Fic: "And If You Want Me, I'm Your Country." (Jon/Sansa, R)
So I've been participating in the most excellent got_exchange If you haven't been over there, go check it out! There's some SERIOUSLY awesome fic happening, and so many pairings/prompts/ideas. This was my contribution, and since it went up yesterday, I'm guessing it's safe to put up here! I'd honestly meant for it to be a little character sketch kind of thing (possibly with pr0n), but then it turned into this 7K story with, like, PLOT and stuff. Probably because Jon/Sansa has taken over my brain here lately. ;) In any case, please to enjoy!
Title: And If You Want Me, I'm Your Country
Author: jal80
For: mihnn
Characters/pairings: Jon/Sansa, Sam
Rating: R
Words: Approx. 7000
Warnings: Vague spoilers for all of the books as well as Jon's possible parentage.
Prompt: Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born. What happens after the end of ADWD.
A/N: Title taken from The Cardigans' "You're The Storm." Also, I don't own these guys, obviously.
She is not the Stark he wants most to see at Winterfell, but seeing her there nonetheless causes a sudden tightness in Jon's chest. Moving amongst the workers, her bright hair seems the only spot of colour in a landscape of blackened stone and timber, gray skies, and the bleak white of the recent snowfall. When she turns and sees him, Jon does not miss the slight twist of her lips, the hardening of her gaze. In her face, he can read what’s in her mind.
“She doesn’t look happy to see you,” Sam mutters nervously from beside him.
Jon’s voice is equally low when he answers, “I don't believe she is.”
Sam's fingers move over his maester's chain. "Do you think she knows why you've come?"
Jon doesn't answer. To be honest, he is not sure why he's come. Oh, he knows the official reason. He is Daenerys Targaryen's heir now, as and such, he has responsibilities. The greatest of these, at least in the queen's mind, is securing the North and securing succession. And what better way to do that than to marry her heir to the last Stark in Winterfell?
He had been uneasy with the idea even then, but back at the Red Keep, Jon had seen the sense in it. And when he'd stood on a balcony his last night there, breathing in the fetid air of King's Landing, his bones had ached for the North. But watching Sansa move across the yard towards him now, this entire journey seems like a mistake. Her shoulders are stiff, her head down. Yes, she knows why he's come, and she is not pleased.
If she had run to him, greeted him as a brother, would that have made it any easier?
Jon allows himself one brief moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath.
Kill the boy, Maester Aemon had said. Kill the boy, and let the man be born.
It is the boy in him balking at this idea, Jon knows. It is the boy who remembers Sansa as the haughty girl who always called him "half-brother." The boy who feels that taking her, and through her, Winterfell, would be a kind of betrayal.
It doesn't help that after so much time, after all that has happened, he hasn't the faintest idea of what to say to her. How he should even address her. As children, there had been a distance between them. She had never felt truly like his sister, not as Arya had. And of course, she is not his sister now.
She never was.
He pushes that thought away as Sansa stops in front of him. “Lord Snow,” she says evenly, and Jon almost feels relieved. So that’s how it’s to be.
“Lady Stark,” he replies. Better that way, to hide safely behind titles and formalities. Easier to see each other in their roles rather than as the last survivors of a ravaged family.
Sansa was always pretty, but there is no doubt she is beautiful now. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been a girl, her hair twisted into one of those ridiculous Southron hairstyles Queen Cersei favored. Now she is a woman, taller than he'd thought she'd be, and her bright hair is coiled in a simple bun at the nape of her neck.
She looks so much like her mother.
That is another thought he tries to shove aside as she glances behind him, seeing only Sam and Ghost. Her eyes linger on the direwolf for a moment before she says, "You've certainly traveled light, my lord. I trust the journey was pleasant?"
He has not seen her in years, not since the day he rode out for the Wall. No, before that, actually. Of all his family, she was the only one he'd not said farewell to that day. If he remembered rightly, she had been too busy packing for her journey south. And then, when he and Daenerys had made their triumphant march from what remained of the Wall to King's Landing, Sansa had been making her way west from the Vale, then northward for Winterfell.
Years and miles and the destruction of those they loved lay between them, and she asks if his journey was pleasant.
"It was," he answers tersely, and he thinks he sees a spark of...something in those cool blue eyes. But it is gone too quickly to put a name to it.
"I'm sorry Winterfell is much changed since the last time you saw it," she says, and again, her tone is light, almost as though she is apologizing for a change in bedding, not the near ruin of the place.
"I must admit, I expected far worse. You've been very busy."
Sansa nods, casting her eyes upward at the half-built towers, the new wood almost obscenely bright against all the black and gray. "Yes, well, I suppose the Boltons were useful for something. And of course, Lannister gold has done much in restoring what the Boltons did not."
Jon inclines his head slightly. "I was sorry to hear of your husband's passing."
She gives no answer to that. Instead, she gestures to one of her servants, a young boy with hair like straw. "Dev, kindly show Lord Snow and his companion to whatever rooms are in the best state of repair."
"Lady Stark, there are matters I need to discuss with you," Jon says. Better to get this out of the way as quickly as possible.
Sansa had already begun to walk away, but she turns now, and for a moment, Jon would be hard pressed to say this woman standing before him is the same Sansa Stark he grew up with.
"And we shall discuss those matters in an hour's time in the Great Hall." With that, she sweeps away.
Sam comes to stand by Jon, watching her go. "She isn't anything like I thought she would be," the maester says at last.
"She is not much like I'd thought she'd be either, Sam," Jon replies.
***
And so, in an hour's time, he finds himself in the great hall of Winterfell, the scent of ash and new lumber still hanging in the air. He doesn't phrase his offer in terms of marriage, but instead alliance, and Sansa Stark sits in what was once their - her - father's seat and listens to him. As he lists all the reasons why she, as Warden of the North, should marry him, heir to Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn and Mother of Dragons, she watches him with no hint of emotion in her face.
When he is done enumerating the reasons she should take him as husband, he kneels, bowing his head. "It is my hope, Lady Stark, that you find these terms agreeable," Jon says stiffly. It is not the most romantic of proposals, and the girl Sansa had been would have wept bitter tears over it, he thinks.
The woman she is now simply asks, "Janos Slynt was sent to the Wall when you were there, yes?"
Surprised, Jon looks up. She sits there, her expression unreadable, but one finger taps the arm of her chair, and he suddenly understands that his answer is important to her.
He rises. "He was."
"I heard that he was executed by your orders."
"He was executed by my hand."
He can see her swallow, see one hand tighten in her skirts, but she doesn't say anything for a very long time. Then, "Very well."
"My lady?" Jon asks, confused. Is she referring to Slynt, or-
"I will marry you, Lord Snow."
Jon is surprised by the rush of relief that floods through him. He had not realized until this very moment how much he wanted her to accept. How much he wanted to come home, no matter what the cost.
"I do have a condition, though," Sansa says, rising from her seat. "I wish to be married here, at Winterfell. In the godswood. And while I understand her Grace may require you in King's Landing, I will never accompany you there. I wish to be allowed to stay in Winterfell for the rest of my days, is that understood?"
Sam has been standing a few feet behind him this entire time, and now he comes close to whisper in Jon's ear. "The queen seemed very insistent on a royal wedding, Jon. Morale, and all of that."
But Jon does not take his eyes off of Sansa. "It is, my lady. And there is nowhere else I'd rather be wed."
He thinks perhaps she feel relieved as well. Her shoulders no longer seem so stiff, and the smile that flickers across her face is closer to the ones he remembers. "In a fortnight, then," she says, and holds her hand out to him.
Jon walks forward and takes it, pressing his lips to the back. It is perfunctory, a seal on an arrangement, but it is the first time his lips have been on a woman's skin in a very long time.
Soon, you will kiss much more than her hand some evil voice whispers inside him, but that is another thought he chooses not to acknowledge.
Still, he wonders if she guessed at his thoughts because her next words are, "Did you have no other options? Besides me, that is."
When he only looks at her in confusion, she clarifies, "I know why Daenerys Targaryen wishes you to wed me, but I also know that you are not a man to do things you find...distasteful just because someone else orders it."
