Chapter Text
Westeros, Mississippi is a cancer.
That’s what Jon’s mother told him after Robb drowned. Her hands were shaking. She was crying as she said it.
“If we don’t leave now, we’ll never leave.”
They used to talk about it all of the time. They’d go to California and get a place close to the ocean. They’d wash their clothes at the laundromat and dry them on a clothesline. They’d get bikes to ride through the city. No one would know who they had been, or the place they had fled from.
But it wasn’t just about Westeros.
He was pretty sure she was talking about his father, too. His father, who he only saw on the weekends. His father, with his dying and sickly wife shut up in her bedroom. His father, who would come to their house when he thought he was sleeping, and go into his mother’s room. They thought he didn’t know.
Jon has always known too much.
They left in the middle of the night and didn't tell anyone.
It helped that they lived on the wrong side of the tracks, so nobody really cared what they did or where they went. Rhaegar did, but that was more of a recent development. The only person who always cared was Robb. He’d been coming over since they were little, with his shiny new shoes and back to school jeans and they’d go running through the forest, hunting for cicadas, and building forts. Then they got older and started playing pranks on the prissy Ole Miss girls, spraying bayou water all over their dresses, and stealing cigarettes from the drug store. Then they got older than that and started drinking abandoned moonshine they found in the hollows of tree trunks, and kissing girls.
But Robb was gone, and no one cared about them again. Everywhere was filled with a memory of him. Jon could hardly stand it.
So when his mama told him that they were leaving, he just got in the car and didn't say a word. They were in Massachusetts the next day.
But his mama came back.
She did it after he graduated high school, when he got into Boston college. She did it when he gave her no other choice.
Because he started noticing things about her.
Like how she didn’t have any friends at work and how she never went out. And that she spent most of the weekends sleeping. He noticed that she barely laughed anymore. He heard her cry herself to sleep on more than one occasion.
The day after his birthday, he found a Blackwater State application crumpled in the trash. She wanted to give it to him. She wanted to tell him she wanted to go back. But that evening, he started talking about Boston College and Amherst and UMass and he hadn’t even let her speak.
“Mom?”
He was standing in her bedroom doorway. It was spring. His heart felt like it weighed a thousand pounds in his chest.
“Yeah?” His mother looked up at him. She was folding clothes, and putting them away.
He was never one for smalltalk, so he just said it. “I think you should go home.”
Her brow creased in confusion. She knew he wasn’t referring to Chatham. “I thought we were moving to Boston.”
Last week, he had gotten three letters of acceptance. She had screamed so loudly and she started crying. She was so proud of him.
And Jon felt his heavy heart break. He spoke quietly, so his voice didn’t crack. “I’m moving to Boston, mom.”
She dropped her shirt. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s killing you.” He looked into her dark eyes, so much like his. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You need to go home. Back to Westeros. Where you’ll be happy.”
She didn’t say, this is home. She didn’t say, I’m already happy here. That was one thing he loved about his mom. She never lied to him—not purposefully.
“I can’t leave you.” She seemed offended that he would even suggest such a thing.
“You’re not leaving me. I’m not a kid.” Jon reminded her.
“You’ll always be a kid to me, Jon. My kid. My baby.” Her voice wavered. “I’m not leaving you. So you need to stop talking about this nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense.” His nails bit into his hands as he squeezed. “We were never gonna be together forever.”
His mother stepped back, as if he hit her.
“If you don’t leave me, then I’ll leave you first.” He continued. “And you don’t know which school I’ve chosen. So you can’t follow me.”
Tears were running down her cheeks. A sob burst from her lips. She muffled it with her hand.
He wasn’t going to cry.
He couldn’t.
“Where will you stay? How are you gonna make it on your own?” She demanded. “You need me to—”
“I don’t need you.” His eyes burned.
She flinched.
“I love you. So much.” Jon said, swallowing thickly. “But I don’t need you here. Mr. Mormont has a niece in Boston with an extra room. She said I could stay with her as long as I paid rent once I got a job. I don’t….I’m gonna be fine, Mama.”
You won’t if you stay with me.
“I need you.” She whispered. “What about me?”
“What you need is to be happy again.” He counted his breaths, making sure they were steady. “You need to go home.”
His mother sagged onto the bed, shoulders slumped, and shaking. He came to sit beside her, pulling her close. Like she used to do to him when she was little.
“You really don’t wanna go back there.” Her eyelashes were wet. Her lips trembled.
He was never going back there.
“You’ll go, and I’ll stay.” Jon whispered in her hair. “And we’ll be okay.”
Her breathing started to slow, but her voice was still choked. “I’ll visit.”
“Every holiday.” He promised. “It’ll be like you’re the one at college, and not me.”
She laughed, but it didn’t last. She was crying, again. And then he was crying too.
“We’ll be okay.” She said eventually.
12 years.
They were supposed to be okay for a lot longer than 12 years.
Jon’s first purchase when he gets back to Westeros is a bouquet of marigolds.
They aren’t his mom’s favorite flower by far—weren’t, he has to keep reminding himself—but the lady who ran the shop didn’t have any winter roses, and she was in the middle of closing up. He’s lucky he got anything at all.
He’s back at the cemetery, sitting in the BMW he got for his 16th birthday. It was Rhaegar’s way of trying to make it up to him for not being there the last 15 years before that. Jon told him to go to hell, then. But now, he needs a way to get around town, and he’s not blowing money on a rental.
Just being back in this town for six hours has meant swallowing a lot of his pride. Rhaegar paid for the entire funeral without telling him. He paid for his flight. He planned the reception afterwards. When Jon arrived, he felt like a stranger at his mother’s funeral rather than her only son. Children are supposed to take care of their parents, not let their father with a guilty conscience coddle them. The only thing he hadn’t touched was his mother’s house, and Jon is extremely relieved, because if he had, that would have been the last straw. He would have killed his own father, and had two dead parents instead of one.
It’s still something that he’s considering. It’s the main reason he’s at the cemetery right now, instead of at the pool house Rhaegar had made up for him to stay at. All of the hotels are filled thanks to the fourth of July festivities. Jon has no choice but to swallow his pride again, and take another handout from his father.
But he’ll see his mother one last time before he goes.
At the service, he lingered in the back. He didn’t wanna be seen. And a part of him didn’t wanna see the giant gaping hole his mother would be in for the rest of her life. But now, the hole is gone, filled back up with dirt. The coffin is six feet under. He hopes it’ll be easier this time.
Jon locks the car, and starts to make his way. The ground is uneven and patchy. The air is hot and humid. He undoes his tie with one hand, then the first few buttons of his shirt next. He starts breathing a little easier, but the ache in his chest doesn’t subside, neither does the tightness in his throat. He keeps going.
