Fic: No Time For Wolves (A Song of Ice and Fire) [03/08]
Title: No Time For Wolves
Author: girlupnorth
Rating: strong PG-13
Pairings: Jon/Sansa; Petyr/Sansa; Jon/Daenerys
Disclaimer: A song of ice and fire belongs to George RR Martin, and I am not making any profit off this story.
Length: 2,582 words (~19,000 total)
Spoilers: Including A Feast for Crows
Summary: In which Sansa agrees to the plan.
Warnings: incest, adultery, angst, dubious morality, Littlefinger
Notes: This is for miss_magrat, who wanted me to write Jon/Sansa. Many thanks to novin_ha for beta reading.
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03. Sansa
The lords and ladies are all leaving King’s Landing and on every walk around the castle walls Sansa catches glimpses of wagons being loaded and horses mounted. It is of surprise to her neither that they are departing, nor that they have waited until the queen has disappeared from King’s Landing for some war in the East to do so. Feeble as the court may have been, Daenerys’ presence at least gave it a semblance of reality; now this semblance is gone.
There has been a raven from Winterfell with a short letter from Bran, announcing his upcoming arrival at the court. Sansa feels rather curious about her brother’s intentions, and awaits him anxiously, as they have not seen each other for almost two years now. She wishes only that she could show Bran the city at some other time of the year; she fears that he shall despise its heat and the revolting smells after his forests in the North.
Oddly, she has not had enough of King’s Landing’s climate yet; it is a relief to be able to go out in the sun after five years of frost and winter winds, and a pleasure to be able to look at flowers and green leaves. On leaving the North, she made a quiet promise to only come back to those parts of the land in the heart of the summer.
Truly, if the cold weather repels me, I am no Stark anymore. She pauses for a moment, and from the height of the walls, looks down at the castle. There are still people wherever she turns her eye: the lords, the servants, the guards; soon, however, these walls will become quite empty and abandoned, but for her little household.
“I have to say I admire you,” says Petyr, surprising her, when one day she sits by the window with her embroidering. “Scarcely a fortnight, and all our servants are ready to kiss the ground on which you tread.”
“Is it not my duty to make them feel so, my lord?” she asks with a playful little smile, and rises to kiss him. I probably should not enjoy his kisses this much, she thinks; this past few days gave her many an occasion to consider things that a lady should find appropriate and enjoyable.
Once she has sat back, Petyr stands by her seat, and looks through the window. Sansa puts her needle through the delicate fabric, finishing an outline of a leaf.
They have not talked of her seducing the king since that supper a few days ago; Sansa half-expected it to come up in every conversation they now share, but so far, Petyr has not raised the subject.
She has spent quite some time considering the matter during her walks, and every moment free of domestic duties. Petyr’s idea failed to shock her initially, and even after thorough consideration does not repulse her that much. It is, of course, utterly immoral; but then, it is difficult - nay, it is impossible - to argue morality with a man who intrigued to put at least half of the chaos that tore the land into motion, who planned the deaths of several people, who schemed his way through the war, never caring for anyone but himself (and, occasionally, for her, though she is not vain enough to believe he did this out of love), never looking back or regretting his deeds. More importantly, it is impossible for her to argue morality and tell him she would never act against a certain code without seeming a hypocrite.
That Petyr dared suggest her, his lady wife to seduce the king bothers her more, and indeed angers her, even though, all things considered, it should not be surprising.
A thought that tips the scale results from another chance meeting with Jon in the garden, and another reflection that a few years ago she might have fallen in love with that man.
The girl Sansa wanted a king to love her; right now, she is a step away from fulfilling this wish, and with a king who is kind, courteous and noble.
“You have also made quite an impression on the ladies of the court,” says Petyr, as he turns towards her, smiling as usual. “Lady Egen apparently couldn’t recall ever meeting a more foolish woman in her life.”
“She asked me about Robert Arryn’s accident,” says Sansa calmly, not even bothering to ask him how he knows. The servants overhear, and they talk to other servants, who repeat the things they hear to their lords. “It bothered her that the subject failed to move me.” Her days of torturing herself over Robert are long gone; she has not given a slightest thought to the conversation with Lady Egen.
