Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13112181.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&_Related_Fandoms, Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of
      Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, LOOK_I_JUST_NEEDED_AN_EXCUSE_TO_WRITE_PORN,
      COME_@_ME_HOE, (is_this_how_you_write_PWPs._asking_for_a_friend.), Angst
      and_Porn, Aged-Up_Character(s)
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-23 Updated: 2018-01-02 Chapters: 3/? Words: 9078
****** waves ******
by dropofrum_(95echelon)
Summary
     There was just enough Stark in him, to want her for her cunt, and
     just enough Targaryen, to want her for her blood. 
Notes
     *insert standard omegaverse warnings here*
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
 
It was a delicate balance of events that destroyed Sansa Stark's life. 
She had been hoping she would present as an omega, hoping and praying and
almost mad for it, because no one was ever quite valued as a pretty, highborn
omega. All the maidens of the best songs - Jenny of the Oldstones, and Jonquil,
and even Princess Naerys - they had all been omegas, each of them, the siren
song of their essence calling out to their alphas. It was what had made them so
desperately, eagerly sought out, what made their love flare so brightly it
imprinted itself upon history's pages. 
But her thirteenth nameday had come and passed, and then her fourteenth, and
her fifteenth, and she was rapidly closing in on her sixteenth with nothing to
show for it, despondent but outwardly cheerful, horrified that someone would
discover how desperately she had wanted to be anything but a boring old beta,
and feeling like the worst sort of traitor at that thought, for Mother was a
beta - and look at her. The eldest daughter of the Lord of the Riverlands,
good-sister to the Hand of the King, Lady Consort of Winterfell, wife to the
Warden of the North.
And so Sansa tried to remind herself, furiously, that it was perfectly fine
that she was a beta. She had to make her peace with it, before the bitterness
of it consumed her whole.
===============================================================================
 
 
Robb presented, as most boys did at fifteen, as an alpha, to joy (and muted
relief) - for while Stark men were often alphas, the Tullys were just as likely
to produce betas, which wasn't precisely a problem except...
Well, it rather was, a bit. 
Men could be completely ridiculous about following betas - or, heavens forfend,
omegas- into battle, and the heir being an alpha had everyone releasing a
breath they hadn't known they'd held all this while.
Jon's presentation was a surprise, following only moons later - alpha, too.
Mother barely spoke, all through that week, and the dark shadows under Lord
Stark's eyes grew so pronounced they had begun to look like bruises. Meanwhile,
the hunch of Jon's shoulders became painfully concave, dark eyes turning flat
and dead, so much so that Sansa feared he'd simply disappear into himself. 
"Go," she prodded Arya softly. 
"What?" Arya snapped. 
"Go talk to him," she urged, never taking her eyes off Jon, where he was
whacking a straw dummy in the training yard with a wooden sword without even
any pretense of finesse. "Tell him this isn't his fault. He listens to you."
"Why d'you care? Arya asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Sansa shrugged
uncomfortably. 
Why did she care? He was barely her brother.
Barely even family to her. 
And simply the fact of his existence hurtMother, reminded her that Papa might
once have loved another. Why did she care?What would Mother think, if she found
out, that even Sansa, even her favourite, had taken Jon Snow's side over
Catelyn Stark's?
"Fine," Sansa snapped back, hackles rising in defense, as guilt slugged
uncomfortably through her insides. "I thought you cared about him," she
sneered, "but if you don't want to, don't," before stomping back into the Great
Keep.
===============================================================================
 
 
It was only several hours later that she peeked into the courtyard and saw Jon
laughing, practically doubled over and clutching his stomach, while Arya
ineffectually poked at him with a wooden sword, a look of pure murder on her
little face. 
Sansa hid a smile, and ducked back into the shadows before she could be seen,
but she was, in some small part of her, certain that a pair of grey eyes had
followed her back all the way into the darkness. 
===============================================================================
 
 
In theory, Sansa would've been safe, even had she presented as omega, in a keep
surrounded by her own blood. Theon was a beta of course, and while the scent of
her would've been sweet, it wouldn't have sent him into a rut, and though Papa
and Robb and even Jon were alphas, they were family. 
Blood. 
Her scent would never lure someone so closely related to her, and she wouldn't
want them either, not even in the deepest ravages of estrus - that wasn't how
mating bonds worked, for heaven's sake. Not unless you were a Targaryen and
your bonds had been all fouled up and twisted from centuries of inbreeding and
rampant incest. 
In theory of course, Sansa would've been safe. 
===============================================================================
 
