"Mom says you're trying to weasel out of Christmas Eve Eve," Arya says idly over the phone.
Sansa winces. She rolls her eyes, phone on speaker on the counter while she folds meringue into her cake batter.
"It's not like we do anything special for it," she says, "I just want come out a day late. I don't see why it's a big deal."
"Hm. And it has nothing to do with a certain defenseman being in town?"
Sansa purses her lips. She remains silent, carefully folding, folding, folding her batter.
Arya snorts.
"Gods, you're so predictable."
Sansa frowns.
"What's <i>that</i> supposed to mean?" She demands.
"You've known this guy like two weeks and you're already squirreling out of family time to be with him."
"It's not the same!" Sansa says, "gods, Arya, it's <i>one</i> day and I see you guys <i>constantly</i>. I feel like I'm under surveillance sometimes the way you all breathe down my neck sinceâ since. You disappear for weeks at a time and no one blinks, but I try to stay in my own apartment an extra day at Christmas and suddenly I'm backsliding?"
Arya is quiet on the other end of the line.
Sansa sighs.
"I know you all just worry. I know the situation with Joffrey was scary, but don't you think it was scariest of all for <i>me</i>? I lived it. I lived with him. I'm <i>trying</i> to move on, but you all hover so much I feel like I'm stuck in a box. Like you want to encase me in amber and not let me just <i>exist</i>."
"Sansaâ"
Sansa shakes her head to herself and cuts Arya off.
"Jon is not Joffrey. He actually gets me off, for one." Arya chokes a laugh, "And for two: he's justâ he's nice. like genuinely nice to me and I like him and, yes, I would like to see him before Christmas, because otherwise I'll have to wait until <i>January</i> and I don'tâ I don't want to do that."
"It's only been two weeks," Arya cautions quietly.
"I know," Sansa sighs, setting her bowl down on the counter, "I know that." She licks her lips, "the only way to get to know him better is to spend more time with him."
Sansa wakes up Monday with an aching head, eyes crusted over. She groans and sighs, stretching in her bed, curling her toes. She almost feels like she has a hangover.
A Jon hangover.
She laughs at herself, embarrassed alone in her room.
"Gods,â she mutters, rubbing her hands over her face.
She drags herself out of bed. She strips out of her pajamas, tossing them in her hamper on the way to the bathroom. She flicks on the light and pauses in front of the mirror above the sink.
"Oh."
She stares. She turns around, looking at her back over her shoulder in the mirror then turning back forward again. She's covered in bruises, pale skin marked by reddish purple blotches. She hadn't paid much attention while at Jon's â the bruises hadn't quite bloomed yet at Jon's â but now she sees the trail his mouth made from behind her ear and down her chest and stomach to her hips, along her inner thighs. There are finger-shaped bruises on her hips and thighs and she sucks in a sharp breath, pressing her fingertips to the ghost of Jon's.
She hadn't realized he'd held her so tightly.
She's a mess.
She laughs in disbelief, warmth curling in her belly. She goes back to her room to grab her phone then heads back to the bathroom, snapping a picture of herself in the mirror without thinking too hard about it and sending it immediately to Jon.
Sansa: i don't think i have enough concealer for this
Jon Snow/Sansa Stark | Modern AU | Hockey Player Jon | Strangers to Lovers | Fast Burn | Secret Relationship
AO3
"He's looking at you again," Jeyne murmurs in Sansa's ear, a giddy smile on her face.
"No he's not."
"He is! He iisss," Jeyne insists. Her eyes dart over to the mystery man at the bar and she sees him stand and head their way, "oh my god he's coming over here."
Sansa's eyes go wide, looking across the table at Margaery's smirk in a panic.
"He must be coming for Margaery," she says.
"I don't think so," Margaery sing-songs with a grin.
A moment later a throat is cleared behind Sansa. She slowly turns her head, heart beating too fast in her chest. The man is tall and well-built with dark gray eyes, dark curly hair, and a thick beard. He has his hands clasped behind his back and an awkward smile on his face that is incongruous with how handsome he is.
"Uh, hi," is his opener and Sansa's finds herself amused and endeared, cheeks hot.
"Hi," she says.
He clears his throat, a hand loosely fisted in front of his mouth.
"I'm Jon," he says.
"Sansa."
"That's a pretty name."
She laughs, face hot.
"Thank you," she says. She tilts her head to the side, looking him up and down, "you sound Northern."
He smiles, quick, and nods his head.
"So do you."
"Where are you from?"
"Castle Black," he says, rocking back on his heels. He shoves his hands into his pockets.
"That explains it."
He arches a brow in question and she smiles at him.
"It's a thick brogue," she says with a quiet laugh, "I'd've guessed you'd be from the far North."
He shrugs, smiling at her. He tilts closer, eyes locked on hers.
"Where are you from then?" He asks.
"Winterfell," she says.
He hums.
"And what brings you south?"
"Ah, it's a girl's trip," Sansa gestures at Jeyne and Margaery behind her. They wave at Jon with smirks on their faces, "celebrating graduation."
"Graduation?" He repeats, hesitant.
"University!"
"Ah," he nods. He looks at Jeyne and Margaery briefly before making eye contact with Sansa again, "I should probably let you get back to your friends then."
"Wait!" Margaery calls before he can turn fully away and Sansa's eyes go wide.
Jon turns back, a furrow in his brow.
Margaery grins at him.
"We don't mind if you steal her," she says.
*
"Oh Gods," Sansa moans, fingers curled tight in Jon's dark curls.
She bucks against his arm across her hips, holding her steady. He's just pressed two thick fingers inside her wet cunt, his tongue hot on her clit. He sucks the little bud between his lips, crooking his fingers inside her, searching for the spot that makes her sees stars. She cries out when he finds it, writhing beneath him as she comes again. He licks her through it, slowly pulling his fingers out of her and hinging his jaw open to lap at her pussy, licking up every bit of slick and cream he's managed to wring out of her. Her thighs tremble and her legs kick, over-sensitive and wrung out after two consecutive orgasms.
She tugs on his curls, pulling him up her body until he's hovering over her, still buttoned into his shirt and trousers while her skirt is pushed up around her hips, panties flung somewhere on the floor, the top of her dress has been pulled down to bare her full breasts. His eyes are wide and dark, hungry. Sansa reaches down to feel his hard cock trapped in his pants. He groans and leans down to kiss her, taking her mouth. She arches and moans into him, parting her lips to his tongue. He licks past her teeth and she whimpers. She feels his shoulders and back, the way his muscles shift beneath her hands.
Their lips part and Sansa pants at the ceiling, eyes still squeezed closed. Jon's mouth attacks her neck, kissing, biting, sucking at the soft skin of her throat, down to nip and suck at her tight nipples. She moans and writhes underneath him, arching into his every touch. She hears a zipper and she whines, his hands on her thighs, parting her legs further, hitching one up around his waist.
She manages to breathe out the word "Condom?" before he presses into her and he groans, pulling away from her breasts reluctantly to dig in his back pocket for a foil packet. He opens it and rolls it down his length and Sansa opens her eyes finally to look at him kneeling between her thighs.
He's still mostly dressed, trousers pushed down just below his ass to free his hard cock. He's long and thick and she shivers at the sight of him, digging her heel into the back of his thigh to encourage him forward.
He obliges.
The head of his thick cock breaches her and she sucks in a sharp breath at the stretch, lashes fluttering.
"Oh Gods," she moans, clawing at Jon's back.
He presses his face to her neck as he slowly presses in, giving her body time to adjust to his girth. She whimpers as he bottoms out, muttering "oh my gods," under her breath at how full she is, pussy stretched tight around his cock.
He kisses her neck and rolls his hips into her, pulling a low moan from her lips. Sansa runs one hand down his back, the other tangling in the hair at the back of his head. He mouths at her neck, tongue hot and wet on her skin while he fucks her, every roll of his hips dragging his cock along her walls, his pubic bone grinding against her clit.
She's never come like this before, but she thinks she might, her third orgasm building in her core with every thrust of his cock inside her.
"Fuck you feel good," he grunts, lips moving against her skin.
"I'm gonna come again," Sansa whimpers, clutching at him and gasping.
"Good."
Sansa lets out a breathless laugh at the blunt statement, ending on a moan. She squeezes his waist with her knees and his thrusts pick up speed, driving into her and pushing her up the bed. She lets go of his hair to reach above her head, hand to the headboard to keep from scooting further.
Jon pulls back from her neck to look down at her, eyes dark. He's braced on a forearm, free hand on her waist. It travels down to her knee, hiking her leg up and she moans, tossing her head as he fucks her deeper, the head of his cock slamming into her cervix. She whimpers, breath coming in short gasps as she moans and writhes beneath him. Her orgasm builds and builds with every harsh press and she goes taut when it breaks over her, thighs trembling, pussy fluttering around his cock as she cries out her pleasure.
His movements stall, cock sheathed deep inside her. He pants above her where she lays limp and exhausted, catching his breath.
