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welldonebeca · 2 years

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The Things We Do For Love (II)

Summary: There is nothing Theon wouldn’t do to make Sansa happy. Bringing the only other man she had ever loved into their marriage isn't the most absurd thing he would do for her. It starts with just producing an heir, but this time, duty might lose its battle to love. WC: 4.2k words Warnings: Fluff. Hurt/Comfort. Smut. Oral sex. Breeding Kink. Mutual pining. Dirty Talk. Squirting. Multiple orgasms.

Masterlist

Jon left alone days after Theon, with just his horse and Ghost on his heel on his way to Winterfell, leaving Tormund in charge and lying about where he was going, taking a quick route back home and using a secret entrance to the crypt.

Theon had promised Brienne would go every night after the castle was asleep to find him, until the day he did arrive, so he just sat and wait, leaving Ghost out of the castle.

The whole time, his mind was rushing, just as fast as his heart.

What the fuck was he doing?

This wasn't right. He could impregnate his sis-...

His cousin.

His whole life, Jon had told himself he would never have a bastard child.

He never planned to get married, so he would have no children.

And yet, here he was, making a child! With Sansa!

As he walked through the crypt, he passed by his family. His father... her father, after all. Lord Stark had just raised him.

His statue was standing right beside Lyanna's, his real mother.

Would they have wanted this for House Stark? So many secrets and hiding...

What troubled him more, was not giving Sansa children. No, he would do it every day, any day, any time she wanted.

Jon loved her. He'd loved her since he was old enough to understand what love was, since he was young, and she was the prettiest girl in the whole world - she still was.

And it hurt. It hurt more than the knives he took to his chest, more than being sucked back into life, thrown back into a world that was nothing but cruel to him.

She was the only good thing he had in this life. She was the woman he loved!

And she wasn't his. Sansa wasn't his wife, she was Theon's wife.

And the children he would give her would never be his children, they would be Theon's children.

Theon, with the easy laugh, who always watched her with as much love and desire as he did.

His blood boiled when he passed his father's crypt and saw Robb's.

Would things be different had he stayed and fought by his side?

Would he still be alive, and Sansa would be free and not as lonely as he knew she was?

Maybe Theon would have never betrayed him.

Sansa would have never married Tyrion, and would never have married Ramsay. No, she would be safe and sound with her family.

And she wouldn't be his.

Or maybe she would, after everyone found out who his real father was.

Maybe he would be King now, with her by his side, as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Young Sansa would love that.

But he hadn't fought by Jon's side, and everything that had happened, had happened.

Theon had paid his dues, he knew that and respected him for it.

He understood everything that Jon felt, and if he had to choose any man alive to raise his children, yes, he would choose him.

Theon was still his brother through it all.

Jon raised his hand to his face and pinched his nose.

He could tell the crypts were wearing on him, that it was bringing more feelings than what he was willing to confront.

He could almost imagine Robb's ghost telling him to kiss and make up with Greyjoy already.

Jon snapped out of his thoughts when he saw a light at the end of the hall, coming in his direction, and turned to it, moving in its direction.

"Lady Brienne," he spoke as her figure slowly revealed itself to him.

She had stayed behind as Sansa's loyal knight, now part of her Queensguard, after Podrick had lost to be part of Bran's Kingsguard.

"King Snow," she greeted him, looking at him as if to a friend she hadn't seen in a long time.

"Just Jon," he corrected her. 'Please."

She shook her head a little bit.

"You sound just like the queen," she remarked.

Brienne was very tall - he almost forgot how tall she was. Sansa was very tall too.

Jon couldn't help but wonder if his children would be as tall - or taller - than their mother. Maybe one day, in twenty years, he would have to raise his head high to look at his daughters' faces, towering over him.

He hoped - very much, and for many reasons - that they looked like Sansa.

The halls are dead silent as they walked through them, and Brienne stopped just as they reached the wing that was always used for their family.

"This is where I wait for you," she told him.

Jon nodded, though a little worried about the distance - or lack of it, to be most specific - between the knight and the room. She would be able to hear everything that happened inside.

But she was a Queensguard, and Sansa's most trusted knight. She would take her secrets to the grave.

He pushed the door open with hesitance, quickly seeing a flash of red hair as Sansa paced back and forth by the fire while Theon was sitting, just looking at her.

Her hair was longer than he remembered, flowing loose over her back. This was the first time he even saw her hair like this.

"You are here!" she exclaimed, eyes turning from worried to joyful.

"I told you," Theon said behind her.

Sansa just ignored him, running to Jon and into his arms, and he held her tightly as he caught her, breathing in her delicious scent.

"You smell like flowers," he realised.

Sansa stepped back from him, looking at his face with excitement all over his face.

"I got a shipment from Highgarden," she told him. "Soaps, oils, perfume... everything. Do you like it?"

He was just in awe of her smile. She looked so happy.

He would do anything to make her happy like this again, as many months as he'd need to do it if it made her shine like that.

"I love it."

She smiled shyly, cheeks flushing pink.

"Let me take your coat," she said quickly. "You must be sweating because of the fire."

Oh, yes, Jon was sweating, but it wasn't for the fire.

She helped him out of his outer layers gently whiled Theon served three wine glasses for them, picking his glass up but not bringing it to his lips.

He was just down to his casual layers and with his wine glass in hand, sipping it, when she took a hand to his pants, ready to untie them, and jumped away like it was a hot pan.

"Sorry," she pulled her hands to herself. "Sorry. You just..." she hesitated, flushing. "You wear a lot of layers."

"It's alright," he assured her.

"I wasn't thinking," Sansa added, blushing more.

He couldn't help smirking.

"Oh, you weren't?” he asked, teasingly. "I thought you were just always thinking one step ahead of everyone, as always."

Theon chuckled a bit behind her.

"He's got you there, wife," he recalled. "He's got you there. Were you trying to skip the main course?"

Well, it was good to see how comfortable they were with the plan already.

Sansa's face and neck became redder, almost matching her hair.

"Oh, don't start, you two," she walked away.

"What do you mean?" Jon reached for her, grabbing her hand, not letting her step too far away.

"You two always used to tease me!" she protested.

Jon chuckled, shaking his head.

Well, maybe they had teased her a little bit, when she didn't know babies were made. It was one of the few jokes that he could share with Theon when they were younger.

"You thought princesses got pregnant by kissing," Theon spoke, halfway through a giggle. "It was funny."

She huffed.

"You two are the worst," she tried to move away from him.

He pulled her closer instead, back flush against his chest, half done with his wine glass already.

Jon pressed his nose over her neck, perfectly positioned to do it, and smelled a little more of her scent.

"Yes, we are," he agreed.

She whimpered, and he turned to look at her face, their faces standing just a few inches apart.

"We can show you how terrible we are," he added, still not much louder than a whisper.

Sansa panted, near breathless in front of Jon, staring at him, just a couple of inches away from his face.

He wanted to kiss her so badly, to taste the sweet pink lips that had tempted him throughout his whole life.

Before he did it, however, she did it herself.

Sansa's hand rested her hands on his shoulders just as he squeezed her waist, holding her close as she slowly devoured his lips, full of a desire that mirrored his own.

He squeezed the fabric of her nightgown, angry and almost offended by its presence.

Suddenly, he felt a hand brushing his, and was reminded of the other presence in the room, and Theon stood behind his wife.

"Let's take his off," he said gently, and Jon moved away, looking at them, and seeing Theon just pulling her gown over her head, revealing her naked figure, and shouting Jon with a strong look from behind her shoulder.

He knew that look. It was a threat. Hurt her, and I'll kill you.

Jon could never hurt her.

Sansa moved her hands up to hide herself the moment she was bare, not her chest or the red triangle between her legs, but places he knew were covered with scars.

He wanted to growl, to tell her how she was gorgeous and nothing would ever make her look less than.

But he didn't. Instead, he stepped away and took off his shirt, throwing it on the floor and showing his own scars to her.

"I won't do anything you don't want to," he told her. "I can leave, and we will never speak about this again."

Sansa shook her head, grabbing his hand.

"I want you to stay," she affirmed.

"Then let me see all of you," he reached up with his hand up, opening them for her to place hers over. "There is nothing in the wolf that can ever change how much I love you."

Sansa exhaled.