“Do you think she will trouble you again?” asks Petyr, stroking his beard.
“Since she already considers me foolish, she may not see a point,” says Sansa. She turns the shawl in her hands, and chooses on it a place for the next leaf. “And she has left King’s Landing with her lord husband a few days ago, I think.”
“Ah, yes,” says her lord husband. “I am considering leaving King’s Landing myself, in the next ten days, or, if I close all my affairs earlier, mayhaps even faster.”
Sansa raises her head abruptly.
“Leave already? Why?” she asks. “I have only just arrived.”
“I meant leaving myself, my dear,” says Petyr. “You will stay here for a time. As for why, well, that little castle that your cousin has bestowed on us needs seeing to, and it probably requires being put in order before I let my lady wife put a foot in there.”
“I hope it won’t take long until we can join you there,” says Sansa. After all this time without Petyr, she has no wish of staying away from him again, of not being able to talk to him, to share the bed with him, to just meet him like now, in the middle of the household duties, and exchange little comments, and kisses.
Petyr studies her face. “It all depends on the shape in which I find the castle,” he says. “But I rather thought you should like to see to the king when I am absent.”
Sansa puts the needle through the fabric, folds the shawl and places it on a stand by the window. Then she takes a deep breath. “You still have not explained your plan to me,” she says. “Could you do it now, my lord?”
Petyr gazes at her pensively, and then turns to the window.
“Within a year, mayhaps a little longer, our dear sovereigns will have come to their senses and finally appointed a Hand,” he says.
“And you, my lord, want to be the Hand,” hazards Sansa, somewhat surprised; he never mentioned becoming the Hand in their conversations about their future at the court.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” says Petyr. “I’ve grown tired of staying in the shadows, my dear. It is high time we took some power in our hands.”
“But how is my sleeping with the king going to make you the Hand?” asks Sansa.
Petyr finally moves away from the window, and sits down on a chair opposite her. He appears rather concerned, and Sansa realizes that it really is not a joke of his.
“You do realize that it is not very likely that the king would ever want me to become his Hand, don’t you?” he begins.
“Why would he not, my lord?” she asks with a straight face. “It is not like you’ve ever done anything that could make him wary of taking you into his service.”
Her lord husband smiles, but his grey-green eyes remain serious. “The problem with people like him is that they are too noble to see the usefulness of people like me,” he says. “But he should want someone with a little experience in the matters of court and ruling for his Hand, perhaps someone who has lived at the court before, under the Baratheons. And we’d rather it was me whom he chooses, not someone else, wouldn’t we?”
There are but a few people left from the times of kings Robert and Joffrey. Most have been killed one way or another, while the few survivors do not have the favour of the royal couple and bide their time in their castles all over the country.
Sansa is about to say that there is nobody but Petyr who fits his description, when suddenly she realizes that there is one other man, who has been at the court in those times, and who, moreover, has fought alongside Jon and Daenerys in the war, and has at least Jon’s friendship.
Tyrion Lannister. The name brings on an unpleasant feeling in her tummy. He was kind to her once, and for that she is ever thankful; he might be kind to her now, even despite the dissolution of their joke of a marriage. He will not be kind to her lord husband, though.
“No, we wouldn’t like someone else,” she says finally, and, without further consideration, asks, “How do you see my role in this, then?”
“It is very simple, really,” says Petyr. “The king will doubtless be very guilty over sleeping with you, and we will only need him to act upon this guilt, make him want to reward you for suffering his advances.” Upon a look from Sansa, he smirks. “He is a very honourable man, my dear. That’s how he will think.”
“But it will be too obvious what my motives are, if it is me suggesting that he made you a Hand,” says Sansa slowly, and realizes that she is already thinking the plan a matter decided.
“The idea will have to come from the outside, of course,” says her lord husband. “From the queen, perhaps, or one of the Small Council. I’ll take care of that.” He rests his head on his hand. “Well? What do you say now?”