"Good?" He asks and she laughs, breathless.
"Keep going," she says, tightening her legs around his waist, "Wanna feel you come."
He groans and rolls his hips, a slow drag against her over-sensitive walls. He snaps his hips into her, quickly picking up the pace as he chases his release. Sansa whimpers with every thrust, gasping and moaning and letting him fuck her hard and fast until he groans and spills into the condom, burying his face back into her neck. He goes boneless on top of her, panting against her throat.
His weight feels good.
She runs her fingers through his hair.
Eventually he rolls off of her, to the side in the bed, softening cock slipping out of her engorged cunt. He pauses there for a moment before sitting up. He stands and strips off the condom, ambling to the en-suite to dispose of it. He finally shoves his pants fully down his legs and kicks them off before reaching for the buttons of his shirt.
"You can stay," he says softly, looking at her from beneath his lashes, dark curls falling in his face as he slowly unbuttons his dress shirt and tosses it aside, "I have to be out of here by ten though."
He pulls his white undershirt off over his head and now he's completely nude in front of her, broad shoulders, muscled arms and legs, toned stomach, soft cock.
Sansa swallows hard.
"Okay."
He smiles and makes back toward the bed, one knee on the edge of the mattress. It dips and she rolls a little toward him. He tugs lightly on the strap of her dress, pulled down around her bicep.
"That can't be comfortable," he murmurs.
Sansa licks her lips. She rolls onto her stomach, baring the zipper to his eyes. He understands instantly what she wants and pulls the zipper slowly down her back. She rolls back over and wiggles out of the dark blue dress. She lays naked under his warm gaze, breath hitching as his eyes sweep down her body.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs.
Sansa feels a blush fill her cheeks, warm and pink. She rubs her slick thighs together.
"Thank you," she says softly.
A smile quirks Jon's lips and he snaps the bedside lamp off, plunging them into the warm dark. She feels the bed dip as he crawls in beside her and pulls the blankets up over them. She hesitates for a moment before scooting closer, reaching for him cautiously.
He opens his arms easy, letting her snuggle close, head on his chest, an arm around his waist. His arms close around her, warm and strong. She lets her eyes close, sighing in contentment.
"Good night, Jon," she says quietly.
"Good night."
*
The door of the room Sansa's been sharing with the girls swings open before she can pull the keycard out of the slot. Margaery stands on the other side, grinning at her in a very predatory manner. She looks Sansa over, taking in her rumpled dress and messy hair, gaze catching on her bruised neck.
"Well," she says warmly, "it looks like someone had a very good time."
Sansa blushes and pushes past her, trying to bite down on the smile that wants to overtake her face.
"I need to shower," she mumbles.
"I'll bet you do," Margaery says, amused as she closes the door and follows Sansa further into the suite, "Jeyne's in there now though."
Sansa sighs. She sets her clutch on the coffee table in the sitting area and turns to face the music.
Margaery is still smirking at her.
"Tell me," Margaery demands, "how was it?"
Sansa silently holds up three fingers.
Margaery brow furrows.
"Three?"
Sansa nods, letting her hand drop.
"Like. . . you'd rate the experience a three? Out of five? Out of ten? That's so sad."
Sansa shakes her head vehemently and blows out a breath.
"I came three times," she blurts, "Four, if you count this morning."
Margaery eyes go wide. She laughs.
"I definitely count this morning."
"Gods," Sansa breathes, bringing her palms up to her hot face. She looks around the room then back to Margaery, "He gave me his number."
Margaery squeals, moving forward to grab Sansa's hands.
"He's only two hours from you in Castle Black!" She exclaims. She shakes her head, "Only you would come all the way south to find a Northman."
Sansa laughs. She shakes her head, disentangling her hands from Margaery's.
"I don't know if I should call him."
"Why on earth not?"
"I don't know how to do this," Sansa says, shaking her head again, "you're the one that calls me a serial monogamist."
"With the worst taste in the world," Margaery agrees.
Sansa shoots her a glare.
"Who's to say Jon won't turn out to be more of the same?"
Margaery rolls her eyes.
"No one said you have to date him; just fuck him. He's clearly good at it and Sansaâ you deserve that. Someone who makes you feel good. I mean when's the last time you got off with another person touching you?"
"Last night," Sansa says, tilting her chin in defiance.
Margaery purses her lips.
"Before last night."
Sansa sigh, eyes sliding away.
"I don't know â a year? Two?"
"That's so sad."
"Margieâ!"
"I'm just saying. You don't have to date this Jon, but you could let him give you regular orgasms if you'd like."
Sansa sigh. She runs a hand through her already mussed hair.
"I'll think about it."
*
She thinks about little else for the next two days, distracted as she and the girls shop and explore the city together. She thinks about Jon and his mouth and his cock and that low voice. She thinks about his broad, calloused palms and dark, curly hair, the way his body covered hers, warm and strong.
She shivers where she sits.
She wants him inside her again.
She shifts in her seat on the train, pulling her bag tighter to her chest. She's on hour four of six to get home to Winterfell and thoughts of Jon have plagued her the whole way. She knows she's wet just thinking about him, remembering, can feel the slick on her labia, seeping toward her thighs, thankful that the dark pants she's wearing will soak it up.
Her cheeks are warm, eyes down. She grabs her phone and clicks Jon's name, opening a new text thread. She stares at it, thinking, measuring. She types "thinking about you on the train home and soaking through my panties in front of all these people." She means to delete it, to not send it, to hit the little 'x' button as many times as it takes to get rid of the words.
Her thumb bumps the send button instead.
*
Jon's phone vibrates with a text from an unknown number and his stomach jumps in anticipation. He checks it immediately, ears going red, cock twitching at the words before 'pop' the message disappears, replaced by "this message has been deleted."
He blinks.
Jon: Sansa?
The three dots appear then disappear again a few times before a message finally comes through.
Sansa: oh my gods Jon I'm so sorry I didn't mean to actually send that!
Jon licks his lips, settling back against the sofa.
Jon: is it true?
Sansa: âŚthere's definitely a damp spot in my jeans
Jon groans, palming his soft cock through his sweats. It jumps at the attention, half-hard at the image of Sansa sitting in a full train car, soaking through her jeans at the thought of him.
"Gods," he mumbles.
Jon: wish I could taste you
She doesn't reply immediately. He pictures her looking around furtively, shifting in her seat. He closes his eyes.
Sansa: you're making it WORSE
Jon smirks down at his phone.
Jon: That's the point.
Sansa: you're a bad man
Jon: Only because you want me to be.
He tosses his phone aside, shaking his head at himself. His ears are hot, a blush under his beard. He palms his half-hard cock again, closing his eyes to picture her more clearly. Her long red hair and long legs, her full breasts and pretty pink nipples. Her cunt.
"Fuck." He grumbles, at the memory of licking slick from her lips and clit, the way her wet heat enveloped his cock so tight. His cock grows hard under his fingers and he slips his hand under the waistband of his sweats to fist his shaft, stroking himself tightly once, twice. He fumbles to grab his phone even though she hasn't replied yet.
He hesitates.
Jon: When can I see you again?
She replies immediately.
Sansa: when are you free?
Jon frowns.
Jon: the 12th/13th mostly
Sansa: mostly?
Jon: I have a meeting Sunday morning
Is it stupid not to tell her what I do? Jon sighs. He shakes his head.
Sansa: 12-13 works for me
Jon closes his eyes in relief.
Jon: I can fly you out.
Sansa: don't be silly
Sansa: it's only a 2 hour train ride
Jon You'll catch the 6am?
He's being too eager, he knows. He tosses the phone away on the couch again. He hears the doggy door in the kitchen and cranes to neck to watch Ghost make his way toward the living room, nails clicking on the hardwood floors. His nerves have softened his cock and he sighs, patting the empty space beside him on the sofa to encourage Ghost up.
His phone vibrates.
Sansa: 8
Jon smiles.
Jon: I'll take it.
*
Three days later, Sansa is up at 6am, a weekend bag packed. She's anxious, pacing in front of the coffee maker in her kitchen, phone to her ear.
"I can't believe you woke me up so early for this." Margaery bemoans over the phone.
"Margie, please, I am taking a two hour train north to meet a man I've known for less than a week! Why the hell did I agree to this?!" Sansa demands, a hysterical edge to her voice.
"Well, you could've taken a twenty minute flight instead."
"Margie!"
"Oh, alright. Look, put on some lingerie under your travel clothes and be ready to fuck as soon as you get back to his â he's clearly as eager as you are."
Sansa sputters.
"I'm not eager; I am anxious!"
"Right, that's why you spent so much time marveling at his girth."
Sansa flushes.
"I've never seen a dick like that in real life!" She protests, "he bruised me! Inside!"
"And you liked it."
Sansa remains reticent.
Margaery sighs.
"If you're that anxious then don't go. Text him that you can't make it â that you don't want to."
Sansa is silent.
"Unless you do. Want to."
"I do," Sansa says quietly.
"That'a girl! Shower and get ready to go â you've got a train to catch."
