What is the best evidence of book jonsa? Your opinion pls?
Hi Anon!
Well this is a hard question. Because you are asking me to pick just one among many great foreshadowings. I have always liked Jon's ridiculous jealousy on Joffrey( It brought a rare side of him, which we haven't seen again after his departure from Winterfell), His thing for Red-heads, and Sansa wanting a daughter to look like Arya( which is possible only if a particular bastard from the north is willing to comply 😉) , Jonnel-Sansa pairing in the family tree etc.
But the thing that absolutely blew my mind lies in the prologue and the last chapter of the ASOS. You might have heard of that. But I feel like it deserves better recognition from our fandom. That's why I picked that.
It is the Chett/snow/Sansa thing.
Chett connects falling snow to Jon snow in the prologue of ASOS
"Snow was falling.
He could feel tears freezing to his cheeks. It isn't fair, he wanted to scream. Snow would ruin everything he'd worked for, all his careful plans... the snow's taken it all from me... the bloody snow
Snow had ruined him once before. Snow and his pet pig. "
-ASOS Chett Prologue
And later in the same book. Sansa experiences the same snow fall but her reaction to it was anything but antagonistic.
" Snow was falling
On the Eyrie.. she had last seen snow the day she had left Winterfell ( which could also be applied to Jon because that was the last time she could have seen him too) .... Drifting snow flakes brushed her face as a lover's kiss and melted on her cheeks. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell, taste of innocence and taste of dreams"
- ASOS Sansa(Chapter 80)
So GRRM basically says that Falling snow should remind you of Jon snow and let Sansa have a romance with it later in the same book.
It is not even that Subtle, that's why I love this one the best.
jonsa 2020 week | may 12 - legends|beyond the wall (outlander au)
@jonsadrabbles Okay, this time I went 79 words over the 500 limit. I’m sorry. I tried!!
“You’ll be safer,” Jon murmured softly. “Back in your time.”
Staring up at the stones, Sansa swallowed hard. She knew very well his words rang true. Ever since she had fallen into Winterfell, she had done her hardest to make sure she got back to the stones. And now that the stones were in front of her, within her reach, she hesitated.
“I know,” she whispered. She swallowed once more, her throat tightening with emotion. She turned to him now, the man who saved her when she had first arrived in Westeros, the man who married her to protect her against capture. The man who ultimately captured her heart, body, and soul.
He reached for her then and drew her close. He looked as if he would close his eyes but refused in fear that she would disappear. “I never doubted what you told me. But to see it now.” He turned his gaze towards the stone, staring at them as if they were his greatest foe, and his greatest ally. “This is the stuff of legends. Are you certain you’re not a fairy?”
Even through her heartbreak, Sansa laughed, blinking back tears. “I’m pretty certain I’m not.”
After she had confided in him about who she really was, where she had come from, Sansa had been amazed by his willingness to accept her. Jon hadn’t understood any of it – neither did she – but he believed her. He even joked that he never set foot beyond the wall, let alone through time.
It was difficult to imagine, going back to her time, 500 years into the future. Going back to her position as a history grad student. Oh, how it would haunt her. The memory of his beautiful face, his sensual touch, the strength of his character, his heart… She didn’t want to leave him, leave what they had.
Jon kissed her then, long and hard. They drank each other in, knowing it might very well be the last time. She cried as she returned his kiss, hear heart breaking even more as she felt his tears mingling with her own.
The moment broke apart far too soon. Jon stepped back, sniffling and then exhaling shakily. “I’ll be here, making sure no harm comes to you, until…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the words and turned to head down the hill. Sansa watched him go until he disappeared over the hill then slowly returned to the stones.
Sansa could hear the buzzing, growing louder and louder the closer she approached. She had told him as much when they had first arrived. By instinct, she lifted her hand to touch the stone…
Was she ready to do this?
