It was Sansa's nameday. Her thirty-second nameday, to be precise. There was nothing particularly special about it, save for the celebration feast all of Winterfell would participate in later this evening.

There would be tables overflowing with roasted honeyed chickens, venison pies, and lemon cakes. Blackberry wine and ale would be poured with abandon, and Northern men and women would dance to jaunty tunes played by a troupe of musicians.

Gifts from the kingdoms of Westeros and beyond had already been presented. Crates of exotic fruits, caskets of wine, bundles of furs, and precious stones had been delivered from the lords and ladies of houses across the land.

Her brother, King Bran, had sent her a necklace wrapped in velvet, made of ruby and silver. She'd placed it around her neck, noting the way its deep red color clashed with her copper-burnished hair. Then she'd returned it to its velvet finery and put it away.

During her walk about the godswood this morning, a stable boy had approached Sansa with a small bundle of leather. Inside was a dagger made of steel, etched with gold filigree on the Arya never sent her gifts in quite so grand of fashion as Bran, Sansa knew that they were chosen carefully and thoughtfully.

Still, as Queen in the North, Sansa would sit alone at the high table during her nameday feast, overlooking her people with grace and equanimity. She'd sip her wine and nod her head magnanimously towards the Northern folk who approached the table with well-wishes.

Then she'd go back to her chambers, and her maid would help her undress from the many layers, buttons, and undergarments she'd be wearing. Her crown of wolves would be returned to its designated fur-lined box, and her hair would be unwound from its complicated knot and brushed one hundred times, for good measure.

Ministrations complete, her chamber maid would take her leave- likely returning to the crush of the nameday feast- and she, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, would slip into her entirely too large bed alone.

As always.

She'd been dancing to this same tune for years; years that had slid away like water through her fingers. She'd never married, as she'd never found an alliance that was suitable to her liking. Perhaps she never would.

In truth, Sansa had nothing to complain about. Though it had taken time, the North had slowly regained its prosperity after the devastation of the White Walkers. Holdings and keeps that had been destroyed by the dead were restored. Fields and crops that were ravaged by dragons were again plentiful. Her people were peaceful and prosperous.

What more could she ask for?

A soft knock thumps at the door to her chambers. Sansa looks out the window; judging by the sun, it was near time to begin preparing herself for her nameday feast, and that was likely her chambermaid at the door.

"You may enter," Sansa calls, turning from the window.

She steels herself for the onslaught, her chin raised and her hands at her side. She'd make it through this nameday, like she'd made it through every other.

Of that she was certain.

The blackberry wine was at once tart and sweet, playing artfully over her tongue. Sansa gave herself a mental note to remark upon its delicious sapor to the Winterfell vintner at the next opportunity. She supposed he would be mingling in the crowd, but it was near impossible to see through the jumble of people beyond the high table.

Typically, Sansa kept her wine watered down so that she could appear to join the festivities while maintaining her sensibilities. She found that too much wine made her flush, and the warmth would spread all over her body until her core was practically throbbing with heat.

The discomfort could only be remedied with her hand between her legs, and more often than not, that just left her feeling empty and wanting. Sometimes it was better to feel nothing rather than not enough.

Tonight, however, was her nameday feast. She would allow herself to savor the bittersweet piquancy of the blackberry wine, and perhaps she'd even have an extra lemon cake in her chambers. She quite liked the idea of the two delicacies paired together, the flavors marrying on her tongue as they melted into each other.

The evening slips away, and suddenly Sansa is feeling that all too-familiar heat begin sliding down her insides to pool at her center.

Damn, she thinks contritely. I've had too much wine.

Signalling her steward, Sansa informs him that she would be retiring to her chambers shortly.

"And pray, ask my maid to bring a flagon of blackberry wine and a lemon cake with her." she adds as an afterthought. He nods his head in acquiesce and quits the room.

Sansa stands, clears her throat for the musicians to belay their strumming, and gives her thanks to the Northern people for, "Yet again, a wondrous nameday." Everyone claps heartily and soon enough, she is once again in her chambers.

Her maid makes quick work of her undressing. She's uncoiled her hair and left her in a linen chemise, and Sansa dismisses her graciously after just a few minutes, forgoing the hairbrushing and other small duties. When she's left the room, Sansa bars her doors.

The fire in the hearth crackles, providing a dim glow about the room. The warmth in her core has diminished, and the room is somewhat chilly. Sansa sits in an oversized chair in front of the fire and pours herself another glass of blackberry wine.

She picks up a lemon cake, its top decorated with a dusting of fine sugar. She places it in her mouth, letting the tangy sweetness envelope her mouth. Then she takes a sip of wine.

