Chapter Text
The future was a dark corridor, and at the far end the door was bolted ― Gustave Flaubert
SANSA
There was no bedding ceremony.
Jon shifted in his seat; his gaze locked on the fire.
Sansa sat in a chair to his side.
The light coming from the fireplace bathed the bedchamber in a warm and reddish glow.
The lord’s chamber was occupied by a nice, huge four-poster bed made of dark wood, with dark gray sheets. There was a small stuffed divan upholstered in dark brocade; two small wooden tables, one on each side of the divan, held several candles, creating lovely shadows.
Sansa drained her cup and felt her cheeks flush.
Jon should have married Daenerys – she considered, remembering the gossips about their short dalliance.
She had heard the whole story. Tyrion had no filter; he drunkenly spilt all the events leading up to the night Jon and Daenerys shared the same room … and bed.
Sansa could not stop her insides from twisting at the thought. The evidence that she never really had Jon’s heart felt like a punch in her stomach, hitting her so hard she thought she would crumble.
How could she have read the signs so wrong?
When he had held her in his arms, she could have sworn that he had felt, as she had, a connection between them that defied reason.
When he had kissed her forehead, she had believed that he loved her.
Stupid Sansa.
She had done the same thing with Joffrey when she had believed in his pretty words.
Stupid, stupid Sansa.
She’d fallen in love with Jon the first day she’d laid eyes on him, in Castle Black, and she had believed he had felt something for her too, but Tyrion’s words had crushed that belief.
Sansa wouldn’t admit to herself that what hurt more was feeling rejected.
Jon did not marry her for love, but for political reasons … and to protect her.
He didn’t love her. He just felt an obligation to her (or Father’s ghost would come back and murder him).
She was his family. Honor demanded him to protect her. It was his duty.
Family, honor, duty.
The Tully words always suited Jon (now more than ever). Catelyn Stark would be so proud.
Sansa would have laughed if she weren’t so tired and hurt in every way.
It was the stone-cold truth. Jon’s actions were not driven by love.
Sansa’s eyes blurred and she had to bit her lower lip hard.
Jon would never be truly hers. He had fallen in love with the Mother of Dragons.
She had deceived herself from the very beginning; her heart was bruised at the thought.
The part of her that believed—or wanted to believe – that he loved her was a fool.
Sansa rose from her chair.
She wanted the pain to stop.
She looked into Jon’s eyes, feeling bolder than she had in a long time. Maybe because she’d reached the point where she had nothing to lose. She had nothing left but the need to be honest with herself about what she really wanted, and right now, she wanted him.
She wanted Jon’s touch. She wanted to feel, at least once in her life, what it was like to be with a man like him. It was foolish. Not smart at all. Not when she knew he didn’t feel the same. But she was his wife now, and she intended to act like it.
“Will you dance with me?” – Sansa said; her tongue loosened by wine.
Jon regarded her for a long moment.
“Here?” – he stuttered.
“Yes” – Sansa stated – “Here” – she added, picking up his cup of wine, drinking it as well.
Jon gulped.
“But… there’s no music” – he stammered.
“We don’t need it” – Sansa declared, kicking off her shoes.
She grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the chair.
Suddenly, she was in his arms. Her left hand clasping his right; his left hand settling on the very proper and limited touching zone at her waist.
His steps were a fraction slower than hers.
His touch was light. Too light.
It was a butterfly touch.
She didn’t want him to touch her in a proper manner. She wanted him to touch her as a husband and, especially, as a lover.
“I’m not that fragile” – Sansa spoke.
“What?” – Jon asked, confused.
“You’re dancing with me as if you think I’ll break” – Sansa said; her tone harsh – “I’m not made of glass, Jon” – she added.
He considered her for a moment
Sansa sighed. She knew her anger was petty, but her heart was so tired…
She wanted love. His love.
She wanted him to say the words “I’m hers and she is mine” and really mean it.
Suddenly, without warning, Jon spun her around twice, pushing her away from him and drawing her back. He dropped his arm so she fell back, then he caught her at the last instant, leaning over her and pulling her up.
“Is that better, My Lady?” – Jon asked, looking right into her eyes; his voice sounded different than she had ever heard it.
Sansa laughed breathlessly. She felt a flush creep up her neck, the longer he looked at her the more she felt her face heat.
One corner of Jon’s mouth lifted in just the tiniest bit of a smile, and she felt her own lips twitch with the beginning of a smile.
“A little” – she said.
Jon grinned.
He skimmed his hand over her back to secure her more firmly. He resettled her in his arms and used more of the floor space to dance her around.
He released her waist long enough to spin her around and then caught her close again; her right hand in his left, his right hand slipping down to her waist.
Around and around the room they went.
A little laugh escaped from Sansa.
He spun her around and caught her back against him, arms around her middle, grasping her hands, and now they danced with her back pressed against his chest.
