Goddamn am I bad at procrastinating...well Finals went great, if that's an excuse haha. Here's the next chapter! Finally!

Sansa slept fitfully beside her brother. She knew that Jaime had been right on several accounts; the North had been brutally savaged by the power struggle, and she wasn't sure that the denizens behind the cold walls would be so willing to accept her. Women had always had more difficulty holding seats of power than men, and Sansa wondered if she was strong enough to hold the North alone.

"Sleep, please," whispered Jon beside her. His hand curled around her waist to hold hers, his chest against her back. She sighed, feeling a little easier, but not by much. His heat at her back, the hand curled around hers, his breath in her hair...it all reminded her painfully of when she was foolishly in love with her husband. She drew away from him guiltily.

"I'm sorry, Jon," she murmured, turning to face him in her blankets. "I just find myself lost in thought these last few days." Her brother smiled toothily; gods, he had grown handsome. Sansa couldn't help but smile back.

"Not quite used to the freedom yet?" he asked lightly, tucking his arm beneath his dark head. "Don't worry. I'll help you through everything until we reach Winterfell; then I've got to get back to where I belong." Sansa hummed disgruntled agreement, trying to appreciate the short time she'd have with the last of her family before he'd leave her again, alone, to run her home. Her brow furrowed suddenly, and she frowned.

"Where's Ghost?" she asked, unbidden thoughts of Lady flooding through her mind. Jon looked serious for a moment before smiling again.

"I had to leave him at the Wall. He doesn't like it, but they need the help, and he's wonderful for sensing danger." Jon looked as though he'd said too much, but Sansa didn't want to ask him about the danger yet. She felt as though she was already burdened with the world. "He's fine, though. Getting absolutely enormous, but healthy. He still hasn't made a sound."

Sansa laughed, remembering the old days, when they had all been handed their direwolf puppies. Lady had been perfect for a young girl; she had patiently endured Sansa's constant dress-ups, the braiding, the bows, everything that could be thought up, without a single growl or bared tooth. She accepted Sansa's smothering nightly cuddles with incredible grace. But it had been a long time, and Sansa could barely remember what color she'd been anymore.

Thinking about the old days also made Sansa unbearably sad; she pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, trying to sleep, or think of anything else. She tried to think of the future instead. If the castle had been torn down, she'd have to have it built back up. If they could use the same stone, it would save a lot of time...perhaps she could make it better than before. Though she couldn't recall Lady's fur, she could reconstruct Winterfell perfectly in her mind. It wouldn't be so difficult, then. She'd live in her father's room, redecorate the black and silver. She'd need dresses made eventually...she had to always look the lady.

Dreaming of her home, Sansa finally slept.

"I don't like those howls," muttered Horic to Jaime. Jaime laughed at his Second Guard, spooning another mouthful of honey porridge into his mouth. "You heard them, last night?"

"Yes, but a few wolves would hardly be interested in some traveling soldiers," replied Jaime, shaking his head. "They're probably passing through." He couldn't believe his superstitious men; they had spent the night in uneasy watch, made skittish by the cries of a hungry dog.

"They sounded awful menacing to me," argued the guard resentfully. He bit deep into a blood orange, the bright juice staining Horic's short brown beard. "And close, too. I've never heard howls so loud."

"Well, you know what they say about wolves," said a light, fresh voice behind them. "They always know when the leader of their pack comes home." Jaime turned and smiled at his solemn young wife, unusually humorous that morning. She shot Jaime a smug look before reaching around him to take an orange from the bags.

"Yes, and I'm sure they'll be wild with joy as they tear you apart, lovely wife," he shot back, particularly enjoying the flash of annoyance across her fine features. "I've had many an ancestor torn apart by lions to prove points. I have no doubt you'll be treated to the same welcome if we don't keep moving." He reached to touch her chin with a finger before she jerked away and left. Sighing, he stared after her as she marched irritably away. Maybe she'd forgive him one day.

"Did...did you mean it? About the wolves?" whispered Horic in a hushed voice. Jaime dropped his spoon into his empty bowl, handing it to his squire before turning to smile laughingly at his guard.

"If they catch up to us? It's lean times, my friend, and if I was a hungry wolf I wouldn't think twice about tearing us to bloody chunks." With that, he left Horic horrified and began to saddle his horse.

Jon and Sansa didn't take long to prepare their things. They had many days of riding ahead of them, and Jaime honestly didn't like the thought of the dangerous road ahead. The sooner they began, the sooner it would be behind them. He and Jon took the lead, with Sansa and his First Guard Janes behind them. Horic scouted several miles ahead, and their train was a motley of guards and squires with fully packed horses. Jaime longed for the days when he'd leave for weeks alone, just he and his horse, hunting for food and filling up at streams. At this rate, it would take much longer.

