I have actually finished this story. Nine chapters. I hope you all enjoy the rest of it.
Jon
In the flickering glow of the hearth, Jon and Sansa lingered in a silent exchange, caught between the warmth of the amber flames and the uncharted territory of their burgeoning connection. Neither dared to breach the unspoken boundaries, content with the simple act of gazing into each other's souls, learning the nuances of their shared history through the silent language of touch.
Sansa's slender fingers, a delicate caress against Jon's furrowed brow, traced the lines of his battle-hardened scar. In response, Jon's touch, possessive and reverent, followed the graceful curve of her jawline, each brush a testament to the journey they had endured together. Tucking a stray tendril of her auburn hair behind her ear, he marvelled at the softness beneath his calloused fingertips.
"Can you help me unlace the back of my dress?" Sansa's voice, a plea veiled in vulnerability, broke the quiet of the room. She turned away, presenting her back to him, her silhouette dancing in the firelight shadows. The old wounds, hidden from view, became a tapestry of secrets. As if using the shadows as her shield, Sansa sought refuge in the darkness, concealing the scars that adorned her body and soul. Jon, sensing the weight of her unspoken pain, embraced the task with a gentle determination, his fingers navigating the intricate laces as he ventured into the depths of her hidden world.
Jon's calloused fingers moved with a practiced ease, deftly unravelling the intricate laces that bound Sansa's dress. As each knot gave way, her alabaster skin emerged like moonlight breaking through a stormy sky. Yet, beneath the surface beauty, the scars of battles fought and endured were laid bare. Jon, sensing the weight of her unspoken pain, sought more than just the physical unveiling.
"Sansa. Let me see," Jon's voice, a mixture of concern and understanding, resonated in the quiet chamber. He gently pushed aside her auburn locks, allowing the firelight to dance upon her exposed form, revealing the tapestry of wounds etched into her flesh.
"'I'm ugly," Sansa whispered, her words a lament echoing in the dim-lit space. The shadows played upon the contours of her face, casting a delicate veil over her insecurities. Jon, unswayed by the scars that adorned her body, saw beyond the surface, recognizing the strength in her vulnerability.
"Never," Jon's voice carried a solemn promise as he examined the scars that adorned Sansa's delicate skin. His fingers traced the criss-cross patterns of old wounds and the still-fading marks of more recent battles. Each scar, a testament to the pain she had endured since childhood, evoked a mixture of horror, sickness, and an overwhelming surge of protective anger within him.
"They're battle scars," Jon stated, his lips brushing against the textured canvas of her skin as he placed a gentle kiss upon the evidence of her resilience. The sheer magnitude of her suffering struck him, and the weight of understanding settled upon his shoulders. Sansa had chosen him not just out of love but out of a profound trust born from shared ordeals.
In that moment, Jon grasped the depth of her vulnerability and the rarity of the trust she bestowed upon him. He became acutely aware that, for Sansa, he wasn't just a man; he was a sanctuary in a world that had inflicted too many wounds upon her.
Jon's words, spoken with a sincerity that echoed through the stone walls, reverberated in the air heavy with the scent of burning wood from the hearth. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows, dancing with the unspoken promise of the night ahead.
"You're beautiful, Sansa. You will always be beautiful," Jon uttered, the weight of his conviction evident in his gravelly voice. The words were a declaration, a vow, whispered in the secret confines of their sanctuary.
Sansa, seated between Jon's legs, faced away from him as the strands of her hair, released from their braid, cascaded down her back like a waterfall of auburn silk. The sensation of her presence, the touch of her skin against his, spoke volumes in the language of shared history and unspoken desires.
Jon's fingers traced patterns on Sansa's back, a silent reassurance that conveyed more than words ever could.
Sansa's tears fell, unseen by Jon but felt in the quiet beats of the night, the air became charged with an unspoken understanding. Whatever transpired in those moments was a testament to the singular connection between Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, bound by a shared past and the promise of a night etched in the annals of their intertwined destinies.
