Alrighty, here's chapter 7 for your enjoyment! (Warning: it's a bit steamy.)

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"This is a good thing."

"A good thing?" Jon looks at her skeptically. "How is this a good thing?"

"Jon," Sansa says exasperatedly. "The people have made you King in the North; you're good at it. This is huge. You have united all of the Northern houses, and have started an uncertain alliance with the Vale. And you've integrated the wildlings."

"We," Jon counters roughly, feeling flustered. His fingers drum out an impatient beat on the table. "We did those things. But you're probably better suited to the position than I am—I just don't want it, Sansa." He says it desperately, truthfully. Today they had argued about how she had butted in during the meeting—how she had undercut his authority in front of all the Northern lords. It is hard enough to assert himself as king when he feels so unsure to begin with. He had thought about it for a long time afterwards, and had gone out to the Godswood to reflect.

And he'd come to the not-quite-startling conclusion that Sansa is right. And that she has a better mind for this sort of job.

"Then listen to me," she suggests quietly. He stares at her. "Listen to what I have to say. I know the Northern houses respect me, and I have family ties with the Vale, but they won't follow me. At the end of the day, I'm still a woman. But if you truly think that I'm well suited to leadership, then don't brush my council aside as if it means nothing; like you did before the battle." She looks down at her shoes, and Jon feels his quick flash of shame dissipate as her pride visibly fades. She looks tired. "I do know some things," she continues quietly, scuffing her slippers on the floor. "I've had the best teachers. Cersei, Tyrion, Margery, Ramsay, Littlefinger. Eventually I realized I had to smarten up to survive. So I did."

You know nothing, Jon Snow. Ygritte's voice whispers softly in his mind. I do know some things, he'd once said in response.

Perhaps he understands Sansa better than he'd thought.

"Alright," he says softly, bowing his head in acquiescence that he is not used to giving. "You're right. I'm shit at politics." He sighs, and his heart clenches. "I was stupid not to listen to you, before. I was arrogant. I underestimated my enemy, and I was so focused on planning the battle that I never stopped to consider the warnings you gave me. I knew he was a monster, but I didn't understand his way of thinking." He pauses. "I'm sorry, Sansa."

"That's alright," she says softly, reaching out to take his hand. Her fingers are impossibly soft; he condemns himself for wanting to feel them on his naked skin. "You didn't really have any reason to listen to me. As a child, I was a snotty brat. I certainly wasn't bright, and had a tendency to make things far more dramatic than they should have been. The last time you saw me was when I was trying to say goodbye but ended up sounding like a petulant arse. You weren't there to see me grow up. Just as I wasn't there to see you grow from a brooding, sulking teenager to a brooding, capable leader." He huffs out a laugh; it is too true for him to be offended. She gives him a tight smile. "I think it's been hard for both of us, trying to adjust to how we are now. I don't blame you for not hearing me. And I know that we won't always see eye-to-eye, and that I'm not always going to give perfect advice. But please, take it seriously. Take me seriously."

He nods. He knows what his flaws are—he is impatient, hotheaded, sometimes impulsive, and occasionally gets trapped inside the walls of his own anger and passion, where his mind goes hazy and wild until he wakes up from it and realizes that he has cut down twenty men by himself or punched a man's face into a bloody pulp.

Sansa is none of these things. She gets angry and passionate, but she holds those feelings inside her until she can do them justice with carefully controlled words. She is not impulsive, she is not hotheaded, and she has unexpectedly turned into one of the most patient people he knows. And the thought of her participating in any sort of violence makes him want to chuckle with its absurdity.

They sit there for a while, and he absently rubs his thumb over the back of her knuckles, lost in memories of their past. Finally she stands and slips her hand from his grasp. He misses its warmth. She leans down and pecks him quickly on the cheek, and then exits his quarters, the soft click of the door the only sound.

He is torn between relief at her departure, and longing to have her back. Angry at the turbulent emotions she always manages to stir in him, he stands abruptly, takes off his boots, strips down to his trousers, and wrings out the cloth in the washbasin to run it over his torso.

He stares down at his scars, remembering the night he got them. He chokes on his own breath as the sensation of cold steel suddenly sliding between his ribs overtakes him. He sits on the edge of the bed, leaning down to hold his head in his hands.