At the last possible moment, she withdrew her hand and took a breath. She made her choice. It took some time, but she found him a little ways down the hill, looking every bit as heartbroken as she’d felt. With her heart thumping wildly inside her chest, Sansa called out to him, “On your feet, Lord Commander.”
Jon’s head jerked up at the sound of her voice and staggered to her feet. “What… what are you doing?”
Smiling widely, Sansa replied, “I’ve made my decision. I’ve studied history for years, but I think it’s time we make our own history.” Before she knew it, she was being swept into his embrace. She wrapped around his arms around him, squeezing him as he squeezed her. Neither wanted to let the other go.
summary: sansa stark comes up with a plan to save jon snow from his punishment for being a queenslayer, the only thing is it involves convincing him to marry her.
“Marry me tonight in the godswood.” The words had twirled around her head all day. She had thought them over several times and then several times more before allowing them to come forth before Jon.
His grey eyes, hard with the scars suffering, widened in shock. “Sansa?” He looked at her, her chin firmly set and her eyes blue with steel. “I cannot-”
“You can and you will.” She cut him off. He had languished in this prison long enough; his beard growing unkempt and his curls lank. “Marry me and you become my husband, my subject.” She watched as realisation began to settle on his face. “You will become the King in the North alongside me and none will be able to challenge you.”
Jon shook his head in disbelief. “I committed a crime, Sansa.” His normally gruff voice was thickened by emotion. “I killed a Queen. I never wanted to be a King and they won’t let me anyway.”
“The North is independent now.” She took his hands, unusually bare and roughened with scars, and looked him in the eye. “And, if it came to it they would fight. But, it won’t come to that, Jon.”
Her voice was clear and strong like the sound of steel clashing against steel. A strange feeling rose up in his chest, a mixture of pride and desire and incredulity. “I deserve my punishment, Sansa.
“You killed a mad queen, that’s not a crime.” Sansa reasoned. She was calm with no sign of nerves save the ring she fiddled with on her right hand. “Bran is reasonable.”
The guard came to break them away, filthy and stinking of sweat. “Time’s up, your Grace.” He made an obsequious bow then motioned for her to leave with worried eyes and wringing his hands.
“Come to the godswood, you’ll be left unguarded.” She whispered hastily in his ear, feeling the tickle of his beard against her face. She had paid off the guards and hoped Jon would listen to reason.
The day passed, each moment more dreary than the next, until at last the evening settled with a chill.
She made her excuses then retired to her room to throw on her fur cloak. Approaching the godswood, she felt the oak trees with their ominous shade of crimson appear as if they were looming over at her. The night was cold but she was a Stark of Winterfell and therefore the pinch of frost went unnoticed. The heart tree stared at her, its face stern with the magic of old before the days of the Seven.
“Sansa.” She saw him approach with an uneven gait. “Thank you.” He said as he felt his heart hammer away in his chest.
Her eyes grew softer. “You can be a fool sometimes, Jon.” She took his hand and led him over to the heart tree where they kneeled. “This is not one of those times.” A teasing tone had entered her voice and her face was light with relief.
Together they made their vows in front of their ancient heart, no longer so stern and now feeling akin to home. She slipped off her cloak and felt the heavy weight of Jon’s upon her shoulders as he raised her up. His lips curved into a smile as he gazed at her, her beautiful red hair so bright amongst the darkness of the night, before lifting her into his arms.
“Jon.” Her voice contained notes of surprise as her head lay against his chest, thinner than he had ever been.
His tender eyes dropped down to look at her. “It’s a part of the ceremony.” He felt her warmth against him and felt desire creep into his body. “Isn’t it, your Grace?” It was his turn to tease. He had never thought this moment a possibility, he knew the sacrifice he had made when he had chosen Daenerys.
“Indeed.” Her single word spoke volumes as it was playful yet softly tender. “Your Grace.” A smirk glided its way onto her naked lips.
The following morning, they had walked hand-in-hand down the winding stairs of the Red Keep to shouts of commotion and anger.
