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orangeflavoryawp · 8 months

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Jonsa - "No More Scars", Part 1

Jon gets Sansa out of King's Landing and they make their way to Riverrun, to reunite with family. A little speeding/condensing of the timeline, so Jon has died up at Castle Black and been revived already. He comes for Sansa after this. Everyone's aged up, as is my usual.

No More Scars

Chapter One: Quelling the Pain

“This is as far as we go.” Jon and Sansa - After rescuing her from King’s Landing, they have a long, winding road to Riverrun before them.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 fin

* * *

The first time Jon sees her in years, she is both half the girl he used to know and yet not wholly the woman he’d expected of her.

“Did Robb send you?” Sansa asks, her brows furrowing over her wide, hopeful eyes.

He isn’t sure whether the truth is welcomed or not, so he only reaches out his hand toward her. “I’m here to get you out,” he tells her. And it’s the safest truth, at least.

She seems to think so as well, because then she’s tucking her hand into his, her mouth a tight line, her other hand clenching her robe closed over her chest, before he’s whisking her through the castle in the dead of night.

She glances back behind her at the gilded cage of King’s Landing just the once, just enough to swallow back the bile.

(He knows, because he sees her throat bobbing with it when he places his hands along her waist and hoists her up along the horse. He takes his seat behind her and then they’re off.)

She’s silent for the whole first half-day that they ride. And then he veers off the road, takes them along a haggard horse-path heading northwest. They don’t stop for many hours.

When they finally drop from the horse for rest, she barely acknowledges him when he hands her a clean, simple dress. She tucks behind the trees for cover and changes in silence. Jon tends the fire in her absence. When she returns, he has their bedrolls already set.

He wonders if she will remark on the closeness of them.

(He’s duty-bound to protect her, after all. And he can’t do it from a distance.)

She does not ask of Robb again, though he waits expectantly for it.

Instead, Sansa only drops down quietly along her spread blanket, not even taking the offered bread he hands her. And then she’s sleeping – quiet and still and deep.

He watches her curl in on herself in her sleep, as he stokes the fire half-heartedly, before dousing it, and turning in himself.

The next day is much of the same. Hours and hours of riding. Hours and hours of quiet.

He thinks she understands now – the answer to her question.

“Did Robb send you?”

He accepts that he may have broken her.

(Because to accept that they left her to be broken is far, far worse.) * * *

“We’ll keep off the Gold Road,” Jon says, taking the pack from their horse, and dropping it in the dirt at their feet. He then tugs the horse toward a nearby tree, looping a tied rope around one branch to tether it, before unbridling the animal.

Sansa watches in a rather dumbfounded state.

Jon glances back to her, slowing in his motions. “Until we’re further north and closer to Riverrun, we can’t risk the main roads. You’re a wanted fugitive by the crown now.”

Sansa only nods, her lips pressed tightly together. She glances around at the small clearing he’s stopped them in.

Jon crouches at the pack by her feet, pulling out two thin bedrolls, and then stopping to glance up at her. He works his jaw, eyes downcast. “I can’t promise you comfort, Sansa,” he says, hands gripping the unfurled bedroll in his hands.

She glances to him, hands limp at her sides.

“But I promise to get you home,” he finishes, looking up at her.

She watches him for many moments, her breath tight in her chest. And then she glances out to the woods around them, peers into the trees, tries to decipher the darkness slowly creeping into the canopies.

Jon sighs beneath her, continuing his task of preparing them for bed, no more words to follow.

Sansa closes her eyes. Thinks of her mother. Hears Rickon’s laugh at her ear.

A soft, watery gasp leaves her – barely there. Her lungs tighten at the memory.

She opens her eyes. The forest is still there. The sun still sinks beneath the tree line.

But Jon is here, spreading out his bedroll to lie beside hers, his hand smoothing over the wool.

She wants to cry suddenly.

“Sansa, look, we just have to – "

She drops to a squat in a single, sinking motion, arms wrapping tight around her legs, her head buried in her knees. A staggering breath shudders from her.

“Sansa,” she hears at her side.

“I just want – ” she says, and then stops, the breath hitching in her throat.

She just wants –

A sob breaks from her lips, splashing against her knees. She digs her head in deeper, another sob catching at the edge of her teeth.

“Sansa,” he says again, and she feels the pressure of his knees settling beside her in the ground.

She pulls her head up to watch him. “I just want to go home,” she croaks out, the words bitter and lonesome along her tongue, her face crumbling instantly.

