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Chapter Text

Sansa has grown weary of nights where sleep comes too quickly. 

She knows it means she will wake after only a couple of hours and be left wide-eyed in the asphyxiating quiet of Winterfell. 

Tonight, not even the steady sound of her husband’s breathing helps her go back to sleep. Maybe Jon himself is the reason the war in her mind won’t quiet. Every breath reminds her of regrets. Of the emptiness between them. Of the life she has condemned them both to.

He sleeps well most nights, always facing her, always so far from her that he might as well be in another bed altogether. Sansa sometimes spends hours looking at his face while he sleeps. 

At times he jerks awake, reaching for her, and Sansa wonders if in his dreams he reaches for someone else. Other nights he breathes her name into the dark and she wonders if he curses her in his sleep.

She is sure he still mourns Daenerys. How could he not? Love like that does not die cleanly. It clings to him now the way the ashes of King’s Landing once clung to the skin beneath his fingernails.

And in the mornings, when his eyes slide shut while he is inside her, Sansa imagines the dead woman waiting for him behind his lids. The thought is ugly and she knows it. Yet she cannot stop it. It turns in circles. She resents the dead, then loathes herself for it, then aches worse for him to look at her as if she were the choice, not the duty. 

Beside her, Jon shifts as the room drains from midnight blue into the pale grey of dawn. Sansa knows what comes next. Need pools hot and heavy between her legs.

They’ve found no joy in their hasty marriage, but they’ve found pleasure in the marriage bed. It leaves her wretched with guilt. She should not revel in the strength of his hands on her thighs, or hunger for his mouth on her breasts, or the drive of his hips beneath her. But she does.

Even the fact that Jon shares her pleasure cannot mend their unhappiness. She welcomes it when he finishes in her, the warmth she feels deep, the way her body answers him. He never withholds, never leaves her empty. Still she knows it is not for her. It is for the child they are bound to make. It is always for the heir.

The wanting crawls under her skin and will not be soothed. She often finds herself in the godswood asking the red leaves for absolution, for love from a husband who barely looks at her, for a child to grow inside her. Her prayers remain unanswered. 

A daughter and a bastard prince do not equal a son. That was what led them here. The lords had suggested the union as they traveled north, their voices heavy with victory and calculation. The words turned her stomach. Did they all see through her so easily? Did Jon?

He gave nothing away, always stoic, as if carved from the same stone as Winterfell’s walls.

That night he had come to her cabin. He did not waste words. “What do you think?”

Sansa told him the truth. “It would make sense. We could rule together. We could bury the past.”

He looked at her then, long enough that she felt the air shift between them. 

“All my life I was told I was your brother. Then we were cousins. Now they would make me your husband. Do you not see the sickness in it?” His hand had curled into a fist, as if he could crush the thought to dust.

The words had cut her, yet beneath the sting was the truth she could not escape. She had wanted him longer than was decent, longer than she dared admit even to herself. The wrongness of it had never dulled the hunger. If anything, it had sharpened it, until shame and desire lived side by side in her chest, inseparable, unbearable.

She had no answer for that, only the heat of his honesty pressing against her ribs. At last she forced herself to speak. 

“I don’t deny it will be difficult, " she said. “But we must think of the North. And if we wed, I will not have to endure another husband. That alone would be a mercy.”

His silence was heavy, but not unkind. When he spoke again it was about the terms. Their children would bear the Stark name, that much had been made clear by the lords who pushed them together, but Jon refused to take it for himself. “I’ll not wear the name that was never mine. I am Snow. That is the truth of me.”

​​Sansa had wanted to tell him he was still a Stark to her, that Winterfell had always been his. But the words had died on her tongue. He would not have wanted to hear them from her anyway. 

By morning, the decision was done. When they returned home, vows were spoken in haste. A crown set on his dark head, another on hers. King and Queen in the same breath, before she could even understand the depth of his unhappiness.

