Fic: Come Raise Your Flag Upon Me (Jon/Sansa, R)
Title: Come Raise Your Flag Upon Me
Fandom: ASoIaF
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: Softish R
Disclaimer: So very not mine.
Notes: Written for the Kink Meme (obviously since apparently my new purpose in life is filling a bunch of Jon/Sansa prompts!) Prompt: "Possessive Sansa, basically. Sugestion: she didn't like the way the other ladies were looking at her lord husband in the training yard, he notices it, and later, he'll show her that no woman will ever be lovelier to his eyes or, she wants to remind herself that Jon is hers. Or both. ;)" ; Turned out less porny than planned, but ah well! Is a sequel of sorts to " And If You Want Me, I'm Your Country."
"Must he always be in the training yard?" Sansa asked irritably. For once again, there was her husband, surrounded by two- no, three- of her men, swinging a sword in the late afternoon sun. Jon had barely been home a fortnight, and yet it seemed he'd spent every day since his return in that damned yard.
All four men in the yard had stripped themselves of tunics and jerkins, but Sansa could not help but notice that the vast majority of female eyes were on Jon alone. There was the milkmaid, practically gaping, as was the master of the horse's wife. And Sansa would certainly have to have a talk with Willam's daughter, Maryse, about the rudeness of staring.
And then next to her, Mya heaved a sigh. "Gods, I hope so."
Sansa glared, but the bastard girl from the Vale only laughed. "Seven hells, Sansa, it's not as if you don't know he's handsome. So let the rest of us gawp. We're not the ones sharing his bed at night. Or," Mya added, a wicked smile dimpling her cheeks, "some afternoons, if the servants' gossip is anything to go by."
Sansa's cheeks flamed red, both in embarrassment at having been caught, and at the memory of that afternoon several months ago, before Jon had left for King's Landing. They hadn't even made it to their bed, simply leaning against the closed door, undoing necessary laces and pushing fabric out of the way. Really, Sansa should've felt horrified, but all she had felt was exhilarated and daring and loved...
To Mya, she simply said, "Don't be impudent."
Mya was not easily cowed. "And don't play Lady of Winterfell with me. You do know you're meant to desire your own husband, don't you?"
Across the yard, Jon laughed and Sansa imagined she could hear a veritable chorus of sighs go up. He was quite striking, she had to admit. The sun was doing particularly lovely things to his hair, and his whole face transformed when he smiled. And then of course there was the way muscle moved under skin as he wielded his sword, the quiet yet obvious strength of him.
Sansa heard a giggle, and looked up to see two of her ladies leaning out one of the casements, whispering behind their hands. She frowned. "It is not my desire for him that troubles me," she murmured, almost to herself, as she began to walk back towards the keep.
Mya followed her, laughing. "In all the time I've been here, the only woman that man ever looks at is you, Lady Snow. And from those looks, I'm surprised your hair is not constantly aflame. Or your smallclothes."
Sansa whirled around. "Mya!" She had meant to sound outraged, but it was nearly impossible to be truly angry at Mya. Especially when her blue eyes were flashing with so much mirth. So Sansa settled for merely pointing an imperious finger at her friend, and saying, "Enough."
Mya swatted at the finger, but grinned.
Jon and his men appeared to be finished in the training yard. Jon was scrubbing the sweat from his face with his tunic, and as Sansa watched, one of the serving girls, Ilya, rushed over to bring him a cup of wine. The girl blushed and stammered, and when Jon smiled down at her, something dark unfurled in Sansa's chest.
She quickened her steps toward the keep, but her path took her right past the yard. She was near enough to hear someone call, "Another round, milord?"
"Not today," Jon replied. "I should go bathe lest my lady wife refuse me a seat at her table this evening."
The men chuckled and Sansa glanced over. Her gaze met Jon's, and from the heat she saw there, she knew he was thinking of another bath, not long after they'd been married (water sloshed all over the floor of her chamber, the two of them clutching each other's slippery bodies and laughing like wayward children, the lemony smell of soap in his hair...)
But then she remembered his smile to Ilya, thought of how every woman in all of Winterfell (her house, damn them, and her husband as well) seemed incapable of keeping their eyes off his bare chest.
Remembered that his visit to King's Landing and Daenerys Targaryen had meant to be no longer than a month, and yet had been nearly been thrice that long in the end.
