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Jon trained Podrick alongside Brienne’s watchful eye to fight like the wildlings — brutal, undisciplined, ruthless. With two swords in either hand, he charged with an unbridled strength that spurred an odd tingle in Sansa.
Jon the Black Knight, she called him in the song she made up and sang to no one. Kind, noble Jon the Black Knight had faced down enemies to protect the weak at Winterfell, at Hardhome, at the Wall, all of the North. The Black Knight of her songs had taken knives to the heart for the lives of innocents and beaten bloody the man who raped his sister, only to honor her with the kill. Jon the Black Knight had been freely elected by those who had chosen to follow him. Sansa did not know quite what to make of Jon the Black Knight, only that she enjoyed crafting songs about him and learning everything she could about his deeds. Were Sansa younger, she might have unabashedly swooned at the fairytale of it all. But now she was older, and Jon flesh and bone, and so she did not know quite what to make of Jon the Black Knight. She only knew for certain that she enjoyed crafting songs about him and learning everything she could about his deeds, a slightly embarrassing pursuit since Jon was not inclined to brag about his achievements and thus required work on her part to collect his gallant tales.
She was not the only one to notice Jon’s fairy tale qualities.
As the sun rose in the east as it set in the west, if Jon were to wield a sword, the old gods slept well knowing women gathered like a host of sparrows in the training yard. They gawked and pretended to devote all their attention onto their works of laundry, cooking, sorting, and caretaking. But that was not Sansa. She was the Lady of Winterfell. She was not going to gawk over Jon. Sansa merely watched him to assess the training of Winterfell’s army. She sat primly in the sidelines with her hands laid flat one atop the other and observed the men slightly down her nose. A Lady had to be impartial.
Jon swung and disarmed Podrick of one of his twin swords. Podrick jumped away expertly and parried with his sword, managing to knick Longclaw. Jon shouted unintelligibly, and in one fell swoop, he disarmed Podrick’s sword, charged at him abruptly, and so sent the squire tumbling back just from the sheer brute force of his advance.
But then Podrick spun away from Jon and rolled, snatching up one of his fallen swords. He readied himself for battle. With Jon’s back turned to Sansa, she could not glimpse his countenance, but she imagined only pride.
They walked a wide circle. Podrick spun the sword in his wrist, grinning. Behind him, Brienne frowned.
When Jon attacked, it all happened so quickly that Sansa refused to blink lest she missed the slightest movement. Jon formulated a northern stance, and Podrick noticed, adopting his more traditional southern style of footing. Jon attacked, Podrick parried. They danced and danced, blades shrieking upon collision — and it was Podrick’s playful punch while the swords locked that did him in. Jon kicked his knee, then raised his own knee to Podrick’s abdomen. The squire’s groan sounded across the training yard. As he fell, Jon was yelling and Brienne’s frown deepened.
Jon passed his swords to Brienne and helped Podrick back onto his feet, patting his back.
With the King finished there, Sansa could not see any more reason to dilly dally about when she had duties to complete around Winterfell. She gathered her composition and glanced briefly back at Jon, only to find he had long left. Brienne had assumed his position, Podrick timidly assumed his stance.
It might as well be, she thought. She must tend to her duties. There were finances, inventory, grievances to hear… She rubbed her head to pacify the headache that had savagely pulsated since she left bed prematurely that morning. She fought the impulse to wipe her nose over her sleeve, the incessant thing had been particularly runny all day. She had long skirts, cloak with fur trimmings, leathers, and needle necklace. It was only the snow. She had been outside too long.
On the foulest of days, Sansa never mustered the will to leave her bed. Her mind fought against a thick fog, her nose bizarrely feeling weightless and full at the same time. A cold, she knew, but she abhorred colds. All that snot and coughing, and even worse, the vomiting. Nothing about it was befitting of a Lady, but despite all the years since she had quit dreaming those fanciful ideas about lords and ladies, abhorring colds remained. And, of course, there was the matter of Jon, who she hated to spend a day without seeing.
But she could not deny that the rest was well needed. She could not remember a time when she could just lie in bed and let the drowsiness consume her. She longed to dream sweet nothingness like running in fields with Lady, sewing beside Jeyne, even bickering with Arya. Winterfell demanded from her attendance to duties she had only entertained before as mere concepts, and devoting herself to the extent Winterfell deserved depleted her by nightfall. Her weariness never managed to keep the creatures in her demented, waking nightmares away. Ramsay. Joffrey. Petyr. Just to name those who could be named. Often her thoughts of Cersei tangled into a convoluted mess, Sansa never knowing whether to downright hate her or admire her in some twisted way.
“Sansa?”
She froze. It was Jon, just beside her. Hair wind-wild and pink-cheeked, he looked down curiously at her with a tilt of his head that made Sansa feel a little queasy. She smoothed her skirts to gather her senses.
“What are you up to here?”
“Only observing the training of our army,” she said coolly, because it was true. “If we are to defeat the Night King, we ought to be well-trained.”
His brown eyes wavered, then smartened with a light that did nothing to settle Sansa’s stomach. “Did you see me with Pod?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you think, then?”
Sansa worked out her thoughts slowly before speaking. “Podrick is a capable warrior. Brienne has taught him well, and with your instruction, he’ll be even better.”
He stepped closer, more into her space, the chill from the snow falling on his cloak overwhelming. He took another step closer, and she was toasty from the warmth of him. His gaze somberly flicked back and forth as he looked at her. He touched her shoulder, and her carefully placed mask flickered before he even beheld her.
“Come now,” he said. “We’ve long avoided listening to the Lords and Ladies today.”
* * *
“...but the wildlings, your grace, even after I told them…”
Sansa followed the grievance in patches, missing words and whole sentences at a time. Her mind’s eye sifted through a private overcast sky, her drowsiness silently battling with her duty to rule. Staring with a fervor was all she could do to force herself not to fall asleep right there in front of all the Northern lords.
“What say you, Sansa?” said Jon.
It felt like someone had whipped her back into the moment with a leather strap. She feigned a tight smile and elected to fib. “I defer to the King’s judgement.”
The lord bowed smugly.
“Very well,” decreed Jon. Though Sansa knew him well enough to hear the hesitance. “I’ll speak to Tormund, though I can’t offer any promises.”
“Thank you, your Grace.” The lord’s cloak wisped over the stone floors, a mesmerizing maneuver that did little to lift the weights lulling Sansa’s eyes closed.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jon moving closer to her. “Is something wrong?”
She was so exhausted that she barely had time to tamp down her emotions. She hummed and turned to him with a soft smile.
Eyebrows drawn, Jon laughed quizzically. “Is anything amiss?”
“A little tiredness is all.”
“There’s no need to lie to me, Sansa. You don’t seem like yourself.”
Sansa scoffed. “Oh, no. It’s truly nothing. Just a mild sickness.” She smiled still, ignoring the scratchiness at the back of her throat. She swallowed and only aggravated it.
They fell into a comfortable silence in the emptiness of the Great Hall, but as the stillness prolonged, her nightmares lingered in her weary mind. She still remembered with clarity the times she sat on this very table beside Joffrey. Even then, it had never been this easy. She wondered if she would ever find a man who comforted her like Jon so effortlessly could. She wished she could have that happiness with Jon, brother or not.
The doors opened once more to announce the entrance of a new grievant. Lo and behold, it was a bannerman for House Mormont speaking on Lady Mormont’s behalf. Sansa’s stomach flopped again, and this time it was definitely not because of Jon.
After enduring House Mormont, she could not handle another hour of grievances, and definitely not the day’s worth of work ahead of them, so she complained of fatigue related to oncoming fever and excused herself of duties. By the time she made it to her bedchamber, she felt downright dreadful, her mind dizzy and muscles aching. She dismissed her servants without realizing it. Out of pride to not rescind her command (she might possibly have a cold, but she could still rule), she did not allow them to undress her, not even to remove her cloak. They would not relent, however, until she allowed them to at least relieve her hair of the pins securing twin braids, loosening her hair into crimson waves that they twined in a single braid. As soon as the door shut in their wake, Sansa collapsed onto her bed as she was and snatched up the furs to wrap around her like a protective layer.
