Work Text:
Sansa Stark was never a rebellious girl.
She took her parents' words about duty and honor to heart, and she always tries to make people proud of her. Her courteous and gentle nature garnered her many compliments over the years. Even Arya—for a moment, Sansa feels a pang of longing for her lost sister—used to talk about how obedient Sansa was. Granted, she was usually mocking Sansa when she did it, but the point still stands. Sansa Stark is not a rebellious girl.
Today is one of the few days she desperately wished she was.
She was twelve when Joffrey set her aside for Lady Margaery Tyrell. Her traitor's blood left her unmarriageable, and so she was given to the Faith. Sansa's heart broke a bit when she realized that she would never marry and never have the kind of love her parents had, but mostly, she was relieved. As a priestess of the Faith of the Dragon, no one, not even the king, could harm her. Priestesses were essentially the wives of the Great Dragon, and it would be a grave sin to do one of them harm. She's lived in relative safety in the Great Sept of Baelor for the last six years.
Now, she is about to lose that safety.
The signs started a month ago, and it was obvious what they meant. The Great Dragon is coming to King's Landing. He must be left an offering.
“The gods chose you,” the Most Devout tell her when she is called before them.
The king and the Small Council are there too, but the former is the only one who protests. “She's mine!” He whines like a child. “Give the dragon someone else!”
The High Septon only shakes his head sadly. “It must be Lady Sansa. I saw it in a vision. The dragon will accept no other.”
As blasphemous as it may be, Sansa doesn't believe him for a moment. She didn't believe him during the king's last name day celebration either, when he claimed a vision and tried to bed her. She enjoyed denying him then and wishes she could do so now, but nothing she says dissuades High Septon Baelish. Even when she brings up her traitor's blood, he dismisses her. According to him, dragons cared little about blood, traitor's other otherwise. Sansa would be the offering.
She tries to feel honored, she truly does, but mostly, she is afraid. She's still afraid when the day comes. She stands outside the Great Sept of Baelor in a ceremonial robe—essentially a hooded blanket with a few tassels—anointed with strange smelling oil and wearing a wreath of weirwood leaves and feathers, and she feels she might faint or burst into tears. Lecherous septons aside, the sept is the only safe place she's known since Winterfell. She doesn't want to leave. She definitely doesn't want to be maimed or eaten by a dragon.
The High Septon leads the Most Devout and the royal family in a chant, praising the Great Dragon's power, and every now and then, Septa Unella rings an enormous ceremonial bell and deafens everyone. The ceremony drags on for nearly an hour, and Sansa begins to wonder if her 'betrothed' is going to appear at all. She's starting to hope that he won't, that she'll be allowed to go back to her cell in the sept, and then people start gasping and pointing. The courtyard is suddenly blanketed in shadow, and when Sansa looks up to see what could be causing it, she has to stifle a cry. The High Septon seems to hear something anyway, because out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shoot her a disapproving look. She's too busy being horrified by the massive black shape blotting out the sun to care what he thinks.
Her 'betrothed' is here.
The beating of the dragon's wings seem to boom and echo around them as the dragon lands outside the Great Sept. It barely fits in the marble plaza, and when it turns around, its thick tail nearly knocks over the altar where Septa Unella stands with her bell. After a moment, the dragon settles and looks around with enormous, glowing, and utterly terrifying gray eyes.
“OH GREAT DRAGON!” the High Septon bellows. “SINCE YOUR ARRIVAL THREE CENTURIES AGO, YOU HAVE BROUGHT PROSPERITY AND PEACE TO OUR PEOPLE!”
Sansa almost snorts at that. Her people haven't enjoyed peace or prosperity since Joffrey became king, and now that she's faced with certain death, she's tempted to say so. Her manners, it seemed, were almost gone now. That has to be why the High Septon's tone amuses her so. Before today, she never would have wanted to laugh at a shrieking man who sounded like he was about to cry or wet himself. She also wonders why he's yelling. Sansa can see a pair of pointy, twitching ears beneath the dragon's smoke-gray horns. They seem to work well too, because when the High Septon starts yelling, the massive creature rears back a little, like a disgruntled cat disturbed by a loud noise. He almost sits on Septa Unella and her bell.
