The Wolves In Winterfell

Chapter 4: Home & Hearths

Sansa sat at the Godswood, lost in her own thoughts and memories. She had come here every day as a little girl, praying to be taken somewhere else, anywhere else, but those days were gone. She felt comfort here, alone, wrapped in her wolf and bear furs, warm amidst the winter winds. All of her thoughts eventually led to Jon, whether she wished it or not, and she did.

She savored the smell of the woods, because it was his scent. She thought of that morning, of her holding, near-clinging on to him, of kissing his scars and face while he was asleep. She had taken a delight from it, and wished he had been awake, and a smile crossed her lips as she remembered the way Jon had looked at her on the Winterfell gate. The longing in his face had echoed her own, and she had known in that moment that he wished the same as her. How very like him, to take so much from father.

Father.

She thought of the gruff, stern, wise patriarch of what used to be House Stark. He had been eternally wise, but trusting too much in other men; trusting that their sense of justice and heroism was as strong as his. That other men were selfless, and honest. That they were heroes.

There is one, she thought again. What would you think if you were here, Father?

She thought of her mother, Catelyn. She still missed her mother terribly, but no longer desired the fantasies of Cat's stories; of beautiful, chivalrous knights and immense palaces. She now knew what that world looked like, and it was nowhere near as beautiful as Mother had described.

She wished Mother had treated Jon better, or herself for that matter. They had made his childhood miserable, for he was a bastard. Just like Alayne.

Her thoughts went back to that morning, the sweet smell coming off of Jon, how hard she had clung to him, the way his face looked while he was asleep, the fervent way she had kissed him again and again...

She heard soft footsteps approaching, and opened her eyes. They were almost inaudible, but she had spent enough time with the man to know and hear his stride.

"Forgive me, my lady, if you're in prayer."

Littlefinger's voice still made her cringe, even with the most innocuous inquiries. She still needed to be careful with him, though.

"I'm done with all of that." She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. With him, she always felt naked; there was no inch of her body he hadn't already explored, and the memories of him licking and writhing on her, like the snake he was, still made her nauseous even after Ramsay's assaults. She stood up to leave. "I suspect you already knew that."

"I had my suspicions."

She still did not look at him. "Always the smartest man wherever you are."

"I simply know people inside and out." He looked at her, and she started to walk past him, but he blocked her. The hairs on the back of Sansa's neck started to stand up.

"What do you want?"

"I thought you knew what I wanted."

She shrugged. "I was wrong."

"No, you weren't."

Sansa started, wondering if she should run right now, and not knowing why she resisted the urge to. She knew she still needed him, and hated it. She did not want to hear another word from him, but his slithery voice continued as he approached her.

"Every time I'm faced with a decision, I close my eyes and see the same picture. Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself: will this action help to make this picture a reality?"

He stepped closer, but she stood firm as he continued. "Pull it out of my mind...and into the world? And I only act if the answer is yes. A picture of me, on the Iron Throne, and you by my side."

As he leaned in, she put her hand up to hold him off. "It's a pretty picture." With that, she brushed past him, needing to get away.

He called after her, but she did not stop. "News of this battle will spread quickly throughout the Seven Kingdoms. I've declared for House Stark for all to hear."

"You've declared for other Houses before, Lord Baelish, but you've always served yourself."

"The past is gone for good. You can sit here and mourn its departure, or you can prepare for the future. You, my love, are the future of House Stark. Who should the North rally behind? A true born daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark born here, in Winterfell, or a motherless southborn bastard?"

Sansa's mind was racing, looking for ways to invert his schemes, as she strode in fuming with indignation past the castle, towards the battlefield. She knew that Littlefinger was not a man to underestimate, and certainly not to make enemies out of, nor one to keep too close, or trust when offering alliance, support, or friendship. If she wasn't smart, he just might ruin her.

She knew what he wanted; he wanted her. Her political power, and her body. The thought of him on top of her, or the thought of his tongue down her throat one more time, were as horrifying as Ramsay, if not as violent. She would not lift a finger for him, nor be his little Catelyn bitch.

Sansa had to stop him. Keep him at arms' length, if need be, but stop him.

And she knew exactly how. She didn't know if it was an option, or even if she was thinking rationally about it. But, it would be everything she had always wanted.

She found him where she knew he would be. He was watching over the funeral pyres of yesterday's war dead. There were too many bodies to properly bury, so they had spread the remaining cadavers around the mountainous stacks of human and corpses, and were now setting fire to them there. She had hoped to approach him quietly, but the smell made her retch, and wheeze.

"Smells like a right rose, doesn't it?" Said Ser Davos, as he lowered his torch to a dead horse, waiting until it properly started to burn. She moved closer to Jon. The fire spread, but slowly.

"See, I know you're one for duty and honor, but this many bodies is going to take hours to burn, and I'd rather be prepared for tonight's feast than stand here watching bodies rot faster than they burn," said Ser Davos to Jon.

"Not to mention the fucking smell," Sansa concurred. She grasped his gloved hand, and gave it a tug, and seeing their point, he turned and started the walk to the gates.

As the smoke and the flames increased behind them, Sansa was looking for the right thing to say to Jon.

"Jon, I know that you nearly lost yesterday." He looked at her. "And I know that that's partly on me." Jon started to roll his eyes. "San, you can't hold that—"

"BUT, but, you won. Don't let any of the officious, self-interested lords try to run you over tonight. They refused to help, and we still won. Don't forget that." He nodded as they continued walking, but she saw from the downcast in his eyes that that didn't mean as much.

"You fought, and you won. You said, on the Wall, that you had fought, and you had lost." She grabbed his arm, and spun to right in front of him. "You fought now, and you won. Don't think otherwise. Don't think about them." She cocked her head towards the burning hills of corpses. She put her right hand on his heart. "And don't think about this." She stepped right to his face. Their eyes locked, and she knew she had his full attention. "Think of home." She leaned to his ear, and whispered, "Think of me." She brought her face in front of his, and stared once again into his deep, bottomless black eyes, and she knew he had heard her. A smile cracked the side of her lips, and she turned posthaste, making her own way to the castle, knowing they were watching her.

Davos looked at Jon. "What the fuck was that about?"