It was barely five hours since she had awakened that morning, and before the furs could warm her up, she had already passed into a deep sleep.
* * *
She awakened to Jon gently settling a hand upon her shoulder.
Perched beside her at the edge of her bed, Jon looked delicately at her and said nothing, though he did not need to say anything. He carried clay bowls, one with a rag soaking inside. She could not see the medicine in the other bowl, but its alluring odor nearly suffocated her. Though it were but mere spices in mulled wine, the purpose for its usage was a regnunant memory that sullied what was otherwise a fine treat. It must be strong, if it were as potent as it smelled.
“I brought some cold water from melted snow and a compress,” he said, wetting the cloth and laying it flat over her forehead. Droplets rolled off her temple and moistened her hair and the tips of her ears. “And when you can stomach it, there’s medicine, too.”
Her mind felt fuzzy with a fog, and she could not stop herself from looking over him as he tended to her. He looked so handsome in the candlelight, his dark eyes a deep black, stronger Stark features than any of her other brothers. An emblem of House Stark, she wanted to hug him dearly and never let him go. Those dark eyes then caught hers, and breathlessly, she held his gaze, daring him to look away first. Only he did not, but softened instead. He slipped his fingers through her hair and rubbed a thumb over her cheek.
Outside snowed piles of sparkling white, yet her bedchambers crackled with the fire roaring by the mantle, Longclaw’s shadows ghastly as it arrayed over the stone walls. The grey curtains of her four poster bed rustled as the bedframe creaked, and it gave Sansa an idea. She slipped a hand from beneath the furs, shuddering at the difference between the warmth beneath them and the colder air.
“Hold me?” Her voice came out smaller than she anticipated.
She expected him to hesitate, but he immediately started unlacing his boots and removed his cloak. He came to lie beside her, though not joining her beneath the furs, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She had not expected for this to work, but it did. Her cheeks flushed and her stomach felt lighter. She shifted to allow the furs some slack and draped them over Jon, then slid closer to him. She sprawled across his chest and laid her ear over his heart, listening to the steady beat. He drew himself out and they laid down on their sides. Sansa averted her eyes to examine the lacing on his shirt, only Jon laid a hand on her cheek, beckoning her to look at him. She did not.
“Please don’t hesitate to talk to me, or — or ask me to hold you. I want to be here for you, when you’re sick or well. I’m your...”
Brother.
And all at once Sansa curled away from him, ashamed at being so intimate with him. She had asked him to hold her, and he did, with such a respectful distance between them, and she had only clutched at him like some lovelorn fool and was depraved enough to feel joy over it. She remembered the days when it was improper to share baths with Robb and Jon, and on that day was when Mother gently explained to her the difference between Robb and Jon, what it meant to be a bastard and the risk he posed her chastity. What would her dear mother say to her now? She not only lied with her brother, but desired him. He was too noble and kind to notice the depravity.
Jon rested his forehead against hers and pressed gently, urging her to look at him. Then he kissed her forehead. “I love you.”
No, you don’t. She was such an idiot.
“Let’s try this medicine, now.”
He sat up and pulled her over his chest, retrieving the medicine with one arm while hugging her close with the other. She melted, greedy for him, and it was not his encouragement that the medicine was not as disgusting as it smelled that made her gobble it up, but the pleasure of being so close to him.
She remembered the hug they shared when they first saw each other at Castle Black, how desperate she was to hold another Stark in her arms, and there were the subsequent hugs, too, but this one felt different. They were alone, in her bed, after Jon said he loved her and kissed her, context inconsequential, and her stomach burned in a way she had never felt before. She remembered feeling similarly around Joffrey at the start before she awakened to who he truly was. But Jon was kind, safe, noble. A black knight. And her brother, true, but still hers in a sense.
She cleared her throat to communicate that she had finished the medicine. She tilted her head back to use Jon’s chest as a pillow. “I feel better with you here,” she said, indulging herself. “Can you stay the night?”
Jon held her tighter, now with both arms. “Of course, Sansa.”
They laid together with Sansa on his chest for a time, moving only for Jon to soak the cloth with cool water again. Sansa relaxed into him, but after a moment, all the layers between started digging too painfully into her. She wondered how to broach the subject of undressing. Suddenly Jon staying the night had a few inherent complications.
Reluctantly, Sansa slipped away from him. “I’m just going to change into my nightgown.”
“Right. I ought to change as well. Or, at least remove something.”
As Sansa slipped out of the bed and went to retrieve her nightgown, Jon stole a few furs off the bed to hang over the four poster railing. “For privacy,” he explained, and Sansa felt lightheaded over the chivalry.
“Before you change,” she said shyly, “can you help unlace me?”
She did have a grand many layers of clothes which necessitated the aide of servants, after all.
Jon touched her so lightly she barely felt it, but his fingertips were mere layers of clothing away from her spine, every touch magnified by her anticipation. As the laces unfurled, her breaths fell deeper, and more and more she could sense past the lingering odors of the medicine and smelled something masculine — dirt, steel, leather, sweat. Jon’s smell. She breathed in as deeply as she could as he unlaced her corset, her breasts pressing against the edges in flush half moons as she inhaled.
Jon rested his hands over her shoulders, fingers twitching. “Can you handle it from here?”
“Yes, thank you.” Somehow the enthrallment never seeped into her speech.
He left to the other side of the furs, and she stood close to them as she undressed. She finished first, waiting for the bed to dip as Jon settled back down, a small utterance following that he was ready. As the furs fell away, Sansa could not stop herself from quickly looking him over. Ridden of his doublet and all other sources of leather, Jon looked both slighter and possessed a raw strength that his clothing had hidden. His tunic split at the collar, dark hairs shadowing his chest.
Sansa laid down with the bowl of water and scooted toward his edge of the bed — and when did it become his edge? He accepted the bowl and set it on a table. She settled back over his chest, this time vividly aware along her back and, curiously, along her womanhood, of the hard muscles beneath her. Jon wrapped her again in a hug and she grew all too cognizant of the strength pinning her more fragile figure against his. Well, she always had her height and status. Jon dapped the cloth over her forehead, droplets falling down to her collarbones and slipping beneath her nightgown. Sansa played with the end of her long braid.
She longed to hear his voice. “Tell me a story.”
“A story?”
“You must have many from the Night’s Watch. Tell me about what life is like beyond the Wall.”
He was silent for a time. “It’s colder. It smells fresh, open.”
She smiled. “Do you remember when you took me up to the Wall?”
“Yes, we could not see a thing.”
At the Wall one night, they had spent the entire night talking. Initially about the past, then Winterfell and taking back the North, but after the flames of that fire had cooled, they stumbled into a cozy quiet as they gazed into the fireplace, broken only by Sansa taking a few meager sips from Jon’s cup. She met his sheepish eyes over the brim and nearly choked on the ale, her nose burning from laughter. “That’s enough of that,” Jon had said. After a beat, he continued, “Have you ever been up to the Wall?”
She wiped her mouth clean with the back of her wrist like Arya always had. “Are you offering to take me?”
His little grin revealed all.
Sansa had never been so high with only a few planks of wood beneath her feet as support. The Red Keep had many stairs, and the Vale’s castle lent enough of an illusion of relative security that Sansa could easily forget how high she went unless she peeked out the Moon Door. With Jon beside her in his thick, burly black cloak and Longclaw at his waist — that Stark blood running through his veins — Sansa felt safer than she had ever been. Just a couple planks of wood and the true Warden of the North was all it took for her.