Jon reaches for her hesitantly, before stopping, his hand hovering in the air.

She only looks at him, the tears hot along her lids. Her mouth tips open, but there are no more words. At least, none as important. “I just...”

Jon’s eyes shift between hers frantically, worried and wanting and always unsure.

“I want to go home. Nothing more,” she cries out brokenly, before she buries her face back into her knees, the world a sudden rush around her – the years and faces and fears of her recent captivity an instant barrage, an unrelenting assault.

Cersei’s sneering face. Joffrey’s threats. The bruise of a guantleted fist. The harsh tear of her dress. The Hound’s taunting. Tyrion’s barely constrained touches. The mocking court. And the loneliness, the loneliness, gods the loneliness.

Her breath catches, harsh and dry in her throat, her mouth parting on the sound, but the tears are familiar, constant, ever-present. The wail she bites off at her knees peters out into a pained moan and then –

Then his hands are around her shoulders, pulling her toward him. His chest is warm and firm and broad. His hands –

His hands never let her go.

She turns into his shoulder with a ragged cry, her fingers clutching his tunic, her breath stalled in her chest, and her cries, her cries, her cries –

Muffled in his trembling embrace.

It’s an awkward fumble of limbs, the way she falls against him, her knees giving out, her arms reaching for him like he’s the last gasp of air her lungs will ever know.

And yet always, constantly, steadily in her ear, there is this:

“I’ve got you.”

His voice is warm at her temple, his lips pressed to her hairline. She squeezes her eyes shut at the exhalation.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes into her.

The clutch of her fingers along his shoulders leaves marks for years to come.

* * *

He’s packing up his bedding on the fourth day of their journey when she says it.

He turns to her, finds her standing there with her woolen blanket folded over her arms, her eyes on his boots.

“What?” he asks her, needing her to repeat it, afraid he’s heard wrong.

She looks up at him, handing him her bedding to fold back into their pack. “Thank you,” she says, even and smooth, only the trembling of her jaw giving away any hint of her uncertainty.

Jon stays staring at her.

She glances up at him, and then away, pulling the blanket back to her chest. “Thank you,” she tells him, “For coming for me.”

Jon remembers suddenly what her songs sounded like, and how she used to scowl so disapprovingly at Arya, and how she howled at him when he spilled his tea along her skirts once, and the direwolf handkerchief she’d knitted for Bran while he slept, and her curtsies and her sighs and her laughs and her pouts and her – and her –

Half-brother, she’d called him.

As though to spare him the pain of ‘bastard’.

And yet, never enough to be just...

(Brother.)

Jon swallows thickly. “Of course I’d come for you,” he says roughly.

She meets his eyes then, the blanket still tight to her chest.

He opens his mouth, finds nothing there.

Because of course he’d come for her. She’s his sister. She’s Sansa Stark.

And she deserves to be fought for.

She seems to crumple in on herself.

Jon steps toward her.

“I didn’t...” she starts, stops, swallows it down. She licks her lips before trying again. “I didn’t want to give myself false hope.”

His brows furrow in confusion.

She seems to notice, face pinching in consternation, and he knows now – what she looks like when she’s trying to word something as palatably as possible.

It makes him feel dirty.

(Because he knows now, that this was the norm, the standard practice for her – to be palatable.)

“I just mean – "

“You’re welcome,” he says, reaching for the bedding held tight to her chest.

She eases her hold on it slowly.

He pulls it gently from her grasp, his hand lingering near hers, the edge of their fingers brushing. “You’re welcome,” he says again, the faint hint of a smirk tugging at his smile.

She blinks at him, her shoulders bunching tight once more. “Jon...”

He squats down to continue packing their belongings away. “You don’t really need to thank me, anyway. I told you – of course I’d come for you.” He feels her staring down at him for long seconds as he works, before she crouches down beside him to help.

He pretends not to hear the quiet sniffling she tries to hide. * * *

She always falls asleep first, her exhaustion unsurprising when they ride for hours each day. Sleeplessness is his companion now, anyway – has been since he first awoke with the red woman’s magic.

He watches Sansa’s back in the dark, whittling the hours away before dawn.

Sometimes he sleeps. Sometimes he doesn’t.

But he never dreams. It’s just an endless darkness that takes him.

Until Sansa’s hand at his shoulder rouses him, or the faint light of dawn peeking through the trees.

He rises, like he did that first cold evening after death.

