Chapter 7 - And The Arms Of The Ocean Are Carrying Me

And the arms of the ocean are carrying me

And all this devotion was rushing out of me

And the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me

But the arms of the ocean delivered me…

— "Never Let Me Go," Florence and the Machine; Ceremonials

"Come in," Sansa called to the soft rap on the other side of the cabin door, as she momentarily looked up from the shirt she was mending.

"Apologies for disturbing you, m'lady." Gendry offered her a sheepish smile, as he always did, over the tray he carried. "Just bringing you an early supper."

Sansa eyed the pewter tray as he placed it on the table before her. One plate. One tankard. Dinner for one… again.

Damn him.

It had been days since she'd last lain eyes upon Jon—days since he'd stormed from the cabin, leaving her to her own devices with only her stubborn pride to keep her company.

Well fine, then.

Sansa bit her lip in frustration, shoving the needle through the fabric with more force than was necessary, and carelessly pricked her unsuspecting finger. "Oh!"

"Are you alright, m'lady?" Gendry asked after her yelp of surprise. He watched with concern as she sucked the wounded appendage into her mouth to catch the blood before it dropped to stain Jon's shirt.

"I'm fine." Sansa plucked her finger from between her lips and offered him a reassuring smile. Quickly, she set her sewing aside to grasp at his hand before he could run off as swiftly as he always did.

"Tell me, Gendry, where does your captain sup if not here in his quarters?" With me, she fought the urge to add.

"In the galley, m'lady, with the crew, as he did before your arrival."

"Does he sleep and dress there now, too?" Sansa snapped without thinking, her temper getting the best of her after being isolated for so long.

She clamped her mouth shut, surprised at her outburst as was Gendry, which was evident by his sharp intake of breath.

"Do you need anything else, m'lady? Oil for the lamps? Some more wine, perhaps?" He swallowed and cast a nervous glance at the cabin door, and Sansa knew as soon as she relinquished her hold on him, he'd sprint from her presence like a frightened animal.

Very well.

"Yes." Sansa offered him her politest of smiles, and shoved her tray away with her free hand. It wasn't him she was angry with, after all. "Please inform your captain that I too will take my meals in the galley, henceforth."

"Yes, m'lady." Gendry nodded curtly as Sansa released her grip and, as expected, scooped up her tray and stole for the door like his very life was dependent upon it.

His hasty departure was exchanged with a rush of warm air, which Sansa inhaled deeply, tasting the salt of the sea on her tongue. Her lungs ached for some fresh air; her skin, for the warm kiss of the sun that wasn't filtered by the thick panes of colored glass that adorned the windows at the back of Jon's cabin.

She knew she was being terribly insufferable—and perhaps even a bit childish—but Sansa was beginning to feel like a prisoner again. It was as if she had traded her gilded cage in the Red Keep for this floating wooden box. In King's Landing, she had no one once Margaery had taken her leave; here, Jon—her own flesh and blood—was but a stone's throw away, and yet it felt as if the width of entire oceans separated them.

That simply would not do. Not when he was all she had left in the world presently. And certainly not if she had anything to say about it. Although, just what exactly she would say… Well, Sansa hadn't quite figured that part out yet.

She reached for her sewing again, a blush creeping to warm her skin as the memory of several mornings ago rushed to the forefront of her mind. She thought about it more than she cared to admit—in fact, she thought of little else.

Of the feel of him pressed tightly against her, his strong arms wrapped around her, holding her. Safe and warm. Protected. It had been a luxury long forgotten while at the mercy of the Lannisters.

And, Seven save her, but Sansa had been loathe to relinquish the feeling—chasing his comforting warmth and security even as he pulled away from her—even as she knew they had crossed some sort of invisible line, and it was wrong.