This was the first time Jon told her he loved her.

Slowly, she let her hands down and rested them on top of his, breathing in deep.

"You're beautiful," Jon whispered.

Sansa's lips curled in a shy smile.

"You didn't even look yet," she chuckled.

"I don't have to," he told her. "I already know."

Jon kissed her again, and followed Sansa when she pulled him to the bed, making Jon sit and sitting on his lap right after, and he reached between her legs, humming a little to himself at how wet she already was, and she whimpered when he played with her cunt.

"We started a little earlier," Theon spoke from his seat, and he moved back, looking at her face.

Sansa panted, and he pushed a single singer into her wet channel.

"Theon prepared me," she moaned softly. "We got a bit excited."

He licked his lips, feeling his cock hard under her, and played with her cunt, watching her red curls framing it beautifully.

"Lay down," he kissed her neck. "I want to kiss you."

Sansa shot him an amused look and stood from where she was sat on him, laying on the bed with her legs spread.

Jon took a moment to watch her, to see her like that, waiting for him.

He wanted to kiss her every inch. Her lips, her jaw and her long neck; down to the soft curve of her shoulder and her pale arms, then up again to her collarbones and the vale between her breasts, each the perfect side of his hands. Jon would make her pale pink nipples red with his bites and sucks - maybe he could even make her cum with just his lips around her nipples, he heard a whore once say it was possible - and only then would touch her middle. He would kiss her torso, caress her soft stomach and bite her soft flesh, and draw around her scars to show her how beautiful she still was.

And then, just then, he would spread her long legs, and give himself the pleasure of even seeing her sweet cunt.

But they didn't have the time, not today.

So Jon crawled onto the bed and pulled her leg over his shoulder, and spread her red-framed folds.

She was all wet, dripping from her sweet entrance to her round ass, and her little clit was a little swollen as if expecting his lips already.

"She is quite bendy for a lady," Theon spoke, and he raised his eyes for a second to see him sitting by his wife's side, looking at her with a little smirk on his lips.

He caressed her thigh silently, deciding to test it, pushing them up to her chest and spreading her completely to him.

Jon couldn't help himself, and rested his nose on her curls, inhaling her sweet sense, a mixture of the flowers with something he knew had to be just her, the purest essence of Sansa.

He pushed her a little more, so focused on testing her body, he was surprised to hear her moan softly, a sweet sound that no chorus could compete with.

"Why don't you ask him nicely for your kiss?" Theon asked, his voice in a dark tone.

Sansa whined, and he looked at them, finding her husband pinching her chest, gently teasing one of her nipples, watching her face with attentive eyes.

Jon kissed her inner thigh, caressing the side of her leg and her hips, waiting.

"Please, Jon," she sighed. "Kiss my cunt, please."

He nearly growled at the dirty word coming from his Queen's lips and obliged, sealing his mouth over her cunt as his tongue invaded her slit and devoured her.

Nothing could ever compare to her taste. The most delicate desserts weren't as delicious as her cunt.

He was just playing with her clit, teasing her, when he was shocked by two hands gripping his curls and pulling him harder against her cunt.

And he was happy to oblige.

"Gods," Sansa cried.

He gripped her thighs a little tighter, opening his eyes and looking at her face, and couldn't help but to be curious once he realised how Theon had just lips over her ear, whispering words he couldn't hear, but seemed to make Sansa moan even more.

Theon always had a dirty mouth. He couldn't imagine what he could be whispering in Sansa's sweet ears.

His fingers continued to play and pinch her nipples, twisting them and pulling them, making them redder and redder and her cunt wetter and wetter.

"Jon," she whined.

He pushed two fingers into her, focusing on her bud, without taking his eyes from them.

Theon's lips moved again, speaking a single word he still couldn't catch.

"Jon," she moaned louder.

His cock throbbed at the thrill of being called. If she was too loud, people would hear them and put two and two together, and yet, here she was, calling his name.

Theon shifted on his spot and reached down, pressing down on her low belly just as he caressed a little swollen spot inside her, and Sansa's moan was a mixture of a cry of pleasure and something feral.

"Did you find it?" he asked, looking at Jon's face. "The spot?"

He teased it inside her, and Sansa whined, just as he moved his lips away.

"I think so?" he frowned.

"It's different from everywhere else," he told him and raised two fingers, moving them together as a tickle. "And when you do this..."

Jon repeated the movement inside her, and Sansa cried out.

"Yes," Theon smirked. "You have found it."

"Please," Sansa whined, arching her hips, and her husband spread his fingers on her stomach, pressing it down, and Jon felt a little pressure on his fingers.

"Don't let it go," his old brother said simply.

He nodded before setting his lips back on her, continuing to fuck her with his fingers and play with that little spot, feeling her walls squeezing his fingers.

"You'll be in for quite a surprise," Theon said, and moved to kiss her earlobe.

Sansa closed her eyes, tossing her head back, and he could feel her walls so coated in wetness he knew his fingers could almost slip out.

"Theon," she panted, still squeezing Jon's hair as if she was holding onto life by it.

"Show him, pretty girl," he nosed her cheek.

"Theon," she whined.

"Don't you think Jon deserves to see how good you can be," Theon cooed her. "How much pleasure he is giving you?"

"It's too messy," Sansa protested.

Her husband kissed her jaw.

"But it's so good, isn't it?" he cooed. "And you're so pretty when you are messy..."

He looked at Jon.

"She loves to be fucked sloppy," he told Jon. "Don't you, sweet girl?"

Jon shot them a curious look, a little confused, but saved the question for later - Sansa and Theon were very comfortable in bed, considering everything, which meant they probably had something up their sleeves, and who was he to do anything but enjoy it?

"So why don't you show him how messy and sloppy you can be, my love?" he kissed her cheek. "Don't you want Jon to be covered with your wetness? To make his lips and beard drip?"

Jon felt his hunger growing and sucked on her clit, eager for what Theon was dangling in front of his eyes while teasing her.

Sansa cried out, and he felt her cunt squeezing his fingers, and felt her cunt gushing against his lips, covering his face and his beard with her wetness.

He continued to lick and suck her until Sansa pushed his head away, also pushing him away with a foot on his shoulder, whining and panting.

When he looked at her, Theon was kissing her lips hungrily, but Jon didn't have time to overthink it, as she reached for him the moment her husband let her go, pulling him closer and kissing him with hunger.

"You were so good," he crawled on top of her, panting and biting her lower lip when she moved away from his lips. "Came so beautifully."

Sansa whined, arching her body and pulling him closer.

"Fuck me," she whimpered. "Please, Jon."

Jon nodded, feeling himself growing a little anxious as he stood up and took off his pants, undressing quickly and climbing on top of her again, and looked at his side when Theon started to move away, quickly being held by the wrist by his wife, who quickly took his hand.

"Don't go," she whispered. "Please."

His whole body and face relaxed as the tenderness fell on all three of them, and Theon moved to her side on the bed, laying down with his face near hers.

He kissed her cheek and jaw gently, full of softness.

"It's going to be okay," he whispered, rubbing his nose on hers.

Sansa's blue eyes glimmered in unshed tears, and he swallowed down. Jon wish wished he could die again, just so he could go down through the seven hells and kill that dog again for hurting her.

Instead, he reached for his hand to her thigh, petting her silently as he grabbed his cock, lining it up and moving it up and down over her slit.

She looked at him, chest heaving up and down.

"Touch me," she pleaded. "Please."

Jon reached for her, caressing her stomach and side just as Theon ran his hands over her just as well.

He was still sat on his heels, and leant closer to be over her body, kissing her opposite cheek and jawline the same way Theon had been doing, and moved down to her chest, kissing the vale between them and licking her chest, pushing his cock inside her, earning a soft moan from Sansa.

He sucked on her nipple, licking the underside of her breast, pushing deeper into her, not stopping while Sansa breathed heavily.

"You're so beautiful," Theon whispered into her ear. "So brave, my sweet girl."

She moaned, and he looked up, seeing her lips parted.

"How does it feel?" he asked, reaching for a hand to the breast Jon wasn't sucking on. "To have him inside you?"

She whined a little bit.

"Good," Sansa whimpered.

"He's here to make you feel good," Theon caressed her stomach. "To give you what you want."

He looked at Jon, as if to tell him to do the same, and Jon moved his lips up, kissing her jawline.

