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Old Scars (Don't Quite Fade)

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There isn’t any particular occasion for a feast, but since both the Mormonts and Glovers are passing through Winterfell on their way to Hornwood for a wedding, Sansa decides that they should dine on a somewhat grander scale. Jon agrees with his wife that it’s wise to remind their bannermen of the hospitality and resources of Winterfell. Still, he can’t remember so many bodies filling the Great Hall since the coronation nearly a year ago.

Or maybe since King Robert had visited. After all, the Winter Court is smaller than the retinue that had travelled with the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and Sansa had been crowned during a time of rebuilding, when each keep needed what men remained to stay at home and work. Not that she’d minded; Sansa had wanted a simple ceremony in the Godswood, not so different from their wedding that had preceded the coronation by mere months.

He had been a green boy when King Robert and his court had filled the hall with Lannister crimson and gold, full of teenage bitterness at his station, and eager to prove himself a man by joining the Watch. How different his life has become: as Prince Jon Targaryen, Consort of the Queen in the North, he sits at the high table with the other lords and ladies, while Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s Bastard, had languished at the lowest table with the soldiers and servants.

Jon takes another long swallow from his goblet of Dornish red and looks around the room. Sansa sits beside him, of course, deep in discussion with Maege Mormont. They’re considering sending Rickon to foster there for a while, thinking a return to a wilder, more remote life might suit the restless boy better than court life. Various Glovers were sitting on his side of the table, and behind him he can hear the creak of Brienne’s armor as she stands at her post, guarding Sansa. At the far end of the table he can just make out Arya, tossing her head back in laughter at some comment of Gendry’s.

Except once the man turns, Jon sees it isn’t Gendry, after all. The dark curls belong to the youngest Glover boy- Rickart? Robbin?- and the blacksmith who’s spent every free moment with his younger sister (cousin) since he arrived at Winterfell is nowhere to be found at the high table.

Jon turns his gaze to the rest of the room. The men of the guard are sitting with visiting members of the Watch, with household ladies and men filling the rest of the tables, and the various Mormont and Glover children old enough to make the trip sit facing their parents, but there is no sign of the Baratheon bastard. Finally, Jon catches a glimpse of a dark haired figure leaning against the back wall, glowering over a tankard of ale in the direction of the high table.

Frowning, Jon leans over to speak into his wife’s ear. “Why is Gendry standing in the back of the hall? Shouldn’t he be sitting with Arya?” The two are practically married after all, even if they haven’t said their vows yet, and few have done more to help rebuild Winterfell than the man they nicknamed the Bull.

Sansa maintains her carefully controlled expression as she responds, “I didn’t think it wise to put him at the high table, considering the circumstances.”

Perhaps it’s seeing her queenly mask, eyes cold and removed, or perhaps it’s because the cup of strong wine he’s just finished is his third, or even the memory of that feast long ago when he’d sat in embarrassment apart from his siblings, but Jon clutches his dinner knife tightly as he demands a better explanation. “What circumstances? That he’s a blacksmith and she a lord’s daughter? Or is it because he’s bastard-born?”

Jon’s never spoken to his wife with such vehemence before, and she fairly hisses in reply. “Later. Now is not the time for this discussion.” Then she summons the boy pouring wine and urges him to fill her cup again, though she never drinks more than one, even at the longest banquets.

And though he knows it will be a long banquet, Jon stretches out his empty cup too, so that by the time they retire his head is foggy and buzzing. The feeling is not dissimilar to the dizzying embarrassment he felt after throwing a fit at the feast for King Robert. He hasn’t thought about that night in years, but for some reason the memory won’t leave him tonight.

While he broods, Sansa takes a seat at her vanity and begins to unbraid her hair. The wine has done nothing to depress her spirits- here, away from the eyes of her subjects at last, she is finally relaxed, and he can’t miss the coy glances she keeps sending his way in her mirror. She’s already untied the laces of her gown and given them a shake, so that one creamy shoulder slips temptingly into view as she tilts her head to retrieve a stubborn pin.

Despite his poor mood, Jon can’t tear his eyes from his sweet wife. He shouldn’t say that sharing a bed is the best thing about their marriage- they give each other companionship and good counsel, and they are well on their way to the kind of loving relationship modeled by Ned and Catelyn, he thinks- but their love-making has been passionate since their first encounter on the King’s Road returning to Winterfell. Jon hasn’t turned away from a willing Sansa since the week before their wedding, when he’d been struck with long-delayed guilt, and the sight of his lovely girl in her intricate maiden cloak, red hair cascading over her shoulder, had wiped that feeling from his mind forever.

Now, he wrestles out of his stiff formal attire and pulls impatiently at the laces of his breeches, goaded on by Sansa’s deliberate pace as she unwinds another curl from her braid. He stoops behind her chair and presses a hot kiss to the spot where her exposed shoulder meets her neck, sucking roughly at the soft skin there. She is quick to respond, plucking the remaining pins haphazardly from her hair as he pulls at her loosened gown until it slides down around her waist. Sansa tries to stand, but he keeps her pressed into her seat with hands that creep up her sides until his fingers can cup the heavy curves of her breasts. He moves his mouth around the front of her throat, sucking harder just above her collarbone and nipping with his teeth. Sansa throws one arm around his neck and tangles her fingers in his hair to pull him closer, though she always chides him for leaving obvious marks.  

Taking advantage of her eagerness, Jon bends lower to nuzzle against the warm valley between her breasts. The sensation of his prickly beard against her softest skin never fails to make Sansa respond, and he can feel her shoulders shudder as she lets out a moan.