"I want you to know that I hold absolutely no grudge against you," called Jaime to Jon over the pounding of their horses' hooves. Jon shot him a dirty look and ignored him, but Jaime Lannister wasn't a person one could easily ignore. He rode closer to his wife's brother, to press the point. "In fact, I hold a lot of respect for you. I can't imagine living with Sansa when she was young, it must have been impossible."

He could have sworn that a smirk crossed the serious Stark's cold face, but he might have been mistaken. It could have been unadulterated rage.

"I can imagine you're feeling pretty satisfied," replied Jon slowly, thoughtfully. His voice was almost so low that Jaime couldn't hear it. "Saved my sister, escaped death, riding off into another lordship...but hear me, Jaime Lannister. I don't care if Sansa despises you or can't live without you; I'll see your blood on my sword yet. Until we get to the castle, you're here because your guards follow you. After that, well, I'd imagine you're at the mercy of our lady."

Jaime, thinking back on the last few months with Sansa, cringed a little bit. He swallowed his regrets carefully and managed a very Jaime-like laugh again. It came out a little weak, but his voice strengthened with his words.

"Then I suppose I had better either behave myself," he joked, sneaking a side glance at Jon. "Or get much, much naughtier."

To the bone, Jon Snow was not his sister. Jaime hadn't been expecting the sudden blow, he hadn't noticed how close his horse had taken him, nor the reach on that young lad. The sheer force of it was almost enough to knock Jaime off of his horse again; indeed, the young lordling was practically climbing off of his own steed to take another swing.

"Stop! Jon, stop!" barked Sansa from behind them crossly, though without much enthusiasm. She hadn't heard anything of their conversation from behind them, but she knew Jaime well enough to get the gist of it. "We need him alive!"

"My gratitude is yours, merciful wife," spat Jaime, working his jaw and wincing. "Though I cannot understand it. Why on earth do you need me alive? Isn't your dashing young brother here to whisk you to Winterfell?" When Sansa smiled, he wished he hadn't asked; there was something distinctly wolflike in her teeth. She rode her black mare easily between them, barricading her brother off. Jaime wasn't sure which he preferred least.

"Oh silly husband, I don't need you for the ride home," laughed Sansa lightly. Jaime remembered when she had been a sweet, naive girl and wished for better days. "But our son isn't going to be a bastard. And I'm no Lysa Arryn; I will not be wed again."

Jaime smiled grimly. So he was to be a captive lord, then. He'd read of several such in histories, of the puppet lord protectors who were controlled by their far more vicious and dominant wives, the true heirs of the lands, but he'd hardly had a mind to be one. He imagined that this bitterness must have been some fraction of what Sansa felt in King's Landing.

"Son, then?" murmured Jaime quietly, to bring his mind to other thoughts. He could easily set his guard against Jon and his lady wife, but to what ends? Where did he have to flee? He had neatly burned all of the bridges behind him, throwing quite a bit of trust into the fantastic birthright of his wife, but her favor was as sprightly and teasing as a fawn. He had lost it so easily in the heat of passion, of rage and jealousy and spite. She honestly shouldn't have expected more of him. Her smile was not for him as she touched her slowly filling belly.

"I just know it," she murmured quietly, with no tenderness in her voice left for him. But she loved their kitten; that much he could put his faith into. That much he could bank on. "He's the next lord of Winterfell, its true protector."

"And I'll wager as gallant and dashing as his dear old uncle," grumbled Jaime bitterly beneath his breath. His lip curled arrogantly, and he turned his gaze skyward. A cold droplet struck his face as he took in the rolling black clouds. "As charming as this ride is, we need to find cover soon. It's going to be a terrible night." He heard both Starks sigh.

"I know there's an old inn a few miles ahead," called Jon from behind Sansa. "We'll stop there for the night."

Their reception was as warm and welcoming as their namesakes; the innkeep indeed looked as though a pack of lions had walked into his little shelter. They were granted solitude by the handful of patrons, all of whom moved to the very borders of the room with nervous whispers. Jaime didn't like the looks of that, and from the glance Jon exchanged, neither did he.

"I don't think we'll get much trouble from these folks," confided Jon quietly to Jaime, who knew the right time to keep his mouth. "Though I can't imagine why we're getting such treatment. We proved Sansa innocent!" Jaime laughed, a dark, hollow sound.