They’ve been wed for almost seven moons and Sansa has continued to bleed. Every sheet stained in the night, every cramp of her lower belly is a reminder of her failure.  The midwife told Sansa to be patient. “It is early yet, Your Grace. Grief unsettles the courses. The King is young; your body is learning him. You will get your blessing soon.”

Sansa thinks blessing is too strong of a word for people as cursed as them. 

She remembers the tales her mother would tell, eyes full of love and voice heavy with memories, of how she conceived on the very night she and Sansa’s father were wed. 

Sansa half-fears a babe will never quicken. Months in Ramsay’s bed had borne no results. And if she cannot give the North what it asks for? Jon could bed another woman, name the child heir, call it a sacrifice made for his people. Sansa has imagined herself suggesting it. In the imagining, he agrees without bitterness and she nods as the bile at the back of her throat threatens to choke her.

What's one more sacrifice in a life ruled by duty?

They need an heir. The North needs it, so it has become the focus on Sansa’s action since they wedded. 

She had flinched when Jon had reached to touch between her thighs. With his ears red in embarrassment he had murmured that it would make it easier, that it would hurt less if she was ready. She had lain still, staring at the canopy, while his calloused fingers worked her open, her body softening against her will. And when her mouth had unwillingly let out a gasp of pleasure that surely wasn’t proper, she had seen the small smile he had not been able to hide. 

And still, when his weight on top of her made her freeze and when she asked to keep a candle burning so she could see his face, Jon had suggested she take him astride instead. She had been embarrassed at first, cheeks burning with the humiliation of needing such a thing, certain it only confirmed how poor a wife she would make. 

She had expected pain and discomfort, but had found pleasure instead. He had been kind that night, almost sweet, he had kept his eyes on hers and had kissed her neck and her chest without ever touching or taking more than she allowed. 

When it was over, she prayed his seed would take, that duty might at least give way to comfort, or even friendship, where love could not. The gods, as always, were deaf to her pleas.

“Perhaps,” Jon had said, his voice rough with sleep in a way that stirred something in her, “perhaps we could do…this in the mornings instead of at night.”

“This?”

“The—uh—the coupling.” He hadn’t looked at her when he said it, only stared up at the ceiling. “If we’re to conceive an heir.”

“Wouldn’t that be troublesome? For you to come to my chambers every morning?”

“Every morning?” 

Had Sansa not known better, she might have thought there was the barest trace of teasing in his tone.

“The faster we conceive, the sooner we can stop doing this.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat.

“So—wouldn’t it be too troublesome?” She asked again.

“I could sleep here, if that were agreeable to you.”

She had not disliked the idea. Someone else in the bed could keep the ghosts away. “Yes. I suppose that could work.”

And so, since that night, they had shared the chambers that once belonged to her parents nearly every evening. She had ordered a new bed and mattress, replaced the old hangings, anything to keep Jon from thinking he was bedding Catelyn Stark’s daughter in the very bed of the woman who had never welcomed him.

Since then, life in Winterfell has settled into its own rhythm. On the occasions she had her moonblood, Sansa insisted he return to his own room. 

The days crawl with disputes and demands. The nights lie hollow with silence. The mornings are filled with her muffled cries and the crude rhythm of skin on skin.

They do their duty, but beyond that, Sansa would like a babe. She believes she could love it, care for it as her parents once cared for her. She thinks Jon could love it too, even if half its blood is hers.

She had never expected love from this union, not with the resentment he carries, but she had thought there might be something gentler than this emptiness.

Jon is not Ramsay. He is not even Tyrion. But he is not a loving husband. He endures her for the North’s sake. However, when his lips close over her throat and his eyes shut against the light, when he is thrusting inside her, it is the only time she does not feel the loneliness creeping so deep it might swallow her whole. 

His hand settles on her hip, heavy and abrupt, jolting her from her thoughts. Sansa forces herself still. She has learned too well how to master her reactions.