And yet…

Dancing in that state between her dreams and wakefulness, it had not felt wrong at all. Jon's breath hot in her hair and against her ear, the warm scrape of his calloused palm as it skimmed across her bare skin… How strangely she had behaved, as a new, raw hunger stoked her insides and her body hummed beneath his touch—not quite knowing what it was that she wanted, only that she wanted more.

The sound of her name on his lips—her name, no one else's—had only served to exacerbate the conflicting feelings unfurling and warring deep within her, and the sudden and frightening inability to rein in her own traitorous body. Truly, her anger with Jon had been born of her own shame—hers, and no one else's—for she had indeed placed his hand upon her breast, despite her denial.

And now his avoidance, her isolation… It was all too much to bear.

Sansa released a shuddering breath, grateful for the knock at the cabin door that startled her from her thoughts. She dropped her forgotten sewing onto the tabletop once more, to quickly smooth her hands down the front of Jon's borrowed shirt and comb her fingers through the tangles in her hair.

Perhaps she should have been more concerned with her rumpled appearance instead of losing herself in her thoughts again, she mused, as Sansa cleared her throat and steeled herself for Jon's ire—however deserved.

"Come in." Her voice cracked with the nervousness suddenly rolling riotously within her empty stomach.

The door creaked open slowly, and Sansa held her breath. Her heart promptly sunk to her belly with the heavy weight of disappointment as Gendry made a cautious re-entry. Alone, and with the same pewter tray in hand.

"M'lady." He swallowed convulsively as he laid the tray down before her.

"The captain sends his regards and—" Gendry spoke slowly, as if he mulled over his words before permitting them to touch her ears, and Sansa immediately knew they were not Jon's cordially spoken refusal, but Gendry's careful spin "—with deep regret, he must insist the lady partake her meals within the safety of his cabin for the time being."

Damn him, indeed.

Sansa was at a loss for words, her hand clutched at her abdomen to ease the unsettling disappointment that was quickly turning to hurt and regret—thick and suffocating and—

Anger.

Like tinder to a dying fire, it roared to life—bursting forth from somewhere deep within, refusing to be contained. She was tired of burying it, of shoving it down, of being the proper, genteel lady who simply accepted her lot with lowered lashes and meek acquiesces.

No more.

White-hot and blinding, it pulsed in her veins and pounded in her ears, drowning out the sound of Gendry's voice as Sansa stood abruptly and stomped from the cabin. Out the door and onto the quarterdeck, it drove her forward—thud-thud-thudding in time with her rampant heartbeat as she scanned the faces of the men who paused from their tasks to regard her with glances both curious and wary.

Sansa paid them no mind, spreading her arms out to steady herself as the deck planks beneath her bare feet seemed to sway with the motion of the surrounding sea. There was but one man she sought, and he was not among the faces staring back at her.

"M'lady, please—" Gendry's soft plea went unanswered, his gently restraining hand upon her shoulder easily shaken off, as Sansa took a step forward, then another, searching…

It was his voice she heard—the rich timbre of his northern accent, carrying from the deck above on the favorable winds—still soothing somehow, even as it barked orders at his crew. And even while she still seethed with anger at him.

Sansa whirled at the sound of it, her hair whipping about as she turned her face into the choppy wind. Her gait clumsy with the rocking of the ship, but determined in her purpose, she ascended the steps to the upper deck, not breaking stride until she stood before him at the ship's helm.

"Is something wrong with your dinner, Lady Stark?" Jon asked, infuriatingly polite, despite the muscle ticking in his jaw.

Davos shifted uncomfortably beside him and cleared his throat. He wasn't the only one who was eyeing the spectacle unfolding; the crew watched too, some of them with the good sense to at least keep their heads lowered in an effort to be less conspicuous.

Mistaking her silence for affirmation, Jon continued, "Then if there isn't a problem, perhaps you'd be so kind as to allow Gendry to escort you back to your allotted quarters?"

His tone remained cool, but his grey eyes smoldered with an intensity that caused Sansa to shiver and pull his commandeered shirt more tightly against her. He nodded to Gendry, who reached for her.

