COLD

Winter is coming.

She heard it a thousand times in her childhood, from her father's lips. Ned intended to warn and prepare his children for the trials of life: "winter is coming."

Be prepared, summer cannot last forever.

The darkness will soon enter the north.

But she never expected this; bitter cold that creeps through the stone walls, the chill that surrounds the fireside, the ice on the battlements. Her breath freezes in the yard and frost touches her fingertips. It even forms on her hair if she stands long enough in the Godswood, the delicate auburn strands frosted white with touches of silver.

She has not been warm since before her marriage to Ramsay Bolton. She shudders to remember it, his rough touch, the nights he forced her, again and again, for his own amusement; ice entered her heart, melted into her soul, turned her as cold as the north.

Winter has come.

Sansa feels very little anymore. She sees the world through a barrier of ice. Even her room seems cold, despite the fire's roar, candles on each surface. No, she stops and corrects herself, not her room, their room.

The room her mother invited her into, once in awhile, and braided her hair. The room her father crossed in his favorite boots. If she closes her eyes, she can still smell him in the air, faint but distinct, for the castle is part of him now, the memories etched into its stones. The room and bed where her parents conceived their children, where her mother birthed them, where she lay plump and pink and naked and bloody in Catelyn Stark's arms.

Empty of them, too cold. Sansa touches the furs on the bed. She can feel nothing. She wonders if it will hurt when the Ice King comes into the north, beyond the wall, when he takes the castle, when she dies.

She feels like she died long ago.

A knock disturbs her thoughts, her voice emotionless as she invites Petyr inside. She does not trust him, but finds him useful. He wants her to forgive him, for he gave her over to Ramsay. How could he not have known the truth, that the Bolton bastard was a monster? She felt her only emotion when she heard his screams as the dogs tore him apart, as they'd torn apart others he'd set on them, as he had torn her apart in her soul.

"You sent for me, Lady Stark?"

His pale eyes glint in the gloom, his mockingbird pinned to his chest over a warm wool robe, wings of silver in his hair and gruffness to his voice, as if he strained it long ago and it never recovered.

Now he is here, she knows not how to begin. She clasps her gloved hands, her back to the fire, Petyr several steps from her. He has never been alone with her in these chambers before, and she knows he must think of her mother. Sansa starts there. "You often say you loved my mother, but is it true, Lord Baelish?"

Surprised, he searches her face and nods. "More than life."

"I find that hard to believe."

Petyr tilts his head and his thin mouth twitches. "Why?"

"You sold me to Ramsay Bolton, I, who am most like Catelyn Stark." She despises the memories, unable to focus on them without the ice in her soul constricting and squeezing her heart.

Shadows flicker across the walls as he steps closer. "I did not know."

"How could you not?" Her voice escalates with each word and a tremor passes over her. "How could rumors not reach you that he flayed men alive, that he set his dogs upon innocent peasants, that he hunted more than just deer? Did his father ever try to contain it, conceal it?"

"I have ears in many places but not in the north." Petyr reaches for her and she steps out of his reach, his hand suspended in midair as torment passes through his eyes. "Had I known, I would never have used you to enter Winterfell, and I would have returned for you sooner."

"Where were you?" she demands. "Where were you, when he bent me over that bed every night, when he locked me in my room without heat, without food, for days on end, except when he came at night? You said you cared for me."

She realizes she wants him to care.

Petyr turns his hand, palm up, an invitation she refuses. "I love you."

She shakes her head.

He steps closer, intensity in his gaze, reflected in his gruff tone. "I do."

"Like you loved Mother before Walter Frey slit her throat?"

Pain comes into his eyes. Good. She wants him to suffer. Sansa hopes it will create feeling in her, that she will enjoy it, but nothing stirs her heart. She is hollow inside.

Petyr continues to hold out his hand. "What can I do?"

"It is so cold in the north." She turns her back to him and stares into the flames. "I have never been this cold. I cannot get warm. I could not, even if I stood in the flames. I doubt I could feel them as they melted the flesh from my bones. How shall we die, Lord Baelish, in dragon's fire or by the Wights?"

His hand on her sleeve turns her toward him and he presses her gloved hands between his bare ones, his tone gentle. "You will die old and warm in your bed."

"In this bed?" she asks.

Petyr does not look at it, his gaze fixed on her face. "Perhaps."

"Not your bed, adjacent to the Iron Throne room?"

He smiles. "If you wish."

She does not wish for anything anymore; she knows not how.

Sansa feels the gloves slip from her fingers as he removes them, his hands warm as tingles creep up her arms. He rubs her hands between his and kisses her fingers, his lips a flutter on her skin. The wind howls outside and snow batters the glass, a chill in her spine. She does not want to be alone tonight, not in this small room, nor the large bed.

"Stay," she says.

He understands. "But Jon will..."

"Jon is not here and I am the Lady of Winterfell." Emotionless, her voice never wavers, a hint of hardness in its depths. "Stay."

