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The first spark that ignited the flame was her suicidal proclamation that she would kill herself if Ramsay won. Sansa's beautiful cerulean blue eyes looked into Jon’s storm grey ones, and he knew he could not call her bluff. He felt like a helpless green boy. Jon had no idea how to feel. He saw the strength in that assertion, but her words made him impossibly angry. Sansa means to kill herself if he fails. Jon was the new wall between Sansa’s death and her long, happy life, where she would live to be happily married with an abundance of beautiful children.
Even if Sansa claims that she no longer wants the dreams of her childhood, Jon can only see a future where she is a proud Lady and mother.
Jon wholeheartedly knows she meant what she said. He does not believe her dreams have changed, but this Sansa is not the same Sansa he parted with on the kingsroad all those years ago. She may look like ivory, but her words were iron, and her stance was steel. She was no longer a little girl but a mature and imposing woman.
He could not fail this new Sansa, her words were not hollow, and she would follow through. This Sansa would do what Jon thought was unthinkable. He could tell that she was tired of scraping through life by the skin of her teeth.
Jon had seen that particular look in men’s eyes when they first arrived at the wall. But, for those men, it eventually faded. It would grow into one of indifference instead of despair. Jon hoped as they traveled through the northern realm, he would see that look fade from her eyes. He hoped, yet, even when she laughed at one of his jokes or her eyes grew heavy with sleep by the firelight, he saw that look of desperation.
Jon noticed a lot about Sansa recently. He saw in her what others might have seen in him. Sansa had to grow up faster than her peers due to her poor position. Forcing her to be smarter, sharper, and stronger. This education caused her smiles to be far and few. She constantly scanned her surroundings, marking who was the predator and who was the prey. Jon grew with this new Sansa during their month’s travels, although he wanted to know more. He has heard her speak of their years apart and does not know how she has made it this far.
Sansa was no longer the girl who leaned whichever way the wind blew. Sansa would kill herself if they did not have Winterfell by the end of the day tomorrow. She would no longer bow and scrape, subject herself to being raped just to survive. Ramsay was not an option for her. Or Jon.
Everything she said during their nightly meeting felt like a punch in the gut. Sansa had just told him his plans and strategies would not work. She talked about the fact that there weren't enough men. And she spoke his fears aloud; they would be the last Starks. That Rickon would not be celebrating with them tomorrow, even if they won. Then she talked about her never being in the clutches of Ramsay Bolton again, insinuating that she would take her own life. Jon did not want to accept the hand dealt. That is the reason he argued so passionately with her. And when passion failed him, he tried to comfort her. But it all blew up in his face, and his mind kept repeating her words.
No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone.
When Sansa left the tent after their fight, Jon fell to his seat and slumped over. He did not want a drink or to go for a walk like the others. To be completely honest, Jon wanted to fall to his knees and scream, to throw a fit like a child, because had he really died and was resurrected to deal with this? The one thing Jon had to hold on to after his death and revival was Sansa. She somehow intercepted him before he wandered off to lead a miserable existence. Sansa just so happened to be there, after so many years and tribulations, at the perfect time. And with her, she brought him some long-awaited hope and happiness.
At Castle Black, something just clicked when they saw each other. Sansa looked up at him and ran into his arms. She recognized a piece of her past, a past where she wasn’t in pain or torment. The sweet and innocent part of her past would help her unlock a sweet and innocent future. She could be safe with this part of her past.
Her presence struck Jon in a similar way. He was dead. He died in this very courtyard she was standing in. Knives were plunged into his chest by the ones who claimed to be his brothers. Now he was alive, and his murderers were dead. Jon knew what the face of death looked like, yet his heart was beating, and his eyes did not turn blue.
Was he alive for a reason he would have to come to see?
The future was his new foe. Dead men were now walking, but so was he. The concept and purpose of his life felt meaningless and obscure. However, when he heard them call for the opening of the gates and he came out to see her, the picture began to focus. This person was from when times were simpler. She reminded him of his past and who he was. He was Jon Snow. And he was alive and not some walking blue-eyed monster. Every day, Sansa reminded him that his life had meaning and not to be worried about his future. He now had a piece of his past. He had someone that could help him down this new path.
One could guess that’s what brought them together. Jon and Sansa would never be whole again because of what the world did to them. The abuse is sometimes too much for people. But Sansa stirred something inside Jon, enough to care about the world again. She forced him to become a man of action again. And in return, she was ignited by him.
They both push each other. Sansa couldn’t stop thinking about him.
What had happened to the brother I once knew?