He is tired, and the journey had not been particularly pleasant, and absolutely nothing has gone as he'd expected it to since he first rode through the charred gates of Winterfell. Perhaps that is why he snaps at her.
Or perhaps it's just that she looks so much like Catelyn Stark, and seems to regard him with the same amount of disdain, no matter that he's the last member of their family left to her. Or because she is not Robb, or Arya, or Bran, or Rickon, and there is still enough of the boy within him to resent her for that.
In any case, he can't keep the anger out of his voice when he replies, "Of course I had other options. I am the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince Who Was Promised, risen from the dead to defeat the Others. I chose you as my wife because...,"
And just like that, he doesn't have it in him to be angry anymore. "Because I wanted to come home," he finishes.
A heavy pause hangs over the hall, and he hears Sam clear his throat.
Sansa's face seems a bit paler, but other than that, there is no sign that is words have affected her. "As good a reason as any," she says at last and then, with one last curtsy, she is gone.
***
Few things clear his head better than the ringing of metal, and over the next few days, Jon finds himself in the training yard more often than not. He spars with Sansa's new captain of the guards, the knights that followed her from the Vale, anyone who will join him.
He is fighting with one of the Royces when Sansa strolls by on Sam's arm. He's seen very little of his bride-to-be since coming to Winterfell. They sit together at meals, and he catches glimpses of her throughout the day. But she has left her steward in charge of teaching Jon the inner workings of the castle, and Jon cannot escape the feeling that she is avoiding him.
It's a thought made all the more irksome by the attention she showers on Sam. Watching the two of them walk together, one would think Sam were her long-lost brother returned to her. Or her betrothed. Jon is not sure which rejection stings the most. I should not have spoken so harshly to her, Jon thinks, but it isn't as though she's given him an opportunity to apologize.
And it's no surprise that Sam and Sansa have taken to one another. Sam always favored beautiful things, and there is no doubt that the Lady of Winterfell is that. And Sansa may no longer be quite the same girl he knew, but she always responded to sweetness and flattery, both of which Sam heaps upon her.
He knows the thoughts are uncharitable, but he can't seem to stop them from coming, and perhaps that is why Royce is able to get around his right side and deliver a quick thrust that slices the inside of Jon's forearm.
The moment blood appears, young Royce drops his sword and stammers, "M-my lord, forgive me, I-,"
Jon waves him off. "My own fault."
He leaves Royce still offering apologies and makes his way to his chamber to dress the wound. As he does, he berates himself for his foolishness. So much for killing the boy. There are few things more idiotic than letting down your guard over a woman, but that is exactly what he did. And she is not a woman, she is your sister. Or she was.
Opening his chamber door, Jon fights the urge to slam it behind him. Damn you, she is not your sister, she is your betrothed. She will be your wife .
Ghost nudges his thigh, and Jon drops his uninjured hand to pet the direwolf. "Who knew coming home would be this complicated, eh, boy?" he mutters.
He's just walked over to his bed and begun rolling up his sleeve when the door opens behind him. He turns, expecting to see Sam, but it's Sansa.
"Sit," she commands, nodding at his bed.
"Are you speaking to me or to Ghost?"
That earns him a glare he hasn't seen in years. He'd actually begun to wonder if the Lady of Winterfell were incapable of anything besides cool disdain where he was concerned. And so he sits, gingerly perched on the edge of the bed as she comes to stand before him.
In one hand, she carries a bowl filled with several cloths. In the other, she hold a curved needle and a spool of thread. She sets the bowl on the table nearest the bed, taking out the cloths and filling it with water from his ewer. That done, she wets some of the fabric and hands it to him. "I trust you can clean the wound yourself."
He does so, sucking in a breath between his teeth at the sting, while she heats the needle over a flame.
She stands before him again, nearly between his knees. This close, he can catch the scent of herbs clinging to her hair, her clothes. He had not realized until this moment how much she smelled like home.
"Put your arm out," she says, her tone brisk and brooking no arguments. When he does, she takes his wrist, her fingers cool, and sets his hand firmly on her hip. He raises his eyes to her, and she quirks an eyebrow. "You men all like to pretend that you're impervious to pain, but as soon as the needle goes in, you'll shake like a leaf. Holding onto something keeps the arm steady, and it's usually easiest to hold onto the person doing the stitching."
"You have a lot of experience stitching up men, then?" he asks, grateful for the pain that lances through him as the needle begins its work. The pain distracts him from how warm she is, how well she curves into his palm.
"I have," she says softly, and her actions bear that out. Her stitches burn like the seven hells, but they are neat and even and her hand doesn't tremble.
"You used to hate blood."
Sansa makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren't so sad. "I used to think I hated a great many things," she says, turning her attention back to his stitches. "But once you've learned what it really means to hate, I suppose things like blood or spiders or a ruined dress don't mean as much anymore."
His hand tightens on her hip, but he doesn't speak.
Shaking her head, Sansa continues. "In any case, getting out of the Vale meant getting over an aversion to blood, and I'm grateful for it. Otherwise I would have had to let Ser Merrick close this wound for you, and he makes dreadfully ugly stitches. And I think you have more than your share of scars, Lord Snow."
"I think perhaps you have your share as well, Lady Stark," he replies, and their eyes meet.
Kill the boy, let the man be born Maester Aemon had told him. He wonders now how many times Sansa has looked in the mirror and told herself to kill the girl.
She finishes his stitches, then wraps another cloth around her work. He may have imagined it, but he thinks her fingers linger on his arm for just a moment once the bandage is in place.
Gathering her things, she turns to leave, but before she can, Jon catches her hand.
"I'd like you to show me around the castle tomorrow."
She give a little frown. "Surely Willam," she begins, but he doesn't allow her to finish.
"Your steward has been most helpful, but I'd like to see Winterfell through your eyes."
Put that way, he knows he's given her no way to refuse, and so she agrees. "Very well. Although I fear there is not much to show."
"I'll be grateful for whatever assistance you can give, Lady Stark."
Her mouth quirks into something very like a smile. "We are to be married in a few days, Jon. Perhaps you should start calling me Sansa."
"Sansa," he repeats with a little bow. He pauses, trying to decide if his next words will make things better or worse between them. In the end, he risks it and says, "That's a pretty name."
It is worth it. She turns to the door, but before she does, he catches a glimpse of her smile.
***
True to her word, she takes him around Winterfell the next day. Also true to her word, there is not much to see, and while coming across ruined towers and piles of charred wood and stone sends a steady pulse of grief through his chest, he is still glad for this time with her.
Eventually, they make their way to the godswood. Neither of them mention the event that will take place there in just a few days, but he knows she is thinking of it. They sit underneath the heart tree, studying the black water of the pool in silence for a long while. Finally, Sansa asks, "Why is it you still call yourself Snow? The queen legitimized you, as did Robb before he died. You had a right to both the Targaryen and the Stark names, yet you took neither."
Jon studies her in the late afternoon light. "Why do you not call yourself Lannister? Tyrion is dead, but you were still his wife. You've a right to that name."
She makes a small sound of derision. "As if I would want it. Tyrion was not... he was not cruel to me. And he was never truly my husband, of course."
That surprises him. "Your marriage was unconsummated?"
Nodding, Sansa picks an something on her cloak. "He had his own sense of honour, twisted though it may have been. In any case, while I'll take the gold owed me as his widow, I didn't want the name. I had been Sansa Lannister, and Alayne Stone, and...," she sighs, leaning back against the tree trunk. "I simply wanted to be Sansa Stark again. Besides, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
She swivels her head to look at him. Strands of auburn hair have sprung loose from her bun, and she suddenly seems very young. "You didn't answer my question, Lord Snow."
Now it is his turn to sigh. "Neither of those names felt like mine. I had wanted to be a Stark for so long, but...to call myself one felt as though I were trying to take what was rightfully yours. And Rhaegar Targaryen may have been my father in blood, but I had no use for his name. Jon Snow was the name I was given at birth and, in the end, it was the name I wanted to keep."
