Sansa had no memory of falling asleep. No dreams invaded her memories, only a cocoon of warmth, a blanket of comfort, and reassuring a sense of safety. As she emerged from the morning haze of sleep, she found herself nestled amidst furs, a normal sensation. What struck her as peculiar was the firm embrace enveloping her body. Her cheek pressed against a solid linen surface, and a faint hint of lavender filled her senses.
Delving into the recesses of her mind, Sansa attempted to piece together the events of the previous night. Jon was the focal point. They had engaged in a heated argument, teetering on the brink of a kiss—though Sansa couldn't discern Jon's desires, she sensed a mutual sentiment. Following that, she had tended to Jon's wounds with the poultice. Then, a void, a black hole swallowing her memories whole.
Even with her eyes shut tight, Sansa sensed the weight of the apron draped over her form, a lingering reminder of her care for Jon. And now, a sudden surge of warmth enveloped her. How had she failed to register Jon's body heat before? A perplexing thought lingered.
"Sansa..." Jon's voice, laden with sleep, broke the silence.
Sansa's gaze lifted, her stomach churning at the sight of his striking countenance as he stirred. His dark lashes, fanning his cheeks, fluttered with awakening.
"Jon?" Sansa's voice escaped in a whisper.
Jon's eyes parted, registering surprise at her presence. She half-expected him to release her, yet his hold only tightened, drawing her nearer as he rested his cheek against her head.
"What are you doing here?" His words were muffled against her.
"I think the poultice affected me too," she murmured. "Mm, this is nice." She enveloped him in her embrace, her arm encircling his frame.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Jon protested. "It's not right."
Sansa withdrew, meeting his gaze. "But it feels right." Her leg intertwined with his, a primal impulse guiding her actions beyond rational restraint.
Jon's forehead pressed against hers, their bodies aligning. Sansa could sense his response to her, though she understood that morning arousal was commonplace for men. Yet, the mere awareness of his desire ignited her own. Jon emitted a sound—a mixture of longing and conflict, its meaning elusive to Sansa.
Her gaze descended to Jon's lips, obscured by his dark beard. She recognized his struggle for self-control, a battle to uphold her honour even as he grappled with his own. Such concerns did not burden Sansa. Their lips brushed, but Jon hesitated.
"We can't," he insisted. "It's not right. You're my sister."
"Half-sister," Sansa corrected with a wry grin. "Since when has that stopped a Targaryen?" she quipped.
If Sansa wished to advance their intimacy, she realised it was a misstep, those were not the words Jon needed to hear. With haste, he disentangled himself from her and rose from the bed to attend to his needs at the chamberpot.
"What's your excuse?" Jon's tone carried bitterness, remnants of their previous night's conversation lingering in his mind. "Remember, you're the one who wants to marry that fucking snake. What use do you have for me? Practice?" Sansa hurried toward him, halting just shy of reaching him, her initial embarrassment fading in the wake of their pressing concerns. Was he taunting her? Sansa pondered, though Jon's back remained turned as he relieved himself. This moment felt as intimate as their shared moments in bed. It wasn't proper, but neither was her response, and Jon was aware of it. Instead of acting as a brother, he behaved as a husband.
His words stung, undeniably so. Yet, she needed to react; she'd seen the reports. The situation was dire. If she had to sacrifice her dignity for the North's survival, then so be it. Sansa believed Jon would understand. After all, he'd made similar sacrifices with Ygritte and the Watch.
"We require resources. We need a strategy to strip Littlefinger of everything he possesses. Becoming his widow is the only avenue through which I can gain access to his holdings," Sansa explained.
Jon adjusted his attire, facing Sansa. "But have you considered the repercussions? Marrying him and orchestrating his demise the next day would raise suspicions. You can't simply have him executed. Have you contemplated the consequences? The moment you wed, he becomes Lord of Winterfell, and I would be rendered expendable. Is that what you want?" he asked.
"Of course it isn't," Sansa retorted. "Do you think I want him in my bed?" She approached Jon with caution. "I want you, and only you," her voice softened. "I've never experienced desire, not like this."
"What about Joffrey?" Jon arched an eyebrow.
Sansa scoffed. "I was thirteen and infatuated with the idea of love. Joffrey was a prince, and I was foolish. I had no grasp of what love or desire entailed. But now, I understand."
"You believe what we share is love?" Jon inquired. "We've only been reunited for a few days. Can love blossom with such speed?" His words masked his sentiments. Jon sensed a deeper connection between them, but he harboured doubts about external influences. Unsure whether to divulge his suspicions to Sansa, he sought her perspective.
