She's all too young, Jon thinks, as he looks at his new bride lying on their bed. Still, she is stripped to her shift and he is unsure of what to do. He had insisted that there be no bedding, and his people had obeyed their king. But drunk on the finest Arbor Gold, Sansa had started removing her clothing herself when he'd ducked into the kitchens to fetch some spare lemoncakes.

"Sansa," he says, biding his time as he curses himself for letting his eyes linger a little too long at her breasts, barely concealed by the thin linen.

"Jon," she says back, and he curses her for fluttering her eyelashes because this was supposed to be much easier. She's not yet fifteen, and she shouldn't be in anybody's bed, even if she had been when she was much younger.

"We're not going to… do anything," Jon says tentatively, looking down at the plate overflowing with lemoncakes for the new Queen he carried in his hands. "Nothing you're not ready for."

"Oh," Sansa says, her voice flat. She brings her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. "Are those for me?"

Jon nods and closes the distance between them to put the plate of lemon cakes beside her. She doesn't touch them, and when he finally looks up at her she's meeting his eyes.

"It is expected of us – that we should consummate the marriage," Sansa says, and it would be easy, it would. She's so beautiful like this, with her hair pulled out of braids and falling in soft waves down her back. All undone, lips flushed pink from the cold of his bedroom.

"Expected by who?" Jon asks. "I'm the King. You are the Queen. We answer to no one."

Sansa pushes her eyebrows together, as if trying to add it all up. "Well, this is why you married me, isn't it?"

There's something in her voice that's a little bit hopeful, and he can't help but indulge her, it's their wedding day, and so he takes the bait.

"No."

He thought it was the right answer, he really did. But Sansa's face falls anyway.

Jon sits down on the bed next to her. He's not very good at these sort of little chats, but he'll try anyway. "I'm sorry," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"It's alright," she says, and she would have stopped there, he knows, if it wasn't for the wine. "I just thought maybe you were marrying me for –"

Finally she catches herself and looks down.

"For what?" he prompts, but she does not answer. Instead she grabs lemon cake from the plate and stuffs the entire thing into her mouth. Jon waits patiently as Sansa chews.

Finally she swallows it down and sighs. "Well, I suppose I'll be going back to my room."

"No," he says, and he stands up and pushes the furs from the foot of the bed onto her body, enveloping her in warmth, trapping her under their weight. "You should stay."

Sansa smiles up at him, "are you afraid of me, Jon Snow?"

Yes.

"I killed the Night's King."

"Do I repulse you, then? Because you still see me as your sister?"

Jon can't help but laugh, because it's quite the opposite really, and she must know it, what with the half dozen of kisses they'd exchanged over the past year. Some of them when he did indeed think she was his sister, as she'd thought he was her brother. He pulls off his boots and leaves them at the foot of the bed.

Sansa grabs another lemon cake, but eats it more daintily this time. She's a pretty picture, even when she's annoyed with him. He gets under the covers with her, removing only his doublet.

In the candlelight, she is so very soft. His bannermen wouldn't believe him if he told them how very sweet she was, they were terrified of her. It had been their own fault, really, for not respecting her from the start. He had always been in awe. And she may have kept The North alive while he'd been beyond The Wall, but underneath she was still just a young girl.

"You know why I married you," he says to her, matter-o-factly.

"I thought I did," she sighs. Now that he's closer, their faces only a few inches apart, he sees she really is hurt.

"I love you," he says, and reaches out to put a hand on her cheek.

He expects her to smile. He wouldn't have said it if he didn't think she loved him back. No, he knows she does. She had been the one who proposed the marriage a few days ago, after all, with the flimsiest of excuses. She had been the one to set the date, taking the entire castle by surprise. And besides, she had been the one to kiss him first, almost a year ago now.

Instead she sighs once again. "You love me and yet you won't touch me?"

"I am touching you," he says, rubbing his thumb against her cheek. He leans over and brushes his lips against hers. She catches his lip between her teeth and bites down. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough for her to show him how sharp her fangs are.

It sends a shiver down his spine, and he plays right into her hand, gripping her head tighter and freeing his lip from her hold to nibble on her lip. He is more gentle than she was, but he wins the game anyway. Her body goes slack against his and his arms envelope her, bringing her to his chest.

"You're wearing a lot of clothes," Sansa says, when they pull away. "For someone who isn't afraid of me."

"You're too young to carry a child," he says, his voice suddenly sober. He'd discussed it with the maester before the wedding. They were getting a little carried away, and this was why he was wearing so many layers. His own mother had died in the birthing bed, and the pair of them had lost too much already. He wouldn't lose her too.

Sansa sighs, "I've been married before, you know."

"I know."

"Twice!"

"Three times now, actually," he corrects her.

"You know I'm not a maid. And I'll be fifteen soon."

"Soon," he agreed. Not soon enough.

"And we'll do it then?" she asks, and his breeches tighten at the eagerness in her voice. Her hand clutches his bicep, and she squeezes tight. And then her face breaks out into a smile, "as a nameday present?"

Jon just laughs, because he's not sure, he's just slightly too hot and bothered to remember exactly what the maester said. What's wrong with taking it slow, anyway? They had all the time in the world. The rest of their lives. He liked to just kiss her. And there were other things he could show her…

"Do you really love me?" she asks.

"I do."

"I love you too," she offers, and pulls away from him to reach onto the table beside their bed for another lemoncake. "Would you take off your shirt, at least?"

"What?"

"You can leave your breeches on. And your socks, even. Just take off your shirt."

Jon does as his lady commands. He sits up and pulls the loose white shirt over head head and tosses it to the ground.

The way she looks at him is unfair. The way her hands immediately run against his stomach is unfair too. But he doesn't mind. He feels desire grow in his belly and wills himself to ignore it. He lays back down and she cuddles closer to him again.

Sansa nuzzles her face into his neck, and he reaches an arm under her to pull her closer.

"I am really quite tired," she says. "From the dancing. And the wine's gone to my head. So maybe you're right, maybe it is for the best."

Sansa's voice is very soft, and he knows she's not mad anymore. He looks over and her eyes have drifted closed, though her fingers still brushed against his abdomen so she hadn't fallen asleep. He doesn't mind. This is good. This is enough.

Author's Note: you can check out more of my fic at theonbaejoys on tumblr.