Sometimes, it proved prudent to station spies in unconventional locales. Petyr had shown foresight by embedding a few of his girls in the Moles Town brothel. Yet, no word had reached him regarding the Bastard's fate. What good were spies who failed to fulfil their duties? Brushing aside the frustration, he resolved to repurpose them for other endeavours. He knew of several Lords with peculiar inclinations who would pay handsomely to indulge in their fantasies.
The arrival of the Bastard had thrown Petyr into a quandary. His forte was knowledge, yet here he faced someone of whom he knew little. Of course, he was aware of Cat's disdain for the boy—indeed; it was common knowledge throughout Westeros. Apart from that, Jon Snow seemed to have no secrets.
As far as the realm was concerned, Ned had allegedly strayed weeks after marrying Cat, fathering a bastard with a mystery woman. Upon returning from war with the motherless boy from the south, Ned had provided him with a Lord's education and eventually sent him to the Night's Watch. Within three years, and at the tender age of twenty, he had ascended to the position of Lord Commander, despite breaking his vows with a wildling woman. Petyr suspected the Bastard would keep that particular piece of information from his sister. In addition, the Bastard had allowed wildlings south of the Wall, with the aid of Stannis Baratheon, if Petyr's spies were to be believed. And for this, he had been murdered.
The logical course of action would be to label the boy a deserter, have him executed, and be done with it. However, it seemed Sansa was not as dismissive of the Bastard. In fact, despite never mentioning him, she appeared to be protective of him. This added complexity to Petyr's plans, it required a different approach.
First of all, Petyr knew he had to prove putting the boy on trial was in Sansa's and the North's best interests. While he doubted the Bastard had returned from the dead, he would allow him the opportunity to prove himself. After all, Ned Stark would not afford deserters such a privilege.
In the event that the Bastard's claims proved true, Petyr understood the need to address the wildling situation. Already a contentious issue in the North. It might be advantageous to keep the Bastard around for a few days, especially as he knew the wildlings were en route to Winterfell. Their inevitable actions were likely to provoke a reaction, with the potential result of the Bastard's demise as a traitor.
However, Petyr realised he required an alternative strategy. The Bastard's swift rise suggested he possessed considerable influence—a fact Petyr had observed first-hand. Jon Snow was not a man to be underestimated. Whichever path Petyr chose, he needed to ensure Sansa's backing. Above all, he needed her trust. While gaining the Bastard's trust would be advantageous, Petyr recognized it as an unlikely prospect. If the Bastard had indeed returned from the dead, trust would be a scarce commodity for him. Although the Bastard had not explicitly stated he had been resurrected, he had alluded to this reality.
Thus, Petyr devised a plan to earn the Bastard's trust. It would demand patience and time, but the potential payoff was immense. By gaining the Bastard's confidence and proving his usefulness to Sansa, Petyr could simultaneously sow discord between the siblings. A subtle reminder to Sansa of who Jon truly was.
Petyr resolved to uncover the mystery of the Bastard's mother and exploit it to his advantage. If his plans unfolded as intended, the Bastard would inevitably seek his mother's family, leaving Petyr and Sansa to their own devices. Particularly intriguing was Petyr's suspicion that Jon's mother hailed from a highborn lineage. Cat had once confided in him her own suspicions regarding Jon's parentage. According to her, Jon's mother was none other than the incredibly beautiful and tragically fated Ashara Dayne. Ashara was the sister of the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne, who met his end at Ned's hands in Dorne.
Petyr put quill and ink to parchment and started writing.
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As the night enveloped them, their conversation continued. Another servant arrived, bearing a steaming pot of hearty stew accompanied by crusty bread. By the hour when shadows danced like ghosts, Sansa had recounted her tumultuous journey from King's Landing to the safety of the Vale. Yet, amidst her narrative, she halted, needing to allow Jon a moment to collect himself after hearing the harrowing trials she had endured.
"Jon, please," Sansa implored gently, sensing his turmoil.
Jon rose from his seat, pacing before the hearth with restless energy. "You were but a child. Father should never have exposed you to such danger. Robb should have done more," he muttered, his hand rubbing wearily across his face. "I should have done more."