The lift shuddered to a halt. Jon opened the door and gestured for Sansa to exit. She wrapped the thick black cloak tighter around her shoulders, her nose stinging from the biting cold, her eyes practically clamped shut against the harsh winds. On either side was darkness, and a raw instinct reared up in her, screaming to not go any closer to the ledge than necessary. And none of this was necessary. Jon stood beside her, a little ways further closer to the edge as he overlooked the side of the Wall north of Castle Black. She joined him, forcing herself to remain poised despite her heart yammering away.
Jon pointed northwest. “Over there is where I swore my oaths to the old gods.”
“The Night’s Watch doesn’t have anywhere to pray here?”
Jon looked over at her. “They have a sept.”
“Hm.”
Jon offered his forearm to her. “Want to walk a bit more?”
Sansa slipped her hand along his arm. “Gladly.”
They strolled across the Wall, arm in arm, and Sansa forgot about her fears, not only of the Wall’s heights but of the cruelties that lurked in its southern shadows.
Remembering how easy life had been in that little moment, Sansa now relished in the feel of Jon’s nearly bare chest beneath her, of the cool cloth against her forehead and his fingers deftly patting her. She closed her eyes and breathed softly. “I really loved going to the Wall with you.”
“As did I.”
“Did you?” Sansa smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Sleep started to find her again, and with a reluctant twist in her belly, Sansa realized that the sooner she gave in and fell asleep, the closer she was to saying goodbye to Jon and this moment.
* * *
Jon came every night that week to hold her, bringing medicines and other aides with him. She often fell asleep sprawled across his chest while he glared down at parchments with numbers that Davos had scratched down for military record keeping. Some nights she fell asleep long before him, but on others, she was awake half the night from coughs, a sore throat, general unease. Jon fought to keep pace with her, but sleep always found him. She then often thought of Ramsay, or the terrible things she used to say to people years ago, or how stupid she was to fall for Lord Baelish’s ploys. But then Jon would snore, or toss and turn in his sleep, his wrist falling over her abdomen. Feeling the warmth of his touch and the coziness it brought often helped to ground her. When Sansa began to feel better, a selfish part of her kept it secret. Once her cold finally broke, both knew it yet neither ended their nighttime arrangement.
At the start of their arrangement, he left to change into new clothes and came back for her some time later, but after a while, his clothes started migrating to her room.
They never had to ask for privacy as they changed. At the start, one of them would drape some furs over the canopy of her bed, but as time went by, they stopped. Sansa did not know his reasons, and she barely understood hers, since she did not really have one. An unmarried lady ought to not undress in front of a man. Jon was her brother, so this ought to not be a scandalous arrangement. But she considered it scandalous. She never stole a peek at Jon as he undressed, but it would be a lie to say she had not wanted to.
Today as they dressed, however, Sansa did toss up a fur, since it had been about a month since she had last bled and she would really prefer that Jon did not find out if today was that fortuitous day in such a fashion. But her efforts were all for naught. She remained clean. She finished dressing and stepped out from behind the hung fur.
Jon was tightening the belt of his scabbard, Longclaw formidable against his thigh, with which Sansa was now thoroughly acquainted. They had recently gotten into the habit of tangling their legs together, since Sansa often shuddered with chills otherwise. Some nights they warmed her legs up between his thighs, and guiltily Sansa asked him every time if he were all right. It took time for him to reply, but it was always the same: “If I can handle the Night King’s storm, I can handle your foot.” Jon would make someone a fine husband one day.
She never had that kind of relationship with Robb, and definitely nothing of the sort with Bran or poor Rickon. She suspected it was different, somehow, because Jon was still her bastard half-brother. Nevertheless, she imagined Jon sharing the same intimacy with a woman he could love and ignored the emptiness that it mustered up in response. Sansa shook her head to perish the thought and glanced at Jon silently dressing to pacify herself.
Jon looked at her. “I see you have me beat this morning.”
“Indeed, your Grace.”
After securing the scabbard, he went to her and fiddled with her needle necklace. It had been positioned correctly, and no doubt he had shifted it slightly out of position, but she did not stop him. She remembered how wonderful it felt to lay against him and have her breasts pressed to his chest. His hands were mere layers from touching her bare skin, the pressure too light for her to feel anything, but she found herself wanting to.
* * *
Morning rays filtered through closed, grey curtains, the fire crackling and toasting the chamber. Sansa stirred awake slowly, having fully rested the entire night, not waking up prematurely even once, and she awakened feeling so incredibly snug and warm that she blinked drowsily, fighting the compulsive urge to fall back asleep. A hand twitched over her bellybutton, and she looked down instinctually. Beneath the many furs, a lump was sprawled across her — Jon.
This was not the first time she woke up like this, but it was the first time that Jon did not wake up immediately after she did. Her back was pressed all against his chest, hips, thighs — and, even, she realized while biting her lip to suppress a smile, a morning arousal. A spark of excitement thrilled her womanhood, but she did not think anything of it. She forgot entirely that Jon Snow was her bastard half-brother, and thought only of laying in bed curled up against a kind, noble, handsome king.
Gently, she twisted around, his wrist coming to lay across her spine now. She tucked her palm beneath her cheek and gazed at him as he slept. He breathed softly, lips parted, and she ached to trace those pink lips with her finger. He looked so gentle, vulnerable, younger as he slept. This was the Jon who never left Winterfell. He never witnessed his first love’s death, or the Night King raising thousands from their graves. He never had gone to battle against the Boltons for his ancestral home. His long lashes dusted his cheekbones, eyes sweeping back and forth in a dream. Carefully, Sansa traced his thick, black eyebrows, soft enough to never wake him.
Jon mumbled and whined, stretching a little, then his hold on her tightened. He pulled her into him, carding fingers through her hair with the arm beneath her, pulling her snug against his chest with the other. Tucking her head under his chin, Sansa closed her eyes, feeling more like a cherished doll comforting him in sleep than any sister of his.
She fell back asleep, hot from his touch.
* * *
Their cousin Lord Robert Arryn, Lord of the Vale and his precious Moon Door, arrived at Winterfell with a portion of the Vale’s army to aid in the war to come with the army of the dead marching south. A far cry from the young boy who had never left his mother’s breast, Sansa wondered if he might marry after the war had ended. He had proven himself a capable leader and remained an honorable man despite life’s unique struggles. She sorted through her mental list of eligible ladies and humored the image of him marrying Arya.
She unfurled a roll of parchment detailing the names and ranks of the men Robert surrendered into Jon’s army. “Thank you, sweet cousin, for aiding us in the war to come.”
“It is my pleasure, Sansa,” he said, and looked nervously at the marching men. “I hope they’re enough. If Cersei Lannister plans on marching north, the Vale will need to keep her at bay.”
“Never fear. We’re thankful for the Vale’s support, yours more than anyone’s. Your pledge is As High As Honor.”
He smiled at her recitation of House Arryn’s words. “It is good to see you, cousin.”
“And I you.”
Sansa returned to examining the parchment. They slipped into a comfortable silence, neither very keen talkers. After a time, Sansa broached the topic of marriage, her curiosity insatiable.
Robert startled. “Marriage?”
“You are of good age, cousin, and the Eyrie needs heirs, lest House Arryn dies out. Haven’t you given it any thought?”
“Who is there even to marry? You?”
Aunt Lysa’s cries in the High Hall of the Eyrie rang out in her ears. “I think you mother would encourage it,” she said, measured, “though mine would gladly surrender herself to the Night King’s army to put a stop to that.”
Robert laughed sharply. “Then it’s settled. We get married. Right next to the moon door. We’ll lure everyone to it, and just push the Night King out.”
Sansa smiled softly. “A fine end, dear husband.” She gestured down at the parchment. “I counted 4,000 mounted calvalry and 15,000 infantry men, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s — ”
“What’s settled?”
Jon walked up beside Sansa, and she stirred alive. She forced herself not to look at him, lest she imagined him fondling her breasts again.
“Sansa and I are getting married,” said Robert in good humor.
