Jon Snow was waiting in the Lion’s Keep, which he just found out, was a small tower literally inside a lion, guarding the lady in the tower. He felt uncomfortable— his white bow tie could have choked him, once he saw the furnished room he was to wait in. Red and gold lions, all over the place. Furnished with the red brocade curtains, with heart-shaped gilded window panes, Sansa’s room was quite ornate. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and floral details painted on the walls…
She was rich.
He was surprised that someone as rich as she was, took the time of the day to listen to his poetry. But maybe that’s why the troupe made the appointment with her— maybe she was as wonderful as she looked.
He stood, facing out the balcony. He didn’t want to give her the impression that he would snoop through her belongings, and besides, that would be quite rude. But the balcony was quite unusual, with a golden heart locket trapping the balcony. It suited her, really. He couldn’t tell whether or not she meant it, if she was excited to actually meet him. He couldn’t tell if it was true.
Jon should stop thinking about it. He went here to prove his “ridiculous” obsession with love wasn’t ridiculous, but he shouldn’t expect Sansa to reciprocate his love.
“This is a wonderful place for a poetry reading…”
Finally! Sansa was here, and he could tell her a poem. The poem that he told earlier to the troupe, to Sandor, Gendry, Tormund, Beric… There’s a lot riding on him at this moment. He really wanted to impress her. There was something in the way she moved, the way she danced with him, that captivated him. She was so confident, charismatic, magnetic… There’s simply no words to how drawn he was to her.
Jon turned, and took a huge gulp.
From the deep red silk dress, she changed to nothing but a translucent black bathrobe, and Myrish lace lingerie. Her hair was in curls, bounded in an elaborate hairstyle.
“Poetic enough for you?” Sansa asked.
“Yes,” Jon couldn’t believe that this is happening. She’s so beautiful! He could already sense that this is turning out terribly. How can he concentrate on the poem when she’s looking like that?
“A little supper?” Sansa asked, turning to the table— oh no, Jon thought, she’s wearing a garter belt… — “Some champagne?”
Well. Best keep this short and quick before she notices what’s going on down there.
“I’d rather just get it over and done with.”
Sansa crashed the champagne bottle in the ice. Oh dear. Should he have obliged? He knew he should have learned more on etiquette.
“Oh,” Sansa turned, raising an eyebrow, “Very well.”
Is that good? He doesn’t know that’s good.
“Well, why don’t you…” Sansa drops to the bed, “Come down here?”
Oh no. “I prefer to do it standing.”
“Oh.” Sansa started to stand.
“You don’t have to stand,” Jon said, “Sometimes it’s quite long, and I’d like you to be comfortable.”
Sansa’s eyes widened. Jon was beginning to worry that maybe he’s not the best person to pitch this to her. Did she like shorter poems? He should probably explain himself.
“It’s quite modern what I do,” Jon continued, “And it may feel strange at first, but I think that if you’re open, you might enjoy it.”
Sansa seemed confused, but she gave a little smile.
“I’m sure I will,” Sansa said.
That’s wonderful! Maybe he does know something, after all. He turned around to prepare himself, trying to remember the words to the poem that he wrote earlier.
“The sky is—,” Jon started, but that couldn’t be right, “With the bluebirds.”
But of course, Sansa just had to pose that way where the lantern light hit her — no, Jon, focus on the poem…
“I know, come on,” Jon tried to think, but he was stuck, “I think—,”
But no, Sansa let out a soft moan, the white of her skin contrasting with her lingerie.
Jon’s brain has left the building.
“Is everything alright?” Sansa asked, impatient.
NO, Jon, keep it together, please…
“It’s—, I’m—,” Jon looked away from the admittedly sexy woman in front of him, not that he was going to be unprofessional, of course, “I’m nervous… It just takes a while…”
Sansa was understanding, thankfully, letting out a soft oh.
“For inspiration to come,” Jon stammered, eyes to the ground. He can’t believe himself. He had this one opportunity, and when the time came, he couldn’t sprout words from thin air just because she was dressed in this sinful lace black concoction. Tormund was going to kill him.
Sansa stood up, and walked toward him, “Oh… yes… Let mummy help, hmm?”
Why was she walking towards him? Why did she say mummy? Jon panicked, worried that she would notice his cock slowly hardening. Why was she making that face? Was she disgusted with him?
But then Sansa grabbed him, down there, with a light and tender hand…
He gasped at the touch. “Did that inspire you?” Sansa asked.
Ygritte was right. He did know nothing.
Sansa pushed him to the ridiculous heart-shaped bed, and wow, she’s surprisingly strong.
“Let’s make love,” Sansa declared.
“Make love?” Jon was so, so, confused. He was here to read to her some poetry, and while he was attracted to her, he didn’t think he knew enough about seduction to get her this enthusiastic.
She straddled him. “Wait, I came here to—,” Jon protested.
“Mmmm, do you feel the poetry?” Sansa purred, as she unbuttoned his tux, “Do you feel it?”
Jon couldn’t help himself. He let out a groan.
“Feel it, tiger!” Sansa screamed, and Jon’s moan grew louder as she grinded her hips downwards. He wasn’t a prude, but this was getting too hard for him. Literally and figuratively.
His pants button snapped with the pressure. Sansa gasped, “Big boy.”
Well, that’s a first.
If Jon wasn’t too preoccupied, he would have heard Tormund whistle and say, “His talent wasn’t too small after all!”
“I need your poetry now!” Sansa growled.
