As it Should Be; (Jon/Sansa, T)
Title: As it Should Be
Fandom: Game of Thrones/ASOIAF
Characters/Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: T
Word Count: ~560
Summary: "It's as simple as the clasp of a red and black cloak tied gently at her throat by the man she once called her brother--now calls her cousin and, as of mere moments ago, her lord husband..."
Author’s Note: written for jal80's Holiday Fic Request "the whole world has gone mad, why should they be any different?"
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It's as simple as a few words before the great weeping tree, tear drops as red as blood painted down the length of its bark, as the clasp of a red and black cloak tied gently at her throat by the man she once called her brother (half brother, she can still remember the soft correction), now calls her cousin and--as of mere moments ago--her lord husband.
The kindness in his eyes as he watches her throughout the ceremony keeps her sane, keeps her from wondering whether or not there's truth to any of this (to anything at all, really).
Winning her hadn't been difficult, not when he looked so much like the father they once shared, when he watched her with the reverence that would have left the young girl she was at ten and three light headed with pleasure. Not when his eyes pleaded for her understanding because the queen needed him to secure the North, you see, and what better way to do so than to wed her only nephew to the last Stark?
It left a bitter taste in her mouth, had the bile rising to her throat that, even after all that had transpired, she was still no better than a key to taming the snowy planes that would not yield.
It left her though, that bitterness, when he stroked the fine contours of her cheek with the tips of his calloused fingers dragging along the smooth skin and leaving her wanting--yearning even--for more. When he kissed her lips, soft and chaste, before that very tree--the eyes of the old Gods and Winterfell, of propriety, denying them anything more.
It's only when the large, oak door is shut, leaving the two of them alone in the vastness of his chambers, that even her desires (the red suits him as much as the black, she thinks) and his kindness cannot stifle the feeling that something--everything--is wrong.
"Jon..."
The word sounds like a plea, breathy almost, and she's suddenly unsure of what she means to trigger by it.
It doesn't fail to have him furrowing his brows in concern, the stricken guilt haunting his features the way it so often seems to (she hates that she can't remember if he always looked this way, always guilty--if he always treaded on the tips of his toes).
"Don't be frightened," he tells her, and she notes that he does not try to breach the short distance between them. "You know I would never hurt you--ever."
She knows, knows that he would never hurt anyone if given the luxury of choice (and even if not). She knows this because it is what she knew before she went South, it was all any of them knew, and she doesn't doubt that, despite whatever the years may have thrust upon him, it's all a man like Jon could know.
This is what she'd always wanted, a handsome husband (a knight) who would treat her the way the songs she now knew to be nothing but foolishness swore lords treated their sweet ladies.
"I'm not frightened," she assures him, means it, before she crosses the distance between them to take his rough hands into her own.
Nothing is as it should be, and no one is as they first seem--those lessons she will not soon forget.
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Fandom: Game of Thrones/ASOIAF
Characters/Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: T
Word Count: ~560
Summary: "It's as simple as the clasp of a red and black cloak tied gently at her throat by the man she once called her brother--now calls her cousin and, as of mere moments ago, her lord husband..."
Author’s Note: written for jal80's Holiday Fic Request "the whole world has gone mad, why should they be any different?"
+
It's as simple as a few words before the great weeping tree, tear drops as red as blood painted down the length of its bark, as the clasp of a red and black cloak tied gently at her throat by the man she once called her brother (half brother, she can still remember the soft correction), now calls her cousin and--as of mere moments ago--her lord husband.
The kindness in his eyes as he watches her throughout the ceremony keeps her sane, keeps her from wondering whether or not there's truth to any of this (to anything at all, really).
Winning her hadn't been difficult, not when he looked so much like the father they once shared, when he watched her with the reverence that would have left the young girl she was at ten and three light headed with pleasure. Not when his eyes pleaded for her understanding because the queen needed him to secure the North, you see, and what better way to do so than to wed her only nephew to the last Stark?
It left a bitter taste in her mouth, had the bile rising to her throat that, even after all that had transpired, she was still no better than a key to taming the snowy planes that would not yield.
It left her though, that bitterness, when he stroked the fine contours of her cheek with the tips of his calloused fingers dragging along the smooth skin and leaving her wanting--yearning even--for more. When he kissed her lips, soft and chaste, before that very tree--the eyes of the old Gods and Winterfell, of propriety, denying them anything more.
It's only when the large, oak door is shut, leaving the two of them alone in the vastness of his chambers, that even her desires (the red suits him as much as the black, she thinks) and his kindness cannot stifle the feeling that something--everything--is wrong.
"Jon..."
The word sounds like a plea, breathy almost, and she's suddenly unsure of what she means to trigger by it.
It doesn't fail to have him furrowing his brows in concern, the stricken guilt haunting his features the way it so often seems to (she hates that she can't remember if he always looked this way, always guilty--if he always treaded on the tips of his toes).
"Don't be frightened," he tells her, and she notes that he does not try to breach the short distance between them. "You know I would never hurt you--ever."
She knows, knows that he would never hurt anyone if given the luxury of choice (and even if not). She knows this because it is what she knew before she went South, it was all any of them knew, and she doesn't doubt that, despite whatever the years may have thrust upon him, it's all a man like Jon could know.
This is what she'd always wanted, a handsome husband (a knight) who would treat her the way the songs she now knew to be nothing but foolishness swore lords treated their sweet ladies.
"I'm not frightened," she assures him, means it, before she crosses the distance between them to take his rough hands into her own.
Nothing is as it should be, and no one is as they first seem--those lessons she will not soon forget.
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