Moved by his distress, Sansa stood and reached for his hand, offering silent solace. "Your life is of greater value to me than vengeance," she assured him. "And now, with Winterfell reclaimed, we have the chance to build anew."
"I still want to exact justice upon Theon," Jon confessed through gritted teeth. "For his betrayal of Robb..."
Sansa's gaze softened with understanding. "We cannot undo the past, Jon. What's done is done. We both carry burdens of guilt, but we mustn't allow them to consume us. We must stand united as a pack, sharing our darkest secrets and vulnerabilities. Only then can we withstand the treacheries of those like Lord Baelish, whose whispers seek to poison our minds and exploit our weaknesses."
With a heavy heart, Sansa knew she must confront her own past misdeeds, starting with the letter she had penned to Robb. Unable to voice her confession, she silently retreated to her vanity table, where quill, ink, and parchment awaited. There, she painstakingly transcribed the words, a tangible reminder of her past mistakes and the resolve to confront them head-on.
Robb,
I write to you with a heavy heart. King Robert is dead, killed by a boar. Father has been charged with treason. He conspired against my beloved Joffrey and tried to steal his throne. The Lannisters are treating me well. Come to King's Landing, swear fealty to King Joffrey and prevent any strife between houses Lannister and Stark.
Sansa extended the letter to Jon, her hands trembling slightly as she relinquished the damning parchment. "It's not an exact reproduction of my words, but it captures the essence," she murmured, her head sinking into her palms, anticipation thick in the air as she awaited Jon's response.
"You wrote this?" Jon's voice held a mixture of surprise and concern.
"Something along those lines," Sansa confessed, her tone tinged with regret.
"Were you coerced?" Jon's hand found its way to her back, a comforting gesture amidst the turmoil of emotions. Sansa lifted her gaze to meet his, nodding slowly.
"But not in the way you might think," she explained with a bitter laugh. "I believed I was in love with Joffrey, and he with me. Cersei assured me of it." Disdain coloured her words as she reflected on her past naivety. "Gods, I was a fool. Selfish and blinded by the allure of marrying my handsome Prince Joffrey."
Jon's voice softened with understanding as he probed gently, "Would it have made a difference if you hadn't loved Joffrey?"
Confusion clouded Sansa's features as she considered his question. "What do you mean?"
His hand remained steady on her back as he continued, "Could you have refused? And if you did, what consequences would you have faced?"
Sansa drew a steadying breath, locking eyes with Jon's unwavering gaze. "I'm uncertain," she admitted quietly. "Perhaps I would have been wed to Ramsay."
"Yet even then," Jon interjected, his voice firm yet reassuring, "Father would have met the same fate, and Robb's actions might not have changed. In a way, you preserved House Stark."
A flicker of hope illuminated Sansa's eyes as Jon's smile broke through the darkness, his scarred face crinkling with warmth. "I have an idea," he proposed, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Let's turn this into a game, a drinking game. Who harbours the darkest secret?"
A playful grin tugged at Sansa's lips as she arched an eyebrow. "Do you become an angry drunk, Jon Snow?" she teased, the weight of their conversation lifted by the prospect of light-hearted revelry.
Jon paused, considering Sansa's proposition with careful deliberation. In truth, he had only on occasion, found himself inebriated. Maintaining vigilance had been paramount, especially since leaving Winterfell. The few instances he recalled veering too close to excess had involved Tormund and their peculiar brew of sour goat's milk—a concoction whose after-effects he could never quite recollect, save for the inevitable headache and often a disturbing proximity to vomit.
"I'm not sure," Jon admitted, his brow furrowing in contemplation. "Is there cause for me to become angry?"
Sansa fretted, worrying her bottom lip before nodding. "It's not my own actions, but rather my associations," she clarified.
Arching an eyebrow, Jon probed further. "Such as?"
"Like my involvement in Aunt Lysa's death," Sansa confessed, her gaze drifting downward in shame.
"But I thought you said Littlefinger was responsible," Jon interjected, confusion etching his features.
