#jonsasource

Sansa was looking at his lips and her cheeks were flushed and gods he might be wrong, he might, but he wanted her. A recklessness overtook him, one he’d tried kept locked inside him since he came back from the dead.

She loves you too. You must know that.

“If I weren’t a Targaryen would I want to do this?”

He took her face in his hands, and leaned in, capturing her mouth. He’d meant to be gentle, but the moment his lips touched hers his body constricted with need and he licked into her mouth. He thanked the gods when she whimpered and pulled him closer, as desperate as he was for the kiss. They were a tangle of tongues and teeth and her skin was as soft and smooth as he’d dreamed, night after guilty night.

She melted into his embrace, throwing her arms around his neck as if she’d never get close enough. The fevered way she gasped his name, Jon, before opening her mouth to him again drove him wild.

He couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. Their touches were frenzied and hot and heated as she tugged at the rawhide strip in his hair. He yanked it off and cast it away. She sighed when she carded her hands through his curls, tightening her grip, making his scalp tingle. He moaned and pulled her flush to him, pressing open-mouthed kisses down her neck. He needed her more than air, and now that he’d tasted her, held her, felt her shudder when he nipped at the spot just below her ear there was no going back.

She reached for the laces of her dress. Her hair was mussed and her pupils were blown and his blood sang with the knowledge that she ached for him as well. He longed to drag her to the bed and kiss every inch of her skin. But this wasn’t temporary madness, this was forever. He couldn’t let himself get carried away entirely. He had to know if it was forever for her.

He stopped her, and kissed her palm. “Sansa, wait…”

She smiled at him. “Didn’t you just tell me you wanted to see all of me, right now?”

Jon blinked. He had been talking, a stream of pleas and endearments, and he yearned to see her naked and waiting for him. But he summoned up a shred of restraint and caressed her cheek instead.

“I did, sweet girl, I’m sure I did.”

Sansa laughed, a delicate, lovely sound. “You don’t even remember, do you.” She was happy, light and teasing, nuzzling his jaw, warming his heart.

“No,” he admitted, but he was smiling too. “No, I don’t, but I want to remember this.” He took a deep breath. How anxiety and doubt could still thrum through his veins he wasn’t certain, but he knew he wanted more than a passionate kiss. He wanted a life with her.

So tell her.

“I love you, Sansa–“

“I love you too Jon.”

“I want to marry you under the heart tree, make you my wife, cherish you, care for you.” He kissed her forehead. “I want to fill the castle with children, children with your red hair and your blue eyes–“

She kissed his cheek. “We could have a grey eyed baby too. A boy with dark hair. Or a girl.” She blushed, and Jon laced his fingers with hers and squeezed, gently. Perhaps she was nervous as well. But she had nothing, absolutely nothing to be worried about. He’d do anything she asked.

“That sounds wonderful, love.”

She ducked her head. “I’ve married you half a hundred times under the heart tree in my dreams already. Before…before I knew you were my cousin.”

Jon stifled the laugh that bubbled up inside him. Was that her concern? But he needed to reassure her, and laughing was unlikely to help. He tilted her chin so he could meet her gaze. “So did I Sansa. So did I.”

She smiled, then rested her head on his shoulder. “Then it’s lucky for us you’re a Targaryen, or we’d have suffered though each other’s weddings.” She peeked up at him. “Would you tell me? About the wedding you imagined?”

Jon leaned in, tracing the shell of her ear. “What if I tell you about all the weddings nights I’ve dreamed of instead?”

Sansa shivered. “I’d rather you show me first.”

He was nursing a good sulk as he stalked off to the godswood one afternoon. Only the sound of sniffling shook him out of his bad humor. Sansa’s green cloak covered half her face as she knelt by the tree. Her hair was mussed, and tears streaked her cheeks. Jon ran to her. Sansa turned away. 

“I’m sorry Jon, I’ll leave you to your prayers, I didn’t mean-”

“These woods are more yours than mine, Sansa.” He risked putting a hand gently on her shoulder “Are - are you all right?”

Sansa closed her eyes. Jon knelt carefully next to her. 

Sansa seemed to be struggling to talk, until the words burst out of her. “No, no I’m not, a boy, in the stables, he attacked he, pawed at my dress, and I couldn’t run-”

Jon was on his feet. “I’ll kill him, Sansa, stay here-”

To his surprise, she caught his hand. “Robb’s already after him.”

Of course he is, Jon thought, he’s your champion, not me.

Sansa turned her face up to him. “But…would you stay, Jon? For a little while?”

