Claim Your Own; (Jon/Val, M)
Title: Claim Your Own
Fandom: Game of Thrones/ASoIaF
Characters/Pairings: Jon/Val
Rating: M
Words: ~3.000
Warnings: Spoilers through ADWD
Written for: the got_exchange prompt "Jon/Val. The Long Night approaches, and the Wall is preparing for the battle. I'd like a last night on earth kind of thing in which she finally convinces him to break his vows after past attempts..." by glass_queen
+
The chill that hangs in the air, chattering teeth and sinking into bones, leaves nothing in the way of doubt. There's a sea of black and grey below her, each figure as identical as the next (if not for the varying shades of cloaks and furs) from where she stands.
The nearer it draws, the more resentful she becomes of these stone walls and weighty skirts, and the Southerners that chain her to them.
"You're safer here," Lord Snow tells her, whether to ease her agitation or his own conscience, she cannot say for certain. She reckons it's likely a combination of the two.
"If you think that wall of ice is going to keep any of us safe for long, then you know nothing, Jon Snow," she bites back, bitterness and anger both sharp at the edge of her tongue.
She does not miss the way his jaw clenches, or the way his eyes flicker for the briefest of moments before he turns away from her.
Nor does she miss that he leaves the heavy oaken door of her prison slightly ajar in his wake.
+
It's the desire to see if only the boundary of her home that has her standing at Jon Snow's door that first time. She's certain there are few of this false king's men who would have dared venture beyond the wall before--she knows that there are none who will do so now.
His face gives little away at the sight of her, but he nods to the guard at her heels and stands aside so that she may pass the threshold into his chambers with no preamble.
She can feel him watching her as she makes her way before the hearth, and it causes a strange prickle down the back of her neck. He's wary of her, she knows, and she supposes he has every right to be all things considered.
"I'd like to venture beyond the wall--not too far," she adds quickly when she sees him open his mouth in way of protest.
Just enough for one last glimpse, she doesn't say. Something tells her she doesn't need to--not to this man who lived as one of their own, who took a wildling woman to wife and sought their alliance where others would have left them to their fate.
"It's far too dangerous at this point, my lady. For any of us."
There's a weariness about him that tugs at that place behind her ribs, that makes her wonder whether or not she's in the right to ask this of him now when he's already chained by more obligations than she'd care to count. But the knowledge of what's to come is nearly enough to stifle that particular qualm.
"We'll not venture far, the wall will be at our backs should we need to quickly retreat," she presses, inching closer to him all the while.
She can sense his desire to draw back from her, but to his credit he stands his ground, simply watches her with eyes ringed in the darkness of fatigue.
"When?" He relents with a sigh, and she can all but help the smile that tugs at the edge of her lips.
"The sooner the better I'd reckon, my lord."
"It'll have to be on the morrow then."
She nods her assent, drawing closer still until she stands close enough that she'd barely need to extend the full length of her arms to touch him. She leans in to press a light kiss against his rough cheek (just as she did before, when their breath mingled in the cold mist of the air and the flecks of snow).
But, when she moves to press a kiss against his lips he turns away from her, drawing back (just as he did before).
"I took a vow," he whispers, whether to her or himself, she cannot say for certain.
"Aye, and you've broken it half a hundred times from what I've heard," she teased, through the jest only seemed to draw him further from her.
"That was...different."
There was a melancholy about him now, a sadness in his eyes that accompanies her reminder of Ygritte. Not for the first time, she wonders if there had been love between them, something that transcended the pulsing desire wrought about by the pleasures of the flesh. If she'd let herself, Val could almost see why the girl may have loved him--she could certainly see why Ygritte had wanted him.
"I assure you Lord Snow, it's very much the same."
She leaves him at that, ignoring the sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach at the thought of meeting yet another night with nothing but her dreams and the darkness of her thoughts to share her bed.
+
The days grow darker, and she's certain it's only a matter of time before one would be hard put in differentiating them from the nights (it's all she can do to suppress a shudder at the inevitable thought).
True to her word, Val keeps as close to the wall as can be, with Jon Snow and his wolf at her heels. He watches her in that strange way of his, and though he does not leer at her the way many of his crows and his false king's men do, there are times when she finds his scrutiny unsettling for reasons she cannot quite place.
"We should go back," he tells her, and though she can't fault the wisdom in his caution, she'd not quite ready to comply.
"In time, Lord Snow."
He sighs heavily, but does not press her any further. Ghost, paying his master as little heed as Val, nudges at her side until she sinks her slender fingers into the fur at his head and scrapes lightly.
