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For once, Sansa wakes before him. Perhaps that is to blame for the little impulse that assails her.
They’ve been sleeping close for several nights. She’s lost count of how many. Ever since he became ill after that day she shoved him into the hot spring for calling her princess and then she had been forced to keep him warm so he wouldn’t die on her. And especially since the day he'd wounded her feelings most grievously and then made his sweet apology. They sleep close and it is a comfort to her out here beyond the Wall where comforts are so few.
(It cannot possibly be because she’s fallen in love with him.)
Normally, Jon lies behind her, his front to her back while holding her lightly about the waist as she falls asleep. Sometimes, he’s on the far side of their narrow pallet when she wakes with his back to her come morning. Most times, he’s already up when she wakes though he no longer leaves their little cottage without informing her first.
(Jon had called it a hovel but Sansa likes the sound of cottage better so that is what they both call it now.)
But this morning, she wakes first and they are facing each other for a change.
She’s still drowsy at first, still in that dreamy, hazy state of first wakening. Surely, that is the reason she reaches out and, oh so softly, strokes his beard. His mouth puckers and purses rather comically and she wants to laugh but that might wake him so she draws her hand back to where it was when she woke and studies him in silence.
He’s handsome. She’s accepted that some time ago. She used to believe Wildlings must all be frightful looking, more beast than men, but that was before she’d met one, before she’d met Jon.
Admittedly, he stole her away after holding a dirty, great knife to her throat. She knows he was surrounded and felt forced to flee when some of the less savory men of the Nights Watch went back on their word promising him safe passage but it was hardly chivalrous of him...not that Jon has a great deal of use for chivalry.
(She's teaching him though.)
He took her from everything Sansa had known but she cannot say she’s all that sad over it. If she had remained on the other side of the Wall, she might be Joffrey’s bride by now. Being here with Jon is better, she knows. Here, she is almost like his wife instead.
“I’d call you wife if I could. You scold me like one and I happily let you.”
He’d said those words a few mornings ago when she’d woke in a panic finding him gone.
(She certainly doesn’t scold him. He only said that part to be droll, she’s sure.)
She’d kissed him afterwards, right on the lips. She’d never felt so bold but this morning that boldness has returned.
I should like for you to call me wife.
She shouldn’t think this way, feel this way about him. It’s not proper at all. Even if he’s handsome and doesn’t remotely resemble a beast, he’s no proper husband for Lady Sansa Stark.
She wishes he were all the same.
And there’s that impulse again.
His lips are parted but slightly. They're a bit chapped but also full and inviting. He snores but she doesn't mind. He’s so warm beside her. He’s strong, muscular in a way she is not, but he’s gentle with her when he helps her along on their journey, lends her a hand to traverse uneven terrain.
His hands are far rougher than hers but the skin on his cheek above his beard is soft enough when she dares cup his cheek again.
If he wakes, he wakes.
“Jon,” she whispers. His eyelids flutter but do not open. “I should like to kiss you if I may.”
He stirs sleepily and smacks his lips. That must've been an agreement.
Sansa leans forward, far more slowly than she did the other morning, and presses her lips to his for no more than a heartbeat or two.
Her eyes had fallen shut almost as if by design as she did so and, when she opens them again, she finds his dark grey eyes are staring back at her.
Nervously, she blinks and licks her lips. “Good morning.”
“Aye, it is good when a fair maiden wakes me with a kiss.” His voice is voice thick and husky first thing. It stirs her, makes that little impulse flare yet again. His grin doesn't help her contain it either.
“I was only…you’ve never been…”
She knows she’s fumbling for words as he watches her, seemingly fascinated as her face grows hotter and hotter. There’s a smirk forming. He’s much too handsome when he smirks that way. He should really be more considerate.
“I should see what we have left to break our fast,” she stammers at last, meaning to rise.
He’s quicker than her, his arm locking around her waist before she can move. “No, I think I might wish you a good morning as well first, princess.”
Her heart is thumping away at a galloping pace. He’s sure to hear it. Her face feels hot as cinders now. There’s a pounding between her ears.
(As well as a throbbing someplace else that she can hardly name.)
He holds her but doesn’t move…not until she gives him the barest of nods.