“Ah.” Jon shifted, his shoulder brushing into hers. He did not step back, leaning lightly against her, and Sansa did not dare move. All the senses in her body collected in that singular point of contact, her body buzzing.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, the goal is to lure our mothers, who will have been resurrected by the Night King.”
When Jon did not even feign a smile, Robert said, “I suppose you had to be there.”
“I suppose. What’s this here?” Jon observed the parchment in Sansa’s grasp.
“The recordkeeping for the men supplied by House Arryn,” said Sansa.
“Good,” said Jon. “We need all the help we can get.”
* * *
At dinner Robert ate with them, Sansa in the center despite that being the rightful place of the King in the North. It was not like many people were around, so for propriety’s sake it did not matter, and Sansa did appreciate the extra time to spend with her cousin. Yet she had the sinking suspicion that Jon did not share the same appreciation. Whenever Robert offered to retrieve her more wine, Jon was certain to retrieve it first. As people came and left the hall and breezes brought in a slight chill, Sansa’s tendency to get cold fast did not go unnoticed by Robert, but it was Jon who chivalrously surrendered his fur lined cloak and offered it to her. Jon had never mastered the art of court intrigue, being more at home with swords and apparently now the Night’s Watch and wildlings, so Sansa paid this no mind.
The good conversation, laughter, marvelous company, delectable food, and, most of all, the wine had Sansa’s veins buzzing with warmth. The second she had started to feel a clarity breaking through her clouded mind well enough to walk to her bedchambers, she excused herself to retire for the evening. As she left the table, she absently heard Jon excuse himself as well. As she went through the castle to her room, Jon’s heavier footsteps echoed behind her. She dismissed her maidservants upon arrival.
Weary, she collapsed onto her bed without even taking off her cloak. She closed her eyes and sighed, basking in the relaxing waves of intoxication, when she felt a tug on the laces of her boot. She peeked open an eye and found Jon kneeling in front of her, loosening her boots.
She sat up enough to rest on her elbows and watched him work. He freed off the boots and set them by the end of the bed. Nothing felt better than releasing a tired, aching foot that inevitably gotten a little swollen from the perils of walking all day. Only then Jon did something far better than just removing her boots for her. He slipped off her socks and stockings and started massaging her.
Groaning, Sansa fell back onto the bed and succumbed to his handiwork. Sensibility returned to her eventually, and she murmured, “You don’t have to do this.”
Jon rubbed his thumbs against her arch, and he found a band of fire in her sole and relieved her of little aches. She sunk into the bed and wished she had never spoken at all.
“I know,” he said. “But you were standing more than typical today. I figured you needed the rest.”
He began kneading her toes and she did not realize there were so many aches in them. Her other foot twitched, tapping against Jon’s leg, and he came closer to the bed to rest the sole of her foot over his thigh, already warm from the fireplace. After he finished, Sansa wanted nothing more than for him to fall into bed so she could sink into his arms. Then they would stay here until morning. Only he did not move, simply laying a warm palm over her ankle. Sansa sat up again on her elbows and looked at him.
“Come to bed,” she said.
Yet, as soon as she said it, she suddenly wished the words had never been spoken.
Jon were illuminated by the fire, and with Longclaw laid over the mantel, his solemn look, his cloak draped over her own shoulders, his hands laid over her — she remembered getting dressed that morning and how badly she wanted him. He was her bastard brother, she knew, but right now, she wanted him just as much. It was not right, she knew, to ache for her brother, to become warm and wet at the thought of her kin. But still she wanted him. She wanted him more than the past heir to the Seven Kingdoms, loved him more than she ever had ever hated Ramsay Bolton. Maybe the kingdom would not approve of brother and sister, but there were more important things than that, were there not? They had known each other and been apart long enough to realize the gravity of their union and how right it truly was to be together.
She slipped her foot out of his grasp and ignored the light tickle. She crawled across the bed to him and came to stand on her knees. In his eyes, he asked her a question. She responded by reaching for his doublet and beckoning him to remove it.
Looking at one another undress, undressing each other — this was uncharted territory.
Sansa thought of her maidservants, and her gut twisted at the idea of a servant undressing Jon. Had another woman seen him undressed in such a way? Ygritte, of course, she knew. She did not want to think about Ygritte, but her mind tended to have difficulties not dwelling on thoughts she did not like. She settled with being less delicate about undressing Jon.
She glanced down to spy his belt, still at his waist despite his sword long gone, and once she got the map of it down, she looked up to watch his reaction as she started to unbuckle him and relieve him of his trousers. A vulnerability softened him, and he blinked rapidly, pliant and swaying as she tugged on the buckle to free it. He had a tendency to become shy around her; at the start, she knew it was because of how she had treated him when they were younger. She would have had her guard up if she were him, but things were different now, after they had gotten to relearn each other as adults. He had long since stopped looking wounded if her sharp tongue spoke against him, yet here he was now, with that same guarded look that used to be exclusively hers.
She wondered how far she could drag out that shyness. How long he would survive a little teasing.
She tugged firmly on his shirt, forcing him to remove it quicker, and Jon readily followed suit. He slipped out of the shirt, and when Sansa pulled the underclothes over his head, he stood up to make the process easier. His biceps and chest flexed as he moved. Sansa grew warmer and wetter at the sight till she reflexively squeezed her legs together in a futile hope to releave the ache there.
His chest was marked with scars. They frightened her, especially the one over his heart, and despite knowing she ought to feel conflicted over feeling a stir at the sight of his muscles, after all his scars ought to have deserved a slight bit more empathy, she could not help herself. She had never seen a man quite like him. She imagined he might be able to pick her up easily, or hold her down with ease. If it were any other man, the thought of such strength would chill her to the bone, but Jon triggered a pulse between her legs.
Sansa stepped off the bed and rose to a stand, sucking in a sharp breath as she walked on the stone. Winterfell had hot springs flowing through the walls, and the fire further heated the floor.
Jon took away his cloak and her own, settling them down on a nearby chair. They worked together to gather up her long flaming hair, and Jon stepped around to begin unlacing her petticoat. He released her of it and tended to the lacing of her corset with stride, a purpose, and she wished he would hurry up and rid her of all these layers. She longed to lay over his chest and keep him trapped between her and the bed. Once ridden of her petticoat, Sansa bent in a curtsy to retrieve the dress and laid it over a chair herself, as they had learned through experience that Jon had no idea how to care for a dress without ruining it with unwanted wrinkles. When she finished and came back to the bed, Jon stood exactly where she left him.
She had never purposefully undressed in front of a man before; she would have thought it would be a frightening experience, but seeing Jon’s throat bob with a thick swallow as he took her in with a wonderstruck look as she wore only her chemise, Sansa felt powerful.
Loosening the laces of at the front of her thin dress, Sansa released it to fall down her ivory skin and lay in a soft pile on the floor. She stepped out of it gingerly and went to Jon, naked for all the eye could see, and paused close enough to feel the heat from his chest. She looked over his fine chest and slowly peeled her gaze up along his muscles and his dark shadow of a beard, trying to catch his gaze only to find that his brown, harrowed eyes were downcast. He was looking her over, she realized, and she bit her lip at the thought of Jon — who had charged into battle, punched Ramsay Bolton until he was unrecognizable, defeated a White Walker in battle, climbed the Wall — struck dumb over the scarlet hair and slender curvatures of her womanly body. She prayed he would soon capture her nipples in his mouth.
She loosened his trousers and drew them down enough to reveal his hips. Wickedly, she traced her hand along the edges of his breeches — and stumbled across the tip of his cock, growing erect beneath her fingers. Jon took in a sharp breath. Sansa watched his reaction as she ignored his cock to lay her hand flat over his belly. His eyes shuddered, as if he were attempting with great will to hide how he truly felt. An ache built in Sansa, in her body and in her heart, and she had to say something. Anything.
