Chapter Text
The wind over Winterfell didn’t just blow; it hunted. It stripped the heat from a man’s skin like a flaying knife, seeking out the soft places between furs and armor to sink its teeth in. The castle stood against it, a fist of grey stone clenched against a sky the color of a fresh bruise, but even the ancient walls couldn't keep the chill from settling into the marrow.
Sansa Stark stood on the battlements, her hands resting on the freezing stone crenellations. She didn't shiver. She had learned a long time ago that shivering was a confession of weakness, and she had no weaknesses left to confess.
Beside her, Sandor Clegane took a pull from a battered wineskin, the sour smell of cheap ale cutting through the crisp scent of snow and pine. He wiped his mouth with the back of a gloved hand, his scarred face a ruin of melted flesh and bad memories against the white backdrop.
"You're going to freeze your tits off standing up here, girl," he grumbled, his voice like gravel in a churn. "Dead aren't here yet. No point catching your death before they arrive to do it for you."
Sansa didn't look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the Kingsroad, a ribbon of churned mud and ice disappearing into the mist. "If I wanted to be warm, I’d be in the crypts with the women and children. I’m not a child anymore, Sandor."
"No," he grunted, leaning his massive bulk against the stone. "You’re a bloody statue. A queen made of ice. Might be useful when the Night King comes. Maybe he’ll try to fuck you and freeze his cock off."
Sansa’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile she allowed only around him. "You’re disgusting."
"I’m honest. World’s ending, little bird. No time for pretty words and courtly bullshit. We’re all just meat waiting for the butcher." He spat over the edge of the wall, watching the glob of saliva freeze before it hit the ground. "Why are we really up here? You expecting your brother? The Dragon Cunt?"
"I’m expecting a war," Sansa said softly, her voice carrying the weight of every horror she’d survived. "And I like to see what’s coming before it hits me. I’m done being surprised."
A horn blast shattered the quiet—one long, low note that vibrated in the chest. Riders.
Not the dead. The dead didn't announce themselves with brass; they came with silence and the screaming of horses.
"One rider," Sandor noted, his good eye narrowing as he squinted into the gloom. "Just one. Stupid fucker riding alone in this weather."
Down the road, a shape emerged from the swirling white. A black horse, laboring through the drifts, breath pluming like smoke from a dragon’s nostrils. The rider was slumped, wrapped in a cloak that had seen better decades, let alone days. He rode with a strange, lopsided gait, favoring his right side.
Sansa’s fingers tightened on the stone until her knuckles turned white. She knew that silhouette. She knew the set of those shoulders, the arrogance that somehow survived even exhaustion and defeat. She had seen it in the Red Keep, seen it in the courtyard at Joffrey’s tourney, seen it in her nightmares.
"Open the gates!" she shouted down to the yard, her voice cracking like a whip.
The men in the courtyard hesitated. They were Northern men, stubborn as the roots of a weirwood. They looked to the wall, then to each other. Lord Glover spat on the ground.
"Open the fucking gates!" Sandor roared, his voice booming over the wind, terrifying enough to send a shiver through the seasoned guards. "You heard the Lady of Winterfell! Move your arses before I come down there and chop them off and feed them to you!"
The heavy timber gates groaned, the iron hinges shrieking in protest as they were hauled open. The rider didn’t speed up. He trotted in, the horse’s hooves clattering on the frozen cobblestones of the courtyard.
"I'm going down," Sandor said, pushing off the wall. He checked the heavy axe at his hip, a reflexive, lethal motion.
"Sandor," Sansa said.
He paused, looking back at her. The wind whipped her red hair around her face like a banner of blood.
"Don't kill him," she said. It wasn't a plea. It was an instruction.
"Depends on what the cunt has to say," Sandor muttered, and stumped down the stone stairs.
By the time Sansa reached the lower balcony overlooking the yard, the rider had been surrounded. Spears tipped with dragonglass formed a hedge of death around him. The horse whickered nervously, rolling its eyes, but the man in the saddle sat still.
He pulled back his hood.
A collective gasp went through the yard, followed instantly by the hiss of swords being drawn.