It is her turn to examine his face; Petyr looks at her intently, not a shade of uncertainty or doubt in his eyes.
“Will my sleeping with the king really not bother you, my lord?” she asks in the end, the only thought that bothers her now.
His expression changes; he has the grace to look a little uneasy. “But it will, my dear,” he says. “Why otherwise would I be leaving the castle?”
It rains heavily on the day of Petyr’s departure, and Sansa, who deeply dislikes public displays of affections, is both relieved and sorry that she cannot put him on his way.
Soon she finds that she misses him more after this short time together than before, when they had not seen each other for almost half a year.
When she walks in the gardens or through the castle now, she meets the king quite often. They do not usually go beyond some courtesies, do not exchange more than a few words. Sansa wonders whether it will be actually possible for her to make Jon fall for her, when they have not even held one proper conversation since the one in the garden. He is, of course, preoccupied with carrying out all the tasks usually divided between the members of the Small Council. There must be some way for her to spend a little more time with Jon, however. She needs to find it, to make it possible for them to at least know each other a little better.
“You must be very tired with so much work on your shoulders, Your Grace,” she tells him upon their next meeting, this time not quite a chance one. “It is a pity you cannot take a rest.”
“Someone needs to take care of the ruling, and my duty lies in serving the land,” says Jon. He is probably the only man whom she can believe to mean this not only as a pretty phrase in a conversation. “But what is it that still keeps you in court, my lady? Nigh everybody else has left.”
Sansa smiles under his questioning gaze.
“Bran arrives soon,” she tells him. “I have not seen him in a while, and I don’t want to miss a chance of meeting him now.”
Bran is the only of her siblings that she has been seeing with some regularity since the war, and, having come to the conclusion that neither of them - he, after all his mysterious learnings, she, after the Vale - has remained much of a Stark they have formed a bond like they never shared in childhood.
Jon nods in understanding.
“Will he be coming straight from Winterfell, or has he been spending time out of it again?” he asks.
“He wrote to me from Winterfell, but I don’t know whether he was not going beyond the Wall lately,” she says.
Jon nods again, and hair fall into his eyes. When he puts it in order, Sansa realizes that she enjoys watching him; he is, undoubtedly, a very attractive man.
“I miss Winterfell sometimes,” says Jon suddenly; at this, Ghost looks up from the shadow he has laid in since the king and Sansa began their conversation. “I haven’t known a refuge like Winterfell gave us since I have left its gates.”
“It is changed now,” says Sansa, and recalls how unfamiliar Winterfell was to her upon coming back. “The people we have known are dead or gone, the castle does not look like you remember it… Our Winterfell is gone, my lord. Do not miss it.”
“Wouldn’t you like to live there again, my lady?” asks Jon, surprised. Ghost trots to his leg, and stares at Sansa with his red eyes.
“I have lived there during the war,” says Sansa. “It was a nightmare.” It is a little too frank, coming from her. Usually she guards herself better; but Jon appears thoughtful at that declaration.
A little later that day a servant brings her a message from the king. Since they are the only ones remaining at the castle, could she do him the honour of accompanying him at the supper?
Their conversation during the supper is more than a little forced. Sansa carefully tries the ground, but eventually decides that keeping to her usual mask of a perfect lady, tainted with a little cousinly warmth, will be the wisest course of action. It is very interesting to listen to Jon talk about his duties; it is a pity that he does not expect her to offer him more comment than the assertion that they must be quite exhausting.
They talk a little about Winterfell, and Sansa is somewhat embarrassed to recall how dreadful she must have appeared to Jon back then. He does not mention any of that, though; he seems glad to have someone to share memories with. As the supper progresses, Sansa comes to a realization that she likes Jon, and she would not mind being friends with him, under different circumstances.
Upon going to bed, she lies in the dark for a long time, unable to fall asleep. It is not fair to Jon, that plan we have come up with, she thinks, and wonders if she should have agreed to it that readily. He is too good to be so deceived.
I have made my decision, though. She turns under her covers, and sighs, a little angry with her lord husband, and, a little more, with herself.
