It is a moon passed since Sansa is last alone with Jon. It is no misunderstanding; he is avoiding her. She knows it in the way he ducks his head when her eyes fall on his, the way his body inches from her when they take their seats side-by-side at the table, and the way he spends his days on the training ground, sweaty, bruised and bloodied after fighting round after round with whoever will have him.

Sansa cannot fault him, nor does she feel anger at his juvenile attempt to push her away. He is not the only one to feel the residual guilt over what had happened between them but she does not believe she is the only one to still yearn for the other either. It is an unfathomable reaction and one she is inexperienced with. Nothing in her life has ever caused her skin to feel aflame like that – it is like he has ignited something primal in her, a hunger only he can quench.

Sansa had spent her whole life desperately clawing at atonement, wanting in some small way to recapture the wolf inside of her, and for a long time she had thought it dead along with Lady. Mangled and buried when her father's head rolled from his body, dismembered by her own traitorous tongue. It is a self-pitying thought to want something she hasn't earned. But killing Ramsay, watching his flesh tear from his body like scraps of a cloth, she thinks she might have felt the wolf howling under her skin. Sansa thinks mayhaps it is ready to be free. She just never thought that the one to do the freeing would be Jon.

The ghost of his lips on her carries her through the castle corridors with a quickening pace. Sansa has given him his space but she is the Lady of Winterfell and she will not be ignored. If he won't come to her, she will have to come to him.

True; there is fear in her heart. What she wants and what is right are so divisive there appears to be a chasm between them, but she has lived long enough to know she must take whatever pieces of joy she can find in this Gods-forsaken world before someone takes it from her.

And she wants Jon.

Sansa thinks she might have been able to ignore the wolf inside of her – the wolf that whines when he goes to Winter Town; the one that whimpers when he is near – if not for this morning.

House Cerwyn arrived late last eve, too late for a proper feast, and so this morn, Sansa had the house prepare a hearty meal for Cley and Jonelle Cerwyn. Though Cley had withheld his support in their time of need, he has declared Jon his king and Sansa is willing to overlook past indiscretions. In lieu of what Ramsay had done to his parents, Sansa can almost understand the hesitation; almost. She is resigned in any case to make nice, to play the charming hostess as needed – Gods know Jon is not a charismatic man by any stretch of the imagination – but she never foresaw the look Jonelle would send his way. Never thought to consider how women would view the wife-less King of the North. How their eyes would follow him, how they would laugh and touch his arm when he said something even half-amusing.

No, she had never anticipated this.

Taking quicker strides, Sansa is begrudged to admit the ferocity in which the wolf inside her growls at Jonelle. If she let it, it would tear the eldest Cerwyn to pieces, but wolf or not, Sansa is a lady and Jonelle is a guest in her home. She plays by a different set of rules.

At long last, she is at the corner of the corridor just beyond his chamber door, a nervous coiling in her stomach she tries to ignore. Her plan is simple, and Sansa knows there is beauty in simplicity, but she worries now if it is mayhaps too simple. It is not the first time today her doubts have tried to best her and each time she stamps it down like it is the dying embers of a winter fire. She will have to steel her nerves if she is to go through with this. Be the wolf, Sansa thinks. Let her free.

It doesn't take long for Jon to exit his chamber. They are due to meet their guests in the main hall in no less than a quarter of an hour and Jon is nothing if not prompt – and predictable. She thanks the Gods for that. It makes her plan run more smoothly.

Sansa is hidden in an alcove when Jon makes to pass her by. Swallowing down her nerves, she wraps a hand around his wrist before he walks away, and whispers, "Jon, wait."

He turns abruptly to look at her. "Sansa, what in the Gods are you doing here?" he asks, and she squirms under his gaze, her resolve beginning to unwind.

Taking a fist full of his tunic, Sansa pulls him down to her level, her lips finding his easily, swiftly – perfectly. What doubts she may have had earlier dissolve away and she melts against him, leaning into his chest for balance. His hands instantly come to her waist, fitting in the curve of her hips, and she thinks guilt is a pointless thing when this feels so good. Too long had Sansa feared a man's touch, too long did she dream of unwanted hands grabbing and pulling at her body, trying to take what she did not want to give, but Sansa wants to give now. She wants to open herself up and let Jon see every naked wound, every heartache, every hope and dream and love she had left to offer him. She wants him to take her – all of her.

But as she predicted, Jon is pulling away and his face is contorted in guilt, longing and something indescribable.