"Mmmmmmmm," she nearly moans,closing her eyes and licking her lips. It was just as she imagined. While the lemon cake was bright and loud, the blackberry wine was dark and subtle. She enjoyed the contrast between the flavors, and she could already feel the flush returning to her skin.

"I'm going to have to try that myself, if it tastes that good," a deep voice resonates through the darkness, and suddenly Sansa feels a hand pressed over her mouth.

She struggles, her hands and arms flailing in every direction in an attempt to hit her attacker.

'Don't yell, Sansa, " the voice whispers against her ear. "There are two guards stationed outside your room."

Then the hand falls away, and Sansa jumps from her chair to confront the faceless fool who's dared to touch the Queen in the North without her permission. In her chambers and nearly naked, no less.

" That is the entire point, you imbecile! You'll be gutted and hung out for the crows to peck," Sansa threatens, peering into the shadows.

Except when he steps from beyond the darkness, she can do nothing but stare.

His hair is cropped just below his ears, dark and curly. His beard and mustache of a matching shade and somewhat unruly. He is clothed in black leather breeches and gherkin, and his fur cloak is draped over his shoulders like a mantle of armor.

His eyes are exactly as she remembered.

"Jon?" she whispers.

He smirks, then, and steps closer.

Sansa backs away.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" she questions, not believing her eyes.

She hadn't seen her bastard brother- no, cousin- since that day in King's Landing when he'd drifted away from the docks, headed to servitude at Castle Black as a Brother of the Night's Watch.

Again.

"It's your nameday, Sansa. Did you think I'd forgotten?" His voice sluices over her like hot bathwater from a pitcher, and she nearly shivers.

He steps a little closer.

She backs away again, quite aware that she is trapped between the fire in the hearth behind her and the fire in the man in front of her.

Whichever way I move-I get burned, she thinks, panic nearly taking over.

"How did you get in my chambers?" she breathes desperately. "More importantly, why-"

"I'm sorry, Sansa. I'm not trying to scare you. I've spent the last decade beyond the Wall, living amongst the Free Folk. They aren't known for their manners."

His words sound apologetic, but there was an edge to his voice. Something dark. Something that made Sansa want to step closer and back away all at once.

When she doesn't respond, Jon steps closer again, and now Sansa can see the intensity in his eyes. He appeared as a man dying of thirst, and he was looking at her as if he wanted to wring her out and drink every last drop.

"I suppose it's only natural that I have picked up some qualities from the Free Folk. They are certainly an...aggressive group of don't spend a lot of time debating the consequences of their decisions. When they want something, they just...take it." His voice lowers at the end, and the timbre of it reverberates through Sansa unbidden.

Her eyes dart to the box on her bedside table. The one lined with fur, still open. The crown of wolves glints beckoningly from its resting place.

"Is that what you want?" Sansa returns, finding resolve and nodding her chin towards the crown. "You'll have to do a lot more than sneak into my chambers and steal it like a common thief in the night. You may have been King in the North once, but this is my home and my kingdom. The people love me."

Jon laughs now, the fur at his shoulders dipping up and down.

"I don't doubt they love you, Sansa. And I don't need your crown. I could have ruled the Seven Kingdoms with Daenerys if that's what I wanted."

She flinches at the sound of her name spoken aloud. After all these years, it was still like a knife to her gut.

"I have no desire for crowns and titles," Jon continues, walking towards her again. Her back is against the brick of the hearth, but she barely feels the heat of it.

"I've had a lot of time to think about things over the years. The mistakes I made, the things I should have done differently. I've been able to reconcile the choices that lead me to the barren lands beyond the Wall. I've accepted what I did, or did not do, cannot be undone or attempted again. However…"

He stops just before her. His eyes are dark, and he smells like freshly turned earth and summer winds. Like something alive, and familiar, and burning at her fingertips.

"However," he says again, taking her hand in his. She can feel the heat spreading again. "There is one thing. One thing I can't get out of my thoughts, my dreams. It haunts me."

He's gazing at her so intently, she can hardly breathe. Had she ever been looked at that way?

By anyone?

"What's that?" she hears herself say, barely above a whisper.

"I let my anger, my guilt, my pride keep me from returning to Winterfell for so long. I imagined you sitting at the high table, your hair like a crown of fire around your head. And...I imagined you in your bed, moaning the name of your husband as he pressed you into the furs."

His hand has moved from her own and now cups her cheek. She feels like she should say something, anything, but she can't find her own voice. Her breath is hitched in her throat and she feels like she could fly apart into a million pieces.