Sansa sighs.
"Alright, okay, I'm going." She's quiet, "thank you Margie. I love you."
"I love you too! Now off with you â I'm going back to sleep."
*
Sansa spends most of the train with her headphones in, listening to music while watching the landscape scroll by. Her heart races as the train approaches the station in Castle Black. It comes to a stop and the announcement is made, doors sliding open. She steps out onto the platform with her bag and looks around the small crowd of people for a familiar face.
"Sansa!"
She turns and there he is, wearing a toque and heavy coat, his breath fogging the air. There's a grin on his face and she smiles back helplessly, letting him step up and take her bag without a word.
"How was the train?" He asks, grabbing her hand and leading her off the platform.
Sansa flushes, feeling his warm, callused hand wrapped around her own.
"Boring," she says, "peaceful."
He hums.
"Sounds nice â are you hungry?"
"Hungry?" She'd been too anxious to eat anything before she left, "yeah, I could eat."
"Good," he says, squeezing her hand, "I know a place â it's on the way."
"Okay."
He leads her to a black SUV, opening the passenger door for her before tossing her bag into the backseat. She watches him round the front and climb into the driver's side, a nervous flutter in her stomach.
She doesn't know what she expected, but it wasn't breakfast, wasn't this attentive.
"Do you mind a drive-thru?"
"Oh, no. That's fine."
Jon nods. He pulls out of their spot and starts off.
Thirty minutes later they pull into a driveway, a bag of warm food in Sansa's lap. She climbs out of the car when Jon does, waiting as he grabs her bag from the back with the food in her hands. His keys jingle in his hand as he leads her to the porch, her bag slung over one shoulder. He unlocks it and pushes it open and Sansa can hear the excited click of paws on hardwood. She peeks around Jon and spots a giant white dog dancing around in the threshold.
"Dammit Ghost," he mutters, laughing under his breath. He sighs, turning toward Sansa while standing in the doorway to keep the dog from escaping, "he's excited."
Sansa smiles.
"I love dogs," she says.
"Alright, well," Jon huffs, "okay."
He pushes forward and Sansa follows him into the house.
Ghost immediately butts his head against her stomach, panting happily up her, nosing at the bag in her hands. She scritches between his ears, grinning down at him and then laughs when he jumps up, paws on her shoulders.
"Ghost, down." Jon says firmly and Ghost immediately drops, belly to the floor. He looks at Jon expectantly and Jon sighs, "Bed."
Ghost stands and trots off into the house, toward a large dog bed in the living area.
"Sorry about that," Jon says.
"It's okay," Sansa says, smiling at him reassuringly, "he's very well trained."
"Yeah," Jon runs his fingers through his hair, "I knew he'd have to be so I've worked hard to keep his training up."
"What kind of dog is he?" Sansa asks, following Jon's example and taking her shoes off by the door.
They strip out of their coats and hang them up on hooks to the left of the door.
"A mutt," he says, shrugging.
He gestures for Sansa to follow him further into the house and she does, trailing him to a large kitchen. She sets the bag of food on the table and waits.
"Would you like something to drink? Milk, water, orange juice, coffee?"
"Uh, water is fine."
Jon nods and goes about pouring her a glass, setting it on the table in front of her.
"You can sit," he says, nodding.
She sits.
He grabs the bag of food and opens it, placing the fruit salad she'd ordered in front of her along with a plastic fork. She waits for him settle in across from her with his own fruit and a takeaway container of scrambled eggs and toast before popping the plastic bowl open and digging in.
They eat quietly, peeking up at each other occasionally, smiling when they make eye-contact. Sansa feels fluttery in an unexpected way, a little apprehensive about how little clothes-tearing their reunion had been, a little nervous about how domestic things feel.
He held her hand and bought her breakfast.
He had wanted her to catch the 6am train up.
She peeks at him again as he stuffs a chunk of pineapple in his mouth, humming to himself at the taste. She nibbles on a blackberry and sips her water. She forces herself to finish the full fruit salad then pushes the bowl away, setting the fork aside. She waits patiently for Jon to swallow his last bite of eggs and he smiles sheepishly at her, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
"Do you want the tour?"
She nods.
He stands and she follows, wending through the small house until they make their way to the bedroom. The furniture is dark wood and the bedding is black, a freshly made bed with what Sansa imagines must be clean sheets. She smiles to herself, imagining him pulling the sheets from the laundry that morning.
"Do you always make your bed?" She asks, stepping further into the room and turning to sit on the edge of the bed, facing him.
He looks caught out, a blush hiding under his beard. He shakes his head.
"No."
"But you did for me?" She asks, looking up at him from the bed, her hands braced behind her.
He licks his lips and steps closer, nudging her knees apart with his own so he's standing between her legs. He reaches out to thumb at her chin, drags his knuckles across her cheek and cups her jaw.
She shivers.
"I did," he murmurs.
"And these are clean sheets?"
"Fresh from the dryer this morning," Jon says. Sansa bites her lower lip. Her heart flutters. Jon strokes her cheek with his thumb, "I have plans for you."
"Plans?" Sansa breathes.
"Plans," Jon agrees, "I want to improve my record."
"Hm?"
"We've got all day," he says. He lowers his voice, "I can do better than three."
Sansa flushes, shifting where she sits as memories of his mouth on her cunt flash through her mind.
"I don't know if I can," she says with an embarrassed laugh.
Jon's gaze remains serious, eyes dark on hers.
"I'd like to try."
Sansa swallows hard. She nods against the hand on her cheek and Jon falls to his knees.
Sansa sucks in a sharp breath.
Jon tucks his hands in the bends of her knees and tugs her closer to the edge of the bed. She slides forward easily, a breathy little giggle leaving her lips. He reaches for the fly of her jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping her easily. She lays back and lifts her hips and Jon strips the jeans off of her, leaving her on the edge of the bed in a sweater and her dark green lace panties.
Jon groans, insinuating himself between her legs where he kneels. He hikes her legs over his shoulders, breath warm against her core.
Sansa twitches. She twists her fingers in the bedding below her, a breath caught in her throat.
The tip of Jon's nose brushes her clothed center and she holds very still. Without warning, he hinges his mouth wide and drags the flat of his tongue up the length of her labia. His tongue is hot and wet and firm against her, soaking through her thin underwear.
She whimpers and sighs, tilting her hips to meet every long lick as he tastes her. He adjusts his grip on her thighs, fingers digging into her soft flesh. He tugs the crotch of her panties aside and his lips press to her clit, eliciting a little whimper from her. He circles it with the tip of his tongue and she twitches, letting out a little gasp.
A smile ghosts across his lips before he sucks the little bud between his lips and slowly slides a finger inside her. She moans, hips bucking, and he groans against her, fucking her shallowly with his finger while sucking and lapping at her clit.
Sansa's breath shudders out of her, tightening her cunt around his finger.
"Jon," she says, a little breathy.
"Hm?" He grunts, not stopping his movements.
"More."
He slips a second finger inside her and she moans out loud, left hand moving to tangle in Jon's dark curls without thought. He groans against her when she tugs, the sound sending shockwaves up her spine.
"Gods." Sansa moans, grinding her cunt against his face and fingers, "Fuck, you're good at that."
Jon responds by crooking his fingers inside her and her back arches off the bed with another moan, squeezing his head between her thighs. She comes apart suddenly, all at once, shaking and crying out. Jon's stills his fingers inside her, but continues lapping at her clit until the shaking subsides. He slides his fingers slowly out of her, slick hand landing on her thigh. He hinges his mouth open wide, a long lick from her entrance and up her vulva to her clit. She lets out a trembling breath, letting go of his hair and letting her hands flop loose by her sides. She pants up at the ceiling while he continues to lick at her pussy, lazily tasting her. She's about to push him away when he sucks her clit between his lips and she whines. His fingers find her again and her second orgasm comes faster, harder, compounding pleasure that leaves her breathless.
She lets her thighs fall open around his head, sliding off one of his shoulders to dangle off the bed while she pants. He finally pulls back from between her thighs, wiping his shining mouth and beard with the back of his hand. She tilts her head down to look at him and finds him watching her with dark eyes. His tongue darts out, dragging across his lips and her breath hitches, pussy clenching around nothing. He places a gentle kiss to the side of her knee, eyes locked on hers. He brushes his nose against her soft skin and places another kiss along her inner thigh.
It trembles at his touch.
She lets out a soft breath and lets her head fall back again, closing her eyes against the sight of the white ceiling.
"Alright?" He murmurs, voice rumbling through her.
She lets out a breathless laugh, twisting her hands in the bedspread. She nods and then breathes, "Yes." when she realizes he probably can't see her head move.
He hums to himself, running his rough palms down the skin of her outer thighs to her knees then back up. He tucks his fingers in the waistband of her panties and tugs. She lifts her hips to allow him to slip them off of her.
He tosses them aside.
