Fic: Bedchambers, one shot
Word count: 2,200
Warnings: R + L = J, sexuality, spoilers for ADWD
Summary: Daenerys had reminded him that Sansa and Rickon were not his true siblings, that the Starks were not his true family, yet she had let him stay here while she settled the rest of Westeros. If they weren’t his family, then who else did he have? Written for just_a_dram
AN: I don’t know if wirewoods can burn in canon or not but I just went with it. To all my fellow Jon/Arya shippers, this is just a little break from my WIP.
The door to his father’s—no, Lord Stark’s—solar opens and Sansa enters, a word on her lips until she sees him standing by the empty hearth.
“What are you doing in here?” she asks, the heavy door creaking shut behind her.
He’s holding a candle but it’s quite dark. The fine glasswork he remembers has been repaired, the furniture has been replaced to match the originals and the stone fireplace with its fierce direwolves has been cleaned. This room looks so close to his memory of it that it causes a peculiar pain in his chest.
Jon shrugs and lights a few more candles.
“Sometimes I come in here to think,” he says.
“I don’t let the servants clean these chambers. I saw the light and thought that one of them had…”
She doesn’t finish what she was trying to say. He looks her over, sees her loose hair and her flushed cheeks. Sansa is still dressed in her gown from dinner but she’s removed her jewelry, her pale skin shinning in the dim light. Jon takes the candle with him and opens the door to Lord Stark’s bedchamber. He wants to see the old wirewood bed he remembers from his childhood, the place where Bran loved to hide during their games and where their father would take them for private talks.
My father, Jon thinks, surprised that the wirewood bed frame is still intact.
“Wirewood doesn’t burn,” Sansa says. She stands next to him, smelling faintly of lavender.
He looks at her and his skin heats when she meets his eyes.
“What does the Queen want from you?” Jon asks.
Sansa had received a letter from King’s Landing earlier that day. He had expected her to remark on it at dinner but she had appeared distant and occupied instead, as if something were troubling her.
“Nothing, at least not yet. She wrote to tell me of the formal annulment of my marriage.”
Jon had almost forgotten about her marriage to Tyrion. This past year he found a new place for himself in Winterfell, a life and a home while so many others had neither. He is unable to think much on the future. The Queen knows who he is but so far she has let him be, and that is enough for Jon at the present.
“Why does that displease you?” he asks.
Sansa twists her full, pretty mouth into a frown. “I was examined by a master and a septa. The Queen knows that I’m a maid. She has annulled my marriage, but she will find me another, this one of her own choosing.”
Jon clenches his sword hand but says nothing. Even before this annulment, the Lords and bannermen of the north had visited Winterfell to pursue Sansa. She always wants him present for the stay of her suitors, and he thinks it’s meant to subdue their behavior, to remind them that Sansa is not completely without guardianship—but lately Jon hasn’t been so certain of that.
As children they had not been close but now that it’s just the three of them—himself, Sansa, and Rickon—they could not be closer. It has not escaped him that they look so like Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, and on occasion Jon has felt like Rickon is more of a son than a brother, but he can’t be sure if Sansa is more of a sister or a wife. Daenerys had reminded him that Sansa and Rickon were not his true siblings, that the Starks were not his true family, yet she had let him stay here while she settled the rest of Westeros. If they weren’t his family, then who else did he have?
“Why did you come here?” she asks.
He knows she doesn’t speak of the bedchamber their standing in, or the rooms that used to belong to Lord Stark.
“Because this is the only place where I could imagine staying.”
Her breathing is uneven, like she’s forcing herself to remain calm. “Then you understand.”
Sansa is the ruling Stark for now, but when Rickon comes of age she will be expected to marry, to leave Winterfell for good.
“There is a way to make me a…less desirable choice for marriage. I would be immensely grateful if you would assist me.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, knowing and not knowing at the same time.
No, he thinks, but Sansa is looking at him with such wide, blue eyes as a blush spreads across her cheeks. She looks down at the floor, at the candle he still holds, at the big, beautiful bed that dominates the room.
“I intend to harm my reputation,” she says, taking the candle from his hands and placing it on the bedside table. Jon feels like his skin is on fire, like he has fallen asleep on the hearth and woken up charred.
Finally he finds his voice, it is raspy and not at all what he normally sounds like. “Why me? You could have any man you want—“
“Because you are the only one who would not try to take it all,” Sansa says, meaning Winterfell, the North, her future.
She takes a step towards him and he feels something hot and molten tingle over his spine. This is not what duty feels like, he thinks.
Jon knows that he should try to dissuade her, that he should promise to write to the Queen on her behalf, that he won’t allow her to be sent away, but he says none of these things. She has behaved as a wife would for the past year, taking meals with him and mending his shirts and riding with him through the Wolfswood, this girl who is not his sister. Hadn’t he wished that she were truly his wife and that Winterfell would be their home forever? Had he not thought of it when he looked at her and saw a woman grown?
She reaches for the laces in the front of her gown and tugs on them, her bodice loosening, one sleeve falling off her shoulder. Sansa pulls away the fabric to show her breasts, her lower lip between her teeth as her nipples harden in the cool air.
“If anyone finds out…” he says, knowing that there’s no point. He will not deny her and they both know it.
