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In the Still of the Night
It had been nearly five years since Sansa had run her fingers through Lady's fir. Sometimes, if she concentrated just hard enough she could still feel the same bristly, warm fir of the pale direwolf.
Sansa could remember burying her face in Lady's side, smelling the same lavender Sansa herself wore. Arya had said she was being stupid and that the kennel master could bathe Lady just as he did with all the other wolves after they grew muddy from racing or hunting in the forest. But Sansa had liked to bathe her pet, enjoying the spray of soapy water Lady would splash as her when shaking out her coat or the way the direwolf always let out a soft, low whine when Sansa ran her wet fingers across the top of her head, scratching just between her ears like Sansa knew she liked.
It had been the days when her mother could still run her nimble fingers through Sansa's auburn hair and twist it into the complicated braids only she knew how to do. When Arya and Sansa could still throw their arms around their father and bury their faces in the crook of his neck when they were scared. When Bran could still climb. When Robb still drew breath.
It felt as though these days had come and gone a hundred years ago.
The day Jon had come for her Sansa was sure it was Stranger breaking down her door instead of her brother. She had screamed, throwing down her book and reaching for the knife she had sewn onto the underside of her pillow. Each time she saw it she remembered the feeling of Littlefinger’s mouth pressing his mouth against hers, his tongue uncouth as it forced its way into her mouth.
"Sansa!" the voice had said. The darkness of the room had been so complete that Sansa had been unable to see anything but the outline of a tall figure, shadowed in black.
If the Stranger gave her his kiss she would be able to join her mother and father again. She could see Arya again and embrace her and tell her she was sorry. Yet Sansa found herself struggling backwards, tripping over her abandoned book and brandishing her knife.
"Sansa." the voice repeated. Sweet Robin had had shaking fits for the past two nights and she had not met a proper nights sleep, the fatigue that clawed at her eyes making it all the more difficult to see. "Sister."
The knife dropped to the floor with a clatter, the blade skidding a few feet across the marble towards the open door.
"Jon." Sansa breathed, looking up at him.
At first he had been so unfamiliar to her that she had not recognized him. She had found herself staring at a man in a black jerkin and sigil-less surcoat, whose boots had left tracks of mud on the marble tile and whose face was hauntingly familiar, though as the same time strange, like a song she had heard before but could not remember all the words to.
With dawning realization Sansa had come to recognize the man that was no longer the boy that had left her behind at Winterfell, not elder and more powerful and handsome enough to make her face grow hot.
“Jon.” Sansa repeated, as if trying to convince herself of his true form. Her arms were about his neck in an instant, holding him so tight that she swore she was able to hear the shifting of his bones beneath her grasp.
His voice had deepened. “Sansa.” He whispered. Half of her brain screamed that it was all a lie. Perhaps a dream? She had certainly had it before.
But she knew it was Jon.
She knew his scent, the feel of his body beneath hers. She knew him in the way he breathed in and out and the way his lips quirked slightly to the side as he smiled down at her, his dark eyes more familiar than any and all other things.
Jon told her they would be riding and change of clothes would be necessary, knowing her bare feet and sleeping gown would result in nothing but hypothermia. Even then he had been unwilling to part from her, even for a moment, lest it all be torn from them again.
He laid his head back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. The ride had been long and arduous and for the last two nights he had not slept, so close to the Eyrie that it would be foolish not to ride through the night and arrive before they could be expected and Sansa could be hidden away again.
He could hear Sansa shifting around the room, no doubt gathering her possessions into a case. For so many nights he had imagined what she would look like. Would she be as pretty as her lady mother? No. He had always known she would be even more beautiful, so delicately stunning that if Cersei Lannister still lived she would have hated the girl all the more.
When she emerged from the chamber she was fumbling to put her hair into a loose braid, her nimble fingers shaking from the cold as she worked. Without a word Jon moved towards her, his fingers taking her place and fastening the thin pearl pin into her hair and twisting as she instructed until her hair swept away from her face delicately.
“Can you ride?” Jon asked, her hand laid upon his elbow as they walked through the corridor and into the atrium where the bulk of the retinue had gathered to water the horses and stretch their own legs.
She nodded. “Where are we going?”