Jon embraced a solemn determination to make this night extraordinary, a singular moment in time that would forever reside in the tapestry of their shared existence. The Lord Commander's bedchamber, would stand witness to Jon's unwavering commitment to creating an unforgettable experience for Sansa.
The hearth's warm glow flickered across the room, casting an intimate aura over the space. Jon's thoughts were a quiet symphony, orchestrating every detail with meticulous care. The bed, a testament to duty in times past, now awaited the transformation into a sanctuary of shared intimacy.
For Jon, this night transcended personal desires; it was about crafting a memory that would linger in Sansa's heart long after the embers of the hearth had faded. In the simplicity of their connection, Jon found the assurance that the night would be special effortlessly, devoid of any forced attempts.
The air in the room bore the weight of anticipation, charged with the unspoken promise of a unique encounter. Jon, standing at the precipice of this moment, acknowledged that his own needs were secondary. Sansa's happiness, her sense of being cherished, became the focal point of his intentions.
Sansa
In the dimly lit quarters of Castle Black, Sansa listened to Jon's words, knowing well the sincerity behind his compliment. His assertion of her beauty might seem like a white lie, a well-intentioned attempt to lift her spirits, yet Sansa sensed the genuine warmth in his voice. Jon's innate kindness, free from judgment or disdain, was a comforting balm that enveloped her.
Jon's reference to battle scars struck a chord within Sansa, resonating with the deeply etched lines that adorned both their bodies. Each scar told a story of suffering endured, a testament to survival in a world that often seemed merciless. Jon's fingers traced the contours of her scars, a tactile exploration of the chapters written in the language of wounds.
In those moments, surrounded by the austere ambiance of Castle Black, Sansa embraced the symbolism of her scars. They were not marks of weakness, but rather badges of resilience, akin to the scars that adorned Jon's chest. A silent understanding passed between them – two survivors, marked by the trials of life, yet standing resilient in the face of adversity.
Sansa decided then to wear her scars with pride, as a visual anthem to her strength and indomitable spirit. The tears that threatened to surface were quelled by the realization that these battle scars were not flaws but rather the intricate embroidery of survival.
As Jon's chest met Sansa's back, the tactile connection to his scars served as a poignant reminder of the wounds that still bore the rawness of recent betrayal by his brothers. Sansa could feel the texture of his pain against her skin, a physical manifestation of the hurt and betrayal etched into the canvas of Jon's flesh.
In that intimate moment, a surge of protective instinct swept through Sansa. Jon, a formidable leader on the battlefield, lacked the intricate knowledge and experience required to navigate the treacherous waters of the game of thrones. The weight of that realization settled within Sansa, and with a solemn vow, she pledged to be Jon's shield. Her commitment extended beyond the physical scars that adorned him; it was a promise to guard him from the political intrigues and dangers that lurked in the shadows.
The stark contrast between Jon's battle-hardened exterior and his vulnerability in the realm of politics tugged at Sansa's heart. She understood the magnitude of her role – to shield Jon, even if the decisions she made led to his resentment. In the shadows of Castle Black, amidst the echoes of ancient vows, Sansa's silent pledge took root, weaving a protective tapestry around Jon Snow, her brother, her ally, for this night only he would be her lover, and now, her charge in the perilous game they were about to play.
The crackling warmth of the hearth caressed Sansa's face as the laces of her dress surrendered to the pull of unfastening. Her gaze, fixated on the dancing flames, invoked a rare sense of relaxation, a feeling that eluded her throughout the tumultuous journey of her life. In the flickering light, Sansa found solace, a momentary escape from the weight of responsibilities and the echoes of battles fought.
As the ambient glow embraced them, Sansa's thoughts wandered to a simpler existence. The trappings of a castle seemed inconsequential in the face of this newfound tranquillity. A yearning for a humble farm nestled in the embrace of the countryside stirred within her. A place where, as the sun dipped below the horizon, they could sit by a hearth much like this, Jon's sturdy arms enveloping her, a cocoon of safety and warmth.