His mother’s grave would be unmistakable, because the dirt would be freshly turned, and there would be a place card instead of a tombstone. Apparently, those took a while to make, or so Rhaegar said. He tries to think back to Robb’s funeral and remember if he had one, but he comes up empty. It was such a long time ago.
Jon finds the grave no problem, but at first, he thinks that maybe the whiskey he had earlier wasn’t quite gone.
Ygritte is standing over his mother’s grave. But she’s not dressed like Ygritte. She’s wearing pink denim shorts and a big white men’s shirt and rollerskates. Ygritte wasn’t a stranger to men’s clothes, but she hated pink. And he didn’t think she could roller skate. Ygritte was also shorter than him. It had been awhile, but of that Jon is certain. But then he looks at the moonlight shining on her hair again and everything he knows feels like a lie.
She’s supposed to be gone.
“What are you doing here?” He hears himself say.
She turns.
It’s not Ygritte.
She doesn’t have enough freckles and her cheekbones are too high and her nose is too refined and her lashes are darker, longer. But he knows this face, too. He’s seen it in his nightmares, over the years, which takes place in this same cemetery, just a couple yards away.
Sansa Stark is all grown up.
She doesn’t say anything to him, but she gives him this look. He thinks it’s relief. He hopes it is. But it just seems too sad to be true. Jon can’t help but feel like he’s disappointing her, even though he’s never had as much of a conversation with her.
She extends her hand. She’s holding a winter rose, thorns and all.
His heart stops.
He doesn’t have time to focus on that, though, Her hand is soaked in red. He takes the rose from her hand, and drops it in the dirt to inspect the damage the thorns did. “You’re bleeding.”
Sansa doesn’t seem to be in any pain. In fact, she looks at her hand and frowns at it like it’s an inconvenient weather forecast. “Oh.”
“Wait here.” He tells her.
Jon rushes back to his car. He didn’t bring a first aid kit. He should take her to the hospital. But judging from her dazed, delayed reaction, that would only summon questions from the doctors. He doesn’t want to get her in trouble. He only wants to help her. He grabs a shirt from his suitcase, and the whiskey bottle.
Sansa is sitting on a tombstone, straight backed and legs crossed over each other like she’s at some kind of pageant. She smiles at him, and he suddenly remembers that case of trophies he saw in her bedroom that one time, when he walked in on Robb having a tea party with her.
“You took quite awhile.” Her voice is lower than he expected. A warm, viscous, honey kind of low that takes him aback. Makes him uncomfortable. “I’m cold.”
She’s sweating. Her hair is up now. Stray strands are sticking to the side of her face. There’s a fine sheen of perspiration on her skin. It makes her skin look ethereal in the moonlight. The shirt she’s wearing is unbuttoned, revealing white, frilly, lace and a swell of pale skin.
Jon resolves to only look at her face.
“I’m sure you are.” He gets down on his knees in front of her and inspects her hand.
“Did you get that whiskey from your car?” Sansa asks. Then, she narrows her eyes playfully, “Are you drinking and driving?”
He uncaps the whiskey and decides he needs a swig. It burns going down. He clears his throat. “Are you roller skating around town high at two in the morning?”
She laughs. It unsettles him. It’s the kind of laugh that makes everyone else laugh, too. But Jon doesn’t want to laugh. He decides to be irritated instead.
“I think it’s good you have whiskey on you.” Sansa says. “That means you haven’t gone completely yankee on us.”
He snorts. “Believe it or not, Sansa, there are worse things that could happen to a person.”
“You remember me?”
Jon looks up to find her eyes slightly widened in surprise. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She doesn’t say anything to that, just looks away. He thinks she might be trying not to smile.
Her injured hand is slender and soft. Her nails are lavender. He warns her, “This is gonna sting a little, but we’ve gotta get this clean or it’ll get infected.”
Sansa is back to being coy. “I’m a big girl. As long as you kiss it better afterwards, I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Jon feels his neck and face flush. He dismisses it as a byproduct of the heat, and pours the whiskey on her hand. She winces, but doesn’t do anything else.
“I’m sorry about your mama.” She says, as he’s dabbing her hand clean with his spare shirt.
He’s gotten so many apologies today, but he doesn’t mind hers because she knows what it means to lose someone. He begins to tie the shirt around her hand. “I’m sorry about your father.”
Sansa flinches. It’s nearly imperceptible, but Jon still catches it. “It was a while ago.”
His mother had told him Ned died in a car accident. It had been four years since she moved back. Jon was genuinely sorry to hear it.
“Still. I liked him.” After securing the makeshift shirt bandage in place, he sets her hand aside. “And I know he’d be worried sick if he knew you were out at this time of night like this.”
Sansa narrows her eyes at him again, but this time it isn’t so coy. “Are you gonna tell him?”
Jon scowls.
“I’m taking you home.” He stands up. “Your mother’s probably got half the police in town looking for you by now. Come on.”
He begins to make his way towards the car, but stops when he doesn’t hear her behind him. He turns to find her still sitting on that tombstone. She’s inspecting her nails. “I don’t recall asking you for a ride.”
Apparently, mentioning Ned and his desires for her wellbeing had been the wrong move.
“I don’t recall asking you if you needed a ride. I recall telling you.” Jon says coolly, even though his temper is bristling. “Let’s go. Now.”
He understands where she’s coming from, understands more than ever, but it seems from the beginning of this conversation, she was determined to push his buttons. And even though she’s annoying, he’s not leaving her out in the dark.
Sansa glowers, and stomps after him. “Living up north has really deprived you of all your manners.”
“That’s a funny way of saying thank you for helping me.”
“Thank you for forcing your company on me.”
“It’s my mother’s grave. You forced your company on me.”
She falls into a stony silence at that, and he almost thinks he’s gotten her to shut up. But she keeps going.
“You’ve been gone a long time. I’m not six anymore, and I don’t live with my mama. I live at Kappa house.”
Ole Miss. Of course. Jon scoffs.
“Is there something wrong with that?” She prompts.
“Did I say something was wrong with that?” He shoots back.
“Your tone implied it.”
“I didn’t say anything, so there was no tone.”
“You scoffed. That’s an implication in itself.”
He grinds his jaw, praying for strength.
But Sansa just keeps going, “My mother was a Kappa, too.”
Now, Jon can’t help himself. “‘Course she was.”
She grabs him by the inside of his arm with a surprisingly good grip. Not enough to stop him, but he stops anyway. She’s glaring at him full on, and he feels hot all over. Something is expanding in his chest.
“If you have something to say, I suggest you spit it out before you choke on it.” She hisses.
He thinks about the Ole Miss girls and their mothers, who always gave his mama nasty looks in the store all because of who his father was, and he thinks of their fancy cars and big mansions and he’s just—
He’s had enough.
“It’s the same old redundant cycle. Sweet little upper crest Westeros debutantes get into Blackwater University and rush kappa or delta or iota whatever. Then they ultimately end up with an asshole that thinks draft beer should be a religion. Then they marry him, cuz there’s nothing else to do, and pop out two and a half kids that are equally as judgemental and smallminded as them. And then it repeats itself. Sound familiar?”