"I'm going to breed you," he thrust into her. "Gonna give you a baby. That's what you want, isn't it, sweet girl?"

Sansa moaned as the nickname rolled off his tongue.

"We'll fill up the north with children," he squeezed her hip. "I'll give you all the babies you want."

She moaned, and Jon felt Theon pushing a hand between them, moving to her cunt.

"Yes," she cried. "Please, breed me. Give me a baby."

Jon growled, and her pussy squeezed his cock tightly.

"I'll breed you over and over again," he pushed into her. "Fill you up with baby after baby."

This was what he should be doing from the start, just plug her up and fill her up, make her fat and round with his pups.

He knew this wouldn't be the only time it happened. Jon would come back, again and again, to make her happy, to give her child after child.

He could regret all of his life choices, but this was how he was going to make up for it. He would give her all the pups she dreamed of having, and would watch them grow up in Winterfell, safe and sound.

"Cum around his cock," Theon kissed her earlobe. "Cum around his cock while he gives you a baby, sweet girl."

Sansa arched her back, moaning, and Jon reached for Theon's hand, pulling it away from her cunt.

"No," she whined. "Please, Theon."

"You're gonna cum from my cock only," he growled, grabbing her hips and pounding into her. "You wanted it so badly, you're going to have to be satisfied with it only."

She looked up at him and their eyes met, and he looked for signs that he could be pushing her past her limits but found only desire staring back at him, with a glint of worry.

"Don't overthink it," Theon commanded by her side. "Let him fuck you. Let him breed you."

Jon adjusted himself before moving faster in her, smiling when she arched her body in his direction, crying out from pleasure.

"I better fuck you harder, then," he decided. "Until you can't think."

Sansa whined.

"Please," she moaned.

"Gonna make you sloppy and dumb, sweet girl," he promised. "Make your beautiful smart mind just drip from your pretty cunt."

Theon chuckled, whistling.

"Finally talking like a man, Snow," he reached for her chest, massaging her breasts and just teasing her around her nipple.

Jon hugged, just smirking.

"I learnt from the worst, Greyjoy," he grunted, lifting Sansa's legs higher.

Sansa cried out, eyelids falling closed as her body trembled under him, arching herself for both the men touching her.

"Everything for our little sweet slut," he teased, watching Sansa's face.

She opened her eyes wide, turning right to Theon and ready to say something when Jon seemingly hit the perfect spot inside her, and her words died into a feral moan while her cunt squeezed him, tight as it spasmed around his cock.

She cried out wordlessly as she came.

It was the hottests thing Jon had ever seen. He had heard of whores faking such a reaction, but Sansa was showing him the purest and most genuine pleasure.

Theon reached between her legs right away, playing with her clit and causing her eyes to roll back, and her cunt continued to squeeze Jon as she continued to cum.

He didn't last more than a few more thrusts, and let his head fall forward as he came, filling her cunt with a grunt while she quivered under him.

He pulled out from inside her after a long moment, and Sansa was quick to tilt her hips up, and Theon put a pillow under her ass, kissing her cheeks while she took in deep breaths.

Jon watched them with hesitant eyes, a little sad as he walked away, but stopped when Sansa called him.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Back to the crypt."

He had to leave before the sun was up and people started walking around the castle.

"Stay," she asked. "A little bit?"

He hesitated, but couldn't move. How could he say no to her?

"Until you’ve fallen asleep?" he offered.

Sansa nodded, and he walked back to the bed, earning a little smile from Theon, and Sansa pulled him to lie close to her, and Jon cuddled her just as Theon did the same, caressing her hair while she hid her face on his shoulder, holding his hand tightly.

Gods. He shouldn't get used to this.

But, dammit, he wanted to.

. . .

"The Things We Do For Love" was published on my Patreon on May! To read it fully and have early access to everything I post and exclusive access to Patreon-Only stories, subscribe to my page! It's only $2 a month and I ahve many perks to offer.

. . .

Forever Tags: @emoryhemsworth @amythyststorm33 @shaelyn102 @yknott81 @letsdisneythings @maximofftrash @kgbrenner @thefridgeismybestie @magpiegirl80 @mogaruke @shadowhunter7 @musicalcoffeebean @megasimpleplan4ever @deemoriarty @05spn18 @malindacath @kdcollinsauthor @random-fandom-fangirl2112 @widowsfics @frozenhuntress67 @averyrogers83 @notyourtypicalrose @nerdypinupcrystal @giruvega

Game of Thrones tags: @izbelross @ietss

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justhereforfandomandfriends · 1 month

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#chapter three is up and i've got a new moodboard #because I have NO CHILL #and am severely hyperfixated on this story right now #can you tell?#jonsa #jonsa fic #jon x sansa

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christinapotter09 · 2 months

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The producer saw a jonsa edit and saw the potential. i’m sure. The plot is sooo Jonsa coded lmao!!!!!

Me trying to play cool in all my conspiracies about JONSA, the producer, the movie, everything

#jonsa #jon x sansa #sansa stark #jon snow #jonsa fic #jonsa fam #sophie turner #kit harington

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lovebaela · 14 days

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THE DRAGON OF THE NORTH - MASTERLIST

(Bran Stark x Fem!Targaryen OC)

“ 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏 , 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑶𝒍𝒅 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆 , 𝒊 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒅 .”

⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 𝑹𝑯𝑨𝑬𝑳𝑳𝑨 𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑨𝑹𝒀𝑬𝑵 ⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Rhaella is the daughter of Mad King Aerys’ younger brother. Before the rebellion of Robert Baratheon, he fled to the Summer Isles, where he fell in love with a woman. He married her and they both consummated their marriage. Rhaella doesn’t know much about her parents, and always struggled with having a true home. One fateful day, her cousin Viserys sent her away to the Starks. Little did he know, that was the start of her journey of self-discovery.

“ 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒂 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒌 , 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑴𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆 , 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆’𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒅 . 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 .”

⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 𝑩𝑹𝑨𝑵 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑲 ⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Bran is the fourth child of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. All he ever wanted was to become a knight. He always thought one day he would join the kingsguard. That was until the day he found out he was betrothed to Rhaella. He didn’t think much of it, still able to be a warrior…until the day he became broken. All he wants is to find a purpose now in his life.

✮ ₊ Chapters ✧ ᵔ₊ 𓆪

1, 2, 3, 4

Disclaimer: I don’t own asoiaf, any pictures, or gifs that I use in the series🤍

Art by eleneyaart, fredrickruntu

Dividers by @saradika-graphics @saradika

Taglist: @lover-of-books-and-tea

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hilarychuff · 2 months

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We Run the Gamut (Let's Run Away)

boy and girl meet. live parallel lives. and, one day, they start to come together. scenes inspired by all the different types of love for the @jonsa-valentine event 2024.

AGAPE

love for everyone

"Hello? Is anyone home?"

Jon looks up from where he's been sulking in the dark to see one of the Stark girls — the redheaded daughter — standing outside the front door to the guest house. She'd knocked once already, but Jon had ignored it, thinking whoever it was would just go away. Now, he can see she's still out there, silhouette illuminated at the top of the stairs. The porch light catches copper highlights in her hair and makes them glow.

He wonders if she's annoyed she has to knock instead of just letting herself in. Maybe she used to spend a lot of time in the apartment over the Starks' detached garage. Or maybe she never came out here. Maybe her bedroom in that fancy old house is already so big and private she never bothers to explore anywhere else.

"Hello?" she calls again. "Mrs. Snow?"

When Jon finally answers the door, flicking on the living room light as he goes, he sees that the girl — Sansa, he thinks — hasn't come empty-handed. In her arms is a ceramic dish full of some sort of baked good, little tarts or custards with cooked lemon slices on top.

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#jonsa valentine 2024 #jonsa valentine #jonsa #jon snow #sansa stark #jon x sansa #sansa x jon #asoiaf #asoiaf fic #jonsa fic #game of thrones #my writing

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justadram · 4 months

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After a Wedding

Jon/Sansa, explicit, one-shot

Someone got married today. Not Sansa. It's not remotely like that between her and Jon. They're a secret at her insistence. Still hasn't stopped her from showing up outside his door when he could very well have someone else inside.

