Everything was beautiful.
Sansa was not surprised though, Tyrion knew what he was doing in terms of throwing a party or two. His plans for the ball had turned out lovely- with decor of gold strewn across the whole palace. Everything was bright and everything seemed to shine this night, the first ball thrown by the new King of the Iron Throne. Everything had to go perfectly, so she supposed that was why Tyrion threw his whole self into planning every last detail. He'd had help, of course, asking she herself as well as many others their opinions and their ideas, and Sansa was pleased to see a few of hers had made it into the final project.
Adjusting the mask upon her face, Sansa glanced around the room, but could pick no one out from the crowd. That was the point of a masquerade ball, after all. Wondering where Jon was, Sansa slipped into the crowd, ever intent on having a good time that night.
He had watched her come in.
How could he not, when she looked the way she did? Though a mask hid her features, there was no denying it was Sansa. Her gown was new, custom made for her for this very event; it was of the softest blue, silver nearly, and Jon was surprised at how well it hugged her lithe frame. Pushing away such thoughts, Jon made his own way into the crowd, dark eyes searching until he found her. "My lady," he spoke as he approached her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Sansa gave a laugh, her blue eyes dancing behind her mask, recognizing him at once. "You look beautiful."
"My lord," she replied as Jon took her hand, giggling as they fell into roles that were no longer theirs. "Thank you," she blushed to the roots of her fiery hair as a shiver raced the length of her spine. Just why did hearing Jon say such a thing leave her so breathless?
"May I have this dance?" He asked, all chivalrous knight, and Sansa gave a quick nod. Jon took her by the hand and led her out onto the dance floor, where of course all eyes quickly fell upon them. They took up the stance, one of his hands on her hip, the other holding lightly to hers as the music began. "I believe the last time we danced like this, I stepped on your toes," Jon's words brought another laugh from her pink lips, thrusting both of them into the memory of their childhood. To back to a time when life had been easy, when life had been simple.
"I remember that," she could recall it as easily as if it had only been yesterday. Back to the day her mother had assembled every Stark child into the great hall of Winterfell, to begin their dance lessons, claiming it was of utmost importance to learn. Of course, Arya and Bran had disappeared ten minutes into the lesson, but she and Jon, along with Robb, had participated in every lesson given by Catelyn Stark. Together they had learned to move gracefully (well, in Sansa's case at least) and would be far from an embarrassment when it came time to show off their skills. "You're doing much better this time," she teased, honestly surprised by the natural talent Jon seemed to display at dancing. "Who would think a swordsman would be so elegant on his feet."
It was Jon's turn to laugh, watching from behind his mask as her eyes brightened with mirth. "There's not much difference between being a master swordsman or dancer," he replied, amused by the surprised look that fell into place upon her face. He spun her out and then back in, the warmth of her body against his making him feel things he knew he shouldn't have felt. "One must be quick and aware of his partner's every move, he must be graceful and careful too, if he wishes to come out unharmed." He winked and Sansa was giggling all over again, thinking back to her poor, sore feet those days when they were only children learning. She supposed Jon was right.
The song ended and for a long moment, neither of them could let the other one go. Jon felt her squeeze his hand a bit more tightly and he slipped his hand from her hip to the small of her back, drawing her ever closer to his body. Neither of them spoke, standing there in the center of the dance floor, unaware of any of the other courtiers in the room with them. But then there came a single little cough and they sprang apart, both turning to find Ser Davos there, offering his arm to the Northern queen. Sansa gave Jon a quick smile and then was gone, disappearing into the crowd as another dance was struck up. Jon found himself feeling empty and cold without Sansa on his arm and so he retreated to his throne, seating himself upon it and calling for a goblet of wine.
When the wine was in his hand, he tipped it back, drowning the cup in one swallow, before calling for another. "Your grace." Tyrion appeared at his side, his eyes darting from Jon to out on the dance floor, where Sansa was paired off with Ser Davos, who was laughing aloud at something the Northern queen must have said. "You two look good together, you know." Tyrion said, pouring the king another glass of wine. "She seems to be adjusting, there's been no more incidents such as the one that first week of her arrival..." He meant of course her breakdown in the corridors. "She seems happy."
As Jon settled his gaze upon her, out there among the court, he could only nod. She did seem happy, he noted, happier than he had seen in her in months. She glowed as only a healthy, happy woman could, and Jon was glad to see it. "Aye," he replied when he drowned his second glass of wine, still unable to shake the feeling of her hand in his. "She had to face this place someday," he said, speaking the very same words Sansa had spoken to him that day a few weeks before.
"Indeed she did," Tyrion replied, pouring a third glass of wine for Jon, as well as one for himself. "She is much stronger than she thinks she is, in truth." Tyrion could still recall her from those early days, when she had been nothing more than a pawn in his sister's game. When she had been a victim to his evil nephew and the ever silent court. Where she had no one to stand up for her, where she was truly and utterly alone. He felt for her back then, as he felt for her now, the ever suffering daughter of the late Ned Stark. But, as he had thought back then, she'd been the one to survive them all. She had lived through Kings Landing and she had lived through the Boltons. If she had survived the atrocities against her in both of those places, then truly there was nothing she could not survive. Tyrion opened his mouth, tempted to bring up the subject of marriage, but thought better of it. Now was not the moment, he decided.