“My parents weren’t like that.” Sansa says hotly, fists balled up at her sides. Her lips are so tight they’re white. She’s angry. That makes him feel better.
“You don’t know that. None of us really know our parents.” Jon keeps walking. “Especially girls like you who wear rose colored glasses they don’t take off until they’re stuck in a loveless marriage of their own—”
“Not my parents.”
She shouts the words and they quaver but somehow they still remain strong. Jon stops walking. When he turns to look at her, his eyes are wet and her lower lip is trembling and—
He feels like shit.
Sansa takes a shaky breath and looks him dead in the eye. “Say whatever you want about me, about this town, but leave them out of it. I don’t have much left of my father. Just memories. Those are mine. If you liked him so much, you wouldn’t try to take them away from me just because of some grudge you have against our entire town.”
Jon wants to apologize, he wants to make it right. He wants her to stop looking at him like that. “I’m—”
She cuts him off. “No! I’m sorry. I am so terribly sorry that we can’t measure up to your big city expectations. I’m sorry we can’t all break through the glass ceiling and be national merit scholars and write dissertations on old men who lived like—a million years ago—but that doesn’t mean you get to walk around and be cruel.”
She’s finished and she’s breathing hard. She looks like she feels a little better. It certainly alleviates the guilt on his shoulders. But he’s still stuck on her words. National Merit Scholar. His published dissertations.
He asks, “Have you been reading about me?”
It’s the wrong thing to say.
Sansa turns as scarlet as her hair and she throws her hands up, marching onto the pavement. She momentarily forgets she has on rollerskates and nearly falls face forward, but Jon reaches out, and steadies her by the waist with his hands.
She accepts the help because she has no other choice, holding onto his collar as she rights herself. Then she looks at him. In the skates, she’s just a little taller. Her pupils aren’t as wide as they were earlier. Her eyelashes are wet with tears.
His heart sinks.
“I’m sorry.” Jon says quietly. “I was just mad. I don’t really believe that about your dad...I was out of line.”
She sniffles, fingers still curled around his collar. “You still don’t like my mama, though.”
He cringes inwardly. “If it helps, I’m sure plenty of other people find her lovely.”
“It’s okay.” She looks away. “I understand why.”
Robb. She’s thinking about him. Jon doesn’t know how he knows this, but he does. Does she remember the funeral? She must if she remembers him.
“What about me?” Sansa says, finally.
“What about you?”
She says it all unsure, voice a little tentative. “Do you like me?”
And he looks at her. Really looks at her. This face that looks so much like the one that belonged to the person he loved second most in the world. Same nose. Same eyes. Same sharp jaw. But there’s differences, too. She’s soft where Robb was brash. Quick witted where Robb tended to be slow on the uptake. Sad where Robb was hopeful. But Jon knows she has a reason to be sad.
She lost him, too.
“Yeah.” He whispers. “I like you just fine.”
Her gaze flickers to his mouth.
Jon feels like he can’t breathe.
Sansa blushes, looking away. “It’s getting late. Can you take me home now?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Sure. Come on.”
Jon opens the door for her. She buckles her seatbelt. Then, they’re on the road. She takes off her skates and rubs the soles of her feet through her frilly socks. The car ride takes 10 minutes. They don’t talk.
They should talk. She looked at his mouth. If he doesn’t talk, things will be weird between them. But he’ll be gone soon—so why does he care?
“How old are you, now?”
It sounds weirder than he intends it to, creepier, but Sansa doesn’t seem like she minds. She leans back against the headrest. Kappa house is coming into view.
“20.”
“Oh.” Jon clears his throat. Not nearly as young as he thought. “Well, my mom got us out of here when she was 32. She was a clerk at the county office. She barely graduated high school. You don’t have to be a national merit scholar to get out of here, you know. You just have to want it bad enough.”
The car has come to a stop, now. She hasn’t gotten out yet. He doesn’t really want her to.
“I don’t know what I want.” She says softly.
“You have time.” He assures her. “You’ll know when you do.”
“How?”
Jon frowns. He’s never really thought about it like that before.
“Well—haven’t you ever wanted something so bad you could taste it? Wished for something?”
And Sansa laughs at that. It’s a sad one. “What’s that saying? If wishes were fishes….we’d all be fisherman.”
She looks at them, then. He’s reminded of the look she gave him when she saw him earlier. Relieved and defeated.
“I gave you so many of my wishes, Jon.”
He doesn’t understand.
But Sansa is opening the door. She tosses over her shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Wait.” He calls after her, desperate and lost.
But she’s already jogging up the stairs, and gone.
The next morning at breakfast, Jon learns that Rhaegar’s reign of terror is very much not over.
They’re having a garden party.
“This is stupid.” Jon snaps.
“It’s not stupid.” Rhaegar says evenly. “We’re honoring your mother.”
“With a bunch of people who did nothing but talk shit about her?”
His placid expression darkens at the profanity. “It’s not about the people. It’s about saving the Glass Gardens. It was very important to her.”
Jon knows that. The Lannisters were intent on taking that land and making it into a crop of business buildings, and his mother wasn’t having it. Whenever they talked, she’d inform him about all the new signatures she got on her petition, and how the fundraiser was coming along. She was so excited about it.
He should have asked her more about it.
“I understand your need to punish me,” Rhaegar flexes his hand. “But don’t take it out on her.”
It’s like a slap to the face.
Jon pushes away from the table, furious. “Not everything is about you.”
He’s heading to the door, when Rhaegar calls after him, sounding very tired, “Wylla left clothes for you in the pool house.”
“I have clothes.”
“None of them are suitable for a garden party.”
Jon continues storming away, and Rhaegar shouts, “For the love of god, do not come out of this house wearing black it is gonna be 82 degrees!”
He finds a pair of charcoal slacks and a shirt a few shades lighter. It is admittedly more formal than anything else he had brought with him, so he decides to let Rhaegar win another battle. He showers and gets dressed, ignoring the dread in the pit of his stomach, His mom would want him to go. That’s who mattered. Not everyone else who would be there.
And everyone is there.
Everyone rich, anyway. The Tyrells, the Baratheons, the Arryn’s, and the Royce’s and so on. Even the Lannisters, as it would be extremely distasteful by southern etiquette not to show up to a dead woman’s fundraiser. Jon recognizes people he went to school with what felt like a million years ago. People who never even looked at him with anything but contempt, but smile at him now, and offer their condolences. He accepts them, but he does not smile back. He won’t forgive or forget.
His father keeps an iron grip on him. Jon knows he’s enjoying this—strutting his eldest son around like a pageant girl. All Jon has to do is stand there, and Rhaegar tells them all about his degrees and his essays and his life in the city like he had something to do with it.