“You didn’t sleep,” he says. His voice is hoarse with the last of night, rough in a way that always lands low in her belly.

“Not tired,” Sansa lies.

He looks away as soon as she looks at him. His eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.

“If you’d want it,” he says at last, “We could…be together now. I promised some of the men I would join the hunt at daybreak and will need to leave soon.”

Sansa watches him, the way he stumbles over words he never wants to say aloud. Be together. As if the thing they do nearly every morning is too shameful to name. She thinks of all the words she’s heard for it in whispered lessons, in bawdy songs, in Ramsay’s cruel mouth. She wonders what Jon would do if she turned to him now and asked him to fuck her, plain and sharp. Would he flinch? Would he do as she asked? Would he look at her for once with something other than restraint?

Her shame is a creature that eats the bolder words before they reach her tongue, so she only says yes and lets the thought sit heavy in her chest. 

Jon sits up and guides her gently, helping her kneel beside him as the furs slip off her body. Cool air lifts the fine hairs on her thighs. She wears a thinner shift now that the nights grow warmer and spring approaches. She never fails to notice the way his eyes linger on the faint shadow of her nipples beneath it when he thinks she isn’t watching.

His touch is careful. She swallows and stares at nothing, willing her own body to behave. She loves the way his breath turns ragged when he slides his fingertips between her thighs and finds her slick for him.

An undignified sound escapes her as soon as his fingers pry her apart. Heat floods her cheeks.

His touch firms. The flat of his thumb finds the spot that always brings her pleasure and begins those patient arcs while two fingers press inside slowly. She opens her legs wider for him. Her hips tip into his hand without permission. 

“Is this all right?” He asks.

“Yes,” she breathes and hates the tremor. 

He makes the circles smaller, meaner, pinning her nub and rolling it until her nerves ring like struck glass. Inside, his fingers keep that slow, coaxing rhythm, rubbing the soft, swollen place that makes her tighten around him. She bites her lip because the crest is coming too fast. 

Her mind tries to save her with ugliness. She thinks of how empty she will feel after, how useless this moment will feel when she bleeds again, of how every small lovely thing won’t matter when Jon refuses to be around her. 

Her mind claws at shame, at calculation. It does not save her. Heat snaps taut. She is close, embarrassingly close, thighs trembling around his hand, cunt fluttering around his fingers. She wants him to push her over, to hold her until she begs. She wants both, and neither will save her.

It is not proper for a lady, much less for a queen, yet his fingers draw such fierce feelings from her that she fears she will cry. 

His body is already responding to the mewls she cannot hold back. Her hand hovers, ghosting over the hard outline of his want through the linen. Jon never asks her to touch him. He never reaches for her hand, never tips his chin in silent demand. That restraint should comfort her, but instead it leaves her restless. Sometimes, she aches for him to be rougher, to press her fingers where he needs them most. She wants to undo him as he undoes her, to touch him until he’s gasping against her mouth. 

Sansa imagines his hand over hers, forcing her palm down his cock, guiding her until there’s no mercy in her grip. He would groan against her ear, beg for more, his fist tightening over hers to drive the rhythm he needs. The image burns through her, sharp and searing, her cunt clenching with want she cannot deny. She squeezes her thighs together. He slips another finger inside. She wonders, what would happen if he did? If Jon asked her outright to make him peak with her hand or her mouth? Would it make her feel wanted, even just once?

Sansa closes her eyes and lets herself lean into it. She is right on the edge when he stops, withdrawing his fingers slick with her arousal. He never lets her finish like this. Instead, he shifts her onto his lap and guides her down.

She can give him her body and maybe one day he’ll give her a child.

The blunt head of his cock nudges at her entrance, then pushes inside her inch by inch. She gasps at the stretch, at the fullness of him she’s become so accustomed to. Once their hips are flushed against each other, Jon closes his eyes. His lashes are dark pressed against his cheeks, his jaw clenched so tight Sansa thinks one day he’ll break a tooth. 