He presses a wet kiss to her inner thigh and her breath hitches, whimpering when he sucks the smooth skin between his lips. He leaves a trail of bruises blooming up her leg. She clenches her empty pussy, sighing and twitching her hips as he moves higher.
"Jon," she pleads.
"Hm?"
Sansa sighs softly.
"Are you going to stay down there all morning?"
"Considering it," he mumbles, lips moving against her upper inner thigh, beard scratching against her skin.
She huffs, amused.
"I've never met a man this obsessed with cunnilingus," she muses.
He snorts.
"I'm a connoisseur."
Sansa laughs. She can feels Jon's smile against her thigh. She reaches down, sitting up to pull at his hair, his shirt, his shoulders.
"Come up here," she mutters, "you haven't even kissed me."
Jon goes with a smile. He stands and cups her face, tilting it up toward him, and leans down to press their lips together. Sansa grabs his forearms, holding him close. He tastes musky sweet with her slick, licking into her mouth. Their tongues touch and Sansa moans. They kiss for what feels like a sweet eternity, Jon exploring her mouth with his tongue before retreating, their lips moving soft against each other until Sansa's slick is soaking into the bedding beneath her. They part to breathe, panting in each other's mouths.
"Jon," Sansa murmurs, lips brushing his.
"Hm?"
"Please fuck me."
He smirks against her mouth, kissing her firmly one more time before pulling back. He nods toward the head of the bed.
"Get in."
She lets go of his arms and scoots backward in the bed, stripping off her sweater as she goes. It leaves her in nothing but her lacy green bra. Jon stands there a moment longer, admiring the view, before pulling his sweater off over his head and tossing it aside. He strips out of his jeans and briefs in one smooth motion, left bare, hard cock curling up toward his stomach.
Sansa's mouth goes dry. She swallows hard. She lets her legs fall open, laying back against Jon's pillows and beckoning him forward.
*
Sansa wakes up slowly, a warm weight at her waist. Jon's breath is hot and damp at the nape of her neck, their legs tangled together in sleep. She smiles to herself. She disentangles herself carefully without waking him, afternoon sunlight shining through the curtains on the windows. She finds the bathroom and relieves herself and washes her hands before grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it on over her head. She makes her way to the living room to find her phone and swipes away most of the notifications before opening a text from Robb.
It's a twitter link.
Robb: ignore Snow â they posted me on the ESPN twitter account!!!
Sansa rolls her eyes fondly and clicks the link where it takes her to an ESPN graphic advertising the Westerosi Hockey League's Battle for the North. Robb is on the left of the graphic, readying a shot, eyes focused and to the right isâ
Jon.
Sansa's stomach plummets, body going cold. She zooms in on the face on the right, hoping she's mistaken, but even for how short a time she's known him she recognizes his profile, those intent dark eyes.
She straightens without thinking and storms back the bedroom where Jon sleeps peacefully, a pillow now pulled over his face. She grabs the nearest thing to her as she crosses the threshold â a paperback book on Jon's dresser â and beans it across the room so it strikes him in the chest.
He wakes in an instant, confused and bewildered. He looks at the book, rubbing at his chest, then to her, eyes squinted in confusion.
"Did you just throw that at me?"
"Did you fuck me to get at my brother?" She demands, cold fury making her hands tremble.
He appears even more bewildered than before.
"I didn't even know you had a brother!"
"I have three!" She snaps.
The adrenaline slowly drains out of her as she takes in his earnest confusion, hands held up, the way he's shuffled back to sit against the headboard, away from her.
Like she's a crazy person.
She flushes.
"I'm not crazy!" She says.
"Right." He sounds skeptical, "you just accosted me with a book and accused me of fucking you to get back at your brother. Who I didn't even know existed."
She flushes hotter, ducking her head.
"Iâ" she groans and rubs at her face, "I'm gonna kill Robb."
"Is that your brother?" Jon asks tentatively.
Sansa sighs.
"Robb Stark," she says, "my brother is the Direwolves's Robb Stark."
"Oh," Jon blinks, "what does me fucking you have to do with him."
"Because you hate each other!" She insists.
Jon blinks some more.
"I don't. . .hate Robb Stark. He's a good player, relatively clean."
Sansa stares, slightly lips parted.
"But. . . Robb can't stand you."
Jon's brow furrows.
"I've barely said two words to him," he says.
Sansa's mouth opens and closes a couple times.
"He's never scored with you on the ice," she says, "everyone brings it up every time you play each other â it's like it's personal."
"It's my job to keep him from scoring!" Jon protests, "I'm a defensemen!"
Sansa stares blankly for a moment, mind whirring.
"You reallyâ I meanâ? You don'tâ? oh my gods that's so embarrassing for Robb he's like obsessed with you."
Jon quirks his brows, an uncertain smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Am I still in danger?" He asks.
Sansa can feel her face get hotter at the words. She cringes.
"Oh my gods; I'm so sorry. I totally freaked because Robb hates you so much and I just assumed that it's mutual and I don't even know why I thought you'd know who I was." She rambles, covering her face with her hands.
Jon's smile softens, amusement in the turn of his lips.
"It's alright."
Sansa peeks at him from between her fingers.
"Are you sure?" She chews her lower lip, "I can catch the next train home if youâ"
"Sansa," Jon cuts her off. He looks soft and warm, sitting up naked in the bed, sheets covering his modesty, hair a mess, "I want you to stay," A beat, "even though your brother hates me."
She lets out a gusty breath, straightening her shoulders.
"Good," she says sternly before letting her shoulders round and admitting quietly, "I didn't want to go."
Jon smiles softly at her. He lifts a hand and beckons her over.
She goes.
She sits on the edge of the bed by his hip, his shirt riding up her hips. She's very aware of how bare she is underneath it. His hand curls over her thigh, heavy, warm, and callused, thumb stroking her soft skin.
"Hey," he says softly, one corner of his lips quirked up.
Her cheeks are still pink.
"Hi."
"So Robb hates me, huh?" he says, amused.
Sansa groans.
"I'm sorry," she says, "I wasn'tâ I didn't realize who you were and when he sent me that post and I saw your face I justâ" she sighs, "I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"I threw a book at you," she despairs.
He nods his head, pressing his lips together so he doesn't smile.
"Gods," Sansa sighs, putting a hand to her forehead, "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Jon repeats. His hand inches higher up her thigh, a smirk teasing at his lips, "I know how you can make it up to me."
She laughs. She puts a hand on his shoulder, sliding it over to cup the side of his neck, her thumb tucked behind his ear.
"Gladly," she murmurs.
They lean into each other, lips brushing, when Sansa's phone starts ringing. She pulls back with a groan and peeks at the screen to see Robb's face. She sighs.
"If I don't answer he'll keep calling," she mutters.
Jon quirks his lips and nods his head.
She picks up the phone, swiping to answer to put it to her ear.
Jon's hand remains on her thigh.
"Hello?"
"Sans! Where are you? I'm at your place."
"Wha-? Robb, I told you to stop showing up without telling me. I'm not even in the city!"
"Where are you then?" He asks, petulant, "I brought you a bagel."
Sansa sighs.
Jon's fingers twitch on her thigh and her breath hitches.
"I'm out of town for the weekend," she says, moving her hand from the side of Jon's neck, back to curl in his hair.
Robb huffs.
"Why didn't you tell me? Where are you at?"
"It was last minute," she says, "IâI'm in Castle Black."
"Castle Black? What the hell are you doing up there?"
Jon squeezes her thigh. He leans forward and presses a kiss to the ball of her shoulder.
She swallows hard.
"They have a lot of museums and stuff I wanted to see."
"So you dropped everything less than a week after getting back from King's Landing to go on another trip?" Robb sounds skeptical.
He should. It's not like her.
Jon's hand creeps higher on her thigh, his forehead pressed to her shoulder now.
"Yeah. I know it's, like, unusual for me," she says with a frown, wrapping one of Jon's curls around her forefinger, "but I have a friend up here who invited me out and our schedules happened to match up now."
A beat.
"A friend?" Robb asks, suspicious, "what's her name?"
Sansa sighs. She thinks.
"I don't want to tell you," she admits.
Robb is quiet. Sansa can picture him pursing his lips in displeasure.
"Sansa Stark are you with a boy?" He demands.
Sansa's lips turn down in a frown.
"He's not a boy," she huffs, "he's a man."
Jon snorts.
Robb twigs it immediately.
"Is that him?!" He asks, "put him on the phone!"
Sansa's eyes go wide.
"Absolutely not!" she says, "You're ridiculous and I'm hanging up!"
"Sansaâ"
She hits the end call button and tosses the phone aside.
Jon chortles beside her, his forehead rolling against her shoulder.
"Gods," she sighs, shaking her head, "I hate him."
Jon laughs out loud at that, tilting his head back.
Her phone rings again, a video call request from Robb.
She scowls at it, turning so she's facing Jon instead of having him beside her when she answers.
She glares at Robb's face on her screen.
He glares back.
"What do you want?" She demands.
"Is he still there?" Sansa's eyes snap to Jon's behind her phone unintentionally. Robb's eyes narrow, "so he is."
