Chapter Text
While waiting for Sansa to continue her interrogation, Jon can think of only one thing: why didn’t she answer his question?
If she always sleeps without small-clothes, that could include naps. Thinking he wouldn’t join her after all, she might’ve removed them out of habit and now fears he’d see that as encouragement to do things she wants to save for their wedding night.
Unless…
When women want him, they do what they can to take him, but Sansa’s not like the others. Is she waiting for him to–
“Why did you insist on staying?”
Jon shakes his head to disperse the tantalizing images of lifting her skirts and finding bare skin beneath. “What?”
“After I told you it wasn’t your bed. Why did you insist on staying? Did you tell the truth before?”
He can’t for the life of him remember what he said before, has to squeeze his eyes shut and think. The memory of his stupid mouth saying stupid things slams into him. He groans, inwardly. Out of all the things he could’ve said, why in all the seven hells did he say that?
“I know you don’t want her,” Sansa says. “I know pleasure can be… tempting.”
Jon’s ears perk up. Pleasure? Tempting? Does she find pleasure tempting? Or is she referring to his dumb fucking blathering on about starving men eating what they’re served. Perhaps he could–
“But,” Sansa continues, “was avoiding temptation the only reason?”
Avoiding temptation, she says, when she’s the true temptation, lying all warm and soft in his arms and smelling better than anything.
“Jon?”
It takes him a beat to remember the question–and when he does, he rolls his shoulders at the discomfort. No, it wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth’s so embarrassing heat spreads within–and not the good kind of heat. He’s glad he’s behind her, then, glad for the dark hiding him and making the truth easier to share.
“The state I was in,” he all but whispers. “Anyone could’ve done anything to me. I felt... unsafe and there was only one person in the whole keep I trusted.”
“You trust me?”
A breath rushes out of him at her question, at the gentleness in her voice. He didn’t think she’d mock him, of course he didn’t, he didn’t think she’d scoff and push him out of the bunk, but relief loosens the tension from his body all the same.
“You know I do,” he says, resting his forehead against her back.
“You didn’t always.”
“No. But I do now. Don’t you trust me?”
“More than anyone.” Sansa lifts his hand to her lips and kisses his knuckles. “Is that the whole truth? I’m asking because…”
She gives his knuckles another kiss before cuddling his hand to her chest as if it were a doll, and he’d like nothing more than to rip the corset off her so he could feel the curves of her breasts against his arm. Does she think about it too? How intimate this is? What can she feel through that thing? If he dragged his nail over–
“Well,” she says, “you seemed very set on our sharing a bed.”
“Er…” He chuckles, quietly. “I really wanted to hold you. I’ve missed it too. Sharing a bed. But I wasn’t hoping something would happen.”
“No?”
“I wasn’t thinking at all, really. Thought you had a nightmare and I was–” Scrunching up his face, he cringes. “Is it awful to say I was happy? Because it meant I could comfort you. And once I had that thought in my head, it was difficult to give up. I’ve dreamed of it. For eighteen months, I’ve dreamed of it.”
“That long?”
“Started in the cell. I was angry and lonely. Kept having conversations in my head with you and Tyrion and Sam and Arya. A lot of people. But at night, when I lay down, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the times you came to my bed. Kept imagining you were there with me. That you’d come to me in the night, crawled into my bed, and…”
Held him. Let him lay his head on her chest. Combed her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. Something he’d never experienced and his body craved nonetheless. Whenever the crown or his guilt are too heavy, whenever everything’s too much, it still craves it. Yearns for it. Needs it, really, to be met with love and care instead of derision when he’s feeling small and exposed and inadequate. But he’s already admitted he felt unsafe at Seakeep, can’t admit all this as well, just wants her to understand, somehow, so he doesn’t have to say it.
“I wanted to hold you,” he says, instead. “So, I was happy that you’d had a nightmare. As awful as that sounds.”
“Hm. It’s a bit awful, I suppose, but… It’s wonderful too.”
“More wonderful than awful?”
“Yes,” she says, a smile in her voice. “What you said this morning, about my keeping my chamber? I don’t want that. I want to share.”
“Aye, I got that.” Grinning, he burrows closer. “Since you want to share a bed every night, it’s only practical to share a chamber as well.”
He feels her body moving when she laughs and her laughter still feels like such a rare thing, he has to see it. Her mouth open and curved happily, her eyes creasing with joy. With a light tug on her shoulder, he motions her to roll over on her back. Then, supported on one forearm, he gazes down at her. Only a little light reaches them in here, but it’s enough to soak up her smile. Enough to know where to move his lips to kiss her cheeks, her nose, her mouth.
“Jon?” she asks, between his kisses. “There’s something I’ve been wondering…”
He stops his loving onslaught to aim a look of disbelief at her. Has she saved up every question she’s ever wanted to ask him for this moment? When he’s kissing her?
No, she’s tugging at the reins before they get carried away. As she should. She wants to save it all for their wedding night–and he needs to behave. Avoid temptation– No, that would mean leaving this bunk. Resist temptation. Aye, that’s it.
“What?” he says, stroking her cheek, tenderly. “What have you been wondering?”
She flutters her lashes, sweetly. “What is the most appealing thing about me?”
“What?”
“When I said the most appealing thing about me is that I’m related to two kings, you disagreed. But you never elaborated. Rather rude of you.”