"Yes, but little faith is put into the scoundrels who defy the Queens. If we've lost the favor of King's Landing, we're on shaky ground. There isn't a peasant alive who isn't keen to the violent moods of the Cersei." But Jon was right, too. They would get no trouble here, despite the suspicious murmurs.

They were served decent enough food, anyways. Thick crusts of bread filled to dripping with hot beef stew, sweet potatoes cut and peeling in the cold air, and an endless filling of the mugs with good, dark beer. Clearly the innkeep, despite his premonitions, did not want to anger the small troop of armed soldiers, no matter their affiliations. He ate heartily and with great pleasure. And he thought deeply on the fact that Jon, despite his grudge, seemed to hold Jaime's opinions and experience such high esteem. That would likely come in handy later...

"The men who have coin for rooms will be staying here, with us," said Jaime, standing eventually. Jon and Sansa both looked up. "The others will be outside with the equipment. I will go and reserve our quarters, one single and a double, I assume. I'll leave it to the lady to decide who goes where." He gave Sansa a cheeky wink before turning, enjoying the blush that flared in her cold, fair face.

He left quickly, rather than face the uncontrolled temper of her brother. My, the pair was an absolute dream to travel with...no senses of humor in that cold Stark landscape. He thought bitterly of the years he had ahead of him, even if they managed to restore Winterfell and the North. A lifetime in a dead wasteland with humorless people? Cersei really shouldn't be angry with him, for Jaime had effectively sealed his own hell.

This is your fault, you ugly, freckle-faced wench, he thought grimly, pressing an extra gold coin into the innkeep's hand for confidentiality. And yours, Catelyn Stark. I could be warm and happy in King's Landing, or Casterly Rock, lying in the arms of the loveliest woman in the world. I could be on the field, strewing blood like the reaper, and yet here I am, running off to the land of the bloodless. Well played, ladies.

And it looked like it was going to be yet another cold night for Jaime Lannister. He couldn't even keep his audacious mouth closed long enough to win back the affections of his young wife; indeed, it looked as though the next dozen years would be the coldest of his life. He sighed, not bothering to cast a glance back before nodding to his squire and stalking up the stairs towards his room. With rather un-Jaimelike dispirit, he quietly entered the single bed room.

Gods, Sansa burned. She had burned deeply since that morning, the dark, deep, unending internal churning too much for her to handle. She was restless, impatient, and frustrated. She could hardly abide Jon's presence.

She crushed the thought again and again, sullenly embracing the unease with bitter discomfort. But it was difficult to deny, especially when he winked at her like that, the smooth gait of his walk, the quiet broadness of his shoulders, the promises of heated delight in his long, strong limbs. Memories leapt unbidden to her mind, breaking momentarily through her mental barriers before being quashed, but their marks remained. His strong grip on her, his hand in her hair, the tickle of quick and breathless kisses across her collarbone...

She stood abruptly, startling her brother and Jaime's first guard.

"I'm going to our room," she informed them firmly. They looked at each other, and she wondered who she was really trying to convince. "I'm going to go to sleep. Be quiet on your way in, Jon." She turned and marched herself up the stairs, leaving the men baffled. Once at the top of the stairs, she stood at the doors, marked for their arrival. She stood there for a long time.

One door was marked with a black card, the double room that she knew it to be hers. The one beside it was marked with a rose card, the single bed. She knew for sure which room Jaime was in; despite his flirtations and suggestive comments, he held fast to his personal brand of honor. Besides, there was little he'd risk with so much at stake for him. She had seen that in his eyes, a nervous gleam that was at constant odds with his endless bantering.

And despite everything that he had done to her, the flashes of the monster she'd seen he could be...she pitied him, too. Sansa had once been able to hate for a long time; she remembered hating Arya for months, years, when she'd been young and foolish. She was tired of bitter brew of anger. It made her sad and tired inside. Her hand trembled on the rose carded door.

But where was her dignity? Where was her cold Stark wall that had protected her for so long? She drew her fingers back, feeling waves of guilt and self-loathing crash over her. Her mouth twisted and she struggled deeply with herself. Was she some wanton maid, coming to him out of desire?

Sansa sank to the floor, leaning against the wall, her head in her hands. Her rich auburn curls pushed through her fingers as she pulled at her own hair in angry indecision. She was his wife! This was her right! But when she thought of Jon, of his fury at mounting the stairs and finding her to be in Jaime's room, her decision was sharp and final. She grieved quietly at the thought of another night alone with her thoughts, tormented by the endless tirade of guilt that had followed her since the day she'd betrayed her father. She could not betray her family again...but then why did she feel so terrible?