And the journey continues. * * *

“How did you leave the Watch? I thought those vows were for life,” Sansa asks softly, curling her knees under her, poking at the fire before their mats with a stick.

Jon sits on the ground beside her, arms hanging over his bent knees. He glances to her at her question.

Sansa pokes at the fire again, eyes fixed to it, before noticing his silence. She turns to him. “Aren’t they?” Her mouth purses in confusion.

Jon nods, his throat bobbing. “Aye, they are,” he gets out roughly.

Sansa lowers the stick in her hand. “So...?”

“So, I gave my life for the Watch,” he snaps in answer.

Her shoulders tense at his tone, her knuckles going white along the stick in her hold. She faces the fire once more. “I’m sorry, if I touched a tender subject,” she says diplomatically.

He recognizes this side of her now. The side that braces for a raised hand. And he hates that he has stirred this in her.

Jon sighs heavily, wiping a hand down his face, and then he reaches into the grass beside him, pulling out a fistful of blades. He starts to pluck at them and toss them one by one into the fire. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he grumbles out.

Sansa remains quiet, resuming her cautious exploration of the fire.

Jon throws another blade into the flames, a huff leaving him. “I’ll tell you someday, I promise. Just... not tonight.”

“Alright,” she says gently, eyes still on the fire.

Jon looks at her from the corner of his eye. “My men betrayed me,” he gets out finally.

The burned end of the stick in Sansa’s grasp settles into the dirt as she drops her hand to her lap. “They betrayed you? Why?” she asks, looking over at him. Her brows furrow in question.

Jon heaves a breath. “Because sometimes you just can’t change hate,” he says simply.

And maybe it is that simple. Maybe it always has been. Maybe he’s just been too blind to see it.

He isn’t strong enough to change a man’s hate. Or his fear.

Maybe his real mistake was never understanding that.

“You didn’t deserve that,” she says suddenly, a fierceness underlining her voice.

Again, so simple.

And yet, it makes him turn his head, makes him meet her gaze.

She reaches out a hand and squeezes his fist reassuringly, before settling her hand back in her lap.

She hasn’t a clue what their betrayal truly did to him. She hasn’t seen the scars. She hasn’t witnessed his cold body on a slab. And yet – simply – to hear those words –

You didn’t deserve that .

It makes the air catch in his throat.

“Thank you, Sansa.”

She smiles – hesitant and barely-there. But she smiles.

A direwolf’s howl breaks the silence over them, coming from over the hills. Sansa starts, twisting back to look through the trees behind them, finding nothing in the darkness. “Is that...?”

“Ghost,” Jon reassures her, tossing another blade of grass into the fire. “He’s keeping watch from a distance while we’re still this close to the main road. He’ll join us further north.”

Sansa stays turned in her seat, gaze fixed to the darkness at their backs, her eyes slowly watering.

The realization comes to him then, suddenly and sadly. He swallows tightly before he asks her, “What happened to Lady?”

Because he knows. He knows. Only death could have separated them.

Sansa purses her lips, her jaw tightening, and then she’s shuffling back to her previous position, tucking her legs underneath her with a downcast gaze. “Father killed her,” she clips out, a hand going to wipe the wetness from her eyes, as though it had never been.

Jon’s shoulders slump at the revelation. He feels her loss keenly, like a piece of him has been torn away. He thinks of Ghost. Thinks of the terrible rending his death would cause in him, the ache, the tear, the missing of something that used to be of him. And then he thinks of their father.

Jon clenches his hands into fists atop his knees. “Father... killed her?” he chokes out.

Sansa nods. “As punishment for Nymeria attacking Joffrey, when Nymeria couldn’t be found.”

“Oh,” he says, the breath shuddering from him. He wants to reach to her. Doesn’t know how.

Sansa tosses the stick into the fire. “I resented him so much for it, you know? I was so... so angry. And hurt. And I never felt safe again after that. And I couldn’t forgive him for it. And then I never got the chance to, anyway.”

Jon stares at her, swallowing heavily.

She sighs, hands winding nervously in her lap. “Because then he was dead. And I was forced to look at his head up on that pike, and I... I couldn’t...” She stops, her voice catching. She sniffs back the break, tries again. “I couldn’t forgive myself for missing the chance to tell him before he died – ” She sucks a sharp breath between her teeth, turning to face Jon, her eyes wide and salt-sheened. “That I forgave him, and that I loved him, and that I wasn’t angry with him anymore, that I – I just wanted him to come back, to take us from there. But I’ll never get that chance again. Because he’s gone, just like Lady, killed for a crime he never committed. He’s just... gone,” she exhales on a spent breath, pulling her lip between her teeth. And then she laughs, short and dark, a hand going to her eyes. “It’s so – so stupid,” she mutters.