“WE OFFER TRIBUTE IN THE FORM OF THIS MAIDEN!” the High Septon continues, pointing at Sansa. “SHE IS YOUNG AND STRONG AND COMELY—” Sansa makes a face at the ‘comely’ part, though it's likely hidden by her hood. “—AND HAS BEEN TRAINED IN THE DELICATE ARTS TO BRING YOU GREAT PLEASURE!”
Sansa shoots him a disbelieving look. There most certainly has not been any ‘Dragon-Pleasuring’ training in any arts, ‘delicate’ or otherwise as far as she is aware. Off to one side, she can see some of the royal family, namely Queen Margaery and Lord Tyrion, giving her strange looks, as though they're only just now realizing what being married to a dragon might entail. Dragon-pleasuring. Wonderful. Now everyone is going to think she’s spent the last month locked in the sept, doing all manner of perverse things to prepare for her 'marriage' instead of avoiding the High Septon.
The dragon swings its carriage-sized head around to stare at Sansa. It doesn't have eyebrows, only matte black scales and a row of spurs leading up to its horns, but Sansa has the mad idea that if it did, it would raise one in confusion. It huffs, and Sansa and the High Septon are engulfed in a blast of damp, hot, dragon breath. It smells like hot stones.
“Do you...accept our tribute?” the High Septon asks, his voice soft and feeble.
The dragon stares at him for a very long moment, and Sansa wonders idly if High Septon Baelish is about to be eaten. Instead, the dragon sits back on its haunches for a while, almost like it's thinking. Its chest is level with the highest tower of the Great Sept. It stares down at Sansa, head tilted to one side. For one absurd moment, Sansa worries that she's not good enough, that the dragon doesn't want her, but then it lifts its head and trumpets. The noise is so awful that everyone in the vicinity covers their ears, and more than a few people throw themselves to the ground in terror. A plume of golden flame erupts from the dragon’s mouth, and the smell of heat and fire thickened the air again.
It falls back on all fours and shoves its face close to Sansa. Shock and paralyzing fear are the only things that keep her on her feet as a wall of steaming black and gray scales push at her and a nostril the size of her head sniffs at her. For an awful moment, Sansa thinks the dragon is going to lick her too, but smelling her seems to be enough. It huffs at her, a great clacking noise coming from somewhere deep in its immense chest, and then lowers its head to the ground. One huge, gray cat's eye stares intently at her, and for a moment, she can't move.
The High Septon shoves her. “Go on!” he hisses. “You’re meant to ride on its back!”
Sansa shoots him a glare and then glances back at the great sept that's been her home for so long. Taking a deep breath and blinking back tears, she turns toward the dragon and begins to scale its mountain of a head. She pointedly ignores how hot it is and the way it seems to rumble beneath her feet.
“Where am I meant to sit?” she mutters when she makes it to the dragon's massive shoulder. There's a ridge of spines trailing from the back of its head to its tail, and she decides those are her best options. She seats herself in front of the first one at the dragon's neck and tucks herself close to one of its horns. It feels like a hot tree trunk when she wraps her arms around it. The dragon straightens slowly and gives another, much less deafening trumpet, as if in warning. The noise vibrates unpleasantly through Sansa’s entire body and makes her teeth rattle.
Then the dragon leaps into the sky, its huge wings snapping back and forth through the air, and Sansa clutches at the horn and prays she won’t fall. After a time, she looks down and sees that the Great Sept and the city are gone. They've already flown far past it. All Sansa can see now are occasional specks of light from villages, and those specks are as distant as stars. She's suddenly gripped by a terrifying feeling of wrongness, and she starts screaming, unable to stop.
The dragon joins in with its own screaming, but it seems...excited, for lack of a better word. It roars and trumpets and spews forth golden flame, and the way it seems to wriggle under her reminds Sansa of a dog playing. She presses her face into the reassuringly solid horn she's wrapped around and tries to pretend that she is not riding on the back of a giant lizard thousands of feet off the ground.