Slowly she picked herself up off of the floor, slowly she turned the knob to the black-marked room. She didn't let herself look back when she closed the door.

Jon sat on the grubby wooden stairs, just out of the sight of his sister. He had been filled with suspicion when she left early, and though he had no right to order her around, he couldn't quash his own curiosity. And, despite his respect for Sansa, he couldn't help but be filled with rage when he saw her hand touch the door they both knew Jaime Lannister to be behind. He had trembled with the urge to run up there and slap her, shake her, remind her of why he had come all the way from the Wall, against his own orders.

It had taken everything in him to remain quiet and hidden on the stairs. His hands had dug into the wooden slats of the steps, but he remained crouched with predatory grace and anticipation. Something inside of him calmed when her brow furrowed, and she removed the hand. He watched her as she backed away, finally sinking to the floor across from both doors. The rage quieted, turned into tame sorrow to match the tortured expression on her delicate features.

He felt a rush of both pride and pity as she stood and walked quickly into their room. Pride because he had caught a glimpse of the inner fortitude she had finally developed, and pity because he knew that she used it as a weapon against her own happiness. He had seen the constant guilt in her eyes over the days they'd been together, and it was difficult to bear as a brother and a friend.

He rose silently once she closed the door, stalking towards their rooms. He, too, paused at the doors, looking carefully at each. Whatever Lannister had done, he had clearly won Sansa's affection long before Jon had arrived, and destroyed it then too. Jon bit his lips in irritation. He stared at the rose door for a full minute before turning and walking into his room.

Sansa was lying down, lightly if not modestly dressed. Her thick hair was loose about her, and though her side moved evenly he knew she was not asleep. Jon walked over and sat down at the edge of the bed. She glanced up, her eyes carefully guarded. Jon felt another rush of pain. When did she learn to look at men like that? He remembered when her blue eyes had been wide, happy, and trusting. It felt so long ago.

"You love him," he said quietly. He could feel her walls rising, but her withdrawal only made him sure of his words. His mouth was a grim line of acceptance. "Don't you, Sansa." It wasn't a question. His lovely sister, her face only more beautiful with wan serenity, flinched as though he'd raised a hand to her. For a long time she said nothing, and he was worried that she would deny him. Her horrendous pain was a burden for them both, and he couldn't long watch her struggle beneath it. Finally, after an eternity, her lips parted. Her eyes lowered in humility.

"Is it wrong?" she whispered, her voice hushed and ragged. Shame and mortification seeped through every word, and Jon closed his eyes.

"The things you told me," he said slowly, trying not to frighten her away now that she'd finally let him in. "Were they true? The striking, and raping..." his voice trailed off, and he wasn't so sure that he wanted to know. He tried very hard not to let her see how deeply this affected him, too. Sansa's hand covered his.

"It...it was," she admitted, her brow furrowed but her eyes clear and dry. "In the beginning. He did strike me, though not often, and...no, sometimes I didn't want to lie with him, but Jon he changed. I can't recall when or how, but he didn't hit me ever again, and he became so gentle, just like a knight from the stories, and he can be so kind, Jon!"

In that instant he watched his pale and serious sister reveal a hidden scale, a shard of what she had once been. He saw the hopes and dreams of his flouncing baby sister emerge once more, for the first time since he'd spoken to her again. He could hear how reverently she adored Jaime, despite his or her qualms. It pained him, but at the same time he felt a deep joy in her ability to cling to her songs for so very long in the claws of the Lannisters. It somehow made her braver.

"And about Joffrey, and Cersei," said Jon quietly, not quite willing to watch his sister grow old again. Sansa dimmed, frowning with disgust. This was an issue that neither of them could sidestep, the point where Sansa would either have to turn back or take a running leap over it. When she looked up again, he saw the barest glimmer of hope still in her vivid blue eyes. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and sure.

"He came back for me," she said softly, "and not Cersei." Jon abruptly understood. He and Sansa both knew that Jon would lay his life on the line for his sisters; any force that would make him turn his back on her would have to be colossally powerful. The fact that Jaime turned on his own sister, and lover, made Sansa immediately hold his decision near and dear. Jon sighed and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs.

"Then you know what you feel for him," said Jon quietly. "You should go." Sansa froze, worry and guilt written across her brow again. She looked down, her long hair hiding her face.

"But...what would father say...I've betrayed our family so many times," she murmured, almost too soft for him to hear. Jon instantly turned and pulled her to him, wishing he could defend her from the world of pain she had lived in for so long. His arms tightened around her slight frame.

"You did a foolish thing out of love," growled Jon to her, "you've done many foolish things out of love. But you can't let that torture you, Sansa. In a world so full of hate and anger, hold onto that particular talent."

