Sansa emerged from her chambers to find Ghost waiting outside her door, a majestic white presence seated on his haunches. Uncertain whether she beheld a direwolf or her brother incarnate, she leaned down and whispered into his ear, "Jon, if that's you, I don't require protection every moment. Go enjoy yourself in the training yard. Or I'll tend to your fur myself." She threatened.
If a direwolf could convey offence, Ghost—or perhaps Jon—seemed to do just that. Sansa set off toward the East Gate, Ghost padding behind. Though she suspected Jon had departed, an uncanny sensation lingered, as if his spirit inhabited the wolf. It made her ponder if she and Grace would share such a bond.
Upon her arrival at the East Gate, Sansa found herself greeted by Littlefinger, Maester Medrick, Maester Henly, and Maester Rhodry.
Of the trio of maesters who had lived at Winterfell, only Maester Medrick would remain for an extended period. Maester Rhodry, hailing from Castle Cerwyn, a mere day's ride away, wished to depart early to ensure his return by supper.
However, much to Sansa's chagrin, Maester Henly was not set to depart for another fortnight. He had been assigned to House Slate, whose keep lay in Blackpool along the western coast, near the Stony Shore. Much to Sansa's annoyance and Littlefinger's glee, Lord Slate had extended an offer for Maester Henly to stay until the arrival of Maester Wolkan from the Citadel.
Sansa harboured a deep distrust of Maester Henly, suspecting that Lord Slate's allegiance leaned toward Littlefinger. Though the exact cause of her suspicion eluded her, she couldn't shake the feeling. In stark contrast, her instincts leaned toward trusting Maester Medrick.
The disdainful glances he cast at Littlefinger, even when attempting to mask them, did not escape Sansa's notice. After observing his subtle signs of aversion on multiple occasions, even when unaware of her gaze, she grew certain of his loyalty. Medrick's disdain for Littlefinger and lukewarm feelings toward Maester Henly were clear.
As grey skies loomed overhead, a hint of snow teased the air. Sansa reckoned it would hold off for a few more hours, granting Maester Rhodry a safe journey home. Once he departed, only she, Maester Medrick, and Jon would remain to confront the looming dilemma of Littlefinger.
With that in mind, it was time for Sansa to bid farewell to the maester and find Jon in the training yard. He needed to be informed that the wildlings would reach Winterfell within the fortnight.
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Jon's body waited alone in the armoury, while his mind was within Ghost. The direwolf was stationed outside Sansa's chambers, ready to escort the Lady of Winterfell to bid farewell to Maester Rhodry. He should have paid his respects to the maester himself, but he was seething with anger at the soldiers who had been speaking about Sansa in the most inappropriate manner imaginable. At least, that's what he told himself.
Deep down, Jon knew he was punishing the soldiers for his own unspoken desires, a truth that gnawed at him from within. Despite his inner turmoil, Jon was taken aback when Sansa sensed his presence within Ghost. How she did so was a mystery to him. However, he understood that if Sansa followed through on her threat to groom Ghost, he would have to endure it in the direwolf's place. He wasn't certain if Ghost would tolerate the grooming as Lady had; Ghost had shown little enthusiasm when Jon had attempted it himself, running off for days and returning covered in filth, as if to make a point.
Jon had gone straight to the armoury to ready himself for a training session. He had intended to don some sparring armour, but upon assessing the quality of his adversaries, he decided it wasn't necessary. He had encountered more formidable opponents in the form of thorny blackberry bushes while taking a shit, north of the Wall.
Jon hadn't swung his sword in nigh on a month, and his muscles were itching for action. But he couldn't afford to reveal just how skilled he was – and he was damn skilled. His lack of honour only made him deadlier, because he didn't give a fuck about how much pain he inflicted on his opponent, if he felt like it. And anyone who dared to cast a lecherous glance in Sansa's direction would soon regret it.
Approaching the training yard, Jon selected a wooden sword from the stand. Testing its weight, he found it perfectly balanced, like an extension of his own arm. Locking his gaze on the weathered and scarred training pell, Jon squared his shoulders and raised the wooden sword, assuming a stance that spoke volumes of his years of disciplined training. His muscles tensed, coiled like a spring ready to unleash its energy. Then he struck.