Jon forgave her of her past, but this man wasn’t exactly the Jon Snow from the past. This Jon had evolved into something better. This man was similar to the boy who held Sansa when she slipped on some ice in the training yard as a young girl. His voice was the same Northern drawl, similar to the voice that argued with Theon and Robb. And his laugh reminded her of the day he covered himself in flour to scare her sister and her. But he had changed. Jon looked and felt stronger. More of his baby fat had melted away, and he was a developed warrior. She had watched him with his sword for hours. This Jon was a confident and imposing figure, no longer the shy, growing boy. Although, he was still wary and distrustful, especially when it came to strangers being near Sansa.
To her, Jon did not feel like a brother. Whenever there was a slight or mistaken touch, it did something unexpected to her. His words made her shiver, and his laugh could always make her laugh. Sansa noticed the difference when she first jumped into his arms. It did not feel like what she imagined hugging Robb, Bran, or Rickon would feel. Maybe that was her fault for their tattered relationship as children. He was close in a way she found indescribable. He made her feel things that she learned a lady does not voice. He was attractive, but more than that. He would become cross with her but never vile. He could brood and then find a smile that would burn holes in her cheeks from blushing too hard. Jon had made himself into more. He was an assertive and enjoyable leader who was so much more than his childhood title, the bastard of Winterfell.
And as Sansa thought of him, Jon couldn’t stop worrying about her. She felt so weak in his arms when he held her that day in the Castle Black courtyard. Ramsay’s letter did shed light on the man Sansa had to survive. The threats against the Freefolk and his brother were vile and made his gut wrench. But the threats against Sansa were just too much. Jon almost flipped the table with everyone’s breakfast. If Ramsay’s actions were half as horrid as his threats, Jon couldn’t imagine what had happened to her in Winterfell. He tore apart his chamber the night he agreed to help Sansa. He let her live in such vileness when he was close enough to save her.
Jon cried into Ghost’s fur. He could have been at Winterfell in a matter of days with the right horse. He and Ghost could have stormed the castle, killing any man in their way to save her. She wasn’t with Joffrey in some faraway castle. Sansa was at Winterfell. She was not with her abusers in King’s Landing. She was a princess of the North, suffering abuse in the North. In the home of the Starks. But he could not go back and fix that. Jon could only help Sansa now. By taking back the home of the Starks, then together, they could fight off what was to come for them all.
Jon had to admit Sansa was right that day at Castle Black. They needed a stable front. Jon and Sansa would need their home. They would need Winterfell, but he was right too. One could not just tell the Boltons to pack up and leave.
Jon looked at the map they had set up in the camp’s main tent. Jon knew the layout better than anyone, but he could not stop staring at it. Possibly, an answer would come to him if he stared at it long enough. So Jon studied all the pieces again. Tormund assured him that he had the Freefolk’s support, but who else? Neither Jon nor Sansa had the claim or even a right to call former Stark bannermen.
What were they to the North? A bastard and disgraced lady? He was once called Ned Stark’s shame. Jon did rise through the ranks and held a high and respected office; nevertheless, what could one say about that respect once his men killed him? And then there was Sansa. She might be the highborn sister of a King, but what did the North think of her now? They called her a Lannister and now a Bolton. Jon and Sansa tried to espouse the Northern Lords to their cause for weeks. They reminded the lords that Lord Eddard and King Robb were dead, but they proved House Stark lived.
Even with the most impassioned speeches, they barely obtained less than a hundred men from Lyanna Mormont. With Mormont, though, they gained a couple of hundred men from House Mazin and Hornwood. Yet, these houses’ strength and size would not compare to the size of the three biggest Northern houses. Each of those had a thousand sworn men.
Jon could feel water sting his eyes. He had to stop staring. His mind would turn to mush if he stood over the table any longer. He thought about joining other men or going to sleep, but he did neither. Somehow he found himself in the presence of the witch that made his existence possible, Melisandre. He pleaded with her not to save him again if he fell. Jon did not want to wake up if there was nothing there for him. He and Sansa had very different ways of thinking about it, but with one similar premise: death. Both rather taste death than live in the world where they lost this battle. They were both scared of the possibilities. The present offered so many different paths for both Snow and Stark.
Jon found no delight in the Red Woman’s response. Melisandre told him she would try to bring him back, for she was not his but the Lord of Light’s servant. Melisandre told Jon that he was a part of the Lord’s plan. He did not know what that meant, but it scared him more than it did when he woke up.
I could have been brought back just to die.
“What kind of god does that?” he asked as he stared into the witch’s fire and back to her. Jon did not want to keep staring into the fire because he might go as mad as her.
There was no hesitation. Melisandre stared deep into Jon’s solemn eyes with a blank expression painted on her face and said, “The only one we’ve got.”