Yet, it wasn't solely the comforting strength of Jon's embrace that captivated her senses. In the intimate haven of the Lord Commander's bedchambers, Jon adorned her neck with tender kisses, each one leaving an indelible mark on her senses.
Sansa felt the warmth of Jon's breath against her ear as his fingers intertwined with hers. Her head leaned back against Jon's shoulder, the cool air kissing her exposed skin. The taste of salt lingered on her lips, a remnant of the tears she shed earlier. Jon's bare torso, marked by scars that told tales of betrayal and resurrection, pressed against her back.
"I am yours, and you are mine from this day until the end of my days, from this day until my last day," Jon's voice, a raw murmur that carried the weight of his experiences, resonated through Sansa's very core. His breath sent a shiver down her spine, a sensation that mingled with the flickering flames, binding them in a dance of shared vows and whispered promises.
Sansa found herself surprised by Jon's choice of words, words echoing the solemnity of the marriage ceremony in the style of the Faith of the Seven. A peculiar choice, considering Jon's devout worship of the Old Gods. Yet, in this dimly lit chamber, where shadows played upon the walls, the words carried a profound weight, as if fate itself had ordained this union.
"I am yours, and you are mine from this day until the end of my days, from this day until my last day," she repeated, the resonance of the vows hanging in the air like a delicate melody. It was a moment suspended in time, where the roles of siblings dissolved, giving way to the hushed promise of man and wife. Tonight, they navigated the delicate dance of forbidden desires, each word a consent, each touch a shared surrender. Tomorrow, they would return to the roles fate had bestowed upon them, but for this fleeting night, they were bound by vows that transcended their blood ties.
Sansa shifted her gaze to meet Jon's intense stare. His lips, once kissing her shoulder, now hovered in the silent anticipation of an unspoken question. The air thickened with desire, and Sansa's heart quickened its rhythm in response to the handsome man before her.
Without hesitation, she brought her hand to rest upon his beard, a familiar touch that felt both comforting and charged with the electricity of unspoken desires. Their lips met in a kiss, initially chaste, the angle of their positions restricting its depth. Sensing the need for a more comfortable embrace, Sansa twisted her body, facing Jon squarely as she rested on her knees.
Foreheads pressed together, they resumed the kiss, a meeting of mouths that spoke volumes in the hushed language of longing and shared intimacy. In that moment, the outside world faded away, leaving only the sensation of Jon's lips on hers, the taste of the shared desire lingering in the air.
Once their lips met, the world outside ceased to exist, and their connection deepened into an intricate dance of desire.
Jon's kiss was both fervent and tender. It held the strength of a warrior tempered by the tenderness of a lover. His calloused fingers explored the contours of Sansa's face with a delicate touch, tracing the line of her jaw and the curve of her neck. The texture of his beard added a rugged edge to the sensation, a stark contrast to the softness of Sansa's skin.
Sansa's response was a symphony of emotions, a blend of longing and surrender. Her hand wove through Jon's hair, strands that held the scent of the North, and she felt the warmth of his breath intermingling with hers. Their mouths moved in harmony, a choreography of shared history and unspoken promises, her lips yielding to the ardent rhythm, each connection leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
As they kissed, the room seemed to pulse with an energy uniquely theirs. The crackling of the flames in the hearth provided a soundtrack to their intimate moment. Shadows danced upon the walls, mirroring the ebb and flow of their connection, as if the very essence of Winterfell bore witness to this clandestine union.
Their mouths moved in a dance, a symphony of shared passion that spoke volumes without the need for words. The taste of desire lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle notes of burning wood from the hearth. Sansa's heart quickened its rhythm, echoing the pulsating intensity of the kiss.
Jon
The kiss deepened and became an exploration—a shared journey through the contours of each other's mouths. Jon's heart raced in tandem with the pulsating intensity of the exchange.