Sansa rolls her eyes. Robb's gaze focuses on her, looking her over.
"What is he a vampire or something?" He asks.
"What?"
Robb gestures to his own neck and Sansa focuses on her own image in the top right corner of the screen. There are purple bruises on the side of her neck.
She blushes, narrowed gaze flicking to Jon's again.
He shrugs, unrepentant.
"What do you want, Robb?" She repeats.
Robb huffs.
"What I wanted was to celebrate my first appearance on ESPN's official twitter account with my baby sister."
She rolls her eyes, but smiles a little.
"You're ridiculous."
He huffs.
"No congratulations?"
"Congratulations," she says flatly.
Robb huffs again.
"You're so annoying," he sighs, "you should be happy for me â I don't even care that I have to share the screen with that asshole Snow."
Sansa feels a pang of guilt, meeting Jon's amused gaze over the top of her phone.
She sighs.
"Maybe he's not so bad," she says carefully.
Robb scoffs.
"He's got it out for me," he insists.
Jon rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips.
Just doing my job, he mouths.
Sansa suppresses a smile.
"Okay, Robb."
Robb huffs a third time.
"Whatever," he mutters, "I'm giving your bagel to the pigeons."
Sansa laughs.
"You do that," she says.
They say their 'I love you's and 'goodbye's and she hangs up. She tosses the phone away and sighs, meeting Jon's eyes.
"Sorry," she says.
Jon shrugs.
"He really doesn't like me," he says, sounding amused.
Sansa groans.
"He doesn't like not scoring," she says.
"Who does?"
Sansa huffs.
Jon smiles at her. He wraps his hand around the back of her neck, thumb under her jaw.
"I'd probably be pissed off too if there was one guy always in my way," he says wryly, "and people wouldn't shut up about it."
Sansa rolls her eyes, smiling at him.
"Athletes."
Jon grins. He pulls her in, pressing a kiss to her lips. She puts her hands on his bare chest, sliding them up to his neck.
Her phone rings again.
Sansa groans against Jon's lips and he laughs quietly into her mouth. She pulls back, glaring at her phone, to see her mother's face on the screen.
She sighs heavily.
"It's my mom."
Jon nods. He pecks her on the lips and then pulls back.
"Lunch?" He says, her phone still ringing.
She nods, offering a quick smile.
Jon climbs out of the bed and Sansa lets herself admire the view of his bare ass as he walks toward the bathroom before quickly picking up her mother's call.
"Hello?"
"Sansa, sweetheart, Robb says you're in Castle Black with some man." Catelyn says, tone urgent and disapproving.
"Oh my gods." Sansa mutters.
I'm going to KILL Robb, she thinks.
"Is it true?" Catelyn persists.
"Mother, he's not some man, okay? He's literally nice."
Jon emerges from the bathroom as she says it and he snorts quietly to himself, crossing the bedroom to the closet.
Sansa watches him go.
"Well, what's his name? What does he do? Why haven't I met him?"
"Mother," Sansa groans, "Please. It's notâ" she sighs. She continues, quietly, "we're just friends."
Catelyn's silence manages to sound skeptical and disapproving.
Jon exits the walk-in closet dressed in a tight-fitting t-shirt and sweatpants. He passes her, giving her shoulder a squeeze, before making his way out of the room.
"What's his name?" Catelyn repeats.
Sansa sighs again.
"Jon," she says shortly.
"Jon what?"
"I'm not giving you his full name so you can have Bran cyber-stalk him." Sansa says disbelievingly, "Mom. . .I'm fine. I'm safe. I'm having a nice time with a friend."
"With Jon." Catelyn says flatly.
"Yes, mom, with Jon."
Silence for a long moment.
"Okay."
Sansa sighs in relief.
"I love you," she says, "I'll see you next Sunday."
"You're not coming to dinner tomorrow?"
Sansa's cheeks warm.
"I'm staying with Jon through the weekend," she says.
"As friends." Catelyn says.
"Yes."
"Hm."
Sansa rolls her eyes.
"I'll see you next Sunday," she repeats.
"Okay," Catelyn says slowly, "next Sunday. I love you, sweetheart. Be safe."
"I love you too."
They hang up and Sansa throws herself onto the bed with a sigh, hands over her face.
Her family is so embarrassing.
She wallows in her mortification for a moment before getting out of the bed, tugging Jon's shirt down around her hips and running her fingers through her long hair. She makes her way down the hall to the kitchen and finds Jon cutting an apple into slices.
"Are you allergic to peanut butter?" He asks, looking at her over his shoulder.
She shakes her head.
"Do you like apples and peanut butter?" He asks, knife paused in its work, "or yogurt. I could do a salad too."
Sansa smiles a little, stepping closer. She steals an apple slice from the cutting board and snaps the tip off the crisp fruit with her teeth. She chews and swallows.
"I like apples and peanut butter. And yogurt."
Jon nods. He turns back to the cutting board and Sansa lingers, watching his forearms and hands flex while he chops.
"Shouldn't you be eating more protein?" She asks idly, eyes trailing up his arm to his broad shoulders then down his back to his ass.
He shrugs and Sansa follows the movement with her eyes. She rubs her thighs together.
"Dinner will be protein-packed," he says.
Sansa hums to show she heard him.
"Do you cook a lot?" she asks, head tilted, watching his face.
He finishes cutting the apple and sets the knife down before turning to face her with a shrug.
"Not a lot," he says, "but I've taught myself a few things. I have a meal prep service but sometimes it gets boring."
He turns back to the counter and places the apple slices on a plate along with a dollop of peanut butter.
"The only home cooked meal Robb eats is when he can make it Sunday dinner at our parents house," Sansa tells him.
Jon nods.
"Most guys can't be bothered; especially young guys," he says with a shrug.
Sansa arches a brow.
"And you're not a young guy?" she teases.
"Not anymore," Jon says, carrying the plate over to the table, "I'm considered a vet now."
Sansa watches him walk to the fridge and pull out a thing of honey Greek yogurt.
"How old are you?" She asks.
Jon looks over at her as he sets the yogurt down on the table too.
"Twenty-nine."
"Ancient."
Jon huffs, amused.
"In hockey terms? I'm getting there," he says.
Sansa nods.
"It's soâ" she shakes her head, "it's weird how different it is for athletes. Aging. They talk about thirty-year-olds like they're about to keel over."
"Like women." Jon says.
Sansa barks a sharp laugh.
"Yes â like every year above twenty-nine puts you past some expiration date."
"How old are you?" Jon turns the question around on her.
"Twenty-one."
"Come eat," Jon says, waving her toward a seat as he sits himself.
Sansa obeys. The shirt she's wearing rides up as she does, leaving her bare pussy on the cold wood of the seat. She sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, shifting where she sits with her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Jon's gaze flickers from her lips down to her legs, the neat thicket of her pubic hair barely hidden by the hem of the shirt.
His throat bobs.
He grabs an apple slice and bites into it.
"You told me you studied fashion?" He says after a moment.
Sansa nods. She reaches for an apple slice and holds it, cool against her fingertips.
"Yeah, fashion merchandising," she says.
"Did you graduate early?"
Sansa nods, dipping her apple into the yogurt before taking a bite.
"I wanted to be done as soon as possible."
"College not your scene?" Jon asks.
Sansa hesitates. She clears her throat.
"There was a guy," she says, "he wasn'tâ nice. And after that I just wanted to finish and get out."
Jon frowns deeply at her, brow furrowed, an apple slice halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowers it.
"What do you mean not nice?" He asks, his voice low and dangerous.
Sansa swallows hard. She shakes her head.
"I don't want to talk about it," she says firmly.
Jon studies her face for a long moment then nods.
"Okay," he say softly. He eats his apple slice.
They munch in silence until the plate is cleared and then Sansa bounces up out of her chair, grabbing the dishes and heading for the sink.
Jon tries to protest, but she cuts him off.
"You cooked; I'll clean."
He huffs.
"I didn't cook anything."
Sansa rolls her eyes.
"You know what I mean," she says.
Jon grunts. He sighs. He spreads his knees and puts his elbow on the table, head in his hand, and watches her from his chair. His gaze lingers on her thighs, the way his shirt shifts around her hips as she moves, teasing him with the round bottoms of her ass cheeks. He licks his lips, admiring her smooth skin, the long auburn hair that hangs down her back, the bruises he left on the skin of her thighs. He shifts in his seat, listening to her hum to herself.
It's domestic, strange.
He likes her.
He turns his face into his palm, covering his eyes with his fingers. He sighs deeply, shaking his head.
"Something wrong?"
Her voice startles him into looking up. She's drying her hands on a kitchen towel, turned halfway round from the sink to look at him, a little furrow in her brow.
"No," he says, shaking his head. He holds out his hand to her and she hums, stepping forward to take it. He tugs her closer, until she's standing between his spread legs. He lets go of her hand to place both of his on her waist, her hands landing lightly on his shoulders, "I was just thinkingâ" he sighs, "I probably shouldn't have invited you here."
