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    Summary

    His eyes stray lower than her face, down to what is shrouded by water.

    Jon unsheathes his sword and lays it across the ground as he drops to a knee.

    “Your Grace,” he says, head bowed, voice rough. “My sword is yours.”

    Sansa stands, her body bare and wet before him.

    His head snaps up at the noise of the water twinkling around her as she stands, as she knew it would.

    “Lord Commander,” she greets. “I trust that your ride was smooth?”

    He licks his lips, not even pretending to look her in the eyes. “As always.”

    --

    yass, the post canon dirty smut fic we need

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