Author's Note: This is probably my worst bit of work for ASOIAF, but something I wrote to get out of the writing rut I'm currently in.
All This Love
Chapter One: Jon
The Riverlands are in the bloom of spring.
The last time he was here, the frozen banks of the Trident were full of snow, splattered with the blood of the men who died battling the Others. But now, Jon sees the melted snows birthing little green shoots on the thawed lands, the swelling waters of the roaring river swallowing the rotting remains of man and animal alike, stubborn green grasses already surging through the tiniest of gaps between the fallen trees and the withering skeletons and the shattered stones of the destroyed smallfolk houses.
Jon marvels at how quick nature is at tiding over the loss of human life, reclaiming the lands laid waste by the successive wars that ravaged the Seven Kingdoms.
He marvels at the beauty of the clear blue skies and the sparkling waters of the even bluer Trident (as blue as Rickon's eyes, he thinks quietly, though he knows that there's another pair of identical blue eyes that he has in mind), at the many stunning shades of green and the occasional, delightful smattering of tiny flowers.
And he is awed by the spray of colours the setting sun scatters across the evening skies, a streak of bright red reflecting on the river on whose banks his father had perished, the familiar hue of red, somehow, only increasing his longing for home, which all the beauty of the Riverlands cannot abate.
It has been six moons since he left for King's Landing to meet his Aunt; and despite all that he has had to face in his life: the ignominy of bastardy, the loss of his family, injuries, death, the Others… he decides that these six moons have been some of the toughest of his life – because nothing in Dany's glittering court or her warm hospitality or the Riverlands' beauty can compare to the wonder and the sense of belonging the North holds for him: in its shivering nights and its tough people, in its shorter days and starlit skies, in the Castle of Winterfell that grows higher and stronger with each passing day, shaped lovingly by the hands of their many smallfolk who are helping in its rebuilding, in Shaggydog's loud howls and Rickon's cheerful laughter as he rides past Jon, as much at home on a horse as Arya once was.
But most of all, he finds himself longing for his little boy, his dark-haired Robb, for the sound of his heartfelt giggles as Jon tickles his sides, and his bright eyes and unsteady feet as he runs to his mother, even for his frightened cries when Rickon tells him scary tales he heard in Skaagos, and for the soft fall and rise of his chest as he sleeps in his crib with Old Nan watching over him, Robb's tiny thumb tucked in his mouth and his little body curled up into a ball under the furs.
But there is something else he has missed (someone else, to be precise).
Jon may be Lord Protector of the Kingdom and Rickon the King, but there is no doubt that it is Sansa who is the most well-versed of the three siblings—cousins at being an astute ruler, binding the North and the Riverlands together, at playing the dangerous game of thrones with his Aunt, who casts her desirous, violet-eyed gaze at the two kingdoms that have ceded from the seven she thinks herself entitled to; Sansa is the one who held their realm together, managing an infant Robb and a wild Rickon (who was more a Skaagosi wildling than the King in the North back then), while Jon went off to battle the Others with his aunt, finally decimating the fearsome creatures barely two years ago.
And he has missed that Sansa, he finds himself admitting – in Dany's court when he felt his acute lack of tact and experience in fending off poisoned barbs and impolite jibes with a witty remark and a pretty smile like his lady wife is so adept at.
He has missed Sansa immensely, every time Dany spoke of her wish to unite their kingdoms under little Robb, who is the only one apart from Jon and Dany to have dragonblood in his veins.
He misses her every time the smallfolk of the Riverlands throng to him, requesting him for a blessing for their child, for a word with their boy-King who dwells miles away in the North, for the promise of a job at Winterfell for their lads, for coin to buy seed for their lands and feed for whatever remains of their cattle. His lady wife would have soothed their worries in an instant, he knows – with a kiss on the brow for their babes, and a kind word to the weary wives, bread from their own stores for the rake-thin children and a solemn promise to the men that they would be welcome at Riverrun where her kind Uncle Edmure would give them food and coin and land to till if they worked at repairing the waste that the war lay to the Riverlands.
He misses her every time a raven arrives from the North, containing Rickon's words in Sam's hand. Sansa has written to him only twice – and both times, he found himself reading her words with an eagerness that is most unlike him, smiling at even the matters of governance that she writes to him about, at her words on how Robb is growing up and insisting on playing at swords with Rickon, at her hope that her lord husband is well and in good health and that he shall return home soon… reading and reading and groping for words he doesn't find for the sentiments her letter evokes in him.