Jaime Lannister looked like a corpse that hadn't had the decency to lie down. His face was gaunt, hollowed out by hunger and the biting cold, his beard grey-flecked and unkempt. But his eyes were the same—bright, hard emeralds that missed nothing. And resting on the pommel of his saddle was the hand. The golden hand. It caught the weak winter light, a gaudy, expensive joke in a world of grey steel.
"The Kingslayer," Lord Glover spat, stepping forward, his hand on his sword hilt. "You have some balls coming here, Lannister. Or no brains."
Jaime looked at the circle of steel. He didn't reach for the sword at his hip—Widow’s Wail, Sansa noted with a jolt of recognition. Joffrey’s sword. Ned Stark’s steel.
"I heard the hospitality in the North was cold," Jaime rasped, his voice wrecked. "I didn't realize it was fatal."
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't gut you where you sit," Glover snarled. "You pushed a boy from a tower. You attacked Ned Stark in the streets. You are a monster."
"I’m tired," Jaime said flatly. "And you look like you’d tire easily, my lord. Perhaps we can skip the posturing?"
"Enough."
The crowd parted as Sandor Clegane shoved his way through. He moved like a landslide, heavy and inevitable. He stopped in front of Jaime’s horse, looking up at the man he’d once served, the man who represented everything he hated about the South, about knights, about gold-plated lies.
"Look at you," Sandor sneered, his scarred lip curling. "The Golden Lion. You look like shit, Lannister. Did your sister finally realize you were useless and kick you out of bed? Or did she just run out of wine?"
Jaime’s jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek, the only sign that the barb had landed. "Clegane. I see you haven't improved your disposition. Or your face."
Sandor laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed off the stone walls. "My face scares children. Yours just makes widows. Get off the horse."
"I’m here to see the Queen," Jaime said, not moving.
"We don't have a queen," Sandor said. "We have a Wolf. And she’s deciding right now whether to feed you to her dogs or just let you freeze."
Jaime’s eyes lifted. He ignored the spears, ignored Glover’s spittle, ignored the Hound’s towering menace. He looked up to the balcony.
Sansa stood there, wrapped in furs, her face a mask of porcelain and iron. Littlefinger stood in the shadows behind her, a dark stain against the stone, but Jaime ignored him. He only saw her.
Their eyes locked.
It was a physical impact, like a slap. There was a history between them that had no words—hostage and captor, victim and bystander, naive girl and cynical knight. But looking at him now, Sansa didn't see the man who had attacked her father. She saw a man who had ridden into the teeth of the apocalypse alone.
She saw the hunger in him. Not just for food, but for something else. Absolution? Death?
He looked at her mouth, then her eyes. It was a bold look, stripping away the years. He didn't look at her like a child anymore. He looked at her like a man assessing a threat, or a prize he knew he couldn't afford.
"Lady Stark," Jaime called out, his voice carrying over the murmuring soldiers. "I was told you had reclaimed your home. I see the rumors didn't do you justice."
"Ser Jaime," Sansa replied. Her voice was cool, clear water. "You are a long way from home. And without your army."
"I brought myself," Jaime said. He swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. He stumbled slightly, his legs stiff from the ride, but caught himself on the reins. He straightened, dusting the snow from his cloak with his flesh hand. "And this." He tapped the hilt of the Valyrian steel sword. "It kills dead things. I hear you have a problem with those."
"We have a problem with Lannisters," Sandor growled, stepping into Jaime’s personal space. He towered over the knight. "Especially the ones who think a shiny sword makes up for a lifetime of being a cunt."
Jaime didn't back down. He tilted his head back, meeting the Hound’s glare. "I did what I did for my house. For my family."
"And where is your family now?" Sansa asked from the balcony.
Jaime flinched. It was small, but it was there. "South. Waiting to die. I decided I’d rather fight."
"You decided?" Sansa descended the stairs, the heavy thud of her boots the only sound in the yard. The soldiers parted for her, lowering their spears but keeping them ready. She stopped three paces from him. Close enough to smell the horse sweat and the old leather, close enough to see the red veins of exhaustion in his eyes. "Or did she send you away?"
"She lied," Jaime said quietly. "To you. To Jon Snow. To me. She isn't sending her armies. She bought the Golden Company. She plans to let the dead wipe you out, then deal with the survivors."
