theladyofwinterfell | queen and king in the north

Entry tags:

jon,
psl

queen and king in the north

The past year or so had been a whirlwind for Sansa and she has found her brother again only to lose him - this time not to the Wall but, instead, to House Targaryen. He's apparently the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, not the bastard son of her father as they'd always known him to be and as part of the treaty with Daenerys in the south, the north would be allowed to keep its autonomy provided there was a Targaryen king on the throne.

What better king than that which was Targaryen and Stark? Of course, such a king needed a queen and Sansa suddenly had the best claim on the throne of Winterfell than anyone in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms and it was natural enough that she was matched to her cousin to be his queen consort. This made her a bit nervous; this is her third marriage, after all, and Sansa has not been successful in marriage. She has scars and pain from Ramsay still and she's afraid of being in bed with Jon.

At least she's had a little while to know Jon as a cousin now instead of a brother and the idea of him as husband is less strange that it might have been a year or so before. After the wedding feast, Sansa had requested that everyone enjoy the fine casks of wine sent from the south while she and Jon retired to bed for the evening.

For her part, she didn't particularly look forward to this portion of the ceremony but she had a duty to fulfill and she would fulfill it to the fullest. Her third wedding gown is silver and black, direwolves and dragons. It's very lovely, all told, but feels foreign against her skin. Too light, she thinks, for a winter wedding.

"He hurt me badly, Jon," Sansa says softly, hands folded in her gown. "It might still be painful with you. I still have pain sometimes."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

There were no good words to truly describe what Jon had gone through as his true parentage and blood were revealed and how this sudden upending of his world had turned into the most advantageous circumstance possible for the North in its dealings with the Dragon Queen. He doubted even someone as learned as Samwell would be able to fashion such a description, so Jon didn't try and simply focused on dealing with what it meant in the most practical sense.

He had been nearly silent as the idea of him being wedded to Sansa had been suggested, discussed, and accepted. Jon had understood the need for it, the wisdom of it, but the strangeness of the idea weighed heavily on him and, it was clear, his new Lady wife. The King in the North had decreed there would be no bedding (to which all the Lords easily agreed, a tacit understanding of Sansa's experiences shared among them), and so their bedchamber was theirs alone that night.

Jon hung up his cloak and nodded. "I wish to do nothing that might harm or hurt you Sansa, you must know that. This may be... not nearly the marriage either of us imagined for ourselves, but I can promise you that. Perhaps we can start with something simple? We could... lay down together?"

"I know you wouldn't intend to," Sansa says, twisting her hands in her fine gown until she was afraid the fabric might rend. She didn't want to do this, at all, but she was afraid that her duty demanded it. She would have to give the North an heir and she knew that Jon would never mean to hurt her. He never had and he never would.

"Please just...excuse me for a moment?" There is a dressing screen on the other side of the bedchamber and Sansa crosses the room to avail herself of it, feeling more comfortable undressing without an audience. She had worn her hair unbound for the wedding and is glad for it because it is no trouble to remove the simple braided crown and let it loose.

Dressed in just her shift, she steps back out from behind the screen and crosses over toward the bed to turn down the furs. "No one will know if we don't tonight, will they?"

Jon nods at the unspoken end of Sansa's words. He would not intend to hurt her, but the things that Ramsey had done to her had left every manner of scar, on her body and on her heart, and he could tell that the very idea of laying with a man again terrifies her. But she feels the weight of her duty just as keenly, he knows.

While Sansa disrobes, he does the same, removing layers until he's left in only a soft undershirt without sleeves and a thin, loose pair of breeches. Again, he nods at her. "No one will know," he agrees. "You tell me when-- if-- you're ready for more than just sharing the bed. I won't press for anything, I promise."

A few moments later, and they're both sliding beneath the wool blankets and furs.

Sansa crawls into the bed beside him and leaves a bit of space between them. It is only a few inches but it feels as impregnable as the Eyrie, as insurmountable as the infamous Wall. Once, she'd wanted a husband and she'd imagined a handsome, gentle king like the one that Jon is turning out to be. Now? Now she's afraid of a man in bed even if she is cold as ice outside of it.

"Have you had many women, Jon? I don't know if...I know it's duty, of course, but I didn't know if you had preferences."