"Sansa, this is not right," he breathes, but his hands are still curled around her waist and he is close enough she can smell the spice of his bath and the mix of pine she associates now to be so distinctly Jon.

Sansa does not say anything but trail her fingers along the nape of his neck. He shivers at her touch.

Jon opens his mouth to say something more but she leans in to kiss him before he can utter a word. Taking his lip in between her teeth, Sansa nips gently, and pulls away to rest her cheek against his, her lips barely brushing against his ear.

"Every man I dance with tonight, I will be imagining it is you," Sansa whispers. "I will be thinking of your hands on me, your body against mine. Remember this, Jon Snow."

Sansa does not wait to see his reaction. She does not think her nerves could handle what his face may give away, so it is with a brisk pace she makes her way to the main hall where the feast is being held. Her body is thrumming with anticipation, with want, but she does not allow the mask she wears to falter. Throughout the night, Sansa plays the perfect hostess; she greets her guests with affection and generosity; she talks with the men and women as if they are old friends. She tries not to pay him any attention.

"Lady Sansa." His words are shy and a little terrified but he stands his ground with a hand outstretched to her. "May I have the honour of this first dance with you?"

Sansa returns his smile and places her hand on his. "Of course, Lord Cerwyn, it would be my pleasure." Jon shifts to her right but again, she pays no mind to him.

The young lord leads her out onto the dancefloor where other couples have gathered. His hand hesitantly drops to her lower back as he takes her other in his. It is innocent and he does not pull her any closer than is appropriate, nor does he lean in to whisper in her ear, yet all the while Sansa feels a heat building in the pit of her stomach, a burning flush radiating from her chest to her cheeks – none of which, she knows, has anything to do with the man she is with.

It is Jon. She feels him though he is still sitting in the upper dais, but he does not need to be close for her to be aware of him. His eyes have been on her since she placed her hand in Cley Cerwyn's, and they are warm and curious and she feels naked under his gaze but Sansa keeps her smile directed at Lord Cerwyn. This is her plan; this is what she wanted.

The rest of the night plays similarly by. Sansa dances with man after man, their hands curling around her waist, with some bold enough to pull her in close, their hot breath fanning across her skin, the stench of ale so strong she has to try not to gag.

All the while Jon sits and watches; all the while she imagines it is him touching her.

Sansa is pink with exertion when she reclaims her seat by Jon's side. The flush she knows has nothing to do with the dancing but he isn't to know that and she makes no moves to acknowledge there is anything else. For a minute there is a terse silence. Sansa graciously sips at the goblet of wine and tries to pay no heed to the heady atmosphere growing between them, but the way she keeps squirming her thighs together suggests otherwise.

"You are playing a dangerous game, Lady Sansa," Jon says, his voice soft and raspy, and she thinks she can feel his words dance tantalisingly across her skin, each low dip of his voice a mesmerising caress she thinks shouldn't be possible.

"I fear I do not understand your meaning, my king," Sansa answers him, and she is surprised to hear the calm she certainly does not feel. It is a blessing; she does not need Jon to know how he affects her so soon into the night.

Jon shifts in his seat, the scrape of his chair alerting her to his movement, and when he next speaks, his voice is right beside her ear and his hand is placed on the arm of the chair to brace his weight. He is so close, too close. "You need to stop, Sansa. You must."

Sansa doesn't glance at him. She speaks only to the goblet in her hand. "Make me." It is a challenge and one she is scared to admit she doesn't know if he'll accept, but she is out of her chair before he has a chance to respond. It is both a cowardly and strategic move.

Finding Cley Cerwyn is easy. This feast is for his house and so he is the centre of all their attentions. It is not unsurprising when he captures her eye and invites her for another dance. Sansa is not new to the game of seduction. Her body is ample and young, her skin fair and pale with rosy lips that have enticed more men than she care to remember. Cley Cerwyn's attraction to her had been expected but he is only a pawn in her game tonight. He is not the man she wants to seduce but he will help her all the same.

"Have I told you, Lady Sansa, how beautiful you look tonight?" Lord Cerwyn slurs, and Sansa has to stop herself from wrenching back from the pungent smell of ale. He is not an un-handsome man but he is not attractive to her either. He is a coward in times of strife and his loyalty is fickle as a consequence. She does not trust him but Jon needs this alliance and she supposes he is acceptable in small doses.

