Winter's Song

By: Arianna

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, just felt the need to write.

This is my winter song to you
The storm is coming soon
It rolls in from the sea

My love a beacon in the night
My words will be your light
To carry you to me.

- Sara Bareilles

Jon

Her hands were so cold.

Always cold, and Jon felt within his very bones a deep instinctual need to warm them. He had resisted for most of the day, locked away in his fathers—now his—chambers. Settling the petty disputes, soothing fiery tempers that flared white-hot at the slightest provocation. Being King was one prolonged negotiation he was quickly discovering. Negotiating, and compromise. Being the most intimidating man in the room without having to resort to the kind of mindless violence most might use to cling to power.

In truth, Jon was completely overwhelmed. He was a solider; he had been trained as one, served as one and died as one.

How heavy the crown was. How ungainly he felt in his own skin. For the first time in his life, Jon regretted the choice he had made to emulate his noble father in all things. Ned Stark. His name was synonymous with respect and a strength that was immovable as the Wall itself. Honour. Diligence. And above all, the knowledge that in the end, winter claims all in ice and snow. He could feel an undeniable truth seep into his blood when he was alone, which had become a very rare luxury of late. There were too many enemies at the gate—and possibly within. War was coming, a great wave that never stopped but ebbed and flowed, pulled to the shore by greed and desperation. All beings wanted power.

Jon simply wished to sleep.

Sleep, and keep Sansa—the only tangible evidence that remained to him of a life free from blood and death—from being so cold.

"Have you eaten enough?" his voice held a decidedly gentle edge, although he could not hide the rough, inelegance of it. He had never learned pretty words. Now, he couldn't help but wish he were more gallant, a knight who could conjure the proper phrases and compliments to cheer her spirits.

Yet King of the North or no, he was still but the sum of his parts.

She did not respond, but her startlingly blue gaze flickered from her barely touched plate and met his. Something that had been tightly knotted within his chest unraveled at her soft smile. She only ever smiled for him. The thought saddened him greatly, though he realized that since their reunion so much had changed between them. It had happened seamlessly yet he still found himself marveling at the transformation. She was Sansa, the same girl who used to chastise him with the mere lifting of a disdainful eyebrow. She was still the girl who had never soiled her silken gowns with frivolous play, who used to devote herself body and soul to the teachings of the septa and sing so sweetly of knights and fair maidens. Jon remembered her voice, soft and effortless. He had always secretly enjoyed her songs though he had always felt the bitter mixture of shame and frustration when he realized that he would never be a noble knight.

He would never be anything but a stain on the tapestry of House Stark.

How merrily the fates wove the ironies of life together.

He felt Sansa's cool hand close over his. It was a gentle gesture, and Jon felt his body react immediately. A tension coiled within his muscles, the fierce need to gather her closer almost unbearable. The urge to protect, to shield her from everyone, anyone who would so much as approach her.

It was one of the emotions that had shifted between them. He had always felt protective of his siblings; he had felt no different about Sansa, no matter how much she had loathed his very presence. Now, she held his hand and smiled at him.

Only for him.

He held her gaze, while the loud bellows and din of feasting and shouts, song and refrains of 'Hail the King in the North!' faded around them. Her hand in his. Her eyes, the colour of the bluest summer sky when he would lay in soft, tall sweet grass after a long day of sword practice and simply dream of a future of untainted freedom. He basked in her warmth like a man denied the sun for eons.

She was all he needed.

And for the first time in his life, he could see it in her steady gaze.

I am yours.

For each other, alone. Jon knew his hand was calloused and hugely graceless next to her pale one yet he still entwined his fingers with hers. Her smile grew all the more, a subtle blossoming at the very corner of her mouth.

Jon's heart beat in time with the steady rhythm of the pulse at her wrist. All he needed.

He may not be worthy of song, nor titles. In his blood, he was still an outcast. The bastard of Winterfell. Scourge of the Watch. King of the North.

Protector to Sansa, Lady of Winterfell.

Jon swore he would make that title worthy of song.

Hopefully this will be the beginning of a short series. If people enjoy it, I will definitely be continuing and exploring both Sansa and Jon's chemistry and newfound status. Please feel free to review, and let me know what you think!