“You’ve been so kind to me,” she said, “...sweet brother.” His throat worked through a knot as he swallowed thickly and licked his lips. She ached even more. “I’m always so impatient to be in that bed with you.”
She wondered if he understood everything she meant to convey in her heart.
“We’re the last of the Starks. What else could I’ve done?” He leaned into her, the warmth of his chest and the hardness of his erection pressed flush against her. He then kissed her: on her eyebrows, cheeks, and the tip of her nose. After, he rubbed his nose against hers. “Seven hells, I hated hearing you joke about marriage with Robert.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “You were… jealous. Of Sweetrobin.”
Jon laughed, a short puff of air against her lips. “I’m not proud of it.”
She tilted her head back to look at him. Those brown eyes of his peered at her softly, shadowed with compassion by the glow of the firelight. Strangely, knowing she was not alone over being in want of a sibling made her want him even more. “Just now I thought you said I was nothing more than your little sister. Like I’m Arya, or… or…”
He traced the swell of her cheekbone with his thumb. “Well, aye. You are my little sister. But if it helps, Lady Stark made it very clear that under no circumstances were we ever truly, actually family.”
Lady Stark. She loved hearing her dearly beloved mother spoken of in this way. Sansa nuzzled her nose against his.
“You are family to me,” she said.
The corner of his mouth twitched, and his gaze changed, flickering vulnerably. “Damn you,” he said — and swallowed her up in a kiss.
Arms wrapped around her, pulling her naked body flush against his, grabbing a buttock and squeezing hard enough to draw a gasp from her. Sansa slipped her knee between his legs, her bare womanhood rubbing against his warm thigh with coarse dark hairs, but that was not enough. She climbed onto the bed and sat on his lap, knees on either side of him. She clung onto his curly hair, pulling his head back to bare his throat. She kissed over the bob and mouthed along his jaw, nipping at his ears. Jon slid warm hands along her back, one hand grasping fistfuls of her long, flowing hair and grasping her breast. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, and she thrust against him without thinking it. She kissed him, tongue and teeth and desire and urgency in every taste. Jon mumbled against her mouth, her name, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa. She began to feel a throbbing between her legs.
Groaning, Jon fell back, carrying her gently down with him, muscles tense to make it as smooth as possible. Sansa braced herself over him in a kneel, hair brushing his collarbones. They never broke the kiss. Jon’s hand remained toying with her breast. Sansa tapped her fingers along his belly as she made her way down south to his breeches, the only garment left on either of them, but as a finger skirted the hemming, Jon froze.
“No, don’t,” he said, sounding genuinely perturbed. “I can’t — I don’t want to give you a bastard.”
Sansa removed her hand and slipped it over the scar above his heart. “Forgive me.”
He looked up at her with haunting agony. “Oh, Sansa.” And he was kissing her.
They tumbled around until Jon laid Sansa flat over her back. He seized one breast and then the other in his mouth, suckling not only on her nipples but kissing the flush of her breast with as much fervor as he had kissed her neck. Jon slipped a hand over her thighs, lightly teasing her, and continued even after she started squirming. He touched her womanhood, carding his fingers through the rough scarlet hairs, just lightly massaging her along the folds for an agonizing time. Sansa, for lack of anything else to do, groaned in frustration and grappled for his hair, rooting him where he laid suckling her breasts.
He dipped his hand between her folds then, slipping fingers into her core and drawing them in and then out, over and over. Her eyes shuddered closed and her grip on him went slack. He then took his fingers slick from her arousal and rubbed her just above her entrance, on the little nub, and she was spurred into a wild frenzy. Her fingers dug painfully into his hair and her ankles grew restless, legs kicking slightly before she swung them over the back of Jon’s thighs and locked him in place. Jon released her nipple from his torturous suckling and chuckled. “I’ll take that as a sign.”
Sansa lolled her head back, speechless.
Jon slowly eased himself off her after he had played with her nub enough that she would do anything he desired. He kneeled over her, kissing along her dipping abdomen and the poking juncture of her hip bones. She still had a long way to go until she ate back all the weight Ramsay Bolton had starved out of her. But Jon did not seem to mind her body, however meager it was. He kissed her and kissed her until she did not miss his mouth on her nipples, and all the while he played with her nub.
Then his beard ghosted the fragile skin of her inner thighs, and her back arched on reflex.
“Jon,” she gasped, “please.”
He kissed her all the same, as if not hearing her, or simply playing obstinate. Sansa tried to guide him toward her cunt by tugging on his hair this way and that way, only he fiercely grabbed her hips, which admittedly she had been trying to direct his mouth to, and held her still.
“Jon.”
He kissed her, once, just over her cunt, and her vagina pulsed at the instant she fought to arch her back and bounce off the bed. Only his grip on her hips kept her still. He kissed her again, never kissing past her folds, and it was as if he were kissing her cunt without ever giving her what she needed. His tongue traced the fine line denoting where teasing and pleasure were separated. Sansa tried hard to squirm.
Chuckling, he parted her folds and immediately flicked his tongue over her nub. He suckled on her and fingered her at the same time, hooking his fingers to massage her pulsating walls. When her moans and movements grew too chaotic, he slowed until she quivered, whining for more of him; but only after she quieted down did he begin again.
He was relentless, following her every breath and doling out his touch until she panted and writhed beneath him. A cool heat filled up her belly and pooled just beneath his tongue, every hair on her body rising in a luscious wave of pleasure.
“Jon,” she gasped, and that seemed to register with him.
His kisses turned sloppy and possessed a hot, fast rhythm, his tongue pushing down on her with a wet heat. She came — hard — back arching up despite his one-armed hold on her. She cried out his name and shook as he continued to pleasure her, waves and waves of orgasm washing over her and he continued, relentless and teasing all the same.
As the waves crashed and she melted onto the mattress, Jon continued kissing her, though slower, softer, until she feared her sensitive flesh could not bear it anymore. She grappled for purchase, clinging to his shoulders and hauling him up to meet her lips.
He laid atop her, resting on his elbows perched at either side of her. She tasted herself on his lips and groaned against his mouth. He was hers, he was hers, he was hers. Her brother — her lover — her Jon.
* * *
Jon moved into her bedchambers, and as it was the room for both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, this posed no issue in terms of accommodating him. He still had his own rooms, as well, and thus no one questioned his true habitance as long as he made appearances by sleeping there on occasion. This often occurred on the nights he trained well past their time for bed, and coming to their bedchambers would only achieve waking Sansa far well into the night. Otherwise, they were never apart. He rarely, if ever, fancied a servant dressing him since he had returned from the Night’s Watch where such a position did not exist. He had long grown accustomed to the independence. She requested service of her maidservants for certain occasions to keep up her own appearances, but never the morning and night, when they could stumble across Sansa lying nude with her own kin.
And she was often nude.
If they did not tumble into the bed in the evening, then they woke one another up with kisses in the morning. She loved to kiss along his cheeks and nose to gently bring him back to the realm of the living. He loved to braid her hair into loose waves as he kissed her lips, the soft tug pulling her slowly out of sleep. These kisses often melted into playful wrestling, and either Jon pretended that Sansa had him pinned down well, or Jon quite literally pinned her down. In either case, they had their wicked way with each other not long after.
They fell into an easy dynamic without a name put on it. Jon and she had never had a sibling-like relationship, and she never had a boy as a friend or a reasonable husband. Whatever he was, she had no idea what to call him. They joked together, sang songs together (though Jon sang softer, as he loved her voice ever so much), told horrendous stories to spook one another when the night was long and dark.
The best conversations always happened in the morning, when they were too inhibited from drowsiness to hold anything back. One day they laid in bed and talked about the future in greater detail than Sansa had ever spoken of before.
