Okay, so I'm not entirely sure how this one chapter ended up reaching over 11k words, but it did, so... There's that, I guess. I mean, I could have divided it into two separate chapters, but it's all planned out and honestly it wouldn't have worked otherwise. Anyway, yeah. Hopefully it's worth long read (sorry!), because honestly if you've been following this story then it should be worth it... You'll see. So, without further ado... Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

"Do we have much further to walk?"

It feels as though they've been travelling for days, when in reality it has probably only been some hours.

There's no way of keeping track of time, and so Sansa has forged her own functioning clock. Her mind. The sun is setting, fading into the horizon, setting below the tallest of mountains.

They're elevated, high above the rest of the Woods or the entire village. If she tried hard enough, she could probably spot her locale.

"No." He voices with a gruff, eyes dark from what she can see. She has been at his side for some time now, having gotten fed up with following his lead.

Yes, he knows the way. Yes, he knows these woods better than she ever could or ever will. But she is the one with a destination to reach and a goal to achieve. She is the one who forced them on this path in the first place; it only make sense that she keep pace with her guide.

The sun is barely visible over the sky's coral evening light, and Sansa wonders if they will once again be venturing on and forward as night falls.

"How far then?"

"A couple hundred feet, I reckon."

She feels a shiver run up her spine at the news. Granny is close, as is her fate. Granny will be here, and he will leave me here, and he will leave to never be seen again.

There's a rising feeling in her gut, clogging up her throat and weighing down her shoulders. It's hard to carry, tough to swallow. She does not know him, not truly, but she does not wish to leave him.

"Will you stay for supper?"

"Aye, I will. If your Gran would be so kind." Sansa can tell he tries to smile, tries to force an offering of optimism and glee.

It's for her benefit, she knows. But his attempt at a grin fails, and her heart is nevertheless softened by his willingness to try.

"Granny would surely invite you in. She does love a handsome man. She's always told me tales of her younger days." Sansa blushes, ducks her head, "Besides, you brought me here. She can't refuse your stay."

"I won't be staying, Sansa. Know that." Jon reminds her pointedly, with a crooked eyebrow shadowing over a blank expression. "I'll be on my way home as soon as I can."

"Even still? You haven't changed your mind? Haven't had a change of heart?"

"Aye."

"Yes? You have?"

"No. Aye, I haven't." He corrects, repeats himself conclusively.

She understands, and declares with a sigh, "That's a pity."

She shrugs, folds her arms over her chest and keeps her eyes focused on the ground they trudge along on, carefully stepping over thick snow-coated roots emerging from the dirt.

He doesn't talk after that, at least not to continue their conversation. It seems settled, as though the thick dust between them has finally fallen and his plans are concretely laid out in cement.

"We're here."

Those are words she has been half-wishing for, half-dreading to hear for days now. It almost seems too easy.

Granny is here, and so are we, and this is where you leave me.

"Is that your Granny's house?"

Raising her head, hands clasped around the thick material of the hood of her cloak, Sansa looks up and over at the rustic cabin out in the open area of the woods. There are trees surrounding it, leaves and and branches fallen at the entrance, snow sheltering the exterior of the house.

The rooftop is pure white, all thick and glimmering snowflakes forming a flat mass of snow Sansa craves running her gloved hands through. It would be so refreshing, to hear the crunch of fresh snow crumbling between her fingers.

She pays little attention to Jon or his wolf as she begins to near the cabin, boots breaking in the fresh layer of snow covering the brick path that leads her forward.

There are no candles lit inside, she can tell. Granny always lit candles to keep warm, always had hot flames flickering and a crackling fire burning to keep the heat inside when the winter was blisteringly harsh outside.

She makes it up the path, narrowly avoiding a couple patches of frosted-over cobbles to keep her balance, and knocks on the door. She taps three times, with a gloved fist twitching uneasily.

She cannot decide if she is excited to have reached her destination, to have accomplished what she set out to do, or rather perplexed at the realisation that her journey has reached its conclusion.

"Grandmother?"

Lyarra Stark adores her grandchildren, invites them in with open arms any chance she gets. It isn't often they get to see her. She lives far away, isolated from her family, and refuses to trade out her treasured house for the Starks' cramped living situation.

She had once suggested that the girls come live with her, to help her around the house because she was getting old and needed a little assistance from time to time.

Sansa had been eager to agree to the proposal, to get away from home and spend time with her grandmother, and she'd eventually managed to bribe the usually unfazed Arya into joining her.

They'd decided it would be a good idea for them, a chance to bond and learn and grow as women. But Catelyn had disagreed, claimed they needed to stay at home and help their brothers grow up instead. She'd argued that there were more opportunities to mature as young women in the village, surrounding by people and men and a community to learn from.

She hadn't been wrong, Sansa knows. But her mother's insistence on her becoming a clever, charming young woman had eventually included forcing an unwilled engagement upon her.

She sometimes wishes she had ran away sooner, sought out her Granny's council many moons ago.

Her daydreaming eyes flicker open from their momentary daze when some minutes have passed and there has still been no answer at the door. And so, she knocks again, and waits patiently for her Granny's face to appear behind the creaking old wooden door.

"Sansa."

Jon is by her side, she senses, feels the ever-present heat from his body radiate onto her own when he breathes beside her. He's warm, and reassuring, comforting without even knowing it.

"Something isn't right."

There's a hand on her shoulder then, and Jon is pulling her away from the door. He isn't rough, doesn't force her backwards; only moves her to the side before taking her place.

He hammers loud against the door with the side of his clenched fist, much unlike the way Sansa had done, his knuckles aching beneath their leather cushion.

The pounding is heavy, the weight of his fist hammering down against the worn wood echoing out past them and through the aches of trees they crossed, and it's sure to wake even the deepest of sleepers from the numbest of slumbers.

His fist thumps again and again, and one last time when he's greeted with nothing but silence, the lone cawing of hungry crows answering their persistent thudding.

Sansa has to wrap her hand over his own then, fingers curling dangerously right around his wrist to stop him from splintering the wood and beating down the door.

"Jon." She voices, and when he grudgingly spins around to face her, his eyes catch sight of her numbing lips and rosy cheeks. "Stop."

Irresolute, he lowers his fist until she lets go of him, uncurls her pale fingers from the patch of flesh that escapes past the sleeve of his clothes. He doesn't make much of the gooseflesh running up his arm, coating his arm in shivers; instead choosing to unsheathe his sword and draw it between them, the blade forced between the humid door's edge and the frame that encases it.

