Jon
Jon's hand pressed firmly against the rough stone wall, a silent anchor in the dimly lit chamber. The flickering flames in the hearth cast dancing shadows, playing out a sombre ballet in the intimate space. With a measured breath, he sought to clear his mind, a ritual born from the need to find solace in a tumultuous existence.
The rhythmic motion of his other hand, a familiar cadence, sought to dispel the haunting spectres that lurked in the recesses of his thoughts. It had been a while since he allowed himself this respite, a momentary escape from the burdens that weighed heavily on his shoulders. Yet, the mental fog persisted, an impenetrable veil woven from the chilling memories of blue eyes that once held life.
The war, an impending storm on the horizon, cast its long shadow over Jon's consciousness. The living and the dead, a ceaseless conflict that seemed to play out within him. Ygritte, a phantom from the past, remained an unspoken spectre, her absence echoing through the chambers of his mind.
In this moment of solitude, Jon grappled with the paradox of his existence. The living eluded his focus, the deceased lingered, and the weight of responsibilities bore down on him. The struggle to concentrate on the tangible, the warmth of the hearth, the textured feel of the cold stone beneath his fingers, and the warmth of his cock in the other.
Jon's mind, a battlefield of conflicting emotions, sought refuge in the recesses of imagination. The only woman his thoughts could conjure was Sansa. Yet, the very notion felt tainted, a taboo dance on the edge of perversion. She was his half-sister, scarred by the horrors of torture and sexual abuse. The line between the permissible and the forbidden blurred, and Jon, not of Targaryen blood, lacked the alibi of his lineage.
In the canvas of his mind's eye, Sansa sat before the crackling hearth, a vision of warmth amidst the cold shadows that haunted his thoughts. The flames, dancing in erratic patterns, painted a portrait of her in Jon's consciousness. The internal struggle, a silent acknowledgment of desires at odds with propriety, played out in the muted hues of flickering firelight.
In his imaginary tableau, Sansa, captivated by the inferno's allure, seemed reluctant to retreat from the hearth's embrace. Jon envisioned her delicate fingers, seeking relief from the warmth, delicately loosening the laces of her dress. A fleeting glimpse of pale skin emerged, shoulders and the soft expanse above her breasts unveiled.
Her skin, as fair as the winter snow, framed by hair kissed by fire, cascaded in a cascade of waves over alabaster shoulders. The mental image, both alluring and conflicted, became a tapestry woven from the strands of longing and the unyielding boundaries of familial ties.
Finally, his imagination worked, as he felt his cock harden in his hand. Jon murmured a sound of satisfaction that resonated through the dimly lit chamber.
Sansa
The room embraced a quiet stillness as Sansa gingerly opened the door, her movements deliberate, mindful not to disturb Jon if he sought solace in sleep. Peering through the narrow opening, Sansa's gaze fell upon an empty bed, a silent testament to Jon's ongoing struggle for rest.
Her eyes, keen and observant, traced the outline of Jon's figure by the hearth. Day wear discarded, he stood in the dim glow of the fading embers, a silhouette etched in the play of shadows. His beautiful dark curls, usually bound, cascaded freely around his neck. Legs braced apart, his stance spoke of a battle against the elusive embrace of slumber.
Sansa, on the precipice of voicing her presence, froze as she caught the faint murmur escaping Jon's lips. It was a sound, hauntingly familiar, not from Jon but reminiscent of a darker resonance. She had heard Ramsay utter a similar sound, a cruel symphony that echoed in the chambers of her memory. The contrast struck her – Ramsay's vicious snarl, an embodiment of cruelty, versus Jon's soft murmur, a lullaby of vulnerability in the quietude of Castle Black.
As her eyes adjusted to the subdued glow of the hearth, Sansa's gaze honed in on Jon's back, which faced her. An unwitting spectator to a tableau that unfolded in the dim-lit chamber. His silhouette, framed by the fading embers, beckoned her attention. The meticulous movements of his hand, a dance against the shadows, held a secret narrative. Jon's actions and defences were laid bare.