It turned out they cherished the same ideals: Winterfell full of children laughing and running through the halls, boys named Robb and Rickon a definite necessity. He told her that he used to fancy only warriors, believing anyone else was too weak willed for his likes, too demure and special, but it was meeting dear friends like Sam and his wife Gilly that taught him that love did not come where you expected it. Sometimes it looked impossible like Ygritte, sometimes it came from nowhere like Gilly. “Sometimes it’s under your nose the whole time,” Sansa had sighed, and told him that she would not have looked twice at him either. She liked the idea of a handsome prince, but her heart truly belonged to a Jon Snow, humble and kind and down to earth. Only it took some beating into her to realize it. He kissed her long after that omission until she forgot the awful memories that plagued her.
But then Daenerys Targaryen came to Dragonstone. Her castle by the sea held the largest deposit of dragonglass in the world.
The night before Jon set out, Sansa used every trick in her book that she knew that could possibly persuade him to stay.
As they turned in for the night after supper, Sansa began removing her clothes the second the doors closed. She slipped off her boots, leaving her socks and stockings for last and making a show of revealing her legs, and turned her back to Jon as she unlaced her dress, letting it fall and pool to the floor at her feet. Then she fell over the bed and rolled onto her back. She barely had the opportunity to spread her legs and taunt him with her womanhood before Jon dove, tossing Longclaw unceremoniously to the floor, and kissed her ankle, her breath catching from his scratchy beard, then kissed her shins, the back of her knee, spent ages suckling on her thighs before kissing her southern lips and carding through her red hairs to suckle on her nub. She fell back against the mattress, quivering beneath him, and stopped thinking as he tortured her nub with his lips and tongue.
It would be the last time in a long while that he had her come by his mouth.
The longing, the need for him, she came silently, thrown into a heated bliss even while tears dotted her eyelashes, emotionally overwhelmed by orgasm and her own thoughts. She ran hands through her hair and across her face to hide the tears.
He wanted to cuddle after she came, only she grasped his hand and brought him to the fireplace.
She wanted him to remember her well, so she did something they rarely did, and yet both loved to do. She guided him to the mantel and kissed him, tasting herself on his lips, and kissed down his neck, taking off his cloak as she sucked on his pulse point. She wrapped herself in his cloak and tied it before proceeding south, mouthing along his jerkin. Getting the idea, Jon carded fingers through her hair and held a fistful of it to keep her in place.
She knelt before him, knees to the floor on a fur rug, and mouthed over his clothed, hardened cock. She unbuckled his belt and pulled down his trousers, freeing him. She evaded a slap in the face from his erection and took the tip past her lips, tongue swirling beneath his foreskin and tasting the salty tang of his come. His hold on her hair tightened, his swallow audible. She held his balls and the base of his cock in her hands, then sloppily kissed his length, every whisk of her tongue pleading for Jon not to go south. Don’t leave her, his sweet sister who merely wanted him to live, to not be burned like their uncle Brandon Stark by the Mad King’s daughter.
She kissed her way back to his foreskin, and the sob broke out.
Jon’s hold on her slackened. “Something’s wrong.”
She buried herself against his thigh, and Jon pulled her hair away to avoid it from becoming sullied by his come. “I’m so sorry. You can’t remember me like this,” she said.
He knelt before her and brushed away her tears. “Remember you like what? Someone who seems to love me a great deal? Sounds like an awful memory.”
“Don’t go south. It’s a mistake.”
He hugged her, and she clung to him. “We have no choice. That dragonglass gives us a fighting chance. The peace we have now, we can’t protect it otherwise.”
“I wish you could send a raven. It isn’t right for the King to leave.”
“Ned Stark’s daughter is a better ruler than I ever was.”
She laughed, sniffing past building tears. “I’ll miss you every day, sweet brother.”
“Not more than how much I’ll be missing you.”
He kissed her. They melded together and kissed on instinct, an ease and comfort to every inhale of breath and movement between them. They knew exactly how to touch and move to get the kind of pleasured reaction they sought from one another.
It could not last.
* * *
The raven came shortly before Jon was to arrive in Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen and the dragonglass. Sansa broke her fast beside Arya and Bran, still mystified over the opportunity to continue breaking bread with her dear siblings after so many years of harrowing separation. A courier brought it in, and in latter years, Arya would just pounced to steal it before the raven’s letter ever made it to Sansa’s hands, but now her sister sat as still as death itself, watching with a quick-witted, suspicious eye. Were she to steal the letter now, Sansa suspected it would be only to check for poison.
Alas, the letter was only from Jon, and it succinctly read: Sansa, My mother is Lyanna Stark. My father is Rhaegar Targaryen. – Jon
She did not know what it meant and ached to discuss it with him. She presented the note to Arya and Bran, her younger brother significant as verification, which he readily provided along with a stoic, “Jon received my raven, then. Samwell Tarly has the marriage certificate. It will prove everything.”
“Jon will always be our brother,” declared Arya, those familiar haughty emotions that defined her sister cracking through.
Cousin, cousin, cousin, Sansa’s mind had chanted since she opened the raven’s scroll. If it was true, then they could marry. She could bear his children and proudly call them theirs. He was not merely a Stark, but the true heir to the kingdom, as Rhaegar Targaryen’s last living male heir. She licked her lips and struggled to form her thoughts. “If this is true, then Jon is the one true heir.”
Bran tilted his head. “That is true.”
Sansa wondered if his seer’s powers granted him the ability to read minds, that he too knew her intentions were not entirely pure.
But if Jon and she had never been siblings, then all those times of anguish trying to accept her burgeoning romantic inclinations were all for naught; and his worries about fathering bastards could be assuaged. The Starks could protect the North fully with their own blood in King’s Landing. Though, deep down, she knew this may not come to pass, as Jon barely managed to enjoy ruling the North, and the southern ways were antithetical to his nature. But she could dream. Oh, could she dream. They would raise little princes and princesses and live in peace for all the remaining years of their lives. Like Arya’s emotions breaking through the mold, her fanciful ideas flourished for that brief moment.
* * *
Jon returned to Winterfell on horseback beside Daenerys Targaryen in dark northern clothes, plain and humble beside her more ornate dress styled after wilding fashion of grey furs and mismatched leathers. He still wore the cloak Sansa made for him, and she yearned to take it off him and expose the skin beneath. She missed her brother like life itself – only he had never been her brother. The idea was much for the mind to consider, no matter how readily she embraced his true parentage.
The Unsullied and Dothraki marched through in a military parade, but they were to build their encampments outside the castle walls shortly, living beside the northmen, wildings, and soldiers from the Vale. Sansa had reassurance from a raven sent by Daenerys herself that the commander of her khalasar and Grey Worm, the commander of the Unsullied, would ensure order in the camps. They were to be generals in the war to come.
After the fanfare of displaying her most gallant military, Daenerys met with Sansa formally in the courtyard, as her parents always had with noble visitors. Jon got down from his horse first and received Sansa with what to them was a chaste hug and to others a cozily familiar one. Jon slipped a hand to her shoulder as he introduced her to his aunt; she knew this to be the intent given the glow in their eyes as the women were introduced. Daenerys had lived her life believing herself to be the last of the Targaryens and that Jon had never possessed true born family. They only had each other as their blood and every interaction counted.
“I introduce the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark, my beloved sister.” Jon waited for their first words before moving on to introduce Arya and Bran.
Daenerys came to hold her hand, shaking it dearly. “I am enchanted to meet you, my Lady.”
Sansa smiled politely. “As I am you, Your Grace.”
Later on, Winterfell received other guests, and Daenerys had chance to prove herself a worthy, forgiving queen during her introduction of Ser Jaime Lannister in the Great Hall before the King and Lady of Winterfell and the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. He stood in the hall with a distinct slack to his stature that did not relent until Daenerys spoke.