She smiles, "no, my lord, but I thank you for your kind words." Just then Sansa catches Jon's eye. He has moved from the upper dais and is standing on the far side of the room watching her from the shadows. There is a tenseness in his jaw and she thinks he might be jealous. The thought thrills her, sending another flush running through her body, and desire once more strikes hot in her belly.

Lord Cerwyn must have interpreted this as attraction as he boldly pulls her closer, her body pressed up tightly against his. Sansa stiffens. Many a men have tried to take their liberties tonight but none have been so bold as to pull her this close. It is indecent and far more than Sansa is willing to go for the sake of Jon. She can dance, she can flirt, but she still dreams of Ramsay every other night, still sees his hands clawing at her body, and she still does not trust men.

Sansa twists her arm uncomfortably so she can push away. "Lord Cerwyn, I fear you have been in the spirits," she says with a light laugh, though it is far from how she feels. "Mayhaps we find you some water."

"Water?" Lord Cerwyn is scoffing at the idea. "I am in no need of that. I feel grand, Lady Sansa. To have a beautiful woman such as yourself in my arms, isn't that all I need?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jon walking towards them, an angry glint in his stormy grey eyes. She does not need saving. This is not what she wanted out of this night – so with a more forceful shove, she steps out from the young lord's embrace.

"Then I must apologise that it is I that needs water," Sansa is still smiling, still chuckling softly as if she is embarrassed by her weakness. "I bid you goodnight, Lord Cerwyn."

She does not wait. She walks swiftly away, moving past bodies of dancing couples, drunken men telling debauched stories and women gossiping over them. She races through the corridors when she is out of sight. The frosty air from the winter outside clings to her and cools her feverish skin. She thinks it has been a wasted night, and she is angry at herself for allowing her past to once again dictate her present, her fear to ruin the one thing she truly wants just for herself.

Her hand is on the handle of her chamber door when Jon reaches around her to push it open, the hard ridges of his chest gently nudging her inside as he walks forward. Sansa is startled he is here, even if it had been her hope from the start, and the question is on her lips when she turns to look at him fully.

"You are a maddening woman," Jon speaks, and his voice is low and dangerous and it does things to her she can't properly explain. Sansa finds herself stepping backwards as he moves forward. On the contrary of how she felt with Cley Cerwyn, she is not afraid. She is challenging him.

"Seeing you…" he hesitates and so too do his movements – this disappoints her. "To see you with another man," he tries again, and Sansa sucks in a breath, "has gripped me in agony. Do you know how that feels?" Sansa knows agony but it is not the kind he is asking about. "I can't have you, yet… yet my body sings when you are near, and to think of you with anyone else, even for a dance, I can't… I can't explain it, Sansa. I can't –"

Sansa reaches for his hand and twines their fingers together. "It is like you can feel nothing but ice in your veins."

"Aye," he says quietly and there is a curiosity in his eyes that has her chuckling.

"Jonelle looks at you as if you are good enough to eat," Sansa explains, and this brings out a half-smile to his lips. She thinks then it makes him all the more handsome for it.

"She is not my type."

"What is your type?"

"Hair," he fingers a tendril of her hair, "kissed by fire." He lets it go and trails his finger along her chin to her bottom lip. "Lips so pink I can think of nothing else." He soothes her lip with the faintest stroke of his finger, and Sansa shivers.

"Jon," she practically begs.

There is a beat of hesitation before he kisses her. It is not like the kisses they have shared before. This is soft and slow and so intoxicatingly sweet Sansa feels a tightening in her chest that threatens to erupt inside of her. She twists her fingers into his tunic – to pull him closer or to steady herself she isn't sure anymore, but she knows one thing: he is hers, at least for tonight.

His hands are on her hips, his thumb ghosting circles along her stomach, sending fissures of electricity running through her skin. She wants to feel him. This is not enough anymore. Kissing is not enough anymore. She needs him to touch her, to run his hands across her body and wipe the memories of Ramsay from her skin. When she falls asleep at night, she wants to think of his body over hers, not the man who had bruised and torn his way inside of her.