 
It starts, like most things in the Stark household, with a roaring bloody
fight. 
By the time Sansa gets into it, everyone's completely forgotten what it was
about, Jon is holding back Arya from ripping Bran's face off with her bare
hands and Robb's trying to stop Theon from goading his siblings into
murder.He's having very little success. 
Rickon's in the corner, bawling his eyes out, clutching at a rather distressed-
looking Shaggydog.
Rickon doesn't enjoy conflict. 
Rickon is Sansa's favourite. 
"What is going on here?!"
"Bran said I couldn't beat him at swords-"
"Arya said I was a stupid little omega and I wouldn't ever be allowed to be a
knight-"
"Well you won't-" Arya shoots back. 
"And you think you will?!" Bran retorts and it all devolves into more red-faced
screaming until Jon sticks two fingers between his lips and whistles so
piercingly high even Rickon hiccups in shock and quiets down. Shaggydog
whimpers in protest.
"Bran," Sansa began, firmly, "stop goading your sister."
Arya grins fiercely, until Sansa turns to her and continues, "and you. Your
brother hasn't presented. Even if he was an omega, he could very easily be a
knight if he wished to."
"No he couldn't."
"Yes, he could. Unless you've completely forgotten about Loras Tyrell? And
honestly Arya, what's this about you wanting to be a knight?"
Arya's face settles into a mulish pout. "What about it?"
"You're a daughter of the Warden of the North. You have a duty to marry, to
marry well-"
"I don't want to!"
Sansa's nostrils flare, anger bubbling hotly in her gut, and she doesn't mean
to sound so harsh, truly, but that is how it comes out when she snaps, "It
doesn't matter what you want! You have a duty to this House! We both do! To the
North and its people, to protect our home and-"
"-and I can do that with a sword too!" Arya rages, and Sansa watches Robb and
Theon from the corner of her eye, as they quietly scoop Bran and Rickon and
scurry away like the absolute bloody cowards they are. 
"Women. Don't. Carry. Arms! You obstinate child!"
Jon cuts in coldly, then. "Yes they do."
Sansa's mouth drops open in shock as she turns to look at Jon, stood behind
Arya and off to the side, arms folded mutinously over his broad chest, dark
curls of hair falling over his forehead, grey eyes flashing in muted anger. 
"What?" Sansa asks feeling off-kilter and stupid. 
"Women carry arms."
"What are you talking about?!"
"Maege Mormont. That Tarth girl. Oberyn Martell's daughters. Women north of the
wall."
"Fishwives, bastards and wildlings," Sansa says, tremblingwith rage. "Is that
what you're comparing my sister to?"
Jon arches an eyebrow, so used to Sansa's barbs by now they barely seem to
affect him. "I did mention Lady Brienne," he points out dryly. 
"Yes," Sansa says, stalking towards him. "Brienne the Beauty." she spits the
last word out. "That is who my sister should emulate?"
"If her lord father survived the tragic, unbearable shame," he mocks in a low
drawl, "of letting his only daughter wield a broadsword-"
"The lord of Evenhall and the Warden of the kingdom of the North have vastly
different responsibilities," Sansa sneers, "not that you'd understand."
Jon's nostrils flare at that, and Sansa hates the pleasurable hiss of
satisfaction coiling low in her belly. He doesn't get to stay unaffected, not
when she's- not when she's so- so-
"Oh I wouldn't, would I?" He levers off the wall, arms hung loosely by his
side, chin dipped low to his chest. "Why?" He steps closer. "Is it because I'm
baseborn, my lady? My mind's not as agile as yours?" 
Closer again, so close she can feel the heat of his body pulse against her
skin, rising from him in waves, like the heart of a forge. 
"Too stupid to understand, am I?"
"Jon?" Arya interrupts softly, and their eyes both go wide, a sharp inhale
making their chests brush in a sudden rush of molten, gold-edged heat. He
stumbles a step backwards, and so does Sansa - when... 
When had they gotten so close?
"Jon, can we go?" Arya says, still a little quiet, her eyes wide and confused,
almost scared. "Please, could we just- You promised you and Robb would take me
to-"
"Wintertown," Jon finishes, nodding, but his eyes are locked on Sansa's and she
sees her fear reflected in his own, a peculiar electricity rushing beneath her
skin, as if her whole body's stood at the eye of a storm. 
"Yeah, Arya, 'course. Come on."
His eyes flicker to her mouth, and her fingers flutter up to press against her
own lips, feeling like her heartbeat is pulsing beneath the fragile skin. 
He swallows, hard, and Sansa is briefly mesmerized by the bob of his throat
until he wrenches his gaze away, taking Arya's hand and stalking out of the
room, covering the distance in ground-eating strides while Arya scrambles to
keep up with his pace. 
===============================================================================
 
 
Perhaps if they hadn't had that fight, and if they hadn't shared that moment,
perhaps, then, none of what followed would have occurred. 
Perhaps. 
But they did, and it does, and that, perhaps, is when everything begins to
spiral out of control. 
===============================================================================
 
 
Jon feels it again, a prickling on the back of his neck, the little hairs
standing on end, heartbeat quickening in something like fear. He glances over
shoulder, but there's nothing there. 
Merely the people of Wintertown walking the streets, bustling about with their
business, cloaks drawn against the icy winds.
Nothing. 
"Oh, what is it?" Arya snaps and Jon looks down at her upturned face,
startled. 
"Huh? What?"
"You've been looking over your shoulder every bloody minute for past half-
hour!"
Jon blinks, eyebrows raising higher and higher with her every word. "No I
haven't," he defends weakly. 
"You really have, Snow," Robb counters, with a sly twist to his lips. "Acquired
a follower, have you?"
Jon frowns shaking his head. "No. It's just. Something's wrong... Can't you
feel it?"
Robb cocks his head to the side. "No," he says. "What's wrong?"
"I don't... I don't know... Robb, would you be alright looking after Arya? I
need to-"
Robb's frowning by now, one hand clamped firmly over Arya's bony shoulder,
where she's already begun wriggling, rebellion painted across her face. "Need
me to come with you?" Robb asks, and Jon feels a rush of gratitude at that. 
"No, I just..."
"Go, then," Robb says, quickly. An alpha's instincts are not a thing to be
dismissed easily. "Go on. I'll look after the little brat."
"Oi!" comes the protest from below, but Jon has already turned around, stalking
through the crowds and back to where his horse has been tethered, people
practically throwing themselves out of his path, alpha's aura exuding from him
with the jagged teeth of a beast. 
===============================================================================
 
 
The needle slipped from her shaky fingers, as a sudden surge of wetness surged
from her womb, making her slick and hot, and Sansa frowned. 
Her moonblood had come and gone not two weeks ago. This was far too early!
"Are you alright, Sansa?" Jeyne asked and the room suddenly quietened to a low
murmur of voices. There were a little over a dozen women, all part of Septa
Mordane's little sewing circle, and gossip was increasingly scarce these days. 
"I'm fine," Sansa demurred, as a rush of heat raced down her spine, making her
throb, making her nipples tighten to hard peaks beneath her dress, despite the
warmth of the rooms. "A little... dizzy, that's all. I think I laced too
tightly this morning," she murmured to Jeyne. Every woman in the circle would
be told of this story by dusk, and by the time Sansa returned, they'd have
dissected exactly how many lemoncakes Sansa had had with dinner last night, if
she'd been looking plumper recently, and how all this absolute nonsense was
going to affect her marriage proposals. 
Truly, the women in the septa's sewing circle had, in mere months, managed what
a decade had not - they'd shown Sansa how bloody fortunate she was to have a
sister like Arya, even if Arya was truly, completely mental. 
It beat being a heinous, gossipy twat by a mile. 
"Are you going to loosen out your stays?"
Sansa nods, with a practiced blush and a smile, just as a fresh sheen of sweat
erupts over brow, salty-hot, and the throbbing pulse between her legs turns to
a full-blown ache, making her head swim and a soft gasp escape her mouth as she
sways in place, sweaty palm pressed to her belly. 
Jeyne gapes at her as Sansa fights for composure, trying to hide how badly her
head's spinning, how it feels like the whole world is tilting right off its
axis. She doesn't run to her rooms, Jeyne's eyes boring into her back all the
while, and maintains her pace by sheer force of will and all those lessons in
courtesy and decorum that've been drilled into her head since she was a child.
She doesn't run away, but by the Seven... It's a close thing. 
===============================================================================
 