“You reputation has not escaped me. They call you the Kingslayer,” she said, and with how she recounted the death of her father the Mad King, it stirred emotion even in Sansa toward the tyrannical king. Only then Daenerys said, “Bran Stark has reccounted the final hours of my father’s death to me. I ask you, Ser Jaime, that if I am to ever show symptoms of the same madness, that you honor your oaths once again toward the Kingdom and slay me. Ensure that I am as dead as my father. Additionally, you are a valued member of the Kingsguard, but the Kingsguard is obsolete on account of there being no king. I grant you the appointment as the Lord Commander of my Queensguard, Ser Jaime.”
The hall grew deathly quiet after she finished.
Jaime blanched, but nevertheless said, “I shall, my Queen.”
After the festivities that followed, Sansa and Jon retired to their bedchamber. The day had been long and tiring from so much fanfare and introductions. Having two other leaders around lessened the full brunt of the work, at least. They undressed each other slowly by the fire, savoring the sight of every new layer of clothing and the sillouhettes of their bodies. But once Jon finished unlacing her dress and she laid it over the chair, their preservations were all gone. Jon coaxed her to the bed and laid her flat with her chemise still on, as if she wore a nightgown still. This slip of a white dress she had embroidered with a grey direwolf. He traced the direwolf and smiled.
“I missed you,” he said. “I missed your mind and your body.”
“I missed you, too, sweet broth – sweet cousin. My apologies. It’s difficult to wrap my head around sometimes, though I do love it – or, how do you feel about this? We never had the chance to discuss it.”
He kissed the direwolf, and trailed a hand along her side, bunching the fabric of her skirts to lay a warm hand over her thigh. “I suppose I like it. I’d grown accustomed to Ned Stark as my father. Lyanna Stark as my mother somehow feels right, but I don’t always remember. What does it even matter if I am the true heir to Westeros? Daenerys is the one who wants it and she is ahead of me in the family tree. She’s older, even.”
Sansa kissed him. “I don’t disagree.”
“You don’t?”
“No, but life is more complicated than that.”
“It is.”
But he grew tired of talking, especially about things they couldn’t change. He kissed her deeply, licking open her mouth and tasting her with his tongue skirting her lips. She tangled her hands in his long, curly hair and kissed just as passionately – slowly, eagerly, remembering the taste of him after so long. She had feared before that her body would forget his touch and reject him upon reunion, but a flower in her blossomed more vivid and lively than ever more. Her nub pulsated the instant Jon’s hand traveled north to her womanhood, at the skirt of his fingertips along her earlobe. She nipped at his lips and he nipped her back. Smiling, they fought to annoy each other with random nips as they kissed.
Jon fingered her, and used her own wetness to slicken his fingers as he slowly circled her nub. She purred against his lips, and his smile widened into such a mighty grin that she accidentally kissed his teeth. Her orgasm built under the slow, lazy touch of his light circles and their soft kisses. She didn’t thrash or pant to ecstacy, but sighed against his lips while clutching his hair.
She whispered into his ear, “We never finished last time.”
He kissed her collarbone. “Oh, Sansa.”
They recreated the occasion: This time Jon stood fully unclothed while Sansa still donned her chemise, and she took him in fully, feeling his heat all through her mouth. She opened her throat wider to accommodate her and it took only two pumps in her mouth before Jon held her head firmly and started pounding into her mouth as if he were inside her womanhood. Sansa’s eyes rolled back as he used her to meet his own whims, growing warm between her legs as a vessel for his arousal and increasing delight.
His moans signaled that he was close to quickly coming and she prepared herself to swallow down his come, not wanting to break momentum – but in the end she did gag a bit. Worried that it might deter Jon and cause him to pull away, Sansa gripped his thighs and kept him deep in her, holding her breath as his cock twitched and his seed flowed down her throat.
She kissed him as she released him, and he traced a thumb around her swollen lips, gazing down at her with hooded eyelids.
“I believe you to be the perfect woman, sweet cousin,” he said.
She suckled on his thumb, smiling lightly.
* * *
On the night the white walkers marched on Winterfell, Sansa held a sword forged of dragonglass the size and shape of Arya’s Needle, which she called Thread. She had trained for months to learn Braavosi water dance under her sister’s keen eye, and the keener eye of dear cousin Jon educated her on all the sensitive spots to attack while they lay naked in bed. In the midnight hour when the army came, however, every blissful memory vanished from her mind. All she knew was the strongest desire to not be killed by the undead and turned into one of them. She imagined her nails carving out her little sister’s eyeballs before they even could turn an inhuman blue. She would do anything to avoid that.
It all happened quicker than she could imagine. She stood on the ramparts beside Arya and waited with bated breath for the Night King’s army.
Daenerys and her two remaining dragons took to the skies while Jon acted as commander to his generals and army. A red woman arrived and set the dragonglass swords of every Dothraki aflame, the warriors overwhelmed by the blood magic and whirling up into a frenzy so strong that a small band of Dothraki preemptively charged in the dark night, and only the respect toward Jon through loyalty to their Khaleesi kept the entire horde from charging into the unknown. In a gasp of quiet, the magnificent light of the charging Dothraki were suddenly swallowed up in darkness – and the battle had begun.
Jon’s cries sounded loud and clear through the army, the call echoed along the generals until it reached Sansa’s ears: “Hold your position!”
They held for as long as possible, but soon they were vastly overwhelmed, their only hope now lied in ensuring the Night King was killed.
Sansa made heavy use of her own little Thread, killing the undead one after another – until she was overpowered by wights.
They crawled all over her, scratching at her skin and the bony fingers of the skeletons tangled and pulled her hair free in bloody chunks. Overwhelmed, Sansa cried out and childishly protected her face, as if that could solve anything.
Then all at once, the wights fell dead for a final time.
Bloody and frightened, Sansa parted her forearms and saw similar pertried horror reflected in the faces around her. She looked over to Arya, whose sword penetrated the guts of a fleshed wight, a young boy of ten and three years, she guessed. A blue-flamed dragon soared over Winterfell as it fell from the skies and crashed into the forests.
Sansa giggled, tossing her sword and hugging her own bloody, tortured body.
Arya removed Needle from the wight. “Sansa...”
Only she was too late.
Sansa fainted and narrowly avoided hitting her head against brick, falling knee first instead.
* * *
She awakened in her bedchamber with Sam bandaging her knees, which screamed at the slightest of touches. He wrapped thick, off-white clothes over poultices filled with herbs and a soothing ointment that smelled rather pleasant. Sansa laid upright on a pile of pillows, sunlight streaming in as dusk approached her eastward facing window.
He smiled upon seeing her awake. “I know someone who’s going to be happy to see you.” He dabbed an ointment onto her knees and handed her milk of the poppy.
“It feels as though both my legs are broken,” she said, sipping her milk of the poppy.
“Not the case at all. You banged yourself up quite a bit, but soon you’ll be fit as a Dornish fiddle.” He fluffed her pillows after taking back the cup drained of medicine. “Feel any better now?”
She did not need to concentrate on her knees to notice a difference in the pain. Her eyelids dragged as she looked at him. “Thank you, Sam. Please tell Jon that I am well.”
“Of course. Sleep well.”
She awakened again later on with Jon reading a recordkeeping book beside her. She spied numbers and the names of northern Houses. He looked worse for wear, too: a bandage wrapped around his forehead with a lump from a poultice tucked over his left eyebrow. With how gingerly he sat, he must have a broken rib or two. She was a convalescent over her knees, but she bet Jon had endured more suffering than she could imagine. It would be like Jon to refuse milk of the poppy, too.
She touched his shoulder, and he startled. She smiled. “Sorry. I did not mean to frighten you.”
“No, please, frighten me.” He set aside the recordkeeping and grabbed her hand. “I thought I lost you.”
“Never.” She rubbed him with her thumb. “Tell me everything. Did you kill him?”
“Aye. With Longclaw. He kept raising the dead around us, and I kept killing them, but then Jaime Lannister appeared alongside Brienne, a flaming sword with each of them, and killed the wights, lighting them on fire as they did. Jaime kept yelling, ‘Don’t let the light out. We can’t let the light out.’ I turned my attention to the Night King. Not much to say. We fought hard and brutal. I barely survived, but in the end, he’s dead and I’m not.”