“It would only make me less valuable. No other man would want me.”
Sansa places his hand on her cheek and he kisses her, tastes her warm, sweet mouth and pulls her against him. She lets out a small, breathy moan against his lips and he tangles his fingers in her hair. Her naked chest is pressed against him, her tongue shyly brushing against his own, reminding him that, for all her maneuvering, she is still a maid.
You don’t know what your asking for, he thinks. Sansa looks at him, her eyes saying trust me and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her no.
He pulls off her dress and her shift, picking her up and carrying her to the bed.
“Let me look at you,” Jon says, sitting next to her, running his hands over her neck and her sides, her chest.
In the candlelight her hair looks nearly as dark as his, but he can still see the freckles on her arms and nose. She is in her stockings and smallclothes while he is fully dressed, so he removes his jerkin, doublet and tunic before lying down next to her on the large bed.
Her pupils are blown wide like a faun, her eyes impossibly blue in the dim light. They kiss and Jon cups her breast in his hand, feeling a streak of heat in his groin when she moans into his mouth. He teases her nipples and presses their chests together, loving the feeling of her cool skin against his.
“Here,” he says, pulling the furs over them, knowing that she will feel more comfortable if she’s less exposed.
Sansa wraps her arms around him and unconsciously rubs her center against him. Kissing her neck, he slowly pulls down her stockings, feeling the softness of her bare legs. She impatiently removes her smallclothes while he takes off his breeches, one of his legs tucked between hers as she moves her hips against him. He’s painfully aroused but Jon has heard that it’s important to go slowly with maids, that it takes time to open them up. He reaches between their bodies and brushes his hand over her mound, finding her clit and gently circling it.
“Ah, Jon,” she sighs, her eyes closing, head falling to the pillow.
He kisses her and slips a finger inside, surprised by how tight she is. At that moment he is struck by the weight of the situation, that he is naked in Lord Stark’s bed with Sansa. The thought is so wicked it brings a heat to the back of his ears, making him feel like they will certainly be caught, that the stone walls of Winterfell know of their wrongdoing. Jon eases a second finger into her, knowing that this is madness but wanting it all the same.
Sansa eases him on top of her until his weight is resting between her legs. Shyly, avoiding his eyes, she reaches down and feels the length of him. Jon groans and presses his face into her neck, falling out of the rhythm his fingers had found.
“Is that alright?” she asks, so quietly he has to strain to hear her.
He places his hand over her own and shows her how to touch him, wrapping her small, smooth hands around his cock.
“Does that hurt?”
“No, you’re perfect,” Jon says, kissing her.
Eventually he removes her hand, stroking her clit a few more times before spreading her soft, pale legs. His cock is aching and he desperately wants to slip inside her and fuck her into the headboard, but he holds himself back, takes a deep breath.
“It will hurt a little at first,” he says.
Sansa nods and he leans down to kiss her again, covering her mouth to keep her quiet as he guides his cock inside her. She is wet around him and so, so tight. Jon feels her dig her nails into his back so he slows down a little, trying not to put too much of his weight on her as he works in the head of his cock.
She feels tense beneath him so he stops for a moment, cupping her face and whispering to her.
“Are you alright?” he asks, their lips almost touching.
Sansa breathes deeply and says, “Yes. I’m okay.”
Jon knows there will be no easy way to alleviate any discomfort she is feeling, so he pushes the rest of the way in, making her cry out for a moment. They stay there like that, fully inside her while she takes a few breaths and gradually relaxes against him.
She moves her hips experimentally and he thrusts into her, gently at first. Sansa moves her legs further apart and makes a soft, keening noise when he is deep inside her, hips arching up to meet him. Jon kisses her neck and repeats the motion until she’s trembling. He reaches between their bodies to find her clit, circling it as he rocks against her. Sansa’s nails tear into his skin and he feels her muscles flutter around his cock, making it all the more difficult to hold himself back—he thinks of sums and dry calculations to take his mind away from the sweet, heady feeling of Sansa coming around him.
He grits his teeth and tries to ignore the rush of sensation crackling over his skin, but the movements of his hips become more erratic and he can’t hold himself back any longer. Jon knows that he is thrusting too hard, that he’s probably hurting her, as sensitive as she must be the first time, but he is nearly there, almost to the peak of oblivion. He pulls out and spills on her smooth belly, his blood pounding in his ears while Sansa holds him and curls her fingers in his hair.
Jon takes a few gasping breaths and rests his head in the crook of her neck, knowing that he’s made a mess, that there is probably blood on the sheets of this perfect bed. She turns her head to kiss him, slowly pressing her lips against his.
Digging through the pockets of his breeches, he finds a handkerchief and helps clean her up. Sansa is still a hesitant about being naked in front of each other, blushing a little when he pushes the furs off of himself to feel the cool air, her wide eyes shyly following the line of his body. Jon wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her small frame against his.
He has no certainty about whom Sansa will marry, or what Daenerys will expect of him once she has established dominion over the Seven Kingdoms. There is no more Night’s Watch for him to pledge his allegiance to, no banner for him to fight under, all he has is Winterfell and the few people there who are closest to him. Jon runs his fingers through Sansa’s long hair, seeing and remembering at the same time.
This is my family, he thinks, holding her small and fragile next to him. And they are all I have.