She was right. They really didn’t need the music, her body automatically swayed to the motion of his, as if they were dancing to the rhythm of the snow falling or the stars aligning.
When Jon lifted her off her feet, she threw her head back and laughed.
Then she linked her arms around his neck, for the first time in more than a year, in an embrace that was sheer and simple affection.
Their eyes locked on each other.
Sansa’s heart pounded against her ribcage with such force she wondered if Jon could hear it; his hands tightened on her hips.
Jon lowered her down, so her feet could touch the floor again.
Their faces were an inch apart.
Sansa felt herself become entrance by Jon’s gaze.
Intense emotions slammed into her; she held her breath.
She looked at Jon’s mouth, knowing it was a mistake, but unable to stop herself.
Her heart thudded.
He had beautiful lips, just the right size and shape, and she had to taste him. Had to know those lips, had to satisfy a quest she’d begun unknowingly a year ago. At the same time, it was though all the barriers she’d erected were tightening, warning her not to do it. But the clawing need for affection and sharing was stronger.
One kiss. What harm could that do? It wouldn’t mean there was more to come, but it would satisfy an ache.
She did what she shouldn’t. She ignored those damn warnings, and suddenly, she didn’t care if he had slept with anyone else. He was here against her, warm and gentle; his lips inches from hers, and she couldn’t hold back anymore.
She kissed him with all the passion and love she’d locked away inside her. It was like unleashing a wild beast.
Her lips traced his in an intoxicating rhythm that simultaneously gave and begged for more.
She gripped the front of his shirt, keeping him close. She was on fire, desperate searching for relief.
He opened his mouth to her as the disease called love took over both of them.
After a long moment, she pulled back from him a little.
The sight of him took her breath away.
Gods, she’d kissed him. She’d kissed Jon.
She couldn't believe what had just happened. She’d kissed Jon and he had kissed her back.
She wondered if Jon really wanted to kiss her back or if he was just inebriated.
He had a wide-eyed, unsure expression on his face and Sansa knew he needed an explanation for this. She also knew she had no intention of stopping to give him one right now.
She recaptured his mouth before he could deny her another kiss.
One had not been enough. Two wasn’t going to be either.
She moaned softly against his mouth, kissing him harder and harder as if it would never be enough, not quite enough.
“Sansa” – Jon gasped when they parted slightly for want of air, but it did little to deter her for she pushed forward.
Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him to her to deepen the kiss.
She freed his hair from the leather tie at his nape.
Jon whispered her name against her lips, a heated urgent sound that crackled along her nerve endings.
When had desired turned into this clawing consuming kind of need, a need that said she’d die if she didn’t have him?
She wanted him so close to her that she could feel every breath, every heartbeat, every pulsing flutter of his body… and still, she realized, it wouldn’t be enough to quench her thirst for him.
Needing the exquisite feel of flesh against flesh, Sansa thrust her hands beneath the hem of his tunic. She let her fingers explore what was underneath: the tight, hot skin over his ribs, the ridges of his abdomen, the scars on his back, the angle of his hipbones…
Passionately, her tongue entered his mouth with sweet provocation; her body pressed against his as if of its own accord.
There was no resistance on his part.
Jon let her unlace his tunic.
Jagged scars marred his beautiful pale skin.
Sansa reached out and traced a long, thin scar that slashed over his ribs and then another, on the left side of his chest, directly over his heart.
She felt his muscles tense beneath her touch, and kissed a spot on the back of his neck, making him shiver and groan his approval.
Sansa backed off a bit and looked at him.
His eyes dark, with need, widened.
She clasped his breeches and pulled him back against her.
She pressed her lips against his for a long, passionate kiss. Jon’s lips were warm and soft and it felt so good kissing him.
Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck; her heart beating wildly as he kissed her back, feeling as if her body would melt into his.
She wished she could feel this happy forever.
Feeling bolder than she had ever felt in her entire life, she kissed his chest.
Jon gasped.
His skin was so soft that she could hear his heart beat fast.
Sansa continued kissing a trail of passion from his chest to his shoulders, and up to his neck.
Then, she stopped kissing him so she could untie the little strings at the top of his pants that held them together. Next, with deliberate agility, she flicked the top button on his trousers, watching as understanding dawned on his face.
Excitement over what they were about to do made her ache, literally ache, between her legs.
Another button slipped undone and the front flap of pants fell away.
Jon reached out and clasped her face, his eyes fierce with a need that left her breathless.
This time he was the one who kissed first, really kissed her, no holding back. She gasped at the suddenness of his action.
Her hands started moving through his hair, pulling him even closer to her.
He drew her flush against him, and the intense flashes the kiss had ignited grew into a sweeping inferno of desire.
His open mouth sealed to hers and she accepted his offering.
Sansa’s heartbeat raced, her stomach flip-flopped and her knees wobbled. She didn’t want these sensations to end.
When Jon lifted his head to look at her, she looked deeply into his eyes.
“Are you sure?” – he asked.
She inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of him deep inside her.
