Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7831687.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alpha
      Jon_Snow, Omega_Sansa_Stark, Angst, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Knotting,
      Cousin_Incest, Half-Sibling_Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-21 Updated: 2016-11-11 Chapters: 2/? Words: 3685
****** Burn With Me ******
by dansunedisco
Summary
     Not soon after her bastard brother presents as an alpha, Sansa
     succumbs to heat fever.
     -
     Written for the valar-morekinks prompt asking for a/b/o with
     alpha!Jon and omega!Sansa.
Notes
     prompt_here!
***** Chapter 1 *****
Not soon after her bastard brother presents as an alpha, Sansa succumbs to heat
fever. It is a mortifying development, and she cries miserably into her pillows
over the humiliation even after Old Nan andher own Lady Mother assure her
omegas are often affected by such developments, even those of kin, and half-
kin.
“The gods have given you a blessing,” Nan says, because Sansa is highborn, of
good Stark and Tully breeding, and now a confirmed omega. A rare treasure, even
in Westeros.
“But he is my half-brother,” she rebuffs, body wrecked by sobs; she is half-
delirious from the heat and disgusted by her own desires. She wants nothing
more than for Jon to touch her, gods be damned, and it takes every bit of
learned decorum for her to keep from calling for him in desperation.
She is left alone soon enough, and she falls into a fit of hazy dreams. In
them, there is only Jon, her alpha, and the spicy, heady smell of him. She
wakes sometime later to find herself even wetter than before, thighs sticky
from the slick and whimpering like an omega in a bawdy song.
In a moment of weakness, still skating on the edge of sleep, she plunges her
hand into her smallclothes to touch. She finds the tiny bud between her folds
and circles it, gently and steadily, closing her eyes to imagine someone else--
an alpha, heralpha--between her legs. She spreads her knees wide and dares to
move her finger lower, carefully dipping the digit in and out of her entrance.
It feels good, and instinctual, but her body knows there is a missing piece,
tights walls trying to clench down and finding her finger lacking. Still, she
finds her pleasure; it crests over her like a gentle wave, and she finds shame
in her actions only after she’s comes three more times.
A period of lucidity follows, and she chooses to wash herself as best she can
in the basin by the empty bath. The cold water is refreshing against her
fevered skin and clears her head almost as well as the touching did. She sighs.
After this, I am going to the hot springs and soaking for hours.
She brushes the snarls and snags from her hair, and then plaits it, steadfastly
ignoring the embers that begin to burn in the pit of her stomach anew. She rubs
her legs together hesitantly. How long does this wretched fever last?It’s
barely been a day. She’s not sure how much longer she can be alone like this.
Another day passes, and Sansa soon grows miserable. Food and drink is left
outside her door frequently, and her mother allows her to see Lady when she’s
clearheaded enough for it, but otherwise she is left as the gods intended
unpaired omegas to be. It is torture. She can read, but only for a short while,
and her hands are far too unsteady for stitching. There is not much else to do
but endure, and so she falls into the heat, burning, and cries out for the one
thing she wants most in the entire world.
It could be days or hours later when her door is opened next. Sansa is by the
hearth, currently in a state of rare clarity, but the book she is holding falls
from limp fingers when she sees who comes through. “Jon?” she asks, barely able
to breathe through the scent of him flooding into her chambers. Whatever memory
she had of him pales in comparison, seeing him thus; she is soakingher
smallclothes now. “Are you real?”
“Aye,” he replies. He looks absolutely poleaxed at the sight of her.
The haze of heat has already begun to set into her bones when she approaches
him. She is barely able to comprehend his presence. If he is not real, then
this is the most vivid hallucination, and the most cruel. And if he is real,
then this is impropriety of the highest degree. A bastard’s true nature is
base, she knows, but Jon--her alpha--would never be so. He came because she
called. But who would allow him to enter this wing of Winterfell unattended?
“Sansa,” Jon says, when she is finally before him. His voice holds warning,
though his face is flushed, and his eyes are dark and stormy as they search
hers. She watches him sway towards her, slowly, then rock back--as if catching
himself.
It is noble restraint, and what unravels her further. I need you. She tries to
tell him, but all she can manage is a meek whimper. “Jon…” She wills him to
understand that she has chosen, but when he remains as still as a status, she
crushes her mouth to his in desperation. He gasps against her.
The kiss is all consuming, and soon Jon is touching her face with badly shaking
hands as she claws at the stays of his outer garments. “Gods, Sansa,” he gasps,
and she tips her head back to bare the column of her pale throat to him;
submission, and so much more. Whatever reservation Jon might have had falls
away completely, and he scents her, taking in lungfuls of air even as he walks
them backwards to her bed.