"For so long, I shoved you down, pretended you didn't exist anymore. Pretended this realm of men was beyond my reach. I don't need to be king, Sansa. Of the North, or otherwise."

He takes his hand away from her cheek, and Sansa is bereft, wanting to cry out for him to touch her again.

"What I want, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North," he says, going to his knees. "...is to be your supplicant. Let me worship you. Let me bend the knee to your name. Let me whisper it in your hair and on your lips, and between your thighs."

She nearly falls apart, then. Her core is throbbing, white hot.

Sansa doesn't know how to do this; she's never been held, or touched, or wanted this way.

She leans down, taking Jon's hand, and then they stand together. Wordlessly, she unclasps the hook on his fur cloak, and presses her hands beneath the hem on his shoulders until it falls backward to pool at their feet.

Her hands remain on his shoulders and she pauses, trying to find her courage. She's trembling when she meets Jon's eyes, but his are lidded and dark.

Then his lips are on hers and she's crashing.

Jon's hands come up to cup her head, his fingers threading through her hair. At first he moves his mouth over hers slowly, gently, giving her time to learn his rhythm. He pulls her bottom lip between both of his, and then moves to the bow, and then she instinctively slants her mouth to give him better entrance.

Her back is completely against the brick of the hearth now, and when his hands dip further down, he growls in her mouth and pulls her closer to him. His tongue presses between her lips, and his beard rubs against her face, and her breasts are against his chest; her chemise is so thin that movement of her body on his makes her nipples peak and her legs feel fluid.

Jon backs away from the fire, grabbing her bottom in his hands and hiking her onto his hips so that she straddles him. His arousal is pressing against her, and Sansa lets out a moan between his lips. Her eyes are closed, but she can feel his mouth smile as he lays her onto her bed.

Their lips part as her head lands onto the furs, her hair spread like a crimson fan around her. Jon is standing over her, and she's struck by how the thought of him towering over her makes her feel deliciously overwhelmed.

"Your lips taste like lemons and blackberries," he whispers darkly, and his fingers are trailing up her calves. His hands feel calloused and rough, and it sends moisture to her center.

Jon's hands move up her thighs, gripping the sensitive flesh between his fingers. He climbs on top of the bed, sliding her forward so that he is leaning over her and his lips are at her neck.

Sansa shudders as he nips and kisses and sucks at the tender flesh, until he's trailed his way down to the neckline of her chemise, murmuring about how beautiful and exquisite she is.

A hand leaves her thigh to cup her breast over the thin fabric, and she can't contain her mewls and sighs when he raises her chemise over her head and presses his warm, wet mouth against her nipple to suck gently.

Sansa feels like she is spinning, drowning, her body singing and thrumming like an instrument in his hands.

When he eases her legs apart to cup her pussy, Jon's voice goes gravelly. "Gods, you're wet, Sansa. I wonder, does this taste like lemons and blackberries too?"

Then he's kissing down her stomach slowly, his fingers brushing through her slit and over her sensitive bud until she's seeing nothing but stars behind her eyes.

Sansa nearly cums instantly when he takes away his hand and replaces it with his mouth. His tongue flattens, licking up her pussy to lap at the juices he's created with his ministrations. Her hands go to his hair, instinctively pressing him down while her back arches and her legs spread open further.

Jon settles into a rhythm, sucking her bud and kissing her folds alternatively, her legs splayed over his shoulders while he worships the Queen with his mouth. When his beard rasps against her thighs, she shudders.

She finally breaks apart as fucks her with his tongue, and his name is wrested from her lips like a plea, a prayer, a profession.

When he returns to kiss her neck, Sansa captures his lips, tasting herself on his tongue.

"Fuck me, Jon." she begs into his mouth, and she helps him remove his leather clothing, pressing kisses against his skin, licking the salty tang of his sweat. It tasted better than any lemon cake or blackberry wine she'd ever had.

Eventually they find themselves together, and Jon's cock thrusts gently into her, letting her adjust to him.

"Please," she begs again, gripping his back. She's throbbing again, needy and hot. Jon acquiesces without hesitation, fucking her into the furs of her bed until they both fall apart, their names on each other's lips.

Jon lays beside her, and Sansa moves to cup his side with her body as her head rests on his chest. Their breathing is labored, and they are both quiet for a time.

Once their breathing has returned to normal, Sansa raises up to capture Jon's bottom lip between hers.

"Welcome home, Jon Snow." she whispers, and they fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

_

A/N:
Yah, so I couldn't get this out of my head. It's my first one-shot, let me know what you think.