Tonight was a night for anything but the politics of court.
[ x x x ]
He was drunk.
Jon knew he should have known better- Tyrion was the last person who would cut him off, being the drinker he was himself- and so by the time the night ended, he was well past his limit. When he'd stumbled into his rooms, past his guards, he'd had nothing on his mind but falling into bed to sleep until he could sleep no more. He stripped from his fancy clothes- clothes he was certain he'd never adjust to wearing- and left them in a pile on the floor beside his bed. Changing into an old, soft pair of breeches, he climbed into his bed and began to settle himself into it when he heard it.
Knock, knock
Grumbling at himself over who would dare to disturb him, he swung his legs back over the edge of the bed just as the guard peeked his head inside. "My apologies, your grace, but the Northern queen is here." Sansa? Worry overcame his anger and he gestured for the guard to let her in. Just what was she doing here?
Oh, what was she doing?
Sansa couldn't believe she had found the courage to slip away and stand before the double doors that led to Jon's chambers. She blamed it on all that blasted wine she'd had during the course of the night. Though the guards looked unhappy about having to disturb their king, they did as they were bid, one of them knocking and then peeking into the room. "You may enter," the guard said as he pulled his head back out, holding the door open for her to cross the threshold. And then the door swung closed behind her, leaving her and Jon there in the room, staring at one another. He had discarded all of his clothes aside from a pair of breeches so old Sansa swore her own mother must have sewed the stitches and she could not help but to smile. But then her eyes traveled across his bare chest, taking in the sight of the old scar there, the one that was proof of his comrades treachery.
"Sansa..." He could hardly breathe, taking in the sight of her there before him. She was still dressed in her lovely silvery blue gown, though her hair was unbound around her shoulders. Hundreds of thoughts were racing through his mind, but each and every one of those thoughts led back to one thing: her. Crossing the room in three strides, Jon did the only thing that made any sense to his drunken mind, he took her into his arms and held on tight. She buried her face into the crook of his shoulder, her arms winding around him just as his tightened their grip on her waist. When he pulled back, he found himself to be staring into her blue eyes, finding solace in their calm depths. Suddenly, everything began to make sense, and the flicker of her smile was all he needed to see. Without a word, he leaned down, brushing his mouth against hers. She reacted at once, yielding to his kiss, prompting him to deepen the kiss, one of his hands sliding up to tangle in her hair.
He was kissing her- Sansa could not believe it. And what was more, she was kissing him back! Nothing had, she realized then, ever felt more right than that moment did. It was as if the whole world began to make sense again. Jon's hands were gentle upon her, one hand still in her hair while the other was at the small of her back, drawing her ever closer to him. Though a once bedded wife, Sansa was anything but experienced in things such as this, but still... Every movement, every action felt natural with Jon. She raised a hand to run through his messy dark hair, surprised at how soft it was against her fingers. Her other hand was on his shoulder, his skin warm beneath her palm. She felt his tongue against her lips and she opened her mouth, giving him access. Nothing had ever felt like this before.
Jon couldn't believe what he was doing. And more so, he couldn't believe that Sansa was going along with it. In fact, she seemed to be encouraging it! Despite such thoughts, he knew nothing would stop him from kissing her but her own protests. Holding her as he was... It was indescribable. There was nothing that had ever felt better. He ran his hands down the length of her body, stopping at her hips, pulling those all the closer. There was no space left between them and Jon could not help but to marvel at how perfectly she fit against him. "Sansa..." He uttered softly, breaking the kiss only to breathe, leaning in agains to trail feathery soft kisses from her lips down to the perfect curve of her neck and shoulder. He felt her tense up and he immediately looked up at her, but found she was smiling, giving him a nod as her only response. Jon raised a hand to push the sleeve of her gown away, and found himself to be pressing a kiss to the exposed skin of her shoulder, his other hand making its way into her hair again.
Every touch was magnificent, every touch was like fire against her skin. Something was awakened deep within her, something new and strange. Tipping her head back as his lips trailed the bare skin of her shoulder, Sansa felt a shudder down her spine. "Jon..." His whispered name fell from her parted lips, her breath catching in her throat. He took control of the moment, his teeth nipping the skin of her neck, his hands ever wandering, one slowly making its way down past her hips. When she felt his palm against her buttocks, she made a little sound she'd never heard herself make before, and beneath her touch Jon shivered at the sound.
He still could dare not believe what was happening. He blamed it on the drink and on Tyrion who had fed him said drinks. But... At the same time, he was thanking those very same things. Though it had only just begun, Jon was certain he could not live another moment without her at his side. In that instant, he could not help but to wonder how he'd lived this long without feeling her touch, her kiss. And then she moaned, a soft, but carnal sound that was enough to send him over the edge. It was then that he pulled back, staring into her blue eyes, a million different questions on the tip of his tongue. But then she smiled and Jon knew the truth- she wanted this as much as he did.