"Move back."

His shoulders shift once Sansa takes a couple steps backwards down onto the frosty stones, and he steps forward into position, carefully jamming the sharp tip of his long blade in the crevice and wiggling, forcing a shift between the door and its lock.

Sansa doesn't have a moment to second guess his plan before its working, splinters of battered wood flying down onto Jon's snowy boots.

The door is open, and her sigh of relief is pitched as she scurries past him, almost running forward until she is inside.

It's a strange feeling, to be inside Granny's house with a man who isn't Father. She's been coming here since she was but an infant, all weak bones and milk teeth.

But time has passed, and she's older now, and she thinks that perhaps this overwhelmingly new sensation she's feeling is only the realisation that she is grown, of her own will and mind.

"Are you sure she's here?"

Granny never leaves, never ventures out. Granny would die here when the time came, Sansa thinks, and gulps at the thought.

"She's here."

The redhead is sure of her answer, though her grandmother's exact whereabouts escape her completely. She would have woken up at the banging, would have screamed at the beating down of her door.

Jon is kicking the door shut behind him when she finally turns to face him, all doe-eyed and flushed. The warmth of the fire roaring in the living space had heated her body within seconds, and her once cold cheeks are now blazing hot.

He shakes his bag off, sheaths his sword back into place before sliding his belongings down onto a rickety old table by the doorway.

The ceiling in the house is low, lower than Sansa ever remembers it being when she was younger. But then, she was younger, and shorter, and a child. She is no child now.

Copying his action, Sansa sets her basket down on the table, making room for the wicker carrier by carefully shifting his guarded sword to stand by the door on its bladed edge.

Jon is stood by the fire, rubbing bare hands above the embers. His cloak seems to hang heavy on his shoulders, all snow-coated and fitting to his name. His skin glows the colour of snow-dusted rusty steel above the fire, all crystal white and fiery amber. You are Snow, and snow is you.

She thinks she must be ivory herself, all flushed and warm and cold eyed.

"That's a rather alarming smell."

She knows what he means, refers to.

There is an overwhelming stench of perished meat lingering in the air, and Sansa cannot remember any such unbearable smell during her childhood.

Perhaps Granny has cooked some dear and forgotten to toss out the scraps. Or mayhap she'd been unsuccessful in finding new food and had settled for a meal of sheer repulsion and desperation.

Sansa heart aches at the thought; Granny eating old rotten meat alone because she cannot hunt fresh food or measly fauna.

"Yes," she agrees. It's hard to bear now that it's been properly pointed out, and the young woman covers her mouth with her palm, pinching her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "It's coming from the back room." She points towards the right corner of where they stand.

She remembers Granny's bedroom being behind the loosely hanging curtain on the left side of the room, and the cramped kitchen residing behind the right.

The living space is sided by those two curtains and the main door, and a third curtain on the wall beside the fireplace. But the third curtain she remembers is now gone, and instead the small doorway is bare to walk through.

Making for the room, she begins to pull on her skirts, gathering the bottom of her robe by her thighs as she heads to relieve herself. It's been too long, and her body is desperate.

The pot is dirtied, hasn't been cleaned for a good moon or so, dusted with leaves flown in from the small window by the metal bathtub. She wipes them off hurriedly, wipes the seat with the bottom of her frosted dress, letting the murky snow wipe clean the true dirt. It'll suffice, and she'll settle.

When she comes back out of the room, her eyes are immediately drawn to the kitchen's blind being swept open, Jon in the doorway. He's quiet, unmoving, one hand wrapped around the knife tucked in his belt.

She makes her up to him, stepping a foot short and placing her hand over his, alerting him of her presence, stopping him from pulling the knife from its guard.

She doesn't know what he intends to use it for, but she's quite certain that bloodshed or wood chipping will help no one.

"Found the source of that reeking smell."

Peering over his shoulder, Sansa claps one hand against the thick material of his cloak to steady herself as she looks ahead. She doesn't let go of his other hand, doesn't even think to.

There is a white rabbit on the floor of Granny's kitchen, split in half from legs to throat. It's a ghastly sight, made worse by the lack of insides. It's been ripped apart and used for bits, served as a meal for something, some animal. Granny is kind when killing, when preparing her suppers.

But the rabbit is lay open on the the muddy floor, and there is a large chunk of meat lay at its side. It can't possibly belong to the small creature, and Sansa bites the insides of her cheeks when she spots the hound rounding the corner before them.

It's hidden behind the old counter on the far end of the still cramped kitchen, and she isn't sure it has seen them yet. It would have attacked, surely; would have leapt for Jon before she even had a chance to reach him, if it had.

"How did it get in here?"

She only speaks in a hushed whisper, but Jon is spinning around before she can ask or say anything else, forcing his hand over her mouth to gag her, keep her quiet.

She loses all grip on him then, hands flailing about as he walks her backward. Almost stumbling over her skirts, her bunches them up at her sides, easing her walk.

He's beside her, walking backwards with one hand clasped firmly over her mouth to control her and the other pulling back the second curtain.

Sansa keeps her eyes clamped shut until he's stopped, brought them into position inside what she gathers is Granny's uneven wardrobe.

Father had built it for her some years back, Sansa remembers, admiring the crooked roof and the unsteady floor. She'd never quite understood why, seen as Granny Lyarra possessed fewer clothes than any of her family members. Maybe she'd wanted it for storage, for her bits and pieces.

It's a cramped space, and the thin door creaks as Jon shuts it behind them. Her body is forced against the wall of its back, shoulders digging into the thick wooden slats.

He stands in front of her, one hand still over her mouth and the other on the panel keeping the door closed, arm crossed over his body, elbow digging into her ribcage.

Eyes open, she can faintly make out the sight of him. But she feels him more than she sees him.

Sansa feels her nose begin to run due to the change in temperature then, so she sniffles and holds her breath steadily, watching his face in the dark for alarm bells.

His palm tightens over her face, and she's almost positive he is looking at her, watching himself.

It's a little rough, his hold on her, and when she wiggles her eyebrows in protest, he loosens his grip. His hands smell like melted ice and old leather, she notes; it's weirdly complimentary to his natural oaky scent.

Shifting his other hand from the wardrobe's cracked opening, Jon lifts a finger to his lips, indicating that she needs to remain quiet.

