half blade, half silk
Chapter 1: Jon I
Sansa beamed up at him, with a smile that had his heart clenching. “A direwolf, truly?” She looked down at the two little pups in Jon’s hands with joy. “I thought they were only found beyond the Wall.”
“Direwolves haven’t been seen south of the Wall for two hundred years,” Jon agreed, as she took the one meant for her from his arms. “But we found these ones on our way back to Winterfell. Their mother had been felled by a stag, but the pups were still alive.”
Sansa reached out and ran her long, slim fingers through one of the pups’ coats, laughing gently when it mewed and reached for her. “How many?”
“One for each of the Stark children,” Jon told her.
Sansa frowned at him, looking so sad that he wanted nothing better than to reach for her and pull her into his arms.
“What about you?” She demanded, with a look of stubbornness that could easily be found on her twin-but-older brother, Robb.
Jon gestured to the small, white heap in the crook of his other elbow. “This one’s mine.”
The pup, in question, looked at her with clear red eyes, and leaned into her touch when she scratched behind its ears, making her giggle. It was clear this pup of his had as much preference for Sansa as he, himself, did.
“Have you named yours yet?” Sansa asked, looking up at him with curious, cornflower-blue eyes.
“Ghost,” Jon shrugged.
Sansa’s lips twitched. “Why Ghost?”
“His colour… he’s white as a ghost. And he hasn’t made a sound since I found him,” Jon explained. “And yours?” He gestured for the pup slumbering peacefully in her arms (he couldn’t begrudge the pup, knowing what her embrace felt like himself). “Have you any ideas?”
Sansa looked down and rocked the pup slightly. “Lady, I think.”
“Of course,” Jon teased.
Sansa flushed. “She’s very sweet, isn’t she? It suits her.”
“That she is,” Jon agreed. “She gave me no trouble at all when I picked her up.”
“Not like me, then?” Sansa said, playfully, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
“Not like you at all.”
That night, there was an impatient knock on his door. It had him scrambling for a tunic, shrugging it on, before he opened the door, roughly, already knowing who would be on the other side. It didn’t take long before his arms were full of his pretty half-sister, kissing him for all that he was worth, her fingers threading through his dark-brown hair.
“Sansa,” Jon groaned, finding the curve to her hips that had only just began to widen.
She pulled away with a smile, mouth redder than her hair. “Thank you for Lady.” She said, sweetly.
It made Jon chuckle. “I didn’t make her for you.” He tugged on the end of her braid.
She fluttered her eyelashes. “Yes, but you brought her to me. You could have let Robb do it, or Bran. But you came.”
Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted to see the look on your face.”
Sansa’s smile broadened. She didn’t reply to him, but she didn’t need to. She slipped her hands underneath his tunic, pressing against his muscled abdomen from years of training in the yards (she had watched him often under the guise of watching Robb, lest her mother catch her and scold her; watching him usually left a strange warmth in her belly that left her aching for the imprint of his hands on her skin). She pulled him close, leaning up on her toes so that he could feel the lines of her curves against his own body.
“Sansa,” Jon began, roughly.
“What, Jon?” Sansa asked, guilelessly.
“Are you sure?” He wondered, quietly.
He always asked her that – in case she ever changed her mind.
It hadn’t been easy for him, when Sansa had pulled him down and kissed him a year ago in the Godswood. He had struggled with his own feelings for so long, and to be faced with her reciprocation, it had left him reeling. He had avoided her for almost a fortnight, unable to reconcile the shame of loving his sister as a woman with the sweetness of her mouth on his. But a fortnight later, Sansa had cornered him in the stables and begged his forgiveness if she had offended him with her actions, and he couldn’t bear to see the tears in her eyes and the way her she held herself away from him, as if she feared he’d hurt her (as if he ever could; he’d sooner cut off his own arm), and he had been helpless against her, taking her into his arms and moving his mouth against her until she was arching into him shamelessly.