She wonders then what this land, veiled in white and vast in all its offerings, will look like after--when darkness and death will mark the very air they breathe.
"Your words will matter little soon enough, lord Snow," she turns to him, not at all surprised to find that he'd been watching her the entire time.
"They'll matter to me until I'm dead, my lady."
"Aye, and we'll all be just that before long."
"Perhaps," he concedes, a slight tilt to his head.
"You'll live the last of your days with a cold bed and a stiff cock then?"
He's taken aback by her crudeness, just as she knew he'd be, though he doesn't say as much. It brings a smile to her lips that such matters could still rivet him so, considering all she'd come to know from Ygritte.
"I dream of you, you know," she hears herself saying--though she's not entirely certain it's something she truly would have liked to disclose. No matter now...
"That's enough," he says, the steadiness of his words belying his discomfort.
She's close enough so that the mist of her expelled breath nearly caresses his lips now.
"Tormund says you stole me," she whispers.
"I didn't steal you."
"Aye, but you did--when you and the men you commanded took me and the babe from that tent at knifepoint, you as good as stole me."
And with that she presses her lips against his own, giving him no room to pull away in the suddenness of the gesture.
His reluctance is a palpable thing, evident in the hands that gently seek to push her away and the lips that do not relent. But Val's need is just as potent, the endless night's with nothing but the howling wind and the darkness of her chamber and her thoughts to keep her company spurring her on.
She can so clearly mark the point where he breaks, the moment when his hands tightly clasp her arms, drawing her closer in lieu of pushing her away--when his lips just as hungrily seek out her own.
Ygritte taught you well, she thinks, just before the heady rush of his tongue sliding against her own nearly robs her of the ability to do any such thing.
She can feel the physical manifestation of his arousal even beneath the weight of their furs where she's pressed against him, and she smiles against his lips, her hands seeking to press against him before they're torn apart by a howl.
Jon wastes no time with words, simply takes her by the hand and turns to nearly run with Ghost at their heels.
She resents the panic and the fear at grips her heart, the insistent thumping that does not cease until the gates stand between them and what she'd once called home.
+
He avoids her for days after, busying himself with ensuring that their rations are sufficient, devising battle plans with his men, the false kings, and the wildlings (and attempting to maintain with little peace he can manage between the three mismatched groups all the while).
Ghost is far less inclined to leave her side, and in a strange way she cannot help but feel that he's doing what his master would like, but can't quite bring himself, to do. She waits for Jon to comment on the absence of his wolf, to jest that she's out to steal the beast from under his nose as he did once before, but she waits in vain.
She remembers soon enough that she's never been one to wait, that she's stolen one man (though the thought of Jarl is one she's still like to keep at bay) and she can just as well steal another if she must.
He does not seem surprised to see her when she corners him as he leaves his chambers to break his fast one morning, though she can rather easily sense his tension.
"I would have a word with you, my lord."
"As you wish, my lady," he nods to the guard at her back and leads her into his chambers.
He does not bar the door, and she takes it as a sure sign that he plans on exchanging no more than words.
"You've been avoiding me at every turn, Jon Snow," she chides. "Mayhaps you fear that I'll make good on what you refused with a dagger to your throat before your men?"
"No, not at all, it's simply been..." he gestures with is hand in a move to explain that he need not say more.
And truly he needn't--not when she can see the fatigue that's so clearly become a staple on his features even in the dimness of the sparse candlelight.
Her hand reaches for him almost of its own accord, cupping his cheek and brushing her thumb lightly along the scars under his eye.
There's a tenderness to the gesture that surprises even her, though there's little room for anything but pleasure when he leans into her touch, eyes fluttering shut despite himself (she's certain).
"We can't," he whispers, a near plea.
"What a man can do once, he can do twice and thrice, Jon Snow."
She does not wait for a response before her lips are pressed against his own once more, before her hand is carding through the thickness of his hair and she's moaning into his mouth.
There's an urgency in the way he responds to this kiss that wasn't quite there with the last, a desperation to the way his hands clutch at the fabric of her gown (she's almost surprised it doesn't turn to dust between his fingers) and dig into the skin of her hip.
She wastes no time in running her hand along the hard length of him through his breeches, and her efforts are rewarded with a groan.
"Val..."
It doesn't quite escape her that this is the first time he's called her anything other than "my lady," and she hopes it's the first of many lines he'll be crossing.
She feels that familiar ache between her legs, that incessant throbbing that's accompanied thoughts of him many a lonely night, and the anticipation is enough to make her breath hitch.