The outrage in the yard was instantaneous. Cries of "Traitor!" and "Liar!" erupted. Men surged forward, steel glinting.
Sandor moved.
It was a blur of motion. He stepped between the mob and Jaime, his hand resting on the hilt of his axe, his snarl silencing the front row of men.
"Back off!" Sandor roared. "The Lady is talking!"
He turned his head, fixing Jaime with his good eye. "You hear that, Lannister? They want your blood. And frankly, I wouldn't mind seeing it on the snow myself."
He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a menacing rumble that only Jaime and Sansa could hear.
"But here’s the thing," Sandor rasped, the smell of sour wine heavy on his breath. "I’m done with your shit city and your shit kings. And I’m done with people hurting this one." He jerked a thumb toward Sansa. "The Little Bird isn't little anymore. But if you think you can play your games here—if you think you can lie to her, or hurt her, or betray her for that cunt sister of yours—I will peel the skin from your body while you scream. She won't be hurt again. Not while I’m breathing. Do you understand me, Kingslayer?"
Jaime looked at the Hound, then past him to Sansa. He saw the way she stood—tall, unyielding, accepting the Hound’s protection not as a damsel, but as a queen accepting the loyalty of a beast.
A strange expression crossed Jaime’s face. Not fear. Resignation. And something darker... admiration.
"I have no intention of hurting her, Dog," Jaime murmured. He looked Sansa up and down, a slow, deliberate sweep that made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. It was an appraisal that felt like a touch. "I think Lady Stark is quite capable of hurting me."
Sansa held his gaze. "Strip him of his weapons," she ordered, her voice flat. "Put him in the guest keep. Under guard. If he tries to leave, break his legs."
"With pleasure," Sandor grunted. He reached out and ripped the sword belt from Jaime’s waist, shoving him roughly toward the guards.
As he was hauled away, Jaime looked back over his shoulder. He didn't look like a prisoner. He looked like a man who had finally found the only place in the world worth burning for.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Ser Jaime," Sansa whispered to the wind. "Try to survive the night."
The guest keep was a polite name for a cell with a hearth. It smelled of pine resin and old dust, the kind of room reserved for visitors you weren't sure if you wanted to feed or hang.
Jaime Lannister paced the small stone floor, the rhythm of his boots echoing against the walls. One, two, three, turn. His body was screaming for sleep—every muscle from his neck to his calves was knotted tight as bowstrings—but his mind was racing too fast to let him rest.
He was alive. He was in Winterfell. And the woman on the balcony...
The heavy oak door creaked open. Jaime spun, his hand instinctively going to a sword hilt that wasn't there.
"Peace, Kingslayer," a familiar voice rumbled.
Brienne of Tarth ducked through the doorway, her massive frame filling the arch. She looked older, her face wind-chapped and harder than he remembered, but her eyes were the same—shockingly blue, painfully honest.
"Brienne," he breathed, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. "You’re alive."
"So are you," she said, stepping into the room. She didn't hug him—they weren't huggers, not really—but she gripped his forearm with a hand that trembled slightly. "You shouldn't have come alone, Jaime. They want your head on a spike. Lord Glover was suggesting we feed you to the pigs."
"They always want my head," Jaime quipped, though the smile felt brittle on his face. "It’s the price of being so handsome. And I assume you talked them out of the pigs?"
"Sansa did," Brienne said, her voice lowering. "She’s... she’s different, Jaime. She’s not the girl you remember from the wedding. She rules this place."
"I noticed," Jaime murmured, the image of Sansa on the battlements flashing in his mind. Cold. Imperious. "She wears authority well. Better than Cersei ever did."
"She learned from the worst," a smooth, oily voice drifted in from the hallway.
Brienne stiffened, her hand dropping to the pommel of Oathkeeper. Jaime looked past her to see Petyr Baelish leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his thin lips. He was dressed in impeccable wool, a mockingjay pin at his throat, looking entirely too comfortable in a castle that should have flayed him alive years ago.
"Lord Baelish," Jaime said, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "I see the roaches survive even the winter."
"Ser Jaime," Littlefinger replied, bowing low, a gesture that mocked more than it honored. "A pleasure to see the Kingslayer in captivity. It feels... correct." He stepped into the room, his eyes darting around, assessing the meager accommodations. "Lady Sansa is debating your fate as we speak. I advised execution, of course. Cleaner. Safer. Why take the risk?"
