Though by this point Jon is well aware of Sansa's competency at pretty much everything, even he is surprised at how quickly the wedding comes together. Barely a fortnight passes and, just like that, he's a married man. She is so beautiful, clad in the lightest of grey. When she looks at him he sees love written across her face, and he's half a fool because he half believes it.
Despite their hurried practiced kisses in his solar that night, and the half-dozen times she had suggested practicing since, he is nervous. And yet, it is easy to take her face in his hands and kiss her in front of the heart tree and his bannermen. And it's easy to dance with her at the feast, despite the fact that even after her diligent instruction he still can't quite remember the order of the steps. The crowd laughs at him cheerfully, but as the night goes on their stares become more and more pointed. Predatory, almost.
Jon hadn't really thought about the bedding ceremony. Having been at the wall, and a bastard before that, he hadn't attended many weddings. Of course, years ago Greyjoy had talked of beddings with nostalgic eyes, but it had slipped his mind entirely. He'd been more concerned with his own fantasies about bedding his new bride. In all of them he'd imagined ridding her of her clothes with a delicate touch. She had been through far too much to have to endure being defiled by his men.
The chair creaks as he stands up abruptly at the head table. Jon clears his throat and the merriment comes to a halt as the crowd all looks up at their King.
"There will be no bedding," Jon says, triumphantly, if a little tipsy.
There is a groan from the crowd – even, to his surprise, from the women.
Jon swallows, but almost as soon as he's said it, Sansa rises beside him and wraps an arm around him. She laughs, one of her forced laughs he's grown used to after spending so much time with her in Baelish's company.
"He's just kidding," she says, and she kisses him on the cheek in a mimicry of wifely affection. With her lips an inch from his ear, she whispers, "let them have their fun."
When she pulls away from him, she calls out to the crowd, "I think I fancy one more dance, though."
Several men call out to vie for the honor of his sister's company but he can't stomach the idea of any man laying a hand on his sister, even if it is just a dance. "So do I," he says, and when she turns her face from the crowd she rolls her eyes at him but he takes her hand anyway.
The song is slow and people dance close, without any real steps. Everything has gotten sloppier as the night progressed. Dancing like this wasn't so bad, really, if he was drunk and got to feel her body pressed against his.
It's over all too quickly. As the music comes to an end, the room encloses onto them with so-called well-wishers ridding them of clothes. He tries to smile and make the best of it, but he feels suddenly weak as they carry Sansa off and he has no means to protect her. He hadn't wanted her to come to his bed traumatized. He'd wanted her to be wet and desperate before he'd begun untying her dress.
She is already sitting on their father's bed when he's pushed into the Lord's chambers. She is wearing only a thin shift. It's been torn and falls off one of her thin shoulders.
The door slams shut and the ruckus continues outside, but they are alone.
He's been thinking about this moment since she'd kissed him that first time, hell, he's been thinking about this for months before that. And yet it's never gone quite like this in his head. He's not sure what to do. Through her shift he can see the faintest outline of hard nipples. When his eyes flicker back to her face she's pressed her lips together and pats the mattress beside her.
He exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding in and sits beside her.
"What happened to your dress?" he asks.
She shrugs. "On the floor somewhere, I suppose. Along with your shirt and shoes. It's probably ruined."
"That's a shame. I liked it. How long did it take to make?"
"Can we discuss this later?" Sansa says, and it's more a command than anything else. She she reaches a tentative hand out and places it on his chest, much like she had done in his solar that first time she'd kissed him. Her warm hand feels so much better on his bare skin in this cold room than it did through so many layers of fabric. The pads of her fingers are soft and they trace the outline of his pectorals and the softness of it makes him want something harder. He takes her breast in his hand and rubs a thumb over her nipple through the white linen. She gasps and he needs to be closer to her. He wants to feel her moan against him. He leans in to kiss her neck and uses his other arm to bring her closer.
He wants to be skin to skin but wouldn't dare remove her shift – he'll give her that much dignity, at least. "I just didn't like seeing all of those men touching you like that"
"Well you're here to protect me now," she says, and though her voice is even Jon has to stifle a moan. It's weird how that gets to him. She doesn't really need anyone to protect her, she's proven herself lethal and heroic enough, but he would go to the ends of the earth anyway. He pushes her down into the mattress.