She cannot stop thinking he is somewhere else in his mind, thrusting into another body, another face. Yet it is her slick heat that swallows him, her thighs burning as he drags her down harder onto his length. He fills her so deep she swears she can feel him in her belly. Every shift of her hips makes her clutch tighter around him. She rises and sinks, again and again, until her muscles quiver and her body hums. He never kisses her mouth, but the dark blooms across her chest tell of mornings when he’s kissed her breasts with hunger, when he’s driven into her with a need he would never confess in the daylight. 

Jon always, always makes sure she finds her peak first. This time is no different. His thumb circles her with steady pressure as he drives up into her. The sensation makes her shake, her whole body trembling as she clutches at his shoulders and rides him faster. The pleasure rips through her, sharp and overwhelming.

She clamps around him, fluttering tight, and he takes control for a handful of thrusts. They’re harder, rougher. She feels the chain of his control slipping. He buries himself deep and spends, heat pulsing inside her with a strangled sound that makes something awful and pleased in her murmur, good, let it undo you, and she hates it and loves it equally.

He lingers, arms shaking, chest pressed to hers. She wants to hook her legs around him and keep him inside. She wants to kiss his mouth because the only time they kissed was on their wedding day. Instead, the careful man returns to his body. He eases out of her with a soft, wet slide that leaves her open and aching.

She turns on her side immediately and tips her hips with a pillow, doing what the midwife suggested. Stay, she thinks. Take root. The word barren tries to push into the thought. She puts a hand on her lower belly as if that will make a difference. 

Her thighs are wet and slick with both of them. She hates that it leaves her with a fleeting sense of contentment. She does not cover herself yet, too sated and tired to do anything else. 

Jon leaves the bed. In the corner of the room she watches him clean himself in silence, then pull on his clothes without a word, already preparing to leave her behind. He does not kiss her. He does not meet her eyes. 

He returns and has the grace to pull the furs to her waist.

“Are you cold?” Jon asks.

“No.” She is a little cold. 

Everything is exactly as good sense demands: mornings instead of nights, routine instead of want, duty instead of love, his seed spilled where it ought to be. 

When he leaves to start his day, silence is all that remains beside her.

Chapter Text

Winterfell is once again covered in snow. It’s like spring has lost its footing. 

Sansa had high hopes that maybe more could come with spring. She’s not sure she could explain what more means. 

The storm begins before noon. She orders a cart of provisions to be readied for the people of the winter town while her handmaiden bundles her into a heavier dress and tucks her hair beneath a thick wool hood. She’ll see that everything is distributed and the people know they can come to the keep if they need to.

One of the guards, a man from the Reach that came North for the war and never left, offers to get the horse litter ready for her ride, but she declines. The people must see her even if it will require for her to ride. She’s never been fond of it and the weather is quickly turning dreadful, but it’s important they see the Queen taking care of them.  

She tells the maester to inform the king where she has gone. It’s not that she doesn't want to see Jon, but he must be busy with other things. Besides, she already saw him at day break when they did their duty. She sets out with her guards close behind her and the cart following in their tracks.

It takes hours to go from door to door. The storm thickens until it blinds them. Sansa makes certain each family has enough to see them through the next few days. She helps set the provisions on wobbly tables and plays with the children as she speaks with their parents. They thank her in smiles and bows and Sansa remembers how she used to think she would make people love her if she ever became queen. Of course, she never thought she would be Jon’s queen. 

One of the family has a babe born not even a fortnight ago. She holds him close to her chest, lends him her warmth, and prays she will soon hold a babe of her own. 

The sky is nearly black as they return. The snow keeps dimming the torches and her horse almost slips a few times.  

Her limbs are heavy with cold and her fingers feel raw despite her gloves as she enters the courtyard. She orders warm food and baths for the guards who accompanied her. She feels content to have spent the day in the winter town even if it’s left her weary and cold. 