With each strike, the resounding echo of wood meeting wood reverberated through the yard, a sound that seemed to calm Jon's senses. Each movement was deliberate, every strike calculated with the precision of a seasoned warrior. With each impact, Jon's focus sharpened, his mind clearing of all distractions except for the rhythm of his own breathing and the steady thud of wood against wood. Despite the glistening sweat upon his brow, he pressed on, driving himself forward.
As Jon's strikes grew faster and more ferocious, his movements blurred into a whirlwind of motion, unleashing his full strength upon the pell. There was a palpable sense of satisfaction in the act, a release of pent-up energy that Jon sorely needed.
When Jon paused in his training, he noticed a group of Vale soldiers watching him intently from the yard. He could sense their eagerness to challenge him to a spar, but none dared to approach the bastard brother of the Lady of Winterfell. Undeterred, Jon took the initiative.
"Who's up for a match?" he called out.
One of the Vale soldiers, whom Jon had never seen before, responded, "Live steel or training blades?"
"I'll tell you what," Jon replied, "you can have the live steel, and I'll take a training blade. Wouldn't want to hurt you."
The soldier glanced back at his companions and chuckled. "Well, he's an arrogant arsehole, isn't he? Not even wearing armour."
Ignoring the taunt, Jon made his way to the sword stand and selected a longsword. It wasn't Longclaw, but it still felt well balanced in his hand. "You'll do," Jon muttered, before climbing over the wooden fence and stepping into the sparring ring.
Jon's opponent stepped into the ring with a smirk. "You don't mind if I call you bastard, bastard?" he quipped, turning to his friends, who erupted in laughter.
Memories of Ser Alliser and his relentless taunts flooded Jon's mind, but instead of feeling insulted, he fought back a laugh. It reminded him of the green boy he once was. Cocking his head at the man, Jon shrugged and smiled. "You can call me whatever you want while you're on your feet. Because you'll be on your arse soon enough."
His opponent's laughter faded as he assumed his stance, and Jon mirrored him without hesitation.
The engagement began as Jon's opponent launched a downward strike aimed at Jon's left shoulder. With lightning reflexes, Jon raised his sword in a swift vertical block, intercepting the attack before it could land. Anticipating the move before his opponent even made it, Jon adjusted his stance, enabling him to react with speed and precision.
In response, Jon countered with a rapid horizontal slash aimed at his opponent's midsection. But the soldier was ready, sidestepping the attack and evading the blade. The exchange of blows continued, each analysing the other's movements for potential openings.
The bout unfolded for a mere minute before Jon spotted an opportunity to exploit a momentary lapse in the man's defence. With a swift feint to the right, Jon forced his opponent to shift his weight, leaving his left side vulnerable. Seizing the opening, Jon executed a decisive manoeuvrer, disarming him with a well-timed strike to his exposed flank.
"I yield!" the soldier declared, though Jon suspected it was a feint. He held out his hand, prepared to elbow the man in the nose and break it if he dared to try his luck.
Jon helped the soldier to his feet. As it turned out, the yield was genuine, and the defeated man made his way back to his friends. Another man, taller with blond hair, stepped forward.
"You think you can do better?" Jon asked, leaning on the pommel of his sword, which stood point down.
"He was just a greenboy. I think it's time you took on a man who knows a thing or two about battles, bastard," the man replied. Jon recognized the voice – it was Jimmen.
Jon flashed a tight smile at the man. "Makes no difference to me. I took it easy on him." It was the truth – Jon had allowed the man a few parries to assess his weaknesses before delivering the final blow.
"I'll go easy on you, I promise, bastard," Jimmen taunted. "I don't want to send you back to that sexy sister of yours too bloodied." He glanced at his friends. "What I wouldn't give for a taste of her pretty little cunt, or to have those plump lips wrapped around my cock."
Jon felt his blood boil, but he kept his composure, offering his opponent a smile. "Shall we begin?" he asked, his voice as calm as a mill pond.
The match started much like the previous one, with one significant difference – this time, it was personal. Fuelled by anger ignited by Jimmen's vile insults towards Sansa, Jon's focus sharpened to a razor's edge. As Jimmen lunged forward with a reckless attack, Jon's wrath surged within him, driving him to meet the challenge head-on.
With a swift and powerful strike, Jon's sparring sword found its mark, shattering one of Jimmen's ribs and sending him staggering backward. Adding insult to injury, Jon delivered a forceful elbow to Jimmen's nose, splattering blood across his face.