Jon breathes out in a laugh. “I don’t know,” he says, curling a strand of her hair around his finger. “Everything?”
“Everything.” She gives him a blank stare. “Really.”
“I think so.”
“You can’t do better than that?”
“Thought you didn’t need me to be a poet.”
“Not asking you to be a poet. I only wanted to know what you found appealing about me. Besides the way I look.”
Jon tucks the curl of hair behind her ear and pulls back with a thoughtful hum, his hand now resting on her stomach. “I really like your confidence and how you never fish for compliments.” When she lets out an affronted gasp, he just grins, nuzzles his head into the crook of her neck, and kisses her warm skin until she giggles. He loves the sound of it, how novel it is, loves the feel of her stomach twitching against the palm of his hand with each giggle.
“Sansa?” He leaves her neck to look into her eyes, his fingers drawing circles across her belly. “Do you still want to name your daughter Anemone?”
“Don’t you mean our daughter?”
“Aye,” he says, and he knows he’s beaming when her glittering eyes reflect his happiness, even in this faint light. “Our daughter.”
“I haven’t thought about it in a long time. We’ll see. We haven’t even–”
“Made her yet?” his lips say on their own.
She gives him a light slap on the arm. “We haven’t even married.”
“We will. The moment we’re home. We’ll get Wolkan and Davos and go straight to the godswood.”
Her nostrils flare with a measured breath. “I might not need a proper proposal, but I want a proper wedding. This is the first time I’m willingly– Oh. You’re teasing me.”
“Aye. I’m teasing. I want a proper wedding as well. Need one too. I am a king.”
It’s only when she doesn’t retaliate, when all she does is staring up at him with wide eyes, that Jon notices that his fingers no longer draw circles over her belly. They’re mapping out the sharp hill of her hipbone, so very close to a valley he's yet to explore. As if he’s so eager to make their daughter now, he can’t wait for their wedding night like she wants.
Like he wants. He does. All right, his body has a different idea, but his body’s not the ruler of him and he makes it lie down on his back and fold his arms beneath his head.
“How much time do we need?” he asks. “To plan our wedding.”
“Three months, at least, but...”
She snuggles closer and pillows her head on his shoulder so carefully, it feels like a question. When he answers it by moving his arm to wrap around her and keep her where she is, he feels her relaxing with a sigh. She even rests a hand on his chest and wraps her leg over his thigh and he can’t help but wonder whether that’s a question too. The same question he’d like to ask her: do you want to save everything for our wedding night?
When she lay still beneath his touch, was it because the touch was unwanted or because she wanted to see where his hand would wander–
“Three months is a long time,” Sansa says. “If we send invitations within the next few days, I do believe two months could work. It should give people enough time to make whatever arrangements they need and travel as well. I don’t want to wait too long.”
She doesn’t?
Is she eager to be wed–or to be wed and share a bed? Our bodies, she said. And when they kissed earlier, when she wrapped a leg around him and got awfully close–
“I need fabric for my dress, but whatever they have in White Harbor will do. I’ll find something. Blue, perhaps. I haven’t thought about what I’d like in a wedding dress since I was a little girl and my taste has changed since then. Nothing gold or white, at least. I know that.”
Jon hums, glancing down at her leg slung over his thigh. Maybe he wasn’t the one who tugged her leg up to his hip when they slept. Maybe that was all her.
Heart beating a little faster, Jon lays a hand on her thigh just to see how she’ll react.
“Suppose that rules out a Thumb Creature dress,” he says, hoping she can’t hear the nervous tremble in his voice or how his palm has started to sweat because she’s neither moved away from his touch nor brushed away his hand.
“Wood anemones,” she says, tapping a finger against his chest at each syllable. “It’s not a terrible idea. White and gold, yes, but if the dress is green…” As if his chest were paper and her finger a charcoal stick, she starts sketching her design as she speaks. “Green dress. White embroidery. Floral. And, perhaps, you can give me a golden crown? Now that you wear one.”
Jon laughs. “Suppose I’ll have to. You’ll be a queen.”
Should he try to tug up her dress a little? What if the fabric’s trapped between their legs and only yanking will free it? Would that seem too violent? Would it rip apart this cozy little cocoon they’ve created inside her bunk and drive her back to the bench?
She does talk a lot for someone desiring something else. Unless she’s talking to hide how she’s longing to feel his touch on her body. Or even his mouth. Has she thought about it? His mouth on her.
He has. He’s thought about it a lot.
“I wonder how people will react,” Sansa says. “Lady Ryder seemed to expect it. And Jessamyn… She feared it. It’s why she got so desperate. She can’t’ve told Melisia about her suspicions, though. It never felt as though she saw me as a rival. Not even this morning. She even asked me to speak to you. About her. She hadn’t let go of hope yet.” Sansa sighs. “I’d feel so stupid, if I were her. She’ll probably be happy to leave the North once she learns.”
Jon removes his hand from Sansa’s thigh and takes her hand instead, holding it close to his heart. This isn’t the time. She needs his ears, not his mouth unraveling her.
“You liked Melisia, didn’t you?” he asks.
“I’m sure most do.”
“But you think she could’ve been a friend.”
“We’re in love with the same man. We could’ve never been friends.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Being too pretty?”
“I’m sorry it turned out the way it did. Still think you need a lady-in-waiting or two.”