He found that to be bullshit. The old gods did not seem to delight in the suffering of men and did not play such cruel tricks. He walked out of the tent to find Sansa. She had to be the reason he was back. Coincidences like that do not just happen. He didn’t care if it was the Red God or if He was fucking blue. Jon didn’t care if it was all the seven put together or thousands of the old gods’ intricate work. His reason for being back had to do something with Sansa.
The one person I know deserves to see past the Long Night, let alone this minuscule battle.
Jon didn’t just see the bullshit in his entire conversation with Melisandre. He also saw it beneath Sansa’s “no one can protect me” statement. Gods and Sansa be damned. He is alive after being stabbed in the chest, so why not choose what you make out of that? He was going to find Sansa.
…
Sansa had walked into the thick of the Wolfswood. She could still see the encampment clearly, but she wanted some quiet and sharp Northern air. The one benefit of being traded to the North was the air. Unlike in the South, a putrid scent did not linger. It cooled her, covering her flesh in pins and needles. Her face was flushed. Sansa needed to cool down after her conversation with Jon. He made her so mad she could scream. He was trying, and she wanted to be thankful for that; however, tomorrow was too important.
She opened her mouth and lungs up but held the scream inside. Too many men were in the camp preparing for a battle. They need their last moments of relaxation before the plan commences tomorrow. She took in one last breath, having the air hit her lungs. A feeling of pins and needles takes over. Sansa then slowly tapered off to her tent. She entered through a flap in the side and took off her fur. Her shoulders felt tense, as though she was carrying too much, and her feet ached from the extreme wear she put on them from carrying herself around in cold, wet shoes.
The tent was not big, but it was not as though she ever had many belongings to fill it. There was a makeshift bed, a stool, and all of her belongings fit inside two small trunks. She ran from two marriages, two castles with nothing but the clothes on her back. One day she hoped she could find something to hold on to. After she had met with Lord Baelish in Molestown, she collected a few items, and that’s all she had with her now. That’s where she got the supplies to make Jon’s beautiful fur and her new dress, along with leaves of a tea she needed and a salve. Her wounds were all in the process of healing, and she thought she could help some of the physical ones by wearing this salve.
Ramsay did not let his presence go unknown for even one night. He haunted her. Ramsay would cut small “R”s into her sides and trace her veins with the tip of his knife. Those scars branched out like branches of a weirwood tree. He knew how to make her start and stop bleeding with such ease. He violated her in ways she didn't know were possible. She wanted nothing more than to get the feeling of him out of and off her body. To have the pain go away. Ramsay either needed to suffer a painful defeat that the gods would find cruel, or Sansa wasn’t going to live for one more touch of his hands.
Someone must have brought her some candles and placed them on top of one of her trunks. Now there was a faint glow within the tent. Sansa immediately moved to open the other trunks so that she could put away her gown.
Even with the candles’ faint glow, the tent was too dark to notice him at first. Sansa had her hands on her outer bodice and was about to start unlacing herself when she heard him clear his throat. Jon was in her tent, sitting on her cot. Because Sansa’s bed was only a foot off the ground, the candles resting on her trunk didn't quite catch his figure fully. Sansa could make out that he wasn’t facing her. His body slanted to the side, staring off into some non-existent distance. Jon had his legs hanging off the bed, settled on the grassy floor of her tent. He looked too old for his age. Maybe that was the trick of the light, but maybe, that is just Jon. He was not brooding, but he looked either disappointed or defeated. It did not matter which. She just wished she could see his smile before the charge tomorrow.
She removed her hand from her bodice and began by saying, “Jon, what are you-”
“I will protect you. I am here to protect you. I am only here to protect you,” was Jon’s big statement. He didn’t prepare a speech, but he knew what he wanted to say. He looked up at her face and continued, “I died only a few weeks ago, Sansa. I remember the sound of my heart stopping. I bled out in the snow. Alone.” Jon’s Northern accent, his natural exertion, and his foul mood made his voice quite imposing, and he knew she heard him. He could command her attention while sitting down, but with so few candles in the room, he decided to stand up. He slowly moved towards her until he was about an arm’s distance away. He looked into her eyes and saw the sadness. Sansa’s eyes looked as though she had been crying for years, and had finally given up.
He straightened up and hushed his tone, now more fit for a normal conversation. “But now, I stand before you, even when that should be impossible. I thought about how much more Robb or Father could help you, and if anyone should be here, it should...”
Before he finished the statement, Sansa shook her head and cut him off, “Do not think that. Besides the few friends I made these past two months and the few things in this tent, you are all I have, Jon.” Sansa let out a little giggle, “My most prized possession.” Jon smirked, but they both dropped their smiles, and the mood shifted back to a more serious note.
