When The Snows Fall And The White Winds Blow

This story was inspired by a lovely piece of Jonsa fan art on Tumblr, by wolvesofspring

(check out her blog, she is a VERY talented artist), and takes place after the battlements conversation in

Game of Thrones, season 7, episode 1

Sansa released a shuddering breath, the warmth of it mingling with the frigid cold air of winter, passing in front of her like a frosty mist. She knew Jon stood behind her -had heard the crunch of his boots in the fresh fallen snow as he sought her out in the Godswood. She had stopped questioning how she knew when it was him, why her pulse jumped every time he was near -but it did, and that's how she knew it was Jon.

"If you're intent on evading me, you might at least do it in the keep where you won't catch your death, my lady." His voice was soft, void of the vitriol that had laced his words earlier today upon the battlements.

"That's not what I'm doing, Jon." Sansa worried her gloved fingers in front of her, keeping him at her back. It wasn't entirely untrue. No more than his pretense of being here to scold her for staying so long in the cold -she, a daughter of the north, who was well within her element. "I'm warm enough," she added, adjusting her cloak more snugly around her -if only to stop twiddling her fingers like a silly anxious child, in what would be considered most unladylike.

The crunching of snow underfoot brought him closer, "What I said earlier ...about Cersei and ..." His words faltered, but only a moment, as if he struggled with what he wanted to convey. "I should not have said those things."

"No, you shouldn't have," Sansa agreed with the shake of her head, doing her best at keeping her voice steady and even. Indeed, his words had stung, but it was what he didn't say that hurt her all the more -Jon did not trust her.

"Will you not even look at me? Are you that cross with me, Sansa?" Jon asked, his boots again crunching in the snow as he closed the space between them until she could see his frost laced breath in the peripheral of her vision, feel the warmth radiating off of his body.

She longed to cloak herself in that warmth, revel in it, as a foreign yet familiar heat began to coil deep within her belly, and Sansa took an immediate unsteady step forward, needing to put some distance back between them. She needn't be an experienced woman of the world to know these feelings were wrong.

"I'm not cross with you Jon," Sansa took a deep breath, mustering her courage, her voice rising an octave as she turned to face him. "I only wish for you to heed my council. You didn't listen to me about Ramsey and I was-"

"Aye, you were right!" Jon cut her off, his own voice rising to the challenge. "Do you intend to hold it over my head forever?"

"Is that what you think?" Sansa shot back, her delicate hands balling into little fists at her sides, wanting to strike out at him for being so thick-headed. "Impossibly stubborn man, don't you see? The Lannisters took everything from me! Everything I have ever loved or held dear ...Lady, Father, Mother and Robb ...even my dignity," her eyes narrowed as she took an aggressive step forward. "Cersei will strike at you if she knows that you are important to me. I have witnessed the game, and I know it's played. You speak of trust, yet you show me so little-"

Jon balked, his eyes widening in disbelief, "Trust? As in the trust you see so fit to bestow upon me, Sansa? If you don't even have faith in me and my decisions, how am I ever to convince the others to follow my lead? When you under-"

"I have absolute faith in you!" It was Sansa's turn to interrupt, her cheeks kissed from the crisp air burned with the heat of her ardor. "I meant every word that I said. You are a good ruler. You are the King, my King, but I am the Lady of Winterfell, and my voice should equal that of any of the bannermen that bend the knee to you. My faith, my loyalty ...," she paused, her voice softening, "it is yours and yours alone. I only seek to know that what I say matters. That I matter to you, Jon."

His anger retreated just as swiftly as it had come, and Jon's brown eyes softened even as he pinned her in place with the heat of his gaze. She could drown in those eyes, Sansa thought, as she felt herself already sinking deep into their depths. She clutched desperately at the bark of the weirwood tree beside her, using it to hold her up in the event that her knees decided to buckle beneath her. Gods, but she needed to get her wits about her!

"You matter a great deal to me, Sansa," Jon drew in a breath so deep, broad shoulders rising and falling as his entire body seemed to move within the sigh. "More than I could begin to hope you'd ever understand."