Jon opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted as one of his men trotted up and they began to go about business. Sansa looked over her shoulder, shivering slightly in the cold winter air. The Eyrie stood tall and daunting in the darkness, its windows illuminated in shadows, now uninhibited. She had never been more happy to see the castle in her life than when she was leaving it.
A man called Samwell Tarly laid down a stool so she could lift her leg over the horse’s saddle, settling into the worn leather with little discomfort. She wanted to get away from the Vale as swiftly as she was able, a sick feeling in her stomach telling her that if she was not quick she would never get away.
“Do you mind if we ride together?” Jon asked. He had brought a horse for Sansa but the mare had stumbled upon a stone crag and taken a horrible fall three days earlier. Sansa shook her head, making space for Jon in the saddle.
He took the horses reins in hand, Sansa sitting before him and leaning her head against his chest, the sweet smell of her soap in his nose. “Have you been freed of your vows?” she asked, after they had ridden far from the castle.
“Yes.” He said. “By her grace.”
Sansa’s eyes brightened. “You have met the queen?” she asked, keenly interested.
“Yes.” Jon nodded. He was sure he knew this would be the hardest part. “She is my…my aunt.”
Sansa’s cheek flinched. “…your aunt?” she repeated. “How is that possible? Our father-“
“He was not my father, as it turns out.” Said Jon. She looked at him, knowing this was no joke although it certainly felt like one. “My father was once King of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“The queen’s brother?” she asked. He remembered now how much she had always enjoyed the history texts Maester Luwin kept in his solar. “Rhaegar?” she said, her eyes dreamy.
“Aye.” Said Jon. He went on to tell her of the victory Daenerys had had over the Northern houses that had rebelled against the Starks, wondering what Baelish’s plan had been and why he had kept this from her. “Winterfell is yours.” Said Jon. The Bolton’s had faced punishment for the crimes against her house and Jon had never been quite so happy to see a sword fall.
She gaped at him, one of her crimson brows arching. “Where will you go?”
“King’s Landing with the queen.” He replied but in truth he was not sure. The queen would be busy with her wedding preparations and the thought of leaving Sansa made him feel as though he had eaten something slimy that was threatening to come back up.
Sansa had fallen silence and it was not long before he could hear her soft snores, knowing she had fallen asleep. He tried to move as easily as he could to wrap a blanket around their shoulders, knotting it carefully to the pommel of the saddle so it would not easily slide off.
The journey to Winterfell was far easier than the one Jon had taken to the Vale. He often warged into Ghost, scouting ahead to assure they were safe from prying eyes or paid swords but he knew they need not worry about enemies in the North. All the major and minor houses had swift fealty to Daenerys and would be loyal even in death to Sansa, who practically shone as she saw the direwolf sigil flying upon their rooftops and in their city.
While they rode Jon had made the decision to remain in Winterfell, at least for a bit longer than he had planned. When he had told her Sansa said nothing, only smiled, as though she knew something he did not.
Life in Winterfell was of the same comfort it had always been. The first few weeks had seemed lonely without the Lord and Lady of the North and the rest of Sansa’s siblings.
Jon felt as green as a boy in doing so but as he supped or broke his fast with Sansa in the before the fire or in either of their solar’s he imagined they were the Lord and Lady Stark. It was by no means a stretch of the imagination, after they had both spent a lifetime being told they possessed the same look as Eddard and Catelyn.
Three weeks into the stay that was supposed to have lasted only two days Jon lay upon a cushioned seat in his chamber, a cup of mulled wine having left his mind fuzzy and uninhibited. In his state he warged easily into Ghost, finding himself in Sansa’s chamber on the opposite side of the castle.
Sansa was just entering the room, closed the door behind her and turning the copper key in the lock until she heard the loud click that signaled it was locked. She crossed the room; dropping her hand to scratch Ghost behind the ears and cause his tail to, unconsciously to Jon, wag.
Sansa sat upon her dressing stool to remove her shoes one at a time, letting the pale pink slippers fall to the floor noiselessly. Ghost lifted his head, his dark eyes watching from the cushion she had dragged into the room, knowing the cold tile on his paws was too cold for him in the dead of winter.
Sansa propped her book against the mirror and lifting her hands to her hair, removing the pearl pins he had gifted her one by one. He did not know she truly like them. He had thought her being polite when he had given them to her, clumsily placing the jewelry box in her hand and grinning.
