Sansa's fingers are gentle with the needle and thread. The way she smooths out the wrinkles of each fabric with the palm of her hand is tender, just like the rest of her.

Seeing her sitting by the fireplace in his chamber and tending to his torn clothing is the only time Jon feels like he is back in the Winterfell under his father's rule. Even then, it is difficult to pretend. Sansa is a grown woman now. When she stands she towers above him. The angles of her face are sharper, and she doesn't giggle nearly as much.

Her face had been like stone on the battlefield. She raised her voice at him in the tents. She was blunt with him. She acted in a way other women would consider unladylike.

Jon cannot grasp what transpired between the last time he had seen her before her departure to King's Landing and when he saw her again at the Wall. She doesn't speak much of the life she was living up until the moment she saw him, and he doesn't press her for details.

The fur covers and soft sheets of his bed are a luxury he isn't accustomed to. Before he knows it, the words on the pages of a report he is reading begin to blur. He rolls up the parchment and sets it down on the bedside table, then looks to Sansa.

He wants to tell her that he is tired and that she should probably head to her own chambers for the night, but something makes him hesitate. He is too tired to ask, he tells himself, and it feels rude to disturb her.

The fire of the hearth illuminates her face in a warm orange glow. Her shoulders are relaxed. How long has she been here? Gods, it must've been hours. When she first came in, the sun had only begun to set.

She looks up as if she senses his thoughts and lowers the garment in her hand. "I can go if you'd like. I only just realized how late it is."

"It's all right," Jon says. "You can stay."

"You need your sleep, and I don't think I'll be done for a few hours. The stitching on your vests is terrible. I'll need to redo all of it."

"You won't disturb me," he insists.

Jon doesn't much care for the stitching on his clothes. When the wights come, it will be the last thing on his mind. But seeing Sansa fuss over it reminds him of when she was younger and her biggest concern in life had been the precision of her stitches and whether Septa Mordane approved of them. It is easier in these moments to see her as unchanged.

She is standing, having been ready to leave, but she lowers herself back onto the wooden chair at his words.

Ghost is sleeping beside him. The last thing he remembers before dozing off is the feel of his fur against his hands.

Once Jon is asleep, Sansa thinks about some of the servant girls and anyone else that might have seen her enter Jon's chambers. She is wondering whether they think it strange that she has not left. Then she dismisses the thought, knowing fully well everyone but the guards outside the door are asleep. Besides, why would they care? Who the King in the North decided to invite to his chambers was no one's business but his own.

The clothes Jon had worn throughout the day never made it off him. He fell asleep before he could. Sansa wonders if he neglected to partly out of modesty. She has been intruding on his privacy for the past few days but usually left before he retired to his bed. Today he fell asleep early. She doesn't blame him. He isn't used to being a ruler of an entire kingdom.

The lavishness being bestowed upon him, although far more modest than the South's by comparison, leaves him grunting out curt thank yous that are reminiscent of their lord father's. Sansa thinks about the way kings are supposed to expect gifts and be accustomed to luxuries. She thinks about how they learn how to curve their mouths into charming smiles when they thank their supporters. Jon is stoic and his smiles are rare. He will never be like a king is supposed to be. Nothing will make him forget the cold and sleepless nights at the Wall. Even if he becomes ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, there will still be men who will call him "bastard". The word has followed him his whole life and she admires the way he has learned not to flinch when people mutter it under their breath. She was a Stone for a time, but she slipped out of those chains easier than water. Jon would never have the luxury.

Sansa jumps awake and finds the fabric and needle still lying in her limp hands. Shadows dance at the edge of her vision. She looks over to the bed and sees the faint outline of a male figure slumbering in it. She cannot make out the face- it is too dark. Her mind draws a picture for what she cannot make out in the dark and she thinks she sees a grotesque figure, dark and twisted and glaring at her. She squeezes the arm of the chair and tries not to cry out.

The white mane of an animal beside the figure stirs recognition. A direwolf. Ghost. Sansa remembers where she is, and when, and she lets out a sigh of relief.

The fire in the hearth has died. A chill has settled into the chamber. How long has she been asleep?

After a few deep breaths, Sansa's heartrate settles, and she stands and wanders over to the bed. Jon's breathing becomes audible once she is closer. It's even and steady. She watches as his chest rises and falls. For the first time, his forehead is free of crease lines. Without thinking, she raises her hand and reaches for his face.

Ghost perks up one ear and opens an eye. For a moment, Sansa wonders if he will growl at her, thinking she means to disturb Jon, but the direwolf relaxes at the sight of her and goes back to sleep.