Secret Relationship, Insecurity, Feelings Realization, Emotional Baggage, Sansa!Jealousy, modern AU

#jonsa #jon x sansa #actually jonsa #fanfic #got fic #game of thrones

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sweetaprilbutterfly · 5 days

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She's buried on a cold, dreary day in late January.

That’s all Jon can seem to think about at the funeral. It’s too cold, the sky is too grey. Bleak and barren; there isn’t even snow. It’s an inane, intrusive thought. It could rain, at least, he thinks. The sky should weep for her. The universe should mourn.

It doesn’t make sense. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t understand why anyone would murder Sansa Stark.

how she died by @cellsshapedlikestars

#jon x sansa fic #Jon x Sansa #Jonsa #Jon Snow #Sansa Stark #actuallyjonsa #jonsaedit #sansastarkedit #jonsnowedit #gotedit #asoiafedit #gotsansastark #gotjonsnow #GoT #Game of Thrones #ASOIAF #my edits #cellsshapedlikestars #ganymede elegy

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winterwakesthewolf · 2 months

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Wolves They Both Must Be

Jon Snow x Sansa Stark

Summary: “Did you bend the knee to save the North, or because you love her?”

Jon snaps his head up at Sansa’s question. Her eyes are brimming and hot and he can suddenly see this is not the argument he thought they were having. This is something else. Something deeper and much more intimate.

The missing scene we deserved in 8x01

Author's Note: Part Two! I wrote this second part a few years ago and I really think I've grown as a writer since then. Since this part has never been published, I had the opportunity to edit it, but I read through it and honestly I'm too tired to do that so if there are any glaring issues, please let me know.

I first published the first part of this as a one shot on AO3 in 2019 and then a few years later I wrote a sequel that just sat in my google docs collecting digital dust. This is that second part. I may turn it into a series if there's enough interest so please let me know by liking, commenting, and reblogging if you want more.

Disclaimer: 18+, smut, (I'm serious, if you're not over 18 then scram), cousin incest, presumed half-sibling incest. Please let me know if I missed anything.

Word Count: 2K

part one - part two

Sansa wakes in his arms, bare skin against skin. It is still night. Or perhaps early morning. The fire has nearly extinguished, leaving them mostly in the dark but for a faint flickering of illumination that casts the room in a soft, warm glow. She glances up at him, sound asleep and looking more peaceful than she has ever seen him look. His arm strewn lazily across her back. And his heart, that he had said was only hers, steadily beating beneath her ear.

She lifts her head to peek at the scar there and she runs her fingers along the ridges of the severed flesh - a long, vertical line, curved at the top and still red in the center. Similarly to the scars that marr his abdomen, they look to not be fully healed. Sansa wonders if they may never be. Her heart aches at the thought that his own had once stopped beating.

Gazing at his resting face in awe and bewilderment at the magic it took to bring him back to life, and to her, she sheds a tear for all that could have been lost, and all that will.

His raven curls, unbound and tangled, lay atop her pillow. Her belly coils with heat at the memory of her hands pulling at the leather strap that tied them back, at the image she conjures of him raised above her, glowing from the light of the roaring fire, and the look in his eyes as he buried himself inside of her, their flesh fusing in forbidden, long-awaited bliss. Her cheeks bloom with both shame and pleasure at the thought of their union. At her insistence that he spill inside of her and stay there long after both of their pleasures were drawn out, knowing in the morning she would brew a cup of moon tea that she had hidden away from the time before.

The gods had been cruel to make her love her half-brother. They had been kind enough to make him love her back.

In her solar he had confessed that he loved her, and only her. And how loathed he was to leave her for Dragonstone. That when he declared, in the presence of their bannermen, that the North was a part of him and that he’d never stop fighting for it, what he had meant in his heart was that she was his North. He admitted that every moment they were apart, she never once left his thoughts. And that everything he had done in the effort to return home truly was to save the North. To save her. His whispered words had sent shivers through her. Both the declaration of his love, and the thought of what kinds of things he had to do to return home to her.

She doesn’t want to think of what all that had entailed. Or what had transpired in the dark between him and the dragon to make her believe he truly bent the knee, and that he loved her. But Sansa wants to trust him and believe the words he told her in the quiet of her bed as he entwined his hand in hers. As he gently stroked his calloused fingers over her bare skin, leaving gooseprickles in their wake.

“I had to make her believe in the ruse, Sansa. I’m not proud of it,” he had rasped, eyes averted from Sansa’s gaze until she reached for him, turning his face so that she could look upon him. He released a shaky breath and croaked, “I’d beg for your forgiveness if you’re willing to give it. But I understand if it’s too much to ask. I wouldn’t blame ye. But I must confess, I thought of you. Every second.”

Jon had fought battles for Sansa, had fought Ramsey knowing the odds were against him. He fought the Others, and survived to come back to her. He had lied, manipulated, and kept the secret hidden away so convincingly, so deep, that even Sansa had not seen it.

(Her feelings for Jon surely clouded her judgment, causing her to doubt his loyalty).

She doesn’t want to think of what he may have to continue to do to keep up the ruse, or what they both may need to sacrifice. But Sansa knows that whatever it may be, she will do whatever she can to protect him, as he has done for her.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she whispered. And she had meant it.

Lying in the dark beside him she knows she will always mean it, no matter how much the thought of it stings. No matter the ache that blooms at the unbidden image of Jon with her. He had not truly been Sansa’s to lose then, but now… what were they to each other now? Now that they had crossed the point of no return.

Their love could never be known to any other. This secret they will always have to hide. If they were discovered it could lead to ruin and damnation. Northerners do not accept a union between siblings, no matter that they don’t share a mother. They were no Lannisters, nor Targaryens, and yet their illicit love seemed to prove otherwise. After all that she had learned, had worked so hard to not become, had she turned into Cersei after all? The thought makes her shiver and recoil.

Perhaps she need not fret over any of it, for the Others are marching upon them. The threat looming, heavier with each passing moment. They may very well take this secret to a grave that lies just beyond the horizon. Lost to each other forever. And yet the thought of that terrifies her more than any possibility of their secret love being sussed out.

Jon stirs beneath her and flutters his eyes open, blinking to adjust to the dim light, and then he lowers his chin toward Sansa. His eyes soften as they land on her and he gives her a smile, sweet and tender, reaching his hand to gently tuck her tangled hair behind her ear.

“We fell asleep,” he says with a voice gruff and tender as he absentmindedly traces patterns on the small of her back.

“We did.”

“I’d better sneak off to my chambers before anyone realizes where I am.”

Sansa didn’t want this night to end. What had been their first union could very well be their last.

As he moves to get up, Sansa gently pushes him back down to press her body and her lips as close to his as possible. The kiss, at first soft and slow, builds with passion, and desperation to stop time. Before long Jon has rolled Sansa onto her back and hovers over her just as before, looking down on her in wonderment and adoration. The look behind his eyes like an arrow of fire in her belly, and a need coils itself deep inside, begging to be met.

“Jon,” she pleads wantonly, reaching up to grasp his face in her hands, digging her fingers into his beard, weaving them in his hair. A frantic, desperate plea. He obliges, first by trailing kisses down her neck and to her breasts, spending time filling his mouth with them and driving that coil deeper and hotter inside of her, making her ache with need. And then he abruptly stops, pushes the furs farther off of the bed, until he is sitting at her feet, smiling with hooded eyes. The look she gives him of confused anticipation makes him chuckle.

“Why are you laughing?” Sansa sounds a bit wounded, but smiles all the same.

“I’m not laughin’ at ye, Sansa. I swear,” he raises his palms as if in surrender. “But I want to try something if you let me.” Jon tenderly places his hands upon her knees, “Do you trust me?”

Sansa nods apprehensively, curiously, and watches as he spreads her legs apart and lowers his head, all while keeping his eyes locked onto hers. Kissing her knees and thighs in turn, he slowly travels higher and higher until his hands are gripping the flesh of her hips and his mouth is on her, licking the wetness between her thighs. It takes everything in Sansa not to cry out. Her heavy sighs alone are nearly loud enough for anyone outside of her door to hear. Jon’s tongue swirls and flicks at the most sensitive part and she has never felt a pleasure so intense. It rivals the pleasure she felt just hours ago when he touched her there as he spent inside of her. This was different and new and thrilling. She climbs higher and higher as his tongue works its magic, pushing her to the brink. And just as she is about to fall off the edge, Jon reaches up to take her breast in hand, his thumb grazing and teasing until she plunges off of the precipice and buries her face in the furs to muffle her cries.

