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The Northern Pirate

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“This is your fault,” Joffrey hisses, struggling against the burly man holding him. “The leader of these filthy pirates—” 

He shrieks in outrage when the man escorting Sansa cuffs him across the head. 

“I am your king!”

“A ‘filthy pirate’s’ only king is his captain, and that’s not you,” the man replies with a haughty sniff. He tosses his black curls and turns to Sansa. “Come along, my lady. We’re late for dinner with the captain.” He tightens his hold on her arm and walks faster.

“Your 'captain’ looked like a Northerner!” Joffrey spits. “A traitor!”

“I am only loyal to you, your grace,” Sansa replies by rote. “I have no part in my brother’s rebellion.”

“Your traitor brother paid him to capture me!”

Sansa keeps her mouth closed and her face blank. Joffrey will never know how foolish he sounds, not from her at least. She’ll also never tell him that this is all his fault.

Everyone had warned him. Even defeated, there were still remnants of Stannis’s fleet about, and the waters outside the bay were teeming with pirates. But Joffrey just had to take his new war galley, a gift from House Redwyne, on its maiden voyage. He’d also ordered that Sansa be prepared to sail with him. He'd hissed in her ear that either she nor the ship would be maidens when they returned to King’s Landing.

Sansa shudders at the memory of his wormy lips near her ear, and a small, shameful part of her is glad that pirates had set upon Joffrey’s ship as soon as it was clear of the bay.

A larger, more sensible, part of her is terrified.

The attack on King’s Joffrey’s Valor is as vivid in her mind as Joffrey’s threats. If she thinks too much on it, she can still hear the earsplitting crack of wood giving way as the pirate ship rammed into their side. She still feel the sickening lurch that knocked almost everyone on board flat on the deck. When she closes her eyes, all she can see is blood spraying as Joffrey’s guards and crewmen are cut down. She feels herself start to tremble in the pirate’s hold, and she forces herself to remember something else.

She’s still alive. That’s something to hold onto. The pirates could have killed her, but they didn’t.

A dark voice in her mind corrects her: They haven’t killed you yet.

The fact that she’s not dead only means that they have something else in mind for her first.

Sansa’s blood goes cold as she thinks of the captain.

He’d looked like something from a nightmare, clad in black from head to toe, with eyes as black as pitch standing out from a pale, blood-spattered face. The most frightening thing of all was the way he’d looked at her. Those black eyes had watched her like they could see every thought in her head, and she’d found herself unable to breathe under such scrutiny. After an endless moment, he’d spared Joffrey—who had been repeating often and loudly that he was their king—a glance before ordering his men to bring them aboard his ship. He’d declared that they were going to ransom Joffrey.

He hadn’t suggested that for her, not even after she told him she was Lady Sansa of House Stark.

She’s pulled from her thoughts when a swell of noise suddenly washes over her, and she stiffens when she sees all the men around her. There’s at least a few dozen crowded around three long tables to her left. Another half-dozen are sitting on one side of a single table to her right. The dark-eyed captain is among them. He looks up as she and Joffrey are led into the room, and his mouth curves into a smirk. He raises his wineskin in a mock toast. “My lady. Your Grace. My name is Jon Snow. Welcome.”

“I’ll have your head for this, pirate!” Joffrey shouts. “You destroyed my ship!”

The room goes silent, and the captain’s expression hardens. Sansa’s stomach drops, and she prays that Joffrey hasn’t just killed them both. No one goes for a blade, and after a long, tense silence, Jon Snow waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. 

“Grenn, seat the 'king’ at one of the lower tables and bind him.”

The burly man holding Joffrey heads to the left side of the room, not even stumbling when Joffrey begins to kick and flail. Sansa watches them for a moment before turning her attention back to the captain. Her breath hitches when she sees that look in his eyes again, dark and heated and all-seeing.

“Satin, bring the woman to me.”

The pretty man holding her arm begins to tug her toward the high table.

She doesn’t struggle. She knows it would be useless with so many other men in the room. Even if she somehow managed to break Satin’s hold, one of them would surely catch her before she made it very far. Running would only make whatever this man had planned for her worse. She’s learned that from Joffrey. She keeps her back straight and her eyes lowered as Satin brings her to the captain. The only crack in her composure is her shallow breathing.

Those dark eyes don’t leave her for a moment.