He draws her closer, her hand trapped between them and his lips leaving a trail of kisses along the hollow of her throat that are making her head spin.
A loud clatter draws them away from one another just as she's tugging at the laces of his breeches.
Jon looks past her at his squire, every inch of the boy's skin flushed and what she deduces was meant to be his Lord Commander's breakfast at his feet.
"F-Forgive me, my lord," the boy nearly stammers, though something tells her it's more so a product of shock than it is fear. "When I didn't see you in the hall I assumed--I didn't know you had..."
"It's quite alright, Satin" he assures, though his voice is slightly hoarse.
The boy hastily takes his leave with a promise to return with the supplies required for clearing away the mess.
"Come to my chambers tonight," she tells him as soon as the boy's out of sight.
"Val--"
"What we do this night or the next will matter little days from now Jon Snow, you know that we well as I," she cuts into what she's certain would have been another tedious protest. "It would be a crime for us to deny ourselves what little pleasure we can find."
Even so, she's certain she'll need to acquire a dagger before nightfall.
+
He wakes that night with the edge of a dagger she managed to pluck off an inept guard at his throat. She sees the alarm on his face abate when he registers that it's Val that sits astride him, though quickly replaced by confusion.
"What're you doing?" He whispers hoarsely.
"I'm stealing you," she smiles, and leans forward (careful to keep the dagger's edge from digging into the skin at his throat) for a kiss.
He stiffens at first, reluctant to respond, but then she rolls her hips atop his own and is rewarded with a groan.
It's as if a wall has shattered, the remnants in their entirety fallen in one fell swoop to the ground. She lets the dagger slide, the way he clutches her arms and crushes her against him evidence enough for how little she requires it at this point.
She runs her palms along the planes of his chest, and the taught muscles beneath the skin, easily traceable even beneath the cloth of his tunic, elicit an appreciative moan from her.
"How wasted you are on those vows, Jon Snow," she gasps when they pull apart for air, and he laughs for what she's sure is the first time in a long time.
The sound of it renders a tightness in her chest that isn't entirely unfamiliar, and she kisses him again to quell it. No use in that now.
She leans back, watches him as he watches her unlace her gown, eyes darkening when she reveals her breasts and trails the tips of her fingers lightly across their pink peaks.
"Gods, Val..."
He's pulling her forward before she knows it, mouth latching onto one breast and then the next so that they stiffen and ache for more.
She grows puzzled when he moves her farther up, and nearly draws back when he manoeuvres her so that she's nearly straddling his face.
What are you about, Jon Snow?
She finds out soon enough when he opens his mouth against her center, sucking gently, ruthlessly and drawing a long, helpless moan from her lips.
How she's gotten on this long without the things his mouth is doing to her right now is beyond anything she'll even understand. She wants to tease him, to pry into whether or not he'd done this with Ygritte--but she can do nothing but keen when his tongue lashes against that bud that drives her mad with pleasure.
She's boneless after, and she's thankful for his hands that gently clasp her thighs and slide her down to straddle his chest.
It takes only the sight of his lips coated with the evidence of her release to reignite the ache at the pit of her belly--to have her pulling at the ties of his breeches.
He's heavy in her hands, and there's little doubt that, despite his words and his initial protests, he wants this just as much as she does. Nonetheless, he stills her when she would take him inside her, hands gripping her hips tight and yielding.
"Wait--"
"For what?" She arches a brow, and though the words are meant to tease him, there's a strain to them she can scarcely hide.
He says nothing, and she nearly screams in exasperation.
"We could all be dead on the morrow. And if not then, perhaps the next. There's nothing left to fear Jon Snow."
His grip slackens and she does not hesitate to finish what she started, groaning loudly when she takes him inside her, filling her and soothing the emptiness.
There's nothing gentle about it, she rocks against him and he matches her relentless pace before he finally flips them over so that he lays atop her, thrusting into her again and again and again.
"Gods Val, I can't--" he gasps, and she coaxes him through it as he spills inside her and nearly collapses against her.
He surprises her yet again when his fingers draw circles against that sensitive bud some time later, driving her to a second release so that she shudders and lies enervated and sated against him.
His hand trails along the flesh of her belly, and she can't quite bring herself to tell him that there's little sense in fearing that he's gotten her with child. it won't live to see its first name day, Jon Snow...
She pushes the thought aside, intent on ensuring that the darkness of her thoughts does not permeate the warmth in her bed. Not tonight.