 
By the time Sansa reaches the door to her chambers, her eyes are damp, her
whole body flushed and thrumming, her secret place so slippery wet that her
thighs have turned slick beneath her skirts. Another blazing shudder of want
jolts down her spine, and Sansa finally has a name for it - heat. 
Heat. 
She's- Oh gods, she's an omega. 
And she should be glad, truly, that her prayers have been granted after all
these years, but as she sags against the frame of the door to her chamber,
breathless, body wracked with an ache she can't imagine how to soothe, knees
knocking together, her corset digging viciously into her ribs, Sansa can't help
but feel anything but violently, entirely lost. 
===============================================================================
 
 
Jon lets his steed break into a gallop halfway back to the Keep, to match the
pounding thud of his heartbeat, adrenaline sparking his blood like wildfire. 
When the Great Tower comes into view, Jon dismounts even before his horse has
stopped, tossing away the reins and racing up the stairs, sucking in deep
lungfuls of icy winter air. But there's something on the wind, something
different, a scent like sugar and lightning and what Jon imagines the sea might
smell like - bright and sharp, salt exploding on his tongue. 
The world seems clearer suddenly, coming into crystal definition, colours
turning more vivid, saturated, as Jon races towards the scent, drunk on it,
giddy and sick all at once. 
And then he sees her, and just as quickly, it all falls away. 
"Sansa?" he asks, shocked at how hoarse his voice sounds, and she turns to him,
still leaned against the closed door to her room. She watches him from beneath
hooded eyes, her eyelashes a sweep of fire, dark tendrils of hair curling
damply on her neck, the sconces silhouetting the long, elegant, gorgeous lines
of her body. 
Jon feels dizzy, suddenly, blood rushing to his cock with a visceral surge.
Fuck. 
"Jon," she breathes, her voice tapering off into a the thready whine, and his
cock jumps in his breeches at the sound of that, at the sheen of sweat on her
skin, gleaming and flushed pink, her chest rising and falling. "Please," she
keens, eyes squeezing shut, her elegant hands fisting in her skirts, and it's a
kind of madness that propels him forward, until he's so close-
too close-
one hand wraps around her waist, and he's breathing her in, scenting her, he
realizes with a horrified shock-
"Are you- Are you in-" he stutters, unable to say it out loud, because her back
is arching off the wall, and the scent of her is so thick he can't smell
anything but her, and her nipples are diamond-hard beneath the thin dress, and
all he wants to do is rip the bloody bodice off, take her into her mouth, taste
her skin, taste her tears, taste her soft, hot cunt-
"Yes," she moans, and her hands fly up, wrapping around the base of his skull,
dragging his body against hers, the heat of her so palpable Jon could swear the
air around them is shimmering with it. "Yes," she whispers again, right against
his mouth, and Jon can't tell if she's answering the question he hasn't asked
or if she's granting permission for something more. 
But then she kisses him, open-mouthed and sloppy, hungry for it, whispering,
yes, yes, yes,and Jon realizes he's rutting into her, hips snapping forward in
sharp, quick thrusts, his cock against the apex of her thighs, his grip so
cruel around her waist it must hurt, it must, but Sansa kisses him, delirious,
in soft, heady sips, as if she wants to drink him down, and Jon groans, harsh,
the sound vibrating between them, the taste of her, sweet and tart and Sansa,
surrounding him, sinking into his bones-
"Sansa," he mutters. "Sansa, what-"
There's something wrong, he knows, the knowledge of it hovering just out of
reach, but as his hand cups the soft, gorgeous swell of her breast, thumb
against her nipple, rolling, flicking gently through the cloth and Sansa's head
drops back against the wall, shaking, trembling against him, mouth open in a
silent scream, all thoughts of why this could be wrong fly out of his head. 
There is only this, only her, only the desperate, perfect race to see her
come. 
There must be something sick about him, that makes him want to see a highborn
girl like Sansa Stark reduced to a shaky, wanton mess for her bastard brother,
for a boy named Snow, but Jon wants it, wants her-
"Please," she's saying again, softly, gaining volume as he toys with her,
slowing down deliberately, scraping his teeth down the long alabaster column of
her neck. "Jon, oh- please, please."
"What do you want, my lady?" Jon asks, drawl reduced to something harsher,
guttural, as bright sparks erupt behind his eyelids, the placket of his
breeches digging into his cock, the cords of his neck straining as her works
them both into a shaking frenzy. 
"I want you to- I need you inside. Inside me." A tremor works its way through
her, her words turning him still. "So empty," she whispers, rocking her cunt
against his hard, muscled thigh, yearning, blindly seeking his mouth and making
the confession against his lips. "I'm so- I need-"
"You need me to fuck you." 
There's nothing in him. Nothing. Only a great, yawning abyss, and a fire in his
blood. 
"Say it," he goads, hands slipping lower to cup the swell of her arse, hands
digging into soft flesh with a cruelty that is sickening, that makes him feel
alive. "Say you want me to fuck you." Vengeance, and anger, and heat, heat, so
lost in her there is no place she begins where he doesn't end. "Say-"
Her eyes fly open, shocked and hazy, drowning in darkness. 
 