Sansa lets her hands fall to the hems of his tunic and she begins to tug. For a second, Jon is too distracted with exploring her with his tongue, but he catches on quick and his hands are suddenly over hers and stilling them. "Sansa, maybe we shouldn't, maybe we –"

"I don't care, Jon. Let the Gods judge us. They have already taken everything away from us. What more can they do? Are we not allowed a little happiness of our own?" She guides his hands back to her hips and lean into his body so he can feel every surface of hers, feel the way her breasts are flushed against his chest, the way her heart beats erratically because of him. "You make me happy. You make me feel safe. For the first time in many moons, Jon, I feel alive. If you… if you don't want to do this because you do not want me then… then I..." She lets her words trail away, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

His hands drop from her hips and the devastation she feels is short-lived when they come back to cradle her face. "Sansa, you don't believe that, do you?" he asks quietly, dark eyes searching her own. "It is because I want you that makes this so difficult. You have been through so much, I can't bear the thought of me… hurting you."

"You won't."

"What if I do?"

"You could never."

"Sansa…"

"Jon, you can't. Not like him. Never like him."

There is another beat of silence but this time his lips don't meet hers. Instead he takes a small step back. "Turn around," he says, and Sansa does. A moment later, she feels his hand deftly unlacing her gown, taking his time to pull each string from its respective hole. It is unnecessary but there is something so oddly arousing about it that Sansa keeps silent, until finally, the gown drops in a pool of grey and white wool and fur at her ankles. She turns in her shift, and oddly enough, though he has seen her naked, she blushes.

"By the old Gods and the new, you look so beautiful right no –"

"Your turn," she cuts him off with a mischievous smile, and something wonderful happens that sends trickles of euphoria skittering through her veins: he laughs. Jon tilts his head back and laughs unabashedly.

In spite of the hesitation, the persuading, the guilt and the doubts that had stalled them, it is only a matter of minutes before they are both naked and in each other's arms like there is no greater place in all of Westeros to be – and Sansa thinks, there isn't.

Somehow in between his feverish kisses along the hollow of her neck, they stumble backwards onto the bed. It is a feat, she thinks, that he is still kissing her but she is all the more glad for it when his lips find their way to the curve of her breast and her breath hitches in her throat. His tongue darts out to taste her skin, eliciting a moan from her that becomes more desperate by the second. She would feel ashamed by how much she yearns for him but his lips close around her nipple and she cannot feel anything but pleasure. His hand reaches out to knead her other breast and Sansa arches into him, her head lolling back onto the furs.

Sansa is far from a maiden but this is new to her. She knows it can be pleasurable, she knows in an ideal world women would find just as much of a release in the act as a man, but Sansa does not live in an ideal world and until Jon she had lost all hope she could ever feel like this.

"Jon," she demands, because selfishly, she needs more. "Please."

There is a muffled laugh. His teeth tighten around her nipple and he tugs, enough to feel a small spike of pain but it also feels too overwhelmingly good for Sansa to care. Jon returns to her lips, a quick peck before he leans back to look at her. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course," she says without a beat of hesitation. "You know I do."

Jon smiles – it is not a half-smile, it is not a glimmer of one; it is a full, teeth-gleaming smile that has her heart skittering with joy. "Good. Just remember to relax, Sansa. I'd never do anything to hurt you. I want to make you happy. That's all I've ever wanted."

She nods, unsure of what he is planning, of why he needs to tell her this, but there is no fear or doubt over his words, because she simply just knows it is the truth. Sansa has never doubted Jon for that, even if she thinks no one can truly protect anyone in this world.

He kisses her again, this time with more force, more need, and her lips part in response as he settles his body over hers, the feel of him along her thigh lighting everything inside of her aflame. Sansa thinks this is the moment, this is when she gets what she wants, but Jon is suddenly pulling away, moving further and further down until she feels his nose nudging at the inside of her thigh. Sansa starts and tries to move away.

"Jon, what are you doing?"

"Trust me?"

"I do but…"

"Then let me show you. If you don't like it or if you really don't want to though, I can…"

His breath skims her cunt and Sansa inhales sharply, nodding her head in permission.

It is then Jon does the filthiest, most peculiar, most wonderful thing, and the sound Sansa makes in response is so heavy with wanton lust she involuntarily blushes. His tongue is circling the nub at the apex of her thighs, sending her heart ramming painfully in her chest and a fire igniting deep in her belly. Sansa's fingers curl into his hair, gripping him tightly, as the fire begins to grow. "Jon," she whimpers. "Gods, Jon." It is almost more than she can take when she feels him slip a finger – then two – inside her. He works her in tandem, licking, suckling, thrusting with his fingers, until the fire grows so dangerously big, it explodes, stars lighting up the inside of her closed eyes. Sansa shakes violently into him, clutching his head to her, when she comes undone with his name on her lips.