She nods again. "I understand."
She does, he realizes. For a moment, the tension between them eases, and he no longer feels like an interloper here.
And then a thought suddenly occurs to Jon. "Does it bother you? That you'll be Lady Snow?" Getting to remain Lady Stark or becoming Lady Targaryen surely would've been more palatable to her than taking a bastard's name yet again, no matter if that bastard had been titled.
But a rueful smile quirks her lips. "To be honest, I had not thought on it. But no, it doesn't bother me. I'd rather be Lady Snow than Lady Lannister again. Or Lady Umber, or Lady Tyrell, or wife to any of the other men who've tried to lay claim to me since I laid claim to Winterfell."
Without thinking, he reaches out and takes her hand. "I- Sansa, I know this is not what you may have wanted-,"
Shaking her head, she squeezes his fingers. "What any of us want ceased to matter a long time ago, Jon."
She stands up, her hand slipping from his, and whatever it was that had passed between them is gone.
***
Four days later, he stands with her in the godswood again, draping the white and crimson cloak of his newly-created house over her shoulders and making her his wife. The wedding is a small affair, witnessed only by the denizens of Winterfell, Sam, and the knights Sansa brought from the Vale.
At the end of the ceremony, he presses a kiss to her cheek rather than her lips. Sansa may take it for chivalry, he thinks, but in truth, he does not want to kiss her lips for the first time in front of a crowd, no matter how small.
There's a feast of course, and toasts to their health, and even dancing. As the music starts up, Sansa leans over to him and murmurs, "Did you and I dance together once?"
Jon thinks back until he remembers the feast she's thinking of. "We did," he admits. "I believe I stepped on all of your toes save three. You were most vexed."
He'd meant to make her laugh, or at least smile, but instead, her expression grows troubled. "I was never very kind to you, was I?"
Shaking his head, Jon takes her hand. "We were children. It's of no matter."
"Perhaps I shall make a better wife than sister," she says, and before he can find an answer to that, Sir Merrick has offered his arm and led her to the dancers.
The rest of the evening passes with aching slowness. Jon watches her dance with Ser Merrick, with the Royce lad, with Sam, and cannot help but think of what comes later. His body feels taut as a bowstring, and his mind whirls with thoughts. He and Sansa have found a sort of peace with each other, caught in a strange kind of limbo. They are no longer brother and sister, but despite the words in the godswood, nor are they nor husband and wife. Not yet. They are, Jon thinks, friends.
If he were to take his marital rights tonight, that will change things. Even Tyrion Lannister managed to keep his hands off of her when she was his wife. Can he not do the same?
He is still brooding on this when Sam comes to sit next to him. "Jon Snow," he says with a fond smile. "The only man I know who would scowl during his own wedding feast."
Despite his black mood, Jon smiles back. "I'm sure many a man has scowled during his wedding feast, Sam."
"Aye," Sam agrees amiably. "But not if they had a bride as fair as yours."
Jon scans the floor for Sansa's bright hair, but doesn't see her. "She's already gone up," Sam says. "I expect you should join her shortly."
Jon nods and takes another sip - a gulp, really - of wine. As he rises, Sam catches his arm. "She cares for you," he tells Jon. "And in marrying her, you've kept her safe and secured her place here. You've done the right thing, Jon."
Briefly, Jon covers Sam's hand with his own. How like Sam, to get to the heart of what was troubling him. "Thank you, my friend," he replies, wishing he could believe in himself as much as Sam does.
Sansa is already lying in the bed when Jon comes in. They had broken with tradition in not letting the revelers carry them up to their chamber, but Jon is glad for it and he thinks their guests are as well. This is a strange union for everyone, and Jon suspects he and his bride are not the only ones who found this night awkward.
His bride.
The thought makes Jon's mouth dry as he steals a sideways glance at Sansa. She is lovely. She was always lovely, of course, but the years have sharpened her beauty so that Jon has the absurd thought she will cut his hands when he touches her.
If he touches her.
There is a screen set up in the corner, but Jon leaves his clothes on.
"We do not have to do this," he tells her as he sits on the edge of the bed.
She sighs, and for a moment, she's that haughty girl again, exasperated with him stepping on her toes at a feast. "Don't be foolish, Jon. Of course we do."
"We do not," he insists, even though he knows she's right. "We're not... breeding animals."
"No, we are not," she agrees, sitting up a little higher in the bed. As she does, her gown gets caught under her leg, pulling the fabric so that it falls off her shoulder. A jolt of lust suddenly runs through him, and Jon looks away, fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs.
"But neither are we a hedge knight and a crofter's daughter," Sansa continues, and Jon thinks he can feel the weight of that blue gaze on his neck. "You're heir to the Iron Throne now, my Lord Snow. And I am the last Stark. Our children will one day rule Westeros. We do not have the luxury of being delicate about these things."
She gives a light laugh that doesn't contain the slightest shred of humor. "And it's not as though I'm a maid, after all." Something nudges his hip, and he looks down to see it's her foot under the coverlet. "Are you?"
She's teasing him, but he hears the genuine curiosity in her question, and when he finally lifts his gaze to her, there's a hint of pink in her cheeks. He meets her eyes and gives a very serious nod. "I am."
He can tell that, vows of the Night's Watch aside, she had not expected that, and she blinks several times. "I-I see," she stammers, and he can no longer keep a straight face.
When he finally breaks and chuckles, Sansa's eyes narrow, and this time, the foot against his hip is less a nudge, more a kick.
It is another one of those rare moments, like the afternoon in the godswood where it's as if they are actually themselves, not simply their titles. Not two people playing the roles destiny has decided for them.
His voice is softer when he says, "If you need...more time to get accustomed to me, I would understand."
There is a whisper of cloth as she gets out of the bed, and Jon's heart lurches, thinking she means to leave.
Instead, she walks around the bed to stand in front of him. The firelight renders her gown nearly transparent, and despite his stubborn words, his body thrums with want for her. The hand she lays against his cheek is warm and smells of herbs. He fights the urge to turn his face into it, to kiss the skin of her wrist.
"Jon, you have been part of my life since the day I was born. How could I need any more time to grow accustomed to you? I have always been accustomed to you."
He reaches up, curls his fingers around her wrist. "I meant to grow accustomed to me as your husband," he says, his voice low. "I would not want to...I've no desire to bed an unwilling woman."
Leaning down, she whispers, "And who says I am unwilling?"
With that, she leans down and presses her lips to his.
Jon tells himself to go slow. Not to appear to be as hungry for her as he is, lest his desire frighten or, worse, repulse her. And while it's true she doesn't seem unwilling, he can feel her pulse hammering under his fingers.
She claims not to be a maiden, and he has no reason to doubt that, but there is still something tentative in her kiss. Her lips are soft, pliant, but they remain closed, and when she pulls back, he wants nothing more than to grab her, roll her beneath him, show her what a kiss can be.
Instead, he lets her lead the way, moving only to help her divest him of his tunic. Her fingers falter at the laces of his breeches, and he stills her hands with a murmured, "Later."
Pushing back the coverlet, Jon slides into the bed and she follows. He rolls to his side, and hesitantly takes her in his arms, where she lifts her lips to his again. This kiss is no more passionate than the first, no matter how good she feels nestled against him, and Jon wonders if she is counting them off in her head. If there is a prescribed amount of kisses she feels she must give a man before he's ready to bed her.
When she pulls away the second time, it's to tug her gown over her head. In the dim glow of the firelight, her skin is cream and pink, and the sight of her stops his breath. But then she slides back under the sheets, tugging them up so that she's covered to the shoulders.
Jon tries to hide his disappointment. It's better this way. He's told himself half a hundred times that this marriage is a matter of state, not the heart. If they can get this over with quickly, maybe the fragile peace they've managed to find won't shatter.
This time, he kisses her, careful to keep his hands on top of the bedclothes. Still, there's no mistaking the curve of her hip underneath his palm, and as she shifts closer, her breasts brush against his chest. On instinct, Jon's hand tightens on her hip, pulling her closer to him.