"He orchestrated it to protect me. Blamed it on a singer. I sided with Littlefinger, supported his deception..." Sansa trailed off, her admission heavy with remorse.
"That wasn't honourable," Jon observed, his words blunt.
"I know," Sansa conceded, taking a sip of her wine.
"Fuck honour, I say," Jon swore, surprising Sansa with his sudden vulgarity.
"I've never heard you curse before," Sansa remarked, her voice tinged with amusement.
"When you live amongst the Free Folk and on the Wall, it becomes a rather common occurrence," Jon admitted, downing a gulp of his ale as Sansa chuckled.
"This is unfair. You're drinking ale, while I'm stuck with wine. I'll be unconscious before you even feel a buzz," Sansa complained, although it was half-hearted.
"Not if you're sipping watered-down wine like that," Jon countered, nodding toward the bottle of Dornish red on the table.
Sansa bristled, a hint of offence in her tone. "And how would you know it's watered down?" she challenged.
"Because you're a soldier," Jon asserted, his tone firm. "You may not wield a blade, but your mind is a weapon. Vigilance is your shield. People are more inclined to speak without concern, if they believe you're too inebriated to comprehend their words. Am I correct?" he inquired, his gaze penetrating.
"You're astute, Lord Jon," Sansa remarked, though her jest was met with a serious response from Jon.
"Bastards learn to be observant," he explained matter-of-factly. "During my days of brooding, I honed my skills of observation."
"Excellent," Sansa praised. "Those skills will serve you well."
Their conversation stretched into the night, lasting for hours until fatigue and the effects of their libations weighed upon them. Despite the wine being diluted and the ale relatively mild, both found themselves somewhat intoxicated, their inhibitions loosened by the shared intimacy of their revelations.
Their confessions ranged from their deepest desires to humorous anecdotes, yet many were tinged with the sombre reality of lives lost. However, there was one topic deemed too private for discussion—their physical intimacies. Aware of each other's experiences in that realm, they understood such details were unnecessary for the purpose of their confessions. Their aim was mutual protection, fortifying themselves against the machinations of Littlefinger. With careful planning, they could even allow him to believe he held the upper hand. And with the secret passage as their ace in the hole, they possessed the means to execute their schemes with discretion and cunning.
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The morning after, Jon's head throbbed only a little. Despite indulging in plenty of drink the night before, the diluted wine and mild ale spared him from a true hangover. As he lay in bed, he reflected on their lengthy conversation.
Never in his wildest imaginings had Jon pictured himself as a role model for Sansa Stark. Yet, he understood why she looked to him, acknowledging him as the closest thing she had to a saviour. It was a moment that touched him.
While Sansa could never grasp the nuances of bastardy, her time disguised as one had granted her a glimpse into Jon's world. She confided in him that the experience forced her to mature—a revelation that resonated with Jon.
Did Jon trust Sansa? Almost, he concluded. He believed she harboured no ill will toward him, yet he couldn't dismiss the possibility of inadvertent missteps. That was why he guarded certain truths, like his suspicion regarding the Mad King's lineage and the cryptic visions he'd experienced.
Some secrets should be shared, but others, Jon knew, were best kept hidden—for now, at least.
When Jon recounted his conversation with Melisandre to Sansa, he omitted one crucial detail: the Red Woman's cryptic vision of a girl waiting for her king. He had dismissed it as frivolous, assuming it pertained to Arya. However, upon realising that Melisandre must have meant Sansa, Jon found himself even more perplexed by its significance. He entertained several theories. Perhaps "king" was a metaphor for something else—maybe he would serve as a military leader for Sansa, or she was plotting to rally support for him to become King in the North, akin to Robb's reign.
The latter notion would have seemed absurd to Jon during his journey to Winterfell. Yet, after their candid conversation the previous night, he wouldn't be surprised if Sansa began laying the groundwork among the Northern lords to crown him. Above all else, Sansa craved security for Winterfell. However, the thought of her assuming the title of queen was fraught with peril, as it would only embolden Littlefinger's ambitions. The only "king" Sansa might wait for would be her husband if she were to ascend the throne. And Jon knew he could never be that man, for he was her half-brother, a truth that weighed on him.
