Jon

Jon's emotions churned within him—an unsettling mix of confusion, anger, and a profound sense of devastation for Sansa. The mere thought of Littlefinger's touch on her stirred a primal fury within Jon, a visceral desire to end the man for the pain he inflicted on his sister. The prospect of hearing Sansa's revelations was a tumultuous journey Jon wasn't sure he was ready to embark on, but a gnawing curiosity urged him to understand why she lingered, watching instead of retreating to afford him the privacy he needed. There was an unspoken weight in the air, a sense that something deeper and more troubling lay beneath the surface.

Sansa's words unfolded like a dark tapestry, each revelation casting shadows on the intricate threads of her past. The air in Jon's chambers grew heavy with the weight of her confessions, and he listened intently, his piercing gaze fixed upon her.

"Lord Baelish saved my life on more than one occasion," Sansa began, her voice carrying the echoes of distant trials. "He rescued me from King's Landing, although Lady Olenna may have had some influence on matters there. Petyr also saved me from Aunt Lysa. She tried to push me through the Moon Door at the Eyrie. Lord Baelish pushed her first."

Sansa's recounting of escapes and betrayals painted a vivid picture of the dangers that had surrounded her. Jon, though silently absorbing her words, couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to her tale than met the eye. The mention of Littlefinger's teachings lingered in the air, an unspoken enigma waiting to be unravelled.

"We had to escape," Sansa continued, her hands tightly folded in her lap. "I was in disguise as Alayne Stone, his bastard daughter. My hair was dyed dark brown. If anyone had seen me, I would have been discovered, and the Lannisters would have taken me back to King's Landing. Cersei thinks I killed Joffrey."

Jon's steady gaze prompted her to continue, to lay bare the connections between her survival and the unsettling lessons learned from Littlefinger. "Go on." He said.

Jon's features hardened as Sansa unravelled the intricacies of Littlefinger's plan. The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of betrayal and manipulation. Winterfell, the ancestral home that meant so much to Jon, had been at the centre of a dangerous game orchestrated by a man Jon had never fully trusted.

"Lord Baelish told me of his plan to take back Winterfell," Sansa confessed, her tone bitter with hindsight. "I would be the spy on the inside. I would lure Ramsay into a trap. Petyr told me to seduce Ramsay; he would do the rest."

Jon's jaw clenched at the mention of Ramsay Bolton, a name synonymous with cruelty and suffering. The idea of Sansa being used as a pawn in such a perverse game ignited a simmering anger within him. Littlefinger's machinations had entangled the Stark siblings in a web of deceit that went beyond mere politics.

"Petyr still thought I was that silly little girl who believed in handsome princes rescuing fair maidens from the dragons," Sansa scoffed, her disillusionment evident. Jon could almost taste the bitterness in her words, a bitter flavour that mirrored the cold winds that swept through Winterfell.

Jon listened to Sansa's words, a mixture of familiarity and discomfort settling within him. The names Jonquil and Florian the Fool resonated in his memory, a connection to the stories and tales Sansa had once found solace in. Aemon the Dragon Knight, a name that held significance beyond the realm of fairy tales.

"Aye, I remember. Jonquil and Florian the Fool, and Aemon the Dragon Knight. They were your favourites," Jon acknowledged, his mind briefly wandering to the tales Old Nan had shared with him during his childhood at Winterfell.

Sansa nodded, her gaze fixed on Jon as if seeking reassurance. "Back to the story. I told Peter I wouldn't know how to seduce a man. My mother told me little of the marital bed, other than it being the duty of a Lady to satisfy her husband and produce heirs. She told me it would hurt the first time."

Jon's frown deepened at the mention of Lady Stark's guidance, a stark contrast to the beliefs he held about the intimate connection between a Lord and Lady. The idea it was merely a duty and a painful obligation stirred a protective instinct within him.

"It isn't just about duty and producing heirs. It should be something magical. For both Lord and Lady," Jon asserted, his words carrying a sincerity born of his own yearning for genuine connection. Sansa regarded him with scepticism, and Jon felt a pang of sympathy for the innocence she had lost.

"Although your circumstances were different," he added, acknowledging the harsh reality of Sansa's past and the twisted games she had been forced to play.

Jon's gut twisted as Sansa's words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unspeakable deeds. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that danced across the room, mirroring the turmoil in Jon's mind.

"Lord Baelish offered to teach me how to seduce Ramsay. Not understanding what he meant, I agreed, believing he would explain it. How wrong was I? He forced me to do it on him," Sansa confessed, her gaze fixed on the floor as if she could still see the haunting scenes playing in her memory. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in on Jon as the reality of Sansa's suffering unfolded.