Oh. “Alright,” Jon said, hoping he didn’t sound like a squeak, and he dropped to the bed.
“It’s a little bit funny,” Jon blurted.
“What?” Sansa said.
“This… feeling inside,” Jon’s brain scrambled for words to say. The woman just asked you for your poetry and gave you plenty of time, Jon, time to get a move on while she’s trying to catch her breath…
“I’m not one of those who can easily hide,” Jon admitted. Well, no thanks to his cock, that’s for sure.
But somehow that line got him to remember how easily Ygritte knew his feelings, and how easily Daenerys manipulated him back in Dragonstone. He was never one to hide, and his father wasn’t either. But it was Jon, what he really believed in, wasn’t it? Beauty, truth, freedom, and love?
But Sansa’s still on the bed, not reacting at all—
“Is this okay?” Jon asked, anxious, “Is this what you want?”
“Ohhhh,” Sansa’s eyes lit up in recognition, “Poetry, yes.”
Jon relaxed. But then, “Yes,” Sansa said, “That is what I want, naughty words…”
Naughty words? But she deserved the truth!
She let out a loud moan, as he continued his poem. “I don’t have much money, but—,” Sansa moaned after that, curling in bed as if his words made her horny.
Jon thought she was quite weird. But perhaps that’s just her kink? Unusual, but hardly the worst kink to have. Perhaps that’s why Tormund arranged to meet with her alone, so that it was easier to convince the Moulin Rouge to put up their play. He can hardly complain though, he managed to be in the room of the famous Sansa. He wasn’t going to waste this moment on dictating what she should or should not do. He hardly knew the standard conduct here anyways.
“If I were a sculptor,” Jon began the next line, but it was too wrong, it didn’t fit the poem, “But then again no—,”
“Wonderful,” Sansa gasped as she moved to the floor.
“Or a man who makes potions,” Jon wildly improvised, “In a traveling show…”
This was the most unusual thing Jon has ever done in King’s Landing, perhaps maybe ever in his life. Improvising poetry, that was easy. Improvising poetry as your intended audience interrupts you with their moans was a challenge.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Sansa’s breath heaved as she threw herself to the floor, gasping at her furs.
Jon stopped. Was she okay? Did she need to take a breather? He knew he was a good writer, but he wasn’t aware he was that good a writer.
“Don’t stop,” Sansa commanded.
“I know it’s not much, but,” Jon said, but—
“Give me more! Yes!” Sansa started jumping up and down her furs.
“But it’s the best I can do,” Jon said, concerned for her mental well-being.
“Naughty!” Sansa screamed, rolling around in that wolf pelt, “Yes, yes!”
King’s Landing was full of unusual people, Jon thought. Perhaps he didn’t fit here at all, in this city of dreams. But he wanted to, he really wanted to. He just wanted to sing.
He faced the window, overwhelmed. “My gift is my song,” Jon raised his voice louder, hoping she would listen.
He heard Sansa stopped. Was it working?
“And this one’s for you,” Jon turned, and finally, finally, he got Sansa’s attention with his words.
Sansa’s head peaked out of the blanket, as he sang on the spot, not yet knowing the next words, but he just knew what he felt.
“And you can tell everybody this is your song,” Jon sung to her, and he thought that maybe she’s taking him seriously, she’s really listening, “It may be quite simple, but now that it’s done…”
“I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind, that I put down in words,” Jon continued singing, and he just knew, knew from the first time he saw her, “How wonderful life is, while you’re in the world.”
He smiled. She was really listening! She’s hearing his confession out! Her eyes widened as if it was a song she never heard, but she should really hear it, she deserved it.
“I sat on a roof, and kicked off the moss,” Jon sung, turning to the window, hoping she didn’t see his excitement. He didn’t want to scare her off. “Well, a few of the verses, well, they’ve got me quite cross.”
He turned back to her, and she was standing up. As if they were guided by Gendry’s piano playing, they moved closer in beat, in harmony. “But the sun’s been quite kind while I wrote this song,”
And Sansa’s eyebrow quirked when he sang, “It’s for people like you that keep it turned on,” and he felt hopeful that maybe Sansa felt the same, just from his truthful words.
He brought her closer to him, and it felt as if the children of the forest, or maybe the angels of the Crownlands’ Seven Gods sung of their love.
“So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do,” Jon sang, heart bursting out of his chest, “You see I’ve forgotten if they’re green, or if they’re blue!”
“And the thing is, what I really mean,” Jon had to sing about her eyes, her beautiful eyes, “Yours is the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen.” Not diamonds anymore. Sapphires, perhaps, but it was more than that.
She was smiling, genuinely smiling. He took her hand in his, and, unlike his usual self, brought her into a waltz. He spun with her, sure of whatever this was. Maybe even the great opera singer Podrick Payne, was singing him on.
He was convinced that as they danced, the golden heart locket on the balcony was unlocked. He was convinced that they were jumping onto the rooftops, climbing on the Red Keep. He felt they were going higher and higher, that they were dancing atop clouds, through the stars. He could see the whole city from here, and he would give it to her, if she asked. But she seemed content just hearing his truth, she seemed more alive than ever. Her silver-lined black shift glistened, and it was almost as if stars were sewed on her ball gown as she twirled towards him. But her hair, her hair kissed like fire, fell out of the elaborate hairstyle she had on, making her look more real and less like a show.
And he can’t help but take her into his arms, and carry her like a groom would do, as he sang under the moonlight.