As she climbs to her chamber with her maid trailing behind her, she expects solitude. Instead, Jon is waiting. A bath has already been drawn. 

“I asked them to prepare it when I saw you approaching,” he says rising from his seat near the fire.

Her maid moves forward to help her undress, but Jon dismisses her with a quiet word. “I can help,” he offers and approaches Sansa.

This isn’t something they do for each other. Jon helping her undress and seeing to her bath feels too close, too familiar. She remembers when she was a child and her father would return from long rides or trips, tired and dirty, and her mother would meet him at the gates. They would disappear into their chambers for hours and her mother would insist that the children let him rest. It was the sort of thing she once dreamed of doing for her husband and yet, every time  she has taken care of Jon in such a manner since they married has felt like a performance. For a moment she wonders if this is some sort of ruse because he would like to take his rights, but she shuts that thought down quickly. Regardless of his faults, Jon is not deceitful in that way. He wouldn’t try to trick her to get her to lie with him. 

And yet, she knows if he wanted her, she’d let him have her however he pleased. She would yield easily, unable to mask her want. 

Sansa turns. Jon is careful with the ties of her dress. His hands are steadier than she feels. They’re surprisingly warm. She wishes his touch would stay. 

He turns around so she can slip out of her shift in privacy. If they were different people, Sansa would tease him and say he’s seen her naked and there’s no need for modesty, but she stays silent instead. 

She sinks into the steaming water and sighs in relief. When she looks up, Jon hasn’t come closer. He sits on the edge of the bed not looking at her. Instead, his eyes are focused on her shift and smallclothes on the floor. Out of everything, that is what makes her blush. 

Sansa imagines herself rising and letting the water run down her body. Letting her nakedness entice him. She would help him out of his clothes and pull him into the tub with her. She would kiss every inch of skin she uncovered. They could chase the cold away together. Maybe he’d like her better if she were bolder, if she spoke to him with that soft, practiced sweetness she’s heard from maids and ladies alike that loosens restraint and makes men want. She could try, but the thought alone makes her stomach twist.

“You should have taken me with you,” he says at last.

“It was my duty and you had other matters to attend to,” she answers. 

Jon lowers his eyes. “Still, I would have gone.”

“I know.” Her head tips against the edge of the tub. She softens, though she does not take back her words. “Next time we will go together.”

They won’t. She’s not sure that Jon believes her. 

They speak then of the storm, of the deepening snow, of what must be done if it worsens. Jon says they will not let their people freeze. Sansa agrees they will bring all within the keep, no matter how crowded it gets or how much it costs them. 

He leaves the room for just enough time for her to finish washing. He returns with wine for her. No matter how hard he tries, she notices looking at her bare breasts. Sansa sits a little straighter. 

When the water has cooled, Jon rises. “I will call for your maid again,” he says. “And I will see that supper is brought up to your chambers.”

Sansa watches him leave. She’s struck by the realization that this is the longest conversation they have had in months.

That night he sleeps closer to her. 

The fire dies sometime before dawn. She wakes to the sound of Jon coaxing it back to life. He moves quickly and slips beneath the blankets as soon as he’s done and the room is warm again. Sansa quickly closes her eyes. He must think she’s still asleep, because he fits himself behind her and tucks his face into her hair. It’s the first time he’s slept so close to her. It’s also the first time in moons he’s been this close for a reason other than conceiving an heir. 

When she wakes again, the fire’s gone. It must be morning, but the dark of the room is heavy, almost solid. The shutters shake. The wind sounds like it means to break through.

Jon shifts behind her. He’s still close enough that she feels the hard line of his cock against her backside. Heat spreads through her belly at the contact. It’s a sharp, insistent ache. She keeps still, but in her mind she’s already moving.

Sansa imagines his hand sliding up her side and dragging the nightgown with his fingertips until there's nothing between them. The thought makes her shiver. His touch would be warm. He would leave her breathless before anything even happens. 