Sansa solemnly continued, “Father couldn’t save me. Neither could Robb.” Sansa focused on his eyes. She began to notice his eyes were just as sad as her own, yet so beautiful. Jon was more than beautiful, and that thought made her heart flutter. It was not the beauty of young acclaimed princes and knights. He felt darker but Sansa had grown used to the dark. He was all she had, but at least he understood her.
Jon is more than I could have ever asked for.
“Sansa, my point about me being back is not that I wish Robb or Father were back, even though I do. That is a non-starter.” He took a breath and a moment to articulate his thoughts, then claimed, “My point is that there has to be a reason for my return. Even though I do not know what it is, I…”
Jon halted and looked down. He wanted Sansa to know he was here for her, but how could he say such things when he craved that same approval and support from her? Sansa moved close enough to him that she could use her dainty fingers to grab his hand and ask, “Please, continue.”
Her fingers ghosted his skin, and he felt as though years melted away. She was so gentle, her fingers so soft. It could have been hot flames for all he cared, but that brief contact persuaded him to say more.
“The reason I am alive could be to die in this battle tomorrow or in my bed on my eightieth name’s day. Maybe it is to be part of the fight against the Long Night, or it could be to try some good ale.” She smirked at this, rolling her eyes. He smiled at her reaction. They both subconsciously thought to make the other smile. Jon loved to make her smile. It was more fulfilling than a good training yard session or a drink. So just to see a glimmer of joy made him pause.
There is my smile.
But the smile always faded, so Jon worked to complete his statement, “But, I realized whatever the reason, I don’t care. I don’t want whatever some god destined for me. I decided on what my purpose is.”
This time he grabbed her hand and held on to it. They both could feel it bubbling up inside. Some animalistic, perhaps even wolfish, urges. Her face was hot, and his limbs were getting heavy as the conversation moved forward with quite a harsh tone.
Since Jon had not said anything, Sansa tried to pluck a response from him, “What is it then? What do you want it to be, Jon? I tried to fashion my own destiny. I thought I knew what I wanted and what I deserved. And I was poorly mistaken.”
“Sansa...I have said my reason. I know my purpose is to protect you. I came back, and suddenly…somehow…you were there. You...came when I was lost, and you gave me purpose. I cannot see anything else being my purpose except you.” That sentiment made them both tense.
They both tried looking away, but it was not a very big tent. Sansa decided to look at their feet while Jon bravely decided to keep talking. “It might have been a coincidence that you arrived right before I was going to do something rash. But right now, I am going to guess the reason I’m here is because of you.” Those words made it impossible for the two of them not to look at each other. They found that they were lost. “When you said I couldn’t protect you, it felt like I was dying again. The stabbing pain came back.” He was still holding her hand and squeezed it. “I will do everything in my power to protect you. I am here for you.” He started subconsciously drawing circles on her hand with his thumb. “Tomorrow is the fight for Winterfell, which you led me to, Sansa.”
“You could die in that fight,” she stated simply as her eyes shinned with tears. “Is that what you want? To die again?” Her face had grown concerned. Her biggest fear was that she would be alone again. That’s how Sansa knew if they lost the battle, she would not survive long.
“You knew all along that my death was a possibility. What I want is to bring my family home. Keep them safe from whoever tries to harm them. I find that a good enough reason to be alive right now.” He stepped closer to her, slightly leaning his head to the side to look at her with reverence. She didn’t think he was close enough to her. “This includes more than just protecting you from Ramsay, Cersei, and the Long Night, because…Sansa, you are my family.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. All of Jon’s words were something she expected of a prince or a dashing knight. But the problem was she didn’t feel like he was her family in the exact way he was describing. At least not in that tent. When she was younger, Sansa wanted to distance herself from Jon. She called him half-brother for a reason. She did not really think of him as family. Now, this feeling was different. Now, Sansa wanted Jon closer than she wanted anyone else. He felt like more than her brother. Jon’s promises caused certain feelings to boil inside her.
Sansa tried to put her cards on the table without being too honest. “I want that all to be true, Jon. I want you to live and fight. I want you to care about me as much as I care about you.”
“You made me come back to the land of the living. You fill my mind. You make me want to do things I could never think of committing.” He looked her up and down subconsciously.
He practically whispered his next thought because it was embarrassingly depraved. “You make me want to do what I doubt most normal family members don’t think about doing for each other.” He swept a finger across her forehead to tuck a piece of her soft copper hair behind her ear.
Feelings were pooling into thick heat, not only in her head and heart but in a place she never thought would be affected by Jon. “Do you think we could be a normal family after tonight? Because…I want you to show me what you want to do.”