Author: girlupnorth
Rating: strong PG-13
Pairings: Jon/Sansa; Petyr/Sansa; Jon/Daenerys
Disclaimer: A song of ice and fire belongs to George RR Martin, and I am not making any profit off this story.
Length: 2,582 words (~19,000 total)
Spoilers: Including A Feast for Crows
Summary: In which Sansa agrees to the plan.
Warnings: incest, adultery, angst, dubious morality, Littlefinger
Notes: This is for miss_magrat, who wanted me to write Jon/Sansa. Many thanks to novin_ha for beta reading.
Previous :: Table of Contents :: Next
03. Sansa
The lords and ladies are all leaving King’s Landing and on every walk around the castle walls Sansa catches glimpses of wagons being loaded and horses mounted. It is of surprise to her neither that they are departing, nor that they have waited until the queen has disappeared from King’s Landing for some war in the East to do so. Feeble as the court may have been, Daenerys’ presence at least gave it a semblance of reality; now this semblance is gone.
There has been a raven from Winterfell with a short letter from Bran, announcing his upcoming arrival at the court. Sansa feels rather curious about her brother’s intentions, and awaits him anxiously, as they have not seen each other for almost two years now. She wishes only that she could show Bran the city at some other time of the year; she fears that he shall despise its heat and the revolting smells after his forests in the North.
Oddly, she has not had enough of King’s Landing’s climate yet; it is a relief to be able to go out in the sun after five years of frost and winter winds, and a pleasure to be able to look at flowers and green leaves. On leaving the North, she made a quiet promise to only come back to those parts of the land in the heart of the summer.
Truly, if the cold weather repels me, I am no Stark anymore. She pauses for a moment, and from the height of the walls, looks down at the castle. There are still people wherever she turns her eye: the lords, the servants, the guards; soon, however, these walls will become quite empty and abandoned, but for her little household.
“I have to say I admire you,” says Petyr, surprising her, when one day she sits by the window with her embroidering. “Scarcely a fortnight, and all our servants are ready to kiss the ground on which you tread.”
“Is it not my duty to make them feel so, my lord?” she asks with a playful little smile, and rises to kiss him. I probably should not enjoy his kisses this much, she thinks; this past few days gave her many an occasion to consider things that a lady should find appropriate and enjoyable.
Once she has sat back, Petyr stands by her seat, and looks through the window. Sansa puts her needle through the delicate fabric, finishing an outline of a leaf.
They have not talked of her seducing the king since that supper a few days ago; Sansa half-expected it to come up in every conversation they now share, but so far, Petyr has not raised the subject.
She has spent quite some time considering the matter during her walks, and every moment free of domestic duties. Petyr’s idea failed to shock her initially, and even after thorough consideration does not repulse her that much. It is, of course, utterly immoral; but then, it is difficult - nay, it is impossible - to argue morality with a man who intrigued to put at least half of the chaos that tore the land into motion, who planned the deaths of several people, who schemed his way through the war, never caring for anyone but himself (and, occasionally, for her, though she is not vain enough to believe he did this out of love), never looking back or regretting his deeds. More importantly, it is impossible for her to argue morality and tell him she would never act against a certain code without seeming a hypocrite.
That Petyr dared suggest her, his lady wife to seduce the king bothers her more, and indeed angers her, even though, all things considered, it should not be surprising.
A thought that tips the scale results from another chance meeting with Jon in the garden, and another reflection that a few years ago she might have fallen in love with that man.
The girl Sansa wanted a king to love her; right now, she is a step away from fulfilling this wish, and with a king who is kind, courteous and noble.
“You have also made quite an impression on the ladies of the court,” says Petyr, as he turns towards her, smiling as usual. “Lady Egen apparently couldn’t recall ever meeting a more foolish woman in her life.”
“She asked me about Robert Arryn’s accident,” says Sansa calmly, not even bothering to ask him how he knows. The servants overhear, and they talk to other servants, who repeat the things they hear to their lords. “It bothered her that the subject failed to move me.” Her days of torturing herself over Robert are long gone; she has not given a slightest thought to the conversation with Lady Egen.
