Chapter 2: The Heart Tree's Witness
The north’s chill was a clean, sharp thing after the perfumed heat of Dorne, but the ghosts felt older here. Edric walked the worn path to Winterfell’s godswood, the memory of Elia’s commanding touch a fever in his blood that even the freezing air couldn’t cool. He needed the quiet of the trees, a place without eyes.
The hot spring’s steam rose in a spectral mist through the moonlight, and within it, a figure moved. She was waist-deep in the black water, her skin luminous as the weirwood’s bark, her long auburn hair slick and dark over her shoulders. Sansa Stark turned, her eyes widening not in fear, but in icy outrage. “Who dares—?”
“A traveler,” Ned said, his voice rough. “Seeking the old gods.”
“You seek a lady’s private hour,” she snapped, covering her breasts with her arms, the water sloshing. “Leave. Now.”
He didn’t move. “A Dornish diversion taught me not to obey such commands.” Her Northern pride was a flame, and he was dry tinder.
He was on her in three strides, the hot water surging as he gripped her wrist and pulled her against him, her naked body slippery and shockingly warm. “Unhand me!” she gasped, but her struggle was half-hearted, her eyes locked on his scarred face.
“Make me,” he whispered against her mouth before capturing it, swallowing her gasp. Her lips were soft, untutored, then they parted. Her hands, which had pushed at his chest, now gripped his tunic, pulling him deeper into the scalding pool. He walked her backward until her shoulders met the rough, carved face of the heart tree, its red eyes watching.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Tell me to stop.”
Her chest heaved, her nipples tight peaks in the cool air. “I will not,” she breathed, defiance and surrender in her sky-blue eyes.
He freed his aching cock from his breeches and her gaze dropped, a soft “oh” escaping her. He hooked his hands under her knees, lifting her, pressing her back against the ancient bark. “This will hurt,” he warned, not gently.
“I know,” she said, and he drove into her tight, virgin heat in one brutal thrust. She cried out, a sharp sound lost in the steam, her nails scoring his neck. He held still, buried to the hilt, feeling her clench and flutter around him. “Fuck,” he groaned, the sensation unbearable.
He moved then, a hard, relentless rhythm, the water churning around them. Her moans became a broken song against his ear, her legs locking around his hips. “Yes,” she chanted, “yes, please.” He bit her shoulder, claiming her as the weirwood watched, his release a torrent that ripped through him with savage force. She followed, shuddering, her inner walls milking him utterly spent.
He lowered her, her legs wobbling. She looked ravaged, glorious, her lips swollen. She touched his cheek, her gaze clear and changed. “You’ll be gone by dawn,” she stated, the Lady of Winterfell returning.
“I will,” he agreed, the ghost of Dorne laughing in the steam.