Clothes fall away, and when Jon touches her between her legs, she shouts so
loudly she’s afraid half the castle will come running in aid--but no one does,
and she opens herself wider to his fingers. “You’re so wet,” Jon says, voice
catching on a pained groan. He rubs at her with his thumb, draws his fingers
through her slick folds. “I imagined this for days, Sansa… I could smell your
sweetness everywhere I went.”
His words drive her mad. She moans his name. “I imagined you, too,” she gasps,
restless, “I touched myself and imagined it was--ah!--you…” It’s improper to
tell him such things, but she doesn’t care. She is on fire for him, and she
lets herself burn.
Jon works her carefully. He kisses her mouth and her jaw, laving his tongue
against her throbbing pulsepoint and further down to her breasts where he licks
her nipples to peaks. A flash of teeth against them has her plunging her
fingers into his hair to hold him, pressing both chest and hips to him for
attention and pleasure. It’s too much, yet not enough; a delicate counterpoint
that soon has her sobbing for release.
Then, almost instinctively, Jon crooks his fingers inside of her. Her
restlessness melts away into a contented haze--her body reacting to the sudden
pressure and fullness as if it were a knot--and she comes quickly for it.
Still, it’s not enough. Her body knows what Jon can provide it, and she begins
to begs anew, in both body and mouth. “Please, Jon… please…” she keens, pulling
him closer with her kitten-weak arms.
He promises to give her what she wants, perhaps unable to restrain his own
body’s desires, and he settles above her. They share a sweet kiss, and then he
enters her with a snap of his hips, groaning long and loud when he’s fully
seated, like he wasn’t expecting to be affected at all. “Gods,” he prays, and
sets a pace that pushes Sansa up the bed with each thrust.
It’s not long before his knot begins to grow, and the swelling of him inside of
her excites Sansa as much as it frightens her, but each time she thinks about
pushing him away and off her, she freezes and catches him to her instead.
The pressure increases. She feels his knot catch against her with each outward
thrust, and she knows he is not long for it. It’s the thought of what’s to come
that pushes her over the edge, and she comes suddenly, almost painfully,
digging her fingers into his sides with a long moan. He follows, hips
stuttering, expression glazed over and mouth panting as she clenches down hard
on him. She can feel his seed inside of her, hotter than anything--and that,
she thinks, is what finally breaks the fevered spell clouding her mind.
Clarity is sweet, but painful. They’re trapped together, face and to face, and
Sansa can’t stop the tears that slip unbidden from her eyes. “What did we do?”
she asks, even though she can’t bring herself to feel one bit of shame or
guilt. Jon is her alpha, but he is also her half-brother. Their coupling was
wrong. Against the gods. No matter how she feels, they will not be spared.
Jon’s face crumples at her words, his usual sullenness intensified. “Father-
- Father gave us his blessing.” He swallows, and wipes a strand of hair from
Sansa’s forehead like he can’t help but do it. “After he told me about my
mother.”
What?Sansa opens her mouth to ask, but decides better of it. There would be
time for questions, and answers, but it is not now. “His blessing? Do you
promise?”
“On my honor,” he replies, then winces mildly. “If that means anything now.”
“If you speak truly, then it means everything.”
There is disbelief on his face, and she tries to give him a reassuring smile--
possibly the first one she’s ever consciously turned his way. The smile she
receives is not much more than a sad, upward twitch of his mouth. Still, he is
gentle when he rolls them to their sides, and she settles up against his chest
with a sigh. It’s hardly the most comfortable position, one leg thrown over his
hip and the other trapped underneath, but she feels at peace in his arms. Her
humiliation from days prior feels so far away now; a distant, unpleasant memory
that is so at odds with her tentative happiness.
“This is strange,” she murmurs, “but I’m… I’m glad it was you.” She is.
He says nothing, but she feels his lips brush softly over her head.
 
-
 
A half hour passes before Jon is able to slip free from her; by then, she has
fallen back into the fever, and Jon brings her to completion with his fingers
and mouth before taking her once more, this time with her on her hands and
knees. “You’re perfect,” Jon says, but Sansa can’t hear him. Her thoughts are
clouded, and filled with nothing more than the scent and feel of her alpha.
 
-
 
Her first heat is intense, and lasts five days.
She comes out of it sore, muscles previously unused well and thoroughly worked,
with tender skin from the rub of Jon’s beard on her chest and stomach and
thighs. She refuses his leave after he’s made sure she is fed, and all but
drags him into the tub of steaming water with her under the guise of helping
her bathe.