Underneath him, she makes a little sound, and Jon immediately pulls back. But it's not fear or disgust in her eyes. It's surprise. And perhaps...
They lie frozen, gazes locked on one another. He thinks her breathing is coming a bit faster. He knows his is. He had been so careful not to appear to want her too much. It never occurred to him that she might have been doing the same.
This time when Jon lowers his mouth to hers, he nudges her lips open, kissing her properly. Thoroughly. And when her tongue touches his, he doesn't hold back the low growl that builds in his chest. He can feel her fingers digging into his shoulders, but she's pulling him closer, not pushing him away, arching into him when palms the warm silk of her thigh.
"Jon," Sansa breathes when they finally part. Her eyes are dark, lips swollen and pink.
"Are you alright?" he asks her, breathless himself. "Is this alright?"
She reaches up and touches his face again. This time, he does turn and kiss her wrist. "This is how it's meant to feel, isn't it?" she asks him, and the sudden tightness in his chest threatens to break his heart.
She is harder, there can be no doubt. And stronger, and shrewder, and so much more resilient than he ever would have thought. But there are still traces of the girl she once was, and surely this is one of them.
"Yes," he tells her simply, and then they are kissing again, and he is tearing at the sheet, and when her fingers again reach for his laces, this time, they are sure and deft.
Jon kisses her lips, her throat, the strong line of her collarbone. He dips his head to taste her breasts and the soft slope of her stomach, then lower still. As her fingers tangle in his hair and her legs move restlessly against the sheets, Jon wants to make her burn for him, hot enough to sear away ever unwanted touch, every unwelcomed caress. He never wants her to remember that there is another way for this to feel.
He does not stop when she cries out and stiffens against him, only lifting his head when the fingers in his hair finally go slack and he hears her murmur, "Enough, enough."
She is slick and hot and ready when he slides into her, and the broken little sigh she makes in his ear nearly undoes him.
When he finds his release, he does it murmuring her name over and over again, as she holds him far tighter than he would've thought her slim arms capable.
Later, as they lie back in the sheets, sweaty and sated, Sansa traces a pattern on his chest and murmurs, "That was..."
"Improper?" Jon offers. "Unseemly?"
The finger that had been circling his navel pokes his ribs. "Unexpected."
He smiles against her hair. Unexpected, indeed.
She shifts closer to him and whispers, "I'm glad you chose me. I thought I wasn't. I thought you only wanted Winterfell, and I was angry that you were..."
She trails off, and Jon kisses the top of her head. "You were angry that I was the one the gods spared."
Stacking her hands on his chest, Sansa rests her chin on them and looks at him. "Is that horrible?"
Jon shakes his head. "Honest."
"I haven't been honest in a very long time," she says softly, more to herself than to him, and Jon has no answer but to pull her face to his and kiss her until neither of them have any words, honest or no.
***
Sansa is gone before Jon wakes, back to her own chambers to dress, he supposes, and he doesn't see her again until he's out at the East Gate with Sam, supervising some of the builders.
When he does catch sight of her, she's moving toward the Great Keep with her steward. Watching her, she is every inch the cool and correct Lady of Winterfell, and it is hard to believe she is the same woman who writhed beneath his mouth just the night before.
She sees him then, and while she does not pause or stop listening to Willam, her cheeks go red, and Jon sees a tiny smile tug at the corner of her lips.
Suddenly, the night seems a very long way off.
***
In the following weeks, they fall into a sort of pattern. Both are busy during the day, tending to the various needs of Winterfell and its denizens. They eat meals together, call each other Lord and Lady Snow, and give every impression of a polite, if distant, couple.
But at night, behind the closed doors of his chamber, the masks come off, and they are anything but distant. Jon has kissed every inch of her, told her the story behind every one of his scars, and held her as she softly recounted what had happened to her since she left Winterfell. He has known Sansa her entire life, lived with her for years, but it is only in their bed that Jon feels he finally comes to truly know her.
***
Nearly a month after their wedding, they sit by the fire in her solar. Sansa is knitting and behind her, two of her maids sit on a low couch, doing the same.
Jon is meant to be looking over some of the household accounts, a task Sansa was grateful to surrender to him. Instead, he is mulling over a message that came that morning, wondering how to broach the subject with his wife.
As Jon sneaks glances at her, glowing in the firelight, it occurs to him that perhaps this is the real thing the men of the Night's Watch give up. Not the physical act of love, but the companionship. The steady satisfaction that comes from sitting across from a woman, lying with her at night, feeling the soft weight of her hand on his arm.
"You're brooding," Sansa observes without looking up.
"I'm thinking," he counters, and the corners of her lips lift in a small smile.
"There is not much difference between the two for you, I think."
Jon snorts and closes the book on his lap. For a long while, he just watches her, enjoying the soft click of her needles, the deftness of her fingers, and the coppery shine of her hair as it spills over one shoulder. "You're very good at that," he says, and there's that tiny smile again.
"And here I thought your opinion on needlework was as dim as Arya's."
"No one's opinion on needlework was as dim as Arya's," he replies, and at last, she looks up, a real smile on her face now. He realizes that he had only thought she looked beautiful before.
"Do you remember the time she accidentally stitched her gown to one of the handkerchiefs she was meant to be embroidering?" Sansa asks, and suddenly, he does remember. How Arya had wrenched the cursed thing free of her gown with a curse that had blistered all of their ears, and how he and Robb had laughed and laughed at Lady Catelyn's horrified cry of, "Arya!"
They hadn't laughed as hard when Lord Stark had taken the strap to the pair of them since Arya had overheard that particular epithet from her brothers in the training yard.
But looking into Sansa's eyes now, he laughs again, and for the first time, the memory of Arya - of Robb, of all of them - doesn't seem to tear something open inside of him. The pain is there; he suspects it always will be, and he sees it mirrored in Sansa's gaze now, but there is joy, too.
They laugh together, he and his wife, for a long while. When the laughter subsides, their gazes hold, and John thinks the color in her cheeks is from more than the fire's warmth.
She returns to her knitting at last, and he once again opens the ledger, but the numbers swim before him. His mind is too full of thoughts for figures. He wants to tell her that his memories had felt poisoned to him once. That to think on Arya or Bran or Robb, even the happy times, was also to remember that they were lost to him forever.
How she has healed him in ways he never thought were possible.
Instead, he keeps his eyes on the ledger and says in a low voice, "Dismiss your ladies."
Sansa does not look up either as she does just that. The girls gather up their sewing, and Jon thinks he hears a few giggles as they leave the solar, the door closing softly behind them.
Neither he nor Sansa speak, and the only sounds in the room are the crackle of the fire and her needles, still moving even as her fingers seem to tremble a bit.
"Well, Lord Snow," she says at last, setting her knitting down in her lap. "You have me all to yourself. What exactly do you propose to do with me?"
Getting out of his chair, Jon goes to kneel at her feet, his hands sliding up under her skirts. "If it's all the same, Lady Snow, I'd prefer to show you."
Show her he does, although it turns out, she has some things to show him as well. They end up half in and half out of their clothes, panting on the floor by the fire. Jon lays his head on her chest, closing his eyes as she strokes his hair. When speech feels like something he is finally capable of again, he says, "A raven came today."
"I know," she replies, still a tad breathless.
Lifting his head, Jon stares at her flushed face. "Do you know the message it brought?"
She tugs a little at his hair. "Of course I do. I'm the lady of this house, after all. Nothing happens here without my knowing about it."
Jon kisses the silky skin over her heart. "I do not wish to go."
"And yet you must," she replies. "No man can ignore a royal summons. And you have other responsibilities in King's Landing."
Her hands resume their gentle stroking of his hair, and Jon is already memorizing how she feels beneath him, the sweet scent of her. He will be nearly a month on the road to King's Landing, and then gods know how long Daenerys will keep him there.
"You... you will not come with me." It is not a question.
Kill the boy he thinks again, but he now knows it's the man that wants nothing more than to have her with him. The man that has grown to love her.
"I will not," she confirms softly. "But I will be here when you return home."