There's a hound, and a hound means trouble, and trouble means her worst nightmare.

She nods, lips pursed against his calloused flesh until he pulls his hand away and lets her breathe in fresh air.

It isn't fresh though; far from it.

It's unclean, and the haunting smell of rotten meat and flesh dancing below her nostrils cruelly. She half-wishes he would gag her again, with a cloth this time to suffocate the scent and stop the contaminated air from reaching her lungs.

"Sword." She whispers, practically mouths. Unable to stop herself from reminding him of his abandoned weapon, she raises a brow and taps a hand to his belt where it should hang.

His hand clasps over her own though, and he only nods, fist curling tight over her joints so his palm covers her whitened knuckles.

He knows what she means, what she's getting at. But his sword is on the opposite side of the cabin and she isn't sure how he could retrieve it without catching that hound's attention or setting its owner's hidden plan into action.

If one of the hounds if here, if it has made it here alone, than Ramsay must be nearby, or at least very close. Or, perhaps, it came with him and he too is hidden somewhere in her grandmother's shelter of a home.

This seems unlikely, Sansa thinks to herself. He's too proud and loud and stupidly grand to hide in a closet as a vicious surprise for her. How could he even know where her Granny lived?

Jon knew the woods. Sansa knew her Granny. But Ramsay and his men and his hounds had no way of knowing where she would be heading unless he had either acquired a map and a man to guide his party, or assembled of trained hunters who could hunt prey by overtaking it.

How could they have arrived faster than Jon and her? She doesn't know. But she thinks that maybe their day spent in his friend's cabin had given the enemy the advantage.

She hasn't paid much mind to her Granny's whereabouts for a handful of moments now, instead too cooped up in a small wardrobe and worried about whether or not the man she refuses to follow will hunt her and harm her.

But her grandmother hadn't been in the kitchen, nor by or in the bathtub, nor in the living area she so cherished. The rocking chair that no longer rocked because of its one broken leg was her favourite. She had been nowhere to be found, though, and the thought disturbs Sansa.

What if in fact what had happened was the exact opposite of what she was imagining? What if Ramsay had taken her, and only left this one hound behind as a warning? What if her dear Granny was the price to pay for her freedom?

Finally letting go of Jon's belt, she shrugs her hand out of his grasp and raises it up to wipe the bridge of her nose. It's drippy and she sniffles softly behind her palm, concealing the noise the best she can.

How long he plans to make them stay in here, she has no idea. But from the way he looks to be peeking through the crack in the door - well, she assumes, at least - it wouldn't be too long. He's determined, resolute; leave her somewhere safe and return home to his solitude and despair.

It's an awfully sad plan he's mapped out for himself.

"Stay." It's a command, and she will obey because he's her protection now.

Then Jon moves, elbow digging further into her stomach until he slides it higher to rest beneath the crook of her armpit. He leans against the back of the closet with his elbow, and Sansa turns in default, pushed aside by his body. The left side of her body pressing against the door, she now shares his view of the outside.

The crack in the door traces the entire length of the wardrobe's height and Sansa stills as she catches sight of something. Her right hand comes to rest against the wood, head tilting forward to get a closer look as she tries to budge Jon out of the way.

But it's a tight apace, and he has to grab her hips to halt her movements. Fingers digging into her hips, he breathes into her neck, awkwardly stood behind her as she moved ahead of him, "Stop."

She brushes off his demand and squints, peering out through the one long stream of light in their space. In the darkness, she can make out his curled hair falling into the crook of her neck from the corner of her eye, but she doesn't mind. Instead, she tries to keep her gaze forward and on target.

It's strange, the sight before her.

Granny's bed is in direct opposition of the wardrobe, all singular and standing on iron legs. She usually has it made up, pristine and neat and better than even Sansa could manage.

Only the bed covers are pulled all the way up instead of folded and there seems to be some large form tucked away beneath them.

Had Granny been sleeping this whole time?

Taking a closer look, Sansa feels her lips part as she catches a glimpse of a pair of feet hanging over the bed's edge. One is bare, the one adorned with a woman's low suede boot. The laces are undone, as though hurriedly finished. She thinks she recognises them, having tried them on numerous times when she was still young and curious.

There's a thin, almost transparent stream of red liquid trickling down the naked foot, and the droplets spill on the floor. It's a pool of blood.

And then Sansa gathers her thoughts, and realisation hits.

The loudest of cries escape past her lips then, as her world seems to crumble and her knees weaken. She almost buckles over in half, stumbling through the closet doors onto the dirty floor of the house until Jon has wrapped both arms her body and pulled her upright.

Her body appears weak, energy lost, and strength replaced with weakness.

His hold is tight, and she somehow manages to find comfort in the grip his hands have on her waist. Her lungs ache, struggle to gasp fresh breaths of the soiled air. The smell is rotting, the ever-present stench of death hanging above them. It makes sense now she thinks with fluttering lashes.

This is the price she is to pay for a little independence.

All this time, all these days walking and waiting and wandering, and Granny was never going to greet her at the end. Granny was never going to be welcoming her with open arms because Granny was dead and so were Sansa's hopes.

"Stop."

Jon only repeats himself, repeats earlier words, and runs one hand up and down her side, pulling her into him from behind so she feels his chest flush against her coated back. It's soothing, in a way, but painful in another.

He holds her so tight she thinks she may have trouble breathing, almost makes her want to hold her breath and wait for death to come and collect her at his feet.

But it's comforting; the way he holds her so tight she thinks she may have trouble breathing. And he repeats that one word on a loop, and she realises he is trying to calm her down.

"Stop."

Don't panic, don't cry. Please don't scream, don't shriek. You have to stop acting. Stop. Fight. Stop. Please.

Letting her shoulders fall against him entirely, Sansa allows her legs to give way, though she keeps her head held high.

She had been fighting this while time, to survive, to reach her grandmother's house and gain just a little bit of freedom. But it was all in vain.

Her nose is runny again, and her hair itchy at her frustration at the situation, but she has no energy to lift a hand and scratch either itch.

Moulding herself into Jon's body, she lets her eyes close with a bite of her tongue to stop herself from crying.

She has been fighting this whole time, to survive; she isn't going to stop now.

Nodding to reassure him that she is calm, Sansa reaches for the hand on her left side, bringing it up to her mouth until he covers her lips with his palm. She squeezes his fingers, adds pressure to the gag, pushing the ball of her hand against his knuckles until he gets the message.

