It hurts in a different way than it had with Ramsey. With him, the thrusts of him inside of her were always secondary to other humiliations he had devised for her. In time, she had learned to give him enough tears to keep herself as unmarred as possible but never enough to truly satisfy him. It was a game she played to distract herself from what he was doing to her body.
Now, there is nothing to focus on but Jon. His stuttering breaths are warm on her neck. His hands clutch the bedding beside her body. A beat of sweat from his neck falls onto hers. His movements grow more forceful, and she closes her eyes, pressing her lips together. She will not cry out.
A warm gush of liquid and Jon withdraws immediately, rolling off of her and swinging his feet to the floor in a single movement. She listens to him take deep, steadying breaths before he rises and leaves her chamber. Only then does she lower her legs to the mattress. She cannot explain the sob she swallows. He is always so gentle with her.
She knows not to expect his presence the next morning. He will have left the keep before the sun rose as is his custom the day after after he beds her. She should rise and perform her duties. Instead, she turns on her side. She feigns sickness and refuses a maester when her lady's maid offers to call for one. She keeps to her chambers, sleeping intermittently throughout the day. She does not weep. She watches the light seep from the skies and blinks to find it is morning.
She wants to remain in her bed for another day or two, but that is not her way. She rises and sits beside her husband to break their fast. The hall is quiet as most are still wiping the dredges of sleep from their eyes.
"Are you well, my lady?" Jon asks, staring into his porridge bowl.
"Quite well, my lord, thank you," she answers. She wills the smile to reach her eyes. He nods, and they eat the rest of their meal in silence. She cannot put words to the growing unease in her stomach. When she stands to leave, he follows suit and nods to her. His eyes are locked on the floor. Sansa falters in her curtsy.
He steadies her with a hand on her arm. His brows furrow, eyes roaming over her face before averting them past her head. "My lady?"
He cannot bear to look upon me. Her knees weaken beneath her. Her stomach churns as she trembles in his arms. "Jon," she releases with a pained gasp. The world darkens around her, and she forces herself to straighten. She fills and empties her lungs once, twice.
She holds a hand to her chest. "I apologize, my lord. I felt faint but a moment." His hands tighten on her arms. He only touches me as much as he must. She takes a step back. "I will return to my chambers. Perhaps another day of rest is needed."
She can feel his searching eyes on her again. She cannot return his gaze. If she does, she feels she might not be able to contain her sorrow.
To her surprise, rather than calling for one of her lady's maids, he takes hold of her arm again. "Let me escort you to your chambers."
She opens her mouth to refuse him and quickly closes it. She will be grateful for his strength if she faints on the way to her chambers.
When they reach her doors, she expects him to leave her to retire, but he opens the doors and leads her to her bed. He lowers her slowly on the edge of the bed. His hands close at his side.
"I'll call for a maid," he says. He walks toward the door. She bites at her lip to stop its shaking. There is a long silence. Sansa watches him place a palm on the door before straightening his back and turning to face her. "You have only fainted once that I have seen," he starts. "You were eight. Theon and I were training. He said - well, he angered me, and I cut him. He bled so much you swore I'd killed him, that Father would have to execute me for murder. Do you remember?"
Her heart beats fast against her breastbone. "Father said only a man without honor kills a child."
"What troubles you now, Sansa? Will you tell me?" She says nothing. "Did something, did something in the hall give you reason to be frightened? Did someone," he cuts himself off.
Sansa lowers her head. She traces the pattern of a on her dress. She wants her father to hold her as he did then, to brush away her tears and promise that all would be well. A tear falls unbidden from her eye, and then she is sobbing, a hand to her mouth.
Jon comes to her side at once. He kneels in front of her and takes her hand in both of his. His thumb moves back and forth, too rough to be soothing. But she is still glad for the warmth of his hands on hers.
"It is only a woman's worry," she dismisses.
"It's my wife's worry," he corrects, "and so it is mine. Tell me." His voice is nearly a growl.
I am just a stupid girl, she thinks, for she answers him truly.
"You do not look upon me."
"I -" he stutters. He leans back on his heels in confusion.
"Neither when you speak nor when you lie with me. Your eyes dance away from me, and you, you only touch me after you have doused the fire and blown out the candles." She pulls a hand away from him to take out a handkerchief from her bodice. She dabs at her eyes and nose. "I have suffered your apathy these past moons, and I will find a way to bear your disgust, my lord." She stops her tears, a flush on her cheeks, and smiles at him reassuringly.
He stands and moves away from her with haste. His hands are stiff at his sides as he stars out the window, and she worries she has angered him with her histrionics.