Jon’s heart constricted. Sansa used to ask that of him, when she was a baby, if she could stay for a little while. He gave her the same answer now he gave her then. 

“As long as you like Sansa, always.” He sat down next to her, in the soft carpet of leaves, and put his arm around her shoulder. Sansa leaned inside his side, crying again, until she fell into his arms. This was dangerous, dangerous, but he he drew her close to his chest all the same. She settled into his embrace. He stroked her back and gave in to the old, familiar joy of comforting her. Sansa’s sobbing subsided as they sat beneath the heart tree. Jon held his breath when Sansa tucked her head under Jon’s chin. 

“Jon would you - could you-” This couldn’t be easy for her, letting him soothe her, when her mother had insisted on keeping them apart.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her hair. He’d seen Robb do the same. Surely there was nothing wrong with the gesture.

“What song would you like, Sansa?” He felt he curve of her lips against his shirt. He sent a prayer of thanks to the old gods, wrong as it was, when she let him sing Florian and Jonquil to her again. 

***

Jon held the gauze to his arm, hissing. Maester Luwin had tended to the wound, and he’d return to stitch him up once he was finished with Robb. Ser Rodrick had permitted Jon and Robb to use tourney swords for Jon’s sixteenth name day. Robb and Jon had clashed a little too enthusiastically, and they were both laid up in bed this afternoon. 

Jon knew it might be an hour till he saw the man again. Maester Luwin was thorough, and did not neglect his duties. But Robb liked to talk when he “bested” someone in the training yard. The maester would have no choice but to listen. Jon stared at the ceiling as blood seeped through the dressing. 

“Jon? Jon, it’s Sansa, may I come in?”

Jon blinked. He must have dozed off. “Yes, of course, come in.”

Sansa bustled into the room with gauze and a needle. “Maester Luwin sent me, he’ll be a while longer with Robb, he…”

Jon snorted. “He needs to hear the heroic story of how two boys managed to cut each other with tourney swords.”

Sansa tsked, but a smile played at the corner of her lips. “Jon, be kind. But yes, Robb’s been spinning a tale and…I was worried about you. Maester Luwin gave me leave to come see you, I’m good at sewing, I might be able to stitch you up, Jon, only if you didn’t mind-” Sansa was chattering, nervous.

Jon took her hand, touched by her concern. “That’s very thoughtful of you Sansa, but you needn’t worry. I’m-” He broke off and hissed again as Sansa removed the bandage. 

Her eyes darkened. “He shouldn’t have left you like this, Jon. The cut’s deep, it needs tending.” All her hesitation was gone as she pushed him back onto the pillow. Jon was pleasantly light-headed and barely felt the sting of the needle as Sansa sewed. She wrapped his arm up again, more tightly.

Jon was warm under the blankets, drowsy. Sansa touched his forehead. She frowned. “You’re running a fever, Jon, I’ll have the maester come right away. You need him.” Jon marveled at how blue her eyes were, how beautiful she was. He stopped himself before he reached out to touch her hair.  

Sansa leaned in to kiss his cheek, just like he’d seen her do for Robb after she tended to his wounds. “Please, Jon, get better for me.”

He turned to tell her he’d be fine, to thank her, and Sansa kissed his lips instead. They leapt apart. Jon half-expected Sansa to run. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Sansa brushed his hair from his brow and leaned in again. 

Jon put a hand on her chest, even though all he wanted to do was chase her lips win his own.  “Sansa, wait…”

Then all he could say was her name, again and again, once she started to kiss him in earnest. His heart hammered in his chest. He sat up, cupping the back of her head and kissed her more deeply, until they were both breathless.

A knock on the door startled them apart. 

“That’s Maester Luwin. I’ll…I’ll go, now.” Sansa murmured. She gathered her supplies and left, but not before squeezing Jon’s hand firmly, almost desperately. For the first time Jon wondered if Sansa might yearn for him as he longed for her.

***

Prince Joffrey came to visit that fall. Jon hated him on sight, hated the cruel lines of his face and his worm lips, but hated him more than anything for how he mocked Sansa behind her back. Jon was shocked to learn his father had agreed to a marriage between Sansa and the prince. Robert Baratheon was king, though, and a king’s command could not be turned aside.

Perhaps it was for the best. Jon couldn’t meet Sansa’s eye anymore, not after the kiss they’d shared. It was his duty to stop this madness before it started. He kept far away from Sansa, and readied himself for the long march to the Wall.