So rather than hold his gaze and give him a little nod of assent, one meant for only him to see, she turned her back and walked away.
She did not speak much during dinner, but then Mya filled up most of the silence. Sansa had been so happy when the girl had arrived from the Vale, but listening to Jon laugh at her bawdy stories and incredibly accurate impressions of some of Winterfell's denizens, Sansa felt wave after wave of annoyance crash over her. It seemed Jon had laughed and smiled with Mya from the moment she'd arrived. And just yesterday, hadn't they spent nearly an hour in the stables together, talking about some new horses that had arrived? She had only just gotten him back. Was she to share him with the entire country?
Sansa ate little, and finally pushed her chair away from the table in the middle of yet another one of Mya's jokes.
Both Jon and Mya looked at her in surprise, and Sansa raised her chin. "I find I'm overly tired this evening. I believe I'll go up."
Jon made to stand. "I'll go with you."
But Sansa merely shook her head. "There's no need, Lord Snow. Please, finish your dinner, both of you."
Frowning, her husband sat back down and although Sansa could not be sure, she thought Mya may have rolled her eyes.
Needlework usually brought Sansa peace, but that night, as she sat by the fire in her chamber, all she seemed to do was drop stitches and snarl threads. He could have insisted he accompany her to bed. Or he could have followed shortly thereafter, but Sansa had sat and stitched, and sat and stitched, and still he had not appeared.
As she attempted to undo yet another mistake, she had a sudden memory of the day Jon had returned to Winterfell. She had looked at him across the yard and not seen Jon Snow, the boy she had once called half brother, but just another man, come to claim her and what was hers. Mine, she had thought fiercely. Winterfell is mine, and you will not take it from me.
Strange how now she felt that same fierce- almost primal- possessiveness towards Jon himself. Watching those women watch him, she had wanted not to rush back into the keep, hiding behind her mask as Lady of Winterfell, but to walk into the training yard, dig her fingers into his sweat-slicked skin, kiss him, mark him. Mine. He is mine, and you cannot have him.
And while she could not bring herself to regret not accompanying him to King's Landing, she wished she had had the chance to do the same in front of the queen. Mine, she thought again, chanting it with every stitch.
Her stomach was nearly as knotted as her thread by the time the chamber door finally opened. She kept her eyes on her stitching even when Jon came to stand next to her chair, leaning down to sweep the heavy fall of hair from her shoulder. Only when he pressed his lips to the side of her neck did Sansa's needle falter slightly.
She took a deep breath and moved her head slightly away. "There's wine on the table if you'd like some, my lord husband. Arbor gold. Mya brought it, from the Eyrie's own cellar, she claims, but I don't remember it being that well-stocked. More likely she stole it off a wine merchant for a kiss, but hard as it's been to get any decent vintage here, I shan't question it overmuch."
At her side, Jon had gone very still, and Sansa cursed her babbling tongue. She had become so good at concealing her nerves, but tonight, she felt completely out of sorts.
Jon moved away and Sansa heard him go to the table near her bed. When he returned, he was carrying two glasses of wine. Sansa had no choice but to lay down her sewing to accept the cup, and Jon took the chair opposite hers. In the firelight, his eyes seemed nearly black, and they were watching her with an inscrutable expression.
"You're cross with me," he said at last. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. "Although Gods know, I cannot think of why."
"I am not cross, Lord Snow."
"But you are, Lady Snow," he countered. "You only get this haughty when you're well and truly angry."
Sansa tried to hide her frown behind her wine. He knew her too well, she often thought. After taking a fortifying sip, she set the cup beside her chair and returned to her sewing. "I am not angry," she repeated. "Although I do think it's a bit unseemly for the Lord of Winterfell and heir to the Iron Throne to be swinging a sword unclothed in the yard for all to see."
She didn't look at him, but Sansa heard the soft creak as he leaned back in his chair. "Indeed?"
Holding herself up straighter, Sansa stabbed her needle through the fabric. "Yes, indeed. And seeing as how every time you do it, every female in this household feels the need to stop what she's doing and watch, your exhibition is not only unseemly, but detrimental to the running of this castle."
"And we cannot have that," Jon said. Sansa's head shot up, and he was, as she'd suspected, smiling.
"I see nothing amusing, Lord Snow."
Jon's smile softened, and he put his own cup down. He crossed the small distance between them and laid a hand on either side of her chair, effectively trapping her. "You're jealous."