Every nerve tingled with anticipation. Every sense strained to the breaking point. Her breath hitched, her stomach rolled and that ache low in her body seemed to throb in time with her pulse beat.
Sure? Gods, if he didn’t take her to bed quickly, she was going to toss him to the stone floor and have her way with him. And the mental images inspired by that notion nearly pushed her over the precarious precipice on which she felt balanced.
She curled her arms around his neck and nodded. But there was a gleam of uncertainty in his eyes as if he was waiting for her to change her mind.
Gently, she grabbed one of his hands and kissed the center of his palm.
She met his gaze with her own.
“Yes” – she whispered brokenly.
Swirls of want and need and pure, unaltered lust swan in the pit of her stomach.
Apparently, Jon saw the truth in her eyes, because he picked her up, and kissed her passionately as he edged his way toward the bed.
Sansa wrapped her legs around his waist.
He held her tightly as he lowered himself softly onto the bed, on top of her.
He swept her skirts up her legs, so he could dispose of her smallclothes.
His hands touched her legs and she felt a rush of carnal desire.
He kissed her neck and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. His lips were moist and warm, as he kissed her slowly and deliberately; his thighs pressing against hers.
If only she were naked, to have him kiss every part of her body.
She ran her hands along his muscular forearms, then slid them down his back.
Jon opened his mouth over the pulse that beat beside her ear and her hips bumped his.
He pressed forward, moving deeper inch by inch.
She could sense he was holding himself back, being extra gentle and careful.
Her body seemed not her own as she locked her ankles at the small of his back, liking the feel of him inside her, pushing against a little spot that left her breathless and in need of him. All of him.
“Sansa?” – she heard him say tenderly, caressing her brow, and she opened her eyes to found him looking down on her, hardly separate at all – “Are you well?”
“Yes” – she answered, the word itself a sigh of ecstasy – “I think I’m quite well”
He kissed her deeply, then slowly moved inside her, deliberately tender.
Her body quivered around him. She clutched him, her fingers raking down his back.
He pulled out and then slid back in again with exquisite care.
She felt the pleasure building up inside her like a fever.
She felt herself coming alive, free but safely grounded in the shelter of his arms, as if she had finally come home.
Her body found his rhythm, moving naturally without her conscious will.
She clasped the nape of his neck, holding herself against him as he pushed into her, dragging her into a world of pleasure.
She was so close. Her whole focus shifted to where they were joined and she fought for release. Needed to shatter in his arms with him inside her.
Harder, higher, faster. Together. They were moving as one flesh, and it was glorious. She savored the hot friction of him moving inside her.
He gasped her name and she arched beneath him.
His strokes became harder and faster and then exquisite torture burst through her body like a ray of light.
She moaned his name as tremor after tremor racked her core.
Jon’s kiss swallowed her screams as though he wanted to absorb every bit of pleasure coming from her before his own shout of ecstasy sounded against her throat.
They stayed entwined for a little while until their breathing was level and heart races calm.
At last, he rolled off of her and pulled her close. Instantly, her arms and legs entwined with his.
The fleeting thought that this would happen again, thrilled her beyond anything.
She curled into his side, her head against his muscular chest as she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
JON
Jon contemplated the woman seated next to him.
Sansa talked and acted as nothing had happened between them, and Jon realized that she didn’t remember their night. She had drunk, rather too much, to remember it; as if she could not bear it otherwise.
It was torture. Her perfume drifted towards him as she moved her arms, and a tendril of hair escaped from the braided chignon she had fashioned at the back of her swan-like neck. Everything about her fired his blood to fever pitch. It was impossible to be in the same room as her and not want to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.
This was worse than when she had been mad at him for bending the knee.
This time he was beyond knowing how to handle her, or what to say or do.
Yes, she had been mad at him for bending the knee, and she had paid him back with silence. But then Bran had told them the truth, and everything changed. The Gods had finally given him a chance at happiness, at love…
His heart pounded as his thoughts traveled and he remembered their wedding night; he felt a dangerous excitement streak through him.
He remembered everything about the night they’d made love for the first time.
He remembered how her fingers had slipped up his chest, how they’d scraped his back when they’d found their rhythm.
He remembered her sensual mouth and the way it had fed so hungrily of his; her soft hands with their dancing fingertips that had set his skin on fire; the way her long, slim legs had wrapped around his waist as he’s plunged into her hot moistness; the way her body had gripped him tightly as if she’d never wanted to let go; the way her hips had moved in time with his, her breathing as frantic as his own gasps … and the way she had gasped his name, her body convulsing in ultimate pleasure, triggering his own cataclysmic release.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remove the memory of her touch from his mind, much less his body.
He remembered waiting for the guilt and the shame of what they’d done, but there had been nothing but the warm length of her body pressed against his and a contentment that he had never felt before.
Jon swore, realizing that if he let his thoughts travel much longer, every lord and lady in the council meeting room would know exactly how aroused he was becoming.
