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“The girl is no threat,” Ned assures. “She’s but a child, nearly Jon’s age.”
“She’s the only Targaryen heir, Ned. You know what must be done.”
“You are my friend, Robert. I have helped you take the throne, but we will not murder children.”
“You wish to have her imprisoned then? Is that better than death?”
“No, of course not.” Ned looks across the room at the trembling little girl, all fiery red hair and bright blue eyes. “I shall take her to Winterfell; when she comes of age, she’ll be married to Jon.”
“Ha!” Robert laughs, “You’d condemn your poor bastard to marry a lowly Targaryen, whose house is all but destroyed?”
“Would you rather her be married to Robb? Or your boy Joffrey?”
King Robert slams his chalice on the table. “You push too far, Ned. I’ll let you have this. But I swear to the old gods and new, if there’s one inkling that she may rise up, I’ll have her killed without a second thought.”
Sansa hears every word that’s spoken, flinching at the harsh inclinations of the new king’s voice. Whoever was arguing with him was right; she was young, she had no desire to be queen. She had seen her father, born mad, killed by the captain of his Kingsguard. Sansa Targaryen wasn’t her father, though. She wanted no part in any of it.
“I’ll do anything,” she squeaks, “Please. I don’t want the crown.”
“Hush, girl,” the new king roars, “Ned, take her from my sight. Take her to Winterfell and never bring her here again. She’s as good as dead.”
Ned Stark motions for the young girl, wrapping his hand around her shoulder when she reaches him. “Try not to worry too much. No harm shall come to you.”
Sansa doesn’t even have a trunk to pack before she’s set on a horse to ride to a place she’s barely heard of. She shudders at the thought of marrying Lord Stark’s bastard son, a boy she can only dream is kind and gentle. She thought she’d marry one of her brothers, just like the Targaryens had done for hundreds of years. But now her brothers are dead and there are no other options.
**
She’s never been north, never past the greenery of the Riverlands. It grows colder the higher they travel and Sansa wishes she had a heavier cloak. At supper she works up the courage to speak to Lord Stark. “Is it cold? In Winterfell, I mean. They say everything freezes.”
Ned smiles softly and Sansa doesn’t feel quite as afraid. “Nothing is frozen through yet. But Winter is coming; you can feel it.”
“Has it snowed yet? I’ve never seen it. Is it as white as people say?”
“My wife has written that an early snow has come once while I was away. But it has since melted, I’m sure. And yes, it’s as white as you can imagine.”
Sansa looks disappointed. “Don’t fret, Sansa. Like I said, winter is coming.”
She nods, slinking deeper into her chair.
“You are still afraid?” Her blue eyes portray every word she doesn’t say. “I promise you that Winterfell will be the safest place you’ve ever been.”
Perhaps it will be; King’s Landing never felt so safe to her; not with her father on the throne and Viserys’ temper always at her back. And yet she knows next to nothing about Lord Stark, but she trusts him. She takes his words as truth.
When they arrive to Winterfell, there are so many people awaiting them in the courtyards Sansa loses count. Everyone looks just the same, with serious faces and dark hair, except for the woman she assumes his Ned’s wife. “This…this is her, then? The Targaryen girl?” She asks, eyeing Sansa carefully.
Sansa curtsies, keeping her eyes close to the ground.
“You bring home too much, Ned. We have enough of those who don’t belong.” The woman in front of her glances to a boy in the back of the crowd. Heat rises to her cheeks as they make eye contact.
“That’s enough, Cat. We will speak later. Ned beckons for his children. “This is Sansa Targaryen. Be kind to her. She needs friends.”
A tall boy who looks similar to the one in the back greets her first, taking her hands. “If father welcomes you, I shall as well. I’m Robb. These are my brothers: Bran, Rickon, and Jon.”
Sansa can hear the sigh of annoyance that leaves Catelyn’s lips at something Robb says. She figures one of them must be the bastard. “And this is my sister, Arya,” he says.
The small girl comes forward, grinning. “Your hair looks funny.”
Sansa frowns. “I’m sorry; did it offend you?Shall I change it? Do you wear your hair differently here?”
Arya laughs. “You’re going to be so much fun.” She steps back, elbowing the boy in the back in the ribs. “Father has chosen quite the bride for you.”
“Shut up, Arya.”
“Both of you hush. Now.” Lady Stark says. “Arya, show the girl to her chambers. Everyone else, get back to what you were doing but be on time for supper.”
**
The Stark children are kind to Sansa, even the littlest one who she’s told doesn’t take to strangers. The only one who isn’t nice is Catelyn. Sansa tries everything she can think of to help her, to do what she would’ve done at her home in King’s Landing. She’s shunned at every attempt, forced out of the room with harsh glares until she nearly cries.
After Sansa’s sixth month in Winterfell, Jon finds her crying in the stables. “Sansa?”
She sniffs, wiping her nose across her sleeve. “Yes? I’m sorry, do you need something?”
He sits beside her. “Are you alright?”
“I’m just trying so hard to fit in. Lady Catelyn hates me.”