“Where could the bastard have gone?”
The voices around all echoed similar thoughts. Anger that the Queenslayer had escaped coupled with frustration that he had managed to evade his punishment. They fell silent at the sight of Queen Sansa holding the hand of the Queenslayer, Jon Snow.
“Sansa, what have you done?” Tyrion’s voice greeted them, worry and fury poorly hidden in his tone.
She looked him square in the eye then looked around her and caught the eye of her personal guard. They nodded surreptitiously, they knew what would have to be done if there was trouble. “Good people, I am proud to introduce my new husband.” She stood tall and proud with a spine of steel.
Uproar broke out. The people began clamouring for justice, pushing forward as if to take their own vengeance. Sansa did not flinch although Jon felt a slight pang of fear threaten his heart.
“It is true he killed the Queen Daenerys.” Her voice rang out above all the frenetic chaos. “It is also true that she had grown delirious in anger and would have killed every man, woman and child of Westeros if it meant she could have taken the throne.” She paused for a moment, conscious of every eye upon her. “Jon has saved Westeros by preventing another period of instability just as he has defended the realm of Westeros many times over.”
Tyrion looked at her as if she had gone mad. “He is a traitor, surely you must see that.”
“He is the King in the North now, he will rule with me from Winterfell.” She felt Jon squeeze her hand, reassurance seeping out of the warmth of his palm. “And, he is no longer a subject of the Six Kingdoms.”
Protests were made for several days, coups were close to occurring and yet Sansa’s practical reason soon won everyone over from the common people to Bran himself. Eventually, they were allowed to leave with the condition that they would not be welcome again at King’s Landing or in any of the Six Kingdoms of Westeros.
It had been worth it to see Jon’s smile at the sight of Winterfell and the great lords of the North hail him as their King.
AN: So, I had this idea a very very long time ago. This is the first time I'm writing Jonsa fanfic, or Atleast contemplating whether if I should go on with the story or not. It's really been a long while since I really wrote anything, so here we go. Please do tell if I should continue or not.
Also the chapter is set before Jon leaves for the wall. If y'all want me to write more, I'll try it out on ao3
___________________________________________
Love the way you lie
Sansa leans against the heart tree looking up at the starry sky, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. Sometimes she really does wonder if her life has a meaning or not. She knows she wants to be a queen to a king, a princess to a prince and a wife to a husband. But what of her as a person? Will someone love her for who she is, not for how she acts? Father always said that he would find her a match worthy of her, but she didn't think he really cared. Her father never looked at her the way he looked at Arya, like she was the only daughter he has. She knows he loves her as well, but Arya is his pride just as she is her mother's. But sometimes, even if she would never admit, it hurt. Would her father love her more if she knew how to use weapons? Sansa shook her head, she came here for peace, not to get her mind woven in the webs of sorrow.
She felt someone sit beside her in silence. She didn't look away from sky, her head still resting against the tree and her fingers mindlessly weaving through the grass, plucking some in her hands.
After a comfortable silence, she blurts out, "Do you ever feel like that there is not a single person the world that loves you?" She wasn't really expecting an answer. It was a while after she heard a velvety voice answer her.
"Aye, sometimes."
She blinks in surprise to see Jon sitting beside her. His answer startling her even more. She sits up straight, her eyes falling back to her hands, her cheeks flushed. Jon was the last person she thought would be here. She could feel Jon's gaze on her and then heard him sigh.
"Your lady mother is worried for you. She searched out the whole castle but she couldn't find you. Don't know why, but I had a feeling that I would find you here. Are you okay?" He asked, his face masked with confusion and his forehead wrinkled in worry. Was he worried for her?
"I just needed some time alone, I suppose. I come here whenever I seek peace of my mind. I'm okay, Jon." She expected he would leave. Like everyone does. But instead, he stood there nervously shifting on foot, his hand going on the back of his neck as he tried to open his mouth to speak. Sansa knew she shouldn't be here with him, she shouldn't be seen with him. Her mother will most certainly be disappointed in her. But before she could stop herself, she asked, "So you feel like there are no one here who loves you?"