Some time later, Sansa can't say if it's minutes or days, she feels the dragon begin to descend, but she doesn't take her face away from the horn. Her eyes remain closed as the dragon lands with all the delicacy of a landslide and then trots eagerly toward its destination. It's rumbling again, like it's mumbling under its breath or perhaps purring. A few minutes later, the movement stops, and there is a soft, questioning trumpet from the dragon that Sansa can't ignore.
Preparing herself for the worst, she slides off the dragon's back and forces herself to open her eyes. She expects a steaming, rocky cavern littered with bones and smoldering carcasses. Instead, she finds that she's only partially right. There are no bones or carcasses around her, but there is a rocky cavern in the mountain's face that has heat and light pouring out of it. It smells like hot stones and sulfur. It would be uncomfortably hot if the area around the cave wasn't so cold. That's the part that surprises Sansa.
The air outside the cave is crisp and cold, and she can see snow weighing down the limbs of pine trees on the neighboring mountains. Snow also blankets the valleys and hills that she can see leveling out into plains. Sansa can't help but feel like this land looks familiar. It reminds her of the moors around Winterfell. She turns and faces the opposite direction, hoping to see something she might recognize. She stops and stares at a light blue line in the distance, unable to see where it begins or ends. She realizes that it must extend for miles, and suddenly it feels like the air's been sucked from her lungs.
The Wall.
She's never seen it herself, but her father used to say that it looked gray or blue depending on the weather and time of day and that it can be seen for miles. Sansa's sure that it's the only thing in the world that matches what she's looking at now. She's in the North! The dragon has brought her home! Unable to believe her eyes, she whirls around and stares at the beast. It sits at the opening of the cave, head cocked to one side. Its massive gray eyes are fixed on her, and Sansa thinks they look hopeful somehow. She lets out a shaky breath and smiles weakly. Seemingly satisfied, the dragon huffs and tilts its head toward the opening of the cave. Still stunned by the revelation that she's home, Sansa follows the dragon's unspoken direction without a second thought.
It's only after she's entered the cave that she realizes she still doesn't know if it means to eat her. She stiffens when she feels a huge gust of hot breath against her back, but she keeps walking. With each step, the cave grows hotter, and Sansa feels sweat begin to trickle down her spine. They make their way through the tunnel until it opens up into a cavern that dwarfs even the dragon. That alone is shocking, but it isn't what makes Sansa stop and stare.
Inside the cavern is a veritable lake of gold. Unrefined lumps the size of her head are tangled with sheets and coils of spun gold, and mixed with them are gold coins, cutlery, shields, and jewelry. Sansa thinks there must be enough here to match the Lannister fortune a dozen times over. In the center of it all is a hollowed out area, and Sansa suspects that that's where the dragon sleeps. She feels another great huff of hot air against her back and nearly falls over when something large nudges her back. She turns and realizes that the dragon had used its nose to push her.
She gestures toward questioningly toward the hollowed place, and the dragon appears to nod. Taking a fortifying breath, Sansa turns and makes her way to the dragon's sleeping place. When she's in the center of the hollow, the dragon noses at her again, and this time, she does fall, landing on her hands and knees. She tries to scramble away, but the gold under her shifts and makes her slip. She quickly realizes that she won't make it very far and turns to face what she is now certain is her imminent death.
Her breath comes out in a wheeze when she sees the dragon's open mouth—and its blade-like teeth—inches from her sandaled feet. Not breathing, she slowly draws her legs up and away from the dragon. It huffs another breath, so hot that it makes Sansa's toes curl, and then shoves its face toward her, pressing its dense snout against her torso and giving a long sniff. She closes her eyes, so she doesn't have to look at the dragon's glowing nostrils—it looked like there were coals down there—or its jagged fangs.
“Don't eat me,” she begs under breath, “Please don't eat me.”
For an endless moment, she's bathed in gusts of muggy breath, and then, suddenly, it stops. Everything—the breathing, rumbling, and heat—stops, and a heavy weight settles on her stomach, forcing her breath out in a steady stream. She stays still a little longer, eyes screwed shut in denial, but morbid curiosity soon gets the best of her. She opens her eyes.
A man is sitting on her.