Home is not Winterfell now. Home is Sansa. And he thinks of the sweet, pliable girl she was. That girl could be persuaded into accompanying him, he has no doubt. But when he looks up into her eyes, full of love as they are, he knows it is the woman who looks back at him.
And so he kisses her and whispers, "That will be enough."
Title: And If You Want Me, I'm Your Country
Author: jal80
For: mihnn
Characters/pairings: Jon/Sansa, Sam
Rating: R
Words: Approx. 7000
Warnings: Vague spoilers for all of the books as well as Jon's possible parentage.
Prompt: Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born. What happens after the end of ADWD.
A/N: Title taken from The Cardigans' "You're The Storm." Also, I don't own these guys, obviously.
She is not the Stark he wants most to see at Winterfell, but seeing her there nonetheless causes a sudden tightness in Jon's chest. Moving amongst the workers, her bright hair seems the only spot of colour in a landscape of blackened stone and timber, gray skies, and the bleak white of the recent snowfall. When she turns and sees him, Jon does not miss the slight twist of her lips, the hardening of her gaze. In her face, he can read what’s in her mind.
“She doesn’t look happy to see you,” Sam mutters nervously from beside him.
Jon’s voice is equally low when he answers, “I don't believe she is.”
Sam's fingers move over his maester's chain. "Do you think she knows why you've come?"
Jon doesn't answer. To be honest, he is not sure why he's come. Oh, he knows the official reason. He is Daenerys Targaryen's heir now, as and such, he has responsibilities. The greatest of these, at least in the queen's mind, is securing the North and securing succession. And what better way to do that than to marry her heir to the last Stark in Winterfell?
He had been uneasy with the idea even then, but back at the Red Keep, Jon had seen the sense in it. And when he'd stood on a balcony his last night there, breathing in the fetid air of King's Landing, his bones had ached for the North. But watching Sansa move across the yard towards him now, this entire journey seems like a mistake. Her shoulders are stiff, her head down. Yes, she knows why he's come, and she is not pleased.
If she had run to him, greeted him as a brother, would that have made it any easier?
Jon allows himself one brief moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath.
Kill the boy, Maester Aemon had said. Kill the boy, and let the man be born.
It is the boy in him balking at this idea, Jon knows. It is the boy who remembers Sansa as the haughty girl who always called him "half-brother." The boy who feels that taking her, and through her, Winterfell, would be a kind of betrayal.
It doesn't help that after so much time, after all that has happened, he hasn't the faintest idea of what to say to her. How he should even address her. As children, there had been a distance between them. She had never felt truly like his sister, not as Arya had. And of course, she is not his sister now.
She never was.
He pushes that thought away as Sansa stops in front of him. “Lord Snow,” she says evenly, and Jon almost feels relieved. So that’s how it’s to be.
“Lady Stark,” he replies. Better that way, to hide safely behind titles and formalities. Easier to see each other in their roles rather than as the last survivors of a ravaged family.
Sansa was always pretty, but there is no doubt she is beautiful now. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been a girl, her hair twisted into one of those ridiculous Southron hairstyles Queen Cersei favored. Now she is a woman, taller than he'd thought she'd be, and her bright hair is coiled in a simple bun at the nape of her neck.
She looks so much like her mother.
That is another thought he tries to shove aside as she glances behind him, seeing only Sam and Ghost. Her eyes linger on the direwolf for a moment before she says, "You've certainly traveled light, my lord. I trust the journey was pleasant?"
He has not seen her in years, not since the day he rode out for the Wall. No, before that, actually. Of all his family, she was the only one he'd not said farewell to that day. If he remembered rightly, she had been too busy packing for her journey south. And then, when he and Daenerys had made their triumphant march from what remained of the Wall to King's Landing, Sansa had been making her way west from the Vale, then northward for Winterfell.
Years and miles and the destruction of those they loved lay between them, and she asks if his journey was pleasant.
"It was," he answers tersely, and he thinks he sees a spark of...something in those cool blue eyes. But it is gone too quickly to put a name to it.
"I'm sorry Winterfell is much changed since the last time you saw it," she says, and again, her tone is light, almost as though she is apologizing for a change in bedding, not the near ruin of the place.
"I must admit, I expected far worse. You've been very busy."
Sansa nods, casting her eyes upward at the half-built towers, the new wood almost obscenely bright against all the black and gray. "Yes, well, I suppose the Boltons were useful for something. And of course, Lannister gold has done much in restoring what the Boltons did not."
Jon inclines his head slightly. "I was sorry to hear of your husband's passing."
She gives no answer to that. Instead, she gestures to one of her servants, a young boy with hair like straw. "Dev, kindly show Lord Snow and his companion to whatever rooms are in the best state of repair."
"Lady Stark, there are matters I need to discuss with you," Jon says. Better to get this out of the way as quickly as possible.
Sansa had already begun to walk away, but she turns now, and for a moment, Jon would be hard pressed to say this woman standing before him is the same Sansa Stark he grew up with.
"And we shall discuss those matters in an hour's time in the Great Hall." With that, she sweeps away.
Sam comes to stand by Jon, watching her go. "She isn't anything like I thought she would be," the maester says at last.
"She is not much like I'd thought she'd be either, Sam," Jon replies.
***
And so, in an hour's time, he finds himself in the great hall of Winterfell, the scent of ash and new lumber still hanging in the air. He doesn't phrase his offer in terms of marriage, but instead alliance, and Sansa Stark sits in what was once their - her - father's seat and listens to him. As he lists all the reasons why she, as Warden of the North, should marry him, heir to Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn and Mother of Dragons, she watches him with no hint of emotion in her face.
When he is done enumerating the reasons she should take him as husband, he kneels, bowing his head. "It is my hope, Lady Stark, that you find these terms agreeable," Jon says stiffly. It is not the most romantic of proposals, and the girl Sansa had been would have wept bitter tears over it, he thinks.
The woman she is now simply asks, "Janos Slynt was sent to the Wall when you were there, yes?"
Surprised, Jon looks up. She sits there, her expression unreadable, but one finger taps the arm of her chair, and he suddenly understands that his answer is important to her.
He rises. "He was."
"I heard that he was executed by your orders."
"He was executed by my hand."
He can see her swallow, see one hand tighten in her skirts, but she doesn't say anything for a very long time. Then, "Very well."
"My lady?" Jon asks, confused. Is she referring to Slynt, or-
"I will marry you, Lord Snow."
Jon is surprised by the rush of relief that floods through him. He had not realized until this very moment how much he wanted her to accept. How much he wanted to come home, no matter what the cost.
"I do have a condition, though," Sansa says, rising from her seat. "I wish to be married here, at Winterfell. In the godswood. And while I understand her Grace may require you in King's Landing, I will never accompany you there. I wish to be allowed to stay in Winterfell for the rest of my days, is that understood?"
Sam has been standing a few feet behind him this entire time, and now he comes close to whisper in Jon's ear. "The queen seemed very insistent on a royal wedding, Jon. Morale, and all of that."
But Jon does not take his eyes off of Sansa. "It is, my lady. And there is nowhere else I'd rather be wed."
He thinks perhaps she feel relieved as well. Her shoulders no longer seem so stiff, and the smile that flickers across her face is closer to the ones he remembers. "In a fortnight, then," she says, and holds her hand out to him.
Jon walks forward and takes it, pressing his lips to the back. It is perfunctory, a seal on an arrangement, but it is the first time his lips have been on a woman's skin in a very long time.
Soon, you will kiss much more than her hand some evil voice whispers inside him, but that is another thought he chooses not to acknowledge.
Still, he wonders if she guessed at his thoughts because her next words are, "Did you have no other options? Besides me, that is."
When he only looks at her in confusion, she clarifies, "I know why Daenerys Targaryen wishes you to wed me, but I also know that you are not a man to do things you find...distasteful just because someone else orders it."
He is tired, and the journey had not been particularly pleasant, and absolutely nothing has gone as he'd expected it to since he first rode through the charred gates of Winterfell. Perhaps that is why he snaps at her.