When the throbbing and the panting subsides, she glances at Jon, a very smug look upon his face, “Did ye like that?”

Sansa smiles and nods lazily, still catching her breath, and she reaches for him with arms outstretched. He climbs up and kisses her deep and long, the taste of her still on his lips, and she can feel his need for her lined up at the spot his tongue had just deliciously ravaged. And suddenly she can feel the need inside her return in earnest. Those glorious flutters assault her belly as she wraps her legs around his waist and backside, pulling him close, inviting him in again.

When he buries himself inside her once more, he keeps his eyes focused on hers, whispers a thousand I love yous that she returns in earnest, savoring the feeling of him so close to her as they find a slow and deliberate rhythm.

Both of them know this might be their last and neither of them are quick to chase the pleasure out, but are intent on committing these precious few moments to memory. Tears stream down Sansa’s temples, sprung from somewhere deep and buried. Jon gently kisses them away.

“I am yours, Sansa. Only yours.” He touches his forehead to hers, “And you are mine.” It is half a question, half a command.

“Always,” she whispers and repeats again and again as she falls from the edge and he spills inside of her once more.

The dawn arrives, creeping in through the window, as Jon dresses as quietly as he can. And once he has pulled his boots on he crosses back to the bed where Sansa is sitting, holding her knees and the furs close. She is cold without his warmth. He must sense it because he leans over to pull her close, bringing the furs with her, to the edge of the bed. He gently takes her face in his hands as she memorizes the look in his eyes. Kissing her sweetly, with such care and reverence, then envelops her in his arms for a long embrace.

Sansa buries her face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him, heavy with leather and steel and woodsmoke. She curls herself into his chest. And as she listens to the beating of his heart beneath her ear once again, she doesn’t even attempt to hold back the tears anymore. Releasing the ache of the joy, and the tragedy, of it all.

“Never forget, Sansa. Whatever happens, know that I love you,” he whispers in her ear, holding her close, running his fingers through her copper waves.

And before dawn can unearth their secret, he moves to kiss her forehead with a desperation and reverence that burns long after he reluctantly pulls away. He stalks toward the door, and then looks back at her with a smile full of hope and fear before slipping into the cover of darkness.

Alone and cold without him, Sansa weeps upon the furs that warmed them through the winter night. Tears that she has denied for so long finally tumble free and flow without ceasing. They pour out uncontrollably, as though Jon had unlocked a deeply buried chest within her, filled to the brim with love she had for so long confined to the darkest parts of her, and fear of losing what has only briefly been hers.

She finds that once unlocked she may never again find the key.

Taglist: @thaisthedreamer @bluedaffodil21 @ilargizuri

#jonsa #jon x sansa #jonsa fanfic #jonsa fanfiction #jonsa fic #jonsa ff #jon x sansa fic #mine #my edit #my writing #wolves they both must be #wtbmb #jonsaff #jonxsansaff #jonxsansa #jon x sansa fanfic #jon x sansa fanfiction #jon x sansa ff #jonxsansa ff

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chocolateghost · 7 months

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afraid, not scared

Chapter 5 - no, i'm scared

Sansa shuffles quickly into the barn, panting heavily. She needs a place to hide and collect her thoughts. She doesn't know you what to do. They're onto her, and she knows the barn won't be safe for long. She needs to move on and make a new plan.

She ventures deeper inside, passing by empty animal stalls, eyes examining the tools on the wall. She needs a new weapon. One of them can replace her needles.

Something catches her eye in the last stall and makes Sansa stop dead in her tracks. She claps her hands over her mouth to stop herself from screaming

Read more on ao3

#jonsa #jonsa fic #jon x sansa #jon x sansa fic #jonsa horror au #jonsa halloween #chocolateghost fic

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wandering-scavenger · 7 months

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thy love is winged and nameless

chapters: 3/3

word count: 30k +

tags: jon the huntsman, sansa the faerie, celtic folklore inspired, slow burn, fairytale au, explicit sexual content

summary

He recalled Bolton’s words just as he recalled what his mother taught him long ago: the day you tell your name to fair folk is the day you lose your freedom, perhaps forever.

Jon Snow saves a fae girl from certain death and discovers on their journey to return her home that perhaps the price of his name is worth more than just a life that is safe from the whims of fair folk.

read here ❄️🐺🧚‍♀️

#now complete #couldn't resist remaking a gif set #the original had such disproportionate sizing #i couldn't stop thinking about it #jonsa fic #snowstonesource #thenorthsource #jonsaedit #jonsaedit: mine #jonsa #jon x sansa #jonsa au

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sansasmile · 1 year

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the thing that makes me go insane when it comes to jonsa is that even though it’s not canon - and probably never will be - it’s a ship that’s got everything. it’s got everything you could ever wish for in a pairing. the shared history, the childhood memories, the complex family dynamics, being family yet being strangers, going from being strangers to being family. the parallels in their individual journeys - being in turn a traitor and a prisoner, learning to survive by playing a role in a place where they can never rest nor trust anyone. jon going from bastard to lord and sansa going from lady to bastard. being hurt over and over again, forced to grow up too soon, their dreams and ideals crushed, their innocence taken from them. the years-long separation, the pain of losing everyone they love, the longing for home and thinking they’re all alone in the world. and then... and then the reunion. unexpected and all the more beautiful because of it, all the more beautiful because of the distance that existed before, because she wasn’t his favourite sister, because of all the hardships they endured that made them into different people, people who could understand each other, love each other. the fact that with him sansa is finally safe, and with her jon finds his purpose again. avenging their family, avenging each other, and the house stark of it all - reclaiming their stolen home together when they used to be the two people who wanted to leave it the most. finding their identity as starks, an identity which was taken from sansa and never belonged to jon, by gifting it to each other - jon helping her get winterfell back and sansa letting him know he is a stark in her eyes, giving him the acceptance he never got from her mother. the comfort and protection, being each other’s safe haven, helping each other heal, learning to trust again, learning that they deserve to be loved. sansa’s wish of being loved for who she is, all her little girl dreams that she thought were impossible, coming true when she finds her prince in the most unlikely candidate of all. jon, with his lower status and feelings of inadequacy, being the hero she so desperately wished for, someone brave gentle and strong. but the anguish, the shame and the denial, a forbidden love, a burning desire fighting against the need to be honourable. jon’s parentage being revealed. the layers, the LAYERS guys!!! and that’s not even all of it. fics, meta, fanvids and edits have opened up this world of possibilities, they’ve taken these characters, understood them so perfectly, and created the most nuanced, compelling, beautiful relationship i’ve seen in all my years of obsessing over fictional couples.

#jonsa #jon x sansa #mine #sorry just read one really good fic and went insane

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orangeflavoryawp · 8 months

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Jonsa - "No More Scars", Part 1

Jon gets Sansa out of King's Landing and they make their way to Riverrun, to reunite with family. A little speeding/condensing of the timeline, so Jon has died up at Castle Black and been revived already. He comes for Sansa after this. Everyone's aged up, as is my usual.

No More Scars

Chapter One: Quelling the Pain

“This is as far as we go.” Jon and Sansa - After rescuing her from King’s Landing, they have a long, winding road to Riverrun before them.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 fin

* * *

The first time Jon sees her in years, she is both half the girl he used to know and yet not wholly the woman he’d expected of her.

“Did Robb send you?” Sansa asks, her brows furrowing over her wide, hopeful eyes.

He isn’t sure whether the truth is welcomed or not, so he only reaches out his hand toward her. “I’m here to get you out,” he tells her. And it’s the safest truth, at least.

She seems to think so as well, because then she’s tucking her hand into his, her mouth a tight line, her other hand clenching her robe closed over her chest, before he’s whisking her through the castle in the dead of night.

She glances back behind her at the gilded cage of King’s Landing just the once, just enough to swallow back the bile.

(He knows, because he sees her throat bobbing with it when he places his hands along her waist and hoists her up along the horse. He takes his seat behind her and then they’re off.)

She’s silent for the whole first half-day that they ride. And then he veers off the road, takes them along a haggard horse-path heading northwest. They don’t stop for many hours.