“Do you think she will trouble you again?” asks Petyr, stroking his beard.
“Since she already considers me foolish, she may not see a point,” says Sansa. She turns the shawl in her hands, and chooses on it a place for the next leaf. “And she has left King’s Landing with her lord husband a few days ago, I think.”
“Ah, yes,” says her lord husband. “I am considering leaving King’s Landing myself, in the next ten days, or, if I close all my affairs earlier, mayhaps even faster.”
Sansa raises her head abruptly.
“Leave already? Why?” she asks. “I have only just arrived.”
“I meant leaving myself, my dear,” says Petyr. “You will stay here for a time. As for why, well, that little castle that your cousin has bestowed on us needs seeing to, and it probably requires being put in order before I let my lady wife put a foot in there.”
“I hope it won’t take long until we can join you there,” says Sansa. After all this time without Petyr, she has no wish of staying away from him again, of not being able to talk to him, to share the bed with him, to just meet him like now, in the middle of the household duties, and exchange little comments, and kisses.
Petyr studies her face. “It all depends on the shape in which I find the castle,” he says. “But I rather thought you should like to see to the king when I am absent.”
Sansa puts the needle through the fabric, folds the shawl and places it on a stand by the window. Then she takes a deep breath. “You still have not explained your plan to me,” she says. “Could you do it now, my lord?”
Petyr gazes at her pensively, and then turns to the window.
“Within a year, mayhaps a little longer, our dear sovereigns will have come to their senses and finally appointed a Hand,” he says.
“And you, my lord, want to be the Hand,” hazards Sansa, somewhat surprised; he never mentioned becoming the Hand in their conversations about their future at the court.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” says Petyr. “I’ve grown tired of staying in the shadows, my dear. It is high time we took some power in our hands.”
“But how is my sleeping with the king going to make you the Hand?” asks Sansa.
Petyr finally moves away from the window, and sits down on a chair opposite her. He appears rather concerned, and Sansa realizes that it really is not a joke of his.
“You do realize that it is not very likely that the king would ever want me to become his Hand, don’t you?” he begins.
“Why would he not, my lord?” she asks with a straight face. “It is not like you’ve ever done anything that could make him wary of taking you into his service.”
Her lord husband smiles, but his grey-green eyes remain serious. “The problem with people like him is that they are too noble to see the usefulness of people like me,” he says. “But he should want someone with a little experience in the matters of court and ruling for his Hand, perhaps someone who has lived at the court before, under the Baratheons. And we’d rather it was me whom he chooses, not someone else, wouldn’t we?”
There are but a few people left from the times of kings Robert and Joffrey. Most have been killed one way or another, while the few survivors do not have the favour of the royal couple and bide their time in their castles all over the country.
Sansa is about to say that there is nobody but Petyr who fits his description, when suddenly she realizes that there is one other man, who has been at the court in those times, and who, moreover, has fought alongside Jon and Daenerys in the war, and has at least Jon’s friendship.
Tyrion Lannister. The name brings on an unpleasant feeling in her tummy. He was kind to her once, and for that she is ever thankful; he might be kind to her now, even despite the dissolution of their joke of a marriage. He will not be kind to her lord husband, though.
“No, we wouldn’t like someone else,” she says finally, and, without further consideration, asks, “How do you see my role in this, then?”
“It is very simple, really,” says Petyr. “The king will doubtless be very guilty over sleeping with you, and we will only need him to act upon this guilt, make him want to reward you for suffering his advances.” Upon a look from Sansa, he smirks. “He is a very honourable man, my dear. That’s how he will think.”
“But it will be too obvious what my motives are, if it is me suggesting that he made you a Hand,” says Sansa slowly, and realizes that she is already thinking the plan a matter decided.
“The idea will have to come from the outside, of course,” says her lord husband. “From the queen, perhaps, or one of the Small Council. I’ll take care of that.” He rests his head on his hand. “Well? What do you say now?”