Sansa had barely begun to contemplate the meaning behind Jon's words when the corners of her mouth tilted upwards of their own volition, her need to reassure him taking precedence. "Father would be proud of you, you know? I'm proud of you, Jon Stark, King and Warden of the North."

Endearingly as humble as ever, Jon cast his eyes to the ground, his own lips peeling back to reveal a smile, and if not for the cold already staining his cheeks pink, Sansa could swear he was blushing. She'd seen that expression before, the day she had gifted him with the cloak that set handsomely upon his shoulders ever since. When Jon stepped forward again, erasing the space between them once more, Sansa willed herself to be still, allowing him to grasp her free hand between both of his own.

"From this day forward, I promise that I will always seek your council prior to meeting with the bannermen. I give you my word, Sansa." Jon pledged with the utmost sincerity. "I have sworn to protect you, and that means your feelings and wishes as well."

"And I promise not to undermine you," Sansa replied. "Even though I did not," she added for good measure, tilting her chin up a notch defiantly and stifling the urge to giggle as he turned a brow up at her.

With a nod of his head, Jon released her hand. "I'll have a bath drawn for you. Don't stay out in this cold much longer," he said, as he turned to make his way out of the Godswood.

He'd only taken a few steps when Sansa bent to scoop up a handful of the fallen snow. What had prompted her to do such a thing, she hadn't the slightest idea, as she packed it into a tidy little ball, the way she'd seen Arya and her brothers do as children -what now seemed like ages ago. How she'd longed to join them then, frolicking about in the frozen white wonderland, and now, how she wished she would have, throwing caution to the wind and being a proper lady be damned!

"Jon!" Sansa could not conceal the mischievous tone of her voice, nor her laughter, as she wound her arm back and sent the snowball flying towards him. It exploded in a puff of white powder, catching him in the shoulder as he turned to face her. Jon looked shocked for only a moment before erupting in laughter, the sweet sound chasing away the cold, as it wrapped around Sansa like a warm blanket.

"A grave error, my lady," he growled playfully, bending to retrieve a snowball of his own.

Jon's aim was far better than hers, but Sansa darted out of its path just in time, giggling wildly now, her red hair whipping about in the wind as she sent another sailing towards him, and then another, doing her best to stay out of his line of fire. Cersei, the Night King, all of that fell away, as for a short while, they unburdened themselves from the threats closing in on them, allowing this carefree respite as they recaptured just a sliver of happier times in Winterfell.

"I yield," Sansa cried finally, her chest heaving with the exertion of dragging the added weight of her gown and cloak behind her, wet with snow. "Mercy," she breathed.

"Let it never be said that I am anything but a merciful ruler," Jon smiled, as he trotted towards her.

"Gratitude, oh Jon the Merciful," Sansa mocked him playfully, bending to curtsey. The heel of her boot caught the hem of her cloak, and before she knew what befell her, she tumbled backwards, her bottom hitting the cold snow covered ground with a thud.

In an instant, Jon was before her, inquiring on her wellbeing first, then did nothing to contain his laughter once he knew she was without injury. "Oh, the irony my dear Sansa," his smile was sweet as he offered her his hand.

"Oh, do be quiet, Jon!" Sansa laughed, despite herself, as she reached for the hand he'd extended and grinning slyly, tugged with all her might, intending to pull him down into the snow with her.

Taken completely off guard, Jon stumbled, trying to retain his balance and failing miserably, he fell atop her instead, in a heap of lean muscles clad in leather armor. Sansa grunted as the air rushed from her lungs in a whoosh, as a panicked Jon attempted to shift his weight off of her, but Sansa's hands stayed him.

Confusion flit over his features momentarily as Jon gazed down at her, concern etching every inch of his furrowed brow. His large calloused hands that had pummeled Ramsey's face to a bloody pulp, were now as gentle as butterfly's wings as they framed her face with the utmost care.

"Sweet Sansa," Jon murmured, his voice nothing more than a tortured whisper. "Beautiful Sansa ...are you hurt?"