His eyes shot wide open, and the hairs on his arms and legs stood straight. Sansa’s scent was making him feverish. Her eyes were making him dizzy. He was cool and collected when she walked into the tent, but this entire conversation had made him nervous and blustered. Sansa caused his body to light a fire. At first, one might have thought Sansa was asking to reconcile and become the family they always should have been. Once they got Winterfell back, they could rule it as a real sister and brother should. But in the heat of that tent, Sansa’s second statement shocked him to his core. That very shock caused his cock to jump. All his mind heard was:
Do you think we will be able to be a family after we fuck on the floor of this tent?
Jon kept pounding in the word family because Sansa was supposed to be his family. The only family he had left besides Rickon. But Rickon was his baby brother. Sansa was the heady goddess that stood before him, scaring and exciting him. He kept talking about family to remind himself not to pounce on her. Jon used the word ‘family’ because if they were not a family, what would stop them from fucking on the floor of this very tent. But, if they were going to die tomorrow, why would he think the word ‘family’ would even stop them?
He should be the responsible older brother, but he responded to her by saying, “Who knows, we might be nothing tomorrow…we could possibly die.” Jon’s promises and reasons, Sansa’s plans and hopes. Even though they were supposed to be brother and sister, they felt an even deeper connection. The overwhelming space between them dissipated as their mouths interlocked. Jon had used Sansa’s hand to pull her against his body. Their bodies fit so perfectly together. Jon had let go of Sansa’s hand so that he could freely use his hands to hold her tighter to him. He caressed her sides until his grasp locked around her hips. Sansa also used her hands to deepen the kiss, placing them on Jon’s cheeks. His beard was softer than her hands expected but was still rough enough that his mustache tickled her upper lip. It might not have been either of their first kisses, but it was their first kiss together, and it was everything a person could ask for.
After a couple more seconds of immense bliss, their hands dropped away from each other, and they disconnected their lips and bodies in shock. Jon and Sansa loved everything about that kiss, but they both were disgusted with themselves. They were still brother and sister, were they not? Sansa had leaned on Jon, asking him to bring her back to their shared childhood home. And he took the coat she, his sister, made. And they had talked about the man they each called their father and the boys they each called brothers. Sansa and Jon had tried to show each other their best sides as they had nightly conversations about events they had experienced since parting. They thought they were creating the foundation of the sibling relationship they never seemed to have. While they prepared for this battle, she kept secrets, and he made plans without her advice, but they still thought they’d try to be brother and sister.
But with that kiss, Jon and Sansa could no longer hide behind their ruse. They had been dancing around the fact, they had not grown up as true siblings. They had spent so long without the love of family that they did not know what they had created. They knew it was truly disgusting, but they realized they could never be what they were to the rest of their siblings. If Sansa was right, they would never see Rickon again. That meant one thing: they would be doomed to be the last of the great House Stark.
But if you did think about it, Jon also might be right. They could die tomorrow. And if one was going to die, should they not feed their temptations one last time?
Jon and Sansa were out of breath from that blinding kiss, but the kiss was just the realization. The eye contact they had been making all night unlocked some raw understanding. These temptations they were about to feed into could be vile, dark, and just overall consuming, but neither of them had the strength nor the will to stop it. Neither wanted it to stop. As storm grey met cerulean blue, they decided they wouldn’t stop.
Their lips touched more leisurely this time, but eventually, the kiss grew more rigorous. Their hands needed to touch each other. Sansa moved her hands from his face and wrapped her arms around the back of his neck. They crossed there, bringing him closer to her; nevertheless, it wasn’t enough. She didn’t need to breathe. The only air she needed would come from within this man. Sansa was only going to breathe air that smelled like smoke and ale. Air that was Jon’s breath.
Jon moved his hands again, too. They moved from her hips and reached the small of her back, resting right below her shoulder blades. Jon and Sansa didn’t need to ask what the other found reasonable because it all felt right. As though they could never be close enough. Jon moved away from her lips and placed a peck right below her earlobe. He pebbled more mouth kisses down her neck, sending Sansa into a state of growing euphoria. She enjoyed his attention and how his beard tickled her sensitive skin, but Sansa stopped him, making the boldest move of the night. She unhooked her arms from his neck and moved enough away that she could undo the outside ties of her dress. And Jon finally had the chance to take off the fur she had made him.