Every now and then, he remembered the sin of wanting to bed his own sister (half-sister, his mind eagerly reminded him, as if that were better) and it left him sickened, wondering if this was the work of his bastard blood that Lady Catelyn had always worried about. And he knew that their tryst (it felt so wrong to refer to what they felt for each other as so sordid) wouldn’t last, in any case. One day, and he imagined soon (considering the way that eyes followed Sansa nowadays), his father would give her hand away to some Southern idiot who would take one look at Sansa’s pretty face and wolf blood and would either want it for himself or trample her down until there was nothing left but empty beauty (and his Sansa was so much more than just her comeliness).
But for now, Sansa was his. She didn’t even think of another boy in the same breath as him, he knew that. And anyone who sneered down at him for being a bastard was immediately put out of her mind (save her mother, but he would never begrudge her a mother, not when he ached for one himself) – she loved him so dearly. And when she left him, and she would leave him (who could look at Sansa and not see that she was meant for more than just Winterfell?), he would join the Night’s Watch. There was great honour in being a Black Brother and he would be comforted with the thought of her and that would be enough.
It had to be enough.
“Jon,” Sansa said, gently. “You’re straying from me.”
He looked down at her, fearing the day that she would be no longer his to touch (even in private), and kissed her fiercely, hauling her up against his body and pulling her to the bed.
He hadn’t wanted to lay with her, not at the beginning. He hadn’t wished to take her maidenhead (bastard born didn’t deserve highborn girls’ maidenheads), and he hadn’t wanted to take the risk of putting a bastard in her (not just any bastard, but a bastard born of incest); she had argued, of course, citing that most highborn girls lost their maidenhead to a horse more than they ever would to a man, and she had found moon tea somewhere (he hadn’t cared to ask where she had gotten it from, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the tavern wench Theon was always tupping may have been behind it – but how she gotten it without revealing that she was Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of the Lord of Winterfell, remained a mystery that plagued him). He hadn’t been able to resist beyond that (he was honourable, but he was still a man), and they had quickly tumbled back onto the bed together.
It had been awkward and messy and painful (for her, at least), the first time for the both of them, but no rhythm was established until his mouth found its way between her legs and he was licking into her. She had clutched at his hair with remarkable strength and buried her head into his pillow, so as to muffle her sounds of pleasure, but he had continued, not stopping until he felt her cunt pound against his mouth and her thighs turn wet with her slick. It had made him groan, the first time, at the taste of her; she hadn’t tasted like lemon cakes, as he had expected, but something tart and fierce – it had been sweeter than lemon cakes.
The next morning, she looked straight through him as if he didn’t matter to her at all, as if she hadn’t spent the night before on her back with her bastard half-brother between her legs, moaning his name like some Wintertown brothel girl (but he doubted that any of those girls sounded half as sweet as Sansa when she was aching for him). Oh, in front of everyone else, she pretended as if her bastard half-brother was just that, a half-brother that she was fond of (her attachment to Robb, and therefore Jon, as a child, had crippled Lady Catelyn’s aspirations for a child that preferred her to Jon Snow), no more fond than she was of Robb, Bran or baby Rickon, perhaps less so, as he was her bastard half-brother and not her true full-blooded sibling, but could not and would not be significant; almost as if he were a mere annoyance in her life, taking up unwanted space in her otherwise perfect trueborn family, but only he knew the truth of her – of how she was greedy for him in a way that spoke nothing of the lady she claimed to be, or of the sister she was meant to be. It became their secret, one which was guarded so close to their hearts, that they would have to pry open their rib cages to find the truth.
He was reminded of that first night of theirs, now, as his warm hands spanned the width of her pale, smooth things, sliding up underneath the thin shift of her nightgown, pressing her down onto the bed. He mouthed at her open throat as he settled between her open thighs. Her smallclothes were damp against his tunic and he could see that brush of red curls (kissed by fire, as he had heard Old Nan refer to Sansa’s colouring once) between her thighs through the opaque fabric. He dragged them down her pale, smooth legs, knowing that he couldn’t simply tear them as much as he would like to (she would need them to walk back to her room later and she would be ever so cross with him if she were forced to leave without them).
Sansa never said a word, but she reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down to press their mouths together. She tasted like the lemon cakes they had at supper and she moaned, as the length of him jutted against that place between her thighs.
“Now, Jon,” She panted. “I feel as though I’ve been waiting forever.”