"I beg your forgiveness, my lord," she murmurs. "The emotion overtook me. I will not allow it to happen again." He does not respond, and Sansa does not know what else she should say. Her fingers twist together.
He sighs heavily and leans his back against the window frame. He stares at her, and she must press her lips together to stop herself from apologizing again. A lady never speaks overmuch. They stare at one another. When Jon steps toward her, she cannot stop her flinch. He halts.
After a moment, he clears his throat and walks to the chair at her table. Sansa's wary gaze follows his every movement. He turns it to face her and sits. He places his elbow on the table. When her heartbeat slows to a more normal pace, he finally speaks, slowly, as though each word is chosen with great care.
"It is I who must beg your forgiveness. I know that I have been - distant since we wed. Please allow me to assure you that it was not born from apathy but shame." She blinks. "Rhaegar Targaryen," for he never calls the man his father, "stole and raped my mother. Sam says that she went willingly, but it matters not. She was but a child, and he a married man. If anyone had carried you away in such a manner, or Arya," his voice deepens with anger, "I would have done things not fit for a lady's ears." He exhales sharply and tempers his tone. "You have the right of it. It is disgust I feel but never with you, Sansa. To find myself following that man's path, stealing you and your home away, after everything you have survived... I am too ashamed to look upon you."
But he looks at her now.
"I thought my scars -"
He interrupts, "I do not care about your scars, Sansa. I have plenty of my own. We are survivors of war. It is only natural that we should bear its mark."
Her mouth falls open. Her eyes pass over the lines of his forehead, the downturn of his lips, the slump of his shoulders.
"Then, we are both fools." She rises. "You did not steal me. I chose -"
"What choices did you truly have?" he interrupts again.
Without thought, his legs part for her to stand between them. She places a finger on his lips. She waits for his nod before dropping her hand to the table.
"I did choose," she asserts. "Even after what Ramsey did, my claim was enough to ensure there would be offers. I chose the boy who shaped snow into flowers for me when I complained that there were none this far north. I chose you, because I trust you to keep me safe. I trust you not to hurt me." Her eyes sting with more tears. "The things he said to me, the scars he left, it is hard to not think of myself as distasteful, but I will try," she says before he can contradict her again.
"I will try to put aside those thoughts and memories," she continues. "I only ask that you do the same." She covers his hand with hers. "Will you try?"
He watches her small fingers brush over his knuckles. "I will."
"Then, we have an agreement."
He flips his hand to capture hers. He takes a fortifying breath and then brings her hand to his mouth. He presses a kiss to the center of her palm. He pushes his chair back to stand. He stares at her, a question in his eyes that she does not know. She nods anyway.
Jon brings a hand to cup her cheek and brushes a stray tear away with his thumb. His eyes drink in her expression, and she finds it difficult to breathe at a steady pace. He tilts her face up slightly and leans in. His mouth is an inch from hers when he pauses, giving her a chance to move away. She stays still.
His lips are soft against hers. They move away after a moment, and she breathes out, a hand coming to his forearm. He leans in again, and this time, his mouth moves against hers, nibbling at her lips until that hand tightens on his arm, and she is leaning into him, her mouth falling open.
He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her temple. Her breath shudders out of her. He kisses her lips again before stepping back completely.
Jon's cautious gaze is on her when her eyes blink open. Unconsciously, she licks her lips. And he smiles. She has not seen him do so since she before he went South. His eyes are alight with warmth, and she thanks the Seven that she did share her insecurities.
He rubs the back of his neck and gestures toward the door. Sansa watches him with a smile of her own as he moves toward it.
He turns back to her when he reaches it. "I promise you I will endeavor to be a better husband to you, Sansa."
"And I a better wife," she says. He opens his mouth to argue, and she shakes her head once. If either of them had only spoken their thoughts earlier, neither of them would have suffered so. It is a shared fault, their first as husband and wife.
Jon leaves then to perform his duties, and Sansa does take the rest of the day to rest. Her head aches from crying. She drinks warm broth. She reads a book, touching a finger to her lips every so often.
Her husband returns to her chambers that night. He does not initiate a coupling. He merely presses a kiss to her head and holds her to him. It is uncomfortable at first. Jon lies stiff behind her, and Sansa is tense with anxiety. But eventually, they relax into each other. Their breaths even out, and their fears abates. Jon finds that he likes the feel of Sansa, the scent of her hair, her soft skin against his where they do meet. Sansa feels quite secure with Jon's chest at her back and his arms encircling her. Her heart warms at this touch that wants nothing but to comfort and give affection.
It will be better, she thinks. It is already.