Hold me there. Don't let me breathe. I'll scream.

She will subdue herself to some pain, to some controlling if she has to, if this will keep her from feeling. It's an awful feeling she doesn't want to experience; the one eating at her insides.

Granny is dead and I do not know why, and I am completely and utterly messed up.

She is messed up, changed as a person, far gone from the girl she was several days ago.

"Sword." She grits her teeth against his hand, mumbles the word out again and again until he hears her properly.

It's dark though, and she cannot see his face, so he pinches her side with his other hand to acknowledge her comment.

He knows what she needs, what he needs to do. But he also needs a plan to move forward and a way of going about things before he can act.

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut again, holding her breath until she can no longer and her heart thumps against her will. She is still alive.

Jon's hold over her mouth slips when he moves, dancing forward until she is back against the wardrobe's flat wall. His fingers sliding below her chin but refusing to lose contact with her skin, his thumb rests on her chin, gentle and distant.

It's ticklish almost, the way his skin is softly tracing over hers, and Sansa is certain he hasn't even acknowledged the shift. It's unintentional, and it deliciously burns her skin so much that when his thumb traces over her bottom lip, she absentmindedly opens her mouth and clamps her teeth down around his knuckle.

She can feel the bone beneath her teeth, the thirsty veins beneath his skin close to bursting when she darts her tongue against them while softly crunching at his muscles. It hurts him, surely, but he doesn't flinch, she notices.

He doesn't move, not fully; only twirls his hand around so he's cupping the side of her face and the pad of thumb lies flat against her tongue. It's melted snow and damp oak and Snow. And she likes it.

Lashes flickering, Sansa opens her eyes to find herself staring directly at him. He's closer to the door now, almost on his way out. But she wants to keep him here, in here, with her, for always.

She's in pain, and grieving, and she isn't sure if he still plans on leaving her.

It would break her if he did, if he left her here and never came back. It would crush her heart and rip her in half. He may as well leave her here and bleeding to be eaten and shredded by that hound if he truly means to desert her.

Her plans have suddenly changed now, she notes. As much pain as their plan caused her, she knew how it would end.

She was to stay here with Granny and go home whenever she liked. And he was to leave and go home as soon as he wanted. Only his home was not her home and this saddened her.

She knows it's foolish, still. She knows this, and yet a part of her still hoped things would end differently.

But perhaps that foolish part of her had been savvier than she'd expected, because now things are different and the plan needs altering.

She'd give him anything if it got him to stay with her, for her. She'd trade her desires for a lifetime of solitude if only it meant she could spend those lonely days at his lonely side.

They could be lonely together; two souls desperate for more but unwilling to act, two hearts loosely tied together with a broken tether.

But he needs to do something now, and work out an escape, and get his sword to get them to safety.

If he can just run, and fight for a moment, then maybe they would have a chance. But hounds are a hungry breed, desperate for food and eager for snacks.

She doesn't plan on being bait, though, and she isn't expecting Jon to, either.

Keeping her lips wrapped around his thumb, she ignores the oddity of the situation to instead point a finger down the crack of light in the door.

It's an awful suggestion, but he will agree once he understands and she will hate herself for thinking of it. It's dangerous, and she isn't sure it will work.

Without another thought, Sansa pushes open the door to the wardrobe, almost falling face-first on the ground as it swings open. Jon wraps a hand around her elbow to pull her up before he's off and heading for the doorway.

She can hear him enticing the dog, encouraging the beast to follow him. He shouts, whistles, and the odds that he could be caught in the outside world by Ramsay or one of his men are high.

They will take their chances, though, Sansa knows. They have to. They have no other alternative.

Pulling the knot of her cape tighter, Sansa holds her breath as she sweeps the furs off of her grandmother's lying body.

She tries to avoid looking at her wounds. But the wounds are huge gashes, and she has been torn apart around the waist. Her stomach empty, she's an easy weight for Sansa to drag from the bed. The acknowledgment of such disgusts the redhead.

She had never imagined herself in such a situation. How could she?

No person should ever have to drag their savagely killed grand-parent around like this.

Shooting a glance outside the room, she notices Jon's sword disappeared from the door, the sheath thrown on the floor, slowly being coated in falling snowflakes from the wind outside.

It blows fast and loud, and she isn't sure if the noises she can hear are howling or gusts of wind. Perhaps Ghost had returned to them, alive and hungry and ready to fight; they'd lost him for the briefest of moments upon arrival at the house. He hadn't come in, only gone around the cabin to scour its land.

When the old woman in dropped onto the floor with the slightest of thuds, Sansa keeps her eyes focused on the ceiling as she pulls the largest blanket she can find from the bed and lies it out on the floor.

It's wide enough, she reckons. Upon second glance, she recognises it as her Granny's favourite, and the fate of such a circumstance is chilling to her.

Once the blanket is laid flat, she pulls on the booted leg of the woman's body.

She has to pretend this is somebody else, that this isn't her dear sweet grandmother she is dragging from a bed and covering with a blanket. What would Father or Mother say? Gods.

Her body is stiff, all bluing and bruised where her blood has stopped flowing. It must have been hours, days. Swallowing a long deep breath, Sansa breathes through her mouth and blocks her nasal respiration until she has her grandmother all spread out on the blanket.

She cannot afford to think about Jon or what is happening outside. If he dies, she is alone and most likely going to die herself. If he survives, she is left with two options. He leaves her with no goodbye, or comes back to her.

"Sansa."

He's in the doorway then, her Jon with speckles of fresh red blood on his face and his sword dropping to the floor at his side. There's a thick coating of blood on the blade, half-coated with clumps of matted fur imbedded in the blood.

"Gods."

She runs to him then, hands sweeping at his face to rid him of the blood. But it spreads across his face and Sansa's gloves stick from the moisture.

He doesn't seem to mind though, the blood on his face, as he looks behind her and admires her handiwork.

It's awful, she knows; what she's done, what she's had to do.

"There's a lake."

She doesn't question what happened outside, only nods once, twice, and once more when Ghost appears in the doorway behind his master. Thank the Gods.

Sansa picks up his dropped sword and leans it against the freshly empty bed, blade scraping the floor.

Leaning down, she waits until Jon is at her level and side before grabbing her corner of the blanket and beginning to roll it over, making sure they are in sync.