When he left their bed, Sansa had been sound asleep, wrapped around him like a clinging vine.
Jon had carefully detangled himself from her and tiptoed toward the door.
He didn’t intend to consummate their marriage, but her kiss had sent reason flying away.
He knew that their marriage was a marriage of convenience. He knew that Sansa didn’t love him. He knew that she had only slept with him because she had felt it was her obligation; because bedding was part of marriage… And that was why she had drunk so much, so she could bear it, so she could bear him.
Jon clenched his jaw.
Sansa deserved better, and still he couldn’t quite make himself regret wanting her. But it was more than physical attraction. When she smiled, he smiled. When she laughed, he wanted to hear her do it again… and last night she had laughed. Last night she didn’t seem cool and guarded. Last night she seemed happy.
He knew he’d brought her bliss. He’d seen it in her radiant face; he’d heard it in her hoarse voice, shouting his name; he’d felt it in the pulsing climax that’d rocked her from the inside out.
Jon’s heart started to beat faster as a thought invaded his mind.
What if what he was feeling wasn’t quite as one-sided as he thought?
Perhaps she felt something for him too. Perhaps she loved him too…
Suddenly, with a gasp, Sansa pressed a hand against her temple.
SANSA
“Sansa?” – Jon said and she felt her stomach contracting and then twisting into a knot.
Her name sounded different on his lips – the caress of the S, the way it seemed to end on a breath.
“Are you well?” – he asked.
Her insides fluttered, sending curls of heat through her stomach and shivers all the way down her spine. She had heard those words before.
Sansa? Are you well?
Pain pounded in her head like a blacksmith hitting steal.
She pressed her hands to her temples and closed her eyes.
Her thoughts traveled and she felt her cheeks flush.
Yes. I think I’m quite well.
Her heart felt like it was ready to bust out of her chest.
She felt a hand touching her face and she immediately opened her eyes.
Her eyes met Jon’s.
Sansa’s head tilted slightly towards his hand. He had beautiful hands, strong and weatherworn, but gentle. His touch excited her beyond anything she had expected.
She was drawn to his warm gray eyes.
Jon caressed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, lightly but enough to make her shiver.
Sansa looked at his mouth.
Uneasy, she gulped.
Just like seconds ago, a flash of pain went through her head and she suddenly saw an image of Jon kissing her and gasping her name, except it felt more like a memory.
She could actually see herself in his arms, her mouth against his, her hips moving in time with his, his hands gliding down her long legs…
She blinked and swallowed deeply, not believing she had allowed such thoughts to enter her mind.
She moved her head away from his touch. She thought she saw a disappointed look in his eyes. Maybe even a slightly hurt look, but she needed to put some distance between them.
Sansa pushed back her chair before standing up.
Jon opened his mouth but she was faster.
“A sudden headache” – she spoke, feeling her knees trembling – “If you’ll excuse me” – she added, already backing out of the room, not waiting for Jon’s response.
Her loving him was a foregone conclusion.
She loved him, even though she was fairly convinced that love had never entered the picture from Jon’s side.
The heart wants what it wants. She was the living proof that the saying was very true. She couldn’t do anything to change how she felt, just as she couldn’t do anything about making Jon love her.
The flashes continued. She didn’t mention them to anyone, and she’d gotten good at hiding her reaction.
Different things seemed to trigger them and they were all centered around Jon: his warm hand on her arm, the scent of his hair, his alluring voice, they had all triggered immediate, intense images of the two of them.
They developed a pattern. Jon was the first one awake; she was the first one asleep, except when desire overtook reason and the wine gave her the bravado she needed to be honest with herself.
Sansa opened the door and entered into their chambers.
She put the cup down on a small wooden table and walked towards her husband.
Jon was sitting in a chair near the hearth, the flames throwing red shadows into his face.
She sat down right on top of him and haled her skirts up out of the way.
She kissed him hungrily, her mouth needy, her tongue demanding.
He murmured her name and she found she couldn’t get her fill of him fast enough.
She untied his shirt strings and shoved the shirt open, exposing his chest almost to his navel. At the sight of his hard body, she felt a yielding in every part of her.
Sansa slid her hands over his skin, starting with his shoulders. The heels of her palms radiated in gentle circles over the caps of his shoulders, then on his breastbone and down his chest.
Jon let out a low groan of pleasure.
She leaned forward and laid her hands on his forearms on top of the chair’s arms, pinning him in place.
Sansa kissed him.
Jon thrust his tongue into her mouth and a quiver shot down to her belly. She broke off the kiss to catch her breath. Then kissed him again.
She let her hands fall down his back until they reached the waist of his pants. Her hands followed the edge until they met in the front. Without looking, she untied his trousers as he engaged her lips.
He gripped her face, tugging her head down so he could kiss her hard; his other hand firm on her bottom, keeping her pressed tightly against him as he flexed his hips upward, stealing her control and her breath.
