a/n: Been a while since I've written, but Game of Thrones came back and that brings up my ASOIAF feels! Jon/Sansa is my OTP; sorry if that creeps y'all out or anything. I do suscribe to the R + L = J theory, but that's not part of this story, or the characters aren't aware of it, at least. Written for the starkcest ficathon over on LJ. The prompt was: Jon/Sansa; He wasn't sure when or how, but the girl whom he called sister slowly chipped away at his vows until she consumed his whole being.
Not totally sure when this is set; after ADWD, Sansa has left the Vale, everything's all good at the Wall.
Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire; that's all GRRM.
Our Blood is Cold and We're Alone but I'm Alone With You
One day, she is there.
One of the brothers comes into his chambers, announcing that a woman has come to Castle Black. Arya, he thinks. He quickly moves out the door, Ghost silently padding beside him. When he reaches the courtyard, a shock of red hair catches him off guard.
Shame burns his face as he realizes no, not Arya.
Sansa sits high atop her horse, glorious despite the undoubtedly long and tiring journey, and turns her head to face Jon.
"Hello, Lord Commander," she says.
"My lady," he replies, slightly bowing his head.
Jon had not seen his half-sister in years— she had not even properly said goodbye to him before he left for the Wall— but this woman is not the sister he left behind. An air surrounds her that had not been there previously, one of awareness, of power. Though she is more beautiful than ever, none of the black brothers dare touch or approach her. He does not know for certain, but Jon can see that gone is the girl that yearned for knights and songs. She is a wolf now.
Ghost likes her.
She sups with him almost every evening, but they have barely spoken since her arrival half a fortnight ago.
However, this night is different.
"Do you ever miss it?"
Jon looks up at her, across the table, and she is so calm and collected and unmoved that he wonders if he imagined her words. But the expectation in her eyes betrays the passiveness of her body that he's sure she worked so hard to maintain.
"Truthfully, yes. But my life is here now. My vows are to this place." He doesn't say how he thinks of Wintefell often, how he can feel the strange combination of warmth and cold of Winterfell in his bones and hear the clanging of dull swords in the yard and smell the godswood; how it clings to his skin.
Sansa holds his gaze, almost as if she can read his thoughts and mourns them with him. She turns her head and reaches for her cup of wine.
"What of you, my lady? Do you dream of Winterfell, of your home?"
She swirls the wine and stares into the dark purple abyss, and Jon fears he may have lost her attention.
But, finally she looks up.
"I fear I have forgotten what home feels like; forgotten how to dream."
Jon shifts uncomfortably.
When Jon escorts his sister to her chambers that evening, she stops at her door and turns to him.
"Are you well, Lady Stark?" he asks. She opens her mouth, as if to say something, but instead smiles sadly at him.
"Please call me Sansa. I feel it has been so long since I've heard someone speak my name."
He nods. "Of course…Sansa." She smiles again and reaches out, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, her hand touching the slightly exposed skin between his leather glove and tunic sleeve. Her cool fingers remain there for only a second, something meant to be comforting and familiar, but only serves to make Jon even more uneasy.
He helps her open the heavy door and watches her go inside.
When he reaches his rooms, all he can do is trace the thin slice of skin that felt the harsh cold of a Stark's promised winter.
Sansa takes to watching the men in the training yard. The cold air filling the air and the shouts of the men are strangely calming. She stands on the wooden walkways above the yard, looking at the men, looking at Jon.
He stands off to the side, watching the new recruits, even giving them advice occasionally. She doesn't know if this is normal, but she suspects he's avoiding her.
Sansa smiles to herself.
Jon walks over to a young man, taking the hilt of his dull sword in hand. He shows the boy how to disarm his opponent quickly, demonstrating quick footwork and nimble swordplay. Even when he hands the boy back the sword and walks back to the side, Sansa's eyes stay on him.
He crosses his arms over his chest, eyes watching his men intently.
Sansa keeps hers on her brother.
Several moments pass until she sees him slightly tense up. He knows, she thinks. He knows I'm watching. He turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder without her noticing, but his efforts are futile when he sees that she is looking directly at him.