It is a struggle to catch her breath. It is a struggle to even regain any of her senses back but when she does, Jon is looking up at her from between her legs, that smile now so firmly present on his full lips – lips that had just moments before been suckling at her most intimate place.

"I take it back," Jon is smirking. "You look more beautiful now than you did before."

Sansa laughs and reaches down for him. "Where," she breathes into his lips when he is finally at her height again, "did you learn that?"

Jon blushes, and there is a hint of sadness in his voice when he says, "a Wildling girl." She thinks she should feel jealousy over that but she cannot find it in her to fault Jon for having been with someone else before her, especially if such a woman has taught him such a wonderful thing, so Sansa just kisses him. Again and again and again.

"I am glad you enjoyed that."

"Very much."

"Good…"

"Jon?"

"We can stop now if you want. We don't have to…"

It is his doubts again running through his mind and she cannot let him lose himself to them, not when they are like this, not when this is the happiest night she's had since she left Winterfell so many years ago. Sansa extends her hand between them and takes a hold of him before he can say another word. She hears his unsteady exhale and begins to run her fingers along the length of him, circling at the base. "I don't want to stop," she whispers against his ear.

There is only the sound of his ragged breathing for a few short seconds before she feels his hand gently pulling her away from him. Jon leans back on his elbow and nudges her legs wider apart with his free hand. He captures her lips in his and it is surprising how much it takes her breath away. A first kiss is always enthralling in its novelty, in the excitement of something new, of an answer to an unspoken question, but each kiss with Jon feels like that. It knocks her back like a gust of wind in a snow storm. It is bewildering as it is fulfilling; pleasurable as it is frightening. She thinks she will never tire of his lips.

Sansa feels him at her opening, just the tip of his head, and it takes all of her willpower to stop herself from bucking into him. She wraps her legs around his waist instead, pleading him with her body, but Jon doesn't need coaxing as he thrusts into her. Sansa cries out and bites into his shoulder to keep her screams muffled. It takes a second for their rhythms to sync up but eventually she is meeting him thrust for thrust, a new fire in her belly, this one stronger, brighter than the last. She fears she may pass out if this one explodes inside of her but Sansa doesn't care. She doesn't care anymore about anything, only him. She wants only him; needs only him.

Jon whispers into her ear, encouraging words, filthy words, and each tickle of breath sends more ribbons of pleasure through her body. Her nails dig deep into his skin the closer she gets and she knows he is near too when his thrusts become more erratic. Jon loops his hands under her knees and pulls her closer to him as he straightens up. She didn't think she could get any closer but the new angle pushes him deeper into her, driving her to a point of pure ecstasy.

"Sansa," he grunts as he kisses her again. "I'm going to…" He doesn't finish his sentence because his thumb is now there between them, rubbing at her nub and pushing her closer and closer. "Come with me, Sansa." His breath is hot on her skin and when he turns his head away to nip at the sensitive spot behind her ear, she comes undone for the second time tonight, a guttural cry wrenched from her lips as the fire explodes in every which direction. It doesn't take Jon too long after and she feels him spill into her when he does, a sticky liquid dripping from where they were just joined. It should disgust her, and it had before with Ramsay, but not here, not now, because it's Jon and she did this to him. She made him come apart like that and that in itself is nearly as pleasurable a sensation as what he just did to her.

When Jon rolls off of her, he doesn't turn away and fall straight to sleep, he steps from the bed and retrieves a rag from her basin. He returns to her and gently cleans her of him. It is this gesture that does undo her in a way unlike before. Tears well up in her eyes, spilling over silently, as she watches him. He doesn't notice straight away; he kisses the inside of her thigh when he is done and looks up with a satisfied smile only to falter. Panic and regret flash through his dark eyes, and his hands come rushing to cradle her face. "Sansa, sweetling, what's wrong? Did I hurt you? Please…"

Sansa shakes her head. "You are nothing like him."

"What?"

"I never expected you to be," she quickly clarifies. "I just… I didn't know it could be this way. I didn't know I could feel this way."

"Sansa…"

"I know, Jon," she says with a little more force than she intended. "I know this could never be more than tonight. It doesn't mean… It doesn't change how I feel."

"Come here," he whispers after a moment, and he pulls her into his side, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Just sleep. Whatever tomorrow brings, we will deal with it then."

"Together?"

"Together."