The Lannister party slept that night in four large tents pitched on the site where Jon had killed the advance party. It had been late, and the temperature was dropping. There had probably been no time to find another place. Not that it would have made a difference. Jon did not dare come too close to the camp - a watch was set in shifts all through the night, and there were well over forty healthy fighters there, not counting the wounded, some servants, and the women. But he had seen Sansa carried into the tent, her hair spilling out of the blanket she was wrapped in, and Beth a silent shadow at her side.

That night, as the cold wind howled around the little camp, he watched and waited.

He heard the men complaining of broken straps, spoiled food, cracked water bottles. It seemed that they had been hit by every misfortune that could befall a travelling party. A smiled crossed Jon's lips at that, but it faded soon enough.

They moved on early the next morning. He kept pace with them as they travelled, staying well out of the sight-lines of the scouts. The snow was falling thicker and heavier, and he was glad he knew their destination in case their tracks were buried. This was a storm that could swallow hundreds of men and they would not be found until the Melt.

There was no rough camp that night, nor an abandoned castle like Cerwyn. They stopped at a small fortified keep near the river. This one was inhabited by a family and a few retainers and servants who had managed to hang on in their home through the winter. A cluster of outbuildings stood about the walls. As the light faded, Jon hid in a clearing nearby and watched. Half an hour after the sleighs had vanished through the gates, he patience was rewarded.

He saw the small, well-wrapped figure of Beth Cassels heading to the washhouse with a bundle of linens, one of the silent maids with her. She paused just before entering the building and looked for a moment in the direction of his hiding place. He hunkered down, although he was sure he was well concealed. After a moment, she went into the hut. A few minutes later, the septa and the other maid appeared, supervised the unloading of a sleigh from which more linens were extracted and taken into the wash-house. He waited.

The red haired knight appeared later with two of his companions and the lord of of this little keep: an old man, stooped and grey. The four of them stood for some time

But there was a light in the window of the highest room in the keep. A secure room. He stared at it. Too dim to be a fire. It must be a single candle or a lantern. A single, dim source of light for one set of eyes.

Sansa.

The wall below her window was sheer vertical, but Jon had climbed the Wall itself in another life. He looked at it as the light faded. He could do this.

Maybe.

I may not be able to die, but I can probably break every bone in my body if I fall.

There were edges and rough points in the stone. He climbed slowly, moving only one hand or foot at a time, and slowly, slowly, he edged up. After what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes, he found himself a few feet below the window.

There were voices below. Men. If they came around the wall, they would see him.

With a gasp, he jumped up. His hands caught the edge of the window sill, slipped, and for a moment he was uncertain if they would hold.

He dug in his fingers. With a grunt of effort, he pulled himself up until he could force his shoulders through the narrow opening. He tumbled down onto the stone floor of the chamber with a shock that forced the breath from his body.

"Jon!"

He slowly raised his eyes.

There was, as he thought, just a single candle by the bed to light the room. It was a tiny chamber, cold, dark, poorly furnished, but what it held …

Sansa was sitting up in the bed, the light shining on the auburn hair tumbling around her face, her fair skin, her slightly parted rosy lips. She was clad in a nightgown, and as his eyes were drawn downward, he could see the curve of her bosom, her erect nipples pushing against the thin fabric. Her breath steamed in the cold air.

"Jon" she whispered again, quietly, urgently. "There is a guard on the door." She put her hands to her lips, signalling quiet.

He bared his teeth, taking in the sight of her, the sound, the smell … He felt his breath catch and a sudden rush of warm blood to his groin.

"We won't be going out the door," he whispered. He pulled up his shirt to show the length of rope around his waist. "We are going out the way I came in."

Sansa looked at him. "That's your plan," she said quietly, but flatly. "I go down there," she looked at the window, looked back at the rope. "On that."

"The Wildlings used to take stolen women over the Wall for years," Jon said. The theory of how it was done had been explained to him.

"Jon."

He looked around for an anchor point. The bed was heavy … not ideal, but it would do.

"... Jon."

He started to unwind the rope.

"Jon," she hissed. She reached out with one hand and touched him on the shoulder. She had to bend and stretch to do it, and her nightgown gaped, showing the curves of her breasts, the smooth skin of her torso below …

"Damnit, Jon!" she said, and brought her other arm up in a move that ended in a swift jerk.

He tore his eyes away from her body, and looked. A thick leather and iron cuff encircled her slender wrist. It was attached to a chain, a chain of castle-forged steel with thick links that ended in a solid anchor to the bed frame.

"Sheepfuckers," he said.

He tested the weight and the fastenings.

"I can't get you out of this. Not without making a lot of noise." He swore, too loud.