There will be time enough for nothing but the dark and the cold after all.
+
Fandom: Game of Thrones/ASoIaF
Characters/Pairings: Jon/Val
Rating: M
Words: ~3.000
Warnings: Spoilers through ADWD
Written for: the got_exchange prompt "Jon/Val. The Long Night approaches, and the Wall is preparing for the battle. I'd like a last night on earth kind of thing in which she finally convinces him to break his vows after past attempts..." by glass_queen
+
The chill that hangs in the air, chattering teeth and sinking into bones, leaves nothing in the way of doubt. There's a sea of black and grey below her, each figure as identical as the next (if not for the varying shades of cloaks and furs) from where she stands.
The nearer it draws, the more resentful she becomes of these stone walls and weighty skirts, and the Southerners that chain her to them.
"You're safer here," Lord Snow tells her, whether to ease her agitation or his own conscience, she cannot say for certain. She reckons it's likely a combination of the two.
"If you think that wall of ice is going to keep any of us safe for long, then you know nothing, Jon Snow," she bites back, bitterness and anger both sharp at the edge of her tongue.
She does not miss the way his jaw clenches, or the way his eyes flicker for the briefest of moments before he turns away from her.
Nor does she miss that he leaves the heavy oaken door of her prison slightly ajar in his wake.
+
It's the desire to see if only the boundary of her home that has her standing at Jon Snow's door that first time. She's certain there are few of this false king's men who would have dared venture beyond the wall before--she knows that there are none who will do so now.
His face gives little away at the sight of her, but he nods to the guard at her heels and stands aside so that she may pass the threshold into his chambers with no preamble.
She can feel him watching her as she makes her way before the hearth, and it causes a strange prickle down the back of her neck. He's wary of her, she knows, and she supposes he has every right to be all things considered.
"I'd like to venture beyond the wall--not too far," she adds quickly when she sees him open his mouth in way of protest.
Just enough for one last glimpse, she doesn't say. Something tells her she doesn't need to--not to this man who lived as one of their own, who took a wildling woman to wife and sought their alliance where others would have left them to their fate.
"It's far too dangerous at this point, my lady. For any of us."
There's a weariness about him that tugs at that place behind her ribs, that makes her wonder whether or not she's in the right to ask this of him now when he's already chained by more obligations than she'd care to count. But the knowledge of what's to come is nearly enough to stifle that particular qualm.
"We'll not venture far, the wall will be at our backs should we need to quickly retreat," she presses, inching closer to him all the while.
She can sense his desire to draw back from her, but to his credit he stands his ground, simply watches her with eyes ringed in the darkness of fatigue.
"When?" He relents with a sigh, and she can all but help the smile that tugs at the edge of her lips.
"The sooner the better I'd reckon, my lord."
"It'll have to be on the morrow then."
She nods her assent, drawing closer still until she stands close enough that she'd barely need to extend the full length of her arms to touch him. She leans in to press a light kiss against his rough cheek (just as she did before, when their breath mingled in the cold mist of the air and the flecks of snow).
But, when she moves to press a kiss against his lips he turns away from her, drawing back (just as he did before).
"I took a vow," he whispers, whether to her or himself, she cannot say for certain.
"Aye, and you've broken it half a hundred times from what I've heard," she teased, through the jest only seemed to draw him further from her.
"That was...different."
There was a melancholy about him now, a sadness in his eyes that accompanies her reminder of Ygritte. Not for the first time, she wonders if there had been love between them, something that transcended the pulsing desire wrought about by the pleasures of the flesh. If she'd let herself, Val could almost see why the girl may have loved him--she could certainly see why Ygritte had wanted him.
"I assure you Lord Snow, it's very much the same."
She leaves him at that, ignoring the sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach at the thought of meeting yet another night with nothing but her dreams and the darkness of her thoughts to share her bed.
+
The days grow darker, and she's certain it's only a matter of time before one would be hard put in differentiating them from the nights (it's all she can do to suppress a shudder at the inevitable thought).
True to her word, Val keeps as close to the wall as can be, with Jon Snow and his wolf at her heels. He watches her in that strange way of his, and though he does not leer at her the way many of his crows and his false king's men do, there are times when she finds his scrutiny unsettling for reasons she cannot quite place.
"We should go back," he tells her, and though she can't fault the wisdom in his caution, she'd not quite ready to comply.
"In time, Lord Snow."
He sighs heavily, but does not press her any further. Ghost, paying his master as little heed as Val, nudges at her side until she sinks her slender fingers into the fur at his head and scrapes lightly.