"I’m sure you did," Jaime said, stepping forward. He towered over the smaller man, using his height, using the sheer physical menace of a man who had killed more people than Baelish had hot dinners. "Dead men can't talk. Can't tell her about the things you did in King’s Landing. Can't tell her who really betrayed her father."
Littlefinger’s smile didn't waver, but his eyes went flat, dead like a shark’s. "Sansa knows who her friends are. And she knows who her enemies are. You are a Lannister. You are the past. A relic."
"And you," Jaime whispered, leaning down until he could smell the mint on Baelish’s breath, "are a pimp with a sigil he invented. If you touch her, Baelish—if I even smell that you’ve hurt her—I will strangle you with my golden hand. It doesn't cramp. It doesn't get tired. I’ll squeeze until your head pops like a grape."
Littlefinger chuckled, but he took a half-step back. "We shall see who she listens to. The Queen of Dragons and her... nephew... will be here soon. I hear they are quite inseparable. Perhaps they will want to make an example of you."
"Get out," a voice cut through the tension like a blade.
Sansa Stark stood in the doorway. She had changed from her furs into a heavy velvet gown of dark grey, the Stark direwolf embroidered in silver thread across her chest. She looked like a storm cloud given human form. The Hound stood behind her, a looming shadow.
"Lady Sansa," Littlefinger began, his voice instantly turning to syrup. "I was just—"
"I heard you," she said, her eyes icy. "Leave us."
"My lady, is it wise to be alone with—"
"Lord Baelish," she said, her voice dropping, sharp and final. "Out."
Littlefinger’s jaw tightened. He shot a look of pure venom at Jaime, bowed stiffly to Sansa, and vanished into the corridor.
"You too, Brienne. Sandor," Sansa commanded, not looking away from Jaime.
"Not leaving you," Sandor grunted.
"He has no weapon," Sansa said calmly. "And you are right outside the door. If I scream, come in and kill him."
The Hound snorted, glared at Jaime, and backed out, closing the heavy oak door with a boom that shook the floorboards.
Silence stretched between them. The fire popped in the hearth, sending sparks up the chimney.
Sansa moved to the small table, pouring two cups of wine. She didn't offer him one immediately. She took a sip, her blue eyes watching him over the rim of the goblet.
"You threatened Lord Baelish," she stated.
"He needed threatening," Jaime said, leaning back against the stone wall, trying to look casual despite the fact that his heart was hammering against his ribs. "He’s poison, Sansa. You know that."
"I know exactly what he is," she replied. She walked toward him, holding out the second cup. "I use him because his men protect my home. Just as I will use you, if you are useful."
Jaime took the cup. His fingers brushed hers—cold skin against warm. A spark jumped between them, invisible but undeniable. "Useful," he repeated, testing the word. "Is that all I am? A tool?"
"What else would you be?" She looked up at him, refusing to be intimidated by his height. "You are the Kingslayer. The Oathbreaker. Why should I trust a word that comes out of your mouth?"
"Because I have nothing left to lie for," Jaime said softly. He set the cup down on the table without drinking. He needed a clear head. "I looked around the Red Keep, and I realized I was standing in a graveyard. Cersei... she’s gone. The woman I loved is dead. What’s left is a monster who would burn the world to be Queen of the Ashes."
He took a step closer. The air in the room grew thick, charged with static.
"I brought you something," he said. "My sword."
"Widow’s Wail," Sansa said, the name tasting bitter on her tongue.
"It was forged from your father’s sword," Jaime said. "From Ice. It belongs to your house. It belongs to you."
He reached for his belt, but of course, the sword was gone. He gestured vaguely to where the guards had taken it. "I offer it to you. Along with my life."
Sansa stared at him. She looked at the golden hand, then up to his face. "You want to serve me?"
"I want to fight for the living. And you... you seem to be the only one actually doing that."
"And if I order you to die?" she asked, her voice dropping to a husky murmur that shivered down his spine.
"Then I die."
"And if I order you to kneel?"
Jaime’s breath hitched. The command hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating. He was a lion of the Rock. He had sat on the Iron Throne, if only for a moment. He knelt for no one but a King.