He has missed holding court with Sansa at Winterfell, watching her strive to dispense justice to all those who come with their grievances, and then sit with Rickon in his solar, asking their wild brother his views on the rulings Jon and she make, always allowing Rickon to have his say, listening to him patiently, correcting him when he is wrong, and lovingly embracing him when he speaks indignantly in favour of those who have been treated unjustly.
He has missed having meals with Sansa; missed the times she lets Robb have his way, allowing their little boy to eat by himself, and listening to her quiet chuckles and Rickon's loud laughter when Robb feeds more of the porridge to his tunic than himself.
He has missed riding through all of the North with her, visiting their bannermen and their smallfolk, ensuring that they know there are Starks in Winterfell again, that the Long Night is over and the Others are gone for good, that they are safe and cared for, with justice and peace reigning in their lands.
He has missed the evenings Sansa and he spend in the nursery, when Robb refuses to sleep, keeping the castle awake with his loud wails. He has missed listening to her sweet lullabies as she sings to Robb, his tiny fist clinging to Sansa's robe as he finally falls asleep.
But most of all, (and he feels something like shame and guilt bubbling in his belly at the thought, because for all that they have been married for four years, he still cannot forget that his wife was once his sister, even though she isn't his sister at all), he has missed those occasional nights he spends in Sansa's bed.
Sansa and he are nothing like some other couples he has seen, Jon admits; there are no affectionate touches or sweet words or spontaneous kisses. Theirs was a marriage that was made for the realm, to secure the Stark line if gods forbid something untoward happened to Rickon, to fulfil their shared wish of staying at Winterfell, to unite their warring claims (her blood claim to the North before they had found Rickon, and Jon's kingly title that the northmen bestowed on him when they chose him to lead them).
They aren't in love like he knows Lady Catelyn and Father—Uncle Ned were; nor are they anything like the famed lovelorn couples in the fabled songs Sansa once loved to sing and listen to.
But when they are in bed, Jon thinks they are all of that and more – in the way Sansa seems to lose her dignified, courteous persona when his fingers and mouth work their magic on her, her cheeks flushed pink and her throaty little moans escaping the iron grip she always holds on herself; the way she urges him on with her heel, whispering for him to move faster inside her; the look on her face when she reaches her peak, and the way she clings to him when they are both finished, her soft hands shyly tracing the stab wounds on his torso, while he plays with her hair, remembering not Ygritte, but the way Sansa's red locks used to shine brilliantly under the sun when she walked around the courtyard many moons ago, just days before Jon left for the final battle with the Others, her belly huge with an unborn Robb, her arm linked with Jon's as they spoke of all they wanted for their child, Rickon following them around, declaring that Shaggydog and he wanted the baby to be a boy and not a girl.
He misses Sansa, Jon realises, more than he can put into words; and he thinks of all that he has missed about her, all that he has come to value about her, those little quirks of hers that he finds so adorable, her patience and generosity with all the men and women they rule over, how a single word from her can stop the squabbling between Lords Blackwood and Bracken, of her fierce, fierce joy when he had returned to the North alive after vanquishing the Others, when she had stood at the castle door, a wide-eyed Robb on her hip and a cheering Rickon by her side, not embracing Jon like Rickon did, but her glittering blue eyes conveying more than her words could have; and that shy smile she gave him when she invited him to visit her bedchamber weeks after he returned from battle, telling him quietly that she wanted to fill the castle with their children – with a little Arya and a little Bran, and maybe even a Ned and Cat for her parents.
He thinks of the incomparable comfort he finds in her arms after he has made love to her, her unbound hair spread like a halo around her face, and her heart thudding in tandem with his as she lies on top of him, breathless and spent and shyly gazing into his eyes; but most of all, he thinks of what a loving mother she is to Robb, and even to the wild terror that Rickon is, and he finds himself smiling one of his rare smiles that are still quite hard to come to him when he doesn't have his family around.
With each day that he rides closer to home, with each day he spends away from her, some at the castles of the minor Riverlords, a couple of them at Greywater Watch with Lord Reed, and with Lord Manderly who insists on hosting him for a week, Jon finds his yearning for Sansa deepening, in the days that seem to crawl by, and the nights he spends alone in his tent.
And by the time he is finally at Wintertown, the castle looming in the distance, Jon knows he has fallen irreversibly in love with his lady wife – a realisation that gives him an unfamiliar, fierce sort of joy, coupled with a strange sort of apprehension, a feeling heightened when he thinks of the love he has found for her after all that he has lost in his two lives – family, friends, people whom he loved and who loved him in return – and he finds himself deciding that he has to tell her just how much she has come to mean to him, even if she does not quite reciprocate what he feels for her.