Jon was packing up his warmest clothes when he heard a light knock at the door. He knew instantly who it was, even though the hour was late. He froze.

“Jon, it’s Sansa, may I…may I say goodbye?” Her voice broke on the last word. Jon rushed to the door.

Sansa was in her nightrail and dressing gown. Her auburn hair tumbled down her shoulders. Jon ushered her inside, careful not to touch her. She picked up one of his gloves, twisted it in her hands. “It’s true, then. You’re off to the Wall.”

“And you’re off to King’s Landing,” Jon said sharply. He winced inwardly. He hadn’t meant to chastise her, but his anger boiled over.

Sansa tossed the glove down. “You think I want to go? With him? With that prince? With a man who can’t bear to be near me, who can’t-“ She burst into tears. All the fight went out of Jon. He took her in his arms, and let Sansa lead him to his bed.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m so sorry, I wish you didn’t have to leave, I wish-“

“I wish I could stay with you,” she whispered. She kissed him as if they’d never stopped, that day when she’d dressed his wounds. They clung to each other. She was warm, and pliant, and he was already lost.

Jon kissed her tears away, powerless against the wave of desire that welled up inside him at the sweet press of her lips, the small noises she made as she climbed into his lap. He kissed her mouth and her cheek and her collarbone, murmuring promises he could not keep into her ear. He couldn’t stop touching her, overwhelmed by the blinding storm, the ferocious force that seemed determined to pull them together. Sansa clutched at his shirt, tugging him closer.

“Jon, please, I-“

Ned Stark burst into the room. There was no mistaking the two of them, how Sansa was cradled on Jon’s lap, how they were both flushed. Sansa shrieked, and ran. Jon closed his eyes. He had to fix this, for Sansa’s sake.

“It’s my fault, father, all of it, don’t blame her.” Blame me, and my bastard blood.

Ned Stark had never laid on a hand on Jon, but Jon fully expected a blow. He deserved one.

Instead, his father ran a weary hand over his face. “You leave for the Wall tomorrow, Jon, and you will not see Sansa again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father.”

Jon thought of Sansa often, over the years, until the memory of her began to fade, worn at the edges, like the memories of the rest of his family.

***

“Open the gates!”

Jon trembled as he and Edd stood on the balcony at Castle Black. It could still be Uncle Benjen, come back for him. He’d never given up hope, entirely, that he might see his uncle again.

Then Sansa dismounted, and Jon couldn’t breathe.

It can’t be her. It’s not possible. She died with the Lannisters.

Sansa’s gaze met his. Jon walked towards her in a daze. The snow fell thick between them. Is this a trick? The red woman’s magic? I’m seeing things that aren’t there, maybe I’m still dead, maybe I never came back-

Then Sansa threw herself into his arms, and the weight of her, her warmth, almost brought him to his knees. She nuzzled his cheek and he let himself believe it was truly her, back with him now, after so many years. She was alive, and strong and free. He brought her in from the cold, and bundled Sansa up by the fire. He went to get something hot, whatever soup or stew their meager kitchen had.

Tormund stopped him in the hall. “Your woman?” He jerked his head towards Jon’s chambers.

“My sister,” he gritted out. For once, Tormund leaned back, raised his eyebrows but let him be. 

Jon sighed. She is, she’s your sister, nothing’s changed, except you don’t have a child’s excuses anymore.

Sansa did not approach him, or try to kiss him, while they fought for their home. She’d outgrown the whirlwind of folly that swept them up when they were younger. Jon’s heart ached, but he resolved to do the same.

***

“So you’re Aegon Targaryen, you see,“ Sam said. “It’s - it’s right here, in the book, and Daenerys…well Daenerys is your aunt.”

And Sansa’s my cousin. 

“What should we do, Jon?” Sam was concerned, as he should be. This was a matter of life and death. Jon posed a threat to a queen he’d prodded himself to seduce. Now Jon was a danger to her, and the three full grown dragons that roamed the skies. 

“We’ll think of something, Sam.” Sansa was brisk, all business, every bit the Lady of Winterfell. “Can you please leave us for a moment? We can speak again in the morning.”

Sam bowed and left.

For a brief moment when they were alone neither of them moved, and then Sansa threw herself into his arms again. Jon caught her and he kissed her, kissed her, kissed her, tasting her mouth, drunk on her closeness and her scent and how it felt to bury his nose in her hair. 

“Jon, Jon, I love you, I have, since we were children, I-”

Jon pulled back and kissed her forehead. “I love you too Sansa, you must know that. I always have, always.”