A curl of crimson hair fell over her shoulder, in deep contrast to her pale skin. She continued to remove the pins and he watched as her hair rolled down her back, curled slightly at the ends from the style she had worn.
She had moved to rest a pale foot upon her dressing stool, unrolling her stocking from her thigh. He heard the snap of the garter and lowered his head, resting it upon the cushion and closing his eyes.
He knew watching her was wrong and yet he could not move.
She had already undone the buttons on her skirt, the soft pearl pieces coming loose from the fabric with little difficulty. Her smell reached Ghost’s nose, catching hints of lemon and honey from the bread she had eaten.
It was intoxicating, watching her. He followed every movement with rapture and he knew that even if he ever saw a famous play he would not watch it as closely as he was watching Sansa right now.
Her rosy coloured outer skirt pooled at her ankles, leaving nothing beneath but a thin under dress and her small clothes. She no longer wore a corset, he noticed. She had always insisted upon wearing one when they were children. She supposed it made her look older. In truth it had done just that, accentuating every swell and curve her girlish body was beginning to posses.
Those curves were solid in place now, the dip just above her hip leading to the slim waist he could barely just make out under her silks. She stretched backwards, the crack of her back reverberating in the quiet chamber and he could see her rib cage pushing against the creamy fabric. It was almost enough to make him faint.
She crosser her arms over her head to pull off her silk under gown, the muscles in her back working feverishly to accomplish the task. He could see the flash of a silvery scar on her shoulder and recognized it immediately as the wound she had received after falling from a tree in the forest while playing with he and Robb.
Sansa let out a sigh of fatigue, rubbing her neck with her slim fingers. In that moment Jon would have given up just about everything to continue the task for her.
She sunk back into her chair, a loose robe around her shoulders, though the lapels remained open. Jon did his very best to remain still, curling tighter into a ball on his own cushion.
His movement had caught Sansa’s eye, her blue eyes looking at him in the reflection of the circular dressing mirror. "I hoped you would come, you know." she whispered. Her voice was low enough that Jon had to strain to hear. Jon went cold all over, Ghost’s ears pricking. She continued, her gleaming eyes upon him. "I dreamt you would come.” Her tongue rolled off the words with such pause he wondered how they tasted. “Now come over here and let me see you.”
Jon’s eyes snapped open. The chalice that had been on the table beside his chair fell to the floor with a clang after his flailing hand had accidently struck it. Had she been speaking to him? There was no other person in the room. But she could not have known. There was no possible way she could have know that he was a Warg. But she had turned to him, looked him straight in the eye and spoken.
All those nights that Ghost had slept at her side, half of them in her bed, she had known. When she had undressed. He suddenly realized why she had never fully undressed before Ghost.
Come over here and let me see you. A hand of ice gripped his heart.
He made his way to her chamber, the corridors familiar after he had crossed them a thousand times, although this time the walk seemed far longer. Jon stood before her door a moment before knocking and then felt incredibly foolish.
She looked at him, a crimson eyebrow quirked at him. All of that walking and he hadn’t thought of what to say to her. He felt incredibly stupid.
“Come in, Jon.” she said, stepping aside for him. She still wore nothing but a lounging robe. “Or do you prefer Ghost?”
“Sansa I-“ he began. “I was going to tell you. I wanted to. I-“
“Shhhh.” She replied, putting a finger to his lips. He remembered her rolling down her stockings with the same fingers and grew incredibly uncomfortable, in some areas more than others. He shifted, suddenly very aware he wore only breeches and a tunic, wishing desperately for a cloak. “I am not mad.”
“Aren’t you?” he furrowed his brows.
“Well…” she began. “I am a bit mad. But I do have more pressing matters on my mind at the moment.”
Jon licked his lips. Her eyes were searching his face, his body growing hotter under their scrutiny. “What matters?”
“Don’t you know?” she asked, suddenly seeming so much smaller. She reached for the robe, pushing it free from her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Ghost lifted his head again, the scent of rose meeting his nose.
“Yes.” Jon said, kissing her so forcefully she took a step back. “I know.”
Her lips were sweet as he had imagined and sweeter still, moving against his mouth with gaining satisfaction. His hand held her head, fingers running through her undone hair, the other at her waist, tipping her ever so slightly backwards. Her cold palm was on his arm, her fingers happy to find solid muscle beneath them.
She must be cold, he thought. She wore nothing but smallclothes. Perhaps he should even the score.