Sansa's fingertips touch Jon's cheek. It's warm. She strokes downward and feels the bristles of his beard. Jon is a man grown. The angles of his face are sharper than they used to be, his hair thicker.

There is enough space between the edge of the bed and his body, and Sansa sits there. A warmth radiates from him that is comforting in the chill of the room. She feels as though she is in trance and hasn't completely woken up, nor shaken her nightmarish vision. She isn't sure what time it is, only that it is dark. The sun might rise in a moment, or it might be another few hours. Either way, she should sleep a little longer.

Sansa slowly lowers herself down beside Jon. There is just enough space for her to fit. It isn't the most comfortable position. There's no room for her to spread herself out, but she keeps her arms close to her body.

Jon's breaths fall against her neck when she lays her face at the edge of the pillow beside him. She shuts her eyes. She feels warmer with the heat of his body next to hers.

He stirs next to her and she turns her head to look at him. He rolls over on his back and his hand grazes hers in the process, falling on the bed next to it. Sansa holds her breath, wondering if he'll wake up, wondering if she shouldn't have come so close and disturbed him. Jon stills again and she sighs with relief.

As before, she observes the lines of his face. His eyes are moving under his lids. He must be dreaming. She only hopes there are no nightmares. On the few occasions she had seen him sleep, he muttered words of battle or jerked his body, as though jumping back from an invisible enemy.

The hand lying beside her is so close he is nearly touching her, and it is too tempting not to reach for, so Sansa closes her hand around his own. It's warm like the rest of him. His hands are strong and coarse and probably big enough to envelop hers entirely. She thinks about how much he has bloodied them with the hands of enemies, and how many women he might've touched. Her breath hitches in her throat.

Without thinking she squeezes his hand as a response to her own thoughts. His breathing changes and his hand jerks away at the feel of her touch. It bumps against her shoulder when he lifts it, then brushes her nose, and just when she looks over at his face to check if he is awake, she sees his eyes snap open.

Jon bolts forward into a sitting position. His hands are on her in a flash and she has no time to react before he nearly knocks the wind out of her with the force of his hands pushing her down against the bed.

She thinks he'll recognize her and let go, but it is dark in the room and she cries out when the palms of his hands begin to dig into the skin of her shoulders. She isn't resisting, nor is she an armored man, but with the way he's forcing all of his weight against her, you'd think she was.

"Jon-" she gasps.

He is panting and his long hair falls in front of his face. His eyes look obsidian in the dark. Sansa's heart is beating wildly in her chest. Surely he would never hurt her… The shadows in the room are closing in again.

Ghost is alert beside them and lets out an unsure growl. He is looking at Jon, red eyes glowing, trying to understand his master's movements.

Jon looks at the direwolf, then back to Sansa. He blinks. "S-Sansa?" he stammers.

His grip on her shoulders softens, but he doesn't let go. "Why are you here?"

Jon roams his eyes over her face, searching for an injury or a sign of urgency in her expression.

"I was tired," she breathes. She pulls herself up into a sitting position.

For a moment, he is not sure she is really there in front of him. Her skin is pale like moonlight, and her skin feels soft, like silk. If he lets her go she might fade away like an ethereal spirit in a dream… Something had been disturbing his mind a moment ago. He can't remember the exact nightmare, but he knows he was having one. It must have had something to do with the wights, or a frightening secret about his mother, or watching a girl with hair like fire bleed to death in his arms… It didn't matter. He was awake now and Sansa was there. She was real- she has been for weeks now- and the dreams were just dreams.

"I was tired," she repeats. "I wanted to lie down."

He looks at her. Her eyes are wide, like a deer's. He didn't mean to jump on her. He was used to sleeping alone, and it was an instinct he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to suppress.

"Why aren't you in your chambers?" he says, voice gruff from sleep. She doesn't respond, just gives the slightest shake of the head. She is still wearing her direwolf dress, and her hair is in a braid, but it is slightly unkempt, like she had been fussing her head against the pillow.

A strand of red hair falls in front of her eyes and he lifts his hand, brushing it behind her ear.

Sansa does a strange thing, then. She grabs his hand just as his fingertips brush her earlobe, turns her face towards it, and kisses the inside of his palm.

He watches her. It's faint at first; her lips tickle his skin like the wings of a butterfly. Then both of her lips press fully against his skin. He tries to say something but can't.

When she works her way up, she licks his fingers with her tongue.