Her grandmother deserves better. Well, deserved better.

When the blanket is rolled up, the elderly woman's crippled limbs stored safely inside, Sansa stands with shaking hands. She watches as Jon picks her up, over his shoulder, unwilling to let the dangling feet divert his attention.

He makes for the door before she can make peace with their situation, and she follows quickly behind, grabbing his dirtied sword on her way. They may need it.

Ghost follows them as they go, trailing behind to keep watch after Sansa. He nudges his nose against the sword every now and again, smelling the blood with flakes of falling snow dancing on his fur.

It's a powerful image, Sansa finds. Snow white fur and stark red blood. She thinks the contrast is similar to that of her and Jon. Fiery copper and its black shadow.

She is the fire and he is the embers.

They seem to walk for only a moment before they're reaching a vast opening, where small rosebushes shrink in size until they cease to exist and snowy mud leads the way to the edge of a lake.

She follows Jon down the dock, where there are two boats tied to the wooden post at its end. She doesn't know who they belong to, nor does she care to find out.

"Steady."

He's plopping the rolled up blanket down into one of the boats then, and Sansa has to convince herself that it's an animal they're depositing. It's a dead animal and they need to get rid of it so others don't go after it. The smell of rotten flesh would attract many, surely.

He's holding out his hand to her then, waiting for her to take it and join him on the small boat.

It seems like only minutes ago that she was discovering her grandmother's dead body beneath crumpled sheets. But time flies, and they have to act fast.

Taking his hand, Sansa grips his shoulder to gather her balance before settling down on the boat's bench, sliding his sword down at her feet. It's a thin slate of wood, and her legs curl beneath her as Jon unwinds the rope from the dock.

He knows what he's doing, Sansa tells herself. They won't be lost, they won't drown.

Ghost lies down patiently, giant head on giant paws, on the dock's edge as they depart, determined and on a path of no-return.

Once they're out in the middle of the lake, Jon lays down the paddle she hadn't known he'd been holding and brushing back and forth against the water's current.

"Are you sure?"

Unwilling to ponder over her decision for another moment, Sansa nods her head and stands with unsteady legs.

She waits for Jon to grab the end of the blanket and heave it up onto the side of the boat before placing her palms flat against what she can only assume are her grandmother's once comforting arms.

With a lick of her lips, the young woman nods once more, glancing at Jon to confirm her wish. He copies her, places both hands flat against the blanket and pushes.

They push in unison until the rolled up mass falls from the edge of the boat, sending them rocking back and forth unevenly. Sansa grips at the side of the boat to balance herself while Jon retrieves his paddle and settles the water around them.

When they're steady, she allows herself to sit back down, facing the side of the small boat this time, eyes downcast.

"There was no choice."

She knows it's supposed to be comforting, reassuring, but in reality Jon's words do little to soothe the ache in her heart.

"I know." She agrees, licks her lips and watches as he places one hand on his knee and one on her own.

It comforts her more than any words could, she discovers.

They're rowing back, slow and sure and ice cold beneath the beginning of a snowstorm. If it gets any thicker, any worse, they will have nowhere to go, to travel.

They will either die or part ways. Sansa isn't sure which is worse.

When they reach the dock, Jon only helps her get off o the boat with hands wrapped around her elbows. It's then that she notices he had abandoned his cloak back in the cabin and his skin is freezing.

His nose is red, the contours of his eyes pink from the flushing weather.

She tugs on his wrist then, firmly wielding his sword in her other hand as they head off, Ghost once again at their feet.

"Sansa."

Ignoring his call, she continues on in a hurry until her Granny's house is in sight. She's almost dragging him behind her, he with the tired bones and bloody face, he with the aching joints and freezing flesh.

She forces him past the threshold of the house once they arrive at the door, and his dry sword gets tossed aside on the floor by the fire.

She makes quick work of filling up the bathtub with steaming water she pours from the handle on the wall. Granny had a strangely heated well, she remembers.

Coming back over to him, Sansa shrugs off her cape and pulls on her braid to loosen her hair until it hangs free.

"Take your clothes off."

She is the stronger one now. She is the one with the flaming skin and the dangerous eyes. He is little more but bruised muscles and ice cold skin.

When he refuses to act, or has no energy to do so from the change in climate and bodily temperature, Sansa stalks forward and grabs ahold of his jerkin.

He is cold and near sick.

She pulls on his clothes, on the strings and fastenings until his chest is bare and his lips are quivering.

He's tried to ignore it, she finds. He has been ill for days and refused to mention it. His chest is covered in splotches of blue and yellow, old and new bruises staining his skin. He has a stab mark by his heart, and she silently ponders over the miracle of such a wound.

There are two fresh gashes down by his abdomen, in the shape of claw marks and blood is oozing from them, though it dries before it can spill onto the floor.

His stomach muscles clench when she touches him, warm fingertips tapping against chilly flesh. She pushes, prods at him until he grabs her wrist and stops her.

"Would you have ever told me you weren't well?"

Jon only keeps his head ducked, but he lifts a brow in jest and attempts a smile.

"You said you'd take me home."

"I'll get you there."

She stabs at his abdomen again, and his fist curls, burns around her wrist.

"You never would have told me."

He shrugs, refuses to meet her eyes this time.

"You never would have told me," she repeats. "You would have just gone home and died."

She twists her hand in his grasp and bites her bottom lip at the stinging sensation when he refuses to let go.

"You would have gone home to your little cabin and died, and nobody would have even known you existed in the first place." She twists her wrist again, "That's what you wanted it, isn't it?"

"Aye, that's what I wanted."

"Is that still what you want?"

"I want you to go home. I want to take you there, and leave you there."

"Why?" She stabs at him again, with her free hand, and he doesn't grab her this time. "Why are you so determined to rid yourself of me?"

"Because I don't need you."

Sansa nods, chews at the inside of her bottom lip, "That's true. You don't need me." She confirms, finally twists her wrist out of his grasp and pushes his arm away. Wrapping her fingers around the strings of his breeches, Sansa tugs at the loose knot and roughly pulls on the laces until they hang free, "But you do want me."

He doesn't refuse her, doesn't fight when she slips her hands down his backside and pushes his breeches and garments down his legs until he's stood completely bare before her, stepping out of his socks and boots when she tells him to.

"You can't deny that, at least."

Sansa smiles, stands back and casually lets her eyes travel down his body. Her cheeks flush at the sight of his live member and she swallows a breath.