Taking her by the hand, Jon drew her closer to the bed, and he sat down on the edge of it. "We don't..." He murmured softly, holding fast to her hand, meeting her gaze. "If you don't..." She silenced him with a kiss, leaning down to meet his lips, her red hair a waterfall over her shoulder. "Turn around." He quietly commanded when she pulled back and he was quick enough to catch her smirk before she turned her back to him. Reaching out with slightly shaking hands, Jon began to unbutton the twenty or so buttons at the back of her gown, going slow enough to give her the time to change her mind, if she desired. But she made no sound, made no movement as even the final button came undone beneath his fingertips. Drawing his hands back, Jon watched in silence as she slipped the gown from her shoulders, letting it drop from her hands to pool at her feet. In nothing but her thin chemise, she turned back around, facing him with a nervous little smile. "You're beautiful." He said for the second time that night, though this time it took on an entirely new meaning. She blushed as she had before, but her smile was mischievous as his hands reached for her yet again. This time his palm enclosed around her breast, the thin material of her chemise all that separated his skin from hers. His thumb rubbed circles against her nipple, which grew hard beneath his touch, and Jon could not stop from leaning forward to brush his lips against it, earning him another of her soft, little moans.
She couldn't help but to compare his every touch, his every move to Ramsay. Where one had been rough, the other was gentle. Where one had been violent, the other was peaceful. Sansa had once thought she'd never do any of these sort of things with any man ever- Ramsay had ruined it for her. But... With Jon, it felt right. It felt natural. As if she'd been waiting all her life to be with him. "Jon..." She whispered as his hand closed around her breast again, his mouth trailing kisses across her collarbone. He paused at the sound of her voice and she tangled a hand into his hair, murmuring as she went... "Don't stop..."
That was all he needed to hear.
Rising up from the bed, he took the hem of her chemise into his hands and pulled it up over her head, revealing her body to his very eyes. He cupped her cheeks into his hands, kissing her deeply as he felt her brush her fingertips against the length of him. Pivoting them both to put her back to the bed, Jon gently pushed her down upon it, climbing onto the bed beside her. He trailed his hands across her body, his fingers tracing every one of her scars left behind by Ramsay, or even Joffrey. Who knew anymore. Leaning over, he gently kissed one near her collarbone, the flutter of her heartbeat against his palm bringing him a sense of security he'd truly never felt before. Kneeling, he leaned over her, hands on either side of her head, and that was when he felt her hands at his waistband. She loosened his pants and slid them down his hips, allowing him to spring free.
Her breath caught in her throat as she wrapped her hand around the length of him, feeling it pulse beneath her palm. "Sansa..." Jon's voice was thick with lust, his dark eyes finding hers as he leaned over her there on his bed. A raised brow, a silently posed question, and Sansa gave a single nod, a smile twitching on her lips. Jon allowed her to guide him towards her and he positioned himself there between her legs, his eyes seeking hers yet again. Even now, he was thinking of nothing but her. She shifted slightly and then Jon was moving, pushing into her, earning a gasp from her lips.
Rocking in time with her beneath him, Jon threw his head back as a groan left his lips; he still could believe that this was happening. He dared not believe it, in fear he'd wake up and it'd all just be a dream. But... There was nothing more real than Sansa was. She was crying out, his name upon her lips, and Jon could not help but to smile as she arched her back against him, her nails like claws down his back. He thrust a little bit harder, her cries mounting, and Jon felt himself coming close to the end. With a final thrust, he burst inside of her and then pulled away, falling down onto the bed beside her. He threw out his arm over her, drawing her close to him, her skin warm against his. She rolled onto her side to face him and for several long moments they lay there in silence, merely staring into each other's eyes, for there really were no words for either of them to say.
After what felt like hours, Sansa made to move, sliding down towards the edge of the bed as if she meant to get up. "I should go..." She began to rise up from the bed but Jon caught her hand, forcing her to stay, fixing her with his dark-eyed gaze.
"Stay..." He urged her softly, clutching a bit tighter to her hand, drawing her back towards him. "Stay with me..." She stared at him for a long moment, a smile toying with her lips, and then she obliged, falling back into place beside him. But this time she turned onto her other side, feeling the warmth of his breath against the nape of her neck. Jon slipped his arms around her, pulling her closer, pressing his pelvis against her buttocks, his lips kissing her neck as she closed her eyes. "Get some sleep," he whispered against the shell of her ear and he felt her head shift as she gave a little nod. There was nothing more he wanted, he realized, than to lay there beside her. There was nothing he had ever wanted more, in truth.
He stayed awake long after her, propping himself up onto an elbow to marvel over her sleeping profile; from the perfect curve of her cheek, to the way the light bounced off her red hair. Jon knew something good had just begun. As he lay back down beside her a while later, he drew her body back close to his own, pulling his blanket over their forms, settled beneath it as if they had always been meant to be there. As if they had always been meant to come together.