"I will not," she stammered, taking a half-step sideways to avoid Gendry's grasp.

She clenched the worn linen more securely in her fists, as Jon continued to rake his heated gaze unabashedly along the planes of her body. He meant to disarm her—unsettle and rattle her with his cool aloofness, and send her skittering away like some silly cowed female. She would not give him the satisfaction.

"I wish to speak with you," Sansa kept her tone crisp as she feigned bravado that she didn't truly feel, boldly rejecting his dismissal, her blue eyes shooting invisible daggers across the space that separated them.

"This is neither the appropriate time or place for a discussion, Lady Stark," Jon shot back, his eyes burning a path from the top of her fiery red hair to the tips of her bare toes, yet again. "Nor are you dressed properly for such company."

Sansa's cheeks began to burn. Whether her reaction was born from the truth of his statement, or the way his heated stare seemed to caress her flesh through the clothing she wore, she could not be certain.

"And pray tell, when will it be an appropriate time, ser? Since you're obviously ashamed of your licentious behavior, and seem intent on avoiding me for the duration of our trip." Sansa hurled the accusation at him with the precision of a well-honed blade, her tongue just as sharp.

A collection of gasps rang out through the crowd, a blatantly painful reminder that they were not alone, and that Sansa had just dared to insult him—and his character—in the presence of his entire crew.

"That's a rather presumptuous statement." Jon's tone dropped dangerously low, his grip tightening on the helm.

"When left to one's own devices, one can only be presumptuous, Captain." His title dripped with disdain from her lips as Sansa raised her chin defiantly, for she could not afford to back down now. "I will not be confined to your cabin like a prisoner."

"You are not a prisoner," Jon growled, the muscle in his jaw ticking wildly now, his knuckles white upon the helm. "You do not have the proper attire to be traipsing around on deck, Lady Stark, and furthermore, this conversation is over."

Before his words had even begun to register in her mind, Jon had released the helm and was stalking towards her with the smooth predatory gait of a wolf—beautiful and dangerous. His grey eyes shone with an intensity that both frightened and mesmerized her, pinning her in place when every instinct she possessed screamed at her to flee.

But of course, she did not flee. Her feet remained rooted to the deck, her legs heavy and leaden as Jon bore down upon her, a snarl curling on his lips. Sansa clutched more tightly at the shirt she wore, her heart stuttering wildly in her chest as it slammed against her ribs so loudly that it echoed in her ears.

"P-please," she stammered when he stood but a breath apart from her—so close she could almost taste the ire radiating off of him in waves, bitter on her tongue.

"The time for pleasantries has long expired, my lady," Jon snapped, his hands clasping her upper arms in a grip that was surprisingly gentle, despite his harsh, clipped tones.

On instinct, Sansa's hand—a useless deterrent—came up, delicate palm splayed flat against the breadth of his chest where his heart skipped as wildly as her own. Beneath her fingertips, he was hot to the touch, scorching her skin through the crisp linen of his shirt, loosely laced and gaping.

She sucked in a sharp breath and then the world tilted on its axis. One minute she was soaring; the next, falling, plummeting downwards. Sansa shrieked as the blood rushed to her head and the air escaped her lungs in an audible whoosh, as Jon swept her up and deposited her over his shoulder—as if she weighed nothing more than a sack of grain.

"I advise you not to squirm," he threatened, adjusting her more comfortably in his grasp, his arm splayed over the backs of her thighs in a manner that could only be described as intimate.

Sansa was mortified, dangling like a worm on a hook, her backside in the air for all of the crew to openly gawk at. Through the ringing in her ears, she swore she could hear their snickering. She squeezed her eyes shut as Jon stomped down the stairs to the quarterdeck. It was all she could do to contain the tears of rage and embarrassment that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

With an oomph, Jon shoved through the door to his cabin, kicking it closed with the toe of his boot. It slammed with a force that rattled the stained glass windows in their panes as he set Sansa gently on her feet. He at least had the decency to hold her steady, until she collected her bearings and found her footing.