“So you’re a teacher?” Olenna Tyrell’s beady dark eyes are slightly narrow. She isn’t covert about her distaste.
Jon grits his teeth. “Yep.”
“He’s a scholar, mother.” Alerie Tyrell corrects, fingering her pearls. “He said he does research, too. He only teaches sometimes.”
“Someone needs to shape young minds.” Tyrion Lannister tips his glass at him with a wink. “I think with Jon up at Yale, our children have a chance.”
“Bold of you to assume any of them are going to get into Yale.” Olenna Tyrell sneers.
Tyrion just laughs.
“You have such a wonderful pair of sons, Rhaegar.” Alerie beams at him. “Jon with his brains and Aegon with his brawn.”
“Speaking, of Aegon, it looks like he’s finally arrived.” Rhaegar flashes a smile, and beckons him over.
He says this as if he hasn’t been furiously texting Aegon in between mingling, demanding his location. Personally, Jon thought it was strange to invite his son by his first wife to his late mistresses’ garden fundraiser, but he wasn’t going to raise hell about it. Him and Aegon are practically strangers that have an intense dislike for each other flowing through their blood.
“Yeah, let me know when that’s done with.” Jon says under his breath to Rhaegar, and excuses himself from all four people. He finds a quiet, undisturbed corner with tulips and decides to smoke. Better than drinking. He needs his wits about him.
A girl makes her way towards him. She’s wearing a funny looking mint green dress and a hat to match. Most of the women here are wearing hats. It’s a southern staple. This girl doesn’t seem to be enjoying hers. She yanks it off her head and runs her fingers through her dark bob, and gestures to his cigarette. “You mind?”
She can’t be anymore than a high schooler, but Jon knows he’s the last one that should be judging. He hands it off to her. “Not at all.”
She accepts it, taking a drag. She holds it a minute before exhaling. She’s definitely been doing this awhile.
“Stupid hat.” She throws her hat down onto the floor, stomping on it with a kitten heel. Jon can’t help but snicker.
“Having fun?”
She snorts. “‘Bout as much fun as you.”
Fair enough. They keep passing the cigarette back and forth.
“My mama forced me to come.” The girl rolls her gray eyes, “She doesn’t even like these people. The ones throwing this party.”
He smirks. “I don’t like them much, either.”
“At least they give everyone something to talk about.” She shrugs. “Nothing ever happens in this town. I swear to God, the Targaryens are the closest thing we have to the Kardashians.”
Jon chuckles at that.
“Arya!”
“Shit.” The girl beside him mutters, shoving the cigarette back into his hand. She hurriedly picks her hat back up and tries to rub grass stains out of it.
The source of her panic is a flurry of pink making its way towards them. Gracefully, of course. She teeters effortlessly in her heels and her face is framed by coppery pin curls. She’s wearing a floppy, pink sun hat with flowers.
Jon knows her.
“Mama has been looking for you everywhere! What are you doing with—”
“Sansa.” He blurts dumbly, rudely, like he’s incapable of waiting for her to finish her sentence.
“Jon?” She stops short. Her cheeks go as pink as her dress. Her hand flutters to the gold chain on her neck.
He stamps out the cigarette hurriedly. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
He should have. The Starks are as rich as anyone else here. Of course they’d be here.
“You’re Jon?” The girl—Arya, so much older than he last saw her, says in shock. “Jon Snow?”
He doesn’t answer, uncomfortable.
Arya blanches. “Listen, all that stuff I said about your family—”
“What did you do?” Sansa interjects, horrified.
“Nothing.” Jon assures her. “She was just joking.”
“I’m sure it was hilarious.” She glares at Arya, and snatches up her hand. “Come on.”
“I’m mingling!” Arya rears back out of her grasp. “Isn’t that what y’all wanted me to do?”
“Mama said mingling not pestering.”
“She’s not pestering me.” Jon says immediately.
Now, Sansa glares at him. “Your capacity for patience must have grown prodigiously since we last conversed.”
He’s trying not to laugh, because honestly, he has a PhD and even he doesn’t use the word prodigiously in everyday conversation, but it’s also really cute, and so is the way she’s scowling at his failure to hide his amusement.
“There you are, baby. I’ve been looking for you.”
Every last drop of mirth in his body circles the metaphorical drain.
Aegon is looping an arm around Sansa’s waist, pressing a kiss to the apple of her cheek. At the sight of Jon, his lilac eyes narrow, but other than that, he ignores him completely, as he always has. Which is fine.
What is not fine is the way Sansa leans into his embrace like she’s his missing puzzle piece.
“I’m supposed to be keeping a tight leash on this one.” She gestures to Arya, who scowls.
“Well, you can shove that leash right up your prissy little—”
“Arya Lyarra Stark.”
Now Catelyn Stark is storming over towards them, voice carrying in an obviously perfected whisper yell that only catches the attention necessary. Arya and Sansa both cringe at the same time.
“What happened to your hat?” She demands.
“It makes my head hot.” Arya complains.
Catelyn is clearly about to rip into her more, but her gaze catches on Jon and her face shrivels up. It seems to ice over. Her eyes are so frosty he doesn’t even feel the heat anymore.
And he deserves it.
“Mrs. Stark.” Aegon steps in smoothly, successfully diverting her attention with southern pleasantries. “You look stunning.”
Catelyn smiles at him, although it is clearly false she seems to thaw slightly. “That’s very kind of you, Aegon.”
“I saw the most stunning orchid, and it reminded me of your eyes.” Aegon tells her with a dazzling smile, “Will you allow me to show it to you?”
She isn’t stupid. She knows a diversionary tactic when she sees one. But it’s one that she allows. “I don’t see why not.” Aegon offers his arm out to her, and she takes it. “Come on, Arya. Let’s go see it.”
Arya groans, but trails behind her mother, shoulders slumped, like she knows better than to provoke her mother’s ire again.
Sansa moves to follow them, but Jon catches her by the elbow. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. All he can think about is the last time he saw Catelyn Stark, at Robb’s funeral, yelling that it was his fault, because he wouldn’t have been in that river if he wasn’t friends with Jon, while six year old Sansa stood with her dad, watching. He always thought she blamed him, too.
Does she blame him too?
She covers her hand with his. Not to hold it, but to disentangle herself from him. She gives him that same, sad look he doesn’t understand but hates so much. “I’ll see you around, Jon.”
It’s not a yes.
But it’s not a no.
He doesn’t think he’s gonna see her around, and that bothers him more than it should. He tries to ignore it.
Jon spends the next morning at his mother’s house packing things up. He gets the entire kitchen and the living room done before the afternoon. He’s drenched with sweat, and desperately needs a shower. He heads back to his father’s house.
He doesn’t expect to see Sansa there.