Jon's evolving perception of Sansa posed another challenge. Despite their distant relationship as children, he sensed a kinship with her, a shared bond as members of the pack. Yet what troubled him most was the dream he experienced after retiring to bed.
In the dream, they found themselves in the Godswood. Sansa stood with her back against the heart tree, their lips locked in a passionate embrace. Jon's hand ventured beneath her skirts, parting her smallclothes to discover her arousal.
With a primal urgency, Jon sank to his knees, his mouth exploring her intimate warmth—a sweet, pink haven adorned with a small patch of auburn curls, kissed by fire. Sansa's desire surged, her climax washing over him with a force that left his beard drenched.
As Jon rose to his feet, Sansa's desperation was palpable. With nimble fingers, she unlaced his breeches, freeing his throbbing length. She grasped him, her touch igniting a fire within him, as she whispered her plea, "Fuck me, Jon."
Without hesitation, Jon obliged, hoisting her legs around his waist as he plunged into her tight, welcoming embrace. Their kisses were fervent, tongues and teeth clashing in a frenzy of passion. Each thrust was met with a gasp, their bodies moving in perfect synchrony, consumed by the primal need for one another.
Sansa's climax shattered the night, her cries of ecstasy echoing in the dimness. Jon felt her body pulsating around him, drawing him inexorably closer to his own release until he, too, succumbed, his voice mingling with hers as they found their climax.
As Jon awoke in the aftermath, tangled in sweaty sheets and tangled thoughts, he couldn't shake the sticky residue of his forbidden dream. One that left him feeling as inexperienced as a greenboy.
This was the realisation of his Targaryen heritage looming over him, casting a shadow of shame upon his desires. Only a twisted soul like his would harbour such forbidden longings for a sibling. Gods, how could he face Sansa over breakfast, as they had arranged? With a heavy heart, Jon drifted off into a fitful slumber for another hour before awakening once more.
Rising from his bed, Jon performed his morning ablutions, washing away the evidence of shameful dreams, before donning fresh attire. There was no need for formal dress today; instead, he resolved to visit the training yard, seeking solace in the familiar rhythm of combat. The sudden movement of the bookcase before the secret door startled him, and he tensed as a tapping noise emanated from behind.
"Jon, are you decent?" Sansa's whispered inquiry broke the silence, sending a shiver down his spine.
Jon swung the door open, admitting Sansa into his chambers. "Good-morning, Lady Stark," he greeted respectfully, bowing his head. His eyes fell upon the bundle of clothes in her arms, and inwardly, he groaned.
Sansa playfully tapped his arm, her demeanour light. "Stop teasing me. You don't need to call me that. Now be a gentleman and help me with these," she instructed with a mischievous smile.
Jon accepted the clothes, laying them out on the bed. "Please tell me you didn't do all of this," he remarked with a shake of his head, examining the doublet she had crafted. Despite his scepticism, he noted they looked different from the garments he was accustomed to.
"I've been sewing for years. It helps me relax. I think better when I sew," Sansa confessed, her fingers deftly moving over the fabric.
"You plot better," Jon corrected with a wry smile.
Sansa returned his smile. "Alright, yes. I plot better when I sew. But for now, I want you to try this on," she declared, handing him the doublet she had meticulously measured the day before.
Jon donned the garment as Sansa, thimble still on her finger, assisted him in lacing it up. He dared not meet her gaze, afraid she might see the turmoil within him or discern the indecent dream he had about her.
Despite the warmth of Sansa's chambers, she felt a different heat under Jon's gaze—or lack thereof. For some inexplicable reason, he avoided meeting her eyes. Yet, perhaps it was for the best, as she, too, wore a carefully constructed mask of deflection. If she hadn't, facing Jon again after the events of the previous night would have been unbearable.
In her dream, they had stood in the Godswood, Sansa pressed against the heart tree as Jon's touch ignited a fire within her. His gentle caress beneath her skirts stirred sensations she had never known, his tenderness leaving her breathless.