She had expected smug satisfaction, a bit of gloating perhaps, anything but the haunted expression Jon wore now. It shook her deeply, stealing what little Sansa had left in her lungs until she felt like she was gasping for air, her chest heaving with exertion from the simple task of just breathing.

"How dare—"

Her words were cut short, swallowed up as Jon's mouth suddenly descended upon hers without warning. His lips were soft—a stark contrast to the urgent pressure of his mouth as his hands slipped up to cradle her face, holding her still for his unexpected, passionate assault.

Sansa gasped, and Jon took full advantage, his tongue sweeping between her lips to find and curl possessively around her own—teasing, stroking. He tasted of rum, tangy and forbidden and bold, so bold… No man had ever kissed her like this before—not even her betrothed.

He took a half-step closer, the tips of his boots brushing against her bare toes, and Sansa let gravity take her, sinking heavily against him. Her hands curled in the fabric of his shirt to keep herself upright, bunching the material between her fingers. Jon had thrown down the gauntlet—daring her to cross that invisible line with him once more and, once more, she was helpless to stop her body's inevitable sway towards betrayal.

There was a fluttering deep within her belly—a delicious, burgeoning warmth that grew in intensity with each stroke of Jon's tongue, each whimper, each muffled groan she caught in her mouth. Sansa felt empowered and helpless all at once—a whirlwind of new and confusing sensations and emotions—her heart and head and body, all waging a war for control, as Jon drank from her lips with the desperation of a starving man who may never know salvation without her.

It clenched painfully at her heart—heavy and overwhelming, and suddenly Sansa was no longer able to hold back her tears. They slipped from her eyes in warm torrents, wetting Jon's hands as they slid down her cheeks.

And then, slowly—as if time had suddenly ceased in the midst of the storm that had been ignited by his mouth on hers—Jon pulled back, his lips catching just once more upon hers, as though he couldn't bear to break away from her completely.

His gaze was dark, heavy-lidded but steady, as it tracked the progression of her tears. "Cry foul my sweet Sansa—" Jon whispered in the space between them, his thumbs sweeping up to gently brush the moisture from her eyes "—if I've wounded anything more than your pride, forgive me what you can."

Unable to find her voice, Sansa could only stare up at Jon as his grey eyes bore into hers—earnest and honest. Whatever spark of madness they'd formerly possessed, already ebbing like the tide clambering over the rocks on its way back out to sea.

A heavy sigh escaped him. It crackled in the tense silence as Jon removed his hands from her face and took a clumsy step backwards. It was just one step, but it felt like a chasm had suddenly opened up between them, leaving Sansa feeling bereft, though her reasoning escaped her.

And her heart felt heavier still, twisting painfully within her breast when Jon widened the chasm further, as he turned and reached for the door. He paused briefly there, hand hovering just so over the latch, his broad shoulders slumping as if in defeat, and Sansa hoped that he might say something—anything—to squelch the weight suddenly bearing down upon her.

She was offered no such reprieve. Jon's mouth—his beautiful, soft mouth remained closed, set in the grimmest of lines—when he turned and offered her a solemn nod. His eyes were a mirrored image of her own confusion as they locked upon her, before he turned again and slipped out, away, onto the quarterdeck.

Her face flushed and still damp with tears, Sansa stared helplessly at the closed door. She was so conflicted—caught between wanting to call him back, or to scream so loudly she'd bring the walls of the cabin tumbling down around her.

Either way was bound to get his attention.

Instead, she expelled a shaky breath and drifted her fingertips over her lips, still swollen from Jon's rough kiss. Fearing her legs would finally give out on her, she sunk down into the chair by her now-cold dinner tray.

She was right back where she'd started.