterwards, Tormund found Jon at the dais. Sansa's seat was cold and empty and she was no where to be seen.
"I hope you don't expect me to kiss your arse now that you're king," he told Jon.
"You know I don't expect any of the free folk to kneel to me," Jon replied.
"Good. Because they won't."
Still, he clapped Jon's shoulder on the way out.
They wouldn't follow Jon because he was a king. They'd follow him because they believed in him. Because they trusted him. Because Tormund trusted him. He hoped he wasn't wrong.
Tormund was nearly back to his room when he heard hushed voices coming from a stairwell around the corner.
He slowed to a stop when he recognized Sansa's voice. She was arguing with someone and although he couldn't see them, it wasn't difficult to guess the other voice belonged to.
"You should be the ruler in the North," Littlefinger was telling her. "Not your bastard brother."
"Jon is better suited for it. He's led armies before. He knows the Night's Watch. He knows the wildlings. Besides, no man would follow a woman into battle."
"They would follow you. You are the true born daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, not some up jumped bastard. He usurped you and you did nothing to stop it."
"I didn't see you doing anything to stop it either," Sansa argued.
Silence fell for a moment and Tormund turned to walk away, not wanting to be caught listening.
He didn't care what the Littlefinger thought, but Sansa wouldn't have liked it.
Then he heard a small intake of breath.
"Peter, you're hurting me," Sansa said.
Tormund pulled a knife from his belt.
He would butcher the lordling where he stood.
"Why did you let the wildling touch you?" Littlefinger asked her, his voice angry and jealous. "Earlier in the wood."
Tormund stopped dead in his tracks.
"Peter, stop it," Sansa begged. "I already told you, he's teaching me to fight."
"Do you think that I'm stupid, Sansa? That I can't see the way he looks at you. The way that you look at him. If you need someone to fill your bed now that Ramsay Bolton is dead, I'm sure there are more worthy candidates."
A slap rang out in the quiet hall.
"Don't ever speak of Ramsay Bolton again. You were the one who sold me to him. Don't think that I've forgotten that, Peter. Every time he beat me. Every time he raped me. You were to blame."
"Sansa—"
"Don't Sansa me. I've had enough of you telling me what to do, what to say, what to think. We're done here, Lord Baelish."
He heard her retreat up the stairs. When he was sure she'd gone, Tormund rounded the corner.
And found himself face to face with Littlefinger.
There was a handprint on his cheek where Sansa had slapped him. Red and angry looking.
When Littlefinger saw Tormund standing there, knife in hand, he smiled a little mockingly.
"How much of that did you hear?" he asked.
"Enough," Tormund replied. He stepped closer. He stood nearly a head taller than the little lordling, and he enjoyed looking down at him.
"If you ever touch her again, I'll bury this knife in your guts. Lord or no."
Littlefinger's eyes regarded him cooly.
"Men tried to separate me from her mother, long ago. They're all dead now."
"Aye, and so is she."
Littlefinger shrugged.
"But Sansa is not. And I don't intend to lose her as easily as I lost Cat. You'd do well to watch your back, Tormund Giantsbane. Or you may find a knife in it."
He turned his back on Tormund then, and walked back towards the great hall.
Tormund watched him go, aching to cut his smiling head from his shoulders, until Littlefinger disappeared from sight.
When he reached his room a few moments later, Tormund was surprised to see the door slightly ajar.
He drew his sword, and kicked the door open, ready to gut the intruder.
Sansa turned in surprise from where she stood at the window. Her eyes were wide and wary and something else that he couldn't quite name.
She reminded him of a doe. Staring into the eyes of a hunter. Waiting for the arrow.
"Are you going to kill me, Tormund?" she asked him, a faint smile playing at her lips. "I have to warn you that a wildling warrior has been teaching me to fight. I won't be such easy prey."
He stepped inside and shut the door firmly behind him. He was tired of her games.
"You shouldn't be here," he told her as he sheathed his sword.
She came and stood before him, then. She was tall for a girl, and her eyes were nearly level with his mouth.
She regarded him from under her lashes.
"Are you angry with me?"
This close, he could feel the heat radiating from her body. Feel her breath against his throat. Smell the perfume in her hair.
The torment was nearly too much for him.
Her, here in his bedroom. In the place where he'd dreamt of her only hours ago. Already, visions were dancing through his mind.
He wanted to take her and lay her down in his bed.
He wanted to taste and touch and tease her and make love to her a thousand different ways until she forgot all about Littlefinger and Ramsay and anyone else who'd ever hurt her.
He wanted to hear her say his name.
He wanted to mark her as his own, for the world to see.
Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, because she bit her lip lightly in anticipation and reached out to lay a hand on his chest.
"Your heart is pounding like a drum," she told him, voice breathy in the stillness of the room.
"Sansa, are you sure about this?"
Her eyes on his face were warm and trusting.
"I'm sure."
And then, he bent down and kissed her.
And everything else fell away, except the two of them.