"I don't know," Sansa admitted.
"I believe I do," Jon confessed. Sansa furrowed her brow, her expression clouded with confusion. "When I reflect on the dreams I had while I was dead, and some since then, along with what Melisandre told me, I suspect there are other forces at play, pushing us together for some unknown purpose."
Sansa scoffed. "You mean magic?" Jon nodded in agreement. "So you think all of this is orchestrated?" She felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
"I don't bloody know," Jon admitted with a frustrated shake of his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It all seems too sudden, doesn't it?"
Sansa nodded in acknowledgement of his point. Jon wasn't the only one plagued by peculiar dreams. She pondered if they shared similar visions. "I too had dreams about you, not just of your demise," she confessed, her cheeks flushing pink.
"What sort of dreams?" Jon inquired.
"Ones I prefer not to divulge," Sansa replied.
Jon suppressed a smile, sensing the unspoken message conveyed by Sansa's words. Yet, he remained intrigued to discover if their experiences aligned. If indeed the gods were orchestrating their union, a shared dream held significance. "Was it in the Godswood on the night of my return?" he inquired.
Sansa's blue eyes widened in surprise. "How did you know?" she asked.
"I suspect we might have shared the same vision," Jon responded. "Were we engaging in activities we shouldn't, beneath the heart tree?"
A wave of shame washed over her. As a Lady, it was deemed improper to have dreams of such nature, let alone admit to them. Despite the intimacy they had shared in bed, this intrusion felt like a violation of her privacy. Unable to bear the conversation any longer, Sansa made a hasty retreat.
"I must go," she uttered, her voice strained with embarrassment. "Ask Maester Medrick to tend to your wounds." Swallowing hard, she fled the room through the concealed door, her cheeks burning with shame. Sansa shed her apron, pulled her boots on, retrieved her cloak, and hastily departed her chambers, leaving before Jon could attempt to follow her.
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Sansa felt the sting of Jon's words, yet she grasped his intent. By sparking argument, anger, and hurt, by causing her embarrassment, he sought to curb their burgeoning desires. He aimed to halt them from venturing further down a perilous path. Sansa had played into his hands as he'd intended, but she understood it was a fleeting victory. Deep down, she knew that the forbidden dream they shared beneath the heart tree was to become a reality, and so did Jon. This dispute was but a reprieve from an inevitable fate.
Unable to apply Jon's poultice, Sansa made her way to the Maester's tower in search of Maester Medrick. She rapped on the door of his chamber, but received no response, though she could swear she heard movement within. Knocking once more yielded only silence, leaving Sansa with the uneasy feeling that the occupant wasn't supposed to be there.
Gods, she wished she could warg into a bird. Jon had explained what she needed to do, and there had been a few unsuccessful attempts at merging with Grace, but Sansa had hesitated, fearing for the fledgling bird. Now she desperately needed that skill. She knew what was required; it was just a matter of finding a willing creature.
Half a dozen steps separated her from the tower's exit. If only there were a bird perched on one of the nearby trees, she could attempt to glimpse through its eyes, spying on the room's intruder. However, such a need didn't arise. On the ground below, a scrawny pigeon pecked at scattered crumbs.
Unable to warg into the bird from the middle of the doorway, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief as she noticed a small waiting area opposite Maester Medrick's solar—a concealed alcove where she could attempt to see through the pigeon's eyes. She assured herself it wouldn't take long; she needed to identify the room's occupant.
Creeping over to the alcove, Sansa settled onto the cold stone seat. She focused on the tiny grey pigeon, envisioning herself as the one scavenging for food. For a fleeting moment, the sensation felt real, sending a rush of excitement through her. However, her sudden enthusiasm seemed to startle the bird, leaving her still seated on the chilly stone without having gathered a single morsel.
Once more, Sansa immersed herself in the pigeon's mind. This time, the transition was swift; it was Sansa herself pecking at the ground for sustenance. Stretching her wings, she soared toward her motionless form. Flying felt natural, and exhilarating. As she gazed upon her own slumped figure against the wall, eyes white and vacant, the sign of a skin-changer in the body of another, she understood all she needed to know—save for the urgency of her task.
With wings outstretched once more, she ascended to the window of Maester Medrick's solar and alighted on the stone ledge. Peering inside, she observed not one, but two figures rifling through the room's documents: Maester Henly and Littlefinger.
