Aaaand here's chapter 5.
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"Stop scratching it."
Sansa sighs, looking up from her bowl of stew. They sit in his tent, just the two of them eating supper alone, as they have started to do more as of late. Slowly but surely they are becoming more comfortable with one another; still, there is a strange tension that keeps them from forming a true familial bond—like the one he had once had with Arya.
Then again, Sansa is not Arya. And Jon has always looked at her differently, even when they'd been children.
"It itches," she complains; she is aware of how whiny she sounds. She doesn't really care.
"Which means it's in the last stage of healing," Jon says, leaning towards her and slapping her hand away from her bare heel. It has been well over a month, now, and finally the bruises and cuts on her body are almost completely healed.
She scowls at him, but does as he commands and tries to ignore the almighty itch around the scab on her ankle.
"How's your back?" he asks, bringing his bowl up to his mouth to slurp down the last bit of broth. It is almost winter—it wouldn't do to waste food.
"Much better," she answers, giving him a small smile. "It will scar badly."
"Now we'll match," he says with a wry grin. The upturn of his mouth belies the murder in his eyes.
She huffs out a laugh; where years ago such a comment would have offended her, now it only amuses her. "I still haven't seen yours."
He grunts. "They're far uglier than yours will ever be, sweet sister," he says, taking a swig of his wine and looking down at the table. "They haven't really healed, and it's been over two months. I suspect they won't ever heal."
Sansa grimaces. "I'm sorry for what happened to you," she says, reaching over to grab his hand. "No matter how awful things got for me, at least I was always alive."
He squeezes her hand back, but does not respond. His eyes are glued to the table.
They sit like this for a while, and then she stands, withdrawing her hand from his with some regret. She likes his hands—they're rough, and strong, and his calluses scrape her skin.
They are nothing like Ramsay's hands.
"I'm going to retire," she says softly. She lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. In a moment of stupidity, she leans down and presses a kiss to his cheekbone. She lingers just a beat too long, and she realizes it when he stiffens. "Goodnight, Jon." She draws back, not meeting his eyes, and then moves towards the tent flap.
"Goodnight, Sansa."
His voice is soft and low, and there is something in his tone that makes her skin tingle. She stalks to her own tent just feet away from his, feeling strangely unsteady.
She lies awake for hours thinking about how his beard had felt against her cheek, how his shoulder had tensed under her hand. When she finally falls asleep, she does so with his scent still lingering in her nostrils.
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"If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive."
Jon swallows, anger burning in his heart. Anger towards her, anger towards Bolton, anger towards the winter that is fast approaching. He is just angry in general.
"Do you understand me?"
A few years ago, he would have said she was being dramatic—she had always liked being the center of attention. Now, he knows better. Her eyes are calm but wary, her face smooth and serious. Still, he can see the spark of panic that glimmers in her gaze. He has become familiar with her expressions over the last few months, and is better at reading her. She is no longer a complete mystery to him; he is starting to unravel her, piece by beautiful piece.
He stares at her, his nostrils flaring. "I won't ever," he begins, his voice rough with emotion, "let him touch you again. I'll protect you, I promise."
For a moment he sees soft surprise in her eyes—surprise at the passion that she can no doubt hear in his voice. He is afraid that he has given something away. Then she blinks, and the moment is gone. The look on her face is one of weariness and cold disdain. It makes him feel small.
"No one can protect me," she responds, her voice dark and acidic and resentful. "No one can protect anyone."
Then she looks at him, her eyes full of pain and bitter realism, and leaves him standing alone in his tent. The wind howls ferociously outside; it echoes the howling of his soul.
Restless, he stands and walks off into the night.
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It is much later in the evening when Jon announces his presence at the entrance of her tent. She stutters out a hasty "come in," surprised that he would come to see her when they had parted so sourly only a few hours before.
He ducks between the flaps, turning to tie them tightly behind him. When he turns to face her, she notices how his eyes flicker briefly to the cleavage that her shift exposes. Then he clears his throat, and props his hip up on the table where she keeps her sewing supplies.
"I brought you something."
"Oh?" she says, keeping her voice light. She shrugs on a robe, sensing his discomfort, but leaves it untied—she does not know why.
He exhales heavily through his nose, staring down at the rug. Wordlessly, he hands her a bundle of cloth.
She unwraps it, curious. Inside there are four wrinkled leaves that look freshly picked, and a sheath with a small knife. She looks up at him, confused.
"Deadly nightshade," he says quietly. Finally, he meets her eyes. His gaze is so sad it makes her want to cry. "And the knife is tipped with juice from the roots. I found some down by the stream—miraculously still clinging to life."