And he comes to his senses. 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
"Fuck." His hands drop away as if he's been burned, and he stumbles back,
prompting a shocked exhale. "What- What-"
"Don't- Why did you stop?"
"We can't- I'm your brother!"
Her eyes widen, lust clearing away by some small, infinitesimal margin.
"Jon..."
"I have to go."
Her eyes are bright, grief twisting her pretty face up until a tear works its
way down her cheek. "Jon, please. Stay. Just... stay."
Jon swallows, and the urge to obey her, to heed her is so strong it's hard to
move, let alone move away from her. "Go to your room."
Sansa shakes her head, mutinous, the beginnings of true rage creeping into her
eyes. His nostrils flare, lust and anger and something he can't begin to define
making his voice vibrate with a force he didn't know he possessed.
"Go," he snarls, and she stumbles back from him, eyes blown wide with fear.
"Go," he repeats, and doesn't wait for her door to fall open when he adds over
his shoulder, "Bolt it behind you, Sansa," before stalking away, his blood on
fire, and a sick sense of wrongness churning in his gut. 
She is his.
She is his.
The only place in the world where he belongs is behind that door.
Now. 
===============================================================================
 
They had danced together once, some wonderful feast when the Mormonts had come
visiting, Maege and her wild daughters, accompanied by the Boltons and a cadet
branch of the Karstarks that lived on the very edge of the Wolfswood. It had
been a lovely evening, a lavender sky shot with gold, at the very height of the
northern summer, and even Lord Stark's perennially dour face had been lit by a
warm smile, the sort of mischief dancing in his dark eyes that made his Lady
blush and roll her eyes and silently pray that tonight wouldn't end in another
babe.
(Rickon was a joy, truly, but he'd been very difficult about leaving the womb,
the little brat.)
It had been a night of magic, the air golden with lamplight, and minstrels
plucking their lyres, their voices cutting through the summer sweet air,
ringing as clear as bells.
Sansa had been swept off her feet, Northern lords and sons approaching her for
every dance, and she was flushed pink by the time they switched to the ballads,
a dull, pleasant ache thrumming through her bones, coppery filaments of hair
adhering to her neck, damp with perspiration. 
But then the first note of Jonquil's Wake had rung through the hall, high and
piercing, and as Sansa's breath caught in her throat - for this was her
favourite song, her very, very favourite - a warm hand slipped down the curve
of her spine, settling low on her back, and began to guide her once more onto
the dancing floor. 
Her heart had been tripping in her chest, hasty and quick, as her partner
turned her to face him, a warm, dark sense of comfort descending around her
like a coccoon, where only she existed, she and the song, and she looked up and
saw-
"Jon," she said, so soft and wondering it sounded... It wasn't one spoke to
their brother, not especially to a- 
To someone like Jon, she amended privately, not wanting the ugliness of his
birth to mar this perfect moment. 
"May I have this dance, my lady?" he teased quietly, even as he placed her hand
on his shoulder, and slipped a broad hand around her waist, the heat of him
radiating through her thin silk gown, past the cotton of her shift, feeling it
like brand of heat against her skin. 
Sansa giggled breathlessly, and she had no time to wonder when exactly Jon had
gotten so very, very good at this sort of slow, sweet dancing, when the way his
hair curled over his forehead had begun to look so soft, when his smile become
so- So. He spun her around, again and again, until she was dizzy from it, eyes
squeezed shut and grinning from ear to ear like it was her nameday come early.
When he drew her back into his arms, Sansa slipped on the floor, her chest
crashing into his with a soft thump, knocking the breath out of her lungs, her
fingers tangling in the bristle-soft hair at his nape. 
His breath fell in warm, harsh exhales against her cheek, and his heartbeat
jumped in his neck, eyes dipping down to her lips for a brief, almost
imperceptible second, in a way that made her breath catch and her heartbeat
quicken, a strange, hollow ache settling in parts of her body she had no name
for. 
But then Sansa glimpsed Mama, frowning at them from her seat at the high table
as the dancing couples moved around them, and her eyes widened, stumbling back
away from Jon, her eyes itchy and her skin too hot, from this wild, bewildering
urge to tear away her dress, her corset, to press her thighs together, to let
the cold, night air soothe away this sudden, awful feeling gathering under her
skin, to let Jon, to let him, to-
To let him what?
Let him do what?
She didn't know. She didn't know. 
===============================================================================
 
This was nothing like that dance.
(This was everything like that dance.)
===============================================================================
 
As Sansa fell back against the bolted door of her chamber, frantically gasping
to catch her breath, her senses returned to her, in slow, excruciating
measure.  
Her heat was still fresh, sharp; she had not sunk into the worst of it yet, and
as she stripped off her gown, impatiently tugging free the laces to her corset
so she could finally breathe, sanity flooded her once more, followed by a
growing sense of painful embarrassment.
The things he'd said- oh, she could- she could just- 
'You need me to fuck you.' The words returned with a vengeance to the forefront
of her mind, as real as if he'd whispered it into her ears, and Sansa whimpered
softly, knees buckling as she reached her bed, hands clamped around the edge of
the mattress, neck bowed and thighs clenched tightly together, as a new
throbbing set off in her core, coursing like molten honey through her veins.
'Say it.'
A fresh wetness slicked down her cunt, and her breasts felt heavier, swollen.
Hesitantly, Sansa swept a hand over her shift, and as her palm grazed her
nipple, she hissed sharply, squeezing her eyes shut at the almost painfully
sharp sense of heat it sent rocketing to her loins. Again, she repeated the
motion, grazing her nipple with the heel of her palm, her spine arching as a
low moan burst from her lips.
Oh how sweet it would be, to have him here, with her, to ease her aches-
'Say you want me to fuck you.'
She fell back into the mattress with a soft whump, untying the laces to her
shift with shaky, trembling fingers, desperate for this strange, brilliant new
feeling, slipping her hand beneath the thin linen, and testing it once more,
circling the hard pucker of her nipple, goosebumps all down her arms, thighs
growing slippery with slick and sweat, a fine sheen of perspiration dewing on
her skin, dripping between her breasts.
With her eyes squeezed shut, she saw him, the dark, hungry glitter in his eyes,
the mocking curl to his words; Jon had enjoyed it, making her beg. A girl from
a noble family, begging and panting for her- her brother's- her bastard
brother's-
His hands had been rougher, she recalled, with sudden painful clarity, harsher
and quicker, more impatient, and her hands mirrored the memory of him, pinching
and tugging until she was keening for it, desperate, whispering his name over
and over, as she sank deeper into the fever, blood thumping in her ears. Jon,
Jon, Jon, like a litany, like a prayer, again and ag-
"Sansa!" came a muffled shout, from beyond her locked door, and Sansa bolted
upright, fingers unconsciously curling into fists in the missed bed linens.
"Sansa!" screamed the voice once more, and-
Papa. It was Papa.
"Open the door!"
Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods- Did he know?!
===============================================================================
 