"Get in the water."

Nodding her head over at the bathtub in the other room, she waits for him to depart before she heads over to the dying fire and adds logs onto the flames, relighting the source of heat.

When she catches sight of him again, he's halfway into the tub, hands gripping the sides, muscled back curved as he lowers himself into the boiling water.

He groans when the heat meets his wounds, easing the blood from its new infection. "For fuck's sake." Jon mutters through gritted teeth and Sansa grins.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, allowing him a minute or so to settle down and get used to the sweltering heat.

When he sinks lower in the full tub, turning off the tap to stop the water flow, Sansa watches as he groans, eyes closing in some kind of pleasurable agony.

Scrunching up an old rag she finds on the table by the window, Sansa approaches the edge of the bath. She kneels down at first, taking her time to roll up her sleeves, before picking the cloth back up and dropping it down into the water.

Waiting for it to soak through, she stares down at Jon's face, the way his lips gradually turn from a greying lavender to a pastel pink colour.

Clutching the cloth between her fingers, she rests her free hand on his back and pushes him up into a sitting position. Jon flinches at the sensation, having not realised her proximity, nor her intentions.

Sansa only nods to assure him that she won't press too hard on his wounds, and when his body relaxes, she swipes the soaked towel down his front, circling the claw marks low on his abdomen.

His teeth shatter and grind together, she notices, and her touch softens just the slightest when she smoothes over the bloody scratches.

He's bruised and worn and sore, but she knows this pain he feels is nothing new. He has lived, and suffered, and known anguish and loss. He knows what she's feeling, she thinks; perhaps even more than he would ever let on.

Sansa pauses when he brings his arms to rest along the sides of the tub, fingers encircling the rim and dragging himself to sit up straight.

He groans at the ache again, and bites his tongue when she drags the cloth over his bruised chest, trying to avoid pushing too hard against his sternum.

Trailing the towel over his collarbone, she sweeps it up his neck, his throat engulfed by the cloth caught between her thumb and forefinger. She could strangle him if she wanted to. He would let her.

"You were right."

His words catch her off-guard, and she stills when his hand on her side of the tub comes to toy with a long strand of hair at her front. He pulls it out from the gathering of her robe and twirls it around his finger.

"What was I right about?"

Everything, he wants to tell her.

You were right about my strange longing for death and all that that entails. You were right about me wanting you, and about me denying it. You were right to have feelings for me and wish for my own affections in return. You were right. You were right, and I'm no wolf. I'm but a man with a broken heart and a crippling fear of it being repaired.

"About this." He tries a smile, again, and they're turning in circles. They'll never talk, not truly.

He nods down at the bathtub, where water swirls around him as he lifts his legs to bring his knees up to his chin.

His finger around her hair twirls and curls and pulls, and she leans closer despite his gentleness. He cups her cheek for a moment, but then his hand moves lower and curves down the side of her neck.

Her breath holds, her hand still firmly clutching at the towel against his chest, her other resting in her lap.

Sansa shifts onto her knees when he draws her closer, eyeing her lips and rosy cheeks. Her head ducks when his touch lingers over her chest, as though he's in deep contemplation over something.

"It's warm." He tells her, and it takes her a moment to realise he is talking about the water's temperature. "Won't you join me?" His hand over her chest finally tugs at the ties of her dress then, roughly pulling on the loose strings until it hangs open at her breasts and Sansa gasps, dropping the cloth in her shock.

She doesn't budge an inch when his bruised hand sweeps past the material of her robe and her shift and cups her breast firmly.

Her eyes only close and her breath catches anew when he does the same with the other side and yanks the top of her dress down to her upper arms, freeing the skin of her shoulders.

It's uncomfortable and constricting - the heavy robes around her arms - so Sansa stands and pulls at the stomach of her dress until it pools at her waist. Her shift hangs loose and she pulls it out from beneath her robe, tossing it down onto the damp floor beside the bathtub.

"Like this?"

"Not quite."

He shakes his head, finds some energy from somewhere and shifts onto his knees.

Perhaps it's the adrenaline, or the desire, or the sheer lust. "Like this." He tugs at the waist of her dress harshly, ignoring the lacings and watching as it tears beneath his hands, and falls at her feet.

"You ruined my dress."

"You won't be needing it anymore."

"No?" She lifts a brow, tosses her red hair behind her ears and licks at her lips once his hands grasp her hips again.

Sansa removes his hands from her body briefly to prop her leg up on the rusty tub. She tugs at the laces, tries to ignore the way his hands glide up her calf and thigh. When her shoe is untied, she removes the boot and sock and follows suit with the other leg.

He drags her closer then, right beside the tub, his face almost buried between her clothed legs. He mumbles a 'No', allows gooseflesh to erupt all over her skin and pebble her nipples before he pulls on her small-clothes slowly, once her boot and sock are gone and she is spread open before him.

His calloused hands are smooth down her backside as he draws the material down, bending her leg back into a straight position. He drops the clothes when they reach her knees and grips her legs, thumbs on the inside of her thighs.

"Join me."

"Ask me nicely."

"Join me, won't you?"

"Try again."

He tightens his hold on her thighs, and Sansa smiles. "Get in the fucking water."

She complies at that, willingly letting him smack one hand against her backside as she lowers herself down into the bathtub. She curves her hands over the edges, letting his own cover them, and falls back against his body with a slight moan.

"Warm?"

"Not enough." The water is boiling, scolding hot even, and she is teasing him. "Perhaps friction will warm me up."

"Friction?" He holds back a chuckle, she hears, and the noise is enchanting yet practically foreign to her. "Just what do you want me to do exactly?"

"Rub me."

Jon shifts, chest smoothing against her back, "How so?"

She grabs his hands at that, placing his right over her right breast and his left down between her legs. She spreads them wide, as wide as the tub can allow, and leans her head back against his shoulder, face turned into his neck, lips nipping at his flesh.

There is still blood there, she observes with hazy eyes before allowing them to close when his fingers shift below the water, spreading her apart and parting her nervous flesh.

"Is this what you want?" His voice is husky against her ear, all northern gruff and dark. "You want me to rub you there?"

Sansa nods, the wet ends of her hair weighing her down. She feels herself sinking when he rubs circles against her centre, middle fingers desperately seeking out her crevices and thumb tracing her nub in repeated motions.