In a blur of movement, he shifts forward and wraps his hand around her waist, pulling her against him. He cups her face in the hand she made wet with her mouth and leans his face forward.

She licks her lips and that's where his eyes go. His thumb grazes over them, and they're red. Even in the dark, he can see that they are red, whether from the cold or from a balm she uses, he doesn't know.

He kisses her. His head feels muddled, as if he is drugged with milk of the poppy, so he moves without method. Their teeth clash. The kiss is wet. He doesn't care. He only knows he wants to taste her the way she was tasting him. His heart pounds in his chest.

His foot grazes against fur. Jon remembers Ghost is here with them. He tries to recollect whether the direwolf had been in the room the whole time, or how long ago he went to sleep, but he can't.

He breaks the kiss. She leans forward, following his mouth, but he leans back to catch his breath. He moves his hand from her cheek to the back of her neck and his fingers find purchase in her hair. He comes back to her, smoother this time, trying not to overwhelm her like her had moments ago. Her mouth is still too eager and she is breathless from the fervency of the first kiss, but she relaxes into his pace.

The way she is pushing her body into his sends a jolt to his cock. It presses again the fabric of his trousers. His grip on her waist tightens. One of her hands is buried in his hair. When he slides his tongue into her mouth, she pulls his hair and moans.

The weight of the bed shifts and Jon hears Ghost land on the stone floor with a thump. Jon moves to the now-empty left side of the bed, pulls Sansa away from the edge, and settles her down onto the mattress.

He's hovering over her again, and again her eyes are looking up at him wide and alert, but this time her face and neck and chest are flushed red instead of pale, and her hands are pulling him closer.

He struggles to undo his belt with one hand, using his other hand to keep the weight of his body off of her. The strings of his trousers are tied tightly and won't budge and it is too dark for him to see why he can't manage it. He looks down at himself realizes that he is still fully dressed. How tired had he been when he had gone to bed? Had he even bothered to lock the door before falling asleep? The guards will alert him if anything is wrong, and a locked door wouldn't hold back a real threat for long either way, but still- he was never unsure.

He had let her stay in his chambers last night. The guards watched her come in and not come out. Now she was in his bed.

He looks at Sansa and finds her looking at him, expectant. Apart from the sound of their heavy breathing, it is quiet in the room, now that they've stopped shuffling. She sees that he has stopped trying to undo his belt and moves her hands down to his crotch, starting to undo it for him.

"Sansa," he says. She pulls on a tied string and he feels his trousers loosen.

"Sansa," he repeats. She doesn't look at him and begins to pull down on the fabric.

Jon grabs both her wrists with one hand and pushes them away. "Stop."

She looks up at him and swallows. "What is it?" Her voice sounds small, and she is small, all of her.

Gods, Jon thinks, rubbing his face with his hands. He turns away from her, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and sits with his elbows on his knees. What time is it? He looks to the door and sees a sliver of light in the crack underneath. It's dawn. He should be dressing to break fast with the men in the Great Hall.

He mutters this to Sansa. "You should be getting ready as well. It's going to be a long day. We're hunting for game today, and rationing supplies."

"It's early. There's still time." Her hand grabs his shoulder. He flinches. "You're King in the North," she continues. "You wouldn't have to explain yourself."

"I promised the men I'd be there early."

"Did I do something wrong?"

The tone in her voice tempts Jon to caress her face and plant a kiss on her forehead. Instead he stands and says, "Go back to your chambers, Sansa."

Sansa watches him go to the far wall, where a bucket filled with water sits. He crouches down, gathers water into his cupped hands, and splashes it on his face. He stays there for a moment, both hands bracing against the edges of the bucket. He hangs his head and sighs, and Sansa thinks of their father.

She feels cold again now that she is alone in the bed. She is thankful the windows are covered, keeping the room dark and safe from prying eyes. She has no desire to see the daylight. She does not want to go despite Jon's command. She can still feel the calm of the night in her chest. As soon as she steps out into the daylight and goes to her chambers, she'll be fussed over by her handmaidens, then surrounded by the roaring men at the Great Hall. Even if she goes to the godswood, Littlefinger would find her there. She almost voices these thoughts aloud but makes note again of Jon's weary frame and keeps her silence. He will be making the decisions with the men, not her. He won't have time to go to the godswood. Even if he did, she isn't sure if he believed in the old gods, or if he believed in gods at all. She gets out from the bed slowly, without looking at him, only at her own feet.

"I'll see you in the Great Hall," she mumbles at the door. He gives no reply when she leaves, just stays as he is: still and silent and staring at his own reflection in the water.