Belatedly, he wonders what Sansa would say if she were to see his shredded torso.

He laughs bitterly. What indeed? Would she feel pity, horror, fury? Would she be disgusted by them—appalled by how raw and fresh they look?

He decides it doesn't matter. She will never see him without clothing. He will not encourage this attraction she has for him; he struggles enough with his own. She is good at controlling her facial expressions, but her eyes and her body language are just as telling. And with time spent together in public, just as brother and sister, it will eventually fade.

That is what he tells himself, anyway. He only half believes it.

He stands once more, and finishes up with the cloth just as his door bursts open.

He whirls around, his hand going for the sword that isn't at his hip anymore. He only grasps air; Longclaw is propped up in the corner. But as he looks at his sister, his anxiety fades to a different kind.

Her face is flushed. "What's wrong?" he asks, alarmed.

She closes the door behind her, and his eyes flicker down to her hand as she turns the lock and slides the bolt so that they are locked in. Suddenly his heart beats a thousand times a second, and something evil slithers into his brain, prowling around the edges of his mind like some sort of foul, manipulative predator.

"Look me in the eye," she says, stalking towards him on bare feet. She stops in front of him. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me."

His eyes snap to hers in shock. His body trembles, and something forbidden tightens in his abdomen. His eyes rove her face, looking for any trace of trickery, deceit, jest. There is nothing but raw emotion, like something has scraped away at her soul until the bare bones beneath are revealed.

"I…" He swallows. It is the only noise he can make, the only word he can speak.

"If you don't," she continues softly, "then I'll walk away. I'll walk away, and bury my feelings for you under a thick layer of sisterly affection. I'll never bring it up again, never allow myself to show jealousy when you take another woman. I'll never touch you again." She exhales. "But I can spot a liar a mile away, Jon Snow," she warns lowly, "and you aren't particularly good at it."

He flushes from head to toe, the fire in the hearth suddenly too hot. He can do nothing but stare at her; his horror at the situation wars violently with the feelings he has for her, and before either side can win she takes things into her own hands and leans up to press her lips to his.

And just like that, his control is yanked on so hard that it snaps and rebounds, slamming into his body like a whip.

She tastes just like he remembers—lemon cakes and wine. Her lips open against his in the second it takes for him to reciprocate, and suddenly his tongue is tangling with hers, his lips sipping at her mouth, desperate to taste more of her. His hands go to her neck, slipping under the waterfall of her hair to cradle her jaw, and she is so soft, so sweet, so perfect—

When one of her cold, velvety hands brushes over one of his scars, the jolt back to reality is jarring.

He reels backwards, and looks at her in horror. He sits heavily down on the bed as she stands before him, chest heaving and lips reddened from the attentions of his mouth.

"We can't," he spits out harshly, rubbing the scar over his chest out of habit.

"We can," she says, her eyes hot with determination and desire.

"We shouldn't," he corrects, insistent. This is not proper. This is not natural.

Then why does it feel so right? Why does it feel so inevitable, so easy?

"No," she says softly. Her hands go to the laces of her dress; he can hear the pounding of his blood in his ears. "We shouldn't."

"Sansa," he says, his voice rough with desire and shame. "I…" He closes his eyes. "I don't want you," he lies, gritting his teeth.

To his surprise, he hears her huff out a laugh, and he opens his eyes. Any uncertainty or sweetness is gone from her expression. Her smile drips with disdain, and her eyes hold no shortage of mockery.

"I think the deal I offered was that you look me in the eye when you say it," she drawls scornfully, her eyes no longer soft with feeling. They are hard and hot with passion and anger and a penetrating sort of desire that frightens him. Then her eyes flicker down to his lap; he realizes, to his utter disgrace, that his cock is harder than it ever has been in his life. "I don't believe you."

She steps closer to him, sliding her dress and smallclothes down her shoulders, and he panics. "This is wrong," he croaks out, his breath coming in harsh pants when her dress and shift fall to the floor. He does not quite have the self-control to not look at her; he grips the fur blanket on his bed with both hands until his knuckles turn white.

"It feels right," she whispers reaching out to touch his shoulder. His muscles spasm, and his lips part when she trails a finger down to one of the scars on his stomach. "It feels good." Her eyes slide up to trap his gaze with her own. "We both deserve to have something that feels good."