Or perhaps it's just that she looks so much like Catelyn Stark, and seems to regard him with the same amount of disdain, no matter that he's the last member of their family left to her. Or because she is not Robb, or Arya, or Bran, or Rickon, and there is still enough of the boy within him to resent her for that.
In any case, he can't keep the anger out of his voice when he replies, "Of course I had other options. I am the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince Who Was Promised, risen from the dead to defeat the Others. I chose you as my wife because...,"
And just like that, he doesn't have it in him to be angry anymore. "Because I wanted to come home," he finishes.
A heavy pause hangs over the hall, and he hears Sam clear his throat.
Sansa's face seems a bit paler, but other than that, there is no sign that is words have affected her. "As good a reason as any," she says at last and then, with one last curtsy, she is gone.
***
Few things clear his head better than the ringing of metal, and over the next few days, Jon finds himself in the training yard more often than not. He spars with Sansa's new captain of the guards, the knights that followed her from the Vale, anyone who will join him.
He is fighting with one of the Royces when Sansa strolls by on Sam's arm. He's seen very little of his bride-to-be since coming to Winterfell. They sit together at meals, and he catches glimpses of her throughout the day. But she has left her steward in charge of teaching Jon the inner workings of the castle, and Jon cannot escape the feeling that she is avoiding him.
It's a thought made all the more irksome by the attention she showers on Sam. Watching the two of them walk together, one would think Sam were her long-lost brother returned to her. Or her betrothed. Jon is not sure which rejection stings the most. I should not have spoken so harshly to her, Jon thinks, but it isn't as though she's given him an opportunity to apologize.
And it's no surprise that Sam and Sansa have taken to one another. Sam always favored beautiful things, and there is no doubt that the Lady of Winterfell is that. And Sansa may no longer be quite the same girl he knew, but she always responded to sweetness and flattery, both of which Sam heaps upon her.
He knows the thoughts are uncharitable, but he can't seem to stop them from coming, and perhaps that is why Royce is able to get around his right side and deliver a quick thrust that slices the inside of Jon's forearm.
The moment blood appears, young Royce drops his sword and stammers, "M-my lord, forgive me, I-,"
Jon waves him off. "My own fault."
He leaves Royce still offering apologies and makes his way to his chamber to dress the wound. As he does, he berates himself for his foolishness. So much for killing the boy. There are few things more idiotic than letting down your guard over a woman, but that is exactly what he did. And she is not a woman, she is your sister. Or she was.
Opening his chamber door, Jon fights the urge to slam it behind him. Damn you, she is not your sister, she is your betrothed. She will be your wife .
Ghost nudges his thigh, and Jon drops his uninjured hand to pet the direwolf. "Who knew coming home would be this complicated, eh, boy?" he mutters.
He's just walked over to his bed and begun rolling up his sleeve when the door opens behind him. He turns, expecting to see Sam, but it's Sansa.
"Sit," she commands, nodding at his bed.
"Are you speaking to me or to Ghost?"
That earns him a glare he hasn't seen in years. He'd actually begun to wonder if the Lady of Winterfell were incapable of anything besides cool disdain where he was concerned. And so he sits, gingerly perched on the edge of the bed as she comes to stand before him.
In one hand, she carries a bowl filled with several cloths. In the other, she hold a curved needle and a spool of thread. She sets the bowl on the table nearest the bed, taking out the cloths and filling it with water from his ewer. That done, she wets some of the fabric and hands it to him. "I trust you can clean the wound yourself."
He does so, sucking in a breath between his teeth at the sting, while she heats the needle over a flame.
She stands before him again, nearly between his knees. This close, he can catch the scent of herbs clinging to her hair, her clothes. He had not realized until this moment how much she smelled like home.
"Put your arm out," she says, her tone brisk and brooking no arguments. When he does, she takes his wrist, her fingers cool, and sets his hand firmly on her hip. He raises his eyes to her, and she quirks an eyebrow. "You men all like to pretend that you're impervious to pain, but as soon as the needle goes in, you'll shake like a leaf. Holding onto something keeps the arm steady, and it's usually easiest to hold onto the person doing the stitching."
"You have a lot of experience stitching up men, then?" he asks, grateful for the pain that lances through him as the needle begins its work. The pain distracts him from how warm she is, how well she curves into his palm.
"I have," she says softly, and her actions bear that out. Her stitches burn like the seven hells, but they are neat and even and her hand doesn't tremble.
"You used to hate blood."
Sansa makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren't so sad. "I used to think I hated a great many things," she says, turning her attention back to his stitches. "But once you've learned what it really means to hate, I suppose things like blood or spiders or a ruined dress don't mean as much anymore."
His hand tightens on her hip, but he doesn't speak.
Shaking her head, Sansa continues. "In any case, getting out of the Vale meant getting over an aversion to blood, and I'm grateful for it. Otherwise I would have had to let Ser Merrick close this wound for you, and he makes dreadfully ugly stitches. And I think you have more than your share of scars, Lord Snow."
"I think perhaps you have your share as well, Lady Stark," he replies, and their eyes meet.
Kill the boy, let the man be born Maester Aemon had told him. He wonders now how many times Sansa has looked in the mirror and told herself to kill the girl.
She finishes his stitches, then wraps another cloth around her work. He may have imagined it, but he thinks her fingers linger on his arm for just a moment once the bandage is in place.
Gathering her things, she turns to leave, but before she can, Jon catches her hand.
"I'd like you to show me around the castle tomorrow."
She give a little frown. "Surely Willam," she begins, but he doesn't allow her to finish.
"Your steward has been most helpful, but I'd like to see Winterfell through your eyes."
Put that way, he knows he's given her no way to refuse, and so she agrees. "Very well. Although I fear there is not much to show."
"I'll be grateful for whatever assistance you can give, Lady Stark."
Her mouth quirks into something very like a smile. "We are to be married in a few days, Jon. Perhaps you should start calling me Sansa."
"Sansa," he repeats with a little bow. He pauses, trying to decide if his next words will make things better or worse between them. In the end, he risks it and says, "That's a pretty name."
It is worth it. She turns to the door, but before she does, he catches a glimpse of her smile.
***
True to her word, she takes him around Winterfell the next day. Also true to her word, there is not much to see, and while coming across ruined towers and piles of charred wood and stone sends a steady pulse of grief through his chest, he is still glad for this time with her.
Eventually, they make their way to the godswood. Neither of them mention the event that will take place there in just a few days, but he knows she is thinking of it. They sit underneath the heart tree, studying the black water of the pool in silence for a long while. Finally, Sansa asks, "Why is it you still call yourself Snow? The queen legitimized you, as did Robb before he died. You had a right to both the Targaryen and the Stark names, yet you took neither."
Jon studies her in the late afternoon light. "Why do you not call yourself Lannister? Tyrion is dead, but you were still his wife. You've a right to that name."
She makes a small sound of derision. "As if I would want it. Tyrion was not... he was not cruel to me. And he was never truly my husband, of course."
That surprises him. "Your marriage was unconsummated?"
Nodding, Sansa picks an something on her cloak. "He had his own sense of honour, twisted though it may have been. In any case, while I'll take the gold owed me as his widow, I didn't want the name. I had been Sansa Lannister, and Alayne Stone, and...," she sighs, leaning back against the tree trunk. "I simply wanted to be Sansa Stark again. Besides, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
She swivels her head to look at him. Strands of auburn hair have sprung loose from her bun, and she suddenly seems very young. "You didn't answer my question, Lord Snow."
Now it is his turn to sigh. "Neither of those names felt like mine. I had wanted to be a Stark for so long, but...to call myself one felt as though I were trying to take what was rightfully yours. And Rhaegar Targaryen may have been my father in blood, but I had no use for his name. Jon Snow was the name I was given at birth and, in the end, it was the name I wanted to keep."
She nods again. "I understand."
She does, he realizes. For a moment, the tension between them eases, and he no longer feels like an interloper here.
And then a thought suddenly occurs to Jon. "Does it bother you? That you'll be Lady Snow?" Getting to remain Lady Stark or becoming Lady Targaryen surely would've been more palatable to her than taking a bastard's name yet again, no matter if that bastard had been titled.