When they finally drop from the horse for rest, she barely acknowledges him when he hands her a clean, simple dress. She tucks behind the trees for cover and changes in silence. Jon tends the fire in her absence. When she returns, he has their bedrolls already set.

He wonders if she will remark on the closeness of them.

(He’s duty-bound to protect her, after all. And he can’t do it from a distance.)

She does not ask of Robb again, though he waits expectantly for it.

Instead, Sansa only drops down quietly along her spread blanket, not even taking the offered bread he hands her. And then she’s sleeping – quiet and still and deep.

He watches her curl in on herself in her sleep, as he stokes the fire half-heartedly, before dousing it, and turning in himself.

The next day is much of the same. Hours and hours of riding. Hours and hours of quiet.

He thinks she understands now – the answer to her question.

“Did Robb send you?”

He accepts that he may have broken her.

(Because to accept that they left her to be broken is far, far worse.) * * *

“We’ll keep off the Gold Road,” Jon says, taking the pack from their horse, and dropping it in the dirt at their feet. He then tugs the horse toward a nearby tree, looping a tied rope around one branch to tether it, before unbridling the animal.

Sansa watches in a rather dumbfounded state.

Jon glances back to her, slowing in his motions. “Until we’re further north and closer to Riverrun, we can’t risk the main roads. You’re a wanted fugitive by the crown now.”

Sansa only nods, her lips pressed tightly together. She glances around at the small clearing he’s stopped them in.

Jon crouches at the pack by her feet, pulling out two thin bedrolls, and then stopping to glance up at her. He works his jaw, eyes downcast. “I can’t promise you comfort, Sansa,” he says, hands gripping the unfurled bedroll in his hands.

She glances to him, hands limp at her sides.

“But I promise to get you home,” he finishes, looking up at her.

She watches him for many moments, her breath tight in her chest. And then she glances out to the woods around them, peers into the trees, tries to decipher the darkness slowly creeping into the canopies.

Jon sighs beneath her, continuing his task of preparing them for bed, no more words to follow.

Sansa closes her eyes. Thinks of her mother. Hears Rickon’s laugh at her ear.

A soft, watery gasp leaves her – barely there. Her lungs tighten at the memory.

She opens her eyes. The forest is still there. The sun still sinks beneath the tree line.

But Jon is here, spreading out his bedroll to lie beside hers, his hand smoothing over the wool.

She wants to cry suddenly.

“Sansa, look, we just have to – "

She drops to a squat in a single, sinking motion, arms wrapping tight around her legs, her head buried in her knees. A staggering breath shudders from her.

“Sansa,” she hears at her side.

“I just want – ” she says, and then stops, the breath hitching in her throat.

She just wants –

A sob breaks from her lips, splashing against her knees. She digs her head in deeper, another sob catching at the edge of her teeth.

“Sansa,” he says again, and she feels the pressure of his knees settling beside her in the ground.

She pulls her head up to watch him. “I just want to go home,” she croaks out, the words bitter and lonesome along her tongue, her face crumbling instantly.

Jon reaches for her hesitantly, before stopping, his hand hovering in the air.

She only looks at him, the tears hot along her lids. Her mouth tips open, but there are no more words. At least, none as important. “I just...”

Jon’s eyes shift between hers frantically, worried and wanting and always unsure.

“I want to go home. Nothing more,” she cries out brokenly, before she buries her face back into her knees, the world a sudden rush around her – the years and faces and fears of her recent captivity an instant barrage, an unrelenting assault.

Cersei’s sneering face. Joffrey’s threats. The bruise of a guantleted fist. The harsh tear of her dress. The Hound’s taunting. Tyrion’s barely constrained touches. The mocking court. And the loneliness, the loneliness, gods the loneliness.

Her breath catches, harsh and dry in her throat, her mouth parting on the sound, but the tears are familiar, constant, ever-present. The wail she bites off at her knees peters out into a pained moan and then –

Then his hands are around her shoulders, pulling her toward him. His chest is warm and firm and broad. His hands –

His hands never let her go.

She turns into his shoulder with a ragged cry, her fingers clutching his tunic, her breath stalled in her chest, and her cries, her cries, her cries –

Muffled in his trembling embrace.

It’s an awkward fumble of limbs, the way she falls against him, her knees giving out, her arms reaching for him like he’s the last gasp of air her lungs will ever know.

And yet always, constantly, steadily in her ear, there is this:

“I’ve got you.”

His voice is warm at her temple, his lips pressed to her hairline. She squeezes her eyes shut at the exhalation.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes into her.

The clutch of her fingers along his shoulders leaves marks for years to come.

* * *

He’s packing up his bedding on the fourth day of their journey when she says it.

He turns to her, finds her standing there with her woolen blanket folded over her arms, her eyes on his boots.

“What?” he asks her, needing her to repeat it, afraid he’s heard wrong.

She looks up at him, handing him her bedding to fold back into their pack. “Thank you,” she says, even and smooth, only the trembling of her jaw giving away any hint of her uncertainty.

Jon stays staring at her.

She glances up at him, and then away, pulling the blanket back to her chest. “Thank you,” she tells him, “For coming for me.”

Jon remembers suddenly what her songs sounded like, and how she used to scowl so disapprovingly at Arya, and how she howled at him when he spilled his tea along her skirts once, and the direwolf handkerchief she’d knitted for Bran while he slept, and her curtsies and her sighs and her laughs and her pouts and her – and her –

Half-brother, she’d called him.

As though to spare him the pain of ‘bastard’.

And yet, never enough to be just...

(Brother.)

Jon swallows thickly. “Of course I’d come for you,” he says roughly.

She meets his eyes then, the blanket still tight to her chest.

He opens his mouth, finds nothing there.

Because of course he’d come for her. She’s his sister. She’s Sansa Stark.

And she deserves to be fought for.

She seems to crumple in on herself.

Jon steps toward her.

“I didn’t...” she starts, stops, swallows it down. She licks her lips before trying again. “I didn’t want to give myself false hope.”

His brows furrow in confusion.

She seems to notice, face pinching in consternation, and he knows now – what she looks like when she’s trying to word something as palatably as possible.

It makes him feel dirty.

(Because he knows now, that this was the norm, the standard practice for her – to be palatable.)

“I just mean – "

“You’re welcome,” he says, reaching for the bedding held tight to her chest.

She eases her hold on it slowly.

He pulls it gently from her grasp, his hand lingering near hers, the edge of their fingers brushing. “You’re welcome,” he says again, the faint hint of a smirk tugging at his smile.

She blinks at him, her shoulders bunching tight once more. “Jon...”

He squats down to continue packing their belongings away. “You don’t really need to thank me, anyway. I told you – of course I’d come for you.” He feels her staring down at him for long seconds as he works, before she crouches down beside him to help.

He pretends not to hear the quiet sniffling she tries to hide. * * *

She always falls asleep first, her exhaustion unsurprising when they ride for hours each day. Sleeplessness is his companion now, anyway – has been since he first awoke with the red woman’s magic.

He watches Sansa’s back in the dark, whittling the hours away before dawn.

Sometimes he sleeps. Sometimes he doesn’t.

But he never dreams. It’s just an endless darkness that takes him.

Until Sansa’s hand at his shoulder rouses him, or the faint light of dawn peeking through the trees.

He rises, like he did that first cold evening after death.

And the journey continues. * * *

“How did you leave the Watch? I thought those vows were for life,” Sansa asks softly, curling her knees under her, poking at the fire before their mats with a stick.

Jon sits on the ground beside her, arms hanging over his bent knees. He glances to her at her question.

Sansa pokes at the fire again, eyes fixed to it, before noticing his silence. She turns to him. “Aren’t they?” Her mouth purses in confusion.

Jon nods, his throat bobbing. “Aye, they are,” he gets out roughly.

Sansa lowers the stick in her hand. “So...?”

“So, I gave my life for the Watch,” he snaps in answer.

Her shoulders tense at his tone, her knuckles going white along the stick in her hold. She faces the fire once more. “I’m sorry, if I touched a tender subject,” she says diplomatically.

He recognizes this side of her now. The side that braces for a raised hand. And he hates that he has stirred this in her.

Jon sighs heavily, wiping a hand down his face, and then he reaches into the grass beside him, pulling out a fistful of blades. He starts to pluck at them and toss them one by one into the fire. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he grumbles out.