He swallows, and closes his eyes in torment when she moves forward to straddle his lap, lithe and graceful and beautiful and terrible. Her hands go to his shoulders, and then, with an inexperience that makes him shudder in delight, she rolls her hips and grinds her sex against his outrageous erection.

His hands instinctively go to the small of her back, and his eyes shoot open. Her eyes are focused on his, blue and green and everything in between. Her pupils are blown wide, and her lips part when, against his better judgment, he urges her hips forward once more. She cries out when her clit bumps against his pubic bone, the soft fabric of his pants providing friction against her womanhood.

He kisses her again—the first time that he has initiated it. She responds feverishly, her nails scraping over his shoulder blades and neck just hard enough to cause brief discomfort. He nips her lips in response, his hands flexing around her hips as he continues to teach her how to move against him.

When his lips move down to her chest, she sucks in a breath. Her breasts sit high, topped with rosy nipples that have pebbled in the cool air and hardened with her desire. He draws one into his mouth and gently rolls it against his teeth. Her movements become jerky and unsteady, and suddenly he puts his arms around her and flips her onto her back.

Her breath comes out in a sigh, but she freezes when he drags his lips and tongue down her stomach. His hands go to the crooks of her legs, and he pulls her to the edge of the bed and sinks down onto his knees, desperate to see her, taste her, touch her. She trembles with uncertainty when he nudges her legs apart and rests her calves on his shoulders. She props herself up on her elbows, her brow drawn down in consternation, and opens her mouth to speak.

Her first word turns into a squeak when he leans forward to lick a stripe up her slit. He closes his eyes—it has been a very long time since he's tasted a woman like this. She is impossibly wet, the evidence of her desire smeared across her inner thighs and shining from her sparse auburn curls. He spreads her nether lips open with his fingers, locates the little bud at the top of her slit with his questing tongue, and pulls it into his mouth.

She is more responsive than he expects. Her hips shoot off the bed and her thighs clamp involuntarily around his head, making his ears ring. He chuckles—then remembers all the reasons why this isn't funny, and his free hand grips her thigh a little harder than necessary. Still, the thought of the wrongness of what he is doing doesn't affect his actions in the least: he has lost himself within her, and knows that nothing short of a fire-breathing dragon will tear his lips away from her now. The state of his cock doesn't change, either—it strains against his pants, painful with how hard it is.

He will guarantee her fulfillment, at least. He refuses to use anything but his tongue to pleasure her. If his pants come off, it will be a disaster; with his luck, he would get her with child and everything would come crashing down around them.

It is a sobering thought.

It would be cruel to stop now, though—not when she is so close. Her legs start to tremble, and her fingers come down to knot in his hair, uncertain of whether to tug him forward or push him away. He ignores the light sting of his scalp. He has done this many times before. It is obvious that she has not. He is patient. He works her over with steady ministrations, pleased when her little whimpers turn into breathy moans.

He knows she is nearly there when one of her hands scrabbles at the fur blanket and the other tightens in his unbound hair. Her legs shake even more, and her hips shift, lifting off the bed when he intensifies his attentions.

Then she groans in rapture, squeezing her eyes shut and drawing her knees up to rest her feet on his shoulders as she flies apart. He works through her orgasm with gentle flicks of his tongue. Her juices are spread messily across his mouth and chin, and his jaw aches, but he would do it a thousand times over if only to see the look of ecstasy on her face.

But he will not do it a thousand times over. He will never do it again.

His body aches with the need for release, and no matter how many deep breaths he takes he cannot get his arousal to fade. He stands; his right knee pops as it has always done since he'd injured it at Craster's Keep.

Regretfully, he runs a hand over her heaving stomach, his rough fingers tracing over her milk-white skin. Despite the small white scars that litter her body, she is still as perfect as any woman has a right to be. And she has regained some of her pride—she stands taller, walks with purpose, meets any man's gaze no matter the situation. And she does not move to cover herself as she comes back down to earth. She feels no shame for their actions.

Lucky her.

"You regret it," she says suddenly, her voice hoarse. She opens her eyes to look at him, and he gets caught in her stare, as he is wont to do.