It is her turn to examine his face; Petyr looks at her intently, not a shade of uncertainty or doubt in his eyes.
“Will my sleeping with the king really not bother you, my lord?” she asks in the end, the only thought that bothers her now.
His expression changes; he has the grace to look a little uneasy. “But it will, my dear,” he says. “Why otherwise would I be leaving the castle?”
It rains heavily on the day of Petyr’s departure, and Sansa, who deeply dislikes public displays of affections, is both relieved and sorry that she cannot put him on his way.
Soon she finds that she misses him more after this short time together than before, when they had not seen each other for almost half a year.
When she walks in the gardens or through the castle now, she meets the king quite often. They do not usually go beyond some courtesies, do not exchange more than a few words. Sansa wonders whether it will be actually possible for her to make Jon fall for her, when they have not even held one proper conversation since the one in the garden. He is, of course, preoccupied with carrying out all the tasks usually divided between the members of the Small Council. There must be some way for her to spend a little more time with Jon, however. She needs to find it, to make it possible for them to at least know each other a little better.
“You must be very tired with so much work on your shoulders, Your Grace,” she tells him upon their next meeting, this time not quite a chance one. “It is a pity you cannot take a rest.”
“Someone needs to take care of the ruling, and my duty lies in serving the land,” says Jon. He is probably the only man whom she can believe to mean this not only as a pretty phrase in a conversation. “But what is it that still keeps you in court, my lady? Nigh everybody else has left.”
Sansa smiles under his questioning gaze.
“Bran arrives soon,” she tells him. “I have not seen him in a while, and I don’t want to miss a chance of meeting him now.”
Bran is the only of her siblings that she has been seeing with some regularity since the war, and, having come to the conclusion that neither of them - he, after all his mysterious learnings, she, after the Vale - has remained much of a Stark they have formed a bond like they never shared in childhood.
Jon nods in understanding.
“Will he be coming straight from Winterfell, or has he been spending time out of it again?” he asks.
“He wrote to me from Winterfell, but I don’t know whether he was not going beyond the Wall lately,” she says.
Jon nods again, and hair fall into his eyes. When he puts it in order, Sansa realizes that she enjoys watching him; he is, undoubtedly, a very attractive man.
“I miss Winterfell sometimes,” says Jon suddenly; at this, Ghost looks up from the shadow he has laid in since the king and Sansa began their conversation. “I haven’t known a refuge like Winterfell gave us since I have left its gates.”
“It is changed now,” says Sansa, and recalls how unfamiliar Winterfell was to her upon coming back. “The people we have known are dead or gone, the castle does not look like you remember it… Our Winterfell is gone, my lord. Do not miss it.”
“Wouldn’t you like to live there again, my lady?” asks Jon, surprised. Ghost trots to his leg, and stares at Sansa with his red eyes.
“I have lived there during the war,” says Sansa. “It was a nightmare.” It is a little too frank, coming from her. Usually she guards herself better; but Jon appears thoughtful at that declaration.
A little later that day a servant brings her a message from the king. Since they are the only ones remaining at the castle, could she do him the honour of accompanying him at the supper?
Their conversation during the supper is more than a little forced. Sansa carefully tries the ground, but eventually decides that keeping to her usual mask of a perfect lady, tainted with a little cousinly warmth, will be the wisest course of action. It is very interesting to listen to Jon talk about his duties; it is a pity that he does not expect her to offer him more comment than the assertion that they must be quite exhausting.
They talk a little about Winterfell, and Sansa is somewhat embarrassed to recall how dreadful she must have appeared to Jon back then. He does not mention any of that, though; he seems glad to have someone to share memories with. As the supper progresses, Sansa comes to a realization that she likes Jon, and she would not mind being friends with him, under different circumstances.
Upon going to bed, she lies in the dark for a long time, unable to fall asleep. It is not fair to Jon, that plan we have come up with, she thinks, and wonders if she should have agreed to it that readily. He is too good to be so deceived.
I have made my decision, though. She turns under her covers, and sighs, a little angry with her lord husband, and, a little more, with herself.