She wants his hand on her hips to hold her still. Jon could make her feel claimed and safe all at once. Maybe he would shift closer and put his mouth on her shoulder. Sansa would tilt her head and invite his mouth to suck on her skin. He would reach for her thigh to open her. Then he would move inside her slowly, so slow Sansa would almost beg for more, and then all at once. The imagined heat of it makes her chest ache. To be known like that. To let him. It could mean everything. 

She used to loathe the idea of someone behind her or not seeing him in the dark. She still does, but the thought is now intermingled with arousal. It just brings her shame. 

She already knows that when Jon reaches for her this morning to help prepare her, he will find her wet and aching. 

But even all the desire can’t numb the slight panic at the idea of coupling in the dark. 

“I’ll light the candles,” he murmurs as if he were capable of reading her mind. She knows he’s walking around barefoot so he must be freezing. Her eyes follow him around the room. He fumbles for the flint and starts lighting candles. Soon the room glows gold and soft. The shadows retreat.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says softly.

Jon scratches the back of his neck. “I know you don’t like the dark.”

It’s a kind thing to do. Sansa thanks him, he looks uncomfortable.

His hair is mussed from sleep. The dark strands catch the candlelight in a way that makes her want him more. She wants to reach for him and bury her fingers in it. She wants to tug him down into the bed. Instead she lies still and aches with the wanting. 

When he turns back, his eyes linger on her. “Do you…” 

She nods. “Yes.”

She appreciates how, despite all the moons they’ve been married and how many times they’ve done this, he still asks her every time. 

Jon sits beside where she lies and nods toward the furs. She helps him push them down. 

His touch is careful at first. His hand slips beneath her shift and calloused fingers slide over her legs until he coaxes her thighs open.

The nightgown pushed up to her waist leaves Sansa feeling exposed. She tries not to think about how he can see her arousal, how her womanhood might look in the candlelight. His thumb finds her and draws slow and steady circles. She’s thankful that he doesn’t comment on how wet she is already. 

He lies down next to her. His eyes travel between his hand and her face. His lips are so close she could kiss him now. But Jon doesn’t want to kiss her and she will not be like the men who have stolen kisses from her. Two fingers press inside, curling, working until she tips into his hand. Her hips move of their own accord. One hand clutches the mattress to keep herself grounded.

She wants him. Perhaps she wants him more than she’s ever wanted anything else. It makes her sad. There’s so much lacking in her life, yet she still wants the same things she wanted as a child—safety, warmth, a love like one from the songs. 

And yet she will settle for this. She thinks of how he’ll fill her, how he’ll release inside her, how the ache will settle into her thighs, how she’ll feel the heat of him dripping down after.

The thought makes her grind harder against his hand and makes her hide her face on the pillow.  She has to stop herself from biting it. His fingers never falter. And then his other hand finds hers, pries it from the mattress, and laces their fingers together.

It’s new. It’s terrifying. It makes her clench around him desperately. She prays the strength of the winds will hide the desperate moans that slip out of her.

As always, he pulls away before she can finish. This time he lies back and pulls her onto his lap. Sansa sits on his thighs and blushes at the thought that he must feel her wetness. It’s a silly thought. He was just touching her.

They’ve only coupled like this, with him fully on his back, a couple of times. It’s not Sansa’s preference.. He seems too far away like this. 

Jon drags his sleep shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor. He’s bare beneath her. She will never tell him how beautiful she finds him. She doesn’t think men like Jon would like to be called beautiful.

He’s already half-hard as he strokes himself. Eyes shut. His other hand drifts between her breasts and her hips. It moves lower and urges her forward until the friction of her cunt on his thigh makes her tremble. 

Heat blooms across her chest. He never used to do this at the beginning of their marriage. If he touched himself to get ready, it was always beneath the furs, turned away from her. She feels a thrill at the thought that her body arouses him.