When Jon looked up, he could see her arms were now free, and the tops of her breasts were exposed. Only her corset covered her upper body. Jon became fully animated by this sight. He could not stand to see the ever-present slashes, the bruises, and the cuts that marked this part of her body. Her pale skin, however, was spotted in pink and red, black and blue. She noticed where his eyes fell. It was like a bucket of cold water had been poured down her back. She lost herself in the moment and forgot that her arms and chest were not unmarred messes. Sansa felt shame in her skin, her eyes grew wide, and she tried to turn her face away from him; however, Jon would not allow her to be ashamed. He held her face so she would have to look at him. He planted a slow kiss on her lips. Jon let go and brought his hands down to his clothing so he could divulge himself of his leather cuirass. He could now move with more freedom, enough to reassure her that he would take off his boiled leather armor, but she need not take off all her armor yet.
“Trust me,” was all he said. He kissed Sansa. This time she opened her mouth up to him. He enveloped her, and they were in full swing again. Their tongues crashed against teeth and inner cheek. Jon’s hands slipped lower and lower until they curved under her round, beautiful ass.
He breathed her in. Her natural scent gave him the desire to pick her up. Jon whispered hotly into her skin as he picked her up, “Sansa…when I look at you, I think of so many different things.” Holding her in the air by her bottom caused her to let out an amatory yelp, but she quickly locked her long legs around his muscular abdomen. “I see your beauty.” Jon walked them over to the pillows and furs that made the makeshift bed in Sansa’s tent. He kneeled down, lying her out. Jon moved again, slipping down her body to kiss her neck, collarbone, and breasts. “Your bravery,” he stated in a heavy, exasperated tone as his forehead rested right where her skin stopped and the fabric that blockaded his kiss started.
Sansa enjoyed this very primal experience; nevertheless, she still felt the anxiety of the last time she lay like this. A much different man was in Jon’s place. She loved every minute of Jon’s attention, but how could her mind not flashback? And so many other questions crossed her mind, centered around a singular thought: how could I be worthy of this? She started to mumble, “Jon, you don’t have to…”
Jon shifted the position of his head to look straight into her eyes and insisted, “I see a reason to live when I look at you, Sansa Stark.” He crawled right back up her body, to kiss her skin. Sansa clamped her eyes shut as tears of happiness threatened to fall from her eyes. Sansa only wanted to enjoy Jon at this moment.
I trust him. I trust him more than anyone.
Then she opened her eyes and said with a heavy breath, “Fuck me, Jon,” loud enough for him to hear. He stopped kissing in the crevice of her neck and looked back into her eyes again. They could never go back. Furthermore, they could never just be brother and sister again. Jon and Sansa would forever be affected by this night if they lived past tomorrow. Tomorrow decides the future. Jon could die again, and Sansa would follow soon after, or they could hold the seat of the North, just as their ancestors did for a thousand years. Everything depended on tomorrow, but tonight was a night of bliss.
That bliss caused Jon to pull up Sansa’s skirts to see her long, stockinged legs. That bliss caused him to rip the stocking and the small clothes that hid underneath. But one of the most blissful moments of the night was when Jon spread her legs apart and swiped his tongue across her folds.
Before he placed his tongue on her, Sansa was quite confused by his actions. Ramsay had never put himself in this position. Whenever that monster got close to that area of her body, it was to inflict pain, but Jon would never want to hurt her. Sansa knew that he would have to hurt her. All of Sansa’s experiences had led her to believe that being with a man was always painful, but in her mind, she was willing to endure that pain for Jon.
When Jon began kissing the inside of her thighs, where scars marred her alabaster skin, Sansa was unsure what he was doing. He was paying incredible detail to her body, kissing her closer and closer to her center. These actions made her curious, and she was about to ask him what he was doing when suddenly his tongue ran through her cunt. Sansa euphorically screamed his name instead. Her eyelids went from languidly drooping to bursting wide open. As he began to set a relentless pace, Sansa could not help but dig her nails into his scalp. Wet and incredibly sensual sounds filled the space around them. He continued to dive deeper into her as he placed her legs over his shoulders. Jon then started paying special attention to her nub, and each time he flattened her tongue over it, Sansa moaned with zeal.
Jon was placating a need she did not know ached so badly. Sansa had no idea men did this to women, but she was not complaining. And as Jon continued his work, it all seemed to keep getting better and better, as though she was climbing up towards something. Every once in and while Jon used a finger to aid her in her pleasure. To Jon, she tasted sweeter than he could have ever imagined. She was heaven in literally every way, and he could not get enough. He sucked and penetrated, working on a masterpiece of art, the art of Sansa’s release.
Sansa mewled and tugged at his hair. She felt as though she could not stand another second. But then, it all suddenly went white in Sansa’s eyes. Her back arched off her cushions, but Jon kept his genuine focus on her. He drove her through the first real peak of her life. Jon loved her taste. He loved to see the small movements in her facial muscles, or at least the ones he could see from his position. Jon loved that he could make her feel good. Maybe they would regret it later, but they already concluded that did not matter. Jon worked on trying to bring her back to the drop-off again. Make her feel an explosion in her body again. By sucking on her clit and placing a finger inside her. But Sansa didn’t just want his fingers. She wanted a different piece of him inside of her.