Jon frowns, gently taking Sansa’s hand in his. “Her words are cruel, but don’t let them harm you. She’s kind to let us live here; we must remember she does us a great favor.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Not really,” Jon laughs, “I’ve been here my entire life and she’s always been cold. I’ve learned to live with it.”
“What is worse? Being a bastard or The Mad King’s daughter?” Jon stiffens at her question. “I’m sorry; I meant no offense. But we are one in the same now, aren’t we?”
Jon squeezes Sansa’s hand. “Aye, I suppose we are.”
“How do I learn to accept what I am?”
“With time, I think. No one expects it to happen overnight.”
Sansa smiles softly, feeling like home with Jon’s hand in hers. “Can I ask you something, Sansa?”
“Anything.”
“Is it true there are dragon eggs hidden in the Red Keep?”
“I wouldn’t know. I, too, have only heard the same rumors.”
“That’s too bad; I would’ve liked to have seen a dragon one day.”
Sansa laughs out loud. “There haven’t been dragons in hundreds of years.”
“Then not enough people have met you.” Jon hesitates before he presses a kiss to her temple. “That must be why your hair is so red. You’re made with dragon fire.”
“I wish,” Sansa says, blushing. “But thank you, Jon. You’re very kind.”
He grins as he leaves her hand in her lap. “I’ll see you at supper, Sansa.”
Sansa finds comfort in Jon. He’s there when the rest of the Starks aren’t; he understands how she feels, always watching from the outside. She can always speak with him in hushed whispers about being shunned and how unhappy she can be. He holds her hand and rubs her back and mumbles things she can’t quite hear. She thinks this might be what love is.
But Sansa learns to embrace her new life. She forgets her southern hairstyles and thin dresses and learns to braid her hair down her back instead and wears heavy furs around her shoulders.
She likes Winterfell far more than King’s Landing and almost feels like she belongs. Ned smiles widely when she embroiders a wolf across a navy gown she sews herself. “You’re as much of a Stark as any of us.”
Winterfell may not be the castle she was born into; it may not be the grandiose Red Keep with dragon skulls in the dungeons, and it may not be where she imagined herself, but it is where she finds her place. She falls in the snow with Jon and teaches Arya to sew and sneaks little Rickon parts of her lemoncakes when they’re supposed to be in bed.
The cold is her home and Jon Snow is her other half.
***
She’s sixteen when she kisses Jon for the first time; with light lips and her heart in her throat. He holds her cheeks in his hands and stumbles awkwardly on his feet to get closer. Sansa’s been his for as long as she can remember anymore; like he’s embedded in her marrow and he’s the only thing she truly understands.
His lips are soft like she’d thought they’d be; she’s spent hours thinking about his mouth, how his bottom lip pouts and his top curves like a bow. Sansa always thought girls were supposed to be the ones with nice lips and pretty mouths; that is until she met Jon Snow.
The light stubble on his chin tickles her face as she kisses him again. Sansa’s not quite sure where to put her lips; how hard to press them to his or how close she needs to be. But she can feel the warmth radiating through his heavy cloak, warming her from the chilled air in the Godswood. Lord Stark always said winter was coming; and now Sansa believes him.
Jon fingers her braid between his fingers as he pulls back to catch his breath. “You’re a good kisser, Sansa.”
“Have you kissed many girls, Jon Snow?”
He laughs, winding her hair around his fingers and kissing her forehead. “Only once. Before you came here. It was a dare from Robb.”
Sansa wraps her arms around his neck, standing on his toes to reach his height. She’s not so far off anymore, almost grown, but she wants to be as close to him as she can. Jon thins she’s so pretty like this, wrapped in her northern furs, cheeks pink from blushing and the cold that whips around them.
Jon touches her back gently as he kisses her once more, harder this time, with more confidence. Perhaps they’re two jigsaw pieces with how well their lips fit together. Maybe they’re carved from the same tree; one soul split into two bodies, made to be together like the old stories her septa used to tell her.
They’re chest to chest, lips moving frantically against one another’s. Sansa likes the way Jon’s hands feel across her back and the way his mouth molds to hers. She breathes into his mouth, moaning a little as he kisses her jaw, fluttering his lips down her neck until he reaches the collar of her dress. “I’d kiss you all over,” he mumbles quietly, tucking loose hair behind her ears.
Sansa blushes at his words, pushing her body closer to his. “One day you will.”
Jon smiles as he kisses her lips again, cradling her cheeks between his hands. “Yes,” he says, “I promise.”
***
Sansa’s seventeen when Jon goes down on her for the first time. She squirms under his hands and his lips on her collarbone and squeaks his name when his fingers pinch at her nipples. She’s fallen apart on his fingers more times than she can count and he’s left her more hidden hickeys than she could’ve ever imagine. But he’s never put his mouth any lower than her rib cage and certainly never seen her fully exposed.
She arches her back as his tongue traces across her hipbones, just above where her smallclothes meets her skin. He’s not touched her yet but she wishes he would. Sansa aches and craves his fingers; yearns for the feeling of his mouth she doesn’t know yet. Sansa’s eyes fall closed out of shyness as he moves lower, mouthing over her underthings.