“It’ll be easier once we’re wed. I won’t have to fear proposals. Nor will I have to fear someone befriending me in hopes of becoming your queen. Suppose some might befriend me in hopes of becoming your lover, but I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to attempt what Melisia attempted. If I found a lady naked in the bed I share with my husband…? I wouldn’t be very kind.”
“No, she’d suffer the wrath of Sansa Stark.”
“Yes, she would,” Sansa whispers, hugging him tightly.
She doesn’t tell him he’s hers, only hers, but he feels the possessiveness in her hug, and it stretches his smile from ear to ear. “Doubt you’ll have to worry about anyone seducing me. By now people should know better than to make Sansa Stark their enemy. She always wins…”
Jon feels his smile fading. She didn’t this time. Win. Aye, she got him, but she didn’t win him. She didn’t so much as try.
“What is it?” She lifts herself up a little and looks at him. “You went quiet.”
“I don’t know,” he mumbles with a shrug.
She cups his cheek, stroking her thumb over his beard. “Don’t do that. Please? Tell me.”
“Just…” Another shrug, corners of his mouth downturned. “Why didn’t you fight for me?”
“I fight for you every day. Everything I did this morning, everything I did last night, I did for you.”
“That’s not what I meant. You were jealous, weren’t you? Of her. When I danced with her. It’s why you left for the balcony, isn’t it.”
“I thought you were falling for her.”
“But there was no… wrath.”
“You expected wrath? Actual wrath?”
“I’m not saying I expected you to claw her eyes out or…”
When he closes his eyes, old nightmares dance in the nothingness. Nightmares that left him well over a year ago, of hungry flames and blistering flesh and a horrifying fate he ensured would never happen.
“What did you expect, then?” Sansa asks, so soft and warm in his arms. So alive.
He holds her a little closer. “I don’t know,” he whispers, voice too hoarse to carry. “Another woman made eyes at me and you did nothing. A bit surprising, is all.”
“You weren’t mine.”
“You could’ve fought for me.” His hold on her loosens a touch all of its own, his gaze turning to the dark instead of her. “If you wanted me, you could’ve fought for me. But you just gave up.”
As if you don’t want me badly enough.
“I did want you. But I didn’t think you wanted me. I thought you wanted her. I thought she was making you happy. You looked happy. And you didn’t. Last time. With...”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know. But around Melisia, you did look happy and… It hurt, seeing you with her. It did. But in what way would ruining your happiness make anything better? You don’t do that to someone you love.” Gentle fingers find his cheek and with the lightest touch encourage him to look at her. When he complies, he finds so much love in her eyes he barely remembers why he felt so sullen. “All I want for you is happiness,” Sansa says. “You deserve to be happy.”
Happy? She cares about what makes him happy? What he wants?
“Jon?” A crease of concern forms between her brows. “Are you all right?”
He hears airy laughter bubbling out of him. All right? He’s… He has no words for what he’s feeling, can only cup the nape of her neck, bring her mouth to his, and show her. He kisses her until he feels drunk from it, his head so blissfully empty his body takes over. Suddenly, she’s on her back while he’s atop her, his hips nestled between her legs, and he has no idea how they ended up like that. Whether he flipped her or she rolled over and pulled him with her. Or maybe they moved as one. He only knows he’s exactly where he wants to be, knows he’s kissing her with wild abandon because no one’s ever loved him like this before.
She loves him. Sansa loves him–and wants him too. Even though she must feel how much he desires her, she’s not pushing him away or turning stiff in his arms. She’s returning his kisses with equal passion, her hands tangled in his hair and her legs wrapped around his waist as if they’re–
Our bodies, she said.
Jon’s hand returns to her thigh, slips under the bunched up fabric, travels higher and higher and higher until he reaches her hip. Her naked hip.
She hasn’t stopped him.
He releases her lips with a wet pop and looks down at her, panting. Her eyes dark and hungry, her mouth half-open and panting too, instead of offering an explanation about her missing small-clothes. But then she’s already told him, hasn’t she? She’s told him without telling him. The way a lady would.
Still. He has to make sure.
“Do you…” Jon closes his dry mouth, swallows. “Do you want to save all of it for our wedding night?”
It’s almost imperceptible, but he does catch it. The tiny shake of her head.
“Then…” He rubs his thumb over the soft skin in the crease between her thigh and the place he’s dying to kiss. “What do you want to do?”
Biting her lip, Sansa gives a small shrug. Hands the reins to him, he thinks, and what a good thing that is. With a low growl rumbling in his throat, he descends on her, spreading kisses from her lips to her neck, to the hollow of her throat, to every inch of skin above her modest neckline until her breathing is jagged and fast, and her body moves restlessly against his. Like it did in the wood.
Oh, she wants him, all right. Smiling, Jon kisses his way to her ear. “There’s something I think would make you happy,” he murmurs, feeling her shiver when his lips brush against her earlobe. “I could do that. I’d love to do that.”
“What?”
He’s barely gotten the words out before Sansa sucks in a sharp breath and leans her head back, gaping at him.
“With your mouth?”
Jon bursts out laughing, can’t help it, not when she’s looking at him as if he suggested he stop the wheelhouse again, carry her outside, and pleasure her in front of their whole retinue for coin.
“Why are you laughing?”
“You’re funny.”
“Not intentionally,” she says, but she looks so adorably grumpy it only makes him laugh even more. “Stop it.”