Jon staggered into his room, slamming the door shut and wincing at the sound,
before tugging off his cloak and carelessly dropping it to the ground. His
waistcoat followed, and then his tunic, a trail of clothing until he reached
the narrow cot by the opposite wall, his vision pulsing and warping as his
blood rushed south, hardening his cock to steel. 
Jon fell back into the ragged furs with a harsh groan, and only managed to
untie the laces of his breeches and shove them down before wrapping a hand
around his cock, stroking furiously. 
Everything felt different, sharper, more visceral. He paused with a grimace,
spitting into his palm, before pumping recklessly, eyes screwed tight, hissing
softly when he brushed the knot at the base of his cock. 
Fuck. 
Harsher now, the pleasure sharpening to a white-hot blaze, his fist moved in a
quick blur, as images of her burned in his mind, blue eyes and pale skin and
that fiery hair, soft, lush teats, the sweet give of her mouth, all silken
voracity, and her cunt- seven hells, her cunt, the way she'd grip him, burning
hot, dripping for him, begging so sweetly around his cock, around his knot-
He comes in long, shuddering pulses, all over his belly, before slumping back
down to the bed, wrung out and exhausted. His legs tremble faintly, but his
blood is still hot, and the taste of her lingers on his tongue, the way she
panted his name, all keening want and desperation, slim fingers scrabbling at
his jerkin as if she wanted to tear his clothes away, his own, perfect little
whore-
She was made for him.
And he could not have her.
He could not- Jon groaned softly, as his cock twitched once more, beginning to
harden as new images overtook him, as if some incorporeal entity had decided to
take control of his mind, fill him up with lurid fantasies of Sansa Stark; tied
down and helpless, on her knees with her mouth on his cock, on all fours as he
took her from behind, savage and ruthless, flushed with pleasure each time, and
the litany of his name on her soft, lovely lips. 
His knot, not even close to deflating, began to fatten up again, sending sharp,
painful tremors down his back, and Jon shuddered through another breath, and
another. His cock was leaking profusely this time, so slick that he hardly
needed his spit-dampened palm to ease the way. As he began fucking into
his fist once more, more out compulsion than any sense of relief, he was filled
by a sick sense of foreboding.
He couldn't - He couldn't be going into rut, could he? Not for his own sister?
===============================================================================
 
Lord Stark stepped into the room, and took one look at his eldest daughter, at
her flushed skin and dark eyes, at the way her shift gaped at the throat,
before averting his gaze up to her face, eyes filling with gentle sympathy.  
"Ah, Sansa," he murmured softly, reaching to cup the side of her face, and
Sansa flinched as if she'd been slapped, her skin buzzing sharply at the
contact. 
And, oh-of course.How could she have forgotten? The touch of an alpha not her
own would pain her, when she was in - seven hells,in heat.
 
Then, Jon- Jon-
Oh gods.
He was her alpha.
He was hers.
 
 
Lord Stark stepped away, jaw tautening slightly, as if he was embarrassed. He
favoured her with another smile, this one crooked and a little more brittle,
not quite reaching his eyes, even as Sansa's glittered with unshed tears, the
bright, unmarred color of cold, clear ice. "I shall- ah, I'll send for your
mother, shall I? Tell me-" He paused, clearing his throat. "If there's anything
you need, Sansa, anything at all, please let me know?"
Jon,whispered all the yearning fragments of her body, her heart, his hands and
his kisses and his foul, awful words, the way he curled around her as if he
wanted to consume her whole, Jon, please, I want Jon-
Sansa whimpered, and choked back the words, and the last thing she saw was the
troubled look in Father's eyes, before he pulled the door shut.
===============================================================================
 
Theon skidded into Lord Stark's solar where he was shakily draining the last of
his wine, all limbs and too wide eyes, breathless and a little red in the face.
"My lord," he gasped, "you have to- you have to-"
Ned raised a brow, pulling together his wits despite the boy's clear urgency.
"Breathe, son," he said, and Theon Greyjoy obediently sucked in a deep,
shuddering breath. "What is it, then?"
"It's Jon, sir," Theon said, all his syllables blurring together in a rush and
Ned felt his guts turn to lead, horror racing quick-sharp in his veins. "He's-
uh, you know."
"No," Ned snapped, as he rose to his feet. "I don't."
Theon peered at his boots, as the tips of his ears turned bright scarlet. "He's
gone into rut," he muttered mutinously. "And he's- um."
There was a dangerous note of menace to Ned Stark's voice when he replied, "And
he's what?"that made Theon's neck snap upwards in shock. 
"And he's..." Theon swallowed. "He's been askin' for Sans- LadySansa.
Demanding," Theon amended quickly, scrubbing the back of his neck. "Robb's
holdin' him off, but I don't know how long that's going to last- My lord? I...
I don't understand. They're brother and sister.How is- How's any of this
possible?"
"Cousins," Ned snapped off, the beginnings of a new lie beginning to gather in
his mind. "They're cousins."
But he was already storming out of his solar when he said it, shouldering past
Theon and towards Jon's room, and so he missed entirely the look on Theon's
face, wide-eyed shock, a little confusion, a strange sort of hurt in the set of
his crooked jaw.
===============================================================================
"Mother."
Catelyn looked up, Sansa cradled in her lap as if she were a babe once more,
her face buried in Lady Stark's shoulder, silent tears leaking down her nose
and into her mother's dark auburn hair, as Lady Stark ran a comforting hand
down her back.
Everything hurt.The room felt too bright, and too stifling; she wanted to press
her fingers to her cunt, where she ached,she wanted to frig herself dry; she
wanted to weep like she was a child and hold onto her mother, she wanted, she
wanted-
Jon. She wanted Jon.
Robb was at the door, his hair a fright, his clothes all askew and thick with
dust. There was a bleak, hard look in his eyes, and Catelyn tensed.
"Yes?" she asked, softly, instinctively tightening her arms around Sansa, as if
she could protect her daughter simply by the force of a mother's love. "What is
it, Robb?"
His mouth twisted, as if in revulsion, before he said, "You need to leave.
Now."
"I beg your pardon?" Catelyn snapped, drawing back ever so slightly, at the
harsh, guttural tone of his words, the faint colour rising to his face as he
spoke. 
"Jon's gone into rut." He paused, nostrils flaring. "For Sansa."
His eyes flickered to his sister, her face hidden away from him, but there was
something like disgust in his eyes that had never been there before. "Father's
given his blessing. They'll be here in a minute. Apparently... There's things
about Jon he didn't see fit to mention before."
===============================================================================
 
