Fic: To Roam No Further (Jon/Sansa, R)
Title: To Roam No Further
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: Really light R
Notes: Sansa as Lady of the Eyrie, Jon as a Knight (or Lord Commander) Errant. Just a little fairytale-ish drabble. (me! Writing something under a thousand words! Whaaaat?)
She has had so many names, it seems, and sometimes she feels that she was Alayne Stone and Lady Hardyng much longer than she was ever Sansa Stark.
But that was before Jon Snow came from the Wall, asking the Vale for supplies. Before he looked at her with his achingly familiar face and said, "Sansa," in a way that made everything that came after feel irrevocable.
Life was not a song. She knew that, had learned it deep in her bones. But the first night she slipped her hand into Jon's and pressed her lips to his, she thought that perhaps there were a few songs still left to her. One about a man who was not a knight, but climbed a mountain to rescue a girl who was not a princess, and brought her back to life by speaking her true name
****
Sansa used to hate storms at the Eyrie. The castle is so high that it pierces the cloud, becomes part of the storm, and she had spent many days listening to thunder rattling the glass in the windows and the stones in the walls, until she had felt like her bones shook in her body. When she had looked out and seen only gray, she had felt as though the very mountain itself were swallowing her alive.
This morning, she is thankful for the clouds that press against the windows, for the shaking of stone and mortar. A storm means that everyone will keep to their chambers until it has passed, and it means that Jon will not, as is his custom, leave at the first break of dawn.
This morning, while the castle quakes and freezing rain pelts against the glass, Jon stays. The air in her chamber is cold, almost uncomfortably so, but his skin in so warm that Sansa soon ceases to care. So many times Jon has made love to her, but always in the dark, always furtively.
Now, in the soft gray light of her chamber, he is slow. Thorough. He kisses a line down her throat to her breasts, pausing to nuzzle her stomach. And then he puts his mouth to her, and Sansa shakes along with the Eyrie, hands clawing for purchase on the sheets, on his back, in his hair.
His lips and tongue move over her, inside of her, until she is sobbing, seizing.
And then he does it all over again.
Later, Jon lights a fire in the hearth as she lies back against the pillows, dazed and wrung out. Outside, the rain still falls, and before coming back to bed, Jon pauses in front of the window. "There's nothing," he says wonderingly. "Only gray as far as the eye can see."
Sansa opens her mouth to tell him that it reminds her of the stories her mother used to tell of Winterfell. Of the endless white that covered the castle and the land during the winter. But there are things she and Jon have learned never to speak of, and Winterfell and her mother are two of them.
Instead, she sits up and offers him a hand. He takes it, falling onto the sheets with her. As he lays over her, hands cupping her cheeks, Jon looks into her eyes, the same wonder with which he took in the storm clear on his face. "I never stop wanting you," he murmurs. "I thought it was like any other hunger, that I could...slake it somehow. But I can't. I'm not sure I ever will."
Smiling, Sansa lifts her head, presses her lips to his in a lazy kiss. "Perhaps I've enchanted you," she teases. "Isn't that how the stories go?"
Still grinning, she pushes him until he rolls over onto his back, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle him.
"I've summoned this storm," she whispers between kisses. "Called it to this mountain so that I can trap you here forever." With that, she nips at his lower lip, and Jon huffs out a laugh.
Sansa rises up, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. Bracing her hands on his stomach, she looks down at him, only to find him watching her with an expression she's never seen before.
He's smiling at her, but his eyes are dark and watchful, and something she can't define moves in them.
"You would need no magic to keep me here, Sansa," he says softly, and her breath catches in her throat.
She wants to tease him for his lack of guile, to remind him that she was only in jest. But when he looks at her like that, so solemn and serious, all she can do is kiss him again and again and will her heart not to break.
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: Really light R
Notes: Sansa as Lady of the Eyrie, Jon as a Knight (or Lord Commander) Errant. Just a little fairytale-ish drabble. (me! Writing something under a thousand words! Whaaaat?)
She has had so many names, it seems, and sometimes she feels that she was Alayne Stone and Lady Hardyng much longer than she was ever Sansa Stark.
But that was before Jon Snow came from the Wall, asking the Vale for supplies. Before he looked at her with his achingly familiar face and said, "Sansa," in a way that made everything that came after feel irrevocable.
Life was not a song. She knew that, had learned it deep in her bones. But the first night she slipped her hand into Jon's and pressed her lips to his, she thought that perhaps there were a few songs still left to her. One about a man who was not a knight, but climbed a mountain to rescue a girl who was not a princess, and brought her back to life by speaking her true name
****
Sansa used to hate storms at the Eyrie. The castle is so high that it pierces the cloud, becomes part of the storm, and she had spent many days listening to thunder rattling the glass in the windows and the stones in the walls, until she had felt like her bones shook in her body. When she had looked out and seen only gray, she had felt as though the very mountain itself were swallowing her alive.
This morning, she is thankful for the clouds that press against the windows, for the shaking of stone and mortar. A storm means that everyone will keep to their chambers until it has passed, and it means that Jon will not, as is his custom, leave at the first break of dawn.
This morning, while the castle quakes and freezing rain pelts against the glass, Jon stays. The air in her chamber is cold, almost uncomfortably so, but his skin in so warm that Sansa soon ceases to care. So many times Jon has made love to her, but always in the dark, always furtively.
Now, in the soft gray light of her chamber, he is slow. Thorough. He kisses a line down her throat to her breasts, pausing to nuzzle her stomach. And then he puts his mouth to her, and Sansa shakes along with the Eyrie, hands clawing for purchase on the sheets, on his back, in his hair.
His lips and tongue move over her, inside of her, until she is sobbing, seizing.
And then he does it all over again.
Later, Jon lights a fire in the hearth as she lies back against the pillows, dazed and wrung out. Outside, the rain still falls, and before coming back to bed, Jon pauses in front of the window. "There's nothing," he says wonderingly. "Only gray as far as the eye can see."
Sansa opens her mouth to tell him that it reminds her of the stories her mother used to tell of Winterfell. Of the endless white that covered the castle and the land during the winter. But there are things she and Jon have learned never to speak of, and Winterfell and her mother are two of them.
Instead, she sits up and offers him a hand. He takes it, falling onto the sheets with her. As he lays over her, hands cupping her cheeks, Jon looks into her eyes, the same wonder with which he took in the storm clear on his face. "I never stop wanting you," he murmurs. "I thought it was like any other hunger, that I could...slake it somehow. But I can't. I'm not sure I ever will."
Smiling, Sansa lifts her head, presses her lips to his in a lazy kiss. "Perhaps I've enchanted you," she teases. "Isn't that how the stories go?"
Still grinning, she pushes him until he rolls over onto his back, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle him.
"I've summoned this storm," she whispers between kisses. "Called it to this mountain so that I can trap you here forever." With that, she nips at his lower lip, and Jon huffs out a laugh.
Sansa rises up, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. Bracing her hands on his stomach, she looks down at him, only to find him watching her with an expression she's never seen before.
He's smiling at her, but his eyes are dark and watchful, and something she can't define moves in them.
"You would need no magic to keep me here, Sansa," he says softly, and her breath catches in her throat.
She wants to tease him for his lack of guile, to remind him that she was only in jest. But when he looks at her like that, so solemn and serious, all she can do is kiss him again and again and will her heart not to break.