Pouting, she attempts to swat at his chest, but he catches her hand and brings it to his chest, to a heart so full he can’t contain it.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.”
A breathy, “Oh,” escapes her and he feels such a fool for not understanding it sooner. How much she loves him. He can feel it, feel it in his whole body, and it makes his desire to bury his head between her thighs that much stronger.
“Would you like me to?” he asks, not caring in the least that his voice trembles with eagerness.
“You were being serious?”
Jon nods.
“And you… want to do that?”
“I’d love to. Dreamed of that for a while now too.”
She’s gaping again, but he could swear there’s an excited flush to her cheeks.
“Yes?” he whispers, moving slowly down her body while keeping his gaze locked with hers, searching for any sign of discomfort, but she’s only craning her neck to watch his descent, her chest still heaving with breaths and her lips still parted.
Once he’s arrived, he stills, resting his hands on her bent knees. The dress is gathered at her hips, draped over her most private place, leaving it in shadow. After kissing first her left knee and then her right, he gives the inside of her knees a light push; she lets them fall to the side, opening herself up to him.
Still looking into her eyes, he ghosts his fingers up and down her thigh while gathering the hem of the dress in his free fist. Then he waits. A shuddering breath leaves her. She licks her bottom lip. Bites it. Releases it with another shuddering breath. Nods her consent.
With a grin he hopes looks as wolfish as it feels, Jon folds the fabric to lie over her waist. Only then does he look down.
Oh. She’s bare and beautiful and glistening in the scant light. As eager to be tasted as he’s eager to taste.
“Sansa,” he says. “I’m about to make you so happy.”
He’s all around her, one arm her pillow, the other holding her so close to him he wonders whether she can feel his heart beating against her back. With his nose, he nudges her hair out of the way so his lips can trail kisses along her neck. So he can feel her shivering with pleasure. When he reaches her jawline, she turns around and kisses him back with lips that don’t taste of him like his do of her. She offered, shyly. Asked him to teach her. But the thought of it was so overwhelming, he feared he’d make a mess all over her face before her lips had so much as touched him. So he shook his head, lay down by her side, and guided her hand instead while kissing her languidly and lovingly until he was spent.
They drifted off after that, together, and now they’re waking up the same. He smiles into the kiss. This will be their life now. Well, once they marry. Until then, they’ll have to sleep apart, refrain from cuddling on the couch in their solar where Davos or Wolkan could show up at any moment, stop any impulse to kiss when Jon’s fairly certain he’ll want to kiss her all the time (and everywhere too).
“I can’t wait,” he whispers and nuzzles her nose. “I can’t wait to marry you.”
“I can’t wait, either,” she whispers back. “I’ve waited for you for so long already.”
He feels his smile growing and that’s not good. He can’t walk around beaming like an idiot. People will wonder what’s gotten into him. They’ll whisper and speculate and then it won’t matter how well he and Sansa behave.
“We should probably announce it tomorrow,” he says. “Start planning it tomorrow. Perhaps, if it’s all we do for a week, we can get it down to one month?”
Her tongue peeks out between her teeth when she grins at him. “Oh, you really can’t wait?”
“No, I really can’t. Can you?”
She shakes her head. “We’ll announce it tomorrow. Spend all week planning it. It might mean fewer guests, though."
"I don't care."
"Me neither," she murmurs, beaming.
Once they’ve helped one another look presentable again, even though he’d love to cuddle the rest of the way home, they return to their respective seats. A quick search among the books yields one he’s never read before, while she chooses the knitting.
“Want me to read to you?” He shows her the title. “Would it make you happy.”
Sansa lowers the knitting, smiling at him. “You don’t have to spend every moment of every day making me happy.”
“Not every moment of every day, no. I am a king. Rather busy.” Jon rubs his jaw. “And if I spend all day doing that, my jaw will lock.”
“Jon!”
“What?” He looks at her, as innocent as a lamb. “You can’t claim it didn’t make you happy. Sounded like you were having the time of your life back there.”
The blood drains from her face. Horrified, Sansa leans forward and whispers, “Was I loud?”
“No,” he says. “No, you weren’t. You mostly gasped and whimpered.”
The color returns to her cheeks in a haste. She lifts her chin, one eyebrow arched, as if that would hide how beautifully she blushes.
“Well,” she says, “you panted and grunted. Like a hog.”
“Aye, I did. Most beautiful woman in the realm had her hand around my cock. What man wouldn’t pant and grunt then?”
She blinks, all scandalized lady for half a breath before she gathers herself. “The mouth on you.”
“Thought you liked my mouth.”
When she sucks in a gasp, touching her chest and all, and glances left and right as if fearing half the retinue heard them, guilt softens his cockiness.
“Is it too much?” he asks, quietly. “This kind of flirting. Do you dislike it?”
Lips pursed, she regards him for a beat. It could’ve worried him, could’ve sent a wave of shame to replace the confidence their moment in the bunk instilled, but he’s starting to understand the true meaning of her looks. And this one tells him she enjoys it, even if she can’t admit it out loud yet. It’s the look she has whenever she’s about to give him a playful swat on the arm for being so impertinent, because she can't do what she really wants to do. Or couldn't, anyway. She can now--and would like to as well--but to reach him, she’d have to climb on top of the chest and from there he could grab her and pull her onto his lap and then she’d be all tousled again when a look out the window tells him they’re half an hour from home.