Jon turns fully to her, his knees folding beside him when he leans over and grabs for her wrist, gently tugging her hand from her face. “It’s not,” he tells her. “It’s not stupid.”

She heaves a steadying breath, eyes still fixed on her lap, but they’re dry now at least.

Jon rubs his thumb along the arch of her wrist. “And you didn’t deserve that,” he says meaningfully.

Sansa looks up at him, brows pinched together when he repeats her words back at her. And then she laughs again, wipes at her nose with her free hand, straightens her shoulders. “Quite the pair we make, huh?”

Her voice and face are still pained though, he sees this.

But her wrist is warm beneath his touch, and she isn’t pulling from him.

“Quite,” he agrees, the lilt of a smile gracing his face, his thumb etching over her pulse point again.

She nods, licking her lips. “I’m glad it was you, Jon, who came for me.” She turns her hand over beneath his grasp and meets his palm with hers. Her fingers tighten over his. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I,” he says, the words instant along his tongue.

And he means it, he finds. He means it with all of him. * * *

Sansa hates rabbit meat, she discovers,

Jon laughs at her when she makes a face at the skinned animal he turns over the fire.

“It’s so chewy,” she bemoans later, grudgingly taking a bite of the thigh meat Jon offers her, hunger winning out over pickiness.

“You need to eat,” he says firmly, though the hint of a smirk still rests at the corners of his mouth.

She pouts at him.

He only laughs harder. * * *

He catches sight of the scar along the nape of her neck sometime in the next afternoon. It takes him a while, his eyes usually trained ahead. But then she sighs, a hand going to rub at her eyes. She’s tired, he notices, and he looks at her for the first time that day, seated in front of him in the saddle. Her hair is brushed over her shoulder, thin wisps of it escaping the partially pinned style. There’s the slightest red tint over the tops of her ears and the back of her neck, a mark of the sun’s constant watch over their journey. Her shoulders are slumped forward – thin and brittle. The fabric of her dress is dulled and wrinkled over the expanse of her back. And all this he expects until –

The faint, white line etching out from beneath the collar of her dress, arching over the space where neck meets shoulder.

He almost stops their horse at the sight.

Instead, he simply stares, the steady rocking motion of the horse only increasing his focus. Unbidden, his hand rises up to touch it, fingers dragging down the edge of her dress’ collar to bare the scar more fully to him.

Something sharpens in his gut at the revelation it gives him. The scar does not end. It only stretches longer, harsher – unseen beneath the rest of her dress. If he follows the path, he knows it will curve over her shoulder blade, down, and down – perhaps fading out along the backs of her ribs, or perhaps continuing on, to the curve of her waist, tapering off past her hip.

His other hand tightens along the reins.

Jon suddenly realizes she has stiffened in her seat, her shoulders bunching up. Her breath has stilled.

Jon eases the horse to a halt, the words dead along his tongue. He stares at the haggard white strip of flesh at the base of her neck, his fingers still curled along the dress collar, tugged only partially down, his thumb arching tenderly over her scar.

They stay like this for many moments, his eyes slowly watering, a heat behind them that seems finer than rage – more honed. A slow, bitter wrath builds inside him.

Sansa turns her head just slightly, not enough to catch his eyes, but enough for him to see the stiff purse of her lips.

He lets out a heavy breath. “What did they do to you?” he croaks out, surprising even himself with how the words manage to find air.

She doesn’t answer at first, tongue flicking out to wet her lips. She draws a slow, steady breath in – the first he’s felt from her since they’d stopped. Her lids flutter closed. “They did enough,” she tells him.

He sucks a sharp breath between his teeth, his thumb pressing firmer along the nape of her neck.

That fine-honed wrath – it narrows. Becomes a pinprick focus.

“Sansa,” he gets out raggedly, his hand releasing her collar, dragging over her neck instead, anchoring there at the edge of her shoulder. He shakes with it – this righteous horror.

And then she slips a hand over his, her fine-boned fingers delicate along his calloused ones.

He blinks at the back of her head, the salt sting of tears lingering just at the corners of his eyes.