"Of course I do," he says, turning his anger inwards. Even anger can't tamp down his desire, apparently. He turns and goes over to the washbasin, grabbing the cloth and running it over his face.

"Why?" she asks. She sits up, her movements languid and graceful. Then she stands, and he averts his eyes. She walks over to him, and he has nowhere to escape to, nowhere to go where he can avoid her sultry stare.

When she gets to him, she puts her hands on his chest. He shudders, and forces himself to meet her gaze. He lifts his hands to cup her face, his heart twisting painfully inside his chest.

"This is an illness, Sansa," he murmurs hoarsely. "We're sick with it; like Jaime and Cersei. It has to stop."

She sucks in a breath. "We're not like them," she counters firmly.

"How?" he asks impatiently, smoothing his thumbs over her temples. "How are we not like them?"

"We're sane, for starters," Sansa snaps, her nostrils flaring and her eyes alight with ire and hunger. "And we aren't twins—we don't even share a mother."

He looks at her incredulously. "Alright," he says, his voice rising with his frustration. "Say we continue with this. What happens when somebody finds out? What happens when you get pregnant, and don't have a husband to explain it away, like Cersei had with Robert? We will lose everything, Sansa." He shivers when she brings her hands lower, her fingers playing around his navel. "I can't hide the way I feel about you," he says lowly. "I can't hide the way I look at you. Someone will figure it out, if they haven't already. Ser Davos sometimes casts me strange looks."

"Ser Davos would never betray us by running his mouth," she says. She leans forward, and brushes her lips across his cheek. "Brienne would never betray us by running her mouth. Edd would never betray us by running his mouth. And Tormund would never betray us by running his mouth—and wildlings don't care much about this stuff anyway, you've said so yourself."

His nostrils flare; she has a point. He wants it to be good enough; wants to be able to accept her words, wants to be able to come to her every night and lay her out naked on the bed and let her take her pleasure from his body—and let himself take his pleasure from hers.

But it is not that easy.

"And what about contraception?" he asks softly.

"Moon tea," she says hurriedly, her hands fluttering dangerously close to the laces of his trousers.

"And who is going to brew this moon tea for you?" he asks harshly. "Eventually someone will talk."

"I'll brew it myself," she says haughtily. "We have all the herbs we need in the greenhouses. I saw Maester Luwin brew it a thousand times for the women here—girls who'd accidentally gotten themselves in trouble. I know how to make it."

He catches her hands in his own, and closes his eyes. "I can't, Sansa. I just can't."

"You won't," she corrects, the coolness of her tone hiding the sadness beneath. He almost doesn't catch it.

"It's wrong!" he says, raising his voice in anger. "Seven hells, woman, it's just wrong!"

She nods, and moves away from him, reaching for her clothing. "Yes," she confirms quietly. "It is."

She bends to pull her dress up her body, and his eyes linger on her backside, his cock still straining within the confines of his trousers. Then she turns.

"It is wrong," she says. "But what is another wrong thing, in a wrong world? What's one wickedness compared to the filth of all the terrible people on this continent?"

She pauses. She swallows, and suddenly she looks vulnerable. "I've never felt any sort of bodily pleasure before you," she whispers. He stiffens, the reality of her statement rigging true. "At least now I know."

He closes his eyes, suddenly feeling guilty in a different way. He feels her lips brush ever so softly against his; he trembles, but does not kiss her back.

"Goodnight, Jon," she says quietly. Then he hears her cross the room, and the door clicks shut behind her.

He stands there with his eyes closed for some time. Eventually he strips off the rest of his clothes, his movements jerky and uncontrolled, and wraps his hand around his cock in a strangling grip. He takes care of his problem quickly.

He thinks about her as he does it.

Afterwards, he finally lies down on the bed. His shame settles on top of his body just as surely as a blanket would. Sansa's naked form flashes irritatingly behind his eyelids.

What is another wrong thing, in a wrong world? What's one wickedness compared to the filth of all the terrible people on this continent?

Her parting words torment his mind—slide around in his head like poison. He lies there for hours, staring up at the ceiling, wishing she were there next to him.

Finally, he sleeps, and his dreams are dark with evil things: things that haunt him from beyond the grave.

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So? What do you think? Please review! Things get even steamier in the next chapter.

Thanks for reading!

Giraffe :)