He was wonderful. Perfect. Everything. And never before had she assigned those adjectives to a man. But they fit him, just like he fit her.
Jon slowly ran his hands up her stocking legs until he reached the lace at the top of her thighs, letting his fingers caress the skin just above the stockings. She shivered at his touch, wanting him to touch her all over, but Jon, ever the noble, didn’t continue his exploration. He reached for one stocking, slowly rolling it down her leg and off her foot, letting it fall on the floor. He did the same thing with the other one.
He quickly removed her smallclothes, then he gripped her butt hard, tugging her into position, lowering her down onto his arousal, every thick inch filling her perfectly.
She braced her hands on his shoulders, moving in time with his breathing. Slow and measured. With the very first movement came a strange rush of pleasure at the fullness deep inside.
She wanted to stay in his arms for the rest of eternity.
She squeezed his shoulders tight, her nails digging into his skin.
She had him pinned beneath her, his hips trapped between her thighs. Captive. And yet her body rocked with the movement of his hips, with every thrust of his powerful thighs. His body was strong, his touch so tender. Perhaps she was the captive. She couldn’t help but surrender. Her heart belonged to him.
The faster she rode him, the more the pressure seemed to build. She wanted to give him everything. To hold no part of herself back.
His fingers were on her hips, coaxing her, guiding her as she rode him.
She gripped his arms and held on tight. Her hips rose and fell, grinding against him.
She was his. Her body knew it as well as her heart.
The spasms took her and she cried out, her muscles contracting around him as waves of ecstasy rolled through her.
Jon’s breaths came faster, his thrusts more urgent, until his legs stiffened beneath her and a rush of heat filled her deep inside. Spent, Sansa collapsed onto his chest.
Jon’s heartbeat comforted her. His arms locked around her and he held her tight, occasionally touching a finger to her hair.
After a moment, Sansa tipped her head back to look at him.
Their faces were mere inches apart, while their eyes stared intensely into one another’s. Time seemed to freeze.
She reached up and, with her fingers, traced the outline of his face, taking in every line of him, every scar, everything that defined the man she so desperately loved.
She wanted to tell him that she loved him. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a sentinel of common sense told her it was a mistake, but all the same she felt it.
Sansa traced along the bow of his lips and then across the fullness of the lower one.
Jon kissed her fingertips and she felt like her heart would break. He was perfect.
She brushed her lips against his and heard a sigh when she moved away. He was giving her control of the situation. She kissed along his jaw; his stubble tickled her lips, making them even more sensitive. His lips were silky smooth by comparison.
She loved his mouth: warm, safe, inviting.
Jon gathered her up in his arms, her body still throbbing, and carried her to the bed, laying her down.
He slipped into bed and pressed his lips to hers in a slow, unhurried kiss, tucking her to his side. He wrapped an arm around her back as one of her legs tangled between his.
Exhaustion swept over her swiftly as Jon’s heart beat soundly under her cheek, and she drifted off to sleep.
JON
He watched her sleep.
The warmth of her body pressed against him was comforting.
Asleep, his wife looked at peace. Asleep, all the lines fell from her face and he could see who she once was.
Sansa caressed him in her sleep, petting his skin, dancing in the scars covering his chest, and he liked it. He liked having her next to him.
She looked so peaceful and beautiful that it almost took his breath away.
Jon caressed the softness of Sansa’s cheek with a fingertip, noting the roughness of his skin in contrast to hers.
He watched her breath in and out; his left arm trapped behind her, unable to move in case he disturbed her. And he didn’t want to disturb her, because as long as she was sleeping, he could watch her. Watch the slight fluttering of her eyelashes against her faintly flushed cheeks. Watch the soft rise and fall of her chest with every breath, and hear the gentle sigh of air as she exhaled through parted lips that were pink and so damn kissable it was killing him.
Jon felt a lump in his throat and a tightness in his chest as a vague anxiety that Sansa would not remember anything about their night, in the sober light of day, invaded his mind.
He loved her.
He loved her keen wit. He loved her good sense and practicality.
He loved that she was unafraid to take him to task when she believed him to be wrong.
He loved Sansa in a way he’d never loved anyone before.
But it was only in this early-morning time, before she was awake, that he could gaze on her face with the same open love he’d felt from the moment he saw her passing through the gates of Castle Black.
She still affected him in a way he’d never understood.
She ruled his heart.
He wanted to tell her, but words had never favored him and, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself, he was afraid of her reaction. He was afraid she didn’t feel the same, that Sansa only married him for political reasons, that Sansa only slept with him because bedding was part of marriage.
Jon looked away, unable to watch her any longer, unable to lay there with his arm around her and lust after her when she didn’t feel the same (because if she felt the same, she wouldn’t drink and drink and drink, so she would not remember their lovemaking).
It would be easier if he didn’t want her.
Jon sat on the bed and looked at her, again, knowing he would never tire of the sight of her, the feel of her against him.
He knew this moment would end too soon.
