And chapter 6! Look at me go! (I'll be less excited when I get to chapter 9 and realize I have no more pre-written material. Oops.)
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Watching her half-brother slam his fists violently into Ramsay's face is both heady and chilling.
Heady because she gets to watch her former tormentor's face bruised and bloody; chilling because she has never before seen Jon in action, and the power with which he moves is disquieting and unanticipated.
Jon is not a large man. He is of average height, of average build, with a lean body and good shoulders. But the force behind his punches is not proportionate to his size. It seems he has the strength of ten men, and he moves as quickly and as efficiently as a snake. His eyes are wild and deadly, and she realizes that he is going to kill Ramsay like this—pound away at his face until his brains lay scattered in the dirt.
She tells herself that now is not the time to acknowledge that the sight of his physical strength moves her to desire.
He reels back for another hit, and then sees her in his peripheral vision and freezes. His head turns slowly to look at her, and the violence fades from his eyes. He meets her gaze, and his body quakes, his fist poised in the air for another brutal strike; then he sits back on his heels, his chest heaving, and his face and eyes reflect only weariness. He gets up and strides away, back out through the gates to do who knows what.
Standing there, she wonders why he hadn't just finished the job. Killing a man with his bare fists would make him even more of a legend in the eyes of his men (they are already whispering about how he had stood in the face of Bolton's army and had drawn his sword, brave and alone; they are already whispering about how he'd taken three arrows to his shield without breaking his arm or pausing in trepidation; they have been whispering for a while about how he'd died and been brought back to life; they are still whispering about him becoming Lord Commander, and slaying dozens of men at the Battle of Castle Black, and killing a Walker at Hardhome, and bringing thousands of former enemies south of the Wall). So, in lieu of further status and respect, had he stopped because he realizes that, as a leader, he is obligated to give Ramsay a fair execution?
No. She knows that is not it. As honorable as Jon is, she doesn't think that honor alone would be enough to drag him out of the fury of bloodlust.
He had stopped when he'd seen her. Had he been horrified with himself for letting her see such brutality? Had he wanted to protect her from it?
No, that is not it either. She knows on some level he doesn't quite understand just how much she has changed. But he had seen the state of her body after Ramsay's torture—he is the only one who had seen it—and knows she had been there to witness the beheading of their father, and as a result he knows she is no stranger to violence, no stranger to the savagery of men.
She thinks, perhaps, that it is because he'd realized that it wouldn't be fair. He'd looked at her, and he'd recognized that it is not only for him to decide how Ramsay meets his end.
Unbidden, a smile stretches across her face.
oooo
He convinces himself that it had meant nothing.
When Sansa joins him up on the battlements as he watches Melisandre ride away, he shoves down the memory of her taste, how incredible her body had felt pressed up against his two nights before.
Sansa is his sister. And that is all she will ever be.
"I'm having the lord's chamber prepared for you," he begins gruffly, for lack of anything better to say.
She looks at him, confused. "Mother and Father's room?" She pauses. She is looking at him, but he cannot find it in himself to look back. "You should take it."
His answering smile is edged with bitterness. "I'm not a Stark," he says.
He can feel her eyes boring into his profile. "You are to me," she says forcefully.
The statement honors him. Sansa had always been the sibling that had accepted him the least, growing up—he knows that she had loved him, on some level, but she'd always referred to him as "their bastard half-brother." He imagines that they never would have been close, if they hadn't been thrust together under these circumstances.
Still, even as she says it with such feeling, such conviction, he doesn't believe it. He is twenty-two years old, now—and he finds he cannot usher the truth of his parentage away just because his half-sister accepts him. He will never be a Stark. And even though it is all he'd wished for growing up, he now finds himself less concerned with his last name than he had been before.
He knows Jon Snow. He isn't sure he could ever know himself as Jon Stark. He doesn't know what Jon Stark would do in certain situations, doesn't know how Jon Stark would form friendships, relationships, how he would navigate the increased responsibility of lordship. But he knows how Jon Snow handles such things, and he has become comfortable in his position.
Besides: if he shares Sansa's last name, he'll feel even worse for wanting her.
"You're the Lady of Winterfell," he says roughly. "You deserve it, we're standing here because of you." He sighs, staring at the tree line. "The battle was lost until the Knights of the Vale rode in. They came because of you."
She is silent. He thinks perhaps it is because she feels just as shameful and foolish as he does. While he'd recklessly charged into battle like a fool, concerned only with saving the brother whom Sansa had warned was practically dead already, she had been conspiring behind his back with the least trustworthy man in Westeros. And while her actions had saved them all, he still feels a kernel of bitterness rolling around in the bottom of his stomach.
"You told me Lord Baelish sold you to the Boltons," he says, breaking the silence. He feels his irrational wrath swell within him, feels the urge to grab Littlefinger by the neck and squeeze the life out of him.
"He did," she says.
"And you trust him?" he says, struggling to control the incredulity and slight disdain in his voice. He is sure he fails. He finally turns his head to look at her, and this time she is the one who stares out at the horizon.
"Only a fool would trust Littlefinger," she says acerbically; it is said in such a way that has him mourning her lost childhood. He stares at her profile, admiring the planes of her face.
Finally she turns and casts her eyes upon him, and the shame and regret that shine from those cerulean orbs are plain to see. "I should've told you about him," she says dolefully. "About the Knights of the Vale." She exhales. "I'm sorry."
The apology is heartfelt. It goes a long way towards alleviating the resentment in his soul—and when she holds his gaze, he instantly forgives her, and feels his irritation wash away just as the Boltons' filth is beginning to.
He moves towards her, and notices briefly how she leans forward. He hates this. He hates this attraction that they share; hates how he knows that if he wanted to lift her skirts up right here on the roof and bury himself between her legs, she'd probably let him.
He'd thought that their kiss last night had been just a one time thing—that she'd merely wanted to know how it felt, in case she were to die. But he had seen the look in her eyes when he'd been pounding his fists into Ramsay's face; had seen the exhilaration, the savage pleasure, the blatant lust.
It disgusts him and thrills him in equal measure.
He looks into her eyes; his nostrils flare. "We need to trust each other," he says with quiet conviction. "We can't fight a war amongst ourselves—we have so many enemies now."
Then he reaches up and cups the side of her face, and pulls her head forward to press his lips to her forehead. Perhaps he forgets himself, and lingers for just a beat too long; and what he intends to be a brotherly kiss turns into something that only pulls the taut tension between them even tighter. He feels foolish afterwards, and so he turns and walks back towards the door.
"Jon," she calls after him. He turns—she is just barely smiling, and her eyes are warm. "A raven came from the Citadel." She pauses. "A white raven." Suddenly the wind kicks up, and her vivid hair, the only bright color in this stark landscape of black and white, floats around her face, caressing her cheeks and neck in places he longs to explore with his tongue. She huffs out a sigh. "Winter is here."
He cannot help the way his face softens, or the smirk that curves on his lips. Her mouth quirks, and then they are sharing a grin—a private smile, one born of years of history. He looks up to the sky as snow falls softly around them.
"Well," he says, looking back at her, "Father always promised, didn't he?"
She smiles, and he nods, and then strides purposefully away, desperate to escape his own yearning for her.
Because Sansa is his sister, and that is all she'll ever be.
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Look out for chapter 7 in a couple of days! Once again, thanks for reading!
xoxo
Giraffe :)