Jon ponders for a moment but then nods before asking her, "Do you? Do you feel like that?"
Sansa purses her lips. She didn't want to sound ungrateful for what she has. "Yes. I don't know why? I know everyone loves me and yet, deep down in my heart, I feel like it's not enough. Does that make me a bad person, Jon?"
"I don't think feeling makes you a bad person, Sansa. It's okay to want more. You know, you're meant for so much more than just this. I'll let you in a little secret. There is whole world out there waiting for you, great cities, art, culture, genuine beauty," he looks at her, his eyes warm, "and you can have it all. All you have to do is just ask."
Sansa looks at Jon, her eyebrow arching in amusement, "Oh yeah? And pray tell who will give me all that? Who do I have to ask?"
Jon shrugs, and Sansa wonders if the look in his eyes means if its him she should ask. She has no doubt in her heart that it she asks Jon of this, despite of their animosity, despite of him favoring Arya over her multiple of times he would give her all in heartbeat.
"Very well then," Sansa smooths her skirt with her hands, "what of you? If there is this whole world out there as you say, then why are you confining yourself to the north? To the wall. Yes I heard father speaking to uncle benjen."
"I don't want it. I'm not made for your world. I don't deserve it," Jon grits out, all earlier warmth and amusement gone from his face. He clenches his jaw, staring hard at the ground.
"Liar."
She had never seen him look so confused and angry at the same time. His head snaps to look at her so fast, she was pretty sure it must've hurt.
"What did you say?"
"Liar. You heard it the first time, Jon. You're lying about not wanting it , just as you're lying about not deserving it," Sansa answered gracefully.
She doesn't have to look down to know he is clenching his fist, barely containing his anger. His jaw clenching.
"Oh because you know it so much better. It's been fun evening, Sansa," the way he says her name sends shiver down in her spine, "but it's time you leave. This is no place for a lady to be such a late time."
Sansa scoffs, "Deny me of truth all you want but your face betrays everything you try so hard to hide. You want it all. And I'm here to tell you that wanting it, dreaming of it, it doesn't make you a bad person. It doesn't make you selfish. Take your own advice, Jon."
"Easy for you to say," she could hear the disdain in his voice.
"Its even easier to lie to yourself and convince it's the truth when it's anything but. You make your own way. It's your choice Jon. Punishing yourself into going to wall?"
"I'm not punishing myself," he sighs.
"Mhm, whatever you say. I must be off to my mother's chambers now. She must be worrying for me as you said. Do think about what we talked about before you make any decision and even though I already know. Farewell, Jon Snow," Sansa let his name roll out of her tongue easily. She got up with help of his outstretched hand he offered before walking away without sparing him a glance.
Ten years, it’s been Gareth’s duty to guard his queen wherever she goes, including here at Castle Black. He’s trying to ignore them but he’s not deaf. So long as she’s in no peril, it’s not his business and he knows she’s safe with him.
“Sansa...”
“Yes, Jon…”
It’s not the first time Gareth’s overheard them. That first time, he’d got an eyeful as well. The hot springs, his queen’s head thrown back in ecstasy, Jon Snow’s mouth between her legs. Embarrassed, he’d scurried away, telling himself she was safe enough in the godswood of her castle.
A moan, the rustling of clothes. Gareth steps away. There is only the one door to guard and this is not his business.
But, he spies the boy hurrying towards him before long. His mother adores him but she wouldn’t relish being disturbed at the moment. It’s been two years since the lord commander last paid a call at Winterfell. He wonders if she’ll come away from this visit with another babe in nine moons.
“Where’s your guard, my prince?”
“Left him behind,” the boy shrugs.
He’s six but quick and clever. Tom is too slow. He’ll need a different guard.