Chapter End Notes
     GAH WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE ARE READING THIS?!??!!?
***** Chapter 3 *****
"Sansa," Jon whispered, the fight leaching out of him as he took her
in, shoulders dropping, his eyes so dark she thought she could drown in them. 
Papa's hand was still firm on his shoulder where they stood in the doorway to
Sansa's chamber, his grip tight enough that his knuckles had gone white. He
leaned down, just enough that his lips were level with Jon's ear, and muttered,
"You mate my daughter, and there won't be enough of you left to bury.
Understand?" 
His eyes widened as if he'd been struck, and for a moment, Jon's gaze flickered
away from Sansa to Lord Stark, looking, all of a sudden, as if he was very very
young. But then his shoulders tensed, and his neck bowed, looking so broken
down that Sansa wanted to scream in outrage. "As you wish, my lord," he replied
softly, and Sansa wrenched herself away from Lady Stark, stumbling over the
floor to him, slipping her hand through his. 
Jon tensed, looking up at her with wide, fearful eyes, and her heart thumped an
uncomfortable extra beat in her chest, as she tugged him closer the way she
might have with Bran or Rickon, folding him into her arms, letting him bury his
face in the curve of her neck, molding her body to his, and feeling full and
heavy, an aching sweetness gathering in her breast. 
She tangled her fingers in his curls, raking her nails down his scalp and when
Jon shuddered as if he would break, Sansa blinked away her tears. 
"Go," she whispered softly, tightening her arms around Jon so he would know the
words weren't for him. "I need you all to go."
"Sansa," Lady Catelyn started to say, "you don't have to-"
"I want to," she snapped back, and felt Jon's hands sweep once, twice, down her
spine, leaving blazing trails of fire where they touched. Her eyes fluttered
shut, the place between her legs throbbing, clenching on air, and a low soft
sound of discontent rumbled from his chest, his breaths falling quicker,
sharper against her neck, cupping her arse, slowly grinding his hardness
against her. 
"Go," she whispered one last time, and Jon pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss at
her throat, raking the spot with his teeth before soothing it away with a rasp
of his tongue, making her gasp, softly, dropping her forehead to his hard
support of his shoulder. 
There was a soft rustle of fabric, and the click of the door, and then,
finally, finally they were alone. Sansa lifted her head up to face him, and saw
a dark flush rise across his cheekbones, the faint rim of grey circle his dark,
molten eyes. She shivered, just a little, a draft from beneath the door making
its way through her gossamer thin shift, and watched as a dark, hungry smile
unfurled on his lips, a blinding flash a white teeth, and the promise of
something... something impossible. 
===============================================================================
 
"Brandon Stark's son," Theon repeats, incredulously. 
"Aye."
"Your uncle Brandon Stark," he says, staring at Robb's profile from across the
table, resting the point of his dagger on the wood with a finger on the hilt,
gape-jawed in confusion. 
Robb levels a speaking glare at him before turning away once again. 
"Then why- Why did Lord Stark say Jon was-"
"Apparently," Robb snaps, with a vicious eagerness, "he didn't want whores
crawling out of the woodwork claiming Uncle Brandon had married them before
they had Jon, and push me out of my claim on Winterfell."
"Seven hells... What really happened to his mum?"
"Died, s'far as his Lordship knows," Robb mutters. "Birthing fever."
"Ah."
Robb stares at him, narrow eyed and practically vibrating out of his seat in
tense, tightly leashed resentment. "'Ah'?That's all you have to say?" 
Theon shrugs, familiar mischief lighting up his eyes. Theon had trouble
taking anything seriously. "Does Jon know?" he asks slyly, and the question
almost pulls a smile from the young lord, before Robb replies, "No. Not yet."
===============================================================================
Maester Luwin saves the third scroll for last. It is a rare enough thing to
receive a raven from the capital, and only after he has perused the missive
from his counterpart at the Wall - Castle Black has suffered a desertion, and
the fugitive was last seen heading straight south, towards Winterfell - and a
hurriedly scrawled note from the Riverlands - Lord Hoster Tully's health was on
the mend - that he cracks the black seal bearing the sigil of House Baratheon. 
Pycelle's hand is shakier now, showing his age, but his writing still bears the
graceful slant they both learned at the Citadel, and it makes Luwin smile
faintly before he takes in the words.
And then he reads the message again.
And again.
And again. 
His hands quake violently, and his skin has gone grey, heart hammering in his
chest as he kicks back his stool, ignoring it when it crashes to the ground and
throwing open the rookery's door, setting off the Ravens into an agitated
squawking. 
But Luwin, dashing across the courtyard and towards the main keep, barely hears
any of it, letting his aging legs carry him to Lord Stark's solar as fast as
they can. 
===============================================================================
 
"...Jon Arryn, Hand to the King, Warden of the East and Lord of the Vale, is
with us no more. A fever took him in the late hours of the seven-and-tenth day
of this twelfth moon. We were unable to discern the nature of the fever. Milk
of the poppy was administered to his lordship and by the grace of the Mother,
his passing was peaceful.
At the moment of writing, I am well-pleased to say, preparations are well
underway to convey the King, the Queen, the heir and other members of the royal
family to Winterfell. They arrive within the turn of the moon."
===============================================================================
 
