It was the morning after the first hard freeze of the Winter. The cold was so harsh and unforgiving, even Jon could hardly be tempted out of bed, and he was usually the first up. But it was Sansa that woke up first, when the late morning had broke well across their bed, spilling the sunlight as it went.
She rolled over, peeking over Jon, who snored softly, laying on his own bicep.
"Lord Stark..." she sang in a delicate voice. "It's time to get up, my love."
He groaned, and rolled, pressing his face into the pillow.
She ran her warm hand across his shoulders, down his spine, and up his waist and ribs. She paused to press her palm firmly against his belly, always marveling at the hard muscle there.
"Not the way to convince me to wake up." he sighed.
"Are you feeling alright?" she asked as he rolled onto his back, looking up at her.
"I'm fine. Just slept so much, it was so cold, and so warm in here." he said, reaching for her waist.
She lowered down slowly, sliding next to him closer. When she was mere inches away from his nose, she smiled brightly, suddenly.
"What?" he asked.
"Just waking up beside you. Being the only one who gets to see you, first thing in the morning." she said. "The King in the North."
"No king without his queen, Lady Stark." he said. "And what of me? You don't think I'm happy being the one man who truly...truly gets to sleep beside the legendary beauty that is Sansa Stark."
"Legendary beauty?" she giggled. "Says who?"
"Says anybody who knows what's good for them." he said, half smiling. "Because anyone who says differently is treasonous against House Stark."
She laughed, and leaned down, kissing him. She marveled, always, at what soft lips he had, so delicate and luxuriously inviting and warm. And the dark curls just above and below, just as soft as silk, contrasted usually by his rough fingers playing somewhere on her skin.
"Up." she said, quite dangerously. He grinned, and leaned back, about to kiss her again.
There was a bang on the door, loud and sudden. They both jumped, and then Jon carefully but quickly moved Sansa to the side and stood, grabbing a fur to cover himself with. Sansa pulled the blankets to her chest.
"What?" Jon shouted hoarsely.
"M'lord, I'm sorry, but Lord Baelish is insisting you are awoken to audience with him."
Jon whipped the door open, and Sansa squealed at the sudden burst of freezing air.
"Would you send him my apologies..." Jon began, but Sansa interrupted him.
"Tell him Lord Stark was busy making heirs for his castle, with the Lady of the house." she called.
"Sansa." Jon shot her a look, but the page was already gone. He shut the door, and crossed the room. He opened his wardrobe to pull out some clothes, carefully choosing from the handsome shirts Sansa continually presented him.
"If that page knows what's good for himself and this castle..." Jon began. "He would ignore your order, m'lady."
"I'd rather he didn't." Sansa admitted. "I'd rather walk in to see Littlefinger pink with rage, meaning to challenge us and then getting so flustered he...I don't know...rolls over and dies or something."
Jon grinned.
"Are you going to get dressed?" he asked.
"I am." she sighed. She crossed the room to the trunk on the other side, walking with her arms crossed, shivering in the cold. She found a dark grey fur dress, with sleeves and a bowed neckline. She paired it with her handsome white leather cloak, with the heavy hood that contrasted so well with her fiery hair. That hair color she used to hide, that obviously so reminded Littlefinger of her mother. Now she let her waves loose, proudly flaunting it.
"Ready?" Jon asked as she finished lacing up her boots. She stood, and he looked at her with eyes aglow in wonder.
"No wonder he envisioned you with him on the Iron Throne." Jon whispered. "You look as though you belong there."
"We both do." she said, looking up and down his dark green Stark tunic, and heavy brown cloak, made of magnificent furs, something Ned had left behind when he went to the warmer south. His hair was pulled back, and Sansa felt weak all over again meeting his determined gaze.
She took his hand, and together they walked outside.
At the head of the throne room, Sansa and Jon looked down at Petyr with near exact expressions of dislike.
"Such...happy congratulations to the newlyweds, I should say." Petry was saying, in a dark tone. "And was it half of all children born from incest go mad? Isn't that what they say?"
"If you are here to insult us, Petyr..." Sansa warned, although she was also taken back by this blatant attack.
"I'm here to bargain with you, to assure your house remains...as strong as it deserves." Petyr said slowly.
"We're clearly quite ahead of that." Jon said, looking at Sansa. "So please, enlighten us."
"In exchange for 100,000 troops, house Arryn would request a suitable heir for Lord Robin Arryn."
"Arya isn't a bargaining piece, I'm afraid." Sansa hissed.
"Arya?" Littlefinger asked, his brows shooting up. "Your sister returned?"
Sansa looked at Jon in panic. She realized, this wasn't a known fact, but had only assumed since he knew of the wedding, he knew of Arya too. Now, she'd given something away.
"I know a few people who would pay an incredible price for Arya Stark-" Petyr began.
"Guards!" Jon shouted, and the doors burst open. Littlefinger was swarmed, and captured.
"Jon, wait-" Sansa began, but he held up his hand to her.
"Get him out of our sight. If any man comes in before me to threaten a Stark again, I'll have him hung." he demanded.
"Jon!" Sansa tried again, reaching for him. She knew as well as any, Littlefinger was a dangerous enemy to have. And if he wanted to harm Arya, now, he could. He had ways, secret ways.
The guards led Petyr out, and into the snow. The hall doors slammed shut.
"Jon." Sansa growled. "You know we needed him as an ally."
"No." he said firmly, his teeth clenched. "I will not standby and let some man dangle threats over our heads, forcing us to do his bidding."
"Arya could be in danger, Jon." Sansa cried. "He could gain forces in the South and come back, harder than before. Destroy us."
"He won't." he said softly. "He wouldn't do that, not to the woman he loves. After he destroys our home, kills me, takes Winterfell for himself, you would go with him willingly? He wants you, and he's going to keep fighting for you."
"You want me to use that? His feelings for me?" she asked. "Dangle myself? Because he wants to fuck me?"
"Sansa-" Jon started, realizing what he'd said. But she stood, storming from the room.
She hid herself away in the library, where Maester Elryn didn't mind her escaping to. There was one corner, near the hearth, where when she truly wanted to be alone, she would embroider or read or write letters.
She sat on a pillow, scribbling furiously onto a parchment. She wrote a long letter, one begging for forgiveness. Apologizing for Jon's behavior, for the claim he has on her, now. Offering every apology and promise she could. When she was finished, she read it over a few times.
She gathered the letter in her breast, and rushed from the small library.
"Have a good evening, m'lady." Maester Elryn said humbly to her as she rushed past him.
She rushed through the freezing courtyard, and into the far hall, and pushed into Jon's study without knocking. Inside, there was a huddle of guardsmen.
"Leave us." she ordered. The guards gave Jon a wary look, and then stood, and all quickly left without a word.
"Here." she said, slamming the letter on the desk. "For you."
"What is this?" he asked, reading the letter over. He stopped after a few lines. "You want to apologize to Baelish for me?"
"It's what he would want me to do." she said calmly. "And if you want to use me, to control Littlefinger, I'm giving you that option."
He read it again, and then crumpled it. He stood, and threw it in the flames behind him. He returned to his chair. Sansa stared at him blankly.
"You're not my bargaining tool." he said. "And I'll never see you that way again."
She blinked, surprised at his response.
"Thank you." she said quietly. "I'm not giving any piece of myself up, not anymore."
"I should have never even thought of it." he said. He reached for her hand. "We will figure this out, my love. Another way."
"Another way, then." she said, satisfied.