“Gareth? Some of the men were calling me Robb Snow.”
“Which men?” He must be on guard for any who would speak against his queen.
“They were Nights Watch. It sounded like a jest.”
“Oh.” He’ll tell their lord commander. When he’s not so preoccupied.
“Snow’s a bastard name.”
With dark hair and grey eyes, he’s clearly a Stark even if the queen remains unwed. “Aye but you’re Robb Stark, like your uncle. Don’t pay them no mind.”
The prince nods thoughtfully before asking, “But who is my father?”
“You should ask your mother that, my prince.”
The queen answers impertinent questions with impertinent answers. Her favorite refrain is her son was sired by a wolf but she would be gentle with Robb if he asked. Gareth knows she’ll tell him some day when he’s a bit older.
“Was my father really a white wolf?”
They did call him that once upon a time. “Do you believe that?”
“It sounds like something in a story.”
“Aye, it does, like some legendary hero.”
The boy grins. He loves the legends of old. “King Robb, the Wolf King.”
“He'll be a legend for certain,” Gareth says, playfully ruffling the boy’s curls.
“Robb?” a gruff voice says from behind them. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, my lord,” the boy says, rushing to embrace his mother's cousin.
Gareth can see the way Jon Snow’s throat bobs with emotion, the way he tenderly strokes the boy's cheek. He’s grown so much since you last saw him. Gareth has a boy. He can’t fathom only seeing him once in a great while.
The queen emerges from the lord commander’s quarters, placing a hand on her son’s shoulder and sharing a melancholic look with his father. Their story could be a legend as well...just a bittersweet one.
summary: sansa's world is glossy pink. jon wishes she'd let him nurse his heartbreak in peace. he also wishes she'd let him stay.
“Can I work here for a bit? Robb’s so bloody loud I can’t hear myself.”
A listless shrug. “Sure.”
“Thanks. I’ll be quiet.”
She nods, and says it again, sure, her rs clipped off like dead lobelias to make space for drags. Sometimes he wonders what Sansa dreams about when she’s perched this way- looking out a window with the secrecy of a sniper at a periscope, cigarette dangling from the left corner of her mouth. It’s how Jon finds her every morning on his way downstairs, seeking six o’clock supplies (hard-to-ration things: dental floss, Xeroxes, coffee, mental peace). A ritual viewing to keep balance: Sansa Stark in her too-pink bedroom wearing too-pink lingerie staring at too-pink sunsets, although on retrospection, sunsets here are never quite as brilliant as his idea of them.
Most things aren’t.
Outside, it’s summer. In the canon of atmospheric literature, there is something artificial about the way summer is described. Sunshine and great bursts of leaves. Air that smells of crushed fern. Summer in the foothills isn’t half as proprietary; it arrives in silence and gets into crevices like beach glass and thoughtless exchanges made in the heat of a single moment. The air, in fact, hadn’t smelt like crushed fern when Val had slammed the door upon his face in a hot blaze of tears and told him he had developed a pathological affinity for self-centeredness. It had smelt like the wine they’d drunk before.
That was two months back. Jon Snow lost two months to an error of judgement, though some of it was probably the wine too.
Anyway. Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien.
Thump, thump, thump. Insane acoustics. When Jon is sad, he drinks a lot and rhapsodizes on the lines of Richard Siken. When Robb is sad, he plays Post Malone. From the looks of it, Jon’s roommate must be fucking devastated today, but one can only endure Rockstar so many times before one feels a burgeoning need to pop in half a Percocet and seek refuge in the room of a greater, more tranquil being for the first time in forty days.
Thump.
Or, maybe he’s beating shit up? The Stark kids are a weird lot, Jon has come to realise from his time playing hanger-on: they keep to themselves and operate strictly on an eat-or-be-eaten policy, running on cool crisp cocktails of narcotics and self-hatred. Combinations vary: Arya punches jocks; Bran plays Ted Bundy podcasts during morning yoga sessions. Etcetera.