Sansa gave a delicate snort. "Don't be absurd."
"Mya said that's what was wrong with you, but I thought she was mad."
"Mya?" Sansa snapped. "Is that why you were so long coming to my chambers? Because you were speaking with her?"
His hands tightening on her chair, Jon said, "I waited so long because I thought you didn't want to see me tonight." His eyes searched her face and Sansa wasn't sure if he was amused or aroused or both.
"There is no woman lovelier in my eyes than you," he said at last, and warmth pooled in her lower body. No only from his words- although soft, pretty words were so rare from Jon- but from the nearness of him. He smelled like that lemon soap again, and Sansa had to curl her fingers into the chair's arms to keep from pulling him nearer still.
"Not even Daenerys Targaryen?" she heard herself ask.
Jon leaned back a little, surprise clear on his face. "Is that what this is about? How long I was in King's Landing? Sansa, I do have other responsibilities.."
Shoving him away, Sansa stood and moved past him, picking up her wine as she did so. "I know that. I'm the one who bid you honor those responsibilities." She drained her cup, and immediately felt her cheeks flush. Still, the wine gave her the bravado she needed to turn back and say, "I know I have to share you with her. With all of Westeros. But I will not share you here. Not with my men, or my steward or my ladies. Not with Mya." The words were pouring out now, and she picked up his cup of wine, drinking it as well. "Here, you are not the heir to the Iron throne, or even the Lord of Winterfell. Here you are my husband. You're...you're mine."
Jon regarded her for a long moment. Sansa could feel her pulse thrumming in her chest, her neck. And, when Jon's gaze darkened, other lower places as well.
He crossed the room in two long strides, pulling her up against him so suddenly that she gasped. And then he was kissing her, harder than he usually did. Sansa felt sure her lips would bruise, and yet she could not bring herself to mind, not when his tongue was pushing against hers, his hands clutching her backside.
Jon always touched her so gently, as though she were made of spun glass, and she had loved that about him. It had been strangely arousing to be touched so tenderly by a man known to most as a warrior. But there was nothing gentle or tender in his touch now, and Sansa felt her blood surging in response.
Mine, she thought as they parted, and only when Jon moaned did she realize she'd said it aloud. "Mine," she repeated, nipping at his lower lip.
"Say it again," he murmured, holding her even tighter.
A dark thrill rushed through her and she clutched the front of his tunic, digging into the skin beneath. "Mine." She kissed the soft skin just behind his ear. "Mine."
Groaning, Jon pulled her face back to his. "Yours," he managed to say against her mouth, and then she kissed him again and again, pushing him backwards towards her bed. Perhaps it was the wine making her so bold, or it may have been the look on his face. Desire and awe and love, all shining out of his eyes.
Mya had been right. How foolish to feel threatened by serving girls or milkmaids or even the queen herself. This man was hers, completely.
Still, there was no harm in reminding him of that.
Later, Sansa would remember that night as a kind of sweet blur. There was the roughness of his laces under her fingers, the way he'd choked out her name when her hand and then her mouth had closed around him. His hands, so tight in her hair as he'd tried to roll her beneath him, and her own growl as she'd pushed him to his back, rising above him. The scratches her nails had dug on his chest, and the bruises his mouth left on the slopes of her breasts. The sound of his name falling from her lips when her release crashed over her, and his own wordless cry as he followed her.
Afterwards, she curled against his chest, her finger brushing a vivid pink mark just over his nipple. In her hazy state, it took her a moment to realize that she had made that with her teeth. For the first time, something like shame washed over her. "Oh," she said softly, sitting up a little. "I shouldn't have-,"
But Jon, eyes still closed, only covered her lips with one finger. "Yours," he reminded her.
Still not mollified, Sansa frowned. "Yes, but perhaps I should not have proven it so...strongly."
Chuckling, Jon opened his eyes. "Someone once told me that deeds is truer than words." He stroked her hair with one hand, and for the briefest moment, Sansa could've have sworn there was a sadness in his smile. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and he drew her back down, kissing her softly. "My wolf bride," he murmured against her temple, making her grin.
He would never be completely hers. Parts of Jon Snow would always belong to the realm, to Winterfell, to the Targaryens, to the Wall itself, whether it stood or not. But here, in this room, in her arms, he belonged to her. And in case he ever forgot, Sansa though, testing his collarbone with her teeth, she would make him remember.