“Are you feeling chilled, your grace? Shall I fetch you a fur?” he murmurs into her ear.

“That won’t be necessary. I have a prince to warm my bed.”

Jon sees her lazy smile reflected in the glass, eyelids drooping low with pleasure, but he still feels a pang in his chest. I was not always a prince.

He lifts her from her chair and sets her on the foot of the bed, then pushes carelessly at her gown until it pools around her feet. Sansa shimmies out of her shift as he tugs off his breeches and smallclothes all at once.

She tosses away the gauzy garment to reveal bare hips, and Jon cannot help but groan at the thought of her sitting next to him in such a state for the duration of the feast. Sinking to his knees, he positions her legs over his shoulders and pulls her to the edge of the bed. For a moment, he lets his lips linger at the inside of her knee, teasing the sensitive skin there, but an urgent whimper compels him to her core.

Normally it’s her taste that overwhelms his senses when he kneels for his queen, but tonight the wine has loosened her tongue, so Jon focuses on her breathy moans and the way she can barely close her lips around his name. Her shouts grow louder and more incoherent after he slides a hand beneath her hip to join his mouth. He sucks greedily until her hands clench the sheets and her thighs twitch around his ears, until he crooks his fingers just so and her release crashes over her. Her climax coats his mouth with more of her wetness, but he doesn’t mind; Sansa gets a thrill from tasting herself on his lips.

He stands and pulls her limp body up the bed, then stretches out beside her. With one hand he strokes down her front from her breastbone to the bright curls between her legs. When his fingers brush her sensitive core, she jerks and whines, so he wraps his fingers around the curve of her waist and rolls towards her for a kiss. As he knew she would, Sansa doesn’t hesitate to lick her sweetness from his tongue, and his cock hardens painfully against her hip from the intimacy of the gesture. Struck by a burst of lust or anger-it’s unclear which- he moves his lips to her ear.

“Do you like that, sweet girl? Do you like having a bastard between your legs, his dirty mouth on your cunt?”

Sansa turns to him with a sharp inhale, her blue eyes darkened by blown pupils, but now that he’s opened his mouth, he can’t stop.

“How does it feel to burn for me? Could one of your gallant lordlings get you this hot? Do you feel like a lady when I get on my knees for you?”

She’s panting now, his wife, flushed with pleasure and maybe embarrassment, too, from his filthy words, but the sound she makes when he shifts on top of her is one of encouragement. He props himself on one arm to keep his weight from smothering her and with a thrust he’s inside her, surrounded by wet heat. It burns him so he can’t keep still, pressing her ever further up the bed with long, deep strokes. He’s rarely so aggressive, and for a second he worries that he might hurt her, though the sheets are soaked in her readiness. Then her legs bend and wrap around his sides, and he can only snap his hips harder in response.

He drags his teeth against her neck as he continues to chant bits of phrases. “Gods, Sansa, sweet girl. Does it feel…fucking bastard…good, sweetheart.” One of her hands grabs hold of the headboard to steady them while the other claws his back. Eventually, he loses his rhythm and comes with a groan, buried deep as he can be.

Sansa takes advantage of his release to shove his shoulder with both hands, flipping them over with some effort. Her core grips him tight as she straddles his hips and grinds against him. She rakes his chest with her nails before grabbing his shoulders. The sting helps him recover his awareness, and he’s surprised to realize that his wife is uttering her own unspeakable things in a husky voice.

“How does this feel, bastard boy, to be ridden by a queen? Is this what you dreamed of under your furs at night? Fucking a highborn lady in her husband’s chambers?”

Her words bring memories flashing into his mind that he’d fought to suppress: long red hair braided with blue winter roses, full pink lips pursed in concentration, his right hand wrapped around his cock while his left was caught between his teeth, lest he cry out and wake Robb. The images are so potent that he thinks he might spill again, though he came apart only moments before. Instead, he lifts a hand to stroke his wife to her second peak and cushions her collapse against his chest.

He’s almost asleep, worn out by their exertions, when he feels Sansa take his earlobe between her teeth and bite down hard enough to make him open his eyes. She rolls off him, wetness dripping down her thighs, and curls up against his side, tracing circles across his skin.

“You’ve known yourself a prince for years, now,” Sansa starts gently. “I hadn’t realized that being raised a bastard still hurt you so much.”

“It doesn’t,” Jon protests, but his words sound hollow even to his own ears.

“You were upset about Gendry at the feast tonight, but his moping had nothing to do with his birth. He asked Arya to marry him again this afternoon, and after she refused they couldn’t be in shouting distance without fighting. There was no way I could seat them near each other.”

Remembering the stab of anger he’d felt at his wife makes his cheeks burn with shame, and he gathers her closer. “I’m sorry. I should have known that wasn’t why you’d moved him.”

“Did it make you think about the way I treated you when we were young?” Sansa guesses, tucking her face against his neck. “If I’d known that all my careful etiquette and courtesies gave you naughty dreams…”

Gods, Sansa.”

“I always thought you were just shy when I tried to teach you how to speak to ladies, but it seems in truth your mind was…elsewhere.”

Jon tries to sound stern, but it’s difficult to keep a straight face when his wife is teasing away his cares. “One more word from you, my love, and I swear…"

She whispers a sly comment about his filthy mouth into his ear, trailing a finger down his stomach, and Jon gives up all desire to go to sleep just yet.