Dead tomorrow or not, Jon would be the last man she had inside her. He might be her brother, but Sansa needed him inside of her. Jon Snow would be a man she chose to fuck. He would be the real salve to make the memory of Ramsay disappear from her body.
She undoubtedly knew that she would always remember the men who used her. Hurt her. But she was going to relish in this rapture. She was going to feel someone good pump inside of her. Make her feel good, to feel so fulfilled, that it was practically punishing. Sansa needed Jon to do this for her.
She couldn’t have her parents back. She couldn’t have Robb, Arya, or Bran back. They would try to get Rickon, but she truly believes he is already dead. Jon was the only person left, and she wanted him in the most forbidden way.
I am asking my brother to give me everything that is left. For my home. For my revenge. For my pleasure.
While moaning from Jon’s great attentiveness, she got up to lean on her elbows. She tried tugging Jon up to meet with her, but he was too busy working away at her cunt to notice the erotic pull of his hair. It was as though she was trying to pull a starved man away from food. He was nose deep, trying to help her peak again and again. But he was having similar thoughts about her. Jon thought about what he was doing; still, he didn’t care at this moment that he had his tongue in between her folds. Shame would soon arrive because of the damn honor his father gave him. Lord Eddard was probably already rolling in his grave now. Those thoughts could not sway him. The only thing that would move him was the aggressive taps he got on the shoulder from the woman above him.
He looked up at her to see her exultant face. Jon knew she was not happy, with their racing thoughts fighting against them, but she rewarded him with an intoxicated grin. Her eyes displayed a yearning urgency. He uncurled his hands from around her thighs so she could take them off his shoulders. He kissed her cunt a few more times till he placed his hands on either side of her to meet her face. Jon rested his forehead against her own for a second until he kissed her. Jon let her taste herself by opening his mouth to her. He let her devour him now, letting the sweet taste of her pass from his lips to hers. The particular tang surprised and excited her. Sansa’s hands immediately flew to the ties of his breeches.
She fumbled with the laces yet worked through them. Jon was on top of her kissing her in jubilance. Loosened enough, her hand crawled inside his breeches and felt his magnificently-sized manhood, hard and pulsing. It was growing within her hand as she circled her fingers around it. Her wrapped fingers moved up and down the shaft a couple of times. These thrusts produced a hearty groan from Jon. He halted their kiss. He had to squeeze his eyes shut and hold his breath above her. Sansa smiles up at him. She liked that it was his turn for his eyes to close in pleasure. Sansa put her other hand up to his face to have him look at her. Those powerful grey eyes slowly opened up to her. Jon’s eyes made her feel something she had not felt in years. Sansa felt like someone was looking at her, not what she represented or had to give. Jon's eyes were something unto themselves. During this intense stare, nothing needed to be said. Jon and Sansa communicated their trust, their hope, and their sins.
They continued the silence as Jon balanced one-handed and slip his trousers and small clothes down a bit. Enough for Sansa to see and have full use of his member. Her eyes widened, and she forgot herself as she commented, “Jon, I don’t know if it will fit.”
Jon shut his eyes again and bit his lip. He was trying so hard not to laugh. He did not know the sizes she had seen before, but Jon took a little pride in that comment. Any man probably would. Jon also knew, personally, that she was slick enough to take it in, but again, he was not going to do anything that would make her uncomfortable.
Jon let go of his lip and responded, “We can go as slow as you need. You have complete control over me.” He meant that in the physical and emotional sense. Sansa recognized that. It boosted her confidence enough that she was willing to continue. She lined up his cock with her folds. Sansa looked at where the two of them were about to join. Jon helped her slip himself inside her with a small thrust. She was ready for him, but not as ready as she found herself when she found her walls completely stretched. Sansa angled herself more, signaling Jon to slowly pushed himself in further.
“Oh gods,” was all she could muster while Jon grunted in response. Her eyes flashed back to meet his, storm grey, cerulean blue.
She was tight, and he was firm. Their bond was the most pleasurable experience they had yet to enjoy in each of their lives. Jon set the pace, but Sansa followed it as she wrapped her legs in a vice grip around his firm arse. Her ankles were digging into the firmed orbs of his cheeks. He slowly went in and out, not pushing into her all the way. Fully aware that she had another man go too harsh, too quick. The pace was melodic and slow. It drove them both wild. They never stopped staring into each other. They knew where it was all headed. When he pushed fully inside of her, to be fully enveloped by her, she gasped for air. Sansa gripped him with her nails digging relentlessly into his muscular back. Jon was pulled taut with the purpose of trying not to spend himself within the first minute of being inside this gorgeous woman.