She dips her head toward their joined hands along her shoulder, her lips a whisper away from his touch, her breath warming his knuckles. “But they cannot anymore,” she tells him. And then she glances further back, meets his eyes finally. “Because of you.”

Jon’s chest heaves, his hand in the reins settling closer now, just along her stomach.

Her hand slips from over his, her shoulders unbunching as she faces forward once more. There’s an ease to her frame now, a subtle freedom.

As though she feels safe in his arms, pressed up against his chest.

As though she knows:

No other scars will follow.

(And she’d be right – because this, he promises.)

Jon clicks at the horse to continue, his heels pressing in short and quick. They start moving again instantly.

He keeps his eyes on the sliver of white flesh at her nape, and his hand pressed firm along her stomach, reins tangled in his fist.

The weight of her against his chest is almost enough to quiet his wrath.

But not quite. * * *

“Is there a lake nearby? A river?” Sansa asks, eyes roving the land before them as they ride.

“There’s a small river along our route but...” His voice trails off.

Sansa glances back at him to find him looking north.

He frowns. “Not for many miles, I think.” He looks down at her. “Why?”

Sansa turns forward again, shifting in the saddle. She considers her words a moment, before answering. “I’d... like a bath,” she says finally, lip caught between her teeth.

Jon chuckles behind her, his breath warm at the nape of her neck.

She narrows her eyes. “And you could use one, too,” she quips.

He coughs unexpectedly, the laugh petering out in his throat.

She smiles to herself, unseen.

They find water shortly before the sun sets, and Sansa climbs down from the horse eagerly, heading to the edge of the lake. She hesitates only momentarily, before the grime and dirt of the last several days overwhelms her, and after glancing back to make sure Jon has set camp far enough away from shore, she removes her travel dress and makes her way into the water.

When she’s back at camp, as refreshed as she expects to be, clothed in the robe she fled King’s Landing in while her dress dries from washing along the tree branches, she catches the faint outline of Jon washing in the lake by twilight. It’s barely an outline of him, the high moon not yet full, and the lingering trail of the sun’s rays diminishing over the horizon rather quickly, but it’s enough.

He’s become a man in the time she’s spent away from him. She realizes she should have known that by the beard that sometimes brushes her shoulder when they ride, and the rough, calloused hands that hold the reins at her waist, and the broad expanse of his shoulders that hold her weight when exhaustion overcomes her and she reluctantly leans back against him.

But seeing him now, etched in twilight, far enough away to nearly be a mirage, she understands that the man who came for her is not the brother she said goodbye to all those years ago.

He gave his life for the Watch, he’d said, and she still doesn’t know what that means, but she thinks she’s closer to the truth now, when she watches the curved line of his back peeking out from the water, when he turns, just slightly, and she can see the dark line of wounds or scars or... something along his chest.

She’s closer to the truth when later that night, as they lay beside each other before the fire, and she glances over to him, he glances back without her ever needing to speak his name. * * *

“How much longer?” she asks, shifting in the saddle, her thighs beginning to cramp.

Jon grunts behind her in annoyance. “We’re almost there.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You wouldn’t like the answer anyway,” he quips back.

Sansa huffs, throwing a look over her shoulder at him.

Jon rolls his eyes. “It’s almost a month from King’s Landing to Riverrun, and that’s just taking the main roads – which we’re not,” he explains.

“I know,” she sighs.

“Because we can’t risk you being spotted.”

“I know.”

Jon pulls the horse to a halt, peering at her over her shoulder. “It’s going to take longer if we keep stopping like this.”

“I know, Jon,” she snaps turning in her seat before him as much as she can, her nose nearly bumping his. She stills at the sudden closeness.

Jon pulls back just a touch, just enough to keep his gaze on hers.

Her cheeks are pink, her mouth pursed tight.

Jon licks his lips. “Are you tired?” he asks finally, his voice rough.

Sansa’s eyes shift between his, her mouth opening and then closing. She turns away from him, facing forward once again. “I can weather it,” she manages, hands curling over the saddle horn.

Jon stays staring at the back of her head. He sighs out. “If you’re tired...”

“I’ll be fine,” she clips out.

Jon frowns behind her.

“I’ll not complain further,” she assures him, shoulders tight. A faint pink blush etches over the tops of her ears.

Jon waits another moment to be certain of her, before urging the horse back into motion.