Jon and Sansa's kiss held a fiery intensity, a flame that danced between them in the Lord Commander's bedchambers. Jon felt a surge of desire coursing through him, igniting every fibre of his being. Sansa's taste was a sweet nectar, a blend of longing and surrender that intoxicated him.
Their mouths moved in a rhythm known only to them, a dance of passion that spoke volumes in the silent language of desire. Jon's hands found their way to Sansa's waist, pulling her closer, as if seeking to erase the boundaries that separated them. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them immersed in the heat of the moment.
When the kiss finally parted, a magnetic pull lingered, drawing their gazes together. Sansa's eyes held a spark, a reflection of the flames that still flickered between them. Jon's breaths came heavy, a symphony of desire echoing in the quiet chamber. As Sansa shifted to explore his chest, Jon's senses heightened, every nerve on edge.
Sansa's lips traced the contours of his scars, each touch sending shivers down Jon's spine. In that intimate exchange, the scars transformed from reminders of pain to markers of connection, as if Sansa's kisses were a healing balm for wounds long carried. The room held the echoes of their passion, a secret witness to the silent language they spoke in the depths of the night.
Sansa, with a gentle insistence, encouraged Jon to recline, his back resting against the warm furs. The air was thick with anticipation as Sansa, with a tender determination, leaned over him. Her fingers traced the contours of his scars, mapping the journey of battles fought and betrayals endured. The touch was both a caress and a promise, and Jon felt a mix of vulnerability and trust in the vulnerability he exposed.
As Sansa's lips pressed against the first scar, Jon's breath hitched. He could feel the heat of her breath against his skin, a sensation that mingled with the residual heat of their shared kiss. The warmth of her mouth, a soothing balm, traversed each mark on his chest. The sensation was electric, a dance of pleasure and healing. Every scar kissed felt like a moment suspended in time, as if Sansa's lips held the power to rewrite the painful history etched into his flesh.
Jon closed his eyes, surrendering to the sensations that Sansa invoked. The room, with its stone walls and flickering candlelight, became a sanctuary for their shared vulnerability. The echoes of each kiss lingered, merging with the silent whispers of the night. In that moment, as Sansa continued her tender exploration, Jon felt a profound connection—a communion of two souls seeking solace in the language of touch and understanding.
Sansa
Sansa, with the grace of a Northern lady and the strength earned through trials, rose from the furs. Her movements were a dance, fluid and deliberate, weaving a narrative of vulnerability and quiet confidence. As she began to unfasten the intricately woven ties of her gown, the fabric surrendered its secrets in hushed whispers, falling around her like the unravelling threads of a Northern tapestry. Yet she left the final threads for Jon, allowing him the privilege of removing her dress.
Jon, moved by a blend of desire and reverence, stood, mirroring the action. Sansa's eyes, a silent reflection of the unfolding intimacy, traced his every movement with a mixture of anticipation and acknowledgment. With deliberate and unhurried grace, Jon bent down to unlace his boots.
Each tug of the leather laces, a soft melody in the silence, resonated like the distant echoes of a Northern hymn. Sansa watched on, as Jon's boots yielded to his careful touch. The echoes of leather meeting stone created a subtle rhythm, a quiet melody that underscored the intimate prelude unfolding in the dimly lit chamber. As the last boot was set aside, Jon rose, his eyes meeting Sansa's with a depth that transcended the mere act of disrobing.
Sansa, her heart aflutter with a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability, observed as Jon drew a deep breath before embarking on the delicate task of undoing the remaining laces of her dress. The dimly lit chamber, a silent witness to countless histories, framed this moment in the dance of shadows and the warmth of flickering candles.
Jon's fingers, calloused from the harsh landscapes beyond the Wall, moved with a careful precision as he untied each lace. The room, heavy with the scent of ancient stones and the anticipation of shared intimacy, seemed to hold its breath as the gown slipped off Sansa's shoulders. Like the shedding of winter's cloak, it left her adorned only in a linen shift, a garment that clung to her form, preserving the modesty of a Northern lady.