Then, he’s surging forward, swifter than a wolf. He gathers her up into his arms, pulling her body against his and kissing her with an intensity that leaves her breathless, makes her dizzy, fills her tummy with the most exceptional flutters she’s ever known.
(And she’s felt those flutters more than once since she’s met Jon.)
It’s a fumbling, wet and hungry sort of kiss, like nothing Sansa had ever pictured kissing being and yet, she loves it, cannot get enough of it.
“Breathe,” he chuckles when he pulls back to draw breath and she chases his lips with her own most wantonly.
She giggles and nods…just before she feels something poking her most insistently at her thigh. Was it there before? Come to think of it, it was but it is impossible to ignore now. She gasps with the realization of what it is but Jon has had his chance to breathe and now he’s kissing her again.
Her surprise over his stiff manhood melts away as their mouths are melding together and their bodies, too. He half rolls on top of her and that undeniable hardness digs into her belly.
(Lower actually. Just where she wants it to be honest.)
How does she know she wants him there? How does he know? This must be an instinctual variety of impulse.
She rolls her hips, wishing to be closer and relishes his shuddering groan in response. But when he thrusts against her in return and, when one strong hand cups her breast and lightly teases her nipple through the shift she wears, she’s making a similar sound.
(No, she's gasping, begging, keening for more and arching her back and continuing to meet his thrusts. He has made a wanton of her indeed, chasing these heady little impulses down as the kissing goes on and on. She wishes it would never end.)
It’s very cold outside their little cottage with snow covering the ground. Their fire is no more than embers at present but, on the pallet beneath their makeshift covers, she’s aflame. She burns and aches and wants…
“Sansa,” he pants heavily when he pulls back again.
(Must be time to breathe again. She was feeling quite light-headed herself.)
"Hmm?"
“We must stop,” he groans.
“Stop?” she whines.
Oh, this isn’t what she wants at all. She had been on the edge of some indescribable delight.
All her ardor is doused in an instant though. He wishes to stop. Perhaps she was not doing things to his liking.
“If we don’t stop now, I’ll be wanting to go further,” he says tenderly next, seeing the glimmer of hurt in her eyes.
Oh. Oh, she sees now. “Further would be…bad.”
(Would it though?)
“Well, if you wish to remain a maid this morning, it would.”
“Yes…yes, you’re right.” She sits up hurriedly, no longer hurt but quite confused. What does she want? “My septa says a lady mustn’t lay with any man who is not her lord husband.”
“I figured as much.”
“But if you were to be my husband…”
His eyes widen, the shock greater than she’s ever seen from him. She’s suddenly mortified by what she’s suggested. A lady does not propose marriage, certainly not in a haze of desire because she wishes to explore more of her lover’s fantastic kisses and what lies beyond them! A lady definitely doesn’t propose marriage to a Wildling, her captor at that!
“Sansa…do you really…”
He does not get the words out for Ghost has raised his head and growled most menacingly from where he lies on the floor beside the fire. Sansa is frightened as Jon leaps from the bed for his knife and bow.
“Stay put and I will see what’s out there.”
She nods but she cannot let him go alone. She rises as well, reaching for her boots as he scowls at her. But he might need her aid or advice. She lets him go out first anyway, hanging back a few paces.
Outside, there’s a large group of people as they exit their cottage. Wildlings all in furs like Jon except a few of them are frightening looking.
But Sansa tells herself she is safe with Jon. She does wonders if she will ever spend another night in their cottage though when Jon greets one man in particular. She will miss it if not.
Mance Rayder, who Jon had claimed he was seeking earlier in their journey, has found them instead.
Jon and the King Beyond the Wall embrace like brothers or perhaps father and son given their ages. Sansa stands directly behind Jon, wishing she could disappear as the Wildlings, particularly their women, stare at her with frank curiosity and apparently little liking.
“Who’s this, Jon?” Mance asks when he takes note of her.
She does her best not to tremble despite only wearing a threadbare shift and the black cloak Jon had given her after killing three Crows who'd threatened them. She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter. Jon has been kind to her but she knows many of these people will hate her merely for being who she is. She can be brave. She was bold this morning and now she can be brave in another manner.
(If she says it enough, it must be true.)
But when Jon glances back at her with a spark of something pleading mixed with the softness of his gaze, she thinks his own little impulse has taken hold for he grasps her hand and tells Mance Rayder with a nary a stutter, “She is my wife.”