She stiffens in his hold, attempting to retreat, expression closing off, but he holds her waist firm.
"That came out wrong," he says immediately. He reaches up to stroke her cheek, "Sansa, I only meanâ we don't know each other. At all really, but this feelsâ"
"Fast?" She offers quietly.
"Intimate," he says. He clears his throat, "domestic. More."
"It's been easy," she agrees, leaning into his hand on her face. She looks into his eyes, studying his face. She says quietly, "I like you."
"You don't know me," he says, soft.
"Then I like what I've seen."
They stare into each other's eyes for a long, drawn out moment.
Jon swallows hard.
"I like you too," he admits.
Sansa smiles. She leans down and presses a kiss to his lips. He pulls her closer by the hips, wrapping his arms around her mid-back, holding her close. She cradles his face in both hands, his beard tickling her soft palms.
They kiss until Ghost's damp, cold nose bumps the back of Sansa's thigh and she jumps at the unexpected touch, squealing.
Jon huffs a laugh, using his foot to push the dog away.
"Go away, Ghost," he mutters.
Ghost huffs and bumps his head into Jon's knee. Jon groans and rolls his eyes, his hands on Sansa's waist.
"He wants a walk," he sighs, looking toward the oven clock then back to Sansa, "it's when I usually take him out."
Sansa bites her lip.
"Want me to come with you?"
Jon drags his up her body, from her knees, past where the hem of his shirt barely covers her, and up to her face.
"You'd have to put on some clothes," he murmurs.
"You don't like that idea?" She teases.
He sighs, sliding a hand down to cup her bare ass cheek. She sucks in a sharp breath through her nose.
"Jon."
"Hm?"
Sansa laughs.
"Take your dog on a walk."
Jon releases her with a grumble and stands, shooting a glare at Ghost.
"Fine," he says, "but you're coming with me."
Ten minutes later they leave Jon's house, Sansa's hand in his right hand, Ghost's lead in his left.
Jon Snow/Sansa Stark | 1.7k | G | 3rd Person POV | Catelyn POV | Modern Setting | Jonsa is not the sole focus
After years of estrangement, Catelyn gets the opportunity to reunite with her eldest daughter at her husband's funeral.
Catelyn sits ramrod straight, eyes fixed ahead at the casket on the dais, unblinking, unseeing.
The funeral is a blur.
Robb keeps hold of her hand the whole way out of the sept and through the long car ride to the cemetery. He squeezes it tight when their car pulls through the gates. She walks with her head down to the graveside, taking a seat in one the surrounding chairs, and only looks up at the sound of Arya's sharp gasp, Robb's hand tightening in her once more. Rickon makes an aborted move to lurch out of his seat beside her before stopping himself, Bran silent as the grave to Robb's left.
Catelyn looks up and she doesn't understand at first, blankly scanning the people surrounding the casket before her eyes catch on familiar red.
<i>Sansa</i>.
Her daughters eyes are red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears. She sits at the far end of the front line of chairs opposite Catelyn, a toddler in her arms. The child's face is pressed tight to Sansa's neck, their dark curls tickling her chin. Catelyn watches a tall, dark-haired man with with a thick beard lean down from where he stands at Sansa's side and murmur something to her. She closes her eyes and nods and the man carefully takes the child from her arms, settling them against his chest easily, holding them firm with one hand while the other rests on Sansa's shoulder. Sansa keeps her eyes closed, one hand moving to cover the strange man's while the other falls to rest against her now obvious belly.
When Sansa finally opens her eyes, she scans the crowd across from her, gaze catching on Catelyn's stare. Her eyes widen minutely and she quickly looks away, down, expression tight. The man follows her gaze and lands on Catelyn, a blank mask before he turns his face back to Sansa. She looks up at him and says something and he subtly shakes his head, murmuring back. His hand moves from her shoulder to cup her jaw, speaking quietly again. Sansa nods against his palm at whatever he's saying. A barely there smile flickers across his face and his hand falls from her cheek to squeeze her shoulder again.
Sansa turns to face forward once more, avoiding Catelyn's gaze.
The Septon steps up to begin the graveside ceremony.
Catelyn watches her husband's casket be lowered into the ground, a chink in the numbness surrounding her heart. Her gaze flickers repeatedly to Sansa and the man, the child in his arms. The boy wakes up halfway through filling the grave, turning his sweet face away from what Catelyn assumes is his father's chest with a crease along his cheek and confusion in his eyes. He looks groggy and grumpy and his father whispers words in his ear to keep him calm, one broad palm soothing the boy's back.
Sansa stares wide-eyed and heartbroken at the grave the entire time, sitting long after others have begun to depart. Arya peels off to head to the house to welcome guests to the post-funeral feast, leaving the Catelyn and the rest of her siblings to say goodbye in their own time. She presses a kiss to the side of her mother's head before she goes then straightens. Catelyn can tell her gaze lingers on Sansa and her family and Arya hesitates, but doesn't approach them, turning away instead to head toward one of the cars.
There are silent tears shining on Sansa's cheeks that she tries to subtly wipe away, ducking her head.
The boy gets restless, moving around in his father's arms. The man says something to Sansa when the Starks are the only ones left at the graveside and she nods, wiping at her cheeks as she stands, tugging at the skirt of her black dress and adjusting her long coat as she does.
Fear curdles Catelyn's stomach as she watches them get ready to depart, her tongue too big in her mouth. They've turned away from the grave, Sansa's hand engulfed by the man's beside her.
"<i>Sansa!,</i>" the name scrapes out of Catelyn's dry throat.
Sansa whips around, eyes wide. They make eye contact and Catelyn sees fear in her daughters eyes.
"Mother," she says quietly, the word nearly carried away on the wind before it can reach Catelyn's ears.
"Come to the house," Catelyn pleads.
Sansa ducks her head before looking up to lock gazes with the dark-haired man. He says something quietly and Sansa nods. He nods back, squeezing her hand in his. Sansa turns back to meet Catelyn's eyes again.
"Okay," she says, voice wavering.
Catelyn closes her eyes in relief, nodding her head. She lets a watery smile cross her lips.
Sansa smiles tightly back.
They begin moving away again, toward the cars.
Catelyn sits back hard in her seat, a hand to her mouth.
"Seven Hells," Robb mutters beside her, watching his sister's retreating figure with wide eyes.
"Who is that guy?" Rickon asks.
"Her husband, I guess," Bran says quietly.
Catelyn swallows hard.
"At least it's not <i>Joffrey,<i>" Rickon mutters.
Catelyn flinches at that.
"We should head home," she says quietly, "Arya can only be trusted to host for so long before someone gets stabbed."
*
Catelyn doesn't see them at first, grief and regret warring in her heart at the idea that Sansa and her family may not have come to the house after all, but then an only vaguely familiar little boy darts past her in the kitchen, a happy squeal in his throat, and she hears heavy footsteps quick behind. The dark-haired man scoops the child up into his arms, a light scold of "You can't run in here, sweetling," in a deep, rough voice as he settles the boy on his hip and turns.
He comes face to face with Catelyn and freezes.
"Mrs. Stark," he says stiffly.
Catelyn studies his handsome face, the scar above his eye.
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," she says quietly, scrutinizing him, "you know me, but I don't know you."
He clears his throat, adjusting the toddler on his hip.
"Jon Snow," he says, offering a work-roughened hand.
She takes it delicately, letting him shake it once before pulling away.
"How do you know my daughter?" She asks.
Jon's eyes narrow on her.
"She's my wife," he says, clipped.
Catelyn nods.
"I thought as much," she says, turning attention to the boy. He watches her quietly, curiously, "and who's this?"
Jon jostles the boy lightly in his arms, turning his head to press a kiss to the side of his head.
"Say hello, Arthur," he murmurs.
The boy curls in on himself, a shy smile on his face. He waves his tiny hand.
Catelyn swallows hard, tears burning at the backs of her eyes. His hair may be dark and curly like his father's but his eyes are a bright, Tully blue with a soft slope of a nose that's all Sansa.
"Arthur," Catelyn repeats. She pulls her lips up into a smile, "my name is Cat."
Arthur's smile widens as he ducks his head further, chin to his chest, but watching her.
Jon rubs the boy's back, also watching her.
"Jon? Did you findâ?" Sansa pulls up short at the sight before her, hesitating in the kitchen's threshold.
"Sansa," Catelyn breathes. She takes a step forward and Sansa stands rigid. Catelyn stops, "Iâ <I>Sansa</i>," she swallows hard, "I'm so sorry."
Sansa jolts where she stands, eyes going wide. She doesn't respond and Jon takes a half-step back toward his wife.
"I shouldn't have sent you away; I shouldn't have said those things," Catelyn says desperately, "Sansa, I'm <i>sorry</i>."
"Mother," Sansa murmurs, eyes scanning Catelyn's face. Her fingers twitch at her sides and she takes an aborted step forward, hesitating.