He slides her smallclothes down her legs, gazing at her with a look of awe. “You’re beautiful, Sansa. Are you sure you want this?”
“Yes,” she says, “Please.”
His tongue dips into her cunt, spreading her wide as he licks. And Gods, Jon’s never heard such sweet music than when her moans fill his ears and bounce through his skull. She’s a bit salty, with a hint of sweetness that lies beneath her skin and falls on his tastebuds. Perhaps it’s the lemoncakes she loves to indulge in; perhaps it’s just the way Sansa’s made.
Jon’s only just begun but he thinks he could do this forever, face buried between her thighs, nose deep in her cunt. Maybe he should, with the way Sansa’s breath catches on her lips and his name stops in her throat. He grips her arse in his hands, pulling her hips closer to his mouth to drive his tongue deep inside her. She rides his face like its the very last thing she’ll ever do; like she might just die if she doesn’t.
Her toes dig into Jon’s shoulders as she grips at the furs beside her, tightening her thighs around his head until she’s the only thing he knows anymore. He takes a long swipe from the bottom of her cunt to the top, swirling his tongue around her clit until her fingers twist into his curls and she mumbles incoherent whispers.
She really must be carved by the gods themselves, with how beautiful her bones move beneath her skin and her chest flushes pink. Jon slides a hand up her body, catching a nipple between his fingers and tugging gently. It’s everything he’d imagined; the way she tastes, the way she bows, the sounds she makes. He sucks at her swollen nub; holding her down to the mattress. Sansa desperately wants to buck her hips into his face but Jon holds her still.
He licks at her harder, with firmer strokes that drive her mad. Her thighs shake in anticipation, a feeling building in the pit of her stomach as he licks in circles and zig zags and any other pattern he can think of. Jon traces her name across her clit with the very edge of his tongue, digging his fingers into her hips. She moans his name before she shoves her hands over her mouth, silencing the noise lest anyone is awake at this hour.
Sansa catches Jon watching her, his dark eyes just above the top of her mound. She can feel her wetness on her thighs, seeping down her legs and onto the mattress. She feels positively obscene; the way she moans and groans and drips down Jon’s chin. Jon knows Sansa’s body; the way it moves when she’s about to peak; her voice; the little whine from the back of her throat right before the falls apart.
She bends and breaks, hips stuttering on the bed as she falls apart on Jon’s tongue, her fingernails scraping his scalp. She rocks against him, holding his head still, clamping her thighs down so he can’t move. He licks slowly at her clit as her walls spasm wildly, sending her eyes closed and head to the stars. Sansa mumbles under her breath as she comes, a mixture of Jon’s name and prayers to the old gods and new. This certainly isn’t the first time he’s made her peak - but is it the first time with his mouth and she knows she’ll ask for it over and over.
Jon mouths at her inner thighs until she comes down, looking at her with wide eyes. “Did you like it, Sansa?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she breathes, nudging his cheek with her leg. “You know I did.”
Jon smiles, kissing just below her navel. “Good.”
***
Sansa’s nearly eighteen when she tries to get him to take her fully, to take her, to make her his for the rest of forever. “Jon, please, I want it. I want you.”
She can feel him hard against her, pressing into her wet cunt but not inside her, no matter how much she begs or swivels her hips. “No, Sansa.”
“Why? We’re to be married; what is the harm in wanting you?”
“Sweet girl,” he groans, dropping his head into her neck. “Don’t you know how much I want you? I’d give anything to bury myself inside your cunt.”
Sansa whimpers at his words, arching her back off the bed, shoving her hips into his. “Then give in, Jon.”
“No,” he says sharply, nipping her neck. “I’ll not father a bastard. It’s no way for a child to live.”
“Oh. Oh.” And Sansa suddenly understands; it’s not that he doesn’t want her, but that he wants to protect her. And their future. “It’s alright,” she soothes, tracing her toes up his leg. “It’s only four months until my eighteenth name day; not so long. And then we shall be married.”
“The longest four months of my life,” Jon responds, rolling off of her with reluctance. Sansa laughs, reaching for her shift to tug over her head.
“It will pass quickly,” Sansa says, stroking his hair with light fingers. “The days grow shorter and the nights longer. We’ll hardly be able to count how fast time will pass. ”
“I’ll count the minutes,” he replies, kissing her quickly on the lips before he frowns.
“You brood too much.”
Jon laughs lightly, pressing her into the mattress and nipping at her neck. “And you? The girl who never pouts?”
“Keep trading insults and I’ll not marry you,” She says, wrapping one of his ringlets around her fingers and watching him with playful eyes.
Jon shakes his head, grinning. “You’ve been mine since we were thirteen.”
“I know,” she replies, “You’re the only thing that feels like home.”
Jon doesn’t have words to respond, for it’s true. Sansa’s the only person that’s ever felt truly real; the only thing that tethers him to this world. Bastard and all, he’ll marry the forgotten Targaryen princess, the last heir, and never find love nor happiness anywhere else but with her.