But a rueful smile quirks her lips. "To be honest, I had not thought on it. But no, it doesn't bother me. I'd rather be Lady Snow than Lady Lannister again. Or Lady Umber, or Lady Tyrell, or wife to any of the other men who've tried to lay claim to me since I laid claim to Winterfell."
Without thinking, he reaches out and takes her hand. "I- Sansa, I know this is not what you may have wanted-,"
Shaking her head, she squeezes his fingers. "What any of us want ceased to matter a long time ago, Jon."
She stands up, her hand slipping from his, and whatever it was that had passed between them is gone.
***
Four days later, he stands with her in the godswood again, draping the white and crimson cloak of his newly-created house over her shoulders and making her his wife. The wedding is a small affair, witnessed only by the denizens of Winterfell, Sam, and the knights Sansa brought from the Vale.
At the end of the ceremony, he presses a kiss to her cheek rather than her lips. Sansa may take it for chivalry, he thinks, but in truth, he does not want to kiss her lips for the first time in front of a crowd, no matter how small.
There's a feast of course, and toasts to their health, and even dancing. As the music starts up, Sansa leans over to him and murmurs, "Did you and I dance together once?"
Jon thinks back until he remembers the feast she's thinking of. "We did," he admits. "I believe I stepped on all of your toes save three. You were most vexed."
He'd meant to make her laugh, or at least smile, but instead, her expression grows troubled. "I was never very kind to you, was I?"
Shaking his head, Jon takes her hand. "We were children. It's of no matter."
"Perhaps I shall make a better wife than sister," she says, and before he can find an answer to that, Sir Merrick has offered his arm and led her to the dancers.
The rest of the evening passes with aching slowness. Jon watches her dance with Ser Merrick, with the Royce lad, with Sam, and cannot help but think of what comes later. His body feels taut as a bowstring, and his mind whirls with thoughts. He and Sansa have found a sort of peace with each other, caught in a strange kind of limbo. They are no longer brother and sister, but despite the words in the godswood, nor are they nor husband and wife. Not yet. They are, Jon thinks, friends.
If he were to take his marital rights tonight, that will change things. Even Tyrion Lannister managed to keep his hands off of her when she was his wife. Can he not do the same?
He is still brooding on this when Sam comes to sit next to him. "Jon Snow," he says with a fond smile. "The only man I know who would scowl during his own wedding feast."
Despite his black mood, Jon smiles back. "I'm sure many a man has scowled during his wedding feast, Sam."
"Aye," Sam agrees amiably. "But not if they had a bride as fair as yours."
Jon scans the floor for Sansa's bright hair, but doesn't see her. "She's already gone up," Sam says. "I expect you should join her shortly."
Jon nods and takes another sip - a gulp, really - of wine. As he rises, Sam catches his arm. "She cares for you," he tells Jon. "And in marrying her, you've kept her safe and secured her place here. You've done the right thing, Jon."
Briefly, Jon covers Sam's hand with his own. How like Sam, to get to the heart of what was troubling him. "Thank you, my friend," he replies, wishing he could believe in himself as much as Sam does.
Sansa is already lying in the bed when Jon comes in. They had broken with tradition in not letting the revelers carry them up to their chamber, but Jon is glad for it and he thinks their guests are as well. This is a strange union for everyone, and Jon suspects he and his bride are not the only ones who found this night awkward.
His bride.
The thought makes Jon's mouth dry as he steals a sideways glance at Sansa. She is lovely. She was always lovely, of course, but the years have sharpened her beauty so that Jon has the absurd thought she will cut his hands when he touches her.
If he touches her.
There is a screen set up in the corner, but Jon leaves his clothes on.
"We do not have to do this," he tells her as he sits on the edge of the bed.
She sighs, and for a moment, she's that haughty girl again, exasperated with him stepping on her toes at a feast. "Don't be foolish, Jon. Of course we do."
"We do not," he insists, even though he knows she's right. "We're not... breeding animals."
"No, we are not," she agrees, sitting up a little higher in the bed. As she does, her gown gets caught under her leg, pulling the fabric so that it falls off her shoulder. A jolt of lust suddenly runs through him, and Jon looks away, fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs.
"But neither are we a hedge knight and a crofter's daughter," Sansa continues, and Jon thinks he can feel the weight of that blue gaze on his neck. "You're heir to the Iron Throne now, my Lord Snow. And I am the last Stark. Our children will one day rule Westeros. We do not have the luxury of being delicate about these things."
She gives a light laugh that doesn't contain the slightest shred of humor. "And it's not as though I'm a maid, after all." Something nudges his hip, and he looks down to see it's her foot under the coverlet. "Are you?"
She's teasing him, but he hears the genuine curiosity in her question, and when he finally lifts his gaze to her, there's a hint of pink in her cheeks. He meets her eyes and gives a very serious nod. "I am."
He can tell that, vows of the Night's Watch aside, she had not expected that, and she blinks several times. "I-I see," she stammers, and he can no longer keep a straight face.
When he finally breaks and chuckles, Sansa's eyes narrow, and this time, the foot against his hip is less a nudge, more a kick.
It is another one of those rare moments, like the afternoon in the godswood where it's as if they are actually themselves, not simply their titles. Not two people playing the roles destiny has decided for them.
His voice is softer when he says, "If you need...more time to get accustomed to me, I would understand."
There is a whisper of cloth as she gets out of the bed, and Jon's heart lurches, thinking she means to leave.
Instead, she walks around the bed to stand in front of him. The firelight renders her gown nearly transparent, and despite his stubborn words, his body thrums with want for her. The hand she lays against his cheek is warm and smells of herbs. He fights the urge to turn his face into it, to kiss the skin of her wrist.
"Jon, you have been part of my life since the day I was born. How could I need any more time to grow accustomed to you? I have always been accustomed to you."
He reaches up, curls his fingers around her wrist. "I meant to grow accustomed to me as your husband," he says, his voice low. "I would not want to...I've no desire to bed an unwilling woman."
Leaning down, she whispers, "And who says I am unwilling?"
With that, she leans down and presses her lips to his.
Jon tells himself to go slow. Not to appear to be as hungry for her as he is, lest his desire frighten or, worse, repulse her. And while it's true she doesn't seem unwilling, he can feel her pulse hammering under his fingers.
She claims not to be a maiden, and he has no reason to doubt that, but there is still something tentative in her kiss. Her lips are soft, pliant, but they remain closed, and when she pulls back, he wants nothing more than to grab her, roll her beneath him, show her what a kiss can be.
Instead, he lets her lead the way, moving only to help her divest him of his tunic. Her fingers falter at the laces of his breeches, and he stills her hands with a murmured, "Later."
Pushing back the coverlet, Jon slides into the bed and she follows. He rolls to his side, and hesitantly takes her in his arms, where she lifts her lips to his again. This kiss is no more passionate than the first, no matter how good she feels nestled against him, and Jon wonders if she is counting them off in her head. If there is a prescribed amount of kisses she feels she must give a man before he's ready to bed her.
When she pulls away the second time, it's to tug her gown over her head. In the dim glow of the firelight, her skin is cream and pink, and the sight of her stops his breath. But then she slides back under the sheets, tugging them up so that she's covered to the shoulders.
Jon tries to hide his disappointment. It's better this way. He's told himself half a hundred times that this marriage is a matter of state, not the heart. If they can get this over with quickly, maybe the fragile peace they've managed to find won't shatter.
This time, he kisses her, careful to keep his hands on top of the bedclothes. Still, there's no mistaking the curve of her hip underneath his palm, and as she shifts closer, her breasts brush against his chest. On instinct, Jon's hand tightens on her hip, pulling her closer to him.
Underneath him, she makes a little sound, and Jon immediately pulls back. But it's not fear or disgust in her eyes. It's surprise. And perhaps...
They lie frozen, gazes locked on one another. He thinks her breathing is coming a bit faster. He knows his is. He had been so careful not to appear to want her too much. It never occurred to him that she might have been doing the same.