“I’ll only talk like this when we’re alone,” he says. “I have some manners.”
“I should hope so.” She narrows her eyes at him, but they’re not icy with disapproval but warm with love. “Read.” She nods at the book. “Please.”
“I do aim to please.”
“Aim to tease, rather.”
Jon just grins, and starts to read.
Returning home’s always the same. Jon and Sansa part, bathe, dress, and sup. Separately. As ruler of their castle, Sansa sups with their two stewards in the small dining chamber. As ruler of the North, Jon sups with Davos and Wolkan in his office. Despite how everything is different now, tonight remains unchanged.
Well. Jon has to drag his mind from inappropriate thoughts much more often, but other than that…
Once Davos and Wolkan are done filling him in and Jon’s read all the ravens he’s missed, they’re half an hour from midnight. Sansa must be abed already. Perhaps abed in nothing but a nightrail, waiting for his knocking on her door.
“That all?” he says, the need to run to her chamber so strong he can’t stand still, can’t stop his hands from flexing with impatience.
Davos leans in closer, his whole face full of crinkles from his wide grin. “Is it?”
“What?”
“There’s something about His Grace this evening. Isn’t there, maester?”
Wolkan blinks, looking less like a highly educated and respected maester and more like a stable boy asked to recite the words of every great House of Westeros when he’s received not a single lesson on the subject.
“Well… Er…” He gulps. “I must say His Grace looks to be in excellent spirits.”
“Oh, I should say so. I’d even go so far as to say he’s in the very best of spirits! And will Your Grace, perhaps, share with us the reason for this sudden but welcome lack of brooding?”
“I don’t brood.”
“Less so the past year, aye, that’s true enough. But there’s always something brooding about you. Unless you’ve had a lot of ale. And I suppose you and Lady Sansa could’ve spent the journey home drinking a lot of ale, but His Grace neither slurs nor stumbles, does he, maester?”
“Well”--Wolkan tucks his hands into his sleeves, head ducked–”the king does look entirely sober to my eye.”
“To his professional eye,” Davos says, his own eyes sparkling with mirth. “Now, go on, Your Grace. We’re all ears.”
Once Jon finally manages to tear himself from the office, it’s really much too late to go knocking on anyone’s door, let alone a lady’s; still, he listens to his heart instead of reason. Sansa’s waiting for him. He knows it, can so easily see her holding up her covers in a wordless invitation, and it hastens his steps until he’s close to flying down the hallways. Outside her chamber, he must force himself to knock and wait for an answer rather than bursting through the door, diving into her bed, and snuggle close.
Is it so strange, then, that he feels a fair bit disappointed when he does find her in bed–in nothing but a rather revealing nightrail, at that--but with needle and thread in hand, and that red blanket she often works on in the evenings draped over her lap?
“Your meeting ran late,” Sansa says. “Has something happened?”
After assuaging her worry with a shake of his head, Jon saunters closer to the bed. He’s never seen that nightrail before. He would’ve remembered a neckline that low. It would've followed him into his dreams.
“It is late. Really late. Were you”--he tears his eyes off the swell of her breasts–”waiting for me?”
“Yes.” She watches him with an amused quirk to her mouth. “On my way to my meeting, I saw you with Davos. You were walking across the courtyard together–and the way he was observing you? I assumed you’d stop by to let me know he managed to coax something out of you.”
“What if I just wanted to see you?”
“Are you telling me Davos didn’t manage to coax something out of you?”
With a laugh, Jon sits down on the edge of her bed. “No, he did. He could tell something had happened and wouldn’t let up. I know I could’ve told him to leave it, but...”
“I understand. He loves you. As if you were his. Of course you wanted to tell him.” Eyes trained on a half-finished silver trout, she resumes embroidering. “How did he react?”
“He asked me what brought on this decision. Told him this pretty lady at the feast really wanted me and you got so jealous, you decided to make it clear who I belonged to.”
Sansa’s hand stills. Slowly, she moves her attention from blanket to Jon. “For your sake, I hope you’re teasing me.”
“Aye, I’m teasing you.”
“You’ve done that a lot today.”
“I enjoy it.”
“Why?”
He shrugs, smile lopsided and just a little bit smug. “Because you get this look. Always did. Just didn’t know until today that it means you want to kiss me. You have it now. That look.”
As if her lips are too busy fighting a smile to speak, she gives him only a, “Mhm,” and returns her eyes to the embroidery.
“I didn’t tell him any of it,” Jon says. “What happened last night. Or today. Told him we’ve decided to marry because we want to. That’s all he needs to know.”
“That must’ve made him curious.”
“No, he knew. He just laughed at me, pulled out that list of his, and tossed it into the hearth. Said he’s been hoping to burn it ever since he started working on it. Apparently, he’s been waiting for me to get my head out of my arse, but after your nameday feast, he feared I wouldn’t. Not without some prodding.”
“That’s why he keeps bringing up marriage? To provoke a reaction.” Sansa heaves a sigh, which makes not ogling her breasts quite the challenge, but Jon locks his eyes on her face like a good little boy. “I’ve been so rude to him when he’s only been trying to help.”