The air became thick with a discomfort that Jon couldn't shake. His hands clenched into fists, his jaw set in a hardened resolve against the anger and helplessness that threatened to consume him. The taste of bitterness lingered on his tongue as he processed the cruelty inflicted upon Sansa.

"I always thought it was dirty and disgusting. Then with Ramsay, when he made me do things, and it was even worse," Sansa revealed, her body visibly shuddering at the recollection. Jon's heart ached for the torment she had endured.

"And then you saw me," Jon's words hung in the air like an accusation, a reminder of the unexpected intrusion into Jon's private moment. He felt like a monster, a betrayer of the sister he had sworn to protect. The guilt gnawed at him, threatening to unravel the carefully constructed walls he had built around his own pain.

Sansa's nod was accompanied by a sweet smile, a fragile mask concealing the turbulence beneath. "And then I saw you," her words hung in the air, a reminder of the intrusion into Jon's intimate sanctuary.

Jon's chest tightened, burdened by the weight of Sansa's revelation. The room felt colder, shadows lengthening as the hearth's fire waned. The flickering flames played across Sansa's features, emphasising the vulnerability in her eyes, and Jon couldn't escape the gravity of her gaze.

Sansa

Jon's brow furrowed, lines etching a map of concern across his face. "Gods, Sansa, you must think me a monster."

Sansa gently shook her head, her hand reaching out to rest upon his wrist, a gesture meant to offer solace to his troubled thoughts. "Of course not. I know men have to do this, otherwise it becomes uncomfortable."

Jon's eyes narrowed, seeking understanding. "If you didn't think I was a monster, why did you continue watching?"

A delicate pause lingered in the air as Sansa considered her words. "Because, when I saw you do it, I realised it wasn't dirty or depraved. It was the first time I saw a beauty in it," she admitted, her voice carrying a mixture of vulnerability and revelation.

"I doubt I'd call it beautiful," Jon expressed doubt.

"I suppose it depends on who is doing it. It is doubtful many men can look beautiful whilst doing it. But you did, even if I only saw the back of you," Sansa remarked, a delicate blush tinting her cheeks. Her gaze momentarily dropped, preparing for the forthcoming revelation that weighed heavily on her heart. "I wanted to watch you from the front. I wanted to see your face."

"See my face?" Jon's throat tightened with a mix of surprise and vulnerability. The hearth's flickering flames threw shadows across the room, casting a play of light and darkness that mirrored the complexity of their emotions.

Sansa's admission hung in the air, a confession laid bare in the quiet intimacy of Jon's chambers. The taste of vulnerability lingered, as if they were navigating uncharted territories of shared desires and unspoken connections. In the silent exchange, the room bore witness to a subtle shift in the dynamic between brother and sister, a revelation that transcended the confines of familial boundaries.

"I wanted to witness that most vulnerable of moments when the ecstasy reaches its heights. On most, it would be an ugly thing to witness. But, Jon, you have a beautiful face. I doubt you'd look ugly. I suspect it would make you even more beautiful," Sansa confessed, her fingers delicately caressing Jon's flushed cheek. Initially, he leaned into her touch, absorbing the warmth, then abruptly pulled away as if a sudden flame had scorched him.

"Sansa, this is not right." Jon voiced his unease. "I am your brother."

"If it is so wrong for me to wish to witness such an act, then why were you imagining me while committing such an act?" she questioned, a subtle challenge in her tone. The air in the room seemed to thicken with the weight of unspoken desires, swirling around them like the unseen currents in a hidden stream.

Now it was Jon's turn to confess a truth, and Sansa listened intently, her eyes searching his face for the revelation she had provoked. "I..." he began, hesitation showing in his voice.

"Why my name, Jon? What was I doing that was so wanton, it was fit for your imagination?" she pressed, her curiosity laced with a touch of amusement.

Jon closed his eyes, unable to maintain eye contact while he divulged his treasonous thoughts. "You were sat on the stool where you now sit. You complained of being warm, but instead of moving away from the fire, you unlaced your dress slightly, and revealed your shoulders, to allow you to cool down a little." Sansa could tell the scene was being replayed vividly in his mind.

Sansa observed Jon, his head buried in his hands, a mix of guilt and confusion etched on his face. She couldn't resist the temptation to test his reaction. What would he do if she unveiled a bit more? With swift fingers, she worked on the laces at the top of her dress, allowing it to loosen from her shoulders. The sleeves of her shift, worn underneath, slid down, revealing the pale expanse of her bare shoulders.

"You mean like this?" she asked, her voice a low, teasing murmur, as she waited for his reaction. The flames flickered in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the room, as the tension between them heightened.

Jon

Jon raised his weary eyes from his hands, disbelief coursing through him. Before him, Sansa, embodied the very essence of his clandestine fantasy. Her shoulders bared, a hint of flesh exposed – a forbidden sight, now laid bare and losing its allure.