She wonders then what this land, veiled in white and vast in all its offerings, will look like after--when darkness and death will mark the very air they breathe.
"Your words will matter little soon enough, lord Snow," she turns to him, not at all surprised to find that he'd been watching her the entire time.
"They'll matter to me until I'm dead, my lady."
"Aye, and we'll all be just that before long."
"Perhaps," he concedes, a slight tilt to his head.
"You'll live the last of your days with a cold bed and a stiff cock then?"
He's taken aback by her crudeness, just as she knew he'd be, though he doesn't say as much. It brings a smile to her lips that such matters could still rivet him so, considering all she'd come to know from Ygritte.
"I dream of you, you know," she hears herself saying--though she's not entirely certain it's something she truly would have liked to disclose. No matter now...
"That's enough," he says, the steadiness of his words belying his discomfort.
She's close enough so that the mist of her expelled breath nearly caresses his lips now.
"Tormund says you stole me," she whispers.
"I didn't steal you."
"Aye, but you did--when you and the men you commanded took me and the babe from that tent at knifepoint, you as good as stole me."
And with that she presses her lips against his own, giving him no room to pull away in the suddenness of the gesture.
His reluctance is a palpable thing, evident in the hands that gently seek to push her away and the lips that do not relent. But Val's need is just as potent, the endless night's with nothing but the howling wind and the darkness of her chamber and her thoughts to keep her company spurring her on.
She can so clearly mark the point where he breaks, the moment when his hands tightly clasp her arms, drawing her closer in lieu of pushing her away--when his lips just as hungrily seek out her own.
Ygritte taught you well, she thinks, just before the heady rush of his tongue sliding against her own nearly robs her of the ability to do any such thing.
She can feel the physical manifestation of his arousal even beneath the weight of their furs where she's pressed against him, and she smiles against his lips, her hands seeking to press against him before they're torn apart by a howl.
Jon wastes no time with words, simply takes her by the hand and turns to nearly run with Ghost at their heels.
She resents the panic and the fear at grips her heart, the insistent thumping that does not cease until the gates stand between them and what she'd once called home.
+
He avoids her for days after, busying himself with ensuring that their rations are sufficient, devising battle plans with his men, the false kings, and the wildlings (and attempting to maintain with little peace he can manage between the three mismatched groups all the while).
Ghost is far less inclined to leave her side, and in a strange way she cannot help but feel that he's doing what his master would like, but can't quite bring himself, to do. She waits for Jon to comment on the absence of his wolf, to jest that she's out to steal the beast from under his nose as he did once before, but she waits in vain.
She remembers soon enough that she's never been one to wait, that she's stolen one man (though the thought of Jarl is one she's still like to keep at bay) and she can just as well steal another if she must.
He does not seem surprised to see her when she corners him as he leaves his chambers to break his fast one morning, though she can rather easily sense his tension.
"I would have a word with you, my lord."
"As you wish, my lady," he nods to the guard at her back and leads her into his chambers.
He does not bar the door, and she takes it as a sure sign that he plans on exchanging no more than words.
"You've been avoiding me at every turn, Jon Snow," she chides. "Mayhaps you fear that I'll make good on what you refused with a dagger to your throat before your men?"
"No, not at all, it's simply been..." he gestures with is hand in a move to explain that he need not say more.
And truly he needn't--not when she can see the fatigue that's so clearly become a staple on his features even in the dimness of the sparse candlelight.
Her hand reaches for him almost of its own accord, cupping his cheek and brushing her thumb lightly along the scars under his eye.
There's a tenderness to the gesture that surprises even her, though there's little room for anything but pleasure when he leans into her touch, eyes fluttering shut despite himself (she's certain).
"We can't," he whispers, a near plea.
"What a man can do once, he can do twice and thrice, Jon Snow."
She does not wait for a response before her lips are pressed against his own once more, before her hand is carding through the thickness of his hair and she's moaning into his mouth.
There's an urgency in the way he responds to this kiss that wasn't quite there with the last, a desperation to the way his hands clutch at the fabric of her gown (she's almost surprised it doesn't turn to dust between his fingers) and dig into the skin of her hip.
She wastes no time in running her hand along the hard length of him through his breeches, and her efforts are rewarded with a groan.
"Val..."
It doesn't quite escape her that this is the first time he's called her anything other than "my lady," and she hopes it's the first of many lines he'll be crossing.
She feels that familiar ache between her legs, that incessant throbbing that's accompanied thoughts of him many a lonely night, and the anticipation is enough to make her breath hitch.