He looks like a Northman, is Sansa's first ridiculous thought. He's pale and bare-chested with a shock of dark curls that look as though they've been hacked at with a knife. He has an arm planted on either side of her head, and his long, bearded face is so close to hers that she could count his eyelashes if she had the urge. His gray eyes are so dark that they're closer to black. A quick glance downward tells Sansa that he's not just bare-chested. He's naked.
“Hello,” he says in a rough accent that reminds Sansa of the far North.
She screams.
The man frowns and jerks back, and Sansa tries to push herself out from under him, her legs churning and kicking up a shower of golden treasure. She doesn't achieve much though, because the insane naked man is still sitting on her. He seems incredibly heavy.
Clearly at a loss, he stares at Sansa for a moment, and then, when she stops to take a breath, he claps both of his unusually warm hands over her mouth. “Why are you making that noise?” he asks, sounding offended. “My human is supposed to sing to me and tell me stories, not scream like a banshee.”
“Your human?” Sansa wonders aloud, though it comes out quite muffled.
The man's eyes narrow to suspicions slits. “If I let you go, do you promise you won’t make that awful noise anymore?”
Sansa considers the trade for a moment and then nods.
He removes his hands slowly, like he believes he'll have to slap them back over her mouth any second.
“Who are you?!” Sansa asks. Or, demands.
Crossing his arms, the man leans back and scowls, and, once again, Sansa's reminded that he's naked. “I’m...” He utters a long and ghastly string of hissing, guttural syllables and then looks down at her like he expects her to be impressed.
She only gapes at him.
He quickly adds, “But I am also called Jon.”
Jon. Sansa almost laughs. After every strange thing she's endured today, from being carried off by a dragon to a cave with a lake full of gold and now being sat on by a naked madmen with a common name like Jon...she can't say why it amuses her so much.
“What?” he asks. He looks unsure if he should be offended.
“Nothing,” she says quickly.
“What's your name?” he asks.
“Sansa. Are you the dragon's as well?” Suddenly the nakedness makes horrifying sense. “Oh gods, do you pleasure it?” she blurts out.
He rears back, eyes widening in shock and offense, and Sansa recognizes the gesture right when she sees the short, dark gray horns curling up out of his messy hair. She shuts her eyes again, in mortification as well as fear. “Oh gods, you’re the dragon!”
It's going to eat her. Then, it's probably going to fly back to King's Landing and put it to the torch. Joffrey, Cersei, and High Septon Baelish deserve it, but the rest of the city doesn't! “I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-know-please-don’t-eat-me-and-burn-down-the-city!” she babbles, losing all sense of decorum and still not daring to open her eyes.
“I’m not going to eat you,” the man—dragon—says. “Why would you think that?”
Sansa bites her tongue before she says something stupid like BECAUSE YOU’RE A DRAGON. She gingerly opens her eyes.
Now that she's paying a bit more attention, she sees other signs that the man above her isn't completely human. Apart from the horns, she feels heat wafting off his naked skin like an open flame. His dark eyes are glowing like embers, and his fingernails are black. When he parts his lips to give her what she's sure is supposed to be a reassuring smile, he reveals white, pointed teeth more suited to some sort of enormous cat than a person. Sansa swallows hard and tries to remain calm.
“So...you’re not going to eat me?” she asks, trying to sound casual.
“Of course not,” he scoffs. He leans forward and...sniffs her again. Somehow, it's even stranger in this human...like form. “Dragons don't eat their mates.”
Sansa blinks. “What?” 'Marriage' to the Great Dragon is supposed to be symbolic!
The dragon—Jon—continues to sniff her, butting his face against Sansa's before burying his face in her neck. She squirms at the sensation of his hot breath ghosting over the delicate skin there.
“You smell wonderful,” he rumbles, the vibration in his chest reminding Sansa of a cat's purr. A very large cat's purr. She's distracted from the rumbling when Jon—the dragon—shifts, and she feels something hard poking her in the stomach. Her eyes widen, but before she can fully consider what's touching her, something tugs at her hair, once and then again hard enough to hurt. She cries out, and the dragon freezes.
He sits up a bit and looks down on her. “Are you alright?”
“Something pulled my hair,” she mumbles, looking away from his concerned gaze. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his arm move and realizes that he was trying to remove her hood.