When they ride up to Winterfell, he finds his apprehension all but disappearing as joy takes over and he searches for the three people he loves.
"Jon! You're back!" He hears Rickon's loud shout before he sees him, his little King forgetting all the courtesies that Sansa has taught him, as he runs to Jon, clinging to him before he can even disembark from his horse. "I thought you weren't coming back," Rickon says, "Like Mother and Father and Bran, but you're back, Jon, you're back!" For all that he is two and ten now, Rickon sounds more like the little boy who had cried when he saw Jon off to the Wall, years and years ago.
"Rickon," Jon says, his heart soaring as he hugs the boy, ruffling his long red hair and grinning as the clearing of Sam Tarly's throat makes Rickon remember his manners.
"Lord Protector, Prince Jon," Rickon says, stepping back and standing straight, a little contrite now, though he's still smiling that impish smile of his. "I am pleased to see you return back to Winterfell."
"As am I, my King. I am pleased to return to your service," replies Jon with a smile, though his gaze is already moving through the crowd of people gathered to welcome him, looking for the two people he desperately wants to see: his wife and child.
And then he sees him, his little Robb, safely held in a maid's arms.
"Robb," he whispers, almost rushing to his son, exhilarated at seeing that round face and those dark curls and those grey eyes that are so like Father's—Uncle Ned's, he corrects himself, though the words sound alien to him.
"Robb," he repeats, marvelling at how Robb seems to have grown bigger since he last saw him, losing a little of the chubbiness in his cheeks, his face looking a little longer, while he has grown a little taller.
He seems nothing like the shy boy he was, hiding his face in the crook of Sansa's neck when Jon met him on returning from the war. This Robb stares at him boldly, much like the uncle he was named after, even as Jon hold his arms out to hold his little boy, to smell the clean, unique scent of his dark hair, and feel the soft warmth of his arms around his neck.
"Robb, do you not remember me, Robb?" he asks the child, who watches him curiously now, but makes no move to come to Jon's waiting arms. Jon feels a little tug at his heart; he should have known Robb wouldn't remember him after so many moons apart. But he had hoped for as joyful a welcome from his son as he got from Rickon.
"Robb, it's me, your father." Jon persists, smiling when Robb's eyes widen, and he seems to recognise the word.
"Father," Robb repeats, clearly, not fumbling with the 'f' like he used to do before Jon left for the south.
"Robby, this is Jon, your father. Sansa tells you stories about him every night, remember?" chimes in Rickon. "About Longclaw, and Ghost, the wolf, and the Wall—"
"Woof!" repeats Rickon, eagerly now, his eyes lighting up at the mention of Jon's deceased direwolf; but along with the usual pang at Ghost's death, Jon feels his heart skipping a beat at the thought of Sansa telling their son about him when he was away.
"I can tell you all about wolves," Jon says to his son, "Come here."
Robb watches him warily for a moment, a look in his grey eyes that reminds Jon of Arya, before he holds out his little arms to Jon, who takes him from the maid, elated at finally having his son with him, kissing his brow and mussing his dark curls, and chuckling when Robb spots Shaggydog in the distance, wriggling out of Jon's grasp, already eager to go to the direwolf as he yells, "Woof! Shaggy! Here!" in a high-pitched, childish voice.
"Where's Sansa?" he asks Sam, when Jon has had dragged Robb away from Shaggydog and deposited him with his maid, listened to Rickon tell him of all his exploits at sparring, and had refreshments offered to him, greeted the many people of the castle who are pleased to see him return, but there's still no sign of Sansa.
"The Princess is in her chambers, resting," says Sam, though there's an unsettled look on his round face as he speaks, fiddling with the sleeve of his maester's robes as he doesn't quite meet Jon's eyes.
"Resting?" asks Jon, worried. Sansa never rests, not at this hour of the day. She is always busy with one thing or another. And she should have been there at the castle gates with Rickon and Robb; she is always mindful of her duties, of her courtesies. For her to be absent to welcome her lord husband is something most unlike her. "Is she ill, Sam?"
"No, my lord—Jon," replies Sam, seeming uneasy again.
"I will see her now," says Jon, already walking towards her chambers, dread bubbling in his gut, mingling with anticipation again, wanting nothing better than to lock his gaze with Sansa's blue-eyed one and take her in his arms.
A/N: I used up all my phone battery playing Pokemon Go, leaving me with nothing to do on the train back home from work! That's when I started thinking of the next part of writing for 'The Last Wolves', and came up with this instead. This is not beta'ed, and typed up in barely twenty minutes, so do forgive the mistakes, if any.
The next part will be Sansa's POV :)