Sansa remains quiet, resuming her cautious exploration of the fire.

Jon throws another blade into the flames, a huff leaving him. “I’ll tell you someday, I promise. Just... not tonight.”

“Alright,” she says gently, eyes still on the fire.

Jon looks at her from the corner of his eye. “My men betrayed me,” he gets out finally.

The burned end of the stick in Sansa’s grasp settles into the dirt as she drops her hand to her lap. “They betrayed you? Why?” she asks, looking over at him. Her brows furrow in question.

Jon heaves a breath. “Because sometimes you just can’t change hate,” he says simply.

And maybe it is that simple. Maybe it always has been. Maybe he’s just been too blind to see it.

He isn’t strong enough to change a man’s hate. Or his fear.

Maybe his real mistake was never understanding that.

“You didn’t deserve that,” she says suddenly, a fierceness underlining her voice.

Again, so simple.

And yet, it makes him turn his head, makes him meet her gaze.

She reaches out a hand and squeezes his fist reassuringly, before settling her hand back in her lap.

She hasn’t a clue what their betrayal truly did to him. She hasn’t seen the scars. She hasn’t witnessed his cold body on a slab. And yet – simply – to hear those words –

You didn’t deserve that .

It makes the air catch in his throat.

“Thank you, Sansa.”

She smiles – hesitant and barely-there. But she smiles.

A direwolf’s howl breaks the silence over them, coming from over the hills. Sansa starts, twisting back to look through the trees behind them, finding nothing in the darkness. “Is that...?”

“Ghost,” Jon reassures her, tossing another blade of grass into the fire. “He’s keeping watch from a distance while we’re still this close to the main road. He’ll join us further north.”

Sansa stays turned in her seat, gaze fixed to the darkness at their backs, her eyes slowly watering.

The realization comes to him then, suddenly and sadly. He swallows tightly before he asks her, “What happened to Lady?”

Because he knows. He knows. Only death could have separated them.

Sansa purses her lips, her jaw tightening, and then she’s shuffling back to her previous position, tucking her legs underneath her with a downcast gaze. “Father killed her,” she clips out, a hand going to wipe the wetness from her eyes, as though it had never been.

Jon’s shoulders slump at the revelation. He feels her loss keenly, like a piece of him has been torn away. He thinks of Ghost. Thinks of the terrible rending his death would cause in him, the ache, the tear, the missing of something that used to be of him. And then he thinks of their father.

Jon clenches his hands into fists atop his knees. “Father... killed her?” he chokes out.

Sansa nods. “As punishment for Nymeria attacking Joffrey, when Nymeria couldn’t be found.”

“Oh,” he says, the breath shuddering from him. He wants to reach to her. Doesn’t know how.

Sansa tosses the stick into the fire. “I resented him so much for it, you know? I was so... so angry. And hurt. And I never felt safe again after that. And I couldn’t forgive him for it. And then I never got the chance to, anyway.”

Jon stares at her, swallowing heavily.

She sighs, hands winding nervously in her lap. “Because then he was dead. And I was forced to look at his head up on that pike, and I... I couldn’t...” She stops, her voice catching. She sniffs back the break, tries again. “I couldn’t forgive myself for missing the chance to tell him before he died – ” She sucks a sharp breath between her teeth, turning to face Jon, her eyes wide and salt-sheened. “That I forgave him, and that I loved him, and that I wasn’t angry with him anymore, that I – I just wanted him to come back, to take us from there. But I’ll never get that chance again. Because he’s gone, just like Lady, killed for a crime he never committed. He’s just... gone,” she exhales on a spent breath, pulling her lip between her teeth. And then she laughs, short and dark, a hand going to her eyes. “It’s so – so stupid,” she mutters.

Jon turns fully to her, his knees folding beside him when he leans over and grabs for her wrist, gently tugging her hand from her face. “It’s not,” he tells her. “It’s not stupid.”

She heaves a steadying breath, eyes still fixed on her lap, but they’re dry now at least.

Jon rubs his thumb along the arch of her wrist. “And you didn’t deserve that,” he says meaningfully.

Sansa looks up at him, brows pinched together when he repeats her words back at her. And then she laughs again, wipes at her nose with her free hand, straightens her shoulders. “Quite the pair we make, huh?”

Her voice and face are still pained though, he sees this.

But her wrist is warm beneath his touch, and she isn’t pulling from him.

“Quite,” he agrees, the lilt of a smile gracing his face, his thumb etching over her pulse point again.

She nods, licking her lips. “I’m glad it was you, Jon, who came for me.” She turns her hand over beneath his grasp and meets his palm with hers. Her fingers tighten over his. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I,” he says, the words instant along his tongue.

And he means it, he finds. He means it with all of him. * * *

Sansa hates rabbit meat, she discovers,

Jon laughs at her when she makes a face at the skinned animal he turns over the fire.

“It’s so chewy,” she bemoans later, grudgingly taking a bite of the thigh meat Jon offers her, hunger winning out over pickiness.

“You need to eat,” he says firmly, though the hint of a smirk still rests at the corners of his mouth.

She pouts at him.

He only laughs harder. * * *

He catches sight of the scar along the nape of her neck sometime in the next afternoon. It takes him a while, his eyes usually trained ahead. But then she sighs, a hand going to rub at her eyes. She’s tired, he notices, and he looks at her for the first time that day, seated in front of him in the saddle. Her hair is brushed over her shoulder, thin wisps of it escaping the partially pinned style. There’s the slightest red tint over the tops of her ears and the back of her neck, a mark of the sun’s constant watch over their journey. Her shoulders are slumped forward – thin and brittle. The fabric of her dress is dulled and wrinkled over the expanse of her back. And all this he expects until –

The faint, white line etching out from beneath the collar of her dress, arching over the space where neck meets shoulder.

He almost stops their horse at the sight.

Instead, he simply stares, the steady rocking motion of the horse only increasing his focus. Unbidden, his hand rises up to touch it, fingers dragging down the edge of her dress’ collar to bare the scar more fully to him.

Something sharpens in his gut at the revelation it gives him. The scar does not end. It only stretches longer, harsher – unseen beneath the rest of her dress. If he follows the path, he knows it will curve over her shoulder blade, down, and down – perhaps fading out along the backs of her ribs, or perhaps continuing on, to the curve of her waist, tapering off past her hip.

His other hand tightens along the reins.

Jon suddenly realizes she has stiffened in her seat, her shoulders bunching up. Her breath has stilled.

Jon eases the horse to a halt, the words dead along his tongue. He stares at the haggard white strip of flesh at the base of her neck, his fingers still curled along the dress collar, tugged only partially down, his thumb arching tenderly over her scar.

They stay like this for many moments, his eyes slowly watering, a heat behind them that seems finer than rage – more honed. A slow, bitter wrath builds inside him.

Sansa turns her head just slightly, not enough to catch his eyes, but enough for him to see the stiff purse of her lips.

He lets out a heavy breath. “What did they do to you?” he croaks out, surprising even himself with how the words manage to find air.

She doesn’t answer at first, tongue flicking out to wet her lips. She draws a slow, steady breath in – the first he’s felt from her since they’d stopped. Her lids flutter closed. “They did enough,” she tells him.

He sucks a sharp breath between his teeth, his thumb pressing firmer along the nape of her neck.

That fine-honed wrath – it narrows. Becomes a pinprick focus.

“Sansa,” he gets out raggedly, his hand releasing her collar, dragging over her neck instead, anchoring there at the edge of her shoulder. He shakes with it – this righteous horror.

And then she slips a hand over his, her fine-boned fingers delicate along his calloused ones.

He blinks at the back of her head, the salt sting of tears lingering just at the corners of his eyes.

She dips her head toward their joined hands along her shoulder, her lips a whisper away from his touch, her breath warming his knuckles. “But they cannot anymore,” she tells him. And then she glances further back, meets his eyes finally. “Because of you.”

Jon’s chest heaves, his hand in the reins settling closer now, just along her stomach.

Her hand slips from over his, her shoulders unbunching as she faces forward once more. There’s an ease to her frame now, a subtle freedom.

As though she feels safe in his arms, pressed up against his chest.

As though she knows:

No other scars will follow.

(And she’d be right – because this, he promises.)

Jon clicks at the horse to continue, his heels pressing in short and quick. They start moving again instantly.

He keeps his eyes on the sliver of white flesh at her nape, and his hand pressed firm along her stomach, reins tangled in his fist.

The weight of her against his chest is almost enough to quiet his wrath.

But not quite. * * *

“Is there a lake nearby? A river?” Sansa asks, eyes roving the land before them as they ride.

“There’s a small river along our route but...” His voice trails off.

Sansa glances back at him to find him looking north.

He frowns. “Not for many miles, I think.” He looks down at her. “Why?”

Sansa turns forward again, shifting in the saddle. She considers her words a moment, before answering. “I’d... like a bath,” she says finally, lip caught between her teeth.

Jon chuckles behind her, his breath warm at the nape of her neck.

She narrows her eyes. “And you could use one, too,” she quips.

He coughs unexpectedly, the laugh petering out in his throat.

She smiles to herself, unseen.

They find water shortly before the sun sets, and Sansa climbs down from the horse eagerly, heading to the edge of the lake. She hesitates only momentarily, before the grime and dirt of the last several days overwhelms her, and after glancing back to make sure Jon has set camp far enough away from shore, she removes her travel dress and makes her way into the water.

When she’s back at camp, as refreshed as she expects to be, clothed in the robe she fled King’s Landing in while her dress dries from washing along the tree branches, she catches the faint outline of Jon washing in the lake by twilight. It’s barely an outline of him, the high moon not yet full, and the lingering trail of the sun’s rays diminishing over the horizon rather quickly, but it’s enough.

He’s become a man in the time she’s spent away from him. She realizes she should have known that by the beard that sometimes brushes her shoulder when they ride, and the rough, calloused hands that hold the reins at her waist, and the broad expanse of his shoulders that hold her weight when exhaustion overcomes her and she reluctantly leans back against him.

But seeing him now, etched in twilight, far enough away to nearly be a mirage, she understands that the man who came for her is not the brother she said goodbye to all those years ago.

He gave his life for the Watch, he’d said, and she still doesn’t know what that means, but she thinks she’s closer to the truth now, when she watches the curved line of his back peeking out from the water, when he turns, just slightly, and she can see the dark line of wounds or scars or... something along his chest.

She’s closer to the truth when later that night, as they lay beside each other before the fire, and she glances over to him, he glances back without her ever needing to speak his name. * * *

“How much longer?” she asks, shifting in the saddle, her thighs beginning to cramp.

Jon grunts behind her in annoyance. “We’re almost there.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You wouldn’t like the answer anyway,” he quips back.

Sansa huffs, throwing a look over her shoulder at him.

Jon rolls his eyes. “It’s almost a month from King’s Landing to Riverrun, and that’s just taking the main roads – which we’re not,” he explains.

“I know,” she sighs.

“Because we can’t risk you being spotted.”

“I know.”

Jon pulls the horse to a halt, peering at her over her shoulder. “It’s going to take longer if we keep stopping like this.”

“I know, Jon,” she snaps turning in her seat before him as much as she can, her nose nearly bumping his. She stills at the sudden closeness.

Jon pulls back just a touch, just enough to keep his gaze on hers.

Her cheeks are pink, her mouth pursed tight.

Jon licks his lips. “Are you tired?” he asks finally, his voice rough.

Sansa’s eyes shift between his, her mouth opening and then closing. She turns away from him, facing forward once again. “I can weather it,” she manages, hands curling over the saddle horn.

Jon stays staring at the back of her head. He sighs out. “If you’re tired...”

“I’ll be fine,” she clips out.

Jon frowns behind her.

“I’ll not complain further,” she assures him, shoulders tight. A faint pink blush etches over the tops of her ears.

Jon waits another moment to be certain of her, before urging the horse back into motion.

She doesn’t speak for the remainder of the ride. * * *

He notices something’s wrong when she becomes unusually quiet along the road the next day. He doesn’t comment on it, but keeps a steady eye on her. Her shoulders start slumping. There’s sweat along the back of her neck. Her hands grip the saddle horn tightly.

“Sansa,” he says, never stopping their trot.

“Hmm?” she answers, never looking back at him.

“Are you alright?”

She straightens somewhat. “I’m fine.”

He watches her for many moments from his seat behind her, before stopping them without a word.

She sighs, glancing back at him. “I’m fine,” she repeats, a censure to her words.

But she’s not. And he knows this.

Jon slips from the saddle, boots landing along the ground in a puff of dirt. “Come here,” he urges her, motioning her to get down from the saddle.

She frowns down at him. “Honestly, Jon, I’m – ”

“You’re not fine,” he clips out, hands going for her waist. “Come.”

She reaches for his shoulders reluctantly, an admonishing glare sent his way. “Jon, it’s just – ”

“You’re clammy,” he says, dragging her from the saddle, steadying her against his chest. “And weak. You’re not well.” He motions toward the fallen log beside their horse. “Come, sit. We’ll rest for a time.”

Sansa grudgingly walks toward the log, a hand at her stomach, as Jon goes to tie the horse off along a nearby tree. When he turns back to her, he catches sight of the small patch of blood along the seat of her dress. He stills instantly.

“Sansa,” he gets out on a croak.

She settles along the log, arm wrapped around her middle, her shoulders hunched over. She looks up at him, a brow arched in question.

He raises a finger to point dazedly. “You’re... bleeding.”

Sansa gives him a perplexed look for a moment, before understanding passes over her features, and she nods quietly, eyes slipping closed as she wraps both arms around her stomach now. “My moon blood,” she says in explanation, a grimace accompanying it.

Jon stays rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do to help.

“Will you build a fire?” she asks then, glancing up at him. “Heat helps.”

He moves into action immediately, starting the fire, and gathering blankets, settling them into their nightly routine well before they should have otherwise been doing so.

The sun is still low over the trees when Sansa curls into a ball along the blankets, facing the fire, her eyes squeezed shut.

Jon sits just behind her, setting the waterskin beside her, within reach. He leans back with a sigh, eyes roving her body. The words clog in his throat. “So, you’re...”

Sansa opens her eyes, hands curling in the blanket wrapped around her. She looks over her shoulder at him. “I’m what?” she urges him.

Jon wipes a hand over his mouth, suddenly regretting that he’s even begun this line of thinking, but it sits in his gut anyway, waiting for air. “You’re not with child, then,” he finishes finally, unable to meet her eyes.

Sansa works her jaw, eyes shifting back to the fire. “My marriage to Tyrion was never consummated,” she tells him, the words clipped.

He can’t smother the sigh of relief that escapes him at her words.

She tugs the blanket closer.

Jon reaches a hand to her shoulder. “I didn’t mean... I only meant to ask if...” His hand curls back, away from her shoulder.

“You only meant to ask if I was still a threat to the North – if I carried a Lannister babe in my belly.”

Jon sucks a sharp breath through his teeth. “Sansa, no, I – ”

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” she bites out. “There may have been some... unwanted touches,” she manages through clenched teeth, her voice wavering, “But nothing more than that. I’m still a maiden, don’t worry. And not a threat to our family.”

Jon shakes in his sudden wrath, unseen behind her. He rakes a hand through his hair, his chest heaving. “I’ll kill him,” he snarls lowly.

Sansa stiffens at the sound, unable to look back at him.

“I’ll kill him for even touching you,” he says vehemently.

Sansa finally turns to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Jon.”

Her voice seems to bring him back, seems to dull the haze that’s overcome him. He hushes her, a hand at her shoulder, turning her back to the fire, a brittle silence settling between them. They stay like this for many moments before she turns again, voice catching in her throat, “Jon – ”

But then he’s settling into the space at her back, winding an arm around her waist, bracing her back against his chest.

Sansa swallows tightly, eyes blinking furiously against the firelight. “What are you...?” she gets out shakily.

“You said heat helps,” he answers into her shoulder, burrowing closer.

He doesn’t question this need. Doesn’t question this instinct to quell her pain. He only holds her. Firm and unrelenting.

He holds her.

And she lets him.

#jonsa #jonsa fic #jon snow #sansa stark #no more scars #my writing #got fanfic #jon x sansa #also what the FUCK is going on with tumblr's formatting??#this shit took ages longer to post than normal #dafuq

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