She doesn’t speak for the remainder of the ride. * * *

He notices something’s wrong when she becomes unusually quiet along the road the next day. He doesn’t comment on it, but keeps a steady eye on her. Her shoulders start slumping. There’s sweat along the back of her neck. Her hands grip the saddle horn tightly.

“Sansa,” he says, never stopping their trot.

“Hmm?” she answers, never looking back at him.

“Are you alright?”

She straightens somewhat. “I’m fine.”

He watches her for many moments from his seat behind her, before stopping them without a word.

She sighs, glancing back at him. “I’m fine,” she repeats, a censure to her words.

But she’s not. And he knows this.

Jon slips from the saddle, boots landing along the ground in a puff of dirt. “Come here,” he urges her, motioning her to get down from the saddle.

She frowns down at him. “Honestly, Jon, I’m – ”

“You’re not fine,” he clips out, hands going for her waist. “Come.”

She reaches for his shoulders reluctantly, an admonishing glare sent his way. “Jon, it’s just – ”

“You’re clammy,” he says, dragging her from the saddle, steadying her against his chest. “And weak. You’re not well.” He motions toward the fallen log beside their horse. “Come, sit. We’ll rest for a time.”

Sansa grudgingly walks toward the log, a hand at her stomach, as Jon goes to tie the horse off along a nearby tree. When he turns back to her, he catches sight of the small patch of blood along the seat of her dress. He stills instantly.

“Sansa,” he gets out on a croak.

She settles along the log, arm wrapped around her middle, her shoulders hunched over. She looks up at him, a brow arched in question.

He raises a finger to point dazedly. “You’re... bleeding.”

Sansa gives him a perplexed look for a moment, before understanding passes over her features, and she nods quietly, eyes slipping closed as she wraps both arms around her stomach now. “My moon blood,” she says in explanation, a grimace accompanying it.

Jon stays rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do to help.

“Will you build a fire?” she asks then, glancing up at him. “Heat helps.”

He moves into action immediately, starting the fire, and gathering blankets, settling them into their nightly routine well before they should have otherwise been doing so.

The sun is still low over the trees when Sansa curls into a ball along the blankets, facing the fire, her eyes squeezed shut.

Jon sits just behind her, setting the waterskin beside her, within reach. He leans back with a sigh, eyes roving her body. The words clog in his throat. “So, you’re...”

Sansa opens her eyes, hands curling in the blanket wrapped around her. She looks over her shoulder at him. “I’m what?” she urges him.

Jon wipes a hand over his mouth, suddenly regretting that he’s even begun this line of thinking, but it sits in his gut anyway, waiting for air. “You’re not with child, then,” he finishes finally, unable to meet her eyes.

Sansa works her jaw, eyes shifting back to the fire. “My marriage to Tyrion was never consummated,” she tells him, the words clipped.

He can’t smother the sigh of relief that escapes him at her words.

She tugs the blanket closer.

Jon reaches a hand to her shoulder. “I didn’t mean... I only meant to ask if...” His hand curls back, away from her shoulder.

“You only meant to ask if I was still a threat to the North – if I carried a Lannister babe in my belly.”

Jon sucks a sharp breath through his teeth. “Sansa, no, I – ”

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” she bites out. “There may have been some... unwanted touches,” she manages through clenched teeth, her voice wavering, “But nothing more than that. I’m still a maiden, don’t worry. And not a threat to our family.”

Jon shakes in his sudden wrath, unseen behind her. He rakes a hand through his hair, his chest heaving. “I’ll kill him,” he snarls lowly.

Sansa stiffens at the sound, unable to look back at him.

“I’ll kill him for even touching you,” he says vehemently.

Sansa finally turns to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Jon.”

Her voice seems to bring him back, seems to dull the haze that’s overcome him. He hushes her, a hand at her shoulder, turning her back to the fire, a brittle silence settling between them. They stay like this for many moments before she turns again, voice catching in her throat, “Jon – ”

But then he’s settling into the space at her back, winding an arm around her waist, bracing her back against his chest.

Sansa swallows tightly, eyes blinking furiously against the firelight. “What are you...?” she gets out shakily.

“You said heat helps,” he answers into her shoulder, burrowing closer.

He doesn’t question this need. Doesn’t question this instinct to quell her pain. He only holds her. Firm and unrelenting.

He holds her.

And she lets him.

#jonsa #jonsa fic #jon snow #sansa stark #no more scars #my writing #got fanfic #jon x sansa #also what the FUCK is going on with tumblr's formatting??#this shit took ages longer to post than normal #dafuq

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