In the morning, she would not remember any of it, and that was simply the way of things.
Jon sighed.
He wanted to eliminate the unhappiness she expressed every day, during council meetings, meals, and anywhere but here, in their bed.
He wanted her to feel loved and wanted.
He wanted to love her. Publicly. Not just in his mind and in his heart.
He wanted to make her laugh outside their chambers.
He wanted to make her believe in songs again.
He wanted her to trust him, to need him, too.
He wanted her to forget the bad things that happened to her in her own home.
Jon’s heart wrenched and burned furiously with hatred at Ramsay.
Ramsay.
His mind started to show him images of Ramsay Bolton forcing himself on Sansa.
All he could see was Ramsay’s cold hands inflicting pain on Sansa.
Jon clenched his jaw, realizing that she was still suffering because of that monster. Even dead, Ramsay continued to haunt her mind. He was still stuck in her brain, in her memories.
Rage started to invade his body.
Jon lifted Sansa’s hand in his and caressed it.
Never again would she be a plaything for any man.
He had an overwhelming urge to kiss her and tell her that she would be fine, that one day the wound would close over.
He wanted to be the one to close that wound, to be the one to erase all the ghosts living inside the walls of Winterfell.
A thought came into his mind and Jon smiled, looking at his sleeping wife.
Perhaps there was a chance to make Sansa happy again, to make her dreams come true.
He could imagine the two of them happy, building a family together without the weight of the past on their shoulders.
If the Gods gave them babes, he knew Sansa would be a wonderful mother. The thought of Sansa carrying his child was something that he spent a ridiculous amount of time thinking about during council meeting when he should be contemplating defenses and stores.
Jon’s pulse sped up.
He was hopelessly in love with his wife.
He would be the best husband that he could be, and he would make Sansa Stark fall in love with him… he just needed a little help.
SANSA
As soon as she stepped into the courtyard, the sound of wings beating in the sky startled her.
Suddenly, she heard a roar and a dragon flew over her.
Confusion rippled through the courtyard for a moment.
Sansa’s eyes widened as she looked up and saw Daenerys Targaryen looking powerful, invincible and utterly beautiful on Drogon’s back, her personal mount.
The dragon landed heavily in front of Winterfell’s gates. Most of his scales were black, shadowing red ones that ran down his back and neck. His wings and frills were black-red mix, down to the wing-bones which were black. Sansa also noticed that Drogon’s eyes were orange-red.
Daenerys dismounted and Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, trying to hide her discomfort.
Jon should have married Daenerys – insecurity rose in her chest.
The Mother of Dragons had the most beautiful blonde hair that Sansa had ever seen. She was wearing a dark red gown, snug around her waist and fanning out at her hips. A silver dragon snaked its way up her neck, and her blonde hair was held away in a complicated array of braids.
The last time Sansa had seen her was four moons ago, at the wedding.
The Queen in the North felt a sharp pain in her chest as she remembered that day – the day Tyrion had drunkenly told her about Jon and Daenerys’s dalliance… And now she was back.
Why?
Her heart sank.
Did Jon tell her to come?
As if thinking of him had summoned him, Jon appeared in the courtyard.
He walked towards her. When he got near her, Sansa closed her eyes as she savored his clean, masculine scent. Their bodies were so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his skin.
Jon rested his hand on Sansa’s slender waist. She tried to ignore the protective and innocently possessive way his arm molded around her waist and the way his hand cradled her hip.
Her heart started to beat faster. She liked the way he touched her. It was almost hypnotic.
A flash of pain went through her head, triggering an immediate, intense image of the two of them, in bed.
Sansa pursed her lips, hiding her reaction, as Daenerys approached them.
“Your Grace” – Sansa said, regaining control of her thoughts.
“Dany, please, Sansa. Call me Dany, I insist”– Daenerys said – “We’re family” – she added.
The Mother of Dragons turned her attention to Jon, offering him a warm smile.
“I’m glad you came” – Jon said with a matching smile.
Sansa wanted nothing more than to disappear, to run away from them and their intimate looks.
Jon had asked Daenerys to come.
It was too painful to watch, to hear, to know that Jon would never be hers. That realization made her incredibly sad.
Her life was a never-ending nightmare.
“I’ll ask someone to prepare your chambers, Your Grace” – Sansa said, before making her way towards the castle.
Jon was sat at the head of the table, Daenerys to his right while Sansa sat at the other end of the table, directly across from him.
Sansa kept her eyes stuck on her plate, preventing her from seeing the way Daenerys’s hand touched Jon’s arm every time she laughed.
Arya was sat to her right and Bran sat to her left.
Ser Jorah, Brienne, Ser Davos, Ser Jaime and Tyrion were also present.
Sansa vaguely followed their conversations, only contributing when asked.
A million questions stormed her mind.
Why did Jon ask Daenerys to come?
Were they lovers?
Was she planning to stay here for a day, a month, a year?
Did she intend to take her place by Jon’s side?