There’s a lot of people there, but she’s the only one he notices. She’s standing on the side of the pool, resting her knee on the pool chair. She’s only wearing her swimsuit—a green two piece that doesn’t cover much but the essentials. Her skin is pale and soft, dotted with the occasional freckle and he’s so focused on the fact that he’s seeing so much of it, he doesn’t notice that she’s with Aegon.
He’s sitting on the pool chair as she rubs sunscreen into his shoulders and his face. His hands rest on her ass like he owns it, running up and down her legs and his face is in the slope of her shoulder and—
Jon feels like he’s gonna be sick. He slams the door to the pool house behind him a little harder than necessary.
He showers and changes. He intended on getting some rest, but Aegon’s guests are making it difficult, which he is 100% sure is the goal of the get together in the first place. Jon decides to head back into the main house for something to eat. In front of the glass sliding door, he glances at the pool chair. Sansa isn’t there anymore.
He happens upon her in the kitchen, dumping tortilla chips onto a large plate. Jon catches her attention by clicking his zippo.
Sansa drops the bag of chips, startling. At the sight of him, she breathes a sigh of relief. “Goodness, you scared me.”
Goodness. Even her lack of profanity irritates him at the moment. He bypasses her to get to the kitchen table, and lights a cigarette.
She purses her lips disapprovingly. “It’s not polite to smoke in the house.”
Jon inhales and exhales extra long. “Does it offend you?”
“If I said yes, would you stop?”
“I’d consider it.”
Sansa walks around the island to stand in front of him. She takes the cigarette from him. He assumes she’s gonna put it out, but instead she presses it to her lips. She doesn’t cough once when she releases the smoke.
Then she leans forward close, so close Jon’s breath hitches. He can smell her—lavender and chlorine and now smoke, his smoke.
She reaches up, and her stomach brushes his shoulder as she pushes up the window to let some air in.
Sansa withdraws, handing him back his cigarette. “If you’re gonna be belligerent, at least open a window, darlin’.”
Darlin’. She coats the word in her honeyed voice, making it sound like something it isn’t. Jon ignores it. “You and Aegon, huh?”
She takes out a spoon and begins to scoop homemade bean dip out of a glass dish. “Do they read minds up north, Jon? Am I supposed to know what you’re trying to say without you actually saying it?”
He continues casually. “You guys must be pretty serious if he’s already training you to be his housewife.”
Sansa scowls. “Making a snack for my boyfriend is far from being ensnared by the shackles of the patriarchy.”
“I thought you Ole Miss girls were big fans of the patriarchy. You’re telling me you didn’t get the recipe for that bean dip from your little kappa handbook?”
And for the second time in three days, Jon watches her lose her temper.
“You have quite the obsession with the women of this town.” She’s in his face, now. “Why? Did some Westerosi girl break your heart? Didn’t give you the time of day? Is that why you didn’t come back? You couldn’t stand the thought of being rejected again?” She laughs meanly. “That’s probably it. And now you prefer city girls, right? ‘Cuz you don’t like putting in work. ‘Cuz you run when things get tough—”
Jon stands up so they’re eye to eye. Anger is simmering hot in his blood and he’s never been so angry at someone in his life but he’s also registering the way her mouth parts and her throat moving as she swallows and her cheeks coloring.
“I’ve got no problem putting in work, sweetheart.” He says lowly. “National merit scholar, remember?”
She licks her lips, and something stirs in his gut.
“Almost done?” Aegon calls from the living room, as the sliding glass door opens.
“Almost.” Sansa calls back, voice even. But she backtracks over to the island just seconds before Aegon enters the room. He wraps an arm around her neck, but it’s Jon he addresses.
His tone is mocking, as his nose runs against the slope of Sansa’s shoulder. “Hope we’re not being too noisy, professor.”
It’s the first bit of conversation they’ve exchanged since he’s arrived, and anger burns hot in Jon’s chest, even though he couldn’t care less about the remark. He’s never wanted to punch his brother before. He’s so taken aback by it, he says nothing.
“You forgot this out there.” Aegon murmurs in Sansa’s ear. He produces the gold chain she wore to the garden party yesterday and fixes the clasp around her neck. She forces a smile.
“Wouldn’t want you to lose it.” He smooths it over her neck. “You know I love how it looks on you.”
Jon is clenching his jaw so hard his teeth might crack.
“Do me a favor and be quick about this, baby. Guys are starving. Bring a couple more beers while you’re at it.” Aegon pats her on the ass.
“Of course.” Sansa kisses him on the cheek, but then he pulls her back, and he kisses her on the mouth.
Jon leaves.
A few days later, he leaves his mother’s house in a foul, hopeless sort of mood after talking to Joy Hill about selling it. He needs a drink. He’s thinking about making himself one when he hears a muffled yawn from the living room.
Rhaegar is at work. Aegon’s car hadn’t been in the driveway. Today is Wylla’s only day off. He decides to investigate the noise.
Sansa is curling up on the couch, feet underneath her. But at the sight of him, she immediately sits up straight backed with her hands in her lap.
“I don’t think Aegon is here.” He doesn’t look her in the eye. He doesn’t ask her why she has a key.
“I know. He’s at practice.” She says quickly. “But Kappa house is under repair so he told me I could stay with y’all until it gets fixed.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t know how to feel about this, even if it is reasonable. Her mother’s house is pretty far from campus.
“Your daddy doesn’t mind.” She adds.
Jon doesn’t doubt it. “He’s feeling very charitable lately.”
Sansa bites her lip, looking up at him. “Do you mind?”
There are a lot of things he can think of that he minds.
“No.” He clears his throat. “Knock yourself out.”
He enters the kitchen. Unexpectedly, she follows him. Jon tries to act like he thinks nothing of it, but really, his mind is racing and so is his heart. He remembers what almost happened the last time they were in this kitchen.
“Look—is there any chance we can call a truce?” She perches on a stool. “I don’t like fighting with you.”
The fighting itself isn’t the problem. It’s what always comes after the fighting—the accidental intimacy. The less fights they had, the better. He resolves this with himself, looking her in the eye. “Alright.”
She holds her hand out. “Friends?”
Jon swallows.
Then he shakes her hand. “Friends.”
The smile she gives him is enough to make him forget about the shit day he’s had. It’s a genuine one. Not careful, or coy. But real. Limited edition.
“As your friend, I feel obligated to tell you if you start drinking that, you’re gonna be two sheets to the wind in as little as an hour.”
Jon takes out a glass, undeterred. “That’s the mission.”
Sansa takes his glass from his hand, rather than the decanter. He doesn’t understand why, not even after she fills it half full with iced tea. Then, she takes the whiskey from him to top it off.
“There you go.” She hands it to him.
He takes it. “What is this?”
“It’s gonna keep you from blacking out. It dilutes the liquor but leaves just enough for a nice buzz. My mama used to make it for my daddy after a long day.”
Jon takes a tentative sip. It doesn’t taste nearly as strong, but it’s easier to drink. “Thanks.”