"Shh," she said, the light glimmering off water in the corner of her own eyes. "I don't want you hurt. And there is Beth to think of, too. I'm sorry, Jon, so sorry. I never meant …" she took a breath. "You have to leave me here. You have to go now. They will be back soon." She took another breath, so beautiful it made his heart ache, so loving, so strong. "You have to leave me and go. There will be other chances."

He kissed her hard, so hard it must have hurt, but she returned his passion. They clung to each other in the dark, skin against skin, sweat mingling.

"What if there is no other chance?" he said. "What will you do?" He shifted, pushing her back onto the bed. She twisted, forced to keep one hand above her head by that cursed cuff. "Do you plan to fuck that ginger knight? Hm?" He leaned close to whisper in her ear. "He wants to fuck you."

She blinked, taken by surprise. "I …" she took a breath, and her chin rose defiantly. "So what if I did? Maybe I will ...f …fu … lay with him. Or with some lord in White Harbour."

"Would you?" he mused. With a swift move, he pulled the lacings of her nightgown apart, exposing her bare breasts. He cupped one, giving the nipple a gentle pinch. "Is that what you would do?" he mused, enjoying the flush that rose in her cheeks at his skepticism.

"Yes. I would."

She was defiant, stubborn, and utterly sweet, like a child waving a stolen knife from the kitchen that she had no idea how to use, but that could still cut …

"Or with King Stannis himself … why are you laughing?" she said, suddenly indignant. "This isn't funny."

He had to bury his face between her breasts to muffle the sounds of his amusement. He breathed in, loving the nutty smell of them. "I'm sorry, Sansa. But I've met Stannis Baratheon." He ran his hands over the curves of her tits.

She tensed, one hand still caught over her head, then relaxed. "Cersei Lannister said that she'd have a better chance of seducing Stannis's horse."

"Mm," Jon said. He moved his head to nuzzle at her breast.

"Jon … what are you doing?" she whispered.

"What do you think?"

She put her free hand on his forehead and pushed him firmly away. "No."

"I'll take you here, under their noses." His breath quickened at the thought of it. Thrusting into her, her long legs wrapping around him, her muffling the sounds of her pleasure in his shoulder ...

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and they both froze. The sound faded, left them alone. Or so it seemed.

There is a guard in the hall.

"Would you?" she whispered. "Would you have me like this, tethered?" She pulled her wrist against the cuff. It clinked, a hard cruel sound. "Is that what you want?" she demanded.

He pulled back onto his knees, a jangle of anger and desire. He looked from her body to the cuff, and felt the lust run out of him, replaced by anger, anger that they would do this to her, his love, his mate, his wolf-girl, his Sansa.

"No," he told her. "I mean … I always want you. But not if you don't want me."

"Free me," she told him, her eyes bright. "Set me free, and I will be yours."

"I'll fight them all. Paint your body with their blood."

There was another sound in the hall. The footsteps were coming back.

"No," she said. "No. I would not have you risk yourself. And there is Beth, too. No. Not now."

He let out a long slow exhale of frustration, breathed out his rage against the soft flesh of her body. But he could not deny her reasoning.

With hurrying fingers, he pulled the laces of her nightgown closed over her breasts. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted. He could do nothing about that. Slowly, he separated from her. She moaned, and her hips twitched towards him in longing, but she said nothing of desire. All she said was "go." She wet her lips. "Go. Be safe. Take no unnecessary risks."

He was at the window frame when she spoke again. There was fire in her eyes.

"And Jon?"

He waited.

"Come for me if you can." She lowered her eyes, and her lips quirked into smile. "Stannis Baratheon's horse would be ever so grateful," she added.

And then there were sounds in the hall again, and he barely had time to clear the window before the door opened.

It was darker on the way down than it had been on the way up, and Jon had to give his full attention to his hand and footholds. He was near to the bottom of the wall when he heard voices.

If they come too close, they may see my footprints in the snow.

He dropped down, landing lightly, and moved quickly to find a place in the shadows. He could hear the crunch of boots on snow. Two sets of boots. He slid a knife from his belt.

They passed him, and he was on them from behind. He caught one man by the hair, pulled his head back to expose his neck, and slashed his neck open. He dropped the man, dead, he was already dead, Jon knew that without looking, and turned on the other with the wet knife slipping his hand.

The man should have cried out - he had the time. But he was frozen. He gaped at Jon, mouth and eyes wide.

There was a distant small part of Jon that hated himself, an echo of the boy he had once been, but his body drove on, bringing the knife down into the hollow at the base of the man's throat and thrusting it home with a dull plop. The man went down.

Jon knelt in the snow over the two bodies, his hands stained red with blood. It was cold.

Two less.