Ignoring the cries of pain that reverberated through the training yard, Jon pressed on, his determination unwavering. With a relentless barrage of strikes, he continued to rain blows upon his opponent, his anger fuelling each movement. Even if Jimmen landed a hit, Jon never felt it as he pushed forward in a blind fury.
In a final, decisive moment, Jon unleashed a punishing blow that sent Jimmen crashing to the ground, broken and defeated. Standing over his fallen adversary, Jon's eyes blazed with fierce intensity, his rage unabated and his thirst for vengeance unquenchable.
In that moment, Jon resolved no insult against Sansa would go unanswered. As he surveyed the battered figure of his opponent, a grim satisfaction washed over him, knowing that justice had been served, even if it came at the cost of broken bones and spilled blood.
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Once Maester Rhodry had departed, Sansa strode across the yard, with Ghost following in her footsteps, her gaze set on finding Jon. She knew he would be in the training yard, either refining his skills or releasing the pent-up energy she had observed in him. Sansa had hoped Littlefinger would occupy himself elsewhere, but to her dismay, he trailed after her, refusing to let her out of his sight.
"Well, at least he'll witness Jon's prowess with a sword," Sansa thought, just as cries of pain pierced the air.
"I yield!" a voice shouted, though it was muffled as if the man's mouth were stuffed.
"Fucking bastard, get him!" came another voice, accompanied by more cries.
Turning to Maester Henly, Sansa instructed urgently, "Fetch Lord Royce. These are his men. I'll handle any Northerners; he can deal with anyone from the Vale." She panted slightly from her brisk pace.
"Yes, my Lady," Maester Henly responded, casting a glance toward Littlefinger, who nodded in agreement.
Sansa's stomach churned with unease. She knew whatever was happening was connected to Jon, and now she suspected he was facing multiple opponents at once. She hoped he wouldn't sustain serious injuries. Fortunately, she had Maester Medrick by her side for support.
Sansa wasn't unsure what she had expected to find when she located Jon, but seeing him surrounded by three men, with four others lying battered and bloodied on the ground, wasn't it.
"What's happening?" she demanded, standing tall with Ghost by her side, adding to her already intimidating presence.
The clatter of steel echoed through the yard as the Vale men turned to face her. Ignoring Littlefinger's attempt to dissuade her, Sansa gathered her skirts and stepped into the sparring ring.
"My Lady... it's not safe," Littlefinger cautioned, but Sansa pressed on regardless.
"Maester Medrick, come with me. We need to assess the extent of these men's injuries," she instructed, her footsteps sinking into the muddy ground as she advanced.
Jon's gaze met hers as she drew nearer. Gone was the lordly demeanour from earlier; his hair was now dishevelled, his raven curls untamed. There was a wildness in his eyes, a look she had never seen before, and it sent a shiver down her spine, ending between her thighs. Unable to meet his gaze, Sansa turned away, unable to bear the thought of anyone noticing her forbidden desires for her half-brother.
"Oh!" Sansa exclaimed, realising these men had intended to harm, if not kill, Jon. He had been defending himself. The sight of multiple men wielding live steel against one man armed only with a sparring sword amounted to nothing short of attempted murder. "Are you alright?" she asked, concern clear in her voice.
"I'll let you know in about half an hour when the pain sets in," Jon replied, as Maester Medrick rejoined them.
"Jimmen looks to have a broken—" the maester began, but was cut off by the booming voice of Lord Royce from behind.
"What in the seven hells is all of this?" Lord Royce demanded, his presence commanding attention.
Sansa turned to greet him. "Lord Royce."
"Lady Sansa," Lord Royce nodded, then turned his gaze to Littlefinger. "Lord Baelish."
"Lord Royce," Littlefinger replied smoothly. "It appears seven of your men, armed with live steel, took on Lord Jon, who was armed only with a dulled blade. Needless to say, your men didn't fare too well, Lord Royce."
Sansa couldn't help but feel sceptical of Littlefinger's sudden defence of Jon. It seemed unlikely that he would have come to Jon's aid if it hadn't provided him with an opportunity to undermine Lord Royce in some way.
"Is that Ser Jimmen?" Lord Royce inquired, observing as Maester Henly tended to the man who had sustained the most severe injuries.
