The final chapter of part one. Next up is Daggers to the Heart Part 2, Clash of Kings
Sansa's gaze was fixed upon the flames, an almost mystical radiance emanating from the dragon egg nestled within their midst. The early evening cast a gentle glow, and Jon, having recently completed the final touches on his travel plans, emerged from a bath. Sansa, adorned in a white night shift underneath a blue and grey woollen robe, stood by the fire, allowing its warmth to dry her hair before they gathered in the Great Hall for dinner.
"Thinking of offering prayers to the Lord of Light?" Jon's voice, unexpected, broke the silence, causing Sansa to start. "Their temple lies in Volantis, should you wish to set sail via Dragonstone." His arms enveloped her neck from behind.
"Speaking of the Lord of Light, what would you do if you found her on Dragonstone?" Sansa raised her head, and Jon lowered his, his wet hair leaving a trail of droplets down her neck, chest, and shift. "Jon!" she exclaimed.
"My apologies, my lady. Allow me to rectify that." Jon's smirk played on his lips as his tongue traced the paths of water along Sansa's throat. However, his damp hair persisted in bestowing droplets upon her shift.
"I'm only getting wetter and wetter," Sansa teased.
"Are you now?" Jon growled. "May I look closer?"
"Jon, cease your mischief!" Sansa laughed. "I am attempting to engage in a sensible conversation here."
Jon nonchalantly shrugged. "Tell her she's welcome to come north, but the whole burning people alive bit is off the table. Though, I reckon she's got Stannis on her mind. She'll be a valuable ally in the long night, but no funny ideas. Can we skip the talk about her? She's a bit... off-putting." Jon circled Sansa's chair, then crouched in front of her, resting his head on her knees in a manner reminiscent of Lady when she desired something. It was then that Sansa noticed he wore only his breeches, his chest bared—an undoubtedly unfair move, considering Jon's awareness of her penchant for touching his chest.
"What's gotten into you?" Sansa furrowed her brow. "Your behaviour is peculiar. We have a feast in the Great Hall soon; we can't skip it, and time is of the essence."
"We'll make it down in time," Jon assured, his expression turning serious. "This is our last night together for a while. I want to push the parting from my mind. Let's relish tonight. Enjoy, laugh, play, and... well..." He shrugged, a smirk playing on his face.
Sansa grasped his unspoken desire. He sought distraction, and she was more than willing to oblige, but not before the feast.
"After the feast," Sansa promised.
The feast unfolded in the Great Hall, a modest affair with only around a hundred attendees. The majority either gathered at the Inn, accommodating thirty individuals, or engrossed in the preparations for the feast, each group to have their own celebration in the smaller hall before converging for the shared revelry of music and dance later in the evening.
In the North, the distinction between a feast and a regular supper lay in the number of courses served. While supper typically comprised two courses, a feast could span as many courses as the Lord deemed fit. Given the northern terrain, the feast tended towards a frugal affair compared to the opulence of the southern regions, where fertile lands flourished. The farming of the gift, was another motivation for bringing the Freefolk through the Wall.
Sansa, usually responsible for such affairs, found relief as her mother volunteered to manage the feast preparations. She, along with, Jon, Arya, and Robb had been engrossed in transferring ledgers, making her mother's offer especially appreciated. Sansa insisted on a modest feast of seven courses, and, crucially, one of those courses had to feature lemon cakes.
The top table featured Jon and Sansa, flanked by Robb and Ser Barristan on Jon's right, while Sansa's mother and Arya occupied positions on her left. A trestle table below hosted Theon, the Freefolk, Sam, Gilly, and Maester Fell. The remaining men and a handful of women were seated at three long trestle tables arranged in a U-shape.
The absence of invited Lords spoke of nature of this gathering—it was a token of gratitude for the tireless efforts invested in preparing Queenscrown for the Freefolk. However, the full extent of their plans remained unknown to those diligently working on the project. Tonight was the night for Jon to reveal the details, and he chose the moment after the final course of lemon cakes.
With a distinct scrape of his chair, Jon rose and emphatically banged his empty tankard on the table.
"Silence!" he called out, though his voice lacked the booming resonance required. Fortunately, a man in the audience, possessing a voice that could fill the hall, stepped in.
"Shut the fuck up and listen to your Lord!" Tormund's shout commanded attention, and the room fell into a hushed stillness.