As Jon knelt before her, his mouth explored her most intimate depths with a fervour that brought her to the pinnacle of ecstasy. It was a sensation unlike any other, one she had never experienced before, and it left her craving more—needing to feel him inside her.
When Jon rose, Sansa's desperation consumed her. With trembling hands, she unlaced his breeches, freeing him from his confines. Boldness surged within her, emboldening her to utter words she would never dare speak aloud. "Fuck me, Jon." she whispered into his ear, her voice a desperate plea for fulfilment.
Suddenly, Sansa found herself enveloped by Jon's embrace, his cock filling her and igniting a fiery passion within her. Their kisses were more fervent than she had ever imagined, each one a desperate necessity. Sansa couldn't get enough; she craved his kisses as if they were vital to her very existence. With each thrust, Jon brought her closer to another peak of ecstasy.
As Sansa reached her climax once more, Jon's name left her lips in a breathless sigh. He continued to move within her, driving her to new heights of desire until he, too, found release, his voice mingling with hers as he called out her name, his head resting against the curve of her neck.
Sansa jolted awake, still feeling the lingering effects of their lovemaking—a delightful throbbing between her thighs and a racing heart. Despite the satisfaction she felt, a sense of shame gnawed at her conscience. Was it Jon's suspected Targaryen blood that had drawn her to him, or was she descending into the depths of Cersei Lannister's depravity? Whatever the reason, the prospect of facing Jon in the morning filled her with dread.
With two hours to spare until their scheduled meeting, Sansa sought solace in familiar tasks. She swiftly made the adjustments to Jon's doublets, her hands moving with a speed born of urgency. Delaying the inevitable confrontation would only allow her thoughts to fester and torment her further.
Armed with an excuse and a determination to confront the situation head-on, Sansa made her way to Jon's chambers. As she entered and set down a modest breakfast spread, she steeled herself for what lay ahead. With a deep breath, she approached the secret door and tapped lightly, signalling her presence.
As Sansa laced up Jon's doublet, she couldn't ignore the unsettling effect his presence had on her. Despite his inability to meet her gaze, she melted under his proximity. "Damned his dragon blood," she cursed inwardly, her hands trembling as she struggled with the delicate task. In a sudden motion, the porcelain thimble slipped from her finger, shattering upon impact with the floor.
"Seven hells!" Sansa exclaimed, frustration clear in her voice as she stooped to collect the scattered fragments.
"Sansa, are you al—"
"Ouch!" Sansa cried out as a sharp piece of pottery pierced her finger, drawing blood.
Jon swiftly dropped to his knees to inspect the injury. "Hmm, that's a nasty-looking cut. You'll be out of sewing action for about five minutes," he joked, his eyes alight with mirth as he finally met her gaze.
For reasons unknown, his light-hearted remark broke the tension, prompting a smile to grace Sansa's lips. She observed the small pool of blood on her finger and, lacking a suitable cloth, resorted to sucking on it to stem the flow. Jon's reaction was immediate—his movements stilled, his eyes darkened briefly before dropping to the floor, his expression inscrutable, as he silently gathered the remaining thimble fragments.
As Sansa deftly laced up the doublet, Jon's heart raced with a strange mixture of apprehension and desire. He couldn't shake the memory of their shared intimacy from the night before, nor the lingering sensation of her touch. Yet, he was determined to maintain his composure, to keep their burgeoning connection concealed beneath a facade of camaraderie and mutual respect.
Once the doublet was secured, Sansa stepped back to admire her handiwork, a satisfied smile gracing her lips. "It fits perfectly," she remarked, her eyes alight with pride.
Jon couldn't help but return her smile, grateful for her skilful craftsmanship and the distraction it provided from his turbulent thoughts. "Thank you, Sansa," he breathed, his voice tinged with warmth.
"Would you care for breakfast, Lord Jon?" Sansa asked, her playful demeanour returning once more.
"Lead the way, my lady," Jon replied, his tone gentle as they made their way through the secret door, preparing to face the challenges of the day ahead.