Sansa was quiet for a few moments before drawing back and smiling shyly at him. Jon smiled back, brushing the hair from her face. He marveled at how clear her eyes were.

"Do I look alright?" she asked him self-consciously, and Jon felt deep satisfaction at how easily she let down her barriers now. He laughed and pinched her cheeks rosy again.

"You look marvelous," he said seriously, leaning forward to kiss her forehead tenderly. "And if that prick ever makes you cry again, come and let me know. I'll bring Ghost next time." Sansa would have laughed if her brother didn't look so damned serious. She squeezed his hand reassuringly before sliding off of the bed and to the door.

Jon leaned back and sighed, the giant bed all to himself. He thought idly of Ygritte, wondering what could have happened, how their lives might have been if they had taken different turns. His mind turned over vivid images of her tangled fire red hair.

Sansa stood outside of the door, suddenly doubtful. She and Jaime still had a lot of bad blood between them; she couldn't be sure of a welcome to his room, despite his comments. As he'd demonstrated before, the Lion of Lannister had an incredible volatile temper, and Sansa definitely did not want to fight tonight. She would also be embarrassed to return to Jon, after all they had discussed.

So she stood for a few minutes wringing her fingers mercilessly. Finally she knew that there was only one way to find out if she and Jaime could get through this. She raised a trembling hand and knocked hard, the force of it disguising her inner anxiety.

"Come in," called a muffled, sleepy voice from inside. Sansa flushed hotly as she recognized the rough drag of his bedroom voice. Clearly he had been asleep. Nonetheless, she gently pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He was sitting up in his bed, the covers pushed back and his hair tousled in lovely curls. He blinked a few times before his mouth dropped open a little in shock. He cleared his throat and ran a hand hastily through his hair. They were both, for a moment, lost for words.

"Sansa!" he finally gasped a little, obviously caught without his court mask. She watched his face as he tried to recover, failed, and relaxed in slight defeat. "What...why are you here?" She tried not to frown, tried not to clench her fists in her skirts. His handsome features were oh so hard to resist, but she must, at least until they were settled.

She moved towards him hesitantly, and he drew back to make room for her, despite the single bed. She sat carefully on the edge, aware that she wasn't as well-dressed as she would have liked to be. She wore a simple tunic, well-cut but ending above her knees. It was definitely not appropriate attire for an evening visit. Although, with her husband...

"Jaime, I-" she began, but abruptly he moved towards her. She could hardly resist as he pulled her to him with his good hand, easily fitting her against his form. On the narrow bed, she was breathlessly pressed flush to his front, her head arched back to see his face, her heart beating fast against his chest. He didn't kiss her, but merely stared down at her, his green eyes glowing with catlike satisfaction. "Don't please, we need to talk." She tried to draw back, but failed. Even with one hand he was so much stronger than her.

"I can't apologize for the things I've done," he said in a low voice, his rumbling bass much too close to her ear. "Like it or not, your husband is impulsive, hotheaded, greedy, foolish, spiteful, and sometimes even cruel. I won't say that what I've done is always the right thing, but I will make you a vow, and those remain of utmost importance to me at all times." Sansa fell silent, and she lay timidly in his arms. She knew Jaime, and she knew that he would uphold everything spoken in a vow, even if it meant disgrace and death. He had already proven it to her. And so she waited, trying not to hold her breath. When he spoke, it was perhaps the most serious she had ever heard him, a rare occasion indeed.

"I promise to protect you forever," he whispered to her, the solemnity of the moment touching Sansa deeply. "I promise to use my hands to make you stronger in all ways. I promise to never wander. I will cut down all who stand against you. You are my wife; I will raise our child to a throne and defend him until death."

Sansa teared quickly, wanting to tease him about how he'd only be able to use one hand, how he shouldn't anticipate a son, but she didn't dare break his stride. It would have been awful of her to tease him at that moment.

He smiled, emerald eyes clear, and leaned forward to kiss her forehead gently. She felt more intimate with him at that second than she had at any point in time during their long and struggling marriage. She closed her eyes and smiled as she felt his lips press against hers. Their kiss deepened slowly, sensually, as he tugged her beneath the waves of desire that lapped at her skin. His hand pushed her hair back, tickled against her neck.

She sighed and wrapped her arms around him. She couldn't help the wonder that fluttered back into her old and tired spirit as he pulled the sheets over them.

Hehehe...I'll try to update again soon, it's been a busy busy semester. Hope this is enough to satisfy you for now, don't worry, I'll pick up this last scene in the next chapter ;)