His brow furrowed as he could not take this leisurely, slow pace and sped up his thrusts. Sansa did not object but encouraged him with her continual cries of gratification. She said his name over and over again. He kissed her all over, firmly and aggressively, making sure she was real. They were together, intoxicated by this feeling of each powerful thrust. They were just two lonely people, partially dressed, in the throes of passion. The tent sounded of slick flesh slapping and guttural moaning. Not since they left Winterfell all those years ago, did they feel such a sense of belonging.
They were brother and sister. The bastard and the disgraced lady. Jon and Sansa. Nobody wanted them. The Northerners wanted Robb, Father, or even Bran and Rickon. Davos wanted Stannis. Brienne wanted Catelyn. The Wildlings wanted Mance. But the world was locked out of this moment. In their minds, nobody but Jon and Sansa existed. Jon took his lips off her to look into her eyes as her body naturally tightened around his member. Sansa, shifted by the pleasure, tightened her legs around his hips to help him hit what was inside her deeper. Sansa pulled the back of his tunic up so she could revel in the feeling of his skin. Her nails dug deeper, leaving crescent moons-shaped cuts.
She was beautiful to him, her hair was fire, and her eyes stupefied him. Her dress and corset prevented him from exploring all of her body. It was still bunched around her ribs and waist. He wanted nothing more than to study every inch of her. Jon was fascinating to her too. He was a man built to perfection, covered in muscle but still a lean man who did not rely on strength alone. Jon was proving his agility with every plunge of his cock. She wanted to imagine how he could lift her, hold her. Their thoughts were dangerous to any future they hoped to have inside the walls of Winterfell. Would it all be better if this truly was their last night of knowing one another? The last Starks would finally die, and the pain they had amassed over the years would just melt off their corpses.
The rhythm of the thrusts and the intense eye contact were hypnotic to them. Their thoughts made it so much more bewildering. Then Jon’s mind would flashback to the idea of pulling out of her soft cunt. It held him so well, but he could not spill in this forbidden place. It was already a disgrace for him to be balls deep inside of her, but the thought of him disgracing her to that extent would possibly destroy him. She will not have her brother’s bastard. Yet, with each squelch their bodies made, he began to forget what he must do. Her whimpers were making it so hard, and she moved one arm to wrap around his neck. As the apex of Jon’s stamina drew near, he started to pull out of her. But he was stopped and pushed back into her because he did realize Sansa was trying to grip him harder. Somehow her legs were tighter than ever around him, and she kept their hips connected. Jon tried to move from her grip, but it was no use. She positioned it all to be this way. Jon’s head fell between her head and shoulder. In her ear, Jon pleaded, “Sansa,” in protest.
Sansa whispered, “Jon,” to him, but she did it breathier, in a tone that meant no. No, she wasn’t going to let him pull out of her.
He continued, “Sansa, I can’t. I have to-” he tried to challenge her, but Jon knew he was losing. He tried lifting his head to look at her.
Sansa had tears welling in her eyes again. Not happiness this time but desperation. “Do not leave. Don’t leave me. Do not die tomorrow. Stay with me. I need you.” Jon did not have the words to respond to that. But he listened to her. Her arm around his neck and the power of his release made him practically collapse on top of her. Sansa wanted him to spend inside of her. She made it impossible for him to leave her. So he didn’t. Jon thrust through, leaving ropes upon ropes of seed inside her. Sansa felt the sheer pressure of it all and fell over the edge with Jon. Falling into a pit that she could not describe as anything besides the seventh heaven. Jon was not to leave her cold and empty. He was going to hold her, so that is what he did. He kissed her and then just rested his forehead on top of hers. Even though they were still wearing most of their clothes, they never felt so connected to another person before. He let go inside of her and filled her, not just with seed but with a promise. Survival was the only option for tomorrow.
They felt so dazed by the euphoria that sleep began making their eyes so unbelievably heavy. They slept without another word. The last feeling Sansa remembered was the utter loss of him slipping out of her.
Sansa believed that’s what woke her. Not the breaking of dawn, not the bumbling of the camp but the fact she felt so empty without him in between her legs. When she opened her eyes, Jon was gone. Nothing to even suggest he had laid with her in this tent. The only evidence was her ripped stockings and the blanket he pulled over her. He was gone. It all settled in, he was here, and now he was gone. The promise was there, but what if he never came back?
She wanted him again already. Sansa wanted him to come back. She wanted nothing but to have them both feel whole again. Sansa knew only one thing out there would ensure that she got Winterfell, the North, and Jon back.
I must find Littlefinger.