“You’ve had good reason to react the way you have. He knows that. You’re family to him too, Sansa.” When she looks unconvinced, Jon scoots a little closer. “You should’ve seen him. Once the list was burning, he gave me a hug and…” Jon smiles at the memory, at the warmth that spread within when Davos pulled back and patted him on the shoulder, tear-filled eyes and all. Like a proud father. “He couldn’t have been happier. Wolkan’s happy as well. He didn’t say much, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him beaming like that.”
Sansa smiles too, then. “That’s a good start.”
“Aye,” Jon says, nodding, and throws a furtive glance first at the blanket still draped over her lap, then at the empty space beside her he’s more than willing to fill. If only she’d ask him. “Er, told them we’d like to marry in a month. That we should start planning everything tomorrow. First thing. Announce it as well. Write ravens and all that. Wolkan’s already working on a speech for me. Said he’ll have it ready for my approval by breakfast.”
Quite on their own, Jon’s eyes dart back to the empty space that very soon will be his. Should he ask? No, she might feel obligated to invite him when she worries about being caught in a compromising situation. Jon forces his eyes to the blanket instead, indicating it with a nod.
“That for your uncle’s baby?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
Silent, Sansa keeps her scrutinizing eyes on him instead of the blanket, and Jon feels himself sweating beneath his layers.
“I think he’ll be happy as well. Your uncle. Davos said he noticed. At your nameday feast. That you and I, er… felt things. For each other. They spent all evening whispering about it.”
“I did notice the whispering. They encouraged you to ask me to dance. You were so nervous. You hadn’t danced in years.”
“That’s not why I was nervous.”
His confession colors her cheeks a lovely shade of pink and she’s so beautiful he aches to kiss her. But she’s still holding that bleeding needle, hasn’t left the bed to shove the blanket into her sewing basket. She keeps it all between them, the way a knight from a song puts a sword between him and his lady love when they must share a bed. To protect her honor.
Perhaps she didn’t choose this nightrail to entice him. Perhaps all her more modest nightrails are with the laundress.
Jon should leave, then, like the honorable man his uncle raised him to be, but this is the first time he’s looked toward the future and found a blue sky clear of dark and heavy clouds. There’s no threat looming at the horizon, no terrible cost waiting to be paid. Can Jon truly be faulted for wanting this day to last a little bit longer?
“Should go to White Harbor as soon as possible,” he says, just to keep the conversation going. “Look at fabrics. For your dress. Should-should I wear something new? Aye, I should.” He scratches his beard. “How long does it take to sew a–”
“Jon. You never talk this much if you can help it. Are you hoping I’ll invite you to stay?”
“Er,” he says, his traitorous face hot as guilt.
“You can. If you’d like.”
He tampers down his smile before he ends up grinning like a loon. “You sure? I know you worry about…” He gestures at the door. “Someone could walk past and hear us.”
“I see.” She looks him up and down. “You think sharing a bed means we’ll do something inappropriate?”
He practically feels his chin hitting his lap. “No. I…” He blinks. “I’d be happy to stay either way.”
When he notices the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, he knows he's the one being teased, now. She was waiting for him, hoping he’d stay and make her happy all over again. Just look at the nightrail she chose, when she so often opts for something more demure. As if she needs something like that to tempt him.
Not that he’s complaining.
When she starts securing the needle and folding the blanket carefully, Jon wastes no time. He’s out of his clothes and between the sheets before she’s finished tucking her work into the sewing basket and locking the door to her chamber.
“That was very quick,” she says, returning to bed.
He slaps a cocky grin on his face. “I’m a very quick man.” As Sansa joins him between the sheets, Jon’s words return to him. He’s a very quick man? Aye, what a bleeding brilliant thing that is to say to your future bride. He clears his throat and blurts, “I’m not quick when it comes to everything. I can last. If needed.”
Sansa looks at him, bemused. “What does that mean?”
“You know…”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have needed to ask.”
Jon gives a vague gesture with one hand. “It’s something men worry about. Spilling too quickly. Women like it when you can last.”
“They do? I find that very hard to belie–” Her mouth stills, eyes blinking, blinking. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
He must look as worried as he feels, though, most look as guilty as he feels for impatiently waiting for what she might be dreading, for she guides him to curl up next to her and rest his head on her shoulder as if to soothe that worry and guilt away. She even combs her fingers through his hair so lovingly his skin prickles with pleasure all over and his eyes nearly roll back in his head.
He could lie like this forever.
“I don’t know why I said that,” she murmurs. “I can believe it. What we’ve done so far…” Her hand joins his where it rests on her stomach, her fingers caressing his as if she’s remembering how it felt when he had them inside her. How she gasped at the strokes, and clenched around them when she peaked. “I think I’ll like it. Doing that. With you.”
“I hope so. But we’re not in a hurry. We’ll wait until you’re ready.”
“But I think I am. I want to. On our wedding night.”
“You’re not just saying that, are you? I’m happy to wait, if you need me to.”
“No. I hadn’t truly thought about it, that’s all. But now that I do… I don’t feel frightened. Not at all. It’s…” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “It’s a bit exciting.”
Jon exhales his relief, smiling. “We’ll go slow. And I’ll make you feel good first. And no bedding ceremony. I won’t let anyone touch you. If anyone so much as thinks about it, I’ll have Tormund knock them out.”
“Do you think he’ll be surprised? Once he learns. Or do you think we were the only ones who didn’t know?”