"<i>Sansa</i>," Catelyn pleads.
Sansa's face screws up as though in pain and she darts forward, throwing herself into Catelyn's arms.
Catelyn catches her and the waterworks begin immediately, crying into each other's shoulders.
It's not long before Catelyn's other children appear and throw themselves into the hug, holding each other tight.
"All my babies," Catelyn gasps a sob, "all of you back with me."
Eventually, they have to pull apart and they each take turns giving Sansa an individual hug, whispering in her ear. She sniffles, her face puffy and flushed. Once the reunion has settled, Sansa reaches for Jon, tugging him and Arthur closer to introduce him.
"This is my husband, Jon," she says, smiling up at the man. He smiles back at her. "and our son, Arthur."
"Thank the Gods," Rickon mutters, "we were afraid you'd be stuck with Joffrey forever."
Sansa stiffens and Jon glowers at her side.
"Why didn't you come home after getting rid of him?" Arya asks, a deep frown on her face.
Sansa narrows her eyes, Jon's hand tight around hers.
"Mother told me not to come home if I was going to leave," she says stiffly.
Four heads swing around to look at Catelyn in disbelief and anger.
She ducks her head, swallowing hard. She looks up at Sansa's face.
"I shouldn't have said that, Sansa. I didn't mean it â I was only angry and scared. I thoughtâ I thought I'd call your bluff and then you wereâ" her voice cracks, "you were <i>gone</i>."
Sansa holds herself very still. She studies Catelyn's face and softens.
"It's okay, Mother," she says softly, "I had to leave â I never would have found Jon otherwise."
Catelyn's eyes flicker toward the man who stands stiff and tall beside her daughter.
"He treats you well?" She asks.
For the first time, a smile blossoms on Sansa's face, her cheeks going warm and pink. She looks up at her husband, eyes soft and shining. She reaches out, placing a hand on his forearm.
"Jon is the best of men," she says softly. He gazes down at her tenderly, bringing his free hand up to stroke her cheek. Sansa leans into the touch, then looks back at Catelyn, something shy in her eyes, "he reminds me of Father."
Catelyn closes her eyes against the pain of Ned's loss, her hands clenched together. She opens them again to meet Sansa's eyes, tears in her own.
Book Jon Snow vs. Show Jon Snow: First Book vs. First Season.
Hey, everyone. A reader asked whether I usually do any character studies based on the books so that I can stay true to their characterization in the fanfiction I write. I told her that I play a little book-versus-show comparison game to understand the biggest differences more clearly, and she asked whether I could share something like that about Jon.
I liked the idea because, although I enjoy the show, I feel they stripped away a great deal of Jon in order to make him the perfect hero. It is as though being honorable meant he could not also be ambitious or anything of the sort. I ultimately prefer the version from the books precisely because he is a multifaceted character, whereas in the show he becomes increasingly dull-witted, which particularly annoyed me in seasons seven and eightâbut that is a subject for future posts.
Here, I will discuss only the first book and the first season. I took some notes I had made a while ago about these differences and turned them into this post.
Comparing the Jon of A Game of Thrones with the Jon of the first season of Game of Thrones is interesting because, at first glance, the adaptation seems remarkably faithful. All the major events are there: leaving Winterfell, his disappointment with the Nightâs Watch, his conflict with Alliser Thorne, his friendship with Sam, his appointment as a steward, Othorâs attack, Longclaw, his conversation with Maester Aemon, and his attempted desertion after Nedâs death.
The arc is almost exactly the same. The personality, not so much.
The show does not turn Jon into a completely different person, but it selects the traits that are easiest to admire. The result is a Jon who is older, more self-controlled, more consistently honorable, and less contradictory. The Jon in the book is a resentful, competitive, observant, insecure, arrogant fourteen-year-old who can, at times, be quite unpleasant. He is also generous, intelligent, and capable of recognizing his own mistakes, but those qualities are gradually developed. They are not there fully formed from the beginning.
That is the central point of this comparison: the showâs Jon begins relatively close to the man he is expected to become. The bookâs Jon still has to learn why he is not yet that man.
So, let us take it one point at a time:
The feast and Jonâs jealousy of Robb
Jonâs first chapter was almost entirely omitted from the show, and that makes a considerable difference in how we are introduced to the character.
In the book, he is present at the feast held for the king, but he is not allowed to sit with his siblings and the royal family. He has been seated among the squires and younger men of lesser rank. Jon tries to pretend this is an advantage because he can drink as much as he likes, listen to improper stories, and keep company with more entertaining people.
âThere were timesânot many, but a fewâwhen Jon Snow was glad he was a bastard.â
But he is clearly not glad. He is drinking too much, watching from a distance as his siblings occupy the place denied to him, and trying to turn exclusion into a personal choice. This is a pattern that appears repeatedly throughout the book: whenever Jon cannot have something, he tries to convince himself that it has no value.
That is exactly what happens when Robb enters with Myrcella:
âHe decided that the girl was insipid. Robb did not even have the sense to realize how stupid she was, and grinned like a fool.â
Nothing in the scene suggests that Myrcella is stupid. Jon merely notices that she looks shyly at Robb and smiles at him. He then decides that the girl is insipid and that Robb is behaving like an idiot.
To me, this passage is a very clear expression of jealousy, though not exactly romantic jealousy. Jon does not appear to be interested in Myrcella. What bothers him is seeing Robb occupy the place that he himself cannot.
Robb is dressed in Stark colors, walking through the center of the hall with a princess on his arm. He is publicly acknowledged as Eddardâs son and the future lord of Winterfell. Jon is seated at the lower end of the hall because his presence among the legitimate children might be considered offensive.
Myrcella represents a part of the future that is naturally available to Robb: marriage, inheritance, social standing, and the continuation of the family line. Because Jon cannot attack that inequality directly, he belittles the girl and mocks his brother.
That does not mean he does not love Robb. He does. Robb is described as his rival, best friend, and constant companion. That is precisely the point: in the book, love and envy coexist.
The show almost entirely removes this ambivalence. Their relationship remains affectionate, but Jonâs inner competitiveness, his constant comparison of himself with Robb, and his guilt over wanting what belongs to his brother all but disappear.
Jon is highly observant, but he is not an impartial narrator
Another trait that is less apparent in the show is Jonâs highly developed ability to observe people. He quickly notices the disappointment Robert inspires, Cerseiâs coldness, Joffreyâs contempt, and Nedâs discomfort during the feast.
The text itself explains where this ability comes from:
âA bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes.â
Jon grew up without the security enjoyed by legitimate children. He needed to know where he was allowed to sit, when his presence would be tolerated, who had taken offense, and which words should not be spoken. Being observant was not merely a natural gift; it was a means of social survival.
The show retains Jon as someone quiet and attentive, but without access to his thoughts, that silence appears simpler. It is often read as introspection or maturity. In the book, his mind is constantly judging, comparing, analyzing, and trying to protect his pride.
It is also important to remember that he is not always right. Jon correctly perceives that Joffrey is arrogant and unpleasant, but he calls Myrcella stupid out of pure resentment. He can see the tension among the adults, yet he cannot recognize his own privileges when he arrives at the Wall.
The literary Jon is observant, but his observations are filtered through his insecurities.
The book does not portray Jon as a naturally humble outcast
This may be the greatest difference between the two versions.
Because Jon is subjected to prejudice for being a bastard, it is easy to assume that he would automatically understand anyone else who is marginalized. But that is not what happens. When he arrives at Castle Black, he despises the other recruits.
âThe more time he spent with them, the more Jon despised them.â
Jon is far better than the others in training. He knows how to use a sword, ride a horse, and fight larger opponents. He defeats nearly everyone and takes pleasure in doing so.
When Grenn, Pyp, and the others begin to hate him, Jon concludes that it is because he is superior. Donal Noye has to explain the truth:
âThey hate you because you act as though you are better than they are.â
Jon thinks of himself as a bastard without privilege, but he was raised at Winterfell. He had food, safety, education, horses, weapons, and a master-at-arms. The other boys were the sons of farmers, miners, carters, oarsmen, and poachers. Many of them had never touched a real sword.
Noye forces Jon to understand that he can be inferior among nobles and, at the same time, privileged among the poor.
The show preserves this idea, but softens the correction. Tyrion explains that Jon received training while the others did not have the same opportunities. The scene works, but Jon merely seems not to have considered the difference in experience.
In the book, the situation is harsher. Jon is not simply making better use of what he has learned. He is humiliating the others and enjoying it. Donal Noye calls him a bully and shows him that the âvictoriesâ of which he is so proud are, in fact, those of a trained youth beating unprepared opponents.
This makes his later development more compelling. Jon does not become a leader because he has always been humble and understanding. He becomes a leader because he can listen to criticism that destroys the image he has of himself and then change his behavior.
Jonâs friendship with Sam develops more slowly
In the show, Jon recognizes Sam as someone vulnerable almost immediately. He intervenes during training, protects him, and organizes the others so that they will stop hurting him.
In the book, he also intervenes, but he does not yet fully understand Sam.