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Jon was overcome with shock and self-revulsion. He had pushed Sansa away in the cruellest manner, not to punish her but to punish himself. Yet, all he had achieved was inflicting pain upon Sansa and burdening himself with guilt. While his Targaryen lineage might offer some explanation for his unbrotherly conduct, unless it was divinely ordained, he couldn't comprehend why Sansa would reciprocate his feelings.
Sinking into a seat, Jon buried his face in his hands. He had made a grave mistake, one that needed rectifying. Perhaps if the dreams held significance, they should heed them and discover what the gods intended along the way. However, for now, Jon needed to apologise for his foolishness.
Once attired, he draped his cloak around his shoulders and ventured outside in search of Sansa. His initial instinct was to seek her in the Godswood, but considering their recent discussion about the dream, he realised it would be the last place she would go. The crypts presented another option, yet he knew she wouldn't seek solace there; contemplating intimate relations with her brother was not a conversation to have amidst the statues of their ancestors. That left only the Sept or the glass gardens.
Jon headed for the glass gardens, knowing it was a place Sansa cherished and would seek refuge in, having abandoned her faith. He couldn't blame her; religion had failed her. Crossing the courtyard, just before passing through the gate, Ghost approached him, nudging his midriff.
"What do you need, boy?" Jon inquired.
Ghost turned and trotted back through the courtyard, stopping outside the burned library tower. With his intense red eyes fixed on Jon, Ghost was urging him to follow. Whatever it was, Jon sighed, knowing Ghost wouldn't lead him astray unless it was important.
With quickened steps, Jon followed Ghost, who seemed to guide him towards the Maester's Turret. Although Jon hadn't considered looking there for Sansa, she might inform Maester Medrick that she wouldn't be treating Jon again.
Ghost halted, allowing Jon to enter the maester's turret. As he stepped inside, he almost stumbled over something. Looking down, he spotted a boot he recognized as Sansa's. Panic surged through him as he turned to find Sansa slumped against the wall, her eyes glazed over.
"Shit," Jon cursed under his breath, realising she was warging, but uncertain of what animal. He needed to conceal her until he could figure it out. Leaving her exposed would risk scandal if she were discovered.
"Ghost," Jon whispered, calling out to the white direwolf. Almost instantly, Ghost appeared. "Where's Sansa?" Jon inquired.
Ghost glanced toward Sansa's motionless form before padding around the corner. Jon followed, and as Ghost looked up, Jon's confusion turned to realization as he spotted a pigeon fixated on what would be Maester Medrick's window.
Ensuring the coast was clear, Jon called out, "Sansa," his voice as loud as he dared, but the bird remained absorbed in its surveillance, confirming Sansa's presence as the scrawny grey pigeon. "Sansa," he called again, this time a little louder.
For a moment, the pigeon regarded him before taking flight. Jon hurried back to the entrance, scooping Sansa into his arms just as she stirred from her warging experience. Jon understood warging could be draining, especially for a novice. He knew she'd be exhausted.
With Sansa in his arms, Jon made his way back to the courtyard.
"Jon, what's happening?" Sansa inquired her expression a mix of confusion and concern.
"I'm taking you back to your chambers. If anyone asks, you slipped and twisted your ankle," Jon responded his tone firm yet laced with understanding.
"Put me down!" Sansa snapped, though Jon couldn't help but suppress a chuckle, knowing her well enough to find it amusing.
Jon obliged, lowering her gently to the ground. "We need to talk, and you might feel..." His words were cut off as Sansa almost lost her balance, but he steadied her just in time. "Dizzy," he finished.
"I don't want to go back to the castle," Sansa protested. "I want to find somewhere private where we can talk."
"One of the glass gardens has been repaired. Shall we inspect it?" Jon suggested, extending his arm for support. "I'll make sure you stay steady."
Sansa looped her arm through his. "Thank you," she whispered. "Sorry for snapping. I don't know what came over me."
"Apart from being angry at me for being an arse?" Jon quipped as they strolled towards the glass gardens. Sansa playfully slapped his arm in response. "First time warging, it happens," Jon explained. "You absorb the mood of the creature you inhabit. Poor thing must have been feeling grumpy."
"Hungry, more like," Sansa yawned, feeling the weight of fatigue settling over her.
"When a wild animal is hungry, they're often grumpy. It's best to warg into one that's well-fed," Jon advised. "We can discuss further in the gardens. Ghost can stand guard, and we'll have privacy—unless a snake is slithering about."
"He's not. I'll fill you in once we're there," Sansa assured him, though their progress was slow as she struggled to maintain her balance. Ghost dashed ahead to ensure the glass gardens were empty.