It was as if something shifted in their solitude, a change in his skin, in the
colour of his eyes, the shape of his smile, and Sansa had the sudden, shiver-
inducing sensation of being held by a complete stranger.  
"Jon?" she asked, tentative and a little fearful, and his hands tightened
around her, sending bolts of pleasure-pain that seemed to wind her tighter,
make her breath shorten and her womb quicken. 
His voice was hoarse, a scrape of worn gravel, when he asked, "Did you mean it?
What you said to- To Lady Stark?"
Sansa nodded, eyes huge, hands sliding up his hard, vaulted chest, cupping his
face, tracing the curve of his cheekbones with a sweep of her thumbs. "Yes,"
she whispered, into the silence of the room. "Yes, I meant every w-"
And his mouth slanted over hers, with a deep, shuddering groan, hungry and
voracious, his tongue slipping against hers in sleek, heated desperation. His
hands curled around the back of her head, pulling and tugging until Sansa had
exposed the vulnerable curve of her throat, his mouth moving where her pulse
thrummed, hummingbird-quick, fastening his teeth over the fragile skin until a
sharp cry rose from her throat. His cock was steel against her belly, his hands
roving over the lines of her back, her arse, cupping and squeezing with
rampant, hungry abandon. 
"Bed,"she pleaded, as a hand covered the linen over her breast, palming her
nipple and making her cunt clamp viciously on nothing again. "Jon, please,
please, the bed, I need you to-"
And the world lurched away from beneath her as Jon swept her off her feet,
depositing her with little flair on the edge of the mattress, where she landed
with a muffled thump.
She watched, wide-eyed, as he tugged off his boots, tossing them across the
room with unrestrained violence, before repeating the motions with his jerkin
and tunic, revealing the smooth, hard contours of his body, rippling with honed
muscle in the dimming firelight. His eyes traced her body with unconcealed
appreciation, making her shiver and fight the urge to hide away from his gaze,
before meeting her eyes and snapping, "Off."
Sansa blinked, tearing her eyes away from where his fingers were struggling
with laces at his breeches, his- his cock straining at the seams. 
"What?" she asked, shocked at how her voice sounded, high and roughened, as if
it belonged to someone else. 
"Take your clothes off, sweetheart," he rasped in his awful, dark, midnight
voice, making her heart miss a beat, and send lava flooding through her veins.
Before she had realized it, she had risen up just enough, rucked up the hem of
her shift to her hips, pulling it over her head in a hasty, clumsy motion that
made her cheeks flush dull red. But Jon didn't seem to mind at all, his eyes
fastened on her breasts, nipples puckered in the sudden cold, and the thatch of
springy red curls between her legs. 
"My gods," he muttered, reverently, breeches forgotten as he sank onto the
mattress beside her, almost as if he didn't dare to touch. "Look at you."
Sansa swallowed, hard, unsure of herself, hands fisting in the bedlinens in
tense anticipation. What if he didn't... What if he was disappointed? What if
he didn't think she was-
He raised a trembling hand to her breast, gently rolling the tightened aureole
between his fingers, and Sansa gasped at the heat of it, lightning crackling
all through her body as her spine arched off the bed to chase his touch. He
breathed in sharply. 
Hoarsely, sounding faint with astonishment, "You... You liked that?"
"Yes," she moaned, and Jon seemed to quake with muted want. 
"Seven fucking-" he bit off, before curling his body over hers and taking her
mouth again, in soft, heated mating, tracing the shape of her full lower lip
with his tongue until she gasped out loud into his mouth.
"Yes..." came the encouraging hiss, his hand cupping the side of her face, the
other hand sliding restlessly down her side, palming the voluptuous curves of
her body, sweat-slick and trembling. "Open for me, little love, open..."
She tore away from him, gasping for breath, but Jon simply shifted downwards,
hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, tugging her earlobe between his teeth.
Lower still, as she trembled, eyes squeezed shut and tears trickling down to
her hairline, her limbs feeling weighed down, thick and heavy with fatigue and
unassuaged lust. Latching onto her nipple, drawing in the taut flesh into the
burning, slick cavern of his mouth, lashing her skin with the velvety rasp of
his tongue, until she was clutching his head to her breast, moaning and crying
out loud, incoherently begging. 
"Don't stop, don't stop, please please- Oh!" she heard herself cry out, hips
rocking up to meet the barrier of his breeches, leaving smears of dark wetness
against the cloth. 
But Jon tugged free with a gentle bite that rocketed a blaze of sensation
downwards, peppering feather-light kisses down her sternum and her belly, and
it was only then that Sansa realized what he meant to do. Gasping, she slapped
her hands over herself, and stared in mute horror at Jon who slanted her a look
that was part smirk and part hunger. 
He stroked the backs of her fingers with deliberate ease, murmuring, "You
shouldn't do that, sweetling..." He dropped his mouth to the insides of her
thighs, forcing them apart even though she'd begun to struggle. "I have hours
with you," he whispered against her skin, tracing the shape of her knees with
his clever, calloused hands, licking away at the wetness coating her thighs,
dark curls falling into dark eyes. 
"Hours... Days..." he promised, a heady note of menace filtering in, as his
mouth charted a burning trail steadily north. "I'm going to make you beg for
it; I'm going to make you scream on my knot, little love..." His hands were
deceptively gentle as they parted her fingers and then the slick-hot folds of
her cunt, and Sansa trembled, shuddered, before she gave in with a sigh, to his
voice and his hands and all his promises.
"Let me fuck you..." he said, nosing gently at the auburn curls, scenting her
in deep lungfuls, his hands clamping down around her hips as if to hold her
down.
"Let me love you..."
===============================================================================
 
"I've been thinking about what you said."
"You have?" Ned asks his wife warily. 
"Yes," Catelyn replies, so light and casual that Ned nearly stops breathing.
She runs her comb through her long, auburn tresses once more, meditative,
seemingly calm. 
He is not fooled. 
"You broke my heart, you know, when you came back from the war, and brought
that boy with you." This is delivered in a matter-of-fact tone, no censure or
hatred in her words. Her eyes stay fixed on the mirror before her; his eyes
stay fixed on her. 
"I know, Cat," Ned replies, hoarse with grief. "I'm sorry, you know I-"
But Catelyn waves off his apology with a flick of her hand, and continues, "But
we barely knew each other, despite Robb, and when you lied to me about Jon
being yours, I had no reason not to believe you."
Ned stills, everything about him turning cold, crystal-hard, still as a lake in
the heart of winter.
She turns to him, her hair unbound and rippling down her face, her eyes blue
chips of burning cold ice. 
"Do you think I do not see when you lie to me now?" His heart is beating so
fast he can barely hear his wife, as a distant, terrible memory swamps him,
consumes him whole. 
Promise me, Ned.
Promise me. 
"He is not yours," she says, her words landing like blows, a battering ram
against the secrets he's held for so long. "Not Brandon's. If he was your
father's too, Sansa would have not taken him as her alpha. He cannot be
Benjen's - you brought him from the South and he spent the whole war ranging
north of the Wall."
She steps closer, and still, still, her eyes, her voice, they do not waver. She
may be a Stark only by name, but there is ice in her veins all the same. The
Lady of Winterfell - the lady of Winter. "Tell me Ned, and know if you lie
again, I will never, never forgive you. 
"Who is Jon Snow?"
===============================================================================
 