Sansa’s face softens, then. “Did you have a bad day?”
He drinks a little more. “Something like that.”
“What happened?”
He hesitates, and she prods him. “Come on. Friends tell each other things. You do know that?”
Jon knows that for a fact. He has two best friends—his coworker Sam, and of course Dacey, who he lived with during his undergrad years at Boston. But they wouldn’t understand. No one outside of Westeros could understand what happened on the inside of it.
“I’m gonna be here longer than anticipated. I can’t sell my mom’s place just yet.” He says finally.
Her eyebrows raise. “You’re staying?”
“Just until I fix it all up. I have to find a contractor.”
“Is the house that bad?
Jon sighs, rubbing at his temples. “No one is gonna buy a house with the plumbing problems, no AC, and a sagging foundation. It’s all gotta be fixed.”
“My uncle could help.” Sansa offers.
“The one with the wine dispensary?” His brow creases in confusion.
She laughs, and it’s a pretty, tinkling sound. “No. The one that’s a contractor. He’s pretty good. I could give you his number, if you want.”
“You’d do that?”
“Why not? Friends help each other.”
Jon really can’t figure out why, but he’s really starting to hate that word coming out of her mouth.
Sansa takes a post-it pad Wylla uses for groceries off the fridge, and a pen that doubles as a fridge magnet. She scribbles down six digits, and hands it to him with a smile. “Now you can’t say an Ole miss girl has never shown you kindness.”
He laughs, despite himself. “If it all works out with your uncle, I’ll even start calling you guys angels.”
“Not all Ole Miss girls.” She brushes past him, throwing her words over her shoulder. “Just me.”
He looks at her in her white baby doll dress, with a pink bow tying her hair back. His chest aches something fierce.
“Yeah.” He mutters when she’s gone. “Just you.”
Having Sansa in the house is different.
She’s like a comforting, ruffling breeze. Every morning, she comes into the kitchen and stifles a yawn and greets anyone up—usually just him. She pours an unnecessary amount of cream and sugar into her coffee from a fresh pot Wylla makes before starting to clean.
“You put so much creamer in that you might as well drink straight from the bottle.” He told her one morning.
“I’ve tried that once.” She answered, wrinkling her nose as if she could still remember the taste.
The reason she’s always up so early is because she has morning classes. It’s another thing he finds strange about her.
“Why are you taking classes during the summer? Are you a psychopath?” He asked her another day, watching her slather strawberry cream cheese on a bagel. Both sides.
“Keeping my brain big and beautiful.” Sansa sucks some cream cheese off her finger. “Us country folk like to read too.”
These moments are the only time Jon gets to see her without Aegon, so he likes these moments a lot. More than he should. Every time he tries to pull back, she says good morning to him and he finds himself looking for things to ask her just so he can hear more of her voice.
On Friday, the sixth day of their new living arrangement, Sansa shuffles into the kitchen sleepily. “Morning.”
Jon’s mouth drops open.
Sansa pours herself a cup of coffee complete with her lake of creamer and stirs. When he continues not to speak, she looks up, taking a sip. “No witty remark today?”
He tries to think of something to say, but he can’t. All he can see is her in front of him. He blurts, “You’re wearing my shirt.”
Sansa looks down at herself curiously. “What?”
The black one he tied up her hand with that night in the cemetery. The reason he chose it was because it was old, and had two holes in the neck. That’s how he recognizes it hanging off her back now. It nearly swallows her.
“Sorry. I thought it was Aegon’s.” She’s flushing bright pink now. “I’ll go change and I can wash it—”
“No. No. It’s fine.” Jon insists, clearing his throat. “I gave it to you, anyway.”
“As a bandaid, not to wear.” She still looks very embarrassed.
“No harm done.” He drinks his coffee just to give him something to do, and scalds his tongue. “Aegon didn’t see.”
Then, Sansa’s embarrassment fades. “I highly doubt he’d notice.”
She averts her eyes and says it lightly, but he catches the undercurrent of bitterness. He loathes it.
“I don’t see how.”
She shrugs. “He doesn’t even notice when I get a new dress. I doubt he’d notice me wearing another guy’s shirt.”
“You’re impossible not to notice.” Jon says, just barely loud enough for her to hear.
He’s focusing on the cabinet behind her, rather than her reaction. He’s scared at what he’ll find. But he notices that out of his peripheral vision, she’s coming closer. So close he can smell her. So close he has no choice but to look at her.
Her blue eyes are soft and warm and tender. Her hand comes up to cup his cheek. “I knew there was a reason.”
“A reason for what?” He’s breathing again. He hadn’t even realized he stopped.
Her eyes darken with an emotion he can’t describe. “Why I gave you so many of my wishes.”
And then she’s gone, slipping through his fingers like water. She doesn’t look at him again. She leaves without her coffee.
And he misses her already.
Later that night, as Jon is trying to sleep, he hears a commotion. Splashing in the water. Probably Aegon trying to piss him off.
He’s had enough.
Jon exits the poolhouse, intent on giving him a piece of his mind, but he’s stopped short by the sight in front of him. He’s standing in the pool. Sansa is in his arms, unconscious.
“What the hell are you doing?” He rushes forward.
Aegon looks up. His face is blanched and his eyes are red and unfocused. “She won’t wake up.”
His heart stammers. “What?”
Aegon just looks at her helplessly.
Jon jumps into the water, clothes and all, wading towards them. She doesn’t even stir at the movement. Panic is rising in his throat.
“What did she take?” He demands.
“Oxy. I think.”
“You think?”
“I saw her drink something, too.”
Jon takes her into her arms, letting the water cover more of her body. It’s ice cold, a shock against his own skin, but Sansa isn’t moving. He curses.
“It’s not my fault.” Aegon insists. “She knows not to drink stuff I don’t give her.”
“Shut up.” He has never hated anyone like he hates his half brother at that moment. “Go call for help! She needs help.”
But Aegon doesn’t move. He just stands there, kind of shocked, and Jon isn’t leaving her alone with him. He lets the water reach her neck, and hesitates. He blinks and sees Robb floating in that river. He feels like he’s gonna be sick. Jon takes her body underneath water for all of three seconds, and breaks the surface again.
Sansa splutters in his arms, coughing and thrashing, but he holds her close to him, relieved. Her entire body shakes.
“You’re okay.” Jon soothes her. “You’re alright, angel.”
She continues to cough, but relaxes against him, exhausted. He helps her out of the pool, wrapping a towel he gets from inside around her. Aegon is holding her.
“How do you feel?” Jon asks her.
She doesn’t even look at him, just stares ahead blankly, head against Aegon’s shoulder.
“She’s tired.” Aegon says. “I’ll take her to bed.”
Jon glares at him. “Can you be trusted to do that?”