"Sansa, no. Stop it. You can't do this," he demanded, the urgency in his voice revealing a mix of shock and a desperate plea to halt the unfolding scenario. The flickering flames in the hearth cast uncertain shadows, mirroring the conflict within Jon's mind.

"I want to see your face," Sansa insisted, her voice carrying a hint of newfound curiosity.

Jon's mind raced, a realization dawning upon him. Sansa, unaccustomed to such scenes, was oblivious to the realms of womanly satisfaction. The mere sight of him had stirred a dormant desire within her, an unknown yearning. Unaware of it herself, Sansa now sought to experience the tantalizing sensations that watching him had ignited. A silent revelation in the flickering shadows of the hearth.

Jon found himself caught in a web of conflicting emotions. He hesitated, torn between the desire to shield Sansa from further harm and the acknowledgment that her innocence had long been tarnished. The prospect of sharing such an intimate act with a witness, especially one so intimately tied to his own past, sent waves of uncertainty through him. Could he perform the act with the same intensity, knowing eyes were upon him?

A flicker of understanding passed between them as Sansa smiled, a mischievous spark lighting up her eyes. "If you feel uncomfortable, I could help," she offered, her words hanging in the air.

"Help?" Jon echoed, the offer both surprising and unsettling.

Sansa nodded, her excitement clear. "I can give a helping hand, if you need me to."

Jon found himself caught in a surreal conversation, his mind struggling to process Sansa's unexpected proposal. The air between them hung heavy with tension as he whispered, "What do you mean?" His uncertainty lingered, unsure if he fully grasped her suggestion.

"I've done it before, plenty of times. Jon, I know what I'm doing," Sansa calmly stated. "I expect it might be difficult for you to do it yourself now. I can do it for you. And if you need anything else from me, any visual stimulation, I will provide it."

Jon was incredulous. He couldn't believe these words were coming from Sansa's lips. "Sansa, we shouldn't," he protested.

Sansa frowned, questioning, "Why not?"

"Because I am your brother," Jon said, the simple truth echoing between them.

Jon's mind wrestled with Sansa's words, a turmoil of conflicting emotions. The plea in her voice tugged at his heart, and he felt the weight of her vulnerability. "That as it may be. But we barely spoke as children. We are practically strangers. Although, I admit, I trust you more than anyone else in the world," Sansa spoke with a tone that held the echoes of past hurts.

Jon's heart ached for her. "This is a betrayal of that trust," he uttered, the words heavy with a sense of duty and familial bonds.

Sansa shook her head, her gaze pleading. "Jon, I don't think you understand. You don't care for my name, or what you can get from me. You are the only man who can ever be pure in my eyes. Father once said to me, 'When you're old enough, I will make you a match with someone brave and gentle and strong.' You are brave, gentle, and strong, Jon. I want to see it for all its beauty, but with you. Just this once, please," she begged, laying bare her yearning.

Jon observed Sansa, recognizing the subtle art of manipulation she had mastered since childhood. Her big blue eyes, once a tool for getting her way, now sought something deeper. He felt the impending agreement in the air, but he wanted Sansa to gain more from this exchange. An idea blossomed in his mind.

"I will agree, under one condition. You must feel good too," Jon declared, a determined glint in his eyes.

Sansa's brow furrowed, a reaction akin to hearing a foreign tongue. "How?" she inquired, curiosity etched on her face.

"By touch," Jon proposed. "You can do it, or if you don't know how... I could show you, if you want," he added, laying the cards on the table for an altogether different experience.

Sansa

Jon's voice wavered as he made the offer, a hesitancy that spoke volumes of his reservations. He anticipated her refusal, aware of the torment she'd endured at the hands of men. Sansa could decipher the conflict within Jon—a desire to be kind and honourable, coupled with a reluctance to admit her into such an exclusive realm. His agreement seemed reluctantly given, a concession to her persistent request.

Yet, what Jon didn't grasp was the complexity of Sansa's own desires. Despite her mother's teachings on the dutiful nature of marital relations, the insights from Shae and Margaery offered a contrasting perspective—a hint that pleasure could be found in the marital bed if one knew the right moves. Sansa's stumbling block was her lack of knowledge in navigating such intimacies. Now, Jon, seemingly hesitant but willing, was ready to reveal the secrets.

"Will it hurt?" Sansa's voice trembled, her worry evident as she worried her bottom lip.

Jon's face contorted with a mix of pain and determination. "I will never hurt you, Sansa. I will always protect you. You have my word."

With a grace that belied her usual courtly demeanour, Sansa slid off the stool and onto her knees in front of Jon. Her hand pressed gently against his face. "I know you will. And I will do everything in my power to protect you."