Fandom: ASoIaF
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: Softish R
Disclaimer: So very not mine.
Notes: Written for the Kink Meme (obviously since apparently my new purpose in life is filling a bunch of Jon/Sansa prompts!) Prompt: "Possessive Sansa, basically. Sugestion: she didn't like the way the other ladies were looking at her lord husband in the training yard, he notices it, and later, he'll show her that no woman will ever be lovelier to his eyes or, she wants to remind herself that Jon is hers. Or both. ;)" ; Turned out less porny than planned, but ah well! Is a sequel of sorts to " And If You Want Me, I'm Your Country."
"Must he always be in the training yard?" Sansa asked irritably. For once again, there was her husband, surrounded by two- no, three- of her men, swinging a sword in the late afternoon sun. Jon had barely been home a fortnight, and yet it seemed he'd spent every day since his return in that damned yard.
All four men in the yard had stripped themselves of tunics and jerkins, but Sansa could not help but notice that the vast majority of female eyes were on Jon alone. There was the milkmaid, practically gaping, as was the master of the horse's wife. And Sansa would certainly have to have a talk with Willam's daughter, Maryse, about the rudeness of staring.
And then next to her, Mya heaved a sigh. "Gods, I hope so."
Sansa glared, but the bastard girl from the Vale only laughed. "Seven hells, Sansa, it's not as if you don't know he's handsome. So let the rest of us gawp. We're not the ones sharing his bed at night. Or," Mya added, a wicked smile dimpling her cheeks, "some afternoons, if the servants' gossip is anything to go by."
Sansa's cheeks flamed red, both in embarrassment at having been caught, and at the memory of that afternoon several months ago, before Jon had left for King's Landing. They hadn't even made it to their bed, simply leaning against the closed door, undoing necessary laces and pushing fabric out of the way. Really, Sansa should've felt horrified, but all she had felt was exhilarated and daring and loved...
To Mya, she simply said, "Don't be impudent."
Mya was not easily cowed. "And don't play Lady of Winterfell with me. You do know you're meant to desire your own husband, don't you?"
Across the yard, Jon laughed and Sansa imagined she could hear a veritable chorus of sighs go up. He was quite striking, she had to admit. The sun was doing particularly lovely things to his hair, and his whole face transformed when he smiled. And then of course there was the way muscle moved under skin as he wielded his sword, the quiet yet obvious strength of him.
Sansa heard a giggle, and looked up to see two of her ladies leaning out one of the casements, whispering behind their hands. She frowned. "It is not my desire for him that troubles me," she murmured, almost to herself, as she began to walk back towards the keep.
Mya followed her, laughing. "In all the time I've been here, the only woman that man ever looks at is you, Lady Snow. And from those looks, I'm surprised your hair is not constantly aflame. Or your smallclothes."
Sansa whirled around. "Mya!" She had meant to sound outraged, but it was nearly impossible to be truly angry at Mya. Especially when her blue eyes were flashing with so much mirth. So Sansa settled for merely pointing an imperious finger at her friend, and saying, "Enough."
Mya swatted at the finger, but grinned.
Jon and his men appeared to be finished in the training yard. Jon was scrubbing the sweat from his face with his tunic, and as Sansa watched, one of the serving girls, Ilya, rushed over to bring him a cup of wine. The girl blushed and stammered, and when Jon smiled down at her, something dark unfurled in Sansa's chest.
She quickened her steps toward the keep, but her path took her right past the yard. She was near enough to hear someone call, "Another round, milord?"
"Not today," Jon replied. "I should go bathe lest my lady wife refuse me a seat at her table this evening."
The men chuckled and Sansa glanced over. Her gaze met Jon's, and from the heat she saw there, she knew he was thinking of another bath, not long after they'd been married (water sloshed all over the floor of her chamber, the two of them clutching each other's slippery bodies and laughing like wayward children, the lemony smell of soap in his hair...)
But then she remembered his smile to Ilya, thought of how every woman in all of Winterfell (her house, damn them, and her husband as well) seemed incapable of keeping their eyes off his bare chest.
Remembered that his visit to King's Landing and Daenerys Targaryen had meant to be no longer than a month, and yet had been nearly been thrice that long in the end.
So rather than hold his gaze and give him a little nod of assent, one meant for only him to see, she turned her back and walked away.