They had spent the entire day together. Did Jon bed her already?
Sansa bit her lower lip and try to remain with a neutral face as images of Jon and Daenerys together flitted through her brain.
She couldn’t even dislike the woman. Daenerys was pleasant and charming, with a down-to-earth friendliness. She always tried to set her at ease. She could see why Jon liked her; why Jon loved her.
The air felt like fire in her lungs as she faced reality.
“In the contract drafted between House Targaryen and House Stark, a condition was that the North would be maintained as independent” – Tyrion’s voice caught her attention – “So the heir to the Iron Throne will not inherit Winterfell. The domains of the North will go to the second in line”
A bad feeling inside Sansa grew stronger.
“What if they have a girl first?” – Ser Davos asked – “Will she inherit the throne?”
“Of course” – Daenerys spoke – “She will be Lady Regnant of the Six Kingdoms and I will have a beautiful nice to spoil” – she added, smiling.
Sansa tried to smile back, but it was as if the muscles of her face were denying her the right.
Her heart started to beat faster and faster as she realized that she’d been married for more than four moons and that she continued to receive her moon blood.
Her nights with Jon were a blur in her mind, but she knew they’d slept together enough times for her to be with child already. But the truth was that she was not pregnant. She just had her moon blood a sennight ago, and since Daenerys’s arrival Jon had spent most of his nights sound asleep on his side of the bed… or away from their chambers.
Her heart thudded in her chest and her breath caught in her throat.
It was her duty to give Jon an heir.
She thought about her mother and how easily she had given birth to five children.
She thought about Sam and remembered his happy face when he informed them, three moons ago, that Gilly was pregnant.
And then she thought about herself and her marriage with Ramsay. All the things she did so she would not get pregnant, so she would not have his child.
Her temples pounded harder and faster with every heartbeat.
Guilt, like she’d never felt before, slammed into her and she was out of her seat and exiting the room before she could think.
She needed to be out of there, away from Jon. She didn’t even know what lame excuse she threw over her shoulder as she exited. All she could think about was what she’d done to them.
She remembered the Moon Tea she used to drink after her nights with Ramsay.
She’d always dreamed of being a wife and a mother, but she couldn’t bear the thought of carrying Ramsay’s child. She couldn’t bear to think of her own children having a father like him, a monster.
She worried that she would not be able to love the child, so she continued to drink the Moon Tea, day after day, night after night, not really knowing how often she should drink it, and not knowing about the adverse side effects.
Realization dawned on her, bringing with it a combination of horror and fear.
The backs of her eyes stung. Tears were threatening, and she willed them back, furious with Ramsay, with herself, with everything.
She hugged her arms to her chest to ease the hollow ache she felt almost down to her toes.
Her dreams were gone. Ruined.
Jon would never place his palm on the swell of her abdomen. She would never place her own hand over his and show him that the little life growing within her was made from both of them and was strong and real. Jon would never press his face over her belly and held his ear to her as if he could hear the babe inside.
Sansa’s pulse began to race. She knew no child would’ve ever been more loved.
Her hands started to tremble.
She had destroyed a part of herself. She had destroyed her dreams and her future. She had destroyed any possibility of having children.
The reality was that she was barren and she had no idea what to do about that. There was no way he knew. She knew he wouldn’t have been able to hide it if he did.
How would he react? Would he blame her? Would he hate her?
The way her gut twisted at that thought was enough to bring her to a halt. She couldn’t lose him. She needed him.
She loved him.
But after this … she’d never blame him if he did hate her. She’d understand. She was the one to blame.
The look of utter betrayal on his face as he learned what she’d done came into her mind and she shook her head fiercely to get rid of it.
It left her short breath and not knowing what to do.
Jon should have married Daenerys.
People said that the Queen couldn’t have children; that Jon was the only one who could continue the Targaryen lineage…
Sansa felt herself growing weaker. She had ruined everything. She had condemned Jon to a sad and unwanted marriage when he could have married Daenerys Targaryen instead. He could have been with her this entire time. They would never have children, but at least they would be together, they would be happy.
Jon should have married Daenerys.
That was one of the long nights of her life. She went back and forth on whether she should tell him or not. She knew Jon needed to know. But both of them knowing made it real.
Part of her was hoping he’d figure it out on his own. But as the moons dragged on and he showed no signs of noticing, she became anxious. Because, as soon as he knew, everything would change. Part of her also felt that if she was the only one bearing the burden, she could save him the pain of knowing what she’d done to him, them.
“He’ll hate me” – Sansa spoke.
There it was. She finally admitted why she’d been so quiet, why she hadn’t said anything when she knew she should have. Because it gave her one more month, day, hour of him not looking at her like she’d destroyed his life.
“There you are” – a voice startled Sansa; she turned her head and saw Arya walking towards her – “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I wanted to say goodbye. I’m leaving for King’s Landing” – she added.
“You’re leaving, again?” – Sansa asked – “But you just came back” – she complained.