But looking at her now—this scarred, steel-spined creature who had walked through hell and come out wearing the devil’s coat—something inside him fractured. It wasn't a break; it was a release. The exhaustion of leading, of lying, of holding up the sky for a sister who didn't care... it all crashed down.
He wanted to yield. He wanted to give the reins to someone whose hands didn't shake.
Slowly, deliberately, Jaime lowered himself.
The stone was cold through his breeches. One knee, then the other. He kept his back straight, his eyes fixed on her waist. He rested his golden hand on his thigh, a heavy, dead weight, and opened his flesh hand, palm up.
"I am yours to command, Lady Stark," he rasped. The words felt like a confession. Like a prayer.
Sansa stared down at him. Her expression didn't soften, but her pupils dilated, swallowing the blue. She took a step closer, the heavy velvet of her skirts brushing against his knees. She smelled of winter roses and lemon cakes and steel.
"Good," she whispered. "Because I have no use for lions who think they are kings. In the North, we break horses before we ride them."
Jaime felt a jolt of electricity shoot straight to his groin. His cock twitched, hardening rapidly against the confines of his leather breeches. It was an insane reaction—he was a prisoner, kneeling before the daughter of a man he’d helped destroy—but the sheer, cold dominance in her voice set his blood on fire.
He liked it. Gods help him, he liked that she looked at him like something she might break.
"You’ve changed, Sansa," he murmured, looking up through his lashes. "The last time I saw you, you were a frightened girl trying to disappear."
"I learned," she said, her voice sharp. She reached out, her fingers trailing lightly over his golden hand. The metal was cold, but her touch burned. "I learned that if you disappear, they just find you and hurt you. It’s better to be seen. Better to be feared."
"What happened to you?" Jaime asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. He saw the faint scars on her neck, the way she flinched when the fire popped too loudly. "Ramsay?"
Sansa withdrew her hand as if stung. Her face closed off, the mask slamming back into place. "Everything happened, Ser Jaime. Joffrey. Littlefinger. Ramsay. They all took pieces. I just learned how to sharpen the pieces they left behind."
She walked around him, circling him like a predator. Jaime stayed kneeling, turning his head to follow her.
"You can keep the sword," she said, stopping behind him. "For now. I’ll take it when the dead are destroyed and the deserving are in their graves."
"A generous offer," Jaime said, his voice thick.
"It’s not generosity," she said, leaning down so her breath ghosted against the back of his neck. "It’s logistics. I need every sword I can get. Even the ones held by cripples."
She walked back around to face him. "Stand up."
Jaime rose, his knees cracking slightly. He was hard, painfully so, and he adjusted his tunic to hide it. He hoped the dim light was his friend.
"One warning," Jaime said, his voice serious now. "Baelish. He’s selling you something, Sansa. I don't know what, but the price is going to be too high."
"I know," Sansa said. A small, cruel smile touched her lips. "He thinks he’s playing a game. He thinks I’m still his student."
"And aren't you?"
"I graduated," she said softly. "I know what he wants. He wants the Iron Throne, and he wants me beside him. He thinks he can isolate me. That’s why he wanted you dead."
"He’ll try again," Jaime warned. "He’s not a man who accepts losing."
"Then he’ll die," Sansa said simply. "But not yet. I need the Vale."
She looked at him, her gaze dropping to his hands, then back up to his eyes. The heat was there again, simmering under the ice.
"Go to your room, Ser Jaime. Rest. Eat. Tomorrow, I’ll decide if you’re worth the food."
"As you wish, my lady."
Jaime bowed, turned, and walked to the door. His body was humming, alive in a way it hadn't been in years. He had ridden North to die, but looking at the Wolf Queen, realizing the dark, twisted potential of what lay between them...
He realized he very much wanted to live.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to sullen, glowing coals, casting the small stone cell in deep, flickering shadows. It should have been freezing. The wind was still howling outside the narrow slit of a window, battering the walls of Winterfell like a fist.
But Jaime Lannister was burning alive.
He lay on the narrow cot, the rough wool blanket kicked down to his ankles. He was naked, his clothes piled on the floor where he’d shed them in a fit of restless agitation. He had tried to sleep. He had tried to force his mind into the blank, grey static that usually got him through the nights on the Kingsroad.