If she were braver, she would reach for him and wrap her hand around him to still him. She would slide down his body and take him into her mouth. She’s never done that, but she could learn, unqueenly though it must be. She could ask Jon to teach her. He would be patient.

She wonders if anyone has ever done that for him.

Jon lets go of himself and grasps her waist to guide her closer. She gasps when he rubs himself against her. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. 

“It’s good,” Sansa replies before she can stop herself. 

Her acknowledgement of the pleasure he’s giving her spurs him and then he’s filling her until he is seated deep inside. The fullness makes her shiver.

She rocks and grips him as she sets a rhythm. His cock presses against every sensitive place inside her. Then friction sparks heat low in her belly. She feels the beat of his heart on the palm of her hand as she braces herself on his chest. She wonders if their heartbeats match. The pleasure feels just out of reach, but she chases it. 

His name slips between her lips despite herself. The rhythm stutters and she feels him twitch inside her. The sound must’ve pleased him. His jaw tightens. Maybe he likes that she cannot hold herself quiet for him.

She’s overheated even with the winter storm outside. She pushes the straps of her shift so they slide off her shoulders and bares herself. The silk pools at her waist. Her breasts are flushed and trembling with the motion of her body.

Jon opens his eyes. He sits up, one arm locking tight around her back as his mouth finds her chest. This is how she likes him best. His lips close over her. He flicks his tongue. His teeth scrape her just enough to make her whimper. She wishes he would leave a bruise. She wants a mark that will not fade by morning. The first time he did, he had apologized profusely the following day when he noticed. Sansa had stayed composed and said it wasn’t a problem. She knew he was thinking of the marks that had been left on her body before. His marks are different. She just didn’t know how to tell him that with every imprint his mouth left on her skin, one of the invisible ones she carried disappeared.

She’s close to coming undone, so she pushes her hips forward and hopes Jon will understand. He does. One of his hands stills her movements while the other finds where they’re joined. He doesn’t thrust, he just holds her there, deep and still, his eyes fixed on hers as his thumb draws slow, steady circles against her.

It feels different like this. The tension builds. Every breath she takes and every flick of the tip of his fingers threatens to send her over. The world narrows to that point of contact. She’s hyper aware of the warmth of his skin, the weight of him inside her, the sound of her breath trembling. 

“Sansa,” Jon murmurs. Or maybe he says it loudly. Her peak crashes into her. It’s more intense than anything she’s felt before. Her body is trembling. She sinks back against him and lets herself put her head on his shoulder. 

Jon holds her then. She feels his skin against the hard tips of her breasts. His mouth is pressing soft kisses to the side of her head. She knows what comes next. He will hold her hips and thrust into her until he spends. Then she will lie down and feel an all consuming sadness as she watches him go around the room getting ready for his day, while she prays that his seed will take. 

Sansa is not ready for it to be over. She doesn’t want it to end like this. 

She pushes herself off him, holding onto his shoulders, and lies on the bed. She swallows the panic and throws the nightgown on the floor. She’s been bare in front of him, but never like this. She can’t deny she enjoys the way he looks at her. 

“Like this,” she whispers.

His body goes tense. His cock is heavy and wet against his stomach.“Sansa,” he says, his voice raw. “Are you sure? You don’t—”

“I’m sure,” she cuts in, before she loses her nerve. She tries to pull him down. “Please.”

He hesitates. His eyes search hers like he’s waiting for her to flinch, but she doesn’t. She won’t.

Jon finally shifts over her, braces his weight on his arms, and pushes back inside. The stretch feels sharper, but her body yields easily. He fills her so completely she can’t stop the sound she makes. She’s never wanted anything more than she wants him right now. 

His head drops to her shoulder. He’s back to not looking at her, but his breath is hot against her neck and his chest presses tight to hers. The weight of him should make her feel trapped. Instead it settles her. Grounds her. For once she isn’t left hollow.