They soak together for a while, Sansa’s back to his front, and it’s so pleasant
to be sitting with him that she can’t imagine being anywhere else. She lifts
his hand to her mouth, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. But they cannot stay
here in her chambers forever, and the time for truth is upon them.
“I would know what father told you,” she says, after a long moment, and listens
raptly as he speaks.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     The king rides for Winterfell.
News of Sansa’s status as an omega spreads far and wide, despite her lord
father’s fervent attempts to stop them. A marriageable omega from both Stark
and Tully breeding is too good a tale to keep within castle walls. Winterfell’s
servants are loyal to be sure, but smallfolk chatter freely and lesser lords
listen well. Before long, the rookery is filled with fresh ravens and ardent
letters of interest and fathers meaning to make matches -- and one such carries
the seal of the king.
“All it takes is one word to be whispered in the winter town for all the
kingdom to hear,” Lady Catelyn says, her voice tinged with knowing sadness as
she strokes the bristle brush through Sansa’s hair, once, twice. It is evening,
and they are in Sansa’s chambers.
“But for the king to come here…” Sansa folds her hands in her lap. “Why would
he come all this way?”
Her lady mother pauses, fair face impassive in the looking glass as she
considers Sansa’s question. She places her hand on her daughter’s shoulder and
squeezes gently. “You are an omega, my sweet daughter. An omega and a highborn
girl from a great house. The king has a son that is close in age with you, and…
And I suspect he intends to seek a betrothal between you and the prince.”
Sansa’s stomach drops. But I am already mated!It has been two moons since her
first heat, and her coupling to Jon Snow. Not to mention the shocking secret of
his parentage. She suspected there might have been more behind King Robert’s
visit, but surely… surely not what her mother implies. “But-- I-- I am already-
-”
Catelyn squeezes her shoulder once more; a mild warning to mind her words.
“Your father will do what is in your best interest, my love. He will. Trust in
that.”
Despite her mother’s assurances, Sansa is restless and sick with worry for the
remainder of the night. Dinner in the Great Hall passes in a blur. She talks to
Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, but if asked later, she would not be able to
recall what was said between them all.
Her only point of interest is Jon, who sits at the head table beside Robb and
Bran. They share glances with one another, but no words. I need you,she thinks.
I need to talk to you.She wills him to understand and, like magic, she sees him
give her a tiny nod in return. She knows -- like only an alpha-omega pair can
know -- that they will meet tonight.
So all there is left to do is wait, and fret. What would her lord father
consider her best interest? Her heart says he would not agree to a match when
she is already promised to another, entangled in a union as old as time and the
gods. Her mind, however, cautions her against such sweet notions.
The truth of what happened between her and Jon is carefully guarded and greatly
discouraged: for either she and her half-brother committed a sin against the
very gods themselves, or Lord Eddard Stark has been harboring the trueborn son
of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark since the war. An abomination, or treason
of the highest degree; both a blight against House Stark and her family.
“--Sansa?”
She realizes then that Jeyne posed a question to her, and she gives her friend
an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Jeyne. What is it that you were saying?”
“Oh, Sansa, where has your head gone?” Jeyne teases. “Were you thinking of
Prince Joffrey?”
She flushes. Perhaps three moons ago, her head wouldbe in the clouds at the
thought of meeting the crown prince. He is said to be comely, fair-haired and
blue of eye. But she cares not for golden princes these days. Luckily, she is
saved from having to lie -- both Jeyne and Beth take her silence as agreement,
and they giggle at her expense. Sansa takes the teasing well and tries to keep
her gaze from whom she truly desires.
 
 
Jon comes to her chambers when the moon is high, Ghost on his heels. His visits
are infrequent enough that he wavers at the door, unsure of what to do or where
to go, until Sansa stretches her hand out to him. “What’s happened?” he asks,
coming to sit on the edge of her mattress. The distance he keeps between them
does not go unnoticed by Sansa.
She decides to get to the heart of the matter. “My mother believes the king
will offer to make a match between the prince and I.”
Some emotion flashes in his dark grey eyes at her words, but it melts away like
snow in summer. He simply sits there, perched as if to flee from her presence
at the slightest provocation, and it is his lack of response -- good or bad -
- that strikes her. “You already knew,” she says, stomach twisting into a knot.
“Did father tell you anything?”