She does not look away and neither does he.
She wishes she could steal him away, wrap him up in her arms. Sweetling, you must control yourself. There are many who want to take advantage of you. But you must be cleverer than them. You must always be one step ahead. Petyr's words stick in her head, bouncing around, no matter how many times she wishes him away.
But Jon is different. Jon doesn't care about the game.
It is Sansa who looks away first.
It is the middle of the night when Jon hears a soft knock on the door to his chambers. He looks over at Ghost, but the direwolf only looks at the door; doesn't get up, doesn't silently snarl. He opens the door, expecting it to be Sam.
It is Sansa. She stands there swathed in furs, her feet clad in boots.
"Is everything all right?" She nods. He waits for her to explain what she's doing there, but a silence stretches on instead. "Do you need anything?"
"I wanted to talk to you. Is a lady not allowed to speak with her brother?" He fights back a wince at the word 'brother'; she used to never call him that.
"In the middle of the night?" He looks past her, trying to see if anyone else is awake, too.
"Yes. Forgive me, but— may I come in? It is rather cold." Jon opens the door wider. Sansa moves past him, and he swears he can smell Winterfell on her: the crisp, earthy scent of home.
After closing the door, he turns to her, seeing her already seated in a chair in front of his massive desk. Jon goes to sit, the desk a barrier between the two of them.
"What did you want to speak to me about?" He asks, wanting this to be over with as soon as possible.
She chuckles quietly. "I honestly am not quite sure." Jon grips the armrest of his chair. Gods, even her laugh sounds like home. He can feel the room getting hotter, and he looks over at Ghost; he can feel the creature looking on in amusement.
His eyes are on Sansa again, and he finds that she is still looking at him; a look of quiet content on her face, and he swears there's a sweet sensation of pain deep within his chest.
"Why are you here?" he asks.
"I told you, I wanted to-"
"No," he interrupts, "I mean, why are you here, at the Wall?"
Sansa sits back in her chair, eyes going to her hands in her lap. She is quiet for a moment, then looks back up at him. "Because you're here." She just looks at him, brows furrowed, and Jon can feel his resolve slipping away. He shakes his head, trying to find something to say. "Don't you understand, Jon? It's just us now; we're the only ones left."
"You don't know that-"
"I feel it. I feel it in my bones, Jon." He sighs, looking down. "I know I was never the kindest sister to you, was never," she pauses, "Arya, but you are all I have left. We are the last wolves."
"I'm not a Stark." He says quickly.
"Being a wolf is not in your name; it is in your blood."
Jon looks at her. "What happened to you?" His voice is barely above a whisper.
"I grew up. I learned that life is not a song." Ghost stands up and silently pads over to Sansa. He rests his head in her lap, and she smiles sadly, burying her fingers in his fur.
"He likes you."
"So it would seem." She continues to look at Ghost, and Jon almost asks where Lady is. "I should return to my chambers." She gives Ghost one final pet and stands.
Jon walks her to her door, neither of them speaking. "Good night, sister." he says, about to turn.
Sansa leans up and presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. "Good night, Jon."
They don't speak for the next several days; only pass each other, offering noises of recognition.
All he can do is touch the small corner of his mouth that had felt those soft, lingering lips. He can feel her phantom kiss, and he tries to brush it away, but to no avail.
And he can no longer take it.
She must leave.
He goes to her chambers late at night, knocking a bit too loudly, hoping it will stir her into urgency. She opens the door, surprised at his presence.
"May I come in?" She nods, opening the door wide enough for him to enter without too much cold passing into the room.
He turns to face her and sees that she is wearing only her night gown and a thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders; he tries not to notice how her nipples have hardened due to the cold.
"What do you need, Jon?" she asks, walking to him.
He looks directly into her eyes. "I need you to leave." There. Problem solved.
But all she does is shake her head. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here."
He goes to her, grabbing her shoulders. "No, Sansa. I need you to leave."