"Now, I don't know what you've heard or know about what we're doing here. I'm sure some of you will be concerned with seeing the Freefolk seated amongst us," Jon addressed the gathering, prompting a murmur of agreement to ripple through the room.
Jon pressed on, addressing the gathered assembly. "We'll come to the matter of the Freefolk shortly. The first thing I need to inform you is that yesterday morning, Lady Stark received a raven from Riverrun. Lord Hoster Tully is gravely ill. I will accompany Lady Stark and Lady Arya, south towards Winterfell. From there, Lady Stark will proceed to Riverrun to be with her ailing father."
"I'm sure you've heard by now that Stannis Baratheon suffered defeat at the Battle of the Blackwater. We have our men stationed on Dragonstone, mining dragonglass, for the Night's Watch. However, I doubt the bastard King, Joffrey Baratheon, will agree to such a deal without considerable cost." A murmur of agreement, accompanied by nods, swept through the Great Hall.
"I will journey to Dragonstone to facilitate the release of our men and bring back all the dragonglass yet to be shipped north. I expect my absence to last no longer than three moons. In my stead, my beloved wife, Lady Whitestark, and my good-brother, Lord Robb, will oversee matters. If any issues arise, address them. To Lady Whitestark and Lord Robb!" Jon raised his empty tankard in salute, inviting the assembly to join in the acknowledgment.
"Lady Whitestark and Lord Robb!" The collective voices reverberated, accompanied by the emphatic sounds of horns and tankards. Sansa acknowledged the support with a smile, fully aware that Robb would remain the preferred contact for the men, despite her senior position in the household.
Jon raised his hand, bringing about a hush among the assembly. "Now to the Freefolk. I'm sure you all recall the chilling tales from your childhood about the Night King and the army of the dead." Sansa scanned Jon's attentive audience, noting the nods of recognition. A sense of pride swelled within her; so far, the reception was positive. However, the impending part of the speech presented a potential challenge.
"They aren't mere scary stories. The Night King is real, and so is the army of the dead. The long night is approaching, and the dead come with it," Jon declared, casting a solemn tone over the hall. Silence enveloped the room, as if a pin drop could be heard.
A voice shattered the stillness from the back of the hall. "What does this have to do with the wildlings?" The query was followed by a murmur of agreement that rippled through the room.
"When a person dies at the hands of one of the wights or White Walkers, they don't stay dead. They become meat for his army. If we leave the Freefolk north of the wall, they will become part of his army—our enemies—and make it harder for us to fight the army of the dead."
"But they are already our enemies," another man interjected.
"Not anymore," Jon replied, signalling to Tormund, who rose as Jon took his seat, Sansa's hand on his thigh providing a comforting squeeze. A quick exchange of smiles passed between Jon and Sansa.
"We've agreed to peace, so we can hide behind the wall until we kill the bastard," Tormund declared. "Jon Snow here will lead the fight. When the time comes, we'll fight for him. We've promised to live by the law of the kneelers, but we won't kneel." Tormund grinned at Jon. "We'll farm these lands and pay our taxes like the rest of you. There should be more food because of us. The Night King can be beaten if we help."
Jon stood back up. "Lord Stark always said we find our friends on the battlefield. The Freefolk have promised to side with us on the battlefield. Do you want an army of one hundred thousand fighting with you, or do you want to face an army of a hundred thousand who don't need to eat, sleep? They don't tire; all they do is kill."
"Isn't that what the Night's Watch is for?" one man questioned.
"Aye, why won't the wall hold?" another added.
Jon stood once more. "It might, but my friends, the Night King doesn't just bring the army of the dead. He brings the long night. Until he is defeated, winter will never end. The sky will be endlessly dark, with cold winds and snows so deep that no fire will be enough to warm your bodies. We would all die anyway. The Night's Watch is under-manned. Some of the Freefolk will help open up the abandoned castles, getting them ready for the fight. The Night King can freeze water, so even if he cannot cross the wall, it is possible he could get around it. It is a chance we cannot risk."
"What kills them?" queried one man.
"Fire kills the wights. Dragonglass kills wights and White Walkers, although I don't know if it is enough for the Night King himself. The only other weapons are Valyrian steel." Jon unsheathed Longclaw and held it up. "There are only a few weapons like this in the whole of Westeros. We must find them and convince their owners to wield them or find someone who can." Sam raised his hand. "Sam?" Jon encouraged his friend to stand.