No one comes to undress her, for she forbade it. Candles flicker in the corners as she unhooks her furs and casts them aside. Petyr stands, uncertain how to respond, uneasy beside the hearth as she steps out of her gown, still clad in a shift, and climbs into bed. Sansa shudders as she hits sheets her servant forgot to warm. Her teeth chatter and Petyr sits on the furs. "May I warm you, milady?"

She nods, her knees tucked to her chest, and feels his hands through the furs as he gives her upper arms a brisk rub without touching her. Gradual warmth creeps into her limbs and her legs relax as she slips her feet further into the sheets. Petyr's touch slows, tenderness in his face. He will spend a chilly night in the chair if she does not invite him closer.

"Ramsay never let me sleep alone," she says.

His face never changes expression but dullness enters his eyes.

Sansa hesitates, but she wants to know what it is like, with someone else beside her, to see if it makes a difference, if she can ever feel warm. She says, "I have been alone ever since... slept alone, always cold."

Flames crackle behind them, his face silhouetted. She lifts the coverlet. Petyr's eyes dart between it and her gaze. He hesitates and unclasps his mockingbird pin. It rocks on the side table as he slips from his heavier garments and slides in beside her. Tension stiffens him as she turns into his chest and burrows her hands against him. His arms surround her, and she sleeps until dawn.

Sleet pounds Winterfell and darkens the windows, Petyr absent most of the day, but he returns for supper and she eats beside him in silence. She need not ask a second time, for he comes unbidden to her room. It continues for a week, Sansa comforted by his nearness, his arms around her until she wakes, but she still cannot shake the chill, though the frost melts a little around her heart.

The storm worsens and snow packs the windows and ramparts, her boots slick on the stairs as she stamps damp from them, surprised to find him at the fireside. Sansa shuts the door behind her. "Should you be here without me?" she asks, a hard note in her tone.

"We must stop this," he says. "The servants will find out."

Bitterness fills her voice. "My father is dead. There is no one left to tell."

She shudders as the wind gusts the chimney and the fire flickers. The storm worsens as the night wears on, furs piled on top of them, and Sansa wonders how her parents lasted in this room, if their affections warmed it. She shivers against his chest and says, "Petyr... make me warm."

His hand slides up her spine, the fabric creased under his fingers. His lips graze her forehead and cheek. She closes her eyes and tilts back her head as his mouth moves to her throat, a soft caress as he strokes her back. Ramsay never touched her with tenderness, only held her down. Sansa trembles, terrified but curious as Petyr's mouth and tongue touches her collarbone. Gradual tingles creep up her body as his lips move lower. Her breath catches at his lips on her breast and she feels a different sensation, a flush deep inside her soul. His head lifts and he studies her face until she rises toward him for a kiss. Surprised, for she has never initiated before, Petyr parts her lips and their tongues caress. It is different from his kiss in the snow-filled garden or the crypts, deeper, more intimate. His passions inflame and he rolls her onto her back. She clutches at him as their embrace deepens, their mouths locked as he shifts against her. Petyr's hand glides down her side and his head lifts, his voice ragged. "I am not Ramsay."

"If you were, you would not be here."

Petyr lowers his mouth to her ear. "Stop me, if you dislike it."

He touches her legs and strokes her thighs, Sansa tense as his hand slips between them. She feels his fingers in a place where no one has touched her before, skilled in its explorations, nervous over his intentions until warmth kindles in his touch. It engulfs her in slow waves, between her legs, in her stomach and chest and finally, in her shoulders, arms, legs, and face. Her fingers falter, curled in his shirtfront, and her breath comes in short, quickened breaths. Gentle lips capture her mouth, but she struggles to respond, distracted at the sensations in her body, shocked at how much she responds to a simple, focused touch. His face rests beside hers, his eyes warm as curious waves radiate over her, as her toes curl and a strange, delicious heat rushes over her; her muscles tense, her breath catches in her throat, and she loses the light as the room blackens at the edges, her pleasure so intense she cannot speak.

She lies in his arms as waves of exquisite sensations erupt throughout her body, and goes limp as they abandon her. Petyr smiles at her dazed expression, his head against hers as he whispers, "Are you warm?"

An inferno rages inside, its flames dulled, Sansa desperate to feel it again. Her breaths sound loud in the silence as she reaches between them and pulls up her shift. He does not enter her as Ramsay did, with a violent thrust, but she feels every inch of him inside her, her inner walls a tingle. The forward motion starts gradual, and his hands seek hers against the furs, but as instinct battles for control, he gropes for the headboard.

She cannot think of anything but him, of their combined heat, of the fire in her veins, the steady creaks, the engulfing momentum, his hot breath in her ear before his entire body stiffens and he collapses on top of her. She strokes his hair, her cheeks damp with joyful tears, a floodgate burst in her heart. She feels again, his pleasure and hers, the loss of her parents, and wonders if they felt this same uncontrollable happiness in this bed.

The wind rattles the windows, but does not send a chill up her spine. Sansa turns with him as Petyr shifts onto his side, his arms around her, drowsiness in the lips that touch her sweaty forehead.

It matters not that winter is here. She will never feel cold again.