He gives her a wry smile. “He didn’t have to. You presented as an omega and
scarcely a month later, the king and his court ride for Winterfell… I would be
a fool to believe them a coincidence.” He reddens immediately after, seemingly
realizing that he implied her to be a fool. “That is-- I meant only--”
“That I am a trusting daughter,” she says, saving him from making another
verbal blunder. Three moons ago, he would have offended her terribly, but three
moons ago, she did not know Jon Snow at all. Instead, she is terrified. The
vague knowledge that she may be parted from her mate makes the wolf inside of
her whine. She reaches for his hand. “Jon… I don’t know what to do.”
“I haven’t given you the bonding bite,” he says, after a long moment. His
expression is somber. “You would be able to bond with another--”
She snatches her hand back as if burned. “What? How can you even imply that I
would-- we are mated--”
“‘Mated not fated’,” he replies, though not unkindly. “We would never be able
to be together, Sansa. You know this. Father warned us. An open union between
us is… against the gods. Against the king. We are siblings.” Cousins.
“Stop.” His words are cruel, she thinks, and she does not want to hear another
word. Her eyes sting with tears and she feels heartsick. Mated not fated. It is
an old rhyme for alpha-omega pairs who are not meant to be, and something
inside of her shatters at the idea of her mate, her alpha, believing they are
destined for tragedy. She does not love him -- not yet -- but she craves him.
She was perfectly happy to maintain the secret between them, for years and
years, and she feels a fool for not realizing that it might one day end. It
will end when the king arrives…
“Sansa…” He inches towards her, slowly, until he is close enough to gather her
into his arms.
She sobs against his chest, unable to tear herself away from his warmth, his
scent. Alpha. She is so angry with him, but she is content to rage within the
cage of his embrace. “Tell me truly… do you not care for me? Is this why you
won’t fight for us?”
He gives a low growl, tightening her to him. “I never said that.” He inhales
deeply, and she instinctively tips her head to the side as he begins to scent
her. “If it were just you and I… there would be nothing that would stop me from
having you.” She shivers. “But I can’t think selfishly. We are a pack, aren’t
we?”
“Yes. Apack, not a pride. We are wolves. I don’t care for lions and I never
will.”
He kisses her neck, teeth teasing the soft skin of her pulse point. He strokes
his thumb across her breast, her hardening nipple. “Sansa…”
“Jon… please…”
His eyes burn a molten gold before he kisses her, twisting them both to lie
down across the bed. Their sudden frenzy is not unlike heat madness. She
struggles out of her smallclothes as Jon angles himself away to unlace his
breeches, both of them trading desperate kisses until they are naked enough,
and he enters her with a single, powerful thrust. “Ah!” she cries out, blunted
nails now sharp biting into the muscles of his back.
They haven’t coupled since the first time, but they fall into a rhythm as
natural as breathing, hips rolling as the wave of pleasure builds between them.
She is so close, and so soon. She spreads her knees apart, hardly believing how
good she can feel outside of a heat.
Jon presses up to hold himself above her, suddenly changing their harried pace
into slow, glacial movements. “Do you want me to bond you?”
His voice is low, and promising, and Sansa screws her eyes shut, gasping open-
mouthed at the thought of Jon sinking his teeth into her neck, bonding them
forever, body and soul. “Gods…”
“I could.” He settles back down against her, the change in angle rubbing his
pelvis against her bud all the more. He kisses her collarbone, her cheek, her
mouth; nips at her bottom lip. “But not tonight… I mustn’t…”
He does not complete the bond as promised, but Sansa can tell that holding
himself back is no easy task -- he keeps pressing his nose to her neck, teeth
flashing against her skin in no particular fashion, and all of it together is
enough to bring her to her peak. She falls into a loose-limbed haze afterwards,
her wolf content to have gotten what it wanted all along, and she holds Jon to
her as he comes to completion too.
The afterglow is pleasant enough, and Sansa can’t help but smiling as Jon
strokes her hair absently. Even so, she can already tell that Jon is beginning
to withdraw back into himself, and it quickly tempers her happiness.
I won’t be parted with you, she thinks. If he will not fight, she will rouse
him to. She might not have swords, but she has her words. She brings his hand
to her mouth, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “We have a month,” she says.
“A month?”
“Yes. A month to plan. I trust father, but… he cannot deny the king, can he? So
we must find another way to be together. If he can’t convince the king that I
am not suited for his son.”
“He will require a great amount of convincing.” He huffs. “You’re much more
stubborn than I imagined, you know.”
“You dreamt of me, then?”
He reddens again, and she draws up to give him a kiss to lessen her teasing.
Mated and fated, she vows. We are meant to be.
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