His tunic was unlaced in a moment, in such haste he was not sure if he had undone the laces or she, and he threw it over his head, hearing the fabric woosh passed him. Her hands were at his breeches, the shocking cold of her fingers making his stomach jump as she brushed it.
Divested of his breeches his hands were put to better use, undoing the blastedly small buttons of her smallclothes and feeling the soft material give in his hands.
“Jon.” Sansa whispered, almost a whine. He had wanted her like this for so long. “What are you doing?”
“Taking a tour.” He replied smartly, his fingers doing their best to remove the thing. She pushed him lightly backward until his back landed upon the feather bed and Sansa atop him, her legs splayed out on either side of his waist.
Her skin was riddled with gooseflesh in the cold air and her nipples fared no better, pebbling beneath his base hands as he brushed his callused fingertips across them. It was torment. Sweet torment, but torment nonetheless.
Her mouth was like fire, leaving hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and to his chest, her fingers brushing through the smattering of dark hair on his chest. His stomach jumped again, this time from excitement instead of nervousness and her kisses continued lower.
Jon let out a moan so loud even he was surprised. Suddenly he became very worried the guard at the door might enter the room, though if they were smart enough to connect the sight of his state when he entered the room to the sounds he was making now, they would not dare.
Her body was slight, turned easily until she lay below him, her bare breasts pressed to his chest, a leg hooked over his waist. “Are you sure?” he asked, just to be sure.
“I would be a fool not to be.” she panted, kissing the apples of his cheeks one at a time. The words were enough to stir him if the picture of her body beneath his didn’t do the trick.
In one motion he had entered her. With dawning realization he realized she had been a maiden, the sharp intake of breath making him stop completely. He kissed her cheek, nuzzling his nose on the side of her face before continuing his motions very carefully. She shivered and he drew the blanket over their bodies, the shifting sound of the cotton the only noise in the loud room.
“You aren’t hurting me.” Sansa said, voicing his greatest fear. Her hair had spread across the pillow like fire coming down the side of a volcano after an eruption. Her hand ran down his back, pausing in the divide between his shoulder blades before continuing to his rear.
He had pushed inside of her completely, the gasp she made one of pleasure instead of pain. The sound might as well have been music for he enjoyed it just the same.
“I don’t…” she said. “I don’t know…what to do.”
“Quiet, sweet girl.” Jon whispered. “You need only follow me.”
Sansa did as she was told, lifting her leg back over his hip as she was bid. She had always been a fast learner and now was no different. She seemed to sense what made his heart beat quicker or what drew sharp intakes of breath from him and after only a few moments had past arched her back in such a way as to make him gasp as though he had been struck.
He kissed the chasm between her breasts as she did so, her own sweet punishment, and continued to circle his hips, moving within her. She arched her back again, softer now, his hand just there to guide her and he could not help but feel as close to her in this moment as he was to Ghost when warging.
And it was love there that added fire to the connection, not just lust. He could feel it in her touches and in the soft, sweet kisses she peppered across his face. Even in the way she teased him, beginning to move her own hips in opposite rhythm of his before deciding that that was to cruel and matching his own motions.
It was not long before Jon could begin to feel the excitement building within him that he knew meant his peak was near. He looked down at her and knew without pause that she felt the same thing. Her eyes were pressed closed, her cheeks flushed red and her mouth hanging slightly open, ragged, hitched breathing following his own.
She moved beneath him, feeling her own pleasure just as he felt his and within seconds she had ridden the wave of pleasure within her to the very, very top. Her orgasm came with a half startled gasp, a squeeze of his arm, and a sharp buck of her hips that brought his own pleasure thundering after hers.
He was boneless, falling into her open arms and resting there, his head upon her chest, feeling the sheen of light sweat that had broken over her. He had yet to remove himself from her and found that as much as he enjoyed the feeling, his love did too, watching him with gleaming eyes.
“And to think.” He said. “If you had only seduced me sooner.”
She laughed and kissed the bridge of his nose, his hand coming down to sweep the hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear. “I know not of what you speak, Jon.”
He kissed her again. “Well then surely next time you must take off your stockings in such a way as to seduce my direwolf.”
“Well if he’s anything like his master…” Sansa grinned, rising to challenge him with another, deeper kiss. “That would not be so hard.”