“What are you writing?”
Nothing to be exact, not since he got distracted from self-pity an odd minute back. More of guilt than anything else, Jon shuts his laptop. “Nada.”
“You working on that novel?”
“Trying.”
“Feel you.” She taps on a fissure in the cool granite of the sill. “When Harry dumped me, I locked myself into a room and watched Elizabeth Taylor movies for 72 hours. Naked.”
“Sounds terrific.”
“The binging or the nudity?”
“Both. Invite me next time.”
“Alrighty!” this in a sing-song lilt, like playing Harley Quinn. “Bring your best Arbor Red and we’ll watch Gone with the Wind.”
“Don’t forget the other half of the pact.”
Sansa pulls a silly face, and he thinks, Percocet-hazed, funny girl. Conversations should’ve been initiated before, but she wasn’t, well, Val. Embarrassing.
“Here, have a whole drag. Cleanses your mind.” She proffers the cig at him, rolling-paper stained by a very bright, very bubblegum-pink lipgloss. Jon manages to complicatedly maneuver accepting the cigarette without making contact with Sansa’s fingers, a feat he’d thought impossible for any human in hypothetical pick-me-ups.
Not that he minds. Not that he’s-
“Close the laptop darling, if the angst doesn’t come in fifteen minutes it sure wouldn’t materialize in twenty.”
Not used to being told off by anyone in a camisole, Jon does, indeed, close his laptop. It’s a very becoming camisole, objectively. In fact all of Sansa’s room has the strange congruity of an organized film set, there’s clutter, but it’s organic, prettily messy, an 80’s pinup-girl-dorm with the mandatory young Leo poster behind the door. The one in the floral shirt.
Jon looks at her again. Funny girl, yes, but also quite lovely, objectively, with that shock of red hair falling all over her face and big blue eyes with liquid flourishes at the creases that probably have a cosmetological name Jon doesn’t know. He watches her reapply her lipgloss in the dresser mirror. That particular pink would look atrocious anywhere else but somehow it looks just correct on her mouth. Glossology- proclaims the tube in bright gaudy silver letters. Shade 245: Rosa Suburbia. Christ above.
His phone buzzes. Val, says the ID, with the two blue hearts she’d added the day they’d swapped contacts. Jon hesitates, delaying the imminent. Lingering. Just another five seconds.
Mirror Sansa looks at him and flashes a dazzling smile. He smiles back only to realise she’s checking her makeup. Bit of an idiot move, classic Jon.
Another buzz.
“You better get that, Johnny,” Sansa chimes in her Harley Quinn voice.
Summer is untyped sentences waiting to be born, a room plastered by Vogue cutouts, a bed strewn with nail polish bottles, lacy underthings and empty boxes of dessert crumbs. Summer is ugly pink lipgloss and ridiculously lovely blue eyes and the epiphany that Gone with the Wind is that movie you’ve been planning to watch your whole life but simply never got around to.
“It’s probably dad, checking in. I’ll call him later. Listen, you want to go out on the terrace or something? It’s too smoky in here.”
“Shit, you just asked me on a date to my own rooftop?”
“Wait, what?”
She laughs.
The glow on Jon’s phone screen informs he has three missed calls. They can wait.
Being with Sansa is good. Being with Sansa works a bit like holding a red hot iron tong to an open flesh-wound. It’s overwhelming, and sometimes the bite in her words is hostile, but it heals. It cleans. If it were upto him, he would be cauterized by Sansa Stark every time the Percocet didn’t dissolve.
Outside, the summer too, lingers.
Inside, the room is thick with nicotine and Rosa Suburbia.
For so long, all Sansa had known was misfortune. Reuniting with Jon had thankfully been the turning point.
After they regained their memories, Jon and Sansa had debated what to do next. (Should Sansa remain as Alayne? Should Jon immediately give her the kingdom that was rightfully hers? Should?...) Before they had made any decisions, a man bearing the sigil of a black lizard-lion had arrived in Winterfell and had asked for an audience with the king.