Jon chuckled. “What about yesterday in the Godswood?”
Sansa scowled. “Those were just kisses. You haven’t been inside me in a moon’s turn.”
“As you wish,” Jon murmured against her neck.
He fisted his cock and pressed it where she was wet and open for him. She parted for him like a ripe peach, her jaw clenching as she welcomed him inside her. Within moments, he was inside her to the hilt, the muscles in his back taut with the effort of not simply rutting away inside her like the green boy that he was, where she was warm and tight. He let her adjust to him for a moment, before leaning down and brushing away a lock of her crimson hair that had strayed from her braid, away from her soft-with-youth face.
“Move,” She urged him, patting him on his smooth shoulder.
A groan left Jon’s mouth and he began to move inside her, emboldened by her small cries of pleasure, which she kept as quiet as possible, lest someone learn that Jon had a girl in his room (there would be questions he didn’t quite care to answer if someone found out, and Lady Catelyn disliked him enough without him turning her home into a brothel). Their lovemaking was gentle, but brutal all the same. Sansa liked to dig her nails into him, as if she feared she’d lose him if she slackened her hold on him somewhat. She always held him close to her, as if willing he’d open up her chest and crawl into her heart so that she would never forget him and what they had shared, even when she was some other man’s wife and in some other man’s bed and bearing his children. He too was eager for a similar mark, dreading days at the Wall where he’d only have his memory of her to keep him company.
His rutting was short but deliberate, and he brought her to the edge quickly; he usually liked to take his time with her, especially when his mouth was on her, but today he found himself impatient and eager for that sweet time once they were finished, when she curled into him, pliant and lissom as a kitten, limbs boneless and eager for sleep and his embrace. She would never stay too long, in case the time came where she could no longer return to her rooms before the servants began to rise and begin their work. She clenched around his cock quick enough though, a low keen breaking from her throat, her skin flushed right down to the curve of her breasts through her thin nightshift, pink as her nipples. Her peak had him coming as well, spilling deep inside her with a rough groan.
He pulled out, gritting his teeth against the draw of her flesh, and found himself a washcloth, calmly sluicing the seed and slick from her thighs until she was clean and dry. He laid his head down on the pillow beside her and slipped his arm under her neck, allowing her to nestle against his side, fisting her hand in his tunic as her nose jutted into his collarbone. One hand rested on the curve of her hip, while the other loosened her hair from the braid and let it spill across his chest in a wave of red.
“Mother told me that the King rides for Winterfell,” Sansa said, shifting in his arms so that she could look at him.
Jon frowned. “The King? Why would he come here?”
Sansa bit her lip. “The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, he’s dead.” She paused. “Mother believes the King intends to ask Father to be his Hand.”
“Father won’t want to leave Winterfell,” Jon said, adamantly.
He wondered if it were more sinful, in bed with his sister after lying with her as man and wife and speaking of their shared father.
“He may, if the King asks,” Sansa said, pointedly.
Something akin to dread curdled in Jon’s stomach at that. If Father went south, there would no longer be a place for him in Winterfell. Lady Catelyn would never allow him to stay, even if Sansa and Robb were to argue on his behalf (and Arya, he couldn’t forget about his she-wolf little sister, his own not-by-birth twin, as Stark-born as Robb and Sansa were Tully-born), which meant his departure to the Wall and to the Night’s Watch (away from Sansa, he thought, miserably) was more imminent that he realised.
“You’re sulking again,” Sansa said, annoyed, drawing his attention back to her as she often did (Arya had him beyond that door, but in here, he was all hers). “What are you thinking about?”
He looked down at her, warm and sweet and wanting him and only him, and he dreaded telling her of the Wall; she’d never accept it, him joining the Night’s Watch, him leaving her (which would be the greatest sin to her). She had spoken to him of joining her when she married, as her sworn-shield – a girl’s dream, but it could not be.
Lady Catelyn would never allow it.
“Nothing to worry about just yet,” Jon consoled her, gently, smoothing back her hair. “You should sleep some; it’ll be time for you to leave soon.”
With one arm slung across his chest, she let his petting soothe her to a restful slumber, unaware of Jon’s heart caught in his throat.