Satin lets go of her arm when she reaches the captain’s side, and she moves to take the vacant seat to his left. She gasps when his hand snags her wrist. She looks up at the captain, and he cocks his head toward the chair.

“That’s where Satin sits. You’re sitting here.” He smacks his thigh with his free hand.

She looks at his leg. He couldn’t possibly be serious? Her gaze moves back to his face and takes in its resolute expression. She can’t do this, she is a lady! Sitting on a strange man’s lap would ruin her! Joffrey would make sure of it. She chances a look toward where Grenn had taken him and finds them seated together at the nearest table, the latter’s hands bound at the wrist. His main focus seems to be on berating the men around him, but all he has to do is look up. If she sits in this man’s lap, Joffrey will see everything. Her gaze snaps back to the pirate and turns pleading.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unmoved. “Come here, Sansa Stark.”

She yelps when his hands latch onto her hips and yank her into his lap. Pulling her closer, he shifts her around until she’s firmly seated, and then one arm settles around her waist. The other reaches for his plate. He plucks a piece of meat off of it and pops it into his mouth.

While he eats, dread keeps her stiff against him. Any second now, he’s going to try and kiss or grope her like Joffrey and Ser Dontos used to. But time passes. He keeps eating. He doesn’t speak to her. Even better, his hand on her doesn’t move. After a while, Sansa finally takes a breath. She lets it out in a rush and relaxes, leaning into him.

“There you are,” he murmurs, sounding pleased. “You’re alright.”

His accent reminds her of the Umbers, or Uncle Benjen after so long at the Wall. It soothes her more than his words do. She finds herself relaxing even more, and she ends up getting lost in her thoughts again.

It’s strange, sitting in a man’s lap. The body beneath her is so different from her own. It’s all hard planes and rigid angles to her soft curves. She can also feel how strong he is, power coiled in every lean muscle. It makes her think of a trap about to spring shut. Bizarrely, she has the urge to touch him. She wants to feel that strength thrumming beneath her palms as they slide over his arms and shoulders. She wonders for a moment if he’s having thoughts like that about her, but she quickly forces that idea away. Sitting on his lap is enough. She doesn’t want him to touch her any more.

A piece of meat suddenly appears a couple of inches from her face, and she flinches back. She looks back at him, eyes wide.

He looks amused. “It’s not poisoned, you know.”

She never thought it was. It came from his own plate after all. She’s just not sure she can eat. Her stomach is still unsettled. Would he allow her to decline? She sneaks a look at his face, but he doesn’t give anything away. She decides not to risk it. Willing her stomach to calm, she leans forward and takes the meat in her mouth. Her lips brush the tips of his fingers as she moves away.

His breath hitches, making her freeze. Has she done something wrong? She chances a look at him beneath her lashes and stops breathing when she sees the look on his face. That dark, knowing look is back, and it makes her want to crawl out of her skin. She squirms, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat. The arm around her waist tightens, forcing her to sit still. She looks away and quickly chews and swallows the food, barely tasting it. Her own breath hitches when the arm around her waist moves. Now, he’s going to act like Joffrey or Ser Dontos.

She braces herself, but, once again, he doesn’t do what she expects. Instead, his hand settles at the small of her back and begins toying with the ends of her hair. He starts eating again. He doesn’t offer her any more food, nor does he try to speak to her. The hand on her back doesn’t wander, and after a moment, she begins to relax again, finding his hand in her hair soothing in spite of herself. It’s then that Joffrey overlooks the indignity of being tied down long enough to notice her position.

“That’s my betrothed, pirate!” he shrieks. “You can’t touch her!”

The room goes silent, and Sansa feels her face flame. She looks down, but she can still see several of the pirates looking back and forth between Joffrey and their captain beneath her lashes. The latter is smirking again.

“S'that right?” he drawls, relaxing back in his seat. “She didn’t say anything about that when she sat so nicely on my lap.”

She starts and then immediately looks back down when he starts shifting her around in his lap. Once he’s turned her enough so that they’re practically face to face, he leans forward to catch her eye.

He tilts his head toward Joffrey. “You want to marry him?”

“I will be a good wife.”

She sees his lips curl into a sardonic smile. “Oh, sweetheart, that doesn’t answer my question at all.”

Her breath hitches, and she shoots a quick glance at Joffrey. He’s glaring at her, his face turning a mottled red, and Sansa knows he’ll hurt her if she says anything else—

“Hey.” Jon’s voice interrupts her internal rambling.