Jon falls to the floor between her knees, pushing her legs apart and kissing the inside of her knees and up her thigh. He wants to feel her come in his mouth, to hear her whimper and then call out his name, but she is not pliant. She sits up and crosses her arms.
"Are you… is this your… first time?"
"No," he says, pulling his mouth away from her thigh to look up at her, "why would you think that?"
"This isn't how you make a babe."
"Aye," he grumbled from between her legs. Did she think him simple? He stood up, "that wasn't the point."
"What was the point, then?" she asks, crinkling her forehead.
He sees the genuine confusion in her eyes. He makes to answer – but his thoughts are all jumbled up, "the point? The point is to – oh nevermind, forget about it." His desire is evident in his voice, low and wanting, desperate for something she can't give him. He sits on the mattress again beside her.
He kisses her like he owns her, sucking on her bottom lip with his teeth pressed into her soft flesh. He pushes her back onto the mattress again and lets himself fall on top of her. He steadies himself on an elbow and moves his other hand between her legs. He slides a finger against her folds before pushing two fingers inside her. It's easy, for she is already abundantly wet. His fingers curl inside her and when he presses hard against her softest flesh he is not the sweet and caring lover he promised himself he'd be.
He's angry and he hates himself for it. It's his fault for thinking this would be anything other than procreation for her.
She makes a little moan against his neck, her teeth sinking into his skin. He steadies his hand. He couldn't take this out on her. What sort of man had he become? But she whispers, "don't stop" and then she inhales like the words escaped the deepest part of her mind that she kept only to herself and she's caught it too late. He can't help but moan into her soft hair.
"Do you need help with your breeches?" she asks, and when he pulls away from their embrace and looks at her with hazy eyes she turns her head away. "The laces, I mean?"
The swarm of "well-wishers" had already taken care of that, but he understands the point. This isn't enjoyable for her. She just wants him to get on with it. It hits him like a punch to the gut, because he could spend hours lingering over her soft skin.
"It's alright," he says as he moves to rid himself of the rest of his clothes. He feels her eyes on him, and if he didn't know better he'd think they were hungry. But it's not desire in her eyes. This isn't like that for her. He's just fooling himself.
He lays on top of her again, and she hooks her legs around him. She presses herself into him, and for the first time they truly look each other in the eye. He wants to kiss the nape of her neck again, but he can't look away. He presses his hips back down and she bites down on her lip and closes her eyes. His breath catches in his throat. He swears he's never seen a more beautiful sight. My wife, he thinks, and he can't hold back from kissing her a moment longer. She reaches for his hand and their fingers intertwine.
Her mouth is pliant and wet, and her kisses are sloppy. He reaches his hand back between her legs and rubs his knuckles against her nub before using his fingers to slide his cock into her cunt. He wants to be a good lover, but he doesn't know how long he can last, what with her ragged breath and the gasp she makes against his lips when he enters her.
He tries to go slow, with soft and steady thrusts and a finger on her clit. But she clamps down on him and she's suddenly so tight, and her eyes have rolled back into her head and it's all just too much. He tries to think of something else, but she digs her nails into his back and brings him back to the present and locks him in the here and now with her. His hips move involuntary as hers buck into his.
"Jon." She moans his name and he can't help but thrust into her forcefully. She wraps her hands around his neck and pulls him to her, trapping his top lip between her teeth. Her moans are even better against his mouth. He wants to suck more out of her.
He comes inside her and she whimpers. She wraps her legs around him even tighter, as though refusing to let him go. He finishes her off with his fingers and she comes with a sudden shudder underneath him.
He tries to roll off her but she stops him.
"I don't want your seed to spill," she says, and he remembers why they were doing this in the first place.
Afterwards, she rests her head on his chest and pulls the furs over their naked bodies. She falls asleep easily, but he can't. He must already be asleep; he must be dreaming. He doesn't want to miss a second of this. He wants to commit the feel of her against him, safe and sound, to memory. This won't last forever. He loves her, this he's known for a while. Still, things are different now. He'll recall this later – her red hair loose and wild, the way she smelled like sex and lavender and the easy intimacy of her hand resting on his hipbone like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Author's Note: you can read more of my work at theonbaejoys on tumblr.