“You never suspected anything? Don’t think I’ve been that good at hiding it.”
“I did, sometimes,” she says. “But then you did or said something that made me dismiss it.”
“But you have suspected. And still…” Jon leaves the comfort of her shoulder to look at her as he speaks. “I understand why you didn’t fight. But why didn’t you at least ask before giving up?”
“But I didn’t give up. Not really. And I did ask. In a way. I encouraged you to dance with her. That wasn’t entirely selfless. I wanted to see your reaction. And what I saw renewed my hope. I even decided I’d give you a hint if you came to my chamber--and I did. I gave you a lot of hints.”
“If I hadn’t come, then, you would’ve, what, said nothing? Looked on while I chose some lady from Davos’ list and married her?”
“I used to think so. I used to think I’d leave without telling you why, but…” Sansa shakes her head. “I don’t think I would have. I don’t think I would’ve left Winterfell forever without first letting you know you had one more lady to choose from. In case I was lucky enough to be your choice.”
“You wanted me to choose,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
“Of course. I wouldn’t have forced you to marry me.”
No, not Sansa, he thinks, returning to her embrace, resting his cheek against the steady rhythm of her heart. She could’ve pressured him, used his feelings of guilt by pointing out he owes her his freedom and his crown, that Winterfell truly belongs to her, not him, and that by marrying her, he would make things right. She could’ve told him it’s what her father would’ve wanted, and that as her husband, Jon could keep his promise and protect her until the end of his days.
Sansa could’ve done what she needed to get what she wanted, no matter his feelings, but after everything she’s been through, everything people have done to her, she knows the importance of choice. She wouldn’t take that from him. Even if she wouldn’t be his.
“You went quiet again,” Sansa says, untangling a knot in his hair with fingers as gentle as her voice.
He nods to acknowledge her, so he can stay quiet a moment longer and gather his thoughts, sort them through, decide on what to share tonight and what to save for another night when they lie like this, all wrapped up in one another and whispering in the dim light.
“Not looked forward to much in my life,” he says. “Never been much to look forward to. Not since learning what a bastard was and what kind of life a bastard could expect. But a future with you, marriage and children and all of it…” Jon raises his head so she can see the sincerity in his eyes. “Choosing you, Sansa, it’s the best choice I ever made.”
At first she only stares at him. Then she shakes her head, her face is aglow with a joy he’s only ever seen glimpses of before he found her flowers and his bravery in a small stretch of wood and finally kissed her.
“You’re so stupid,” she whispers.
“For… choosing you?”
“No,” she says through a laugh, her eyes glittering with tears. “You couldn’t think of a single thing to say to propose to me. But all day, you’ve kept saying the loveliest things.” She shakes her head again and wipes away the tears that spilled. “I’ll try very hard to be a good wife to you. I promise.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to try very hard.”
“But what if I’m awful? What if we start fighting all the time? What if I drive you half mad by arguing too much and undermining you and, I don’t know, being an arse.”
Jon only laughs. Two years ago, he would’ve feared marriage with her as much as his heart secretly desired it. But it’s so different now. They’re different, both apart and together. Stronger, happier, a little closer to whole.
Some day he’ll tell her all of it. How the women who’ve claimed to love him truly treated him. How they only ever cared about their own wants, their own happiness. Sansa would rather see him happy with someone else than miserable with her, but they would’ve sooner chained him to a wall than let him go, and a girl found naked in his bed wouldn’t have lived to see dawn.
Some day he’ll tell Sansa he believed it meant they loved him so much more than he could ever love anyone. That he’s carried such guilt over it, it’s sometimes made him buckle beneath the weight of it. And that now, as he’s starting to understand what it is to love and be loved, the guilt is finally easing. Some day he’ll tell her, but not tonight. Tonight is only about them, he thinks, as he kisses his way down Sansa’s body. Tonight, he wants only to indulge in happiness.
Sansa wakes to sunlight spilling into her chamber and the lovely weight of Jon’s arm across her body. They have no sept bells here to tell the time, but she left the candle-clock burning all night. It’s early, still. They can enjoy some time together before she has to sneak him out of her chamber and erase any traces of his inappropriate presence.
“Jon,” she whispers. “Are you awake?”
“Barely.”
He’s hard, the way men are in the morning; she can feel it against her bottom. A naughty voice in the back of her mind urges her to reach behind her, slip her hand into his small-clothes, and wrap her fingers around him. Last night she did even more than that. But sleep stole her boldness and this stinging sunlight keeps it from finding its way back.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks instead.
With a hum, he nuzzles his face into her hair until it parts, his beard rasping against her skin. Kisses follow, trailing down her spine, until the bodice of her nightrail stops him.
“Once we’re wed”--he starts kissing his way back up–”will you sleep naked? Think about all the air it’ll get. Lungfuls of it.”
She laughs, quietly. “I think I can be persuaded to sleep naked, yes.”
When his kisses reach her neck, Sansa lifts her hair out of the way before it catches in his beard and becomes even more of a mess than it was yesterday morning. Although Minna didn’t ask and never would, her curious eyes were full of unspoken questions.
“This is why it was so tousled yesterday,” Sansa says. “You kept rubbing your face in my hair. If you keep doing that, Minna will catch on.”
“You smell good.” Jon breathes her in, deeply. “Better than anyone.”
“You only think that because you’re in love with me.”