"I'm sorry, my lord," Jimmen apologised, bowing his head to Lord Royce. Sansa couldn't help but notice the look Jimmen exchanged with Littlefinger. It was clear this had been orchestrated. Someone had known that Jon was sparring this morning.
"Maester Medrick, I believe we should escort Jon back to his chambers and assess his injuries. I doubt he could have emerged from that unscathed," Sansa suggested, her concern clear.
"Ser Jimmen is one of my finest men," Lord Royce protested, bewildered. "How?" he demanded, turning to Jon for an explanation.
"I'm just better than them," Jon replied with a shrug as Maester Medrick guided him away.
"I'll handle Jon," Sansa assured Lord Royce firmly.
"And I'll address my men, my Lady," Lord Royce promised.
"Thank you, Lord Royce," Sansa acknowledged with a smile. "Now, if you would both excuse me, I'd like to speak with Lord Jon," she added as she made her way back to the great keep, Ghost at her side, her heart racing with a mix of emotions.
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When Sansa barged into Jon's chambers without knocking, she was met with the sight of him standing with his tunic pulled up and his breeches lowered, revealing a large, bloody bruise on his skin. She felt a surge of embarrassment and almost averted her eyes, but the sight of the injury demanded her attention.
"Jon!" Sansa gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in shock.
"It's nothing, Sansa," Jon reassured her, rolling his eyes. "I've had worse in the training yard before."
"It's already stopped bleeding," Maester Medrick confirmed. "I suspect the bruising will be the most painful, but I can prepare a poultice for this. If you'll excuse me, I'll fetch my supplies from the maester's tower." With that, he excused himself and departed.
Once they were alone, Sansa couldn't contain her anger any longer. "What in the seven hells are you playing at, Jon? Are you trying to prove that you're better than them?" she demanded, her frustration clear from her tone of voice.
"They were saying disgusting things about you," Jon admitted, shaking his head. "Anyway, I don't need you trying to save me."
"What could they have said that's so shocking that I haven't heard a thousand times over?" Sansa demanded, her tone sharp with frustration.
Now it was Jon's turn to blush. How could he tell Sansa that Ser Jimmen had wanted her to suck his cock? He tried to be tactful. "He wanted you to put your mouth..." Jon began.
"Around his cock?" Sansa finished his sentence, her arms folded across her chest. Jon's expression dropped, caught off guard by Sansa's blunt words. "Was there anything else?"
"He also wanted to..." Jon trailed off, unable to bring himself to repeat the rest. In that moment, he wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
"Jon, he may have said those words, but he didn't mean them," Sansa said, her voice now more gentle as she approached him, taking his hands in hers. "I saw the way he looked at Lord Baelish. This was planned. They were taunting you. You have a reputation, and word spreads. It was a perfect opportunity for them to take you down. If you want to protect me, I need you alive." Jon gave a sheepish nod in response, grateful for Sansa's understanding.
"But you didn't need to come and save me," Jon reiterated.
"No, but the men needed my help," Sansa replied, unable to resist cupping his face in her hand. "Was that one of those rages you fly into?"
"Yes," Jon admitted with a nod.
"Well, you're going to have to keep it under control. No more sparring if that's what I can expect every time," Sansa insisted.
"I need to hone my skills," Jon protested.
Sansa smiled knowingly. "Are any of the Free Folk any use?" she inquired.
"Tormund might be," Jon conceded. "But we don't know when they'll arrive."
"Yes, we do," Sansa interjected. "I was coming to tell you that the Free Folk have been seen just south of Long Lake. They should be about a fortnight away."
Jon's face lit up with joy at the news of Tormund's imminent arrival. Whoever this Tormund person was, Jon must genuinely like the man. Sansa couldn't help but feel a surge of happiness at seeing Jon smile; he didn't do it often enough.
"Thank you for letting me know," he said sincerely.
"You're welcome," Sansa replied with a smile. "I'll just return to my chambers to get out of this muddy cloak." She paused for a moment before adding, "When Maester Medrick returns, I've agreed for him to heal those wounds on your chest. And I'm going to be his nurse," she announced before making her way out of the door.
Jon stood there for a moment, pondering the implications of Sansa being his nurse. It meant she would apply the poultice to his chest. How in the seven hells was he going to keep himself in check while her hands were roaming his body?
"Seven fucking hells!" he exclaimed after she had closed the door behind her. "Can today get any worse?"