She looks away from Joffrey, but she still doesn’t look at the man holding her. She focuses on her hands folded in her lap.

“I’m asking you, not him,” Jon says firmly. “I don’t give a shit what he wants. In fact, I might still throw him overboard, king or no.”

Joffrey shrieks in outrage, but neither acknowledge him.

Jon’s hand makes a slow, broad sweep up her back, and she suppresses a shiver. The hand settles between her shoulder blades, and she can feel the warmth of it through the layers of her gown.  

“I ask again, Sansa of House Stark, do you want to marry him?”

If she actually says it, there’s no taking it back. She’ll have denied the king in front of him. She looks up and catches those strange dark eyes again. Feeling a sudden rush of boldness, she shakes her head.

Jon’s eyes flash, and his smile is mischievous. “What was that?”

“No,” she says aloud, and it’s easier this time. “I don’t want to marry him.” She lets out a shaky breath, and it’s like a weight has been lifted off her chest.
“You whore!” Joffrey yells, making her flinch.

Sansa feels her cheeks heat, and she looks down again. Beneath her lashes, she sees Jon turn first to Joffrey and then back to her. “He says you’re a whore, Sansa Stark.”

Her head snaps up, and she gapes at him. He’s calling her a whore?! She expects that from Joffrey but not from him! Before she can stop herself, she retorts, “I’m a maiden!”

Instead of punishing her, like Joffrey would have, Jon simply grins. “You’re blushing, Sansa Stark. I think that means she really is a maid,” he calls to Joffrey.  

Joffrey starts to say something else, but Jon cuts him off. “Oh, shut up for fuck’s sake. It’s no wonder she doesn’t want you.” He turns back to Joffrey and gives him a slow once over. Judging by the look on his face, he finds the other man wanting. “She probably can’t stand the thought of you touching her.” He shifts her in his lap again and smirks when he catches her eye. “Isn’t that right, Sansa Stark? You can’t even stand the thought of him touching you?”

She remembers the way Joffrey’s fingers would dig into flesh until she bruised. The thought of being his wife, of having to let him touch her…like that, makes her stomach roil. Her “no” comes out even easier this time, louder as well.

Jon’s smile turns sly, and he leans forward until his mouth is a hairsbreadth away from her ear. “How about me? D'you like me touching you?”

His breath against her ear sets off sparks beneath her skin, and the feeling only increases when his hand begins trailing up and down her back again. His hand settles at the nape of her neck, and when his thumb digs in at the base of her skull and rubs, she lets out a soft, broken moan.

“I think you do,” Jon says, his voice sounding a lot rougher than before. “I think you do like me touching you, Sansa Stark.”

She can’t really deny it, not when she’s boneless and practically purring in his lap. Joffrey, propriety, and everything else seems very far away right now.

“I’ll touch you more if you want,” he breathes in her ear.

It’s enough to bring her back from whatever cloud she’s drifting on. She knows what 'more’ means. 'More’ is what Joffrey had planned for her when he brought onto his new ship. 'More’ is Ser Dontos drunkenly pawing at her chest and pressing wet, wine-sour kisses to her mouth. She doesn’t want any of that, not from Jon, but…his touch doesn’t feel like anything she’s ever endured. For one thing, it doesn’t feel like she has to 'endure’ it. His touch makes her feel like she’s about to float away, makes her feel like there’s lightning beneath her skin. Perhaps, Jon means something different when he says 'more.’

“What kind of touching?” she rasps. She feels him shudder beneath her and distantly wonders what brought about that reaction. The thought disappears like smoke in a strong wind when his lips brush her ear.

“Like this,” he says, massaging the back of her neck again. It makes her writhe against him, and he grins against her ear. “And anything else you want. It’ll be nice, I promise.” 

She turns her head, and then his lips are on hers.

The kiss is so light that she feels his breath more than the movement of his mouth. It’s still enough to make her stomach flutter. It feels more intimate than anything Joffrey or Ser Dontos has done to her. It’s everything she imagined a kiss would be before she met Joffrey. She’s panting when Jon pulls away, and so is he, mouth slightly agape. She finds herself unable to look away from it. His lips look full and soft, and she wants to taste them.

So, she does.