When he chuckles against her skin, holding her so very firmly, she feels herself beaming like a silly little girl. But she’s not. Not anymore. She’s a woman who dreamed of her man all night and now needs him to be the bold one again. To touch and invite her to touch. Quickly too. Before the candle-clock burns too low.
Touch me, she thinks, pull up my nightrail and touch me. But Jon's no better at reading her mind today than he was yesterday. He just relaxes against her with a content sigh, finds her hand to hold, and starts talking again.
“Last night you said you’d leave. If I married someone else. Sounded as if you’ve thought about it. But then Sansa Stark would have a plan. What was it? Can’t imagine you’d return to King’s Landing.”
“No. I’d stay with my uncle.”
“To find a handsome southern lord and make him fall helplessly in love with you?”
“No,” Sansa says, resting her eyes on the basket with the red blanket. It stands in the river of sunlight flowing across the room, its single completed silver trout gleaming. “To be a septa. I would spend the rest of my life shaping my cousins into perfect little ladies.”
Jon’s quiet for far too long, his silence uncomfortable from what feels like pity, and that’s not what she wants from him. Why linger in the sadness of a bleak future she’ll never see when they could be happy, here and now? She snatches back just enough boldness to arch her back and push her bottom closer to him.
“What,” she says, all sweet and playful, “don’t you think a septa’s robe would suit me?”
He might not have been sharp yesterday, but now he catches on instantly and brings his lips close to her ear. “Bit difficult to imagine my wanton woman in a septa’s robe, yes.”
“I’m not wanton.”
“You are.” His breath is hot against her skin. “It’s one of the most appealing things about you.”
When she opens her mouth to retort, nothing comes out but a gasp for he flips her over on her back and fits himself between her legs that parted for him so quickly, so willingly she ought to scowl at him. But all she can do is melt beneath his gaze, melt in the shower of his kisses that rains down on her face and throat and chest.
All conscious thought leaves her mind, then, to give way for pleasure. It’s not until they’re cuddling again, damp with sweat and a little bit winded, that conscious thought returns. He’s so affectionate. Much more than she ever could’ve imagined. As if he’s been desperate to show her how he feels for so long it’s difficult to stop. Even now, as they’re curled up together and entirely satisfied, he’s buried his face in the crook of her neck and cupped his hand over her breast.
And yet all those months passed without him saying anything. Not until she took her hints and beat him over the head with them. What if she hadn’t? Where would they be, then?
“Jon?”
“I know.” He sighs. “It’s time.”
When he moves as if to leave, she pulls him back to her. “Not yet,” she whispers into his hair and he relaxes against her, his face returning to her neck and his hand to her breast. “I was wondering. What if I had lost hope? What if I’d decided to leave Winterfell and become a septa? Would you have let me leave without saying anything? Without doing anything?”
“I’m sure Davos would’ve pulled my head out of my arse with his own two hands before it went that far.”
“So you wouldn’t have said anything? On your own. Did it really never occur to you that, maybe, I felt the same?”
Jon pulls back a little and looks at her with soft, brown eyes, his hand moving to her cheek to caress it. “You kept saying you never wanted to be a wife. That you’d never marry again.”
“Yes, but only because there was only one man I wanted to marry and it never seemed as if he’d get his head out of his arse.”
Jon grins. “The mouth on you.”
Before she can think better of it, she snatches back even more of her boldness. “I thought you liked my mouth.”
Surprise knocks his grin off his face for barely a beat before it returns, bringing an adorable blush with it. “I do,” he says, brushing the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “I don’t think I could’ve. Let you leave. Not without asking why. And if we started talking about it…”
“The truth would’ve become clear.”
“If you left to become a septa because I was marrying someone else… I know I’m not clever when it comes to women, but that’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?”
“We would’ve ended up here anyway?”
“I think so. A bit later, that’s all.” He dips his head and kisses her again, slowly this time. “I have to go. Before we repeat yesterday morning.”
“And tonight?”
“I’ll sleep in your bed as often as you’ll let me.”
Sansa’s barely finished helping him look proper again before he winds his arms around her and gives her such a passionate kiss it feels like a desperate goodbye before a long separation, even though he’s only going one door down and they’ll see one another again in an hour, at breakfast.
Not that she’s complaining.
After finally tearing himself away and heading for the door, he pauses by the sewing basket. Since the wars ended, she’s sewed and knitted too many baby blankets to count–and always for other people’s children.
Jon says nothing, doesn’t need to. When they share a smile, Sansa knows they’re sharing a thought as well. On an impulse, she springs forward, tugs him closer by his doublet, and gives him a lingering kiss on the lips before unlocking her door and watching him sneak off.
In four moons time, they’ll travel south to hold the latest little Tully in their arms. But even if it’s a girl, Sansa won’t be her septa. She’ll be a wife, then–Jon’s wife–and the blanket she’ll occupy herself with during long days in the wheelhouse won’t be meant for someone else's child, and full of another House’s sigil. Sansa knows just how it'll look, can see it so clearly. Inspired by a conversation with her husband-to-be and the wedding dress she'll soon wear, it’ll be embroidered with a Stark grey wolf pup wearing a golden crown and sleeping sweetly among a sea of wood anemones, in a quiet northern wood, on a beautiful day in spring.
Smiling, Sansa moves to her desk, finds paper and a charcoal stick, and gets to work.