11-23-2017, 01:14 AM
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 450px; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color: black; padding: 20px"]It had been a long day. She would often jape of her husband's lack of political skill to lighten the people that brought themselves forth to court, but it was much the truth; she had learned from two of the most backwards people in Westeros, and he his shortly lived term among his black brothers, so they were so very traditional in the way they functioned. He may be the king, but she had made him a king with thine name, and though he was her cousin she had never ached for a man the way she did for him. So she did not mind sitting at his side and whispering in his ear, or heatedly debating with him in the middle of their lords when they could scarcely meet a common point of view. He carried the sword, and she the needle. It was all that she wanted, all that he needed, and the world went on, as did their affections for each other.
The familiar tune of swords striking together drew her attention to the window as she entered her chambers, and at the precise moment that she brought her hands to her braid, she looked down at Jon and Arya sparring in the grounds and did not feel the same disappointment in her sister to not only be clutching a sword, but to be using it against a bastard, and so warmly. Instead she felt nothing of the sort, because her mind was on Jon and so were her eyes - he must be sweating, his pale skin and his black hair slick and holding tight to each other so that his curls were more wild than ever. He had looked as much when they lay together in bed.
The thought made her feel a sensation in her abdomen, and she brought a hand to the swelling there, so faintly visible in the loose garments that covered her body that she had forgotten time and time again that she carried a living person with her every step of the way now, until the time came that the little prince or princess was ready to come into the world. She could wait, but Jon was impatient - the nights that they usually made love were put to better use in fondling her tummy and lying close to it, as if he feared that it could be gone at any moment.
She had wandered off into her own mind far too long to realize that the sound had halted and that her braid was unfurled along her shoulder, a curtain of ginger. She started when someone spoke from the door.
"Sansa."
Sansa whirled around, and there he was; she smiled at him, and he at her, the slow kind that only his family got and the dragon queen had never managed to quite take from them. "Jon." he did not answer, and so she said after a short pause that felt much longer, "You mustn't tire yourself out so much. You're the greatest knight in the North, I promise you, and -"
He didn't speak much, Jon. Not unless he had to.
So he rushed forward and swooped her up into his arms, and she squealed with unbidden delight, her hands flying to his shoulders helplessly as he cradled her like a child. Sansa had no illusions that she was heavy, but she was also with child, and he had entirely ignored what she had said about tiring himself out. But he gave no signs of ever wanting to put her down, ever, and he kissed the top of her head like he had that one day ... "I love you, Sansa."
She leaned into him. "I love you too, Jon."
As a girl, she had dreamed of having a knight for a husband and giving him a family. It was a hard-won freedom, but it was hers at last.
The familiar tune of swords striking together drew her attention to the window as she entered her chambers, and at the precise moment that she brought her hands to her braid, she looked down at Jon and Arya sparring in the grounds and did not feel the same disappointment in her sister to not only be clutching a sword, but to be using it against a bastard, and so warmly. Instead she felt nothing of the sort, because her mind was on Jon and so were her eyes - he must be sweating, his pale skin and his black hair slick and holding tight to each other so that his curls were more wild than ever. He had looked as much when they lay together in bed.
The thought made her feel a sensation in her abdomen, and she brought a hand to the swelling there, so faintly visible in the loose garments that covered her body that she had forgotten time and time again that she carried a living person with her every step of the way now, until the time came that the little prince or princess was ready to come into the world. She could wait, but Jon was impatient - the nights that they usually made love were put to better use in fondling her tummy and lying close to it, as if he feared that it could be gone at any moment.
She had wandered off into her own mind far too long to realize that the sound had halted and that her braid was unfurled along her shoulder, a curtain of ginger. She started when someone spoke from the door.
"Sansa."
Sansa whirled around, and there he was; she smiled at him, and he at her, the slow kind that only his family got and the dragon queen had never managed to quite take from them. "Jon." he did not answer, and so she said after a short pause that felt much longer, "You mustn't tire yourself out so much. You're the greatest knight in the North, I promise you, and -"
He didn't speak much, Jon. Not unless he had to.
So he rushed forward and swooped her up into his arms, and she squealed with unbidden delight, her hands flying to his shoulders helplessly as he cradled her like a child. Sansa had no illusions that she was heavy, but she was also with child, and he had entirely ignored what she had said about tiring himself out. But he gave no signs of ever wanting to put her down, ever, and he kissed the top of her head like he had that one day ... "I love you, Sansa."
She leaned into him. "I love you too, Jon."
As a girl, she had dreamed of having a knight for a husband and giving him a family. It was a hard-won freedom, but it was hers at last.