For a second, Aegon almost looks hurt, but he turns away from him, and directs his words to Sansa. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”
He ends up carrying her. Sansa wraps her arms around his shoulders, and lets him. She does not look at Jon as she goes inside. Worry eats away at him, as he follows them all the way to the foot of the stairs, and watches them go.
Aegon comes back down later on. Jon wastes no time shoving him up against a wall.
“Have you ever considered caring about anyone other than yourself?” He hisses.
Aegon pushes him away. He’s taller. Broader. It’s easy for him. But Jon doesn’t care. Quarter back or not, he wants to kill him.
“I love her!” His voice rises.
“Act like it!” Jon shouts back.
“Who do you think you are? I don’t have to prove myself to you!”
“Then prove yourself to her!”
“What is going on here?”
Rhaegar is standing in the doorway; looking rumpled and confused at the commotion. He looks between them, seeming bemused at the fact that they’re actually interacting.
“Ask him.” Jon snaps, and he storms back outside, to the pool house.
He doesn’t sleep that night.
Jon gets back from meeting with Benjen Stark, who has agreed to fix his mother’s house up, the next day. A new time frame is echoing in his head. Till the end of August. That isn’t so far away, just a month. At least now, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
He’s barely back for five minutes when there’s a knock at his door. Nobody ever knocks except Wylla, so he feels comfortable answering.
It’s not Wylla.
Sansa is smiling that pretty pageant smile at him, looking a great deal better than she had last night. Her skin has color again. Her eyes have life again. She’s carrying a tupperware box.
“Good afternoon.” She chirps.
“You’re okay.” There’s a large lump clogging his throat and it’s steadily dissolving. He’s so relieved his shoulders sag.
“I’m fine.” Her smile flickers, returning a bit dimmer. “Can I come in?”
He nods.
“I made you these.” Sansa thrusts the tupperware into his hand.
It’s full of sugar cookies. They’re all perfectly round and plump like biscuits. Jon stares at them blankly, “Why?”
“To say thank you, silly.” She says. “For helping me last night.
Jon steps forward, then. The movement is so sudden he watches her eyebrows raise a little, but he doesn’t care. He grasps her chin in his hands firmly, but gently.
“I don’t need a thank you. Just don’t do it again.”
Sansa looks down. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need that, either.” He whispers.
She leans into his touch, eyes meeting his. Her eyes are tender and soft again. Jon feels like his entire body is cracked open and she can see every horrible thing he has inside of him. He doesn’t want her to.
“What happened?” He asks. “Did someone slip something in your drink? Did Aegon—”
Sansa pulls away, then. Her entire face seems to just shut down, as she looks away. “I took it by myself.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t get it.”
“Make me get it.” Jon demands, helpless and angry.
“I can’t!” She shouts. “I just can’t! It feels like everything bad always happens to me and my family and nothing good! So sometimes, I wanna feel good! I wanna stop feeling lost. I wanna stop missing people I can’t bring back. I wanna be free.”
Her voice is choked and her lower lip is trembling and he hates that she’s right. He hates that he doesn’t get it.
“I’m always supposed to do exactly what I have to. Nothing more. Nothing less. I’m always supposed to be in control—I don’t wanna be in control anymore.”
Silence envelops them, thick and abrupt. He doesn’t know what to say, and he doesn’t know how to say it.
“I told you that you wouldn’t get it.” Sansa says flatly.
She leaves.
The next time he sees her is that night, holding Aegon’s hand. They’re dressed, and heading downstairs.
“Where are you going?” Jon calls out.
Aegon replies coldly, “None of your business.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” He snaps, and then he looks at Sansa. “Don’t tell me you’re going out again. After what just happened?”
“I’ll be fine.” She isn’t meeting his eyes.
“You probably thought you were gonna be fine last time.” He argues. “You’re not going. Neither of you.
Aegon surges forward, snarling. “Please give me an excuse to fucking deck you.”
Jon doesn’t stand down. In fact, he would have shoved him if not for Sansa coming between them. She’s pushing him towards the door.
“Egg.” She says softly. “Let’s just go. Come on.”
Aegon shakes his head, fists tight, but he exits the front door. Sansa moves to follow him, and Jon calls her name.
“Stop!” It’s loud and it’s hurting and she’s giving him that look he hates so much. “You don’t get to do this. It’s too late. Just stop it—please.”
It’s too late. Too late for what?
“What do you want from me?” He asks her, bemused and begging and aching.
“I want…” She hesitates, eyes shining with tears. “I’ve always wanted too much.”
She slams the door.
Over the next week, Sansa keeps partying with Aegon.
Jon watches them discreetly.
He stays up until he’s sure they got in. He does this by pretending he’s swimming, so he can see inside of the house. They come home just before dawn every night. He doesn’t get any sleep.
But Sansa is safe, so it’s worth it.
As far as he notices, she doesn’t have any other bad reactions. She doesn’t have coffee with him in the mornings anymore. She doesn’t come out of Aegon’s room much. She’s avoiding him. She’s angry at him. Jon wishes he could understand why.
One Saturday, it’s two am. He starts getting ready for his swim like he always does. Except when he walks out, he isn’t alone.
Sansa is in the pool fully clothed. Her pink dress floats around her like some unearthly flower. She’s coming up for air just as he comes to a stop at the edge of the pool.
“Sorry. I was hot.” She blushes. “I’ll leave.”
“You don’t have to.” Jon assures her quickly. “You can stay. I don’t mind.”
Please stay. It’s the first time she’s talked to him in days. He feels like a dehydrated dog panting for water, desperate and searching. Please.
She doesn’t leave. It’s a start. She asks. “Since when do you swim at night?”
“Aegon is using it during the day most of the time.” The excuse springs readily from his mouth. “And it helps me think.”
“You’ve been doing it a lot. What are you thinking about so hard?”
“Lots of things.”
He gets in the pool. Sansa wades through the water so that she’s close to him. If she reached out her arm, he would feel her fingers touch him.
Her eyes narrow at him. “I know you’ve been waiting up for me this past week. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
He doesn’t bother to deny it. “Someone’s gotta look after you.”
“I’m looking after me. Aegon is looking after me.”
“Really? Where is he now?”
At once, her irritation fades. She averts her eyes. “He just drank a little too much. That’s all.”
Jon bites his tongue so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t taste blood.
“What?”
He shakes his head.
“Don’t do that.”
“You don’t do that.” He throws back, jaw clenched. “Don’t make me say it when you know it’s gonna piss you off and you’re just gonna walk away. Don’t make me make you run.”
Sansa comes even closer. He can see the drops of water on her eyelashes and rolling down her skin, she’s so close. “I won’t walk away.” She whispers. “I promise.”
Jon thinks about holding her close to him to make sure she doesn’t renege.
“Why do you stay with him?”
She sighs, long and tired. It’s the sigh of someone older than 20 years old.
“He wasn’t always like this, Jon. He used to be very good to me.”
“But he isn’t now.” Jon persists. “So why are you still here?”
“Because I love him.” She says. “He’s the first boy I loved. I’ll always love him. He’s a part of me.”
It hurts harder than he expects it to, hearing those words. “Are you in love with him?”
Sansa says nothing. The hope caged in his heart is a dangerous, ugly thing and keeping it trapped hurts.
“I’m gonna marry him one day.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Do you remember our conversation the first night you were back? About Westerosi girls and their husbands?” Her voice is hard but her face betrays it entirely because it’s so soft. So unsure and reluctant.
He knows what he said. He hates himself for saying it. “It doesn’t have to be that way for you.”
His nose is filled with the scent of her—lavender and chlorine. He can see the mark on her chin he likes so much. A drop of water makes its way down the slope of her aristocratic nose. He can feel her breath on his cheek. Just cinnamon. No liquor.
“Why do you care so much?” She asks.
Jon can’t help himself—he touches her, running a thumb down her curve of her jaw. He could cop out. He could say I don’t know. He could walk away now.
Instead, he says, “Because I care about you.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer.
Still, she presses. “Because I’m Robb’s little sister?”
“You’re more than that.” He says, voice barely audible. “So much more than that.
His thumb brushes over her bottom lip.
Sansa takes it into her mouth, sucking. Her eyes never leave his own. Jon feels like he’s imploding. Collapsing. Her tongue is soft and warm and her deliberate moan makes his skin vibrate.
He isn’t sure who moves first.
But suddenly, she’s crushed up against him and she fits perfectly. The kiss is hungry; and snapping, and desperate. She tastes like cinnamon and chlorine and something distinctly tart that leaves him wanting more.
Her necklace is cold against him. Aegon’s necklace. Jon yanks at it until the clasp breaks and she gasps into his mouth, clinging to him tighter. Just like that, any trace of Aegon is gone. He won’t ruin this for him.
“This too.” She begs him, pulling at her dress. “Please—”
He’s more careful with the dress. He pulls the sleeves down her shoulders and her arms and she kicks it off clumsily in the water. She’s not wearing a bra.
Her fingers tangle in his hair as he moves from her mouth to her neck and to her breasts. Everything about her body is soft and plush and he wants to worship it. He wants to take his time touching every part.
“I wanna do it right.” Jon tells her. “Not here.”
Not in the pool where anyone could see. Only he would see her tonight. Only he would have her.
She looks at him, mouth bruised and eyes heavy lidded and she nods.
“Take me to bed.”
They don’t turn on the lights. They don’t dry off. Jon carries her to bed, hovering over her. She seems so tiny. Delicate. Her body is cold and he does his best to warm it up with his mouth. Her heart is beating fast underneath his hand as he cups her left breast, taking it into his mouth. She moans.
He starts rolling her underwear down her hips slowly, so that Sansa can tell him to stop anytime she wants. But she doesn’t. Her hips rock up against him, more desperate now than she had been before.
“Please?” She pleads.
Jon yanks the underwear down the rest of the way. The inside of her thighs are lined with thin, pink stretch marks. He kisses them, and Sansa shudders. But he understands it’s the good kind when the more he does it, the more she opens her legs, until his head is completely between her thighs. Until he’s kissing her where she needs him most. Her back arches off the bed, and he pins her back down. He spreads her open with his tongue and he’s certain this is heaven, her desperate, incomprehensible sighs as he slips a finger inside of her, nudging and curling over and over again.
He knows exactly when she comes. He feels her thighs tighten around his head and a fresh surge of slick on his tongue as he sucks. Her legs shake. He draws it out as long as possible, and kisses his way up her stomach, to her mouth. She makes a fluttering, gasping sound in his mouth he wants to hear on repeat for the rest of her life.
“There are condoms in the nightstand.” Sansa says against his mouth.
Jon doesn’t think about how she knows this. He doesn’t think about Aegon doing to her what he’s doing to her, in the same bed. She’s his tonight. He won’t take that away from him. He grabs a condom, ripping the foil packet open. He takes his time rolling it on. Again, he gives her time to tell him to stop.
She doesn’t.
Sansa shifts from her back to her stomach. Jon hesitates.
“Is this...how you want it?”
“I want it however you want it.” She says. When she speaks again, she sounds unsure. “You don’t like it like this?”
He places his hands on her hips and turns her so she’s facing him again. “I wanna see you.”
Her hand reaches up to cup his face. He can see her smiling a little in the dark. “Okay.”
Jon settles between her legs. Sansa’s hands find his lower back, her chin on his shoulder.
“Jon?”
He’s so close, just there. He’s panting in her ear. “Yeah?”
Her mouth touches his ear. “I want it rough.”
He doesn’t trust himself to talk, so he nods.
He leans into her, slow and careful, and her body yields to him, letting him in. She’s warm. So warm he finds it difficult to think. Sansa moans. Jon watches her eyes flutter shut and feels her hold him close. He sinks into the cradle of her hips with a heavy breath. Her body trembles.
She says, “More.”
He leans back, and leans forward, pulling her hips up to meet him. She makes a sound like she’s choking. He immediately stops.
“No. I liked that.” She tells him. “Do it again.”
He does it again, and she makes that same, choked and fluttery sound. Then he does it again, but harder. She moans so loud it surprises him. It thrills him. So he does it again and again.
Moving with her is easy. Moving inside of her is easy. It’s like they fit together. She talks to him, whispering in his ear the entire time, and it drives him crazy. She’s not saying anything particularly filthy, she’s just telling him how good it feels, how good he feels, and how she wants more, and how she wants it harder. So he gives it to her. He gives it all to her.
He has her back arched off the bed, and it’s that final slam that pushes her over the edge. He watches it all happen. He watches her eyes roll back and her mouth open and he feels her nails biting into his shoulder. She breaks the skin. He comes bleeding, panting, and he doesn't care because the pleasure is so blinding that his vision whitens.
Sansa does, though. Afterward, she pouts at his shoulder, pressing a bandaid over it. Then she kisses him.
“That’s how you do first aid,” she tells him. “Never forget the kisses.”
Jon smiles at her. “I’ll remember that next time.”
They lay beside each other. He tries to feel guilty, but he doesn’t. Instead, he feels sad, because it can never happen again.
“What did you mean the night we met?” He asks her, with his hand running through her hair.
“About?” Sansa prompts.
“When you said you gave me your wishes.”
She doesn’t say anything. Jon thinks she might ignore the question altogether, but she doesn’t.
“One day, I’ll tell you.” She says at last.
One day. He only had so many days left. “Does that mean never?”
“It means maybe.” She tells him truthfully, but then she looks back at him. “But not tonight.”
Sansa kisses him again, and he forgets the question altogether. Her lips are soft, and searching, as she straddles his hips.
“Just one more time, before I go.” She wraps her arms around his neck.
“Alright.” He says quietly, already missing her. “Just one more time.