“How does this come off?” he whispers.
“It's pinned to my hair. I need to sit up.”
He doesn't get off her, only sits back on her thighs, but it's enough for her to get up.
Not looking at him, she feels for the pins in her hair and begins pulling them out. She takes her time, making sure she finds them all and tries to think of what to do next. When she finds all the pins, she still doesn't have a plan, so she simply drops the pins into the pile of gold and then pushes her hood back. She hears Jon gasp, and she whirls to look at him.
The look on his face reminds her of Prince Tommen when he's presented with a new litter of kittens. Jon's eyes are wide with that same wonder...and love. It shocks the breath out of her, and for a moment, she's certain that her heart stops beating. It starts again at double the pace when he reaches for her. She does not stop him when his hand takes a lock of her hair and begins to play with it, turning it this way and that. He wraps the hair around his fingers and then unwraps it, and he strokes it, staring intently at it the whole time. Sansa is confused and a little touched by his naked awe. It's like her hair is more beautiful to him than even the lake of gold around them.
Suddenly, she finds herself flat on her back again, and she lets out a frightened cry, expecting him to start tearing at her robe. However, all he does is snuffle at her neck again. A moment later, both hands delve into her hair, nails lightly scratching at her scalp, and his fingers run slowly down the strands until they reach the end. He starts again, and it sends shivers down her spine. She feels herself melt beneath him, and she's certain that, if she were a cat, she'd be purring. She does let out a contented sigh when he nuzzles a particularly sensitive part of her neck right as his hands start their pleasurable glide through her hair again.
“I always wanted a human,” Jon murmurs, his lips brushing her neck. “And I think you're the prettiest one I have ever seen.” As he speaks, he awkwardly pats Sansa's face, sort of squashing her nose and nearly poking her in the eye. That's enough to shake her from her daze. The next thing she becomes aware of is the hard line now pressed against her hip, and she remembers his intentions. Mate.
“That's... nice,” Sansa manages, sounding a bit breathless. By now, his fingers have resumed their lazy stroking through her hair, and she has to force herself not to arch against him. “But what did you mean ‘mate’? You mean, like, special...dragon friend, right?”
“I'd like us to be friends,” the dragon agrees. His hot, raspy tongue snakes out and takes a slow lap at the skin beneath Sansa’s jaw. She gasps, and her hips buck, making Jon grin. He starts pressing open-mouthed kisses to her neck, tongue darting out to taste her skin.
Taking a shaky breath, she tries to gather the scattered remains of her wits. She tugs (politely) at the dragon’s hair until he lifts his head from where he's tasting her neck and his curious eyes meet hers. She needs to be diplomatic. Dragons are clever. They speak in riddles, and the only way to escape them is to outwit them. Or, at least, that's how it went in the songs, and surely the songs couldn't all be wrong?
“You’re a very handsome and...impressive...dragon,” Sansa starts. Returning a compliment was always a nice way to start.
The dragon’s chest puffs up a bit, and he starts purring again, like a smug cat. Lizard-cat. Dragon-person? “And I’m...honored that you would want to keep me as your...human.” This seems to be going well. Now, she only needs to make the man—dragon–understand that she's not interested in the...pleasuring side of things. Judging by what's currently poking Sansa in the hip, that's something she needs to tell him sooner rather than later. She licks her lips and opens his mouth to speak.
The dragon ducks down and kisses her.
Sansa freezes. The only man who's ever kissed her before now is Joffrey, and this kiss is nothing like that one. It's less slobbery and more...biting. Jon is mostly nibbling at her lip and licking her a little.
“Oh,” Jon breathes. “Oh. You taste so good...” And then his warm fingers are combing through Sansa’s hair again, and his hot tongue is delving into her mouth. Sansa flailed for a moment, unsure what to do as she is inexpertly but very enthusiastically kissed. He pulls away to lick and suck at her neck again, and Sansa feels herself relaxing under him. She really should be talking to him about this. It's a mistake. She's not actually supposed to be doing this.
But his lips on her neck feel nice, and her own lips are hot and tingling now, like she's eaten something spicy. Jon also has these very warm hands that feel very nice sliding beneath her robe. They grip her sides and move slowly up, the movement pushing the robe open, and then they move back down, and that's...nice too. Really nice. Her skin tingles under his touch. The feeling of those warm hands closing over her breasts is even better. He squeezes gently, making her shudder, then begins to pluck and play at her nipples, sending bolts of pleasure ricocheting through her.
He kisses her again, and it's even better this time. Apparently, he's a quick learner. Almost of their own volition, her hands move up to bury themselves in his hair. It’s only kissing, she thinks, tentatively pushing her tongue into his mouth. And a bit of touching, she amends when he squeezes one of her breasts, making her shudder. None of this is bad. In fact, she rather enjoys kissing the dragon—Jon—even if he does bite a little too much, and the teeth Sansa's exploring with her tongue are sharp and pointed.
She actually likes it a quite a bit.
His mouth moves back down to her neck and then to her breasts, his hot tongue rasping over one of her nipples before taking it into his mouth and sucking. She feels an answering throb between her legs and cries out. He must think she's in pain again, because he starts to move away, but she grabs him by the hair and tugs him back, making him groan. She sighs when she feels his other hand move to her other breast, and then lets go of his hair enough to card her fingers through it. Moments later, his mouth moves to her other breast, and she cries out again when his hot mouth closes over her nipple and sucks. Jon groans again, and Sansa feels him grind his erection against her leg. He stays at her breasts for what feels like an age, mouth and hands alternating between one and then the other until her nipples are hard and aching.
She's a panting mess when he starts to move lower, planting open-mouthed kisses between her ribs and over her stomach. She giggles when his tongue flicks her navel, and he smiles against her skin. He continues downward, mouthing at the ridge of each hipbone before peppering kisses down the seam where her hip meets her thigh. She feels his hot breath against her woman's place, and she realizes he can probably see just how wet she's gotten. Her face flames as red as her hair, but she doesn't close her legs. She's not sure what he's going to do next, but if what's already happened is any indication, she's probably going to like it.
She's still shocked when that long, hot tongue of his licks her between the legs, a slow, filthy glide that threatens to shake her to pieces. She lets out a choked, high-pitched noise and bucks against his face, so he lays one forearm heavily across her hips. He buries his face between her legs then, groaning like she really does taste as good as he claimed. Everything he does feels good, but soon he finds a spot that drives shards of ecstasy through her and makes her squeal. He focuses on it, flicking his tongue over it again and again, and Sansa feels a strange, wonderful pressure building inside her. She feels like she might burst. When he slips first one, then two fingers inside her and then wraps his lips over that spot and sucks, she does. The tension in her breaks, and her vision goes white.
She lays there for what feels like a long time after that, trembling and letting out an occasional whimper. She comes back to herself when she feels another jolt of sensation between her legs. She looks down and realizes that Jon is still licking. She lets out a yelp when she feels his searing tongue spear inside her, and her hips snap up by themselves. She reaches down and tangles her fingers in his dark curls, meaning to pull him away but not quite managing it.
“Jon,” she gasps. “Jon, I can't...” She doesn't think she could survive it. He pulls away from her with a wet slurp, and it makes something in her clench.
“You can,” he insists, and then his mouth is on her again. She cries out when he sucks at that spot again and tightens her grip in his hair, pulling him closer and making him moan. The vibration of it rocks through her oversensitive body, and she lets out an unsteady moan of her own. She makes a strangled noise when his tongue pushes inside her again. He moves it in and out, and one of his thumbs rubs harsh circles around the sensitive spot he found earlier. She soon comes again with a strangled scream.
He drops another kiss to her mound and then moves up her body, pressing kisses to her skin on the way up. When his face is level with hers, he braces himself on his forearms, one on either side of her head. His black eyes seem to glow even brighter, and his mouth—wet and shining because of her—curls into a kind smile. She stares up at him, unsure what to do next. She never expected any of this.
“What was that?” she finally whispers after a moment of silence.
“I don’t know,” he replies. “I just wanted to kiss you there, is all.”
She decides then that it's only fair that she kiss him and gently presses her lips to his, unconcerned with the wetness on them. He makes a pleased noise and kisses her back, his tongue sliding into her mouth. He tastes salty and a bit musky, and Sansa suddenly realizes that it's her. She lets out a shivery moan and deepens the kiss, her tongue moving to meet his. Her fingers tangle in his hair. They kiss for several long moments, and then he pulls away, panting slightly.
“Ready?” he asks.
Involuntarily, she tenses a bit, dreading the pain she never thought she'd experience. She takes a breath and forces herself to relax before nodding at him. He kisses her forehead and then reaches down to take himself in hand. He guides himself inside, pushing slowly. She still gasps at the deep, searing sting of it and tenses again, her hand coming up to grip his hair hard enough to make him wince.
“You alright?” he asks roughly. He sounds like he's in pain.
“Just...” She takes a shallow breath. “I need a minute.” She takes another, deeper breath as the pain recedes a little. “Alright. I'm alright.”
“Alright,” he repeats and he pushes forward some more.
She wants to brace herself, but she tries hard not to, focusing instead on her breathing. Soon, he's fully seated inside her.
“Alright?” he chokes out.
“Yes,” she pants. The pain is beginning to dull a little bit. “You? You sound like you're in pain.”
Jon lets out a breathless chuckle. “No. Not pain.”
By now, the pain has eased into a burning ache. Still unpleasant, but not enough to steal her breath like before. She decides it would be a good idea to distract herself, so she presses her lips to Jon's.
He seems as eager for a distraction as she is. His tongue sweeps into her mouth and tangles with hers, and his fingers begin to card through her hair again. She relaxes and begins to touch him as well, her hands sliding up and down his arms and then down his back. When they break apart again, the pain is minimal, now more of a dull throb.
She gives him another soft kiss. “I think you can move now.”
He nods and looks down as he slowly withdraws. Sansa shudders at the intense feeling, too sharp to be pleasure but not quite pain. He pushes back in, and she lets out a long breath that she hadn't realized she was holding. After a few slow and deliberate thrusts, the intense feeling either lessens or she becomes used to it, and when he pushes inside her again, she lifts her hips to meet him. He looks up at her, and she smiles weakly before kissing him again. He returns it and starts to move a bit faster.
They soon develop a rhythm, and Sansa starts to feel an echo of that pleasurable tension from before, when his mouth was on her. It's overshadowed by the pain she's still feeling, but it makes her hopeful. Her hand moves to where they're joined, seeking out that spot he found with his mouth. She doesn't really expect to find it, so when she does, her gasp is as much surprise as pleasure. Her hips buck, and she feels something inside her seize. Jon seems to feel it too, because he curses, and his rhythm stutters. She rubs that spot again, and the shot of sensation makes her head fall back, lips parted. He swears again, and his hips speed up to a hard but steady pace.
Soon though, he begins to falter again and then he stills, groaning deep in his chest. He collapses on top of her, forcing the air from her body. Part of her wants to tell him to move, but a larger part likes his weight on her. His body is heavy and warm as a fire, and it makes her feel safe and secure, even more than when she lived in the Great Sept. She feels better than she has in a long time, she realizes as her fingers come up to play in his hair. He lets out a contented huff, and she grins.
A second later, he pushes himself up and braces himself on his forearms again. He stares at her for a moment, a small smile on his face, and then his face splits into a wide smile that steals the breath from her lungs. He gives her forehead a lingering kiss and then starts feathering kisses over her eyes and nose. When she turns away, smiling, he kisses her ears and jaw too.
“Mate...” he rumbles into her ear, and she shudders helplessly against him. He catches her chin with his thumb and forefinger and turns her face toward him.
“Wife,” he says, giving her mouth a slow kiss. “Beautiful wife.”
Sansa doesn't bother to correct him. She can't really. Even though she was twelve and prepared for a life of celibacy when she made her vow to him, she still made a vow. Now, she's sealed it. She is his wife in truth, and there's no contesting it. She honestly doesn't want to. There are many things she needs to talk to him about, including her duty to her father's bannermen, her bannermen now, but right now, she's content to lay here with Jon. She doesn't mind at all that her 'marriage' to a dragon god is no longer symbolic.