“I need to buy a new sword” – Arya explained, scratching the back of her ear.
Sansa frowned.
“A new sword? We’re not at war anymore. The Great War is over” – she said – “Besides, you have hundreds of swords. And you only use Needle”
Arya ran her fingers through her short hair
“Well, I need a helmet” – she said – “For the tournament”
“What tournament?” – Sansa asked, confused.
“Your tournament. On your name day” – Arya said – “Three moons from now” – she added.
Sansa looked out over the high battlement walls, her arms propped up on the smooth stone.
“I don’t think there will be any tournament, Arya” – she sighed.
“Jon said it will” – Arya stated.
Sansa heard the sound of flapping wings – a sound that she now recognized very well – and bit the inside of her cheek.
Jon and Daenerys were back. At least he arrived early.
Drogon and Rhaegal landed heavily in the courtyard.
Sansa peered over the battlements.
She saw Jon clasping Daenerys’s waist, helping her dismount. She thought his hands had lingered a moment before he released her.
Sansa bit her lower lip, holding back her emotions.
She noticed Jon’s clothes were dusty and his hair was tousled, and thought about the last two moons and how Jon was always tired, exhausted and … absent.
Their pattern had changed and, now, Jon was the first one awake and the first one asleep.
Since Daenerys’s arrival, Jon had spent most of his time away from Winterfell, with Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regnant of the Six Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.
She didn't want to think about what they did while they were away, but her mind insisted on showing her images of Jon and Daenerys together. It made her blood run like fire, made her vision small.
Of course, his honor could be abandoned for a pretty Queen.
All men were the same, she thought.
When Jon smiled down at Daenerys a wave of dark jealousy crashed over Sansa. It seemed Jon had smiled with Daenerys from the moment she’d arrived.
“Jon has been too busy with his Queen” – she grumbled – “I doubt he’ll have time to organize a tournament”
Sansa turned her back and walked away, leaving a speechless Arya behind.
She quickened her steps and as she turned the corner of the stairs, she saw Jon standing at the bottom, looking upwards, at her. For a moment, she faltered. He looked so very masculine, so heart-shakingly familiar. It would be the easiest thing in the world to run down to him, to fling herself into his arms, to beg him to hold her and never let her go.
Horrified, she averted her face from him, praying that he would move out of the way before she reached the bottom stair, and yet, when he did, the surge of disappointment that swept her taunted her mercilessly, revealing her weakness.
When she was about to walk past him, he grabbed her arm. His grip was firm but gentle.
Vivid flashes of Jon kissing her invaded her mind, making her feel stupid.
A stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns.
She blinked away the pinpricks of tears welling up in her eyes and took a deep breath.
“What’s wrong, Sansa?” – Jon asked, looking at her in concern.
Sansa did her best to breathe normally but her emotions kept getting the best of her. She felt like she was being suffocated.
She peered at him, wanting to see if she could see something in his eyes; something that told her that possibly, perhaps, hopefully he loved her too?
Her stupid and traitorous heart was telling her to stretch out a hand to him.
Sansa’s gaze drifted to his lips.
He was so close that she could see the creases on his mouth, the fullness of it.
Unconsciously, she put her hands on either side of his face and leaned close.
“Sansa…” – he whispered, gripping her waist.
She realized she wanted to kiss him. Partly because she wanted to stick it to Daenerys for sleeping with him. The other part because she loved him; loved him so much it hurt.
“My love, what is it?” – Jon asked softly, his brows furrowed in worry.
Sansa’s heart lurched, banging against her ribcage.
My love.
He’d called her my love and it seemed to have come out naturally, not a fake endearment.
Until that moment, he’d never called her that.
It nearly made her cry. No one had ever called her my love before.
But then she remembered his smile to Daenerys.
Did he call her ‘my love’ as well?
Jon caressed her cheek, and Sansa couldn’t help thinking of him touching Daenerys, running his warm hands along the inside of Daenerys’s thigh.
Sansa shook her head and broke the contact completely by stepping away; away from those eyes boring into her, in case he saw the truth. That she wanted him despite everything.
Jon should have married Daenerys.
But Sansa knew Jon was too good to leave her, to ask for an annulment. He would always feel an obligation to her.
Jon was not Rhaegar.
As long as she lived, he would never leave her.
A sudden thought pierced her mind, making her feel strangely calm and accepting.
If she died, he would be free from his obligation.
If she died, he would be free to marry Daenerys Targaryen.
If she died, he would be free to be with the woman he loved.
She was the problem.
She was broken. Damaged. No one should be tied to a person like that.
She couldn’t spoil Jon’s chance at happiness. She couldn’t be selfish anymore.
She loved him. She wanted him whole.
Sansa could see it clear now. Love meant sacrifice and selflessness; it meant that another’s well-being was more important than one’s own.
She felt a determination rise in her that she never felt before.
Sansa Stark needed to die … and she would plan it all out.