He draws her closer, her hand trapped between them and his lips leaving a trail of kisses along the hollow of her throat that are making her head spin.
A loud clatter draws them away from one another just as she's tugging at the laces of his breeches.
Jon looks past her at his squire, every inch of the boy's skin flushed and what she deduces was meant to be his Lord Commander's breakfast at his feet.
"F-Forgive me, my lord," the boy nearly stammers, though something tells her it's more so a product of shock than it is fear. "When I didn't see you in the hall I assumed--I didn't know you had..."
"It's quite alright, Satin" he assures, though his voice is slightly hoarse.
The boy hastily takes his leave with a promise to return with the supplies required for clearing away the mess.
"Come to my chambers tonight," she tells him as soon as the boy's out of sight.
"Val--"
"What we do this night or the next will matter little days from now Jon Snow, you know that we well as I," she cuts into what she's certain would have been another tedious protest. "It would be a crime for us to deny ourselves what little pleasure we can find."
Even so, she's certain she'll need to acquire a dagger before nightfall.
+
He wakes that night with the edge of a dagger she managed to pluck off an inept guard at his throat. She sees the alarm on his face abate when he registers that it's Val that sits astride him, though quickly replaced by confusion.
"What're you doing?" He whispers hoarsely.
"I'm stealing you," she smiles, and leans forward (careful to keep the dagger's edge from digging into the skin at his throat) for a kiss.
He stiffens at first, reluctant to respond, but then she rolls her hips atop his own and is rewarded with a groan.
It's as if a wall has shattered, the remnants in their entirety fallen in one fell swoop to the ground. She lets the dagger slide, the way he clutches her arms and crushes her against him evidence enough for how little she requires it at this point.
She runs her palms along the planes of his chest, and the taught muscles beneath the skin, easily traceable even beneath the cloth of his tunic, elicit an appreciative moan from her.
"How wasted you are on those vows, Jon Snow," she gasps when they pull apart for air, and he laughs for what she's sure is the first time in a long time.
The sound of it renders a tightness in her chest that isn't entirely unfamiliar, and she kisses him again to quell it. No use in that now.
She leans back, watches him as he watches her unlace her gown, eyes darkening when she reveals her breasts and trails the tips of her fingers lightly across their pink peaks.
"Gods, Val..."
He's pulling her forward before she knows it, mouth latching onto one breast and then the next so that they stiffen and ache for more.
She grows puzzled when he moves her farther up, and nearly draws back when he manoeuvres her so that she's nearly straddling his face.
What are you about, Jon Snow?
She finds out soon enough when he opens his mouth against her center, sucking gently, ruthlessly and drawing a long, helpless moan from her lips.
How she's gotten on this long without the things his mouth is doing to her right now is beyond anything she'll even understand. She wants to tease him, to pry into whether or not he'd done this with Ygritte--but she can do nothing but keen when his tongue lashes against that bud that drives her mad with pleasure.
She's boneless after, and she's thankful for his hands that gently clasp her thighs and slide her down to straddle his chest.
It takes only the sight of his lips coated with the evidence of her release to reignite the ache at the pit of her belly--to have her pulling at the ties of his breeches.
He's heavy in her hands, and there's little doubt that, despite his words and his initial protests, he wants this just as much as she does. Nonetheless, he stills her when she would take him inside her, hands gripping her hips tight and yielding.
"Wait--"
"For what?" She arches a brow, and though the words are meant to tease him, there's a strain to them she can scarcely hide.
He says nothing, and she nearly screams in exasperation.
"We could all be dead on the morrow. And if not then, perhaps the next. There's nothing left to fear Jon Snow."
His grip slackens and she does not hesitate to finish what she started, groaning loudly when she takes him inside her, filling her and soothing the emptiness.
There's nothing gentle about it, she rocks against him and he matches her relentless pace before he finally flips them over so that he lays atop her, thrusting into her again and again and again.
"Gods Val, I can't--" he gasps, and she coaxes him through it as he spills inside her and nearly collapses against her.
He surprises her yet again when his fingers draw circles against that sensitive bud some time later, driving her to a second release so that she shudders and lies enervated and sated against him.
His hand trails along the flesh of her belly, and she can't quite bring herself to tell him that there's little sense in fearing that he's gotten her with child. it won't live to see its first name day, Jon Snow...
She pushes the thought aside, intent on ensuring that the darkness of her thoughts does not permeate the warmth in her bed. Not tonight.
There will be time enough for nothing but the dark and the cold after all.
+