Jon doesn't begrudge her the separation any more than he does her reticence. Anything he can do to make Sansa feel safer and more comfortable with him, he can and will do. The idea of laying with someone he'd considered a sister for most of his life was strange enough for him that he was more than accepting of her hesitation.

Which wasn't to say he didn't recognize how surpassingly beautiful she'd become in the years they'd been apart, but that was the man in him speaking, and not the King or cousin.

Her question brought an unexpected smile to his face. "Only one," he said gently. "And by that measure, my preference is for women with red hair and brave hearts who are determined to live their lives and protect their people."

Sansa is a little shocked by that answer but the smile on his face comforts her and she smiles back; it's a small smile, but a smile all the same. She tentatively closes the distance between them and while a sister might rest her head against her brother's shoulder, a wife rests her head against her lord husband's chest and splays her hand against his belly, fingers gently moving against the fabric of his shirt. Sansa is a wife now.

"So you like my hair, then?"

[I am so sorry. Been dealing with a bunch of RL stuff. If you've moved on, I totally understand.]

Jon holds very still as she moves, surprised but restraining himself from showing it as Sansa holds him. The feel of her body against his side, the weight of her head on his chest is comfortable, even welcome.

He smiles and reaches up a hand to stroke her hair gently a bit. "I do. You've always made quite the sight standing against the gray and the snow."

"I always thought I looked too Tully to be a Stark," Sansa says. Her voice is light and pleased and she sighs softly as Jon strokes her hair. She's always loved to have her hair played with and his touch is soothing and comforting to her.

"You're the one who looks like a Stark. You look like a true King in the North. It's hard to believe you're half Dragon."

Jon can feel her relaxing as he petted her hair, so he continues, wanting nothing more than to make Sansa as comfortable as he can. And the warmth and pleasure in her voice as she spoke encourage him even further.

At her words, he nods. "Only an accident of blood, as far as I'm concerned," Jon replies. "The North raised me. A Stark raised me. Here's where I belong, with my people." He meets Sansa's eyes. "With you."

Aside from the chaste kisses they had shared on the battlements of Winterfell in victory and later in the Godswood during their wedding, Sansa has never kissed Jon. She has never initiated a kiss with Jon, preferring to let him kiss her instead.

Now, though, she nuzzles in against his neck and shoulder and her lips lightly touch his jaw. It's just the barest graze, hardly a kiss at all, but it's something she's initiated all on her own.

"We know no king but the King in the North, the White Wolf, the one called Jon Stark," she says softly. "It suits you."

He tries not to stiffen in surprise at Sansa's peck at his jaw, lest she interpret his surprise as displeasure. It's the last thing Jon wants, her believing that he dislikes the idea of getting physically affectionate with her. Not only is it a necessity, but he can't deny Sansa's beauty.

"Thank you, Lady of Winterfell," he says wryly. "Although I think it best we keep the titles to a minimum. It seems Queen Daenerys collects a new one every few weeks."

"Insecurity," Sansa says, worrying her teeth over her lower lip for a moment while she watches him and tries to gauge his reaction to the kiss. He doesn't seem to hate it, at least, and that is something. He has to like it more than that, though, if they will have heirs someday. She must do her duty in this bed, as must he. At least he likes women with red hair.

"She knows that her family no longer has presence here and she has no heirs. She makes herself legendary. But, if it's all the same to you, I would rather not talk of another woman in my wedding bed. I am also allowed insecurity, Jon, even if I don't display it in a scroll's worth of titles."

Sansa lightly runs her fingertips over the fabric of his singlet, trying to decide if she should ask him to take it off or if she should ask him to kiss her or what. She's determined to do what she must but that requires both of them. "What do you like? I'm not...I'm not a maiden. I know things. I know how to..."

Jon laughs, despite himself, and the smile he turns to Sansa is genuine, warm, and honest. "I apologize for that. When it comes to charm, I... I know nothing. You're absolutely right, you are the only woman I'm thinking of right now."

Her hand moves, and her expression is easy enough to read, at least for Jon to know where Sansa's mind has traveled, if not all of the conflicting thoughts behind it. Jon reaches up and closes his hand over hers. "I like kissing, I know that much. We can start there, easy enough." He leans in closer, letting his lips hover over hers, giving her time to close the gap.