Sam stood up. "According to Maester Thurgood, there are two hundred and twenty-seven known weapons throughout all of Westeros." He retook his seat, his face turning bright red.
"Thank you, Sam." Jon smiled. "We have a Valyrian steel dagger here at Queenscrown. Lord Eddard Stark had a greatsword called Ice." He turned to Sam. "I would like you and Maester Fell to search the records for every Valyrian steel sword and dagger. Try to find the weapons and invite the owners to fight."
"Is House Tarly in possession of such a weapon?" Sansa's mother asked, surprising the entire hall.
"Er... yes, Lady Stark, it's called Heartsbane." Sam nodded. "But my father won't help. He doesn't like me very much."
"I'm sure he can be convinced." Sansa's mother exchanged a brief glance with Jon, a silent understanding passing between them. Sansa knew the Tarlys were Targaryen loyalists during Robert's Rebellion, and gaining their support from the Reach was a strategic move. In fact, Sansa planned to devote much of her time devising ways to garner the support of Rhaegar's former friends, to fight against the Lannisters.
"Anyway, it will be a few years before winter is here. We know what is coming, and we have time to prepare. This is the first stage of the war against the army of the dead, my friends. Bringing the Freefolk south, and with their help, we stand a chance of survival." Jon said.
"How are you going to convince the rest of the Seven Kingdoms?" A woman inquired.
"You'll find out soon enough. But for now, we need not concern ourselves with the worries of the Long Night. Let us enjoy what is left of summer." Jon raised his tankard.
"To summer!" echoed the cries from around the room.
"Let us have some music," Jon called out.
The musicians, regulars from the inn in Moles Town, lined up at the back of the hall, playing a lute, a violin, a flute, and drums. They started the music with "Bear and the Maiden Fair." People pushed the tables to the edge of the room, taking to the middle of the floor and dancing to the lively tune.
"Is there any point in asking you?" Sansa inquired of Jon.
"I've got two left feet. I like your pretty toes just as they are."
"If you don't mind, Jon," Tormund interjected, approaching. "If you're too stupid to dance with your pretty wife, can I steal her?"
Jon's expression shifted, a moment of concern flashing across his face. In Freefolk tradition, stealing a woman, if she let him, made her the thief's wife. Tormund, with a wink at Sansa, seemed to use this as a ploy to ensure Jon would dance with her.
"One dance," Jon grumbled, rising and leading Sansa to the dance floor.
Sansa turned to Tormund, silently thanking him. Tormund simply grinned before finding another woman to dance with.
Despite Jon's initial reluctance, Sansa had coaxed four dances out of him. To her surprise, Jon was a far better dancer than he let on. His agile feet, honed through years of fighting, served him well, and his lack of enthusiasm for music did not hinder his keen sense of rhythm. Sansa couldn't help but wonder if he might have been a skilled musician like his real father.
Throughout the night, Sansa also danced with Robb, Theon, and Tormund. Jon, however, steadfastly refused to dance with anyone else. If she had suggested it, he would have danced with her mother, but Lady Stark retired early, her joy dampened by thoughts of her father's ailing health.
As soon as Tormund unveiled the sour goat's milk, Jon and Sansa bid their goodbyes. While the festivities would continue for hours, Jon and Sansa desired a night together without interruptions. They made their way to the family wing, playing the part of a proper Lord and Lady. However, the moment they entered the corridor towards their chambers, Jon pulled Sansa close and kissed her. It was a kiss filled with hunger and desire, lacking any semblance of chasteness. Despite returning from the feast, it wasn't food that had been their primary desire. Sansa felt the same, responding with equal passion.
The passageway was poorly lit. During the day, sunlight would flood the corridor, but now it was pitch black. Two wall sconces provided barely enough light for them to find the door to their chambers, if they were going to make it that far.
Jon pressed Sansa against the wall, though gently. "I don't think I can wait until we reach the chambers," he whispered in her ear.
"Here?" Sansa would have been scandalized if she weren't so eager.
"Of course. Nobody is going to come this way. Ser Barristan retired an hour ago, as did your mother. Robb retired to the chambers of one of the maids." Jon whispered, lifting her grey woollen skirt and the shifts beneath.
"It's not proper." Sansa gasped as she felt Jon's fingers inside her smallclothes and his lips on hers.
"What's not proper?" He mumbled into the kiss, while his fingers circled her nub, sending wonderful sensations throughout her body.
Sansa rocked her hips against Jon's hand as his fingers slid inside her. "Forgot." Sansa's heart raced. The thrill of being in a place where they could get caught heightened her desire for him.
"Gods, Sansa. You're already wet." Jon whispered. "Let me taste you."
"Yes," was all Sansa could muster in response.
Jon disappeared into the darkness. All Sansa could feel was a cool draft as he lifted her dress up. Sansa opened her legs, and she felt the draft close, realising Jon would be almost hidden by her dress if anyone walked past.
Sansa felt his head between her legs, his silken curls pressed against her thighs, along with the scratch of his beard. Seconds later, his tongue against her entrance. The sound of contentment came out of his mouth in the form of a hum, which she felt vibrate against her. She wanted to grab hold of his hair, but all she could find was the grey wool of her skirts and the shape of his head underneath.
Jon's tongue and mouth worked furiously, licking and sucking at her folds and nub, while his fingers pressed in and out of her, while she rocked her hips against him. The familiar tingle she felt in her back and stomach, the one which led to the source between her legs, was building.
"Gods, Jon, don't stop." Sansa whispered, the coil tightening inside her.
"Come for me Sansa." Came his muffled voice, from under her skirts.
The tightening sensation was so intense, her heart raced furiously, as she pressed herself hard against his face, which seemed to snap the coil. Sansa pressed her head against the wall, her back arched and her hands flew around, fisting to grab hold of something to steady her, but she found nothing.
"Gods, Jon," was all Sansa could whisper, as the never-ending wave after wave of her insides pulsated. Jon was still licking her, and it was becoming too much, she was too sensitive. "Jon stop! It's too much."
Jon immediately stopped, and although she couldn't see him, she knew he was no longer under her skirts. Moments later, his arms were around her waist, and his lips upon hers, where she could taste herself. The overstimulation was gone; she wanted more. Jon didn't need to be told, as he hooked her leg over his hips and slowly guided himself inside her, filling her up.
"Gods, Jon, that feels good."
"Aye, tell me about it. I've been waiting to do this since before the feast," He murmured into her ear, before drawing out of her and moving again.
It took them a moment to find their rhythm, due to the awkward position of standing up against a wall. Jon was normally silent as they made love, but this time he grunted a little, which Sansa found irresistible.
Their kisses were sloppy and messy, but full of need and desire for one another. Nothing else mattered in the world, just the two of them. Jon's hand slid between them as he caressed her nub.
"I want you to come for me," he whispered as his fingers picked up the pace.
Jon didn't need to ask twice. Her still slightly sensitive body reacted swiftly to his actions. The tightening sensation built up quickly, a piece of string between the bottom of her back, through her bottom, into her tummy and between her legs, was warm and tight. Jon picked up the pace, thrusting harder, his fingers working faster, until the string snapped.
"Yes.. gods... Jon," Sansa muffled her cries into his shoulder.
Jon pulled out from her and took himself in hand. Despite her still coming down from her own high, Sansa fell to her knees. She placed one hand around the base of his manhood and took the rest of him in her mouth, tasting the saltiness from herself on him, as well as the seed which was already seeping from his length.
Jon ran his fingers through her hair as she took him deeper and deeper into her throat, just as she had on a couple of occasions in the cave. It wasn't the most comfortable thing to do, but what it did for Jon sent a thrill through her body. With her other hand, she felt between his legs and cupped her hand around his stones.
"Fuck.. Sansa. That feels good," Jon moaned.
Sansa could feel the change in Jon, she knew he was about to peak. She relaxed her throat as much as she could and took him right in, just in time, as she felt his seed running down her throat, just as a strangled cry came from his mouth. His manhood twitched before softening in her mouth.
Sansa released him and placed his member back into his breeches, before standing up, her knees sore. Jon kissed her gently on the lips.
"Is that your way of talking me out of leaving?" he took her hand in his and led her to their chambers.
"Would it work?" Sansa asked, although she knew the answer.
"If only it could," Jon said.
Sansa frowned as Jon fumbled with the door to their chambers. "What happened to my smallclothes?"
"I took them off," Jon asked, as he opened the door, and the corridor lit up.
"Where are they?"
He dangled them in front of her. "Mine now!" She was just able to see him smirk.
"Surely you won't be wearing my smallclothes," Sansa said, though her tone was light.
"No." Jon replied, sniffing them. "I'm taking them with me to Dragonstone."