He brings it back and forth over her peach, and she's reminded of her lips curled around that same finger earlier, sucking and licking at the skin.

Her eyes shut at the memory, lashes fluttering over her cheeks, and she cries out when he pinches her nipple between his fingers while stimulating the space between her legs.

"Gods."

"Good?"

"Yes. The Gods are good." She affirms with an excited nod, arching her back beneath the water's brink. She scrapes against him, all tired limbs and aching muscles. "The Gods are very good."

"Am I good?"

When he receives no immediate reply, Jon pinches her again, once on her nipple, once on her peach. It stings and she gasps. When he repeats the question, Sansa refuses to answer once again. Curiosity has eaten her alive.

No, you aren't good. You helped me toss my dead grandmother into a freezing lake. No, you aren't good. You won't fuck me like I ask.

But if you're bad, then I am, too. And if you're twisted, then I am, too, and I wholeheartedly hope we never unwind.

"Am I bad then?" He voices, "Am I the big bad wolf?"

She nods, unwilling to submit to his questioning. He's toying with her, she knows it. He won't give her what she truly wants. He never will, so why should she encourage him to leave her wet and wanting?

"Am I the big bad wolf?"

He grits his teeth this time, and his voice is rougher. He sounds bad, as though he could tower over her scared frame and scare the wits right out of her. But he won't, and she knows this. He won't hurt her, not really.

She can only pay little mind to his words, anyhow, because his fingers are working furiously against her lips and she can feel herself clench and unclench to build up her own frustration. It'll never end, this desire she feels, this need to be touched and held and played with by him.

It's only when he has slipped two fingers inside her, and the ball of his hand is rubbing against her nub that she lets slip a cry. She tingles, and her legs want to straighten out as her climax builds, but the tub is cramped as she has to lift her backside to find release instead, toes curling as he traces his thumb is circles over her clit.

"Gods."

"You didn't answer my question." Jon points out, and her eyes flicker open to catch a look at him.

His hair is wet, disheveled and curly and black as a burnt down forest. Perhaps he is the big bad wolf, after all.

"You're a wolf, and you're big." She smirks, closing her eyes again, wrapping one arm around his neck from behind her head.

Sansa pulls him to her, draws his face to rest in the crook of her neck. It's close, closer than they've ever been, closer than she ever thought she could get him.

"How big?"

"Big enough that I'm not entirely sure I could handle what I've been begging for."

"Have you been begging?" He stiffens a laugh and groans when she rubs her backside against his lap, parting her cheeks over his groin. "I don't remember you getting down on your knees."

"You would if you'd let me." She reasons, sways her hips forwards and backwards, gripping at his neck with one arm, her other hand clasped tightly around the curve of the tub's edge.

"You never asked."

"Would you, then?" She bats her lashes, flickers her eyes open and stare at him. Her lips are dry. He hasn't kissed her, hasn't touched her lips with his own in hours, maybe hours. "Would you like me to get down on my knees and beg you to fuck me with that big cock, wolf?"

His face is tucked safely against her neck, his mouth pressing constant kisses against her throat as he continues to toy with her nipples, "Would I be bad if I refused?"

"Yes." She confirms, "Because I'm desperately in need of being fucked."

"And if I agree?"

"Then I'll get down on my knees and take your cock in my mouth and let you do what you want to me."

"I think perhaps you're worse than I am."

"Are you saying I'm the big bad wolf, now? I thought I was nothing but a meagre little lamb."

"You're a wolf, aye." He grins; she feels the curl of his lips against her sensitive flesh. And he plucks at her clit again.

"And I'm big and bad then?" Sansa teases, releasing herself from his grasp and pulling herself up until she stands in the tub.

Her feet remain on either side of his thighs and she smoothes both hands down her sides, watching as his eyes shift from her dripping breasts to her damp and wet cunny.

"Don't bad girls deserve to be punished?"

"That depends on how bad you've been?"

Sansa escapes from the bath then, hands gripping the rim to steady herself. She knows he will follow suit, so she makes her way out of the room, down toward where the fire blazes on.

"What if I ran away from home?"

"Why did you run away?" He's behind her; she heard the splash of the water and she can feel his breath dancing along her neck.

"My parents wanted me to marry someone I didn't want to marry. I ran away in the middle of the night, didn't tell anyone I was leaving."

"I'm sure your parents are worried."

Sansa bats her lashes, feels the slightest of shivers run up her spine as she settles herself down before the fireplace, toying with the bottle in her hands she'd plucked from her basket on her way over. "Oh, and a witch gave me wine, or ale, or something terribly indecent for young ladies to drink."

She pulls the still unopened flask up at her side, unscrews the cap before taking the smallest of swigs. It's disgustingly strong, and it burns her throat.

She has to cough out a protest at the flavour, and Jon pries the bottle from her hands, eagerly and easily chugging down a sip or two before placing it aside.

"That's rather bad of you."

"That isn't all." She mockingly informs him a shake of her head, damp strands of hair clinging to her shoulders, "I met a man, on my travels. He's handsome, and smart, and brave. But I fear he can be quite dangerous."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. He said he wanted to eat me. Or taste me. Or lick me. I'm not too sure which it was, if I'm honest." She quips with a shrug, leaning back on her elbows against the furs spread out before the roaring fire. "I let him, though. I let him do all of those things. I quite enjoyed it."

"Did your mother never tell you not to talk to strangers?"

"She told me, yes. But when they're so rudely charming I can't not let them lick my pussy dry, can I?"

"Is that what he did then? This man you met on your travels…"

He has followed her lead, had lowered himself down onto the furs she sinks into and he hovers above her with purpose. She has never felt so frightened yet excited.

Sansa nods, leans back when he leans forward, arms stretching over her until his palms lie flat against the sides of her head. "Yes. Well, I say he licked me dry." She frowns, smoothes a hand down her stomach until she reaches between her legs. "I'm always so wet. Would you like to see?"

Raising a brow, she waits for Jon to shift his gaze down to her lap before she spreads her legs and pulls her folds aside to afford him the dampest of treats.

"Do you see? I just keep imagining his mouth being force-fed my pussy and his tongue just won't stop fucking me. I think he liked it, you know? The taste of me on his lips? He could probably savour me for hours. It's no wonder I keep wanting to shove his head between my legs and let him spread me in half with that tongue of his."

"Gods."

"Yes. The Gods are good." Her cheeks are flushed. "But I'm rather bad, wouldn't you say?" Her chest pants when he lingers nearer, if at all possible. She's nervous, little more than a frightened young woman with a man between her legs and no knowledge as of what to do.

"Has he fucked you yet?"

"No. He won't. He refuses me." To hear the words is damaging, and she feels her heart crush at the truth. "I'm half convinced he doesn't even want me."

There are tears behind her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall, to let slip out and reveal her true self, her inner a d utmost identity.

I'm a girl who knows little of the world, but I happen to think I love you and I want nothing more than for you to love me in return.

She will settle for less, though. She will let him have her if only it means she can have him.

"How could a lonely man not want a beautiful girl like you?"

"Because I'm a little bit foolish and a little bit messed up. Because I pretend I'm somebody else just so one man will want me. Even if the person they want isn't who I truly am."

"Then who are you really?"

"A lonely beautiful girl who wants a lonely handsome man to love her because she is in love with him and her heart will surely break if he doesn't want her in return."

She can feel his hand at her side, on her hip, thumb rubbing circles into her bone. It's calm and soothing and her eyes close. Her breathing doesn't steady, though; it can't, not now.

The one thing she has asked for will be refused one last time and she will crumble, be rendered a fraction of who she was.

"You can't expect someone to return your feelings just because you love them. You're sure to be disappointed."

He is going to refuse her, and smirk it away. He is going to deny her his heart and she won't even blame him.

The fault is all her own. She dove head first into a dangerous situation; this is the price she will pay.

At this realisation, Sansa goes to sit herself up to avoid any unwanted tears spilling past her closed eyes. She doesn't want to cry in front of him, doesn't want to see his face and his pity for her.

She doesn't want pity, sympathy. She doesn't want a pat on the back or an apology with a smile.

But she is naked and bare, and as vulnerable as her name day here beneath him. She is innocent, and his for the taking if he only chooses to be brutish.

When she sits up, he grips her waist and stops her, forcing her to lie back down on the furs. The thought alone of what he can, might do makes her anxious enough, but then his hands are on her thighs and she is holding her breath.

Perhaps she misjudged him. Perhaps she gave him too much credit, thought him to be kinder than he truly was.

"Let me go."

"No."

"Jon." She can feel the tears pool at the corners of her eyes again, and this time she will let them drop. This is her last hope, her last resort at escaping with her heart intact. "Jon, please."

She's pleading, and crying, and he only lets her sit up before he's pulling her into his chest.

Hand wrapped around the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, this is exactly what she hadn't wanted.

"Jon, let me go."

His face is mushed up in her hair, voice melodiously husky at her ear. "How am I supposed to let you go when I'm in love with you?"

His fingers in her hair tilt her head back then, and she stares up at his face, all teary-eyed and flushed cheeks.

"You aren't still playing the game, are you?" She whispers in a mumble, throat clogged and lips dry.

He can only shake his head, eyes lighter than she has ever seen them and lips curling into a sincere smile. "That would be terribly cruel of me, wouldn't it?"

There is no snark, no teasing. He is honest and real and she is willing to let herself cry.

"Okay."

"Aye." He nods, confirms her realisation of their situation, their admissions. "Would you like me to make love to you now?"

Sansa feels her chest weight her down and she lies herself back down on the furs, moving her arms to rest beside her head, letting him intertwine his left hand with her right.

"You aren't going to fuck me?"

She isn't certain she knows the difference.

"No." He frowns, glances down at her curious face. "One day, maybe. If you really want me to."

"How is this any different?"

Jon grins, all teeth and crooked smile. He leans down then, pressing his lips against her own, feeling her mouth curve into a smile against his lips.

She moans out when he slips his hand from her waist to her left thigh and softly grasps her flesh, pulling her leg to the side.

She willingly spreads her legs, tilting her head backwards to catch a glimpse of the snow falling down outside through the window.

His grip on her hand tightens, and her nails dig into his knuckles when Jon centres himself at her entrance, "Do you want me to stop?" It's a dangerous question, and Sansa doesn't think she could ever deny him. She is lonely and lovely and curiously enamoured with him. She loves him, wants him, has his full adoration and love in return.

"No." She shakes her head to confirm her statement, and her free hand clasps at his upper arm when he pushes into her, breaching her barrier with the sharpest of sensations.

The ache is haunting at first, but the pain dulls after a moment or two, and she steadily finds her pace with him. He waits, though. He waits for her to calm and settle and steady her breathing.

She is on the edge, on the brink of something quasi foreign to her, and he will take his time with her.

"Are you close?"

Before she can answer him, there is a terribly glorious shiver running up her spine, and she feel every fraction on an inch he moves within her. It's alarming, really, how alive she is in the moment, how awake he has made her within minutes.

Sansa winces when he hits a certain spot, and her nails mark his skin at the sensation. It isn't painful though, and she encourage him by wrapping her legs around his waist, heels pressing into the top of his backside. Unclasping their joined hands, she moves her own to his back, and scratches at the flesh of his lower back, press-pulling him forward with the palm of her hand, "Harder. Please."

He won't deny her that, she knows, and Jon complies by thrusting himself deeper within her, bruising her hips in his grip. His fingers bend to mould against her curves and he kisses her again, harder this time. He will agree to each and every request she could possibly make. "Hard enough?"

She nods, unsure if her body could withstand anything more. He's buried deep inside her, and she can feel herself building a bridge to reach her end; her nerves on fire and her limbs numbing out.

She grips his backside when her cunny muscles tighten around him, hips curling and snapping to meet his own, her wetness clamped around his length, forcing him to spend his seed inside of her.

It's an odd feeling, the way warm liquid sticks between her legs when he withdraws and he wipes them clean with a nearby garment.

It's caring, she finds, and a smile graces her face when he pulls on her abandoned cape from over the back of a chair and draws it over them. It covers her more than it does him, and their legs roam free beneath the red cover. He is warm though, finally, and Sansa lets her eyes drift shut at the calm silence around them.

He buries his body behind her, arm flung over her waist and pulling her into his front. It's reassuring and she finds comfort in the swell of his body.

"Was that mating?" She turns her neck to face him, feeling his beard dance along her sensitive neck as he kisses her skin, lower and lower until he reaches her shoulder.

Jon only chuckles, grinning into the curve of her neck, mouth pressing behind her ear, sending an eruption of gooseflesh down her body, "That's something else, entirely, wolf."