Sansa hasn't had any real kisses that she's wanted. Joffrey's had been slimy and unskilled, Petyr's had been foisted on her unwanted and unbidden when she was still a maiden. Ramsay hadn't bothered with kissing when there was a knife or other things to use to hurt her or maim her.

Kissing is something singularly belonging to Jon, then, and she tilts her head a bit to kiss him, lips soft and unsure. She's not certain how it goes when it's a romantic kiss.

When Sansa doesn't do much more than offer her lips to him, Jon tumbles to the reason quickly enough, and as it so often did when considering how Sansa has been treated by fate when it comes to men, his heart ached with sorrow and fury in equal parts.

His first contact is soft and gentle, not much more than a brush of his lips against hers. And then the next is a bit more, a warm closing of his mouth on hers, tender and full of affection. Jon wants nothing more than for her to feel him through these kisses, and so he pours that warmth into them.

Jon is actually quite a wonderful kisser and for a moment, Sansa forgets what she must do in this bed and starts thinking about what she might like to do in it. Laying as she is, it's difficult to be comfortable and continue kissing him so she shifts a bit, shyly moving so she's astride him. She's learned that, at least, and leans down to kiss him a bit more.

"Is this...do you mind it, Jon? Like this?"

Shifting to make it easier for Sansa to move, Jon smiles up at her once she's in position atop him. The position rests her on his lap, her weight pressing most pleasantly on him. "I like it quite a bit, yeah," he replies with a smile. As they kiss some more, his hands gingerly find their way to Sansa's waist, holding her there.

"We could," Sansa murmurs, her breath coming out in a soft gasp. "I wouldn't have to undress or anything. I would only have to take off my smallclothes."

Sansa is uncomfortable about removing her nightgown but she thinks if she didn't have to, if she could do her duty without removing that last bit of safety, she could manage. "Would you be angry if I didn't take it off?"

"If that's what you'd like."

He gives her a warm, sympathetic smile as she makes her offer. "Sansa, I meant what I said-- if you don't feel up to it, it's all right. But to answer your question, no I wouldn't be mad at all." Jon reaches up to stroke her cheek gently.

Sansa lifts a bit and removes her smallclothes but she leaves her nightgown on for now. It's a layer of comfort for her, protection so Jon doesn't see the pain that's been wrought all over her body. It's not necessary for making children anyway, him seeing, and she would rather him not at the moment.

"We should try. I'll never be comfortable if we don't try and you married me so we could have heirs."

Jon nods and waits for her to do as she says. Soon, Sansa's astride him again, and he can feel the warmth of her on his skin. "I married you because it was the necessary thing to do, Sansa. And I'll be gentle and patient because I care about you. And I will wait if you want, but if you don't, then we need to go slowly."

He looks up at her, his face set and determined. "And before you do any more, we need to get you ready." Jon's hand slips downward between them until it finds its way under her nightgown. Very, very gently, his fingertips find her sex and start to slowly stroke. "Let me do this for you, Sansa," he whispers. "I can make this feel good. Or at least better."

Sansa shifts a bit, uncomfortable and shy. Any time she's been touched there, it's either been in pain or the probing of a septa confirming she's a maiden. It's never been something meant to pleasure her and while she wants to trust Jon, it's difficult to reconcile that with past experiences.

"I only ask that you let me see your face. I hate being on my stomach like an animal."

Jon nodded. Although it was something he'd done once or twice with Ygritte and the fiery Wildling girl had seemed to enjoy it fine, he suspected Sansa associated very different things with the position.

"Then look right at me, Sansa. In my eyes, nowhere else. Just me." Locking his gaze on her, his fingers continued to gently, softly stroke her, coaxing the girl's sex to warm and open for him in pleasure.

Sansa tips her head down, shy, and her hair comes down to shield her face. At least this way she doesn't have to look directly at Jon - until he asks her to look at him. She drags her eyes up and looks at him, trying to keep from shying away.

His fingers are soft and gentle against her, so different from any touch she's ever had before. "You'll be gentle? Please? It won't hurt?"

Jon's expression was hopeful, but serious. "It might, a little," he told Sansa. "I won't lie to you. But I'll make it as gentle and good for you as I can. And I know I can." Fingers stroke now, along her entire length before circling the bud above her entrance. "Breathe. Let yourself feel it."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject