Fic: Plucked From The Garden (Jon/Sansa, M)
Title: Plucked From The Garden
Fandom: ASoIaF
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: M
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes: Written for the ASOIAF Kink meme with the prompt: Jon/Sansa, secret relationship. I would love to see Jon as Lord of Winterfell as Robb's heir. He's then in charge of who will marry Sansa, assuming her marriage to Tyrion is annulled. I would love to see Highgarden repeat their offer, and some interaction between Jon or Sansa and Lady Olenna.
Vague Spoilers through ADWD, R+L=J
"Such a lovely girl."
Jon glances down the table where Sansa sits. She is laughing at something Willas Tyrell has said, and the candlelight plays in her hair. Even from this distance, he thinks he can see a sparkle in her blue eyes.
Reaching for the pitcher of wine, he inclines his head at Olenna Tyrell. "She is, yes."
"Shame she's locked away up here," the old woman continues. "Wasted. A jewel such as Sansa deserves a fairer setting, wouldn't you say?"
Jon drinks deep of the wine. So at last, they've come to it. He'd been expecting it. Why else would the Tyrells- including a lame man and an ancient woman- venture all the way to Winterfell? Especially when, despite all his work, the place was still little more than a ruin? Over half their party were sleeping in tents and wheelhouses on the grounds.
When he'd first received the raven informing him of the Tyrell's impending visit, he'd been in his solar with Sansa. "They must want me very badly," she'd mused, eyes skating over the words.
"They must," he had replied, standing to brush her hair off her shoulders, baring her neck. "And they are not the only ones."
In the end, the letter- and Sansa's gown, and his tunic- had been ruined by an overturned pot of ink, but the visit had occurred nonetheless. And now, the Queen of Thorns is finally approaching the reason for it.
"She would be quite happy at Highgarden," the old woman continues. "Truly, it's as if the place were meant for her. And Willas may be lame and quite a bit older than she, but he's a kind man. The girl could use some kindness, gods know."
Even though he agrees with her, Jon cannot stop himself from saying, "She has been treated with nothing but kindness here at Winterfell, my lady."
Guilt pulses through him (the brown of Alayne Stone not even gone from her hair before she's in his bed, and he'd sworn to protect her, sworn to keep her safe as her father would have wanted), but he reminds himself that Sansa came to him first. That she wanted him just as badly as he wanted her. That for all the wrongs done to them, they deserve some happiness.
Olenna Tyrell squints slightly at him, and Jon has the sudden fear that she can read his thoughts. But all she says is, "I noticed that Sansa did not dance last night. So thoughtful of her, to stay by Willas, knowing that he cannot dance himself. She's thinking like a wife already."
For one brief, mad moment, Jon thinks about telling her that after Sansa stayed at Willas Tyrell's side, playing the perfect hostess, the perfect potential bride, she had snuck away and met him in the godswood. That he had made love to her in one of the hot pools, her legs slick and damp around him, until he was not sure if the heat came from the water or from their own bodies, until she had whimpered and whispered his name and shattered to pieces there in his arms.
He should not be thinking of such things. He's already uncomfortably hard just from hearing her laughter, and even though Lady Tyrell is paying more attention to her venison than him at the moment, he feels like she somehow knows. Months now, Sansa has shared his bed, and they have kept it a secret from most of Winterfell. But this old woman...no, Jon does not underestimate her.
And nor should he since she turns back to him and says, "I can think of no better bride for dear Willas than your sister. Or cousin." Olenna Tyrell's eyes may be faded and watery, but they're shrewd and sharp as Longclaw when they narrow. "Tell me, Lord Stark, just what is Lady Sansa to you now?"
Jon meets her gaze evenly. "Dear," he replies. "She is very, very dear to me."
Once he was Jon Snow, bastard boy, oathbreaker, outcast. Now, thanks to Robb and Howland Reed, he is Jon Stark,Lord of Winterfell, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and heir to the Iron Throne, should he accept it. He will not be cowed by this crone.
To his surprise, the old lady's lips raise in a kind of ghastly grin. "Well done, boy," she murmurs, and Jon does not correct her with his title. "I assure you," Olenna continues, "she would be dear to us as well. And loved and looked after. Safe."
Others have offered for Sansa's hand. They have come with castles and jewels, promising honor and glory. No one yet has promised her safety. Jon does not like the Tyrells, nor does he trust them, and he cannot think of Margaery Tyrell's fate without shuddering.
But he looks at the Queen of Thorns, thinks of the way Highgarden is ruled by its women, whether the men realize it or not. Yes, Jon realizes with a pang. Sansa could be happy there. Or, at the very least, she would belong.
Later that night, Sansa comes to his chambers. She is wearing her nightdress, hair a shining auburn river over her shoulders, but she is also clad in a dressing gown that Jon has never seen before. It's made of deep green velvet, embroidered with gold thread, and Jon does not have to look closely to know that the pattern is roses, hundreds and hundreds of golden roses.
"Pretty," he tells her, brushing the back of his hand against the robe's high collar.
"Is it?" she asks mildly. "I think it's a bit garish, but what can you expect from Tyrells?"
He huffs out a laugh, his hand going from her collar to the back of her neck. Underneath his fingers, her skin is warm and silky.
Sansa sighs, titling her head back into his touch. "I saw you speaking with the Queen of Thorns. Did she ask?"
Jon runs his thumb over the impossibly soft spot just behind her ear. "Not in so many words," he tells her as her eyes flutter shut.
"Will you agree?"
"Do you want me to?"
In answer, she presses closer to him, her own hand curling behind his neck, and then he is kissing her and lost, as lost as he's been since that first afternoon (her mouth almost frantic against his in the godswood, her fingers digging into his waist, the name Alayne still spilling from his lips even though he'd known, of course he'd known...)
That kiss had been desperate. This one is thorough and deep and slow, but it leaves Jon no less shaken. It's selfish, keeping her here. She belongs in a place like Highgarden, a place filled with flowers and light and beauty. And while the thought of anyone putting his hands on Sansa makes Jon's fists clench, Willas Tyrell is a decent man. The kind of man Eddard Stark would've wanted for his daughter.
Certainly better than the bastard boy Sansa had once called brother.
But all those thoughts and all that guilt does not stop Jon from lifting Sansa in his arms and carrying her to his bed. Rather than lying her in the middle, he sits her just on the edge so that her legs dangle over the side. As he kneels at her feet, removing her slippers, Sansa rests one hand on his hair and watches him, amused.
"What are you about, Jon Snow?" she murmurs. She is the only one who still calls him that, and she only does it here, in his chamber where they can be simply themselves and not the people the world needs them to be. Strange how a name he once hated so much should sound so welcome now.
Her dressing gown is heavy, and when he starts to push it and the soft linen of her nightdress up her legs, Sansa goes to shrug out of her new gift. But Jon stills her with a hand on her calf. "No," he says, his voice husky. "Leave it on."
Something sparks in her eyes, and her lips part. Jon thinks her hand trembles slightly as she pushes the dressing gown back up her shoulders. The high collar catches her hair, copper over gold, and Jon is not sure he has ever seen anything so beautiful.
He ducks his head, kissing the delicate crease of her knee, testing the silken flesh of her inner thigh with his teeth.
Lying back on the bed, Sansa softly sighs his name as his mouth travels higher and higher. She is bare beneath her gown, and already wet before he touches his tongue to her. Gripping her hips, Jon feels the Tyrells' velvet crush under his hands, and a fierce, almost savage possessiveness rears up inside him. He shoulders her thighs further apart, licks deeper inside her, and is rewarded with a high, breathy moan.
He can smell the lavender soap she favors as well as some other flowery scent that his hazy mind thinks must come from the Tyrells, from this damned robe. But then there is the smell of her, and under his tongue, she is slick and salty-sweet. He's lost count of all the times he's done this to her (in this bed, in hers, in the godswood and once, in a memory that fills him with shame and desire, the bed that had been her lady mother's), but he can never quite believe her reaction to him. That the girl who had once shunned him now clutches his hair, pants his name, wants him...
The thought makes him more than a little mad, and now his hands are fists in her dressing gown, and her heels press against his back. Sansa breaks apart under his mouth with a high keening sound, but Jon does not stop until he has driven her to the brink one more time, until the cry that spills past her lips is, "Jon, Jon, Jon," repeated over and over again like a litany.
They're usually so careful. Sansa has woken some mornings with teeth marks on her wrist from her attempts to stifle her cries, and Jon has bitten his own tongue bloody staying silent as he spilled inside her.
Tonight, they're heedless, and Jon wonders if they want the Tyrells to hear. You may take her, but she will always belong to Winterfell. To me.
He eases up her body, kissing her stomach through her gown, the trembling swells of her breasts over her neckline, and finally, the hollow of her throat. Sansa clutches his hair and pulls his mouth to hers. The soft whimper she makes at tasting herself there makes his cock twitch painfully inside his breeches, but he ignores it for now. There will be time later.
For now, he simply wants to hold her, her bright head against his chest, the green of her dressing gown nearly black in the dim light.
"We should give them an answer tomorrow," she says at last, and he holds her tighter.
"We will. But not yet."
Fandom: ASoIaF
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: M
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes: Written for the ASOIAF Kink meme with the prompt: Jon/Sansa, secret relationship. I would love to see Jon as Lord of Winterfell as Robb's heir. He's then in charge of who will marry Sansa, assuming her marriage to Tyrion is annulled. I would love to see Highgarden repeat their offer, and some interaction between Jon or Sansa and Lady Olenna.
Vague Spoilers through ADWD, R+L=J
"Such a lovely girl."
Jon glances down the table where Sansa sits. She is laughing at something Willas Tyrell has said, and the candlelight plays in her hair. Even from this distance, he thinks he can see a sparkle in her blue eyes.
Reaching for the pitcher of wine, he inclines his head at Olenna Tyrell. "She is, yes."
"Shame she's locked away up here," the old woman continues. "Wasted. A jewel such as Sansa deserves a fairer setting, wouldn't you say?"
Jon drinks deep of the wine. So at last, they've come to it. He'd been expecting it. Why else would the Tyrells- including a lame man and an ancient woman- venture all the way to Winterfell? Especially when, despite all his work, the place was still little more than a ruin? Over half their party were sleeping in tents and wheelhouses on the grounds.
When he'd first received the raven informing him of the Tyrell's impending visit, he'd been in his solar with Sansa. "They must want me very badly," she'd mused, eyes skating over the words.
"They must," he had replied, standing to brush her hair off her shoulders, baring her neck. "And they are not the only ones."
In the end, the letter- and Sansa's gown, and his tunic- had been ruined by an overturned pot of ink, but the visit had occurred nonetheless. And now, the Queen of Thorns is finally approaching the reason for it.
"She would be quite happy at Highgarden," the old woman continues. "Truly, it's as if the place were meant for her. And Willas may be lame and quite a bit older than she, but he's a kind man. The girl could use some kindness, gods know."
Even though he agrees with her, Jon cannot stop himself from saying, "She has been treated with nothing but kindness here at Winterfell, my lady."
Guilt pulses through him (the brown of Alayne Stone not even gone from her hair before she's in his bed, and he'd sworn to protect her, sworn to keep her safe as her father would have wanted), but he reminds himself that Sansa came to him first. That she wanted him just as badly as he wanted her. That for all the wrongs done to them, they deserve some happiness.
Olenna Tyrell squints slightly at him, and Jon has the sudden fear that she can read his thoughts. But all she says is, "I noticed that Sansa did not dance last night. So thoughtful of her, to stay by Willas, knowing that he cannot dance himself. She's thinking like a wife already."
For one brief, mad moment, Jon thinks about telling her that after Sansa stayed at Willas Tyrell's side, playing the perfect hostess, the perfect potential bride, she had snuck away and met him in the godswood. That he had made love to her in one of the hot pools, her legs slick and damp around him, until he was not sure if the heat came from the water or from their own bodies, until she had whimpered and whispered his name and shattered to pieces there in his arms.
He should not be thinking of such things. He's already uncomfortably hard just from hearing her laughter, and even though Lady Tyrell is paying more attention to her venison than him at the moment, he feels like she somehow knows. Months now, Sansa has shared his bed, and they have kept it a secret from most of Winterfell. But this old woman...no, Jon does not underestimate her.
And nor should he since she turns back to him and says, "I can think of no better bride for dear Willas than your sister. Or cousin." Olenna Tyrell's eyes may be faded and watery, but they're shrewd and sharp as Longclaw when they narrow. "Tell me, Lord Stark, just what is Lady Sansa to you now?"
Jon meets her gaze evenly. "Dear," he replies. "She is very, very dear to me."
Once he was Jon Snow, bastard boy, oathbreaker, outcast. Now, thanks to Robb and Howland Reed, he is Jon Stark,Lord of Winterfell, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and heir to the Iron Throne, should he accept it. He will not be cowed by this crone.
To his surprise, the old lady's lips raise in a kind of ghastly grin. "Well done, boy," she murmurs, and Jon does not correct her with his title. "I assure you," Olenna continues, "she would be dear to us as well. And loved and looked after. Safe."
Others have offered for Sansa's hand. They have come with castles and jewels, promising honor and glory. No one yet has promised her safety. Jon does not like the Tyrells, nor does he trust them, and he cannot think of Margaery Tyrell's fate without shuddering.
But he looks at the Queen of Thorns, thinks of the way Highgarden is ruled by its women, whether the men realize it or not. Yes, Jon realizes with a pang. Sansa could be happy there. Or, at the very least, she would belong.
Later that night, Sansa comes to his chambers. She is wearing her nightdress, hair a shining auburn river over her shoulders, but she is also clad in a dressing gown that Jon has never seen before. It's made of deep green velvet, embroidered with gold thread, and Jon does not have to look closely to know that the pattern is roses, hundreds and hundreds of golden roses.
"Pretty," he tells her, brushing the back of his hand against the robe's high collar.
"Is it?" she asks mildly. "I think it's a bit garish, but what can you expect from Tyrells?"
He huffs out a laugh, his hand going from her collar to the back of her neck. Underneath his fingers, her skin is warm and silky.
Sansa sighs, titling her head back into his touch. "I saw you speaking with the Queen of Thorns. Did she ask?"
Jon runs his thumb over the impossibly soft spot just behind her ear. "Not in so many words," he tells her as her eyes flutter shut.
"Will you agree?"
"Do you want me to?"
In answer, she presses closer to him, her own hand curling behind his neck, and then he is kissing her and lost, as lost as he's been since that first afternoon (her mouth almost frantic against his in the godswood, her fingers digging into his waist, the name Alayne still spilling from his lips even though he'd known, of course he'd known...)
That kiss had been desperate. This one is thorough and deep and slow, but it leaves Jon no less shaken. It's selfish, keeping her here. She belongs in a place like Highgarden, a place filled with flowers and light and beauty. And while the thought of anyone putting his hands on Sansa makes Jon's fists clench, Willas Tyrell is a decent man. The kind of man Eddard Stark would've wanted for his daughter.
Certainly better than the bastard boy Sansa had once called brother.
But all those thoughts and all that guilt does not stop Jon from lifting Sansa in his arms and carrying her to his bed. Rather than lying her in the middle, he sits her just on the edge so that her legs dangle over the side. As he kneels at her feet, removing her slippers, Sansa rests one hand on his hair and watches him, amused.
"What are you about, Jon Snow?" she murmurs. She is the only one who still calls him that, and she only does it here, in his chamber where they can be simply themselves and not the people the world needs them to be. Strange how a name he once hated so much should sound so welcome now.
Her dressing gown is heavy, and when he starts to push it and the soft linen of her nightdress up her legs, Sansa goes to shrug out of her new gift. But Jon stills her with a hand on her calf. "No," he says, his voice husky. "Leave it on."
Something sparks in her eyes, and her lips part. Jon thinks her hand trembles slightly as she pushes the dressing gown back up her shoulders. The high collar catches her hair, copper over gold, and Jon is not sure he has ever seen anything so beautiful.
He ducks his head, kissing the delicate crease of her knee, testing the silken flesh of her inner thigh with his teeth.
Lying back on the bed, Sansa softly sighs his name as his mouth travels higher and higher. She is bare beneath her gown, and already wet before he touches his tongue to her. Gripping her hips, Jon feels the Tyrells' velvet crush under his hands, and a fierce, almost savage possessiveness rears up inside him. He shoulders her thighs further apart, licks deeper inside her, and is rewarded with a high, breathy moan.
He can smell the lavender soap she favors as well as some other flowery scent that his hazy mind thinks must come from the Tyrells, from this damned robe. But then there is the smell of her, and under his tongue, she is slick and salty-sweet. He's lost count of all the times he's done this to her (in this bed, in hers, in the godswood and once, in a memory that fills him with shame and desire, the bed that had been her lady mother's), but he can never quite believe her reaction to him. That the girl who had once shunned him now clutches his hair, pants his name, wants him...
The thought makes him more than a little mad, and now his hands are fists in her dressing gown, and her heels press against his back. Sansa breaks apart under his mouth with a high keening sound, but Jon does not stop until he has driven her to the brink one more time, until the cry that spills past her lips is, "Jon, Jon, Jon," repeated over and over again like a litany.
They're usually so careful. Sansa has woken some mornings with teeth marks on her wrist from her attempts to stifle her cries, and Jon has bitten his own tongue bloody staying silent as he spilled inside her.
Tonight, they're heedless, and Jon wonders if they want the Tyrells to hear. You may take her, but she will always belong to Winterfell. To me.
He eases up her body, kissing her stomach through her gown, the trembling swells of her breasts over her neckline, and finally, the hollow of her throat. Sansa clutches his hair and pulls his mouth to hers. The soft whimper she makes at tasting herself there makes his cock twitch painfully inside his breeches, but he ignores it for now. There will be time later.
For now, he simply wants to hold her, her bright head against his chest, the green of her dressing gown nearly black in the dim light.
"We should give them an answer tomorrow," she says at last, and he holds her tighter.
"We will. But not yet."