Sansa shook her head, trying to no avail, to dislodge the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. She was lost in his eyes again, those deep brown pools pulling her in and rendering her helpless. An inexplicable ache like no other she'd ever known, pulsed through Sansa with such an alarming urgency, it shook her to the very core of her being. That familiar yet foreign heat returned, unfurling in her belly like warm honey before it burst into a raging inferno that seeped out to every nerve ending she possessed.

The frigid air grew wrought with tension, coiling around them like a leather cord -pulled taut and threatening to snap. The internal war between her head and heart raged on, battling for dominance -her heart temporarily the victor, as Sansa abandoned all rational thought. At that moment, she knew she was depraved, as she grasped at Jon's shoulders, trying wholeheaertedly to convey with her eyes what she could not find the courage to say aloud.

Kiss me, you damn fool.

As if answering the primal call that thrummed through her veins, Jon lowered his head, his eyelids fluttering closed as he leaned to brush his lips against hers. Softly, tentatively at first, a request for permission Sansa suspected, which she offered without reservations as a moan clawed its way past that lump in her throat. It spilled forth into Jon's mouth with reckless abandonment, as he deepened the kiss, the tip of his tongue darting out to sample the sweetness she so willingly offered.

Jon's arms tightened around her possessively, as Sansa pushed her hands into his hair, wanting to be closer, wanting what she dare not even think, lest she be struck down by the very Gods she no longer prayed to. If she was depraved -doomed to burn in all seven hells, then at least she wasn't alone in her depravity. She'd have Jon to keep her company -they could twist together naked in the flames for all eternity, as he was just as damned as her now.

As if he'd known the very inner workings of her mind, Jon pulled back suddenly, breaking the kiss, though he didn't loosen his hold on her. The horror on his face was palpable, as his brown eyes bore into hers.

"Do I displease you?" Sansa somehow managed to muster, her voice unrecognizable to her own ears, as her insecurities rushed to the fray.

Jon sighed, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, as he stroked one of her flushed cheeks tenderly. "You please me very much, but I dishonor you, my lady. Can you ever forgive me, Sansa?"

"There is nothing to forgive," Sansa answered honestly. "I dishonor myself, for I have wanted this too, Jon."

Her honesty only seemed to pain him more, as Jon gently shook himself free from her grasp, hoisting himself up off the ground and easily tugging Sansa along with him. Helping her to straighten her cloak and gown, Jon brushed the snow from her back, avoiding her eyes at all costs. His rejection was like the edge of a blade twisting in her gut, but she willed herself to be steel. What a cruel trick fate had played, that when Sansa had finally found a man that was kind and gentle and brave -a man decent and worthy of her, as father had promised, that he would come in the form of her bastard half-brother.

His hand locking with hers, Jon led them out of the Godswood, pausing just before they left the privacy of the trees, he turned to face her. His eyes, so expressive -they spoke to the pain in Sansa's heart, shattering what was left of the useless muscle she'd thought dead long ago. "We shall never speak of this again Sansa. We cannot. I would not have your honor besmirched for my folly."

All Sansa could do was nod, as Jon leaned to press a kiss to her forehead, reminiscent of the night they first stood on the battlements together, overlooking all of Winterfell. It was their legacy -The Lord and Lady of Winterfell, both bastards, bound together always, tethered to this land, but doomed to loneliness by their circumstances.

When she was safe within the walls of her room, far from prying eyes, she would mourn the loss of this love she had always yearned for but was destined not to have. She would do as she had always done -wrap her grief around her like a shield, and she would endure. It had kept her alive this long, after all.

For one brief moment, Sansa had known true kindness in the arms of a man, and there was no shame to be had in that.

A/N: This is my first attempt at Jonsa fanfic, so do be kind.

My fellow Bethylers, (if you are reading this) I know what you are thinking ... I swore off shipping another tv couple after how dirty they did my girl, Beth -but Jon and Sansa knocked me on my ass! They speak to my soul like Beth and Daryl did, and here I am again -total shipping trash!

I'm considering adding to this later, although I may just start from scratch on my next project and leave this as a one shot -who knows? I'm fickle like that. In any event, I hope that it was at least enjoyable! ❤️