Jon licks, a long, slow stripe between her parted folds and her hips jerk
violently, before he clamps an arm over her belly, pushing her down and sucking
the little nub into his mouth. 
Sansa screams. 
Her thighs tremble, and Jon sinks his mouth deeper against her, satin-soft and
molten, leaves kisses along the slit that make her shake, before working her
open; her taste salty and bitter like the sea, sweet in the back of his throat,
his hips rutting gracelessly against the feather tick of her mattress. 
There's words falling from her bitten-red lips, pleas and yeses and ohs, words
that coil him tighter, make him desperate for her. 
His mouth is smeared with wetness when he pauses to breathe, and her pretty,
elegant hand snaps forward, burying in his hair and dragging him to her cunt,
crying, "No, no, no,you can't stop, you can't, Jon-" 
He almost laughs but for the way his body aches to be buried inside her, deep
inside her hot cunt, forever until he has forgotten himself, forgotten his
world, his name. 
The sound of her cries fractures something inside him, and he slides up her
soft,'pretty body, kissing the corner of her mouth, hand between her thighs,
rubbing her slick little clit, wet and throbbing, her hips twitching and
shifting beneath his.
"What do you want?" The words, he whispers against her lips, smearing them with
her slick, leaving them soft and beestung, gleaming in the darkness. "Tell me-"
"You," she gasps, tears trickling from her closed eyes, "I want you, you, you-"
He sinks a finger past the tight ting of muscle, so fucking hot around him, so
soft and lush and tight, clenching down on the digit as if she wants to suck
him in deeper. Sansa's mouth falls open, her cheeks as fiery red as her hair,
sweat on pink skin. He feeds it to her slowly, just enough to drive them both
mad... One finger, then two, then three, and she takes it all, gasping and
clenching so perfectly around him...
There's nothing left to her except this now, the feeling of her alpha draped
over her empty, desperate body, the feeling of his mouth ghosting up her jaw,
licking away her tears with a sickening hunger, the feeling of his fingers
filling her up, only him, there's only him. Mindless little grunts escape her
mouth and Jon swallows them up. 
"More," she whispers finally, when he's four fingers deep, her voice hoarse and
low. "More, alpha, please... More..."
He hisses softly, withdrawing, before spreading her thighs wider, sinking in
between, positioning himself at her hot, slick entrance. "Here?" he asks again,
so gentle it makes her head spin dizzily. "You need me here, love?"
She nods, jerky, beyond words, but when he pushes through, it's he who loses
coherence, groaning and dropping to his elbows, his head cushioned at her
breast, as she digs her nails deeper into the bedspread, hips tilting off the
mattress to take him closer. 
He sinks in, slow, delirious moments that stretch and tangle like strands of
honey, golden and sun-brightened, everything narrowing to the single point
where her body closes in around his cock. 
"Sansa," Jon whispers, shaken to his core. "Sansa..." as he begins to withdraw,
setting a slow, sharp rhythm, smoothing dark strands of scarlet hair away from
her forehead, pressing reverent kisses to her eyelids, to her cheek, to her
slackened lips. 
The rhythm grows around them like a living thing, taking wing and pulsing
fever-hot, drawing them closer and cinching them tighter, a noose of desire and
heat and ecstasy. Jon's arm slips under her waist, and the new angle makes her
eyes flutter open, the blue of her eyes eclipsed, and she whispers, "Jon," as
if she could break and sob and fly all at once, making his hips snap and her
eyes roll back, clasping his cock in a fiery blaze of pleasure. He drives
quicker then, harder, pushing her thigh back, until it's flush with her
sternum, kneeling on the bedspread, thrusting with a savagery that has him
sloe-eyed in acute, blinding desire. 
She cries out, knife-sweet in her agony, and his knot slips past the rim of her
grasping, weeping cunt, taking him in hungrily as they lose themselves to bone-
shaking pleasure, coming deep inside her in long, shuddering pulses, tied
together. For now. 
For good. 
When she opens her eyes, he has pulled back, just enough to meet her gaze, and
there's something in the way he stares at her, blinking rapidly when he shifts
and the movement sends shattered pulses of pleasure coursing through them
both. 
"My gods," he mutters for the second time that night. And Sansa realizes, with
a muted shock - he looks... afraid. 
===============================================================================
 
"The truth of Jon's parentage cannot go beyond these walls," Ned began, while
Catelyn listened in tense, unbroken silence. The fire in her bedchamber
crackled softly, and Ned paused before continuing, "There would be grave
repercussions for this family if it did."
End Notes
     I've realized there's some confusion about the 'mate my daughter and
     I'll rip your face off' thing because I'M A BAD WRITER SORRY but
     here's a brief explainer from Alphas,_Betas,_Omegas:_A_Primer by
     norabombay:
     "Pair Bonding: At the simplest level it is the equivalent of marriage
     for an omegaverse pair. Usually seen only with alpha/omega pairings,
     but it also shows up with alpha/alpha pairings on occasion. Nobody
     seems to care if betas pair bond or not. Pair bonding has several
     flavors. It can be done with a ceremony similar to marriage. It can
     be the result of sex alone. The sex might have to be during heat. Or
     the sex might require one partner (usually the alpha) to bite the
     other, breaking the skin.Pair bonding is mostly consensual. Depending
     on the universe, the pair bond can occur in a less consensual than
     usual even for the omegaverse way. An omega (but oddly not an alpha)
     can be forced into a bond."
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