Sansa's eyes, sharp and discerning, traced the patterns that betrayed his vulnerability. The utterance that escaped his lips, a soft cadence in the muted symphony of the night, hinted at a ritual that seemed both intimate and solitary. A surge of recognition, like a whisper of winter wind through the cracks, caught her senses.
Surely, the scene before her couldn't be what she imagined. Yet, the subtle cues, the whispered incantations, suggested otherwise. The room, a silent witness, bore the weight of her immediate suspicion, casting shadows that danced in tandem with Jon's clandestine gestures.
Sansa stood at the precipice of a choice, teetering between departure and silent observation. The right path, the honourable one, would have led her away from the intimate tableau unfolding before her. Yet she lingered, a silent witness to Jon's intimate moment. Littlefinger's teachings echoed in her mind, a subtle reminder that every action bore a hidden truth, a potential advantage waiting to be seized.
Leaving, however, meant facing Jon and the complexities that such a confrontation would entail. The right thing, the honourable thing, tugged at her conscience, a moral compass pointing toward a path untrodden. But Sansa, shaped by lessons from cunning mentors, understood the value of silent observation. Littlefinger's whispers urged her to discern the unspoken, to glean insights from the raw authenticity of Jon's actions.
However, as she watched, it was not with the intention of manipulation, but a peculiar fascination, Sansa found a strange beauty in the unfolding scene. A man, burdened by the weight of denial, now connecting with his primal instincts. Jon, who had weathered the storms of hardship, stood on the precipice of vulnerability. In this paradoxical moment, Sansa's heart softened, acknowledging the humanity beneath the armour of stoicism.
For a fleeting instant, she set aside the lessons of politics and strategy. Instead, Sansa embraced a simpler truth—Jon's right to a moment of unguarded gratification amidst the chaos that surrounded them. In the quietude of Castle Black, where shadows whispered secrets and embers cast a soft glow, Sansa recognized the fragility of a man who had endured too much.
The soft murmurings escaping Jon's lips, coupled with the urgency in the movements of his hand, painted a vivid tableau. The air in the room held a charged tension, a palpable culmination drawing near. In this intimate dance with vulnerability, Jon seemed on the cusp of his release.
Sansa felt the inexorable pull of time urging her departure, a reluctant recognition that the clandestine moment would soon conclude. What had once been deemed distasteful now held her in a curious thrall. The intimate act unfolding before her fascinated rather than repulsed, a metamorphosis of perspective that took her by surprise.
As the anticipation of departure loomed, she grappled with conflicting desires. What would Jon sound like in the throes of pleasure? The once-taboo act now held a mysterious allure, leaving her yearning for a glimpse of his expressions, to witness the vulnerability etched on his handsome face. Yet duty dictated her exit.
Just as she readied to turn away, the air was pierced by a single word, a revelation that reverberated through the chamber and halted her retreat.
"Sansa..." Jon said. A quiet utterance, laden with unexpected weight, froze her in place. In the dimness, she leaned against the sturdy wooden door, inadvertently causing it to creak. The sound resonated, a discordant note in the quiet symphony of Castle Black, and Jon's eyes, abruptly diverted from his private contemplation, locked onto hers with an intensity that would prove to alter the course of their destinies.
Jon
The moment loomed, a palpable tension building within Jon. He teetered on the brink, aware that the line between restraint and surrender was growing thinner. The impending inevitability, like a tightening coil within, urged him forward but had not yet pushed him past the point of no return.
In the depths of Jon's private reverie, he conjured a vivid image of Sansa, a tantalizing fantasy that unfolded in the recesses of his mind. The ethereal vision painted her, lowering her dress, a slow unveiling that revealed more than mere flesh. She pivoted on the small stool, facing him with a gaze that pierced through the dimness of the room, her Tully blue eyes now darkened by a shared desire.
"Sansa," he whispered, the name a reverent murmur escaping his lips, a testament to the clandestine yearning that lingered in the air. Yet, as the intimate moment reached its zenith, an unwelcome sound disrupted the quietude. A creak echoed through the solar, a harbinger of intrusion that jolted Jon from his daydream.
The realization struck him like a sudden gust of cold wind. Someone was in the room. Panic flickered across Jon's features as he abruptly halted, the weight of Ghost's silent approval lingering in the air. A silent oath passed between man and direwolf, an unspoken understanding that only one person could gain entry unchallenged – Sansa. The tension hung in the air, Jon's head whipping around, hoping against hope that the door had not swung open, even though deep down, he knew it was too late. Their eyes met, an unspoken acknowledgment of an intimate revelation caught in the cross-hairs of a reality they couldn't escape.
Sansa, a vision framed by the dim-lit chamber, stood before Jon, a hesitant tremor in her voice as she spoke. Her lips, slightly parted, betrayed a nervous anticipation, accentuated by the subtle act of licking them. "I'll leave the oils and soap in your solar," she offered, her words a hurried retreat from the charged atmosphere.
"Sansa," Jon called out, a fervent urgency propelling him forward. He moved to intercept her departure, a hand reaching out to grasp her arm. An involuntary flinch rippled through Sansa, a visceral reaction that served as a stark reminder of the torment she had endured. Jon's grip tightened briefly before releasing, a silent acknowledgment that the wounds, both physical and emotional, ran too deep for uninvited touch. Guilt flashed in Jon's eyes; he had momentarily forgotten the fragility that lingered within her, a stark consequence of the trials she had faced.
Sansa rushed to arrange the oils on the table, trying to distract herself from the unspoken tension that lingered, while leaving him in peace. "I'll leave you to your privacy. You continue," she offered, a delicate retreat from the unexpected intrusion into Jon's personal moment.
"Sansa," Jon's voice cut through the room, an apology woven into the words. He couldn't escape the remorse that shaded his tone. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he confessed, the weight of vulnerability laid bare in his admission.
Her response, however, carried a measure of understanding and self-blame. "No, no, Jon. I shouldn't have come in without knocking," Sansa asserted, her words an attempt to shoulder the blame herself.
"Never say such a thing. It is not your fault. I promise I'll never do it again." Jon pledged, a solemn promise that hung in the air like a vow, his eyes meeting hers with a sincerity born from a shared history of hardship and the need for mutual respect.
Jon couldn't shake the lingering shame that coiled within him. The intimate act, witnessed by his vulnerable sister, hung over him like a shadow, a stain on the tapestry of their already complicated relationship. Realisation gnawed at him, a regret that clung to his conscience like a relentless winter chill. The heavy air in the room seemed to amplify the weight of the moment, and Jon suspected that the shame of being caught in such a private act would etch itself into the annals of their shared history, an indelible mark he feared would haunt him forever. He may be unable to perform the act again for some time, if ever.
Sansa's frown deepened, a ripple of concern etching lines across her forehead. "You can't do that. I won't let you stop doing what is natural." She asserted, her words carrying a blend of compassion and insistence.
Jon, still grappling with the aftermath of the unexpected intrusion, was momentarily stunned by her comment. "Of course I can. I was a man of the Night's Watch. I swore a vow," he responded, the weight of his past oaths clinging to his words like a heavy cloak.
Sansa, undeterred, placed her hands on his arms, offering a gentle smile that carried a touch of reassurance. "I shouldn't have stayed and watched," she admitted, a measure of regret clear in her acknowledgment of the boundaries that had been breached.
Jon stood there, aghast, as beads of shame seemed to engulf him. The weight of the revelation bore down on him. How long had she been watching him? The realization that she had heard him say her name sent a wave of discomfort through him. Did she understand what he was doing? The answer was painfully obvious in the way Sansa's presence lingered in the room.
"How long were you watching?" Jon's voice, slow and measured, finally broke the silence. Sansa, caught off guard, must have realised she had revealed too much. Her face flushed red, an admission of guilt. She had witnessed something she shouldn't have, and Jon could sense the awkward tension in the room.
"Why did you stay to watch?" His next question came swiftly, a response to the unspoken query that hung in the air. Sansa, grappling with her own discomfort, found herself unable to answer his first question, creating an intriguing dynamic between them.
Sansa lifted her chin, a subtle mask slipping over her face – a defensive measure that Jon recognized immediately. He watched her carefully, uncertain about her intentions. "I was curious," she admitted, her words carrying a weight Jon couldn't decipher.
Frowning, Jon grappled with the implications. Either Sansa was unaware of what he was doing, or, more disconcertingly, she had enjoyed watching him. He needed to understand. "Curious about what?" he pressed, his gaze probing.
Sansa took a deep breath, the air heavy with tension. "I wished to see your face. When... you know." Her admission hung in the air, leaving Jon unsure whether to be horrified or intrigued by this unexpected revelation.
"Why would you want to see my face?" Jon questioned, his bewilderment clear.
Sansa lowered her eyes, and in the hushed chamber, her voice carried a delicate vulnerability. "Sit with me in your chambers where it is warm. I will explain." The invitation lingered, and Jon found himself torn between curiosity and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
Sansa
Sansa found herself stunned by her own audacity. In the past, telling the truth had only led to hurt and punishment, leaving her with scars that bore witness to her honesty. But with Jon, it felt different. Though slightly embarrassed by her admission, she knew Jon wouldn't punish her; instead, he'd punish himself. That wasn't what they needed amidst the brewing war. They had battles to fight, and Jon needed release to focus on the impending challenges.
How could they hope to win a war with Jon wound up and unable to concentrate? Sansa understood that a man going too long without it could become a source of discomfort. She couldn't let that happen, not when they had a greater enemy to face. So, she allowed her curiosity to guide her, hoping to understand the man beneath the layers of duty and honour, a man who needed moments of respite even in the darkest of times.
Jon escorted her into his chambers, where they settled beside the fire, the same fire that had witnessed Jon's moments of vulnerability. Sansa couldn't shake the feeling that his thoughts and actions had been guided by her presence, and she wanted to understand why he used her as his muse. Men, Petyr had once explained to her, often needed their imaginations during such intimate moments.
The notion that she had been the focus of Jon's thoughts stirred a mix of emotions within Sansa. Excitement fluttered in her stomach, a sensation she hadn't expected.
Sansa hesitated, knowing that it was time to unveil certain chapters of her past. The reluctance had stemmed from a fear that Jon might regard her with disdain once he learned the darker aspects of her history. However, this moment seemed opportune for openness.
"Do you know how Lord Baelish made his fortune? What his businesses entail?" Sansa inquired.
Jon's brow furrowed, an expression of perplexity colouring his features. His shake of the head conveyed his lack of awareness. "What does this have to do with anything?" he questioned.
Sansa took a deep breath before continuing, her voice measured. "He owns many establishments, ones that Theon favoured in Winter Town."
Jon's countenance fell, sensing the weight of imminent revelation. "He didn't make you..." his words were barely more than a whisper, as if the mere articulation pained him.
Sansa offered a small, understanding smile and shook her head. "No, I didn't work there, if that's what you mean." She nibbled on her lip briefly, contemplating her next words. "But he forced me to learn things—acts that he believed would be useful if I were to seduce Ramsay."
The gravity of her statement seemed to hit Jon like a physical blow, his features contorting with a mixture of horror and disbelief. "How?" he inquired, his expression suggesting a nauseating realisation.
Sansa conjured in her mind the unsettling memories of the times Littlefinger had coerced her into performing intimate acts with her hands and mouth. "On him. He taught me by guiding me through the acts on him," she revealed, the weight of the words heavy in the air.
"Acts?" Jon's expression shifted to one of shock. "What acts?"
"Mouth and hand," she replied tersely.
Jon closed his eyes, his face cradled in his hands. When he raised his head, unshed tears glistened. The turmoil within him was clear, the desire to comfort her warring with the visceral anger building within. He seemed on the brink of reaching out, yet hesitated. "Seven hells, Sansa. I'm going to kill him."
Sansa shook her head resolutely, pressing a gentle finger against his lips. "No," she insisted. "You need to listen."