Uninvited tears fill her eyes, and she blinks them away. She unsheathes the dagger—there is something sticky on the pointed end. Then she wraps the cloth back up and places it on the bed next to her.
"Thank you," she says softly. She is more grateful than he will ever know.
"Use both, if you can," he says gruffly. "The knife first, so it gets in your bloodstream fast." He steps forward, and her breath catches in her throat when he touches her neck. "Here," he says, pressing his fingers to her jugular, "or here." He brings his hand down to tap her wrist. "A prick is all it takes. Then eat the leaves—all of them, if you can." He exhales shakily. "That should do the trick. Nightshade works fast. Less than ten minutes." He swallows. "If you think you're about to be captured, don't hesitate."
She stands. When he steps back from her, she steps forward. They stand nearly eye-to-eye—he is no more than half an inch taller than her. He steps back again, his eyes flashing with awareness; once again, she pursues.
"Sansa," he says. His voice is full of warning, his eyes hard. "Don't."
She lifts her hands up to rest on his chest. "I just want to know," she murmurs softly, staring at his lips. "I might die tomorrow. I want to know, just once, what it feels like to kiss a man who doesn't want to hurt me."
He shudders at her words, his entire body heaving under her palms in a way that thrills her. It makes her feel powerful. "Sansa," he says harshly, his hands encircling her wrists. "I can't."
"Why not?" she asks, leaning forward to press her body into his.
"You know why," he says through clenched teeth.
You know why. She does know. Because it is sinful, this thing that has grown between them—shameful beyond measure. Because if they cross this line, nothing will ever be the same again. Because they are tortured by their attraction to one another, but know that no amount of contact will bring them relief.
She looks up—the heat in his eyes is terrifying. Self-loathing simmers beneath its surface.
"Just once," she whispers, her lips just a hair's breadth from his. His breath comes out in harsh pants, and his body trembles. "I just want this one moment, Jon," she lies; she wants so much more than this one moment, but she is foolish for thinking that way. "I don't want to die never having kissed you." She swallows. "I would regret it even in death."
He says nothing; he does not encourage her, nor does he discourage her. His eyes are full of a horrible longing, though, and his body goes slack with surrender.
So she kisses him.
He is unresponsive at first but for the tightening of his grip around her wrists. Then she shudders as he angles his head and presses forward, and her lips open as easily as a flower in bloom.
He makes a soft noise in his throat. His lips move with practiced ease against her own, and pleasure shoots down her spine when his tongue touches hers.
Euphoria consumes her. A sudden and unfamiliar ache begins to develop in her womb, compounded by his hands letting go of her wrists to slip beneath her open robe and settle on her waist. She longs to feel them on her skin; longs to have his fingers pluck at the ties on her shift and push it down off her shoulders to pool on the floor.
His kisses are slow and languid and perfect. He is good at this—his experience is evident. His facial hair is soft against her skin. She slides her hands up to frame his jaw, reveling in the feeling; Ramsay's face had been smooth, except for the occasional stubble that had always irritated her skin during his forced kisses.
This, she thinks, her mind hazy with desire, is how it should feel. It is everything, everything, everything—the only thing that matters, the only thing that has ever mattered. His body is lean and hard, the muscles in his arms tensing as his fingers flex against her waist. His skin is hot, almost feverish, damp from the cool, humid air outside. He tastes like cloves and wine, and smells like pine and leather and horses—earthy, solid, the smell of a man that has never been pampered by the finer things in life, never been spritzed with perfume or enjoyed the feel of silk against his skin. It is a drastic change from Joffrey, from Tyrion, from Petyr and Ramsay, and she finds herself ravenous, hungry for his taste and the feel of his rugged hands.
When Jon's hands grip her tighter and his teeth scrape her bottom lip, she mewls and presses her body forward—and the sound is what jolts him back to reality. His lips and hands are ripped abruptly from her body, and he steps back, leaving her bereft and cold.
His eyes reflect a horror that she does not feel. And suddenly she feels guilty for thrusting this choice upon him. He is breathing hard, and his face twists into a moue of regret.
"Get some sleep," he says harshly, licking swollen lips. Her eyes trace the movement, and his gaze darkens.
And then he makes a hasty exit edged with the jerky movements that usually accompany some level of panic, and she feels both exhilarated and alone.
She lies in discomfort for some time. Then her arousal fades, and she forces thoughts of their forbidden kiss from her mind. Finally, she is able to sleep, tormented by dreams.
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And so it begins.
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