She searches his eyes, fully aware of the heat from his hands on her. She brings her hand to his cheek and moves her head towards his.
Their lips touch, hers slowly moving while his don't move at all. She brings her other hand up, firmly holding his face to hers, and, finally, he kisses her back. He drags his hands from her shoulders to her waist, pulling her blanket from her body. Her hands move to the nape of his neck.
It is only when she touches his bottom lip with her tongue that Jon breaks away.
"No," he says, moving to the opposite side of the room, his back to her. "No. This is wrong." Sansa moves towards him.
"Do you want me?" She touches his forearm, but he refuses to face her. "Jon, look at me. Please." He turns his head, shame shrouding his face.
"We shouldn't do this."
"I don't care." She leans up and kisses him. "If you want me, then take me." He stands, unmoving. "Do you want me, Jon?"
"Gods, yes."
He reaches for her, latching his mouth onto hers. They don't kiss as they did before; this is vicious and biting and hurts but feels good at the same time. He bends, taking ahold of her thighs and hoists her up. Sansa wraps her legs around Jon and he moves to her bed. He lays her down, and she pulls him on top of her.
Once they rid each other of their clothes, Jon sat back on his haunches.
"Jon-" Sansa said, feeling heat and anticipation deep within her.
"Shh. I just want to look at you." His rough hands lightly trail down her body; rounding the corner of her breast, going down the flair of her hips, stopping at her calves. He places a hand on each leg and pushes them slightly apart. Sansa gasps, feeling the cold air hit her wetness.
Jon move back up her body, capturing her lips and pressing his tongue against her own. He kisses across her cheek and places wet kisses on her neck and collarbone. He kisses each breast, covers each nipple with his tongue, hears her soft gasps and moans. He kisses down her stomach, looking up at her face. Her head is thrown back, her mouth open.
When she feels his breath ghost over her most intimate place, Sansa looks down at Jon. Their eyes meet.
"Has anyone ever done this to you?" he asks.
"No." she rasps out, voice husky with desire. "But I am not a maiden."
He parts her legs more and gives her one final look before lowering his head. When Sansa feels his tongue touch her, she reaches out, grabbing a handful of his hair, and lets out a moan.
Fire shoots up and down her body and the small of her back tingles with pleasure. Jon continues, licking and sucking, and Sansa's breathing gets heavier. He holds her hips down and she tries not the buck up, but her legs begin to shake, and she knows she's close.
He flicks his tongue over her small bundle of nerves, over and over and over again, until she feels her inner muscles jumping and yanks hard on his hair and arches her back, letting out a choked cry of 'Jon'.
He presses a kiss to her thigh as she tries to regain her breath. He moves up and covers her body with his. He moves her hair out of her face, stroking her cheek. She pulls his head down, opening his mouth with her tongue, and she can taste herself on him. She feels him hard against her stomach and moves her hand down to take him in her hand. Jon moans into her mouth. He covers her hand with his, helping her lazily move up and down his length.
Finally, he pushes her hand away and positions himself at her entrance. He looks down at her, eyes searching, asking 'Do we still want this?' Sansa answers by wrapping her legs around his hips and pushing him into her.
They both gasp, and Jon pauses for a moment, trying to get used to the feeling of Sansa, of how wet and tight she is.
He starts moving his hips.
He buries his face in her neck and his breath is torturous against her overly sensitive skin. She moves her arms up his back, digging her nails into his skin when he hits a particular spot.
He starts to move faster and harder and Sansa can hear the small whimpers escaping from him. He moves his hand between them, rubbing her swollen bud, causing her to reach her peak with a muffled cry and he follows soon after, tensing up and groaning into her hair. She feels the warmth of his seed inside her.
They're both shaking when he rests his head on her breast, breathing hard. She smooths his hair away from his face, running her fingers through the locks.
"Do you still want me to leave?" She asks, sweat cooling on her forehead.
"No," he says, kissing the side of her breast. "We are the last wolves. We stay together. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."
"Didn't Father used to say that?"
"Yes."
Outside the wind howls.
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