Jon reciprocated, placing his hand over hers and leaning into her touch. The skin on his face felt soft, a stark contrast to the coarse bristle of his beard, which scratched against her touch, a sensation she strangely appreciated. Sansa's gaze lowered to his lips—plump and soft—tempting her with the forbidden allure of a kiss. But such intimacies were reserved for love and marriage, and what they contemplated today was for the here and now. Falling in love was the last thing Sansa desired.

Jon

In that intimate moment, Jon's hand, calloused from battles fought and hardships endured, found a delicate connection with Sansa's, the intertwining of their fingers like a silent agreement spoken in the language of touch. His heart, usually steadfast like the Wall, now echoed with a rapid beat, a rhythmic drumming that mirrored the uncertainty of a young recruit on the eve of his first battle.

With a vulnerability he seldom displayed, Jon spoke, his voice carrying the weight of inexperience, like a greenboy thrust into the midst of seasoned warriors. "Are you sure?" he asked, the words hanging in the air, laden with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.

Sansa's response was a simple yet resolute nod. In that subtle movement, she conveyed a silent understanding, a shared willingness to explore the uncharted territories of desire and intimacy. Their foreheads met, a gesture that felt like the sealing of a clandestine pact, a promise exchanged in the language of touch.

Jon, guided by a newfound courage, let his finger trace the delicate contours of Sansa's cheek. The sensation, tender and deliberate, held a promise of pleasure and connection. "I'll make you feel good, too. I promise," he whispered, the words a pledge to ensure her satisfaction, a commitment spoken in the hushed tones of a shared secret.

With the practiced grace befitting a lady of Winterfell, Sansa's slender fingers deftly unravelled the intricate knots of Jon's linen enclosure, freeing his manhood from its concealed confinement. The air in the chamber, thick with the scent of beeswax candles and the distant fragrance of pine, bore witness to the unfolding union of two souls entangled in a clandestine dance.

As the linen bag yielded to Sansa's gentle persuasions, Jon's cock emerged, a testament to the raw vitality that pulsed within him. The room, adorned with tapestries depicting the storied history of House Stark, became a silent witness to the unfolding drama, where desire and duty engaged in a delicate waltz.

In the quiet embrace of the dimly lit chamber, Sansa's fingers, delicate as winter petals, wrapped around Jon's pulsating manhood. The air, rich with the scent of beeswax candles and the distant aroma of pine, bore witness to the unfolding intimacy, forbidden in its nature.

As Sansa's touch ignited a series of sensations, Jon Snow, a man accustomed to the unforgiving landscapes beyond the Wall, felt a surge of desire coursing through him, a tableau where the boundaries of propriety blurred.

With each stroke, Jon could feel his manhood responding, hardening with an urgency that mirrored the crescendo of their shared connection. Sansa's fingers, guided by an intuitive knowledge of desire, navigated the contours of his cock with a precision that spoke of previous knowledge.

With each tender stroke of her hand, Jon could feel the undeniable response of his manhood, hardening with an urgency that mirrored the intensity of their connection. Sansa's fingers, guided by an intuitive knowledge of his desires, caressed him, leaving his lips pursed, taking the air in through his mouth, his heart pounding with every delicate stroke.

Sansa's skilled ministrations continued, each movement a nuanced exploration of pleasure, as Jon marvelled at the subtle language of touch—the dialect they both seemed to share in this clandestine sanctuary.

Sansa stopped.

Jon's breath caught in his throat as Sansa's words hung in the air, a whispered declaration that stirred a complex mix of desire and apprehension within him. The air in the room seemed charged, a palpable tension that mirrored the unspoken yearning between them.

Sansa's actions had already taken Jon to the edge of an emotional precipice, and now her words threatened to push him further into uncharted territories. He felt a surge of vulnerability, like a lone wolf exposed in the wilderness. The room, once a haven, now felt like a battleground of conflicting emotions.

"I want to do more. I want to taste you," Sansa had said, and Jon, with his brooding demeanour and scars earned in the harsh crucible of battles, was navigating uncharted waters. His heart pounded, a rhythmic drumbeat echoing the internal struggle between duty and desire.

Jon's gaze met Sansa's, a silent exchange laden with unspoken questions. He could see the determination in her eyes, a defiance that mirrored her journey from a captive in King's Landing to a survivor of torture. Yet, beneath it all, there was a vulnerability, a shared vulnerability, that bound them in that moment.

The room, dimly lit by the flickering flames of the hearth, felt both intimate and vast, as if the weight of their shared history pressed against the walls. Jon's senses heightened; he could taste the lingering warmth of the fire, and sense the anticipation that hung in the air.

In that charged moment, Jon grappled with conflicting desires, torn between the familiar shadows of duty and the alluring pull of a newfound connection with Sansa. It was a precipice, and he stood at the edge, unsure whether to retreat to the safety of the known or take the plunge into the unknown.