His name was Howland Reed. And he knew Jon’s mother…and who his actual father was.
This had changed everything. If word got out that the King in the North was actually a Targaryen…but no matter, for there had been a simple solution:
“Marry me,” Sansa had whispered to Jon after Lord Reed had retired for the night. “You are already a Stark to me. Marry me and I could make you one officially.”
And so, they did.
The beginning of their marriage and their joint reign was difficult. They still had Winter (and what came with it) to deal with. But Winter was defeated, and the ensuing Spring was glorious.
On a particularly fine day, Sansa decided to take a rare break from her queenly duties and spent the morning picking wildflowers in the godswood. She was now seated at the edge of a hot spring, her skirts folded neatly around her knees with her bare feet dangling in the water. From her selection of flowers, she weaved a crown of violet blooms and placed it on her head, the color very striking against her now red hair.
“That’s a fine crown for the Queen in the North.” Jon plopped himself down beside her on the edge of the spring. Following his wife’s example, he peeled off his boots, rolled up his pants legs, and dipped his feet in the warm water, letting out a happy sigh as he did so. “Do I get one?” he asked with a teasing grin.
“As a matter of fact, yes.” She reached in her basket, where she had placed a crown of pink blooms, and plopped it on his head. He blinked in surprise, which made her grin mischievously. “Oh! Husband! I never knew pink was so becoming on you. I need to request an order for fabric right away, to work on your new doublet!”
“Oh, no you don’t!” He pulled her against him and dug his fingers against her sides, making her squeal with laughter. He ended her torture soon enough, though, and kissed her sweetly.
“I love you,” he murmured against her lips.
She sighed in contentment. “And I love you.”
He bent down and bestowed a kiss on the slight swell of her belly. “And I love you,” he cooed to their babe.
He sits in the Great Hall far past anyone else, only the scurrying of servants as they clean and shoot him dirty looks as they long for their own beds disrupting the silence that has fallen after everyone has retired for the night.
The faint sound of footsteps echoes on the stone floors and he hides a grin underneath a tankard of ale. He has drunk plenty this night but the haze has long since dissolved from his brain and he’s glad of it. He doesn’t wish to be drunk. Not for this. Not for her.
She enters the hall with her chin held high, a true queen in everything but name. Her steps are sure as she makes her way towards him, as she stops in front of the table that serves as a barrier between them now.
“Brother.” There’s a reproachful tone in the way she says it, a hint of scorn in the bite of her tongue, as though the word offends her personally. He wonders why. The gods know he has stopped caring about the meaning of such words long ago, long before he knew the truth he has yet to share with her.
“Sister,” he answers, and she raises a brow as the corners of her lips curl in the beginnings of a smile. She makes her way around the table, a finger dragging across the polished wood as she keeps her eyes lowered to the ground.
“I was wondering where you might be,” she says. Her tone is soft and demure but, as she makes her way slowly to his side, her eyes flicker up to meet his and there’s a hint of steel there, one he reads with ease. I thought you were with her.
He wants to reassure her. He wants to tell her that that’s over, that now that he’s back here, with her, he cannot think about anything else. He wants to share with her the truth he has just learned, how this thing between them, this living, breathing thing doesn’t need to be hidden anymore.
His hands find their way to her hips easily and give her a harsh tug. Her blue eyes flit nervously around but the servants have finally left now that their lady is here to deal with him, and they are blissfully alone. He pulls her down onto his lap, one hand secure around her waist as the other makes its way slowly under her skirts until he can touch smooth, warm skin. Her hands spear through his curls as she brings him closer, their lips only an inch apart when he murmurs, “There are things I need to tell you.”
“Tomorrow,” she breathes against his lips and he happily complies.
Tomorrow he and his cousin will talk. But tonight he wants to fuck his sister one last time.