She did not speak much during dinner, but then Mya filled up most of the silence. Sansa had been so happy when the girl had arrived from the Vale, but listening to Jon laugh at her bawdy stories and incredibly accurate impressions of some of Winterfell's denizens, Sansa felt wave after wave of annoyance crash over her. It seemed Jon had laughed and smiled with Mya from the moment she'd arrived. And just yesterday, hadn't they spent nearly an hour in the stables together, talking about some new horses that had arrived? She had only just gotten him back. Was she to share him with the entire country?
Sansa ate little, and finally pushed her chair away from the table in the middle of yet another one of Mya's jokes.
Both Jon and Mya looked at her in surprise, and Sansa raised her chin. "I find I'm overly tired this evening. I believe I'll go up."
Jon made to stand. "I'll go with you."
But Sansa merely shook her head. "There's no need, Lord Snow. Please, finish your dinner, both of you."
Frowning, her husband sat back down and although Sansa could not be sure, she thought Mya may have rolled her eyes.
Needlework usually brought Sansa peace, but that night, as she sat by the fire in her chamber, all she seemed to do was drop stitches and snarl threads. He could have insisted he accompany her to bed. Or he could have followed shortly thereafter, but Sansa had sat and stitched, and sat and stitched, and still he had not appeared.
As she attempted to undo yet another mistake, she had a sudden memory of the day Jon had returned to Winterfell. She had looked at him across the yard and not seen Jon Snow, the boy she had once called half brother, but just another man, come to claim her and what was hers. Mine, she had thought fiercely. Winterfell is mine, and you will not take it from me.
Strange how now she felt that same fierce- almost primal- possessiveness towards Jon himself. Watching those women watch him, she had wanted not to rush back into the keep, hiding behind her mask as Lady of Winterfell, but to walk into the training yard, dig her fingers into his sweat-slicked skin, kiss him, mark him. Mine. He is mine, and you cannot have him.
And while she could not bring herself to regret not accompanying him to King's Landing, she wished she had had the chance to do the same in front of the queen. Mine, she thought again, chanting it with every stitch.
Her stomach was nearly as knotted as her thread by the time the chamber door finally opened. She kept her eyes on her stitching even when Jon came to stand next to her chair, leaning down to sweep the heavy fall of hair from her shoulder. Only when he pressed his lips to the side of her neck did Sansa's needle falter slightly.
She took a deep breath and moved her head slightly away. "There's wine on the table if you'd like some, my lord husband. Arbor gold. Mya brought it, from the Eyrie's own cellar, she claims, but I don't remember it being that well-stocked. More likely she stole it off a wine merchant for a kiss, but hard as it's been to get any decent vintage here, I shan't question it overmuch."
At her side, Jon had gone very still, and Sansa cursed her babbling tongue. She had become so good at concealing her nerves, but tonight, she felt completely out of sorts.
Jon moved away and Sansa heard him go to the table near her bed. When he returned, he was carrying two glasses of wine. Sansa had no choice but to lay down her sewing to accept the cup, and Jon took the chair opposite hers. In the firelight, his eyes seemed nearly black, and they were watching her with an inscrutable expression.
"You're cross with me," he said at last. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. "Although Gods know, I cannot think of why."
"I am not cross, Lord Snow."
"But you are, Lady Snow," he countered. "You only get this haughty when you're well and truly angry."
Sansa tried to hide her frown behind her wine. He knew her too well, she often thought. After taking a fortifying sip, she set the cup beside her chair and returned to her sewing. "I am not angry," she repeated. "Although I do think it's a bit unseemly for the Lord of Winterfell and heir to the Iron Throne to be swinging a sword unclothed in the yard for all to see."
She didn't look at him, but Sansa heard the soft creak as he leaned back in his chair. "Indeed?"
Holding herself up straighter, Sansa stabbed her needle through the fabric. "Yes, indeed. And seeing as how every time you do it, every female in this household feels the need to stop what she's doing and watch, your exhibition is not only unseemly, but detrimental to the running of this castle."
"And we cannot have that," Jon said. Sansa's head shot up, and he was, as she'd suspected, smiling.
"I see nothing amusing, Lord Snow."
Jon's smile softened, and he put his own cup down. He crossed the small distance between them and laid a hand on either side of her chair, effectively trapping her. "You're jealous."