âThere is no honor in beating a fallen foe.â
Jon initially protects Sam because he considers it dishonorable to keep attacking someone who has already yielded. It is a martial principle. Only later, after speaking with him and hearing his story, does Jon begin to reconsider what he understands courage to be.
When Sam openly admits that he is a coward, Jon is initially taken aback. Later, he thinks:
âIt took a queer sort of courage to admit to cowardice.â
This shift is important. Jon grew up admiring warriors, conquerors, and men who could fight. Sam fits none of the models of masculinity he was taught to respect. Their friendship forces Jon to recognize that intelligence, honesty, and endurance also have value.
At the same time, the book does not make Jonâs protection entirely gentle. He persuades the recruits not to attack Sam, but when Rast refuses, Jon uses Ghost to threaten him during the night. The direwolf stands on Rastâs chest, his teeth at the boyâs throat, while Jon warns him that he knows where he sleeps.
The goal is to protect Sam, but the method is intimidation.
This ambiguity is reduced in the show. The television version of Jon is more clearly the groupâs protector. The literary Jon already shows leadership, but he also demonstrates that he is willing to use fear and violence when he believes he is defending a just cause.
The show removed one of the best demonstrations of Jonâs intelligence
One of the omissions that most weakens the character is the chapter in which Jon goes to Maester Aemon to prevent Sam from remaining under Alliser Thorneâs training.
Jon realizes that Sam will never become a good warrior, but he also understands that this does not make him useless. Instead of simply asking for mercy, he presents an argument based on the needs of the Watch.
âYou cannot hammer tin into iron [...] but that does not mean tin is useless.â
He points out that Sam can read, write, do sums, care for books, and work with ravens. In other words, Jon is not merely trying to save his friend. He is identifying skills, understanding the institutionâs structure, and proposing a suitable role.
This scene displays a kind of intelligence that the show barely presents in its first season. The television version of Jon inspires loyalty and shows courage, but the book already begins to reveal that he can analyze people and organize resources.
It is one of the first scenes in which we see not merely a promising warrior, but someone with genuine potential for command.
Jonâs reaction to being appointed a steward is more ironic in the book
When Jon is chosen as Jeor Mormontâs personal steward, he reacts as though he has been insulted.
âDo you take me for a servant?â
Then he complains:
âI am a better swordsman and a better rider than any of you. It is not fair!â
The show adapts this reaction quite faithfully, but because it removes the previous chapter, it loses an important irony.
Jon has just argued that Sam does not need to be a warrior in order to have value. He understands perfectly well that different people should perform different rolesâuntil the same principle is applied to him.
When his own status is at stake, Jon returns to the belief that skill with a sword ought to determine his position. He recognizes the value of Samâs intellectual work, but he still thinks being a ranger is more prestigious than being a steward.
His growth is not linear. Jon learns a lesson and, shortly afterward, shows that he has not yet managed to apply it to his own life.
The absence of the crypts dream is keenly felt
In the book, Jon tells Sam that he repeatedly dreams of an empty Winterfell. He searches for his father, Robb, Arya, and Benjen, but finds no one. At the end, he reaches the crypts:
âI scream that I am not a Stark, that this is not my place, but it is no use; I have to go.â
The first season does not include the dream, and that removes one of the most direct representations of Jonâs conflict over his identity.
Consciously, he insists that he is not a Stark. He knows he does not possess the name, inheritance, or rights of his siblings. Even so, his mind keeps drawing him toward the ancestral heart of the Stark family.
He does not know exactly what he is seeking in the crypts, but he knows he has to descend. The image works because it shows that leaving Winterfell does not resolve his relationship with Winterfell. Joining the Watch does not erase his desire to belong to the family.
In the show, this conflict appears more directly in dialogue. In the book, it also appears in dreams, fantasies, jealousy, and thoughts Jon cannot control.
The show strengthens Jonâs farewell with Ned
In the adaptation, Ned tells Jon that he is a Stark, that he has his blood, and that they will speak about his mother the next time they meet.
It is an emotionally effective scene, but it gives the showâs Jon a validation that the bookâs Jon does not receive so explicitly.
The literary Jon leaves Winterfell with no answer about his mother, no clear promise that he will ever learn the truth, and after hearing Catelyn say, when he visits Bran after the fall:
âIt should have been you.â
When Robb asks how Catelyn treated him, Jon lies:
âShe was very kind.â
That lie says a great deal about him. Jon does not want to force Robb to choose between his brother and his mother. He shields Robb from the truth even though he himself has been deeply wounded.
In the show, Catelyn treats him coldly, but the cruelest line is omitted. At the same time, Ned gives him a direct affirmation of belonging. The television Jonâs departure is still painful, but it is less desolate.
Longclaw is not a simple reward in the book
In the show, Longclaw functions primarily as recognition for Jonâs saving Mormont. The moment is presented as a deserved reward and a confirmation of his worth.
In the book, the sword provokes a far more complicated reaction.
Jon remembers that, as a child, he imagined saving Eddardâs life. Afterward, his father would acknowledge that he was a true Stark and place Ice in his hands:
âLord Eddard would declare that Jon had proved himself a true Stark and place Ice in his hands.â
Immediately afterward, he feels ashamed of the dream:
âWhat sort of man stole his own brotherâs birthright?â
Here, the ambivalence in his relationship with Robb appears again. Jon does not consciously wish to take Winterfell, but he fantasizes about the moment when he would be acknowledged as a Stark and receive something reserved for the legitimate heir.
When Mormont gives him Longclaw, Jon thinks:
âHe is not my father. Lord Eddard Stark is my father.â
Longclaw is therefore an honor, but it also reminds Jon of the honor he always wanted to receive from Eddard. Mormont offers him a new symbolic identity, represented by the white wolf on the pommel, but Jon remains emotionally bound to the Starksâ recognition.
The show keeps the sword and removes almost all of this guilt.
The bookâs Jon is more violent when his insecurities are struck
In the first season, Jon loses control when Alliser calls Ned a traitor. The same thing happens in the book, but his violence appears earlier.
When Toad suggests that Jonâs mother was a whore, Jon knocks him down, seizes him by the throat, and repeatedly slams his head against the ground.
Later, Donal Noye tells him that words cannot change who his mother truly was. Jon, however, does not know who she was. In his dreams, he imagines her this way:
âShe was beautiful, highborn, and had kind eyes.â
The imagined mother protects the image Jon has of himself and of Eddard. If she were noble and good, his birth might have an explanation that did not make Ned a dishonorable man.
That is why insults about his mother are not mere taunts. They threaten the narrative Jon has created to fill the void left by not knowing where he came from.
In the show, his anger usually appears as a response to injustice or in defense of his family. In the book, it also appears when someone touches on questions that Jon himself cannot face.
The desertion is also an attempt to be acknowledged as a son
After Nedâs death, Jon leaves the Wall to find Robb. The show presents the conflict mainly as family versus duty.
In the book, there is also a question of identity.
Jon leaves Longclaw behind:
âJon was not so lost to honor as to take it with him.â
Even as he breaks his vow, he tries to draw a line. He does not want to repeat Jorah Mormontâs dishonor by taking his familyâs ancestral sword with him.
During the journey, he thinks of himself as:
âJon Snow, bastard and oathbreaker, motherless, friendless, and lost.â
And he imagines dying in battle so that people would say Eddard Stark had fathered four sons, not three.
He wants to help Robb and avenge Ned, of course. But he also wants to prove at last that he was a son worthy of being counted.
When Mormont asks him where he belongs, Jon thinks:
âI have no place [...] I am a bastard, I have no rights, no name, no mother, and now not even a father.â
This line sums up the Jon of the first book better than any speech about honor. He spends the entire story trying to find an institution, a family, or a role that will resolve his identity. Gradually, he realizes that no place can do that for him.
His decision to remain with the Watch does not mean that he has stopped loving the Starks. It means that, for the first time, he chooses a duty while knowing that the choice will neither erase his pain nor give him everything he wants.
So, what is the real difference?
The first season preserves the events, the main relationships, and the conflict between family and duty. The showâs Jon is still insecure, proud, and impulsive. He has not been completely sanitized.
But he has been simplified.
The television Jon is older, more controlled, and easier to interpret as an essentially good person who merely needs to mature. The literary Jon is an adolescent who suffers exclusion and can nevertheless be elitist; who loves Robb and envies him; who protects Sam and threatens Rast; who observes others accurately but lies to himself; who desires honor but often confuses honor with recognition.
The most interesting thing about the bookâs Jon is not that he is naturally just. It is that he is capable of changing when he realizes that he has been unjust.
The show preserves the hero in the making. The book presents much more clearly the difficult, resentful, contradictory boy who must be broken down before that hero can exist.
Well, everyone, I will stop here. One note: because I read the book in Portuguese, some of the quotations translated here may not match their exact wording in the English edition.
I hope you enjoyed it, and please feel free to share your own interpretations of moments in which Jonâs feelings are not made explicit.
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