In this intimate ballet, Jon's touch resonated with a blend of gentleness and confidence. With a slow and deliberate motion, he lifted the linen shift, allowing it to ascend over Sansa's head in a dance as deliberate as the swirling snowflakes in the winter wind.
As the linen shift ascended, it revealed Sansa's ivory skin, an ethereal canvas illuminated by the flickering glow. The faint pinkish hues, akin to a lover's tender kiss, whispered of vulnerability and the quiet strength that lay beneath the surface. Sansa, standing in the glow, felt a cascade of emotions—the cool air on her exposed skin, the weight of Jon's gaze.
As the linen shift reached its zenith, Sansa stood before Jon, exposed and vulnerable, yet a portrait of resilience and strength. Her gaze, a reflection of the flame-lit hues, met Jon's with an unwavering assurance. The linen, now a pool at her feet, bore witness to the quiet revelation—the Lady of Winterfell laid bare, not just in form but in the unspoken bond that transcended the physical.
The departing fabric whispered its secrets, revealing Sansa's form inch by inch. The glow of the hearth outlined the contours of her figure as the shift ascended, a delicate unveiling of the woman beneath.
In the muted light, Jon's features played like a nuanced melody as he began to unfasten the laces of his black linen breeches. Each deliberate pull of the cord marked a measured progression towards a shared moment of intimacy. The fabric, freed from its confines, whispered its secrets as it descended to the cold floor beneath.
The air, heavy with the scent of aged wood and the lingering warmth of the hearth, carried the weight of anticipation. Sansa, her heart echoing the footsteps of an ancient Northern hymn, observed the dance of shadows and flickering flames that outlined Jon's form.
As the black linen breeches descended, the room became a silent witness to the unveiling. Jon, in the play of shadows, stood exposed with a quiet strength that spoke of battles fought and scars earned.
Sansa, standing amidst the remnants of Castle Black's authority, observed Jon with a keen awareness of the vulnerability that lay beneath his stark exterior. The scars, etched into his flesh as a testament to the betrayal of his brothers, told a story of burdens carried and allegiances broken. In the hushed space of the chamber, Sansa saw the man before her, laid bare not just in form but in the unspoken connection that stretched between them.
The air, thick with the weight of anticipation, hung between the former Lord Commander and his Lady. The black linen breeches, discarded at Jon's feet, left him standing in the flickering shadows—a figure both powerful and vulnerable. .
As Jon stepped out of the remnants of formality, leaving the discarded breeches behind, the air seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.
Sansa's gaze lingered appreciatively on Jon's remarkable physique. As she visually explored every part of him, she couldn't help but marvel at the well-built man before her. The years spent on horseback and in combat had undoubtedly contributed to his impressive physical stature. His chest, broad and toned, spoke of countless hours dedicated to honing his skills. It displayed the results of battles fought and won, a testament to his prowess. His arms, strong and powerful, bore the marks of his dedication to maintaining strength, adorned with muscle that told stories of resilience.
The play of shadows in the dimly lit chamber accentuated the contours of Jon's physique. As Sansa continued her silent admiration, his legs, sleek and well-defined, revealed an innate athleticism. Each line and curve seemed to tell a story of the harsh landscapes beyond the Wall, the windswept fields, and the icy battles that defined Jon Snow.
Sansa's gaze, drawn to the centre of the intimate tableau, beheld Jon's manhood standing tall—a testament to his virility. Its notable darker hue compared to the rest of his body only served to accentuate its appearance. A modest tuft of dark hair adorned this symbol of masculinity, adding a touch of ruggedness to Jon's overall demeanour.
In the flickering candlelight that cast shadows upon the walls, the room became a stage for the unspoken desires and shared passion between them. He advanced toward Sansa, the flames casting dancing shadows on the contours of his bare skin. Jon's manhood, already aroused and eagerly awaiting her arrival, revealed his unwavering desire for their union.