Sansa gave a delicate snort. "Don't be absurd."
"Mya said that's what was wrong with you, but I thought she was mad."
"Mya?" Sansa snapped. "Is that why you were so long coming to my chambers? Because you were speaking with her?"
His hands tightening on her chair, Jon said, "I waited so long because I thought you didn't want to see me tonight." His eyes searched her face and Sansa wasn't sure if he was amused or aroused or both.
"There is no woman lovelier in my eyes than you," he said at last, and warmth pooled in her lower body. No only from his words- although soft, pretty words were so rare from Jon- but from the nearness of him. He smelled like that lemon soap again, and Sansa had to curl her fingers into the chair's arms to keep from pulling him nearer still.
"Not even Daenerys Targaryen?" she heard herself ask.
Jon leaned back a little, surprise clear on his face. "Is that what this is about? How long I was in King's Landing? Sansa, I do have other responsibilities.."
Shoving him away, Sansa stood and moved past him, picking up her wine as she did so. "I know that. I'm the one who bid you honor those responsibilities." She drained her cup, and immediately felt her cheeks flush. Still, the wine gave her the bravado she needed to turn back and say, "I know I have to share you with her. With all of Westeros. But I will not share you here. Not with my men, or my steward or my ladies. Not with Mya." The words were pouring out now, and she picked up his cup of wine, drinking it as well. "Here, you are not the heir to the Iron throne, or even the Lord of Winterfell. Here you are my husband. You're...you're mine."
Jon regarded her for a long moment. Sansa could feel her pulse thrumming in her chest, her neck. And, when Jon's gaze darkened, other lower places as well.
He crossed the room in two long strides, pulling her up against him so suddenly that she gasped. And then he was kissing her, harder than he usually did. Sansa felt sure her lips would bruise, and yet she could not bring herself to mind, not when his tongue was pushing against hers, his hands clutching her backside.
Jon always touched her so gently, as though she were made of spun glass, and she had loved that about him. It had been strangely arousing to be touched so tenderly by a man known to most as a warrior. But there was nothing gentle or tender in his touch now, and Sansa felt her blood surging in response.
Mine, she thought as they parted, and only when Jon moaned did she realize she'd said it aloud. "Mine," she repeated, nipping at his lower lip.
"Say it again," he murmured, holding her even tighter.
A dark thrill rushed through her and she clutched the front of his tunic, digging into the skin beneath. "Mine." She kissed the soft skin just behind his ear. "Mine."
Groaning, Jon pulled her face back to his. "Yours," he managed to say against her mouth, and then she kissed him again and again, pushing him backwards towards her bed. Perhaps it was the wine making her so bold, or it may have been the look on his face. Desire and awe and love, all shining out of his eyes.
Mya had been right. How foolish to feel threatened by serving girls or milkmaids or even the queen herself. This man was hers, completely.
Still, there was no harm in reminding him of that.
Later, Sansa would remember that night as a kind of sweet blur. There was the roughness of his laces under her fingers, the way he'd choked out her name when her hand and then her mouth had closed around him. His hands, so tight in her hair as he'd tried to roll her beneath him, and her own growl as she'd pushed him to his back, rising above him. The scratches her nails had dug on his chest, and the bruises his mouth left on the slopes of her breasts. The sound of his name falling from her lips when her release crashed over her, and his own wordless cry as he followed her.
Afterwards, she curled against his chest, her finger brushing a vivid pink mark just over his nipple. In her hazy state, it took her a moment to realize that she had made that with her teeth. For the first time, something like shame washed over her. "Oh," she said softly, sitting up a little. "I shouldn't have-,"
But Jon, eyes still closed, only covered her lips with one finger. "Yours," he reminded her.
Still not mollified, Sansa frowned. "Yes, but perhaps I should not have proven it so...strongly."
Chuckling, Jon opened his eyes. "Someone once told me that deeds is truer than words." He stroked her hair with one hand, and for the briefest moment, Sansa could've have sworn there was a sadness in his smile. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and he drew her back down, kissing her softly. "My wolf bride," he murmured against her temple, making her grin.
He would never be completely hers. Parts of Jon Snow would always belong to the realm, to Winterfell, to the Targaryens, to the Wall itself, whether it stood or not. But here, in this room, in her arms, he belonged to her. And in case he ever forgot, Sansa though, testing his collarbone with her teeth, she would make him remember.