She smiled. “My black knight.”
“Pardon?”
“My black knight. It’s what I like to sometimes think of you as. My Jon the Black Knight who protects the weak and innocent. Always noble, kind, and honorable when other men are wretched. I even made a song about you. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes.” He smiled softly.
She sang a song of a gallant knight, who wore a cloak of inherited black furs; whom the free folk called crow. He scaled walls and honored his principles, ever changing as his worldview grew. He gave the wrong sort second chances, he found love where it did not belong, he fought the terrible monsters of nightmares so others slept peacefully at night. He was the true prince of the Seven Kingdoms and protected the realms without this knowledge, only because his heart was pure. He was the most romantic of knights, and a northern girl loved him for it.
“What do you think?” she asked, peeking at him.
He gazed at her shyly. “Well, I… I’m not one to judge songs, but I thought it had good imagery. A nice beat. A lovely… voice to tell the story.”
“Have I ever told you that I loved you?”
“Once or twice, yeah.”
She shook her head, biting her cheek. “I wish everyone knew your parentage. We could marry.”
He shifted, and a groan ensued. She rushed to lay a hand over his shoulder and steady him, his breathing coming harsh. “Are you proposing in earnest now?” he asked.
“Would that be so awkward?”
“Not at all. No, not at all. I’d like to marry you, too. But it’s tricky.” He placed her hand in his lap and played with it, tracing along her palm and fingers. “Daenerys offered a way for us to marry. I’d have to abdicate the throne. It would be after we defeat Cersei. I’d be legitimized and immediately abdicate. I want to. Not only because of you, but myself. I don’t want to rule. I never have. I’m happy here up north because you’re excellent at ruling. Without you, I’d fall apart.”
“I don’t know about that. You managed quite well so far.”
“You’re too kind.”
“I’m your future wife. I’m not too kind, I’m honest.”
“ ‘Future wife.’ So you’re fine with it? Having Daenerys as Queen?”
“After everything she’s done to protect the North and the seven kingdoms as a whole despite this not being her fight, I can’t imagine anyone better at taking over after Cersei. And, besides, marriage with you doesn’t seem so bad.”
“I want to kiss you so badly,” he said. Instead, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.
* * *
“I present Daenerys of the House Targaryen,” said Missandei, proudly beside the tiny silver haired Queen sitting at the Iron Throne, and proceeded to declare the Queen’s various titles that always triggered the impulse in Sansa to raise an eyebrow. “The First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains, Breaker of the Wheel, and Mother of Dragons.”
Daenerys smiled primly. “Thank you.” She nodded to Jon, who kneeled before her. “Rise, Jon Snow. Today, Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdom, marks a day of remembrance to all those victimized and brutalized by the foul deeds of those who raised arms for justice in Robert’s Rebellion. Before us stands the only living son of Rhaegar Targaryen, who had no choice but to live a lie for his entire existence as the bastard of Winterfell. When in actuality, he is the trueborn son of a true love between Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. I honor their memories by formally legitimizing my nephew as Aegon of House Targaryen.”
She extended a hand to Jon, and he rose.
“Thank you, your Grace, for this kindness,” he said. “I abdicate the throne to you.”
“And I have a gift for you. To solidify the blood ties between House Targaryen and House Stark, I declare a betrothal between Aegon of House Targaryen and Sansa of House Stark. Prince Aegon will become the new Warden of the North with his Lady of Winterfell, Lady Sansa.”
Sansa had since been watching the proceedings in awe alongside Arya, struck silent at the majesty of it all. Jon’s true parentage still mystified her — the heir to the Seven Kingdoms had been under all their noses this entire time. Her father had never borne a bastard and broken honor with their mother, though her mother died never knowing this truth. Her dear brother had never been her brother at all. She did not know what to think. But she settled on awe. Dimly, part of her rejoiced at bedding a prince.
But then there was the matter of what Queen Daenerys had said: Marriage to Jon.
It was too good to be true, and yet it was.
Jon bowed to his aunt. “Thank you, your Grace. I will protect the North in your name.”
Jon looked over at her with an inscrutable expression before he left to stand beside the other lords.
Daenerys administered other rights and privileges. Tormund was declared the protector of the free folk, now a recognized independent kingdom, though Tormund did not much like the sound of “kingdom.” He was to lead the free folk back beyond the wall, were they to want to go. Jaime and Brienne were sent to Winterfell as members of its guard, furthering their vow to Mother to keep Sansa and Arya safe. Arya was offered a sword reforged from the melted blades of Widow’s Wail and Oathkeeper; her sword was Ice Reborn, and only Jon could properly wield its magnificent weight.
Sansa, herself, got everything she ever wanted: many Starks in Winterfell, a cousin for a lover, and all her enemies dead and gone.
* * *
Their wedding took place in the Godswood, though it was nothing like her second marriage. They wedded at twilight surrounded by all their family. Their uncles, aunts, and cousins all came to see them marry. Jaime and Brienne stood guard in Stark colors beside Sam, who officiated the wedding. Bran remained with his eyes glazed over in white, only to resurface during the festival dinner to share stories of Ned and Catelyn’s marriage and, most significantly, Lyanna and Rhaegar’s marriage. Jon grew deathly quiet during talk of his parents, and Sansa too leaned closer to Bran, hanging onto every word.
After the festivities died down, Sansa and Jon were left alone in their joined chambers, the one that had always belonged to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell ever since there was a Winterfell.
They undressed by the fire, the heat licking their bare skin.
Sansa pressed her thigh between his legs all along the length of his manhood. She mouthed at his ear and pulled the lobe between her teeth, never releasing him until he started moaning. “You can only fill me with Starks now,” she breathed into his ear.
He shuddered and squeezed her bare ass. “Sansa...”
They kissed fiercely, open-mouthed and greedy for more, now and fast. Sansa took control of the situation and held Jon’s face lightly in her palms, walking him into the bed. They crawled up to the pillows, never breaking their touches and kisses. When she nipped, he licked away the pain and had her melting from the slightest press of his tongue. He rolled her onto her back, and she hissed as she collided with the mattress.
She stole away from his lips to kiss along his beard, grown longer now as the cold winds blew with a foreboding haunt of a long winter. At the back of his head, a bun was tied. She let it loose and tossed the tie off against the wall, where its new location would be an eternal mystery for all she cared. She ran her fingers through his hair, rooting him in place with a fistful of it to bare his throat and kiss him there.
She suckled on his skin, nipping with her teeth, and relished in the salty taste of his skin. He moaned. Lost in her touch, he was vulnerable to Sansa shoving him onto his back in ready to mount him.
Jon’s cock jumped against her thigh, and she reached down with one hand to catch it. She fingered the tip, smoothing out the come already pouring out. Jon’s throat worked and his head fell back, eyes closed shut. Sansa guided his cock between her legs and rubbed the tip along her fold, then sat down upon it, his length burrowing into her core. Jon rocked into her slow, Sansa matching pace with him. She sat up with hands pressed down onto his chest. Their gasps were drowned out by the slap of her thighs against his.
Jon surged up and fondled her breasts, stealing her lips in a kiss. He stole her down and rolled around until she lay with her back to the bed. He thrust into her, pounding her into the bed. Her arms fell back to grip the bed railing.
She felt his warm seed flow into her as he reached his climax. She grew warm inside thinking about the little Starklings now blossoming in her. She hoped for many babes with her dear husband. They would have Tully, Stark, and possibly even Targaryen features and grow to be strong and humble like their father. She would love nothing more than a flurry of children with red, dark brown, and silver hair with an array of blue to purple to brown eyes.
As she came, she gasped out his name, “Jon, Jon, Jon,” and never wanted to leave him or this bed for as long as the night was dark.