A Little Spice In Your Snow
The weather was beautifully fair, with deep, clear blue skies stretching above as far as the eye could see. Seaborne breezes blew in from the coast, kissing the sweat from her skin and ghosting over the roaring waters of the Torrentine and sending up sprays to cool and refresh whenever the glare of the sun above became too much to bear.
They followed a path deeply rutted into the earth from decades of foot travel, a companionable silence between them as a narrow point of the river forked and led to an expanse of stillwater. Here, where the current ran lazy and slow, sheltered by a small copse of low-hanging trees, was her companion's favorite fishing spot.
Ser Jon Sand (Just Jon, he had corrected with a gentle smile, for the fifth or sixth time as she persisted in calling him Ser) swept his sandsilk cloak off his shoulders, producing a small length of rope from the basket they had brought with them, and tied both ends of the cloak to a pair of branches to produce a makeshift canopy. She smiled amusedly at the blatant self-satisfaction in his expression, turning away to lay a blanket down in the newly-made shade.
She settled down on the blanket and fetched a bundle of needlework from the basket, watching as Jon kicked off his boots and stepped into the water. He drew his net after him into the shallows, wrapping the woven knots around a set of stakes already set in the sand to create a makeshift fishing pen. A fond smile played at her lips as she watched him settle into his task.
She had vaguely known of Jon's existence, a scandalous, far-away remnant of a time before herself that she had little need to be concerned with. King's Landing changed everything- she lost her parents, her brothers, likely Arya as well, and beyond even her aching grief was a gnawing ache inside that came with knowing she was the last.
The last Stark, save for Uncle Benjen, bound to the Wall and the deadliest occupation it had to offer, and she wasn't at Winterfell like she was supposed to be. There was no Stark in Winterfell, the only thing anyone cared about was the claim her blood and her womb could provide, and she was completely, utterly alone…until Prince Oberyn Martell's retinue arrived.
Even outfitted in white and lilac, with skin bronzed from the Dornish sun, there was unmistakable Stark in Jon Sand. Dark hair, a long, lean face- like Father, like Arya, so much so her heart ached. The first time dark violet eyes strayed over to her, they were faintly inquisitive, but distant, finding no reason to linger beyond a polite smile. It was only after her lord husband introduced her to Prince Oberyn that Jon's gaze darted back to her and Sansa's breath caught at the way his eyes first widened with realization, softened with recognition and sympathy (family, blood, bond, poor girl, I'm so sorry, my lady), then hardened with focus and calculation (hostage, caged wolf, I'll get you free, won't let you be alone anymore).
His appearance in her life was more than enough to start building a slight bridge across the chasm in her heart.
They shared a few (chaperoned) walks through the gardens- their conversation was trite and superficial by necessity, but Sansa took comfort in the warmth of the arm she tucked her hand against, the care in his eyes. When he swept her away from the chaos following Joffrey's death, it was the first time she called him Jon, the name slipping from her lips in a rush of shock and relief.
And the intimacy of his given name became a habit within the week, when she finally gave into the tears and Jon's strong arms wrapped around her for the first time. Propriety be damned when she had warmth and safety for the first time in months; their escorts, Sers Daemon Sand and Ulwyck Uller, treated their embraces with no trace of scandal, so why should she?
"We'll go to Starfall. My Aunt Allryia is still there- she'll have silks and jewels you can wear, beautiful things befitting a lady. The kitchens always have fresh fruits from the orchards, Cook will make you all the lemon cakes you want." He dared to drop a kiss to her hair, his arms tightening protectively. "I'll keep you safe, my lady. I promise."
Keep her safe, he did. Enough so that they could relax into life there and enjoy leisurely days like this one.
Knee-deep in the river, Jon stood bow-legged, his capable hands wrapped around his fishing spear, a long, two-pronged shaft made from willow wood. His eyes were locked on the water, looking for the slightest move or flicker. When he spotted a silvery silhouette beneath the surface, he raised the spear and brought it down in a quick, smooth thrust, the grace of his movements speaking of the years of practice he'd had in catching his elusive quarry.
This continued on as she sat on the bank to bask in the sun. The net was filled with a half-dozen of his catches as he brought the spear down once more, the pronged head erupting from the water in a flurry of spray to reveal his newest prize. The whitefish writhing violently and Jon flipped the shaft to put the animal out of its misery, though the fish ceased its struggle the moment they were eye-level. Jon tossed a triumphant grin over his shoulder in her direction and Sansa smiled indulgently, though Jon payed for his distraction.
The fish recovered from its false capitulation, its sharp tailfin smacking Jon across the face. The shock of the sudden strike caused Jon to stumble backward, his feet entangling with the end of the spear and crashing him back into the water.
Sansa collapsed into helpless laughter as he bobbed to the surface, face obscured by a heavy curtain of sopping wet hair. He sputtered, tossing his head back to clear his vision and fixed a glower in the direction of his giggling companion.
"No need to look so ill-tempered," she called to him teasingly, managing to calm her mirth to the summation of an amused grin. "It's just a bit of water."
"Just a bit of water, she says," he grumbled as he sloshed toward the shore, the soaked linen of his tunic and breeches bogging him down with every step. Eyeing her for a moment once he hit land, the slightest hint of a smirk upon his lips was her only hint of less than honorable intentions before he suddenly shook himself, sending droplets of water flying all over.
She jumped with surprise when the cold spray hit her, glaring and huffing in response but happy nonetheless to see him carefree and smiling. He took his duties so seriously, it was rare to see him relieved of the burden, even if it was only for a short time.
Giving his head one last shake, Jon lifted his tunic over his head, moving to lay it over a nearby branch to dry. Turned away to do so, he missed Sansa's sharp intake of breath, her frozen expression.
Long stretches of golden skin glistened in the sun, over his strong, taut torso where the cords of muscle her fingers suddenly itched to touch and explore rippled as he moved. He seemed to glow as if his bronzed flesh could capture the sunlight, and she found herself idly wondering if she pressed her lips to his nape, if she would taste the sun's warmth there.
She was startled out of her reflections when she realized Jon had come to kneel beside her, looking down at her intently, with an expression of confused concern. Her startled eyes met the violet gaze watching her so closely. "W-what?"
"Are you well?"
"I'm fine." As much as she wanted to move away, the stronger impulse saw her moving delicately closer. She raised a hand, hovering above his bare skin as if to touch him, but hesitated. She watched him swallow, intently watching her hand's progress, and when she halted, caught it within his own.
She leaned up, lightly brushing her lips against his. Jon jumped at the contact, a fine shiver racking through him as the delicacy of the moment moved something inside him. Sansa pulled back just enough to look him in the eye and as she reached up to cup his face, Jon leaned into find her mouth once more.
The resulting kiss was soft and questioning. Jon placed a hand carefully on the small of her back, gliding his fingers up her spine to rest at her neck, eliciting shivers in their wake, as her lips parted enticingly and their contact became something more, warm, soft, and wet. She brought her hand up to touch him in return, tracing the musculature of his arms and the blades of his shoulders. He was warm from the sun, damp from the water, and he felt wonderful.
The way she had to crane her neck up and the awkward angle he had to lean became too much of a discomfort to ignore, and in unspoken agreement, they moved together. Sansa lay out on her back as Jon settled against her, knees on either side of her hips and weight balanced on his elbows.
He kissed her- or she kissed him, she wasn't certain who started it again- but suddenly there was nothing but mouth and cheek and skin and hands…gentle and warm and ardent…and Jon, nothing in the world but Jon.
Everything else could wait a while longer.