It wasn't working.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.
Not the frightened bird he’d met in King’s Landing. Not the girl who wept while Joffrey tormented her. He saw the woman who had stood over him tonight. The high collar of her velvet dress, the way it hugged the curve of her waist, the pale column of her throat when she looked down at him.
In the North, we break horses before we ride them.
The memory of her voice—that low, smoky rasp—sent a fresh jolt of electricity straight to his groin. Jaime groaned, throwing his head back against the thin pillow, his hips bucking involuntarily. He was hard. Painfully, achingly hard. His cock stood rigid against his stomach, leaking pre-cum, throbbing with a need that felt less like arousal and more like starvation.
He reached down with his left hand—his only hand—and wrapped his fingers around the shaft.
The sensation was immediate, electric. He hissed through his teeth, his thumb dragging over the weeping head, smearing the slick fluid down the length. It had been so long. Cersei... Cersei hadn't touched him in months before he left, and even then, it had been cold, transactional.
This? This was fire.
"Sansa," he whispered, the name feeling forbidden and heavy on his tongue.
He stroked himself, slow at first, matching the rhythm of his racing heart. He imagined her in this room. Not standing by the door, but standing over the bed. Looking down at him with those icy, imperious Tully eyes.
In his mind, she wasn't wearing the heavy furs. She was in her shift, the thin white linen clinging to her hips. She wouldn't be touching him. No, she would be watching him.
Show me, she would say. Show me how much you want it.
Jaime’s hand moved faster, his grip tightening.
"Gods," he panted, his hips snapping up to meet his own hand. "You... haughty... bitch."
He imagined crawling to her. He imagined pressing his face into the velvet of her skirts, inhaling that scent of winter roses and steel. He imagined her hand—her real, warm hand—tangling in his hair, gripping tight, forcing his head back.
Kneel, she had said. And he had. He had gone down so easily.
"I’d kneel," he muttered to the empty room, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I’d kneel... I’d let you... fuck..."
He squeezed his eyes shut, the fantasy turning darker, sharper. He pictured her sitting on the edge of the heavy oak table. He pictured himself between her legs, parting those white thighs, burying his face in her heat. He wanted to taste her. He wanted to lap at her until she shattered, until that mask of iron composure cracked and she made noises that weren't words.
He wanted to serve her.
"My Queen," he groaned, his pace becoming frantic. The friction was exquisite, bordering on pain. "Let me... let me taste you... please..."
He imagined her fingers in his mouth. He imagined her commanding him to stop, to wait, to beg. The thought of being controlled by her—by the girl who had once been a pawn—was intoxicating. It twisted something deep in his gut, a mix of shame and overpowering lust.
He was the Kingslayer. He was a lion of House Lannister. And all he wanted was to be her dog.
"Sansa," he choked out, his hips thrashing against the mattress. "Sansa... Sansa..."
The pressure built in his balls, a tidal wave of release that he couldn't hold back, didn't want to hold back. He imagined her eyes locking onto his as he unraveled. He imagined her smiling that cruel, small smile as he fell apart.
"Yes... yes... fuck!"
He arched his back, a guttural, animalistic groan tearing from his throat as he came. It was violent, shaking his entire frame. Hot spurts of semen shot out, coating his fist, landing hot and wet across his own chest and stomach. He pumped through the aftershocks, milking every last drop of pleasure, his head swimming in a haze of white light.
He collapsed back onto the mattress, his chest heaving, sweat cooling rapidly on his skin in the frigid air. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was his own ragged breathing and the dying pop of the fire.
Jaime lay there, staring up at the dark stone ceiling. He felt the sticky wetness on his chest, the cooling evidence of his fantasy. He looked at his left hand, slick with his own seed. He looked at the golden hand, resting useless and cold on the blanket beside him.
The reality of what he had just done crashed down on him.
He had just jerked off to Sansa Stark. Catelyn Stark’s daughter. Ned Stark’s little girl. The sister of the King in the North. The woman he had sworn to protect, whose family he had helped dismantle.
He squeezed his eyes shut, dragging his clean forearm over his face.
"Fuck," he whispered into the dark.
He was in so much trouble.