Jon moves slowly, his hips grinding into hers, his cock dragging deep. Every thrust drives her into the mattress. Her hands clutch at his back. She wants to hold him there. 

His breath grows ragged and his rhythm falters. He mutters something against her neck. She can’t tell what it is. It only takes a handful of strokes before he’s spilling inside her. 

Jon doesn’t roll away. He stays on top of her as he softens. His lips brush her skin. He plants a kiss at the base of her throat, another along her jaw. He skips her mouth and presses his lips to her forehead. 

The gentleness cuts her worse than anything.

Her eyes sting. Her chest tightens. She wants to ask him to stay like this for a while. She wants to say she loves him. The words rise like a tide and choke her.

She swallows them down and turns her face into his hair so he won’t see the tears gather. She lets him kiss her brow again, even though every soft touch feels like something borrowed.

Eventually, she nudges him lightly. “We should get ready,” she murmurs. “The day will come whether we want it or not.”

Jon lifts his head and presses a finger to her jaw to make her look at him. His face is still flushed. His hair clings to his forehead. She wants to push it back. She doesn’t. For a moment he looks like he wants to argue. He just exhales and shifts his weight off her. She feels the loss immediately.

He sits back on his heels and looks down at her, then reaches for the nightgown on the floor and hands it over without meeting her eyes.

“Here,” he says softly.

She takes it. Their fingers brush. The small courtesy makes her throat tighten. She forces herself to give him a low thank you that he doesn’t acknowledge. Sansa pulls a pillow under her and covers herself with the nightgown though she doesn’t put it back on.  

He pushes off the bed and goes to the corner to clean himself. His movements are brisk, efficient, the tenderness already slipping away. He dresses quickly.

Sansa lies very still on the bed with the nightgown clutched to her chest. She waits until she hears the sound of the door closing to let her breath break. The tears come hot and fast. She presses her hands to her face trying to muffle the sound, but it spills through her fingers. Her face will be splotchy and her eyes will look as red as Ghost’s. Still, she can’t stop the sobs. 

She shouldn’t be crying. It was different, yes. It was good and so sweet. The weight of Jon made her feel grounded, not caged like before. He had been gentle, he had lingered inside her and kissed her forehead. He had even looked at her. 

And it’s that sweetness that feels like the cruelest thing he’s done because she knows it won’t last.

The latch clicks again and the door opens.

Jon steps back inside. He’s seen her cry enough times that he must recognize the expression immediately. She sits upright too quickly and the nightgown slips. She rushes to fix it. It’s silly considering how long she has spent naked in front of him this morning. 

She wants nothing but to hide her face in her hands, but that will just draw attention to the obvious tears. 

He looks at her the way he looked at her back in Castle Black. It makes bile rise to her throat. “Are you—?”

Her heart lurches. “Why are you back?” It comes out more forceful than she wants. 

“I—just forgot my gloves,” he replies. “Is everything—“

She forces herself to meet his eyes for a moment, just long enough to feign composure. “Of course. I’m fine. I’ll be calling the maids to get ready soon.” Her voice comes out too quickly. She’s a better liar than this. 

Jon doesn’t look convinced. His eyes search her face as though he can strip the lie from her without her permission. For a long, terrible moment she thinks he might come closer, sit on the bed, and ask her if she’s alright until she confesses. But Jon won’t. That would require a level of care and love he does not feel. 

Her pulse races. She grips the furs tighter, steadying herself. “You’ll be late,” she says softly. “You should go.”

The words cut the air between them. 

He slips the gloves on and looks at her one last time. His expression is unreadable. Then he turns and leaves. The door closes again.

Sansa sits frozen, her chest tight, her face still damp. The silence swallows her. She wishes she had let him ask again, wishes she’d answered honestly. But the truth would have broken her more than his silence ever could.

She pulls the furs higher and curls into herself. This time, when the tears return, she doesn’t bother trying to stop them.