This time when Jon lowers his mouth to hers, he nudges her lips open, kissing her properly. Thoroughly. And when her tongue touches his, he doesn't hold back the low growl that builds in his chest. He can feel her fingers digging into his shoulders, but she's pulling him closer, not pushing him away, arching into him when palms the warm silk of her thigh.
"Jon," Sansa breathes when they finally part. Her eyes are dark, lips swollen and pink.
"Are you alright?" he asks her, breathless himself. "Is this alright?"
She reaches up and touches his face again. This time, he does turn and kiss her wrist. "This is how it's meant to feel, isn't it?" she asks him, and the sudden tightness in his chest threatens to break his heart.
She is harder, there can be no doubt. And stronger, and shrewder, and so much more resilient than he ever would have thought. But there are still traces of the girl she once was, and surely this is one of them.
"Yes," he tells her simply, and then they are kissing again, and he is tearing at the sheet, and when her fingers again reach for his laces, this time, they are sure and deft.
Jon kisses her lips, her throat, the strong line of her collarbone. He dips his head to taste her breasts and the soft slope of her stomach, then lower still. As her fingers tangle in his hair and her legs move restlessly against the sheets, Jon wants to make her burn for him, hot enough to sear away ever unwanted touch, every unwelcomed caress. He never wants her to remember that there is another way for this to feel.
He does not stop when she cries out and stiffens against him, only lifting his head when the fingers in his hair finally go slack and he hears her murmur, "Enough, enough."
She is slick and hot and ready when he slides into her, and the broken little sigh she makes in his ear nearly undoes him.
When he finds his release, he does it murmuring her name over and over again, as she holds him far tighter than he would've thought her slim arms capable.
Later, as they lie back in the sheets, sweaty and sated, Sansa traces a pattern on his chest and murmurs, "That was..."
"Improper?" Jon offers. "Unseemly?"
The finger that had been circling his navel pokes his ribs. "Unexpected."
He smiles against her hair. Unexpected, indeed.
She shifts closer to him and whispers, "I'm glad you chose me. I thought I wasn't. I thought you only wanted Winterfell, and I was angry that you were..."
She trails off, and Jon kisses the top of her head. "You were angry that I was the one the gods spared."
Stacking her hands on his chest, Sansa rests her chin on them and looks at him. "Is that horrible?"
Jon shakes his head. "Honest."
"I haven't been honest in a very long time," she says softly, more to herself than to him, and Jon has no answer but to pull her face to his and kiss her until neither of them have any words, honest or no.
***
Sansa is gone before Jon wakes, back to her own chambers to dress, he supposes, and he doesn't see her again until he's out at the East Gate with Sam, supervising some of the builders.
When he does catch sight of her, she's moving toward the Great Keep with her steward. Watching her, she is every inch the cool and correct Lady of Winterfell, and it is hard to believe she is the same woman who writhed beneath his mouth just the night before.
She sees him then, and while she does not pause or stop listening to Willam, her cheeks go red, and Jon sees a tiny smile tug at the corner of her lips.
Suddenly, the night seems a very long way off.
***
In the following weeks, they fall into a sort of pattern. Both are busy during the day, tending to the various needs of Winterfell and its denizens. They eat meals together, call each other Lord and Lady Snow, and give every impression of a polite, if distant, couple.
But at night, behind the closed doors of his chamber, the masks come off, and they are anything but distant. Jon has kissed every inch of her, told her the story behind every one of his scars, and held her as she softly recounted what had happened to her since she left Winterfell. He has known Sansa her entire life, lived with her for years, but it is only in their bed that Jon feels he finally comes to truly know her.
***
Nearly a month after their wedding, they sit by the fire in her solar. Sansa is knitting and behind her, two of her maids sit on a low couch, doing the same.
Jon is meant to be looking over some of the household accounts, a task Sansa was grateful to surrender to him. Instead, he is mulling over a message that came that morning, wondering how to broach the subject with his wife.
As Jon sneaks glances at her, glowing in the firelight, it occurs to him that perhaps this is the real thing the men of the Night's Watch give up. Not the physical act of love, but the companionship. The steady satisfaction that comes from sitting across from a woman, lying with her at night, feeling the soft weight of her hand on his arm.
"You're brooding," Sansa observes without looking up.
"I'm thinking," he counters, and the corners of her lips lift in a small smile.
"There is not much difference between the two for you, I think."
Jon snorts and closes the book on his lap. For a long while, he just watches her, enjoying the soft click of her needles, the deftness of her fingers, and the coppery shine of her hair as it spills over one shoulder. "You're very good at that," he says, and there's that tiny smile again.
"And here I thought your opinion on needlework was as dim as Arya's."
"No one's opinion on needlework was as dim as Arya's," he replies, and at last, she looks up, a real smile on her face now. He realizes that he had only thought she looked beautiful before.
"Do you remember the time she accidentally stitched her gown to one of the handkerchiefs she was meant to be embroidering?" Sansa asks, and suddenly, he does remember. How Arya had wrenched the cursed thing free of her gown with a curse that had blistered all of their ears, and how he and Robb had laughed and laughed at Lady Catelyn's horrified cry of, "Arya!"
They hadn't laughed as hard when Lord Stark had taken the strap to the pair of them since Arya had overheard that particular epithet from her brothers in the training yard.
But looking into Sansa's eyes now, he laughs again, and for the first time, the memory of Arya - of Robb, of all of them - doesn't seem to tear something open inside of him. The pain is there; he suspects it always will be, and he sees it mirrored in Sansa's gaze now, but there is joy, too.
They laugh together, he and his wife, for a long while. When the laughter subsides, their gazes hold, and John thinks the color in her cheeks is from more than the fire's warmth.
She returns to her knitting at last, and he once again opens the ledger, but the numbers swim before him. His mind is too full of thoughts for figures. He wants to tell her that his memories had felt poisoned to him once. That to think on Arya or Bran or Robb, even the happy times, was also to remember that they were lost to him forever.
How she has healed him in ways he never thought were possible.
Instead, he keeps his eyes on the ledger and says in a low voice, "Dismiss your ladies."
Sansa does not look up either as she does just that. The girls gather up their sewing, and Jon thinks he hears a few giggles as they leave the solar, the door closing softly behind them.
Neither he nor Sansa speak, and the only sounds in the room are the crackle of the fire and her needles, still moving even as her fingers seem to tremble a bit.
"Well, Lord Snow," she says at last, setting her knitting down in her lap. "You have me all to yourself. What exactly do you propose to do with me?"
Getting out of his chair, Jon goes to kneel at her feet, his hands sliding up under her skirts. "If it's all the same, Lady Snow, I'd prefer to show you."
Show her he does, although it turns out, she has some things to show him as well. They end up half in and half out of their clothes, panting on the floor by the fire. Jon lays his head on her chest, closing his eyes as she strokes his hair. When speech feels like something he is finally capable of again, he says, "A raven came today."
"I know," she replies, still a tad breathless.
Lifting his head, Jon stares at her flushed face. "Do you know the message it brought?"
She tugs a little at his hair. "Of course I do. I'm the lady of this house, after all. Nothing happens here without my knowing about it."
Jon kisses the silky skin over her heart. "I do not wish to go."
"And yet you must," she replies. "No man can ignore a royal summons. And you have other responsibilities in King's Landing."
Her hands resume their gentle stroking of his hair, and Jon is already memorizing how she feels beneath him, the sweet scent of her. He will be nearly a month on the road to King's Landing, and then gods know how long Daenerys will keep him there.
"You... you will not come with me." It is not a question.
Kill the boy he thinks again, but he now knows it's the man that wants nothing more than to have her with him. The man that has grown to love her.
"I will not," she confirms softly. "But I will be here when you return home."
Home is not Winterfell now. Home is Sansa. And he thinks of the sweet, pliable girl she was. That girl could be persuaded into accompanying him, he has no doubt. But when he looks up into her eyes, full of love as they are, he knows it is the woman who looks back at him.
And so he kisses her and whispers, "That will be enough."