She should be shocked at her own daring, but she’s too distracted by his lips moving firmly over hers. It makes her feel like she’s about to unravel at the seams. She moves closer, gasping when his arms wrap tightly around her. Then, his tongue darts into her open mouth, and that does shock her enough to make her pull back, but a hand on the back of her neck keeps her in place. Leisurely and sure, his tongue explores her mouth before meeting hers, coaxing her into moving with him. Tentatively, her tongue slips into his mouth, and he sucks on it, making her squeak. He grins against her lips, and she feels herself do the same.

“WHORE!” a familiar voice screeches, and whatever this is—this breathless giddiness and unexpected peace that’s far more than a simple kiss—shatters. Sansa rips herself away from Jon, her face flaming. Her cheeks heat up even more when she takes in their position. One of her hands is tangled in his black curls, and the other is clutching his shoulder, the fabric of his tunic balled up in her fist. She can still feel one of his hands on her neck, thumb rubbing absently at the nape, and she has to force herself not to melt under the caress. His other hand is on her side, almost cupping her breast. His lips are reddened and fuller than before, and his heavy-lidded eyes haven’t stopped trailing over her form. The urge to kiss him again roars inside her, frightening in its intensity. She squeaks and looks away.

That proves to be a horrible decision, because now she can see just how many people there are around her. Many of them have their brows raised, and a couple are as red-faced as she must be. The realization that all these people watched her allow a strange man to kiss and touch her—watched her act like a complete wanton—knocks the air out of her lungs. It takes her a moment to work up the courage to look at Joffrey, but when she does, her eyes begin to sting. His face is beet-red, and he’s practically frothing at the mouth. He’s never looked like he hated this much, not even after he took her father’s head.

“YOU’RE A TRAITOR AND A WHORE!” he bellows at her, and she flinches back. She cringes even more when the room erupts into whispers.

“Dinner is over!” Jon suddenly shouts. “Everybody but his grace out.”

There’s some grumbling, but the men obey easily enough. A moment later, the room is empty except for a few men clearing the tables. Once the tables are clean, they start filing out too, none of them moving to untie Joffrey.

“Grenn!” Jon calls just before the room is completely empty.

The burly man stops and gives Jon a questioning look.

Jon cocks his head toward Joffrey. “Gag him on your way out.”

The man, Grenn, grins savagely and then takes the filthiest rag Sansa’s ever seen out of his boot. He promptly shoves it into Joffrey’s mouth. He then tears a strip from Joffrey’s doublet, and, ignoring his irate grunts, covers his mouth with it before knotting it at the back of his head. Once that’s done, Grenn sends Jon a wink and leaves the room. That wink stokes the fire in Sansa’s cheeks. She starts when she feels Jon’s hand move over her back again. She stiffens when he doesn’t stop moving. She knows he probably means to be comforting, but all she can see is Joffrey glaring at her and grumbling around his gag.

“Just ignore him, Sansa Stark,” Jon advises. His voice is quiet, but he still manages to startle her again. Thankfully, he doesn’t call attention to it, and, even better, his hand stops moving. It helps clear her head.

“Doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Jon adds a few seconds later, and Sansa slowly nods. She feels a little better about Joffrey now, but…

“The others—” She cuts herself off, unable to finish the thought. Shame wells up in her chest again.

“Have seen worse, I promise,” Jon finishes. “You didn’t shock them at all. I might’ve though.”

She turns to him and raises an eyebrow. “You shocked them?”

The smile he gives her is the first she’s seen that doesn’t have a sly edge to it. In fact, he looks almost…sheepish.

“I don’t often bring women on board,” he admits after a moment of silence. “Nor am I usually so—” He clears his throat. “—free with my affections.”

Sansa’s mouth falls open when she sees that he’s blushing. She quickly closes it, biting back a smile, and looks away. “Why me?” she asks after a moment.

The hand on her back begins to move again, making her tense, but she relaxes when his thumb rubs that spot on her neck. She lets him lay her forehead over his.

“You’re special,” he breathes, his lips ghosting over hers.

Her eyes fall shut.

He presses another one of those feather-light kisses to her mouth. “Soft—” Another kiss. “—sweet—” He kisses her again, harder this time. “—and lovely Sansa.”

She’s trembling now, and her nipples ache beneath the fabric of her dress. When she shifts against him, she gasps at the wetness she feels pooling between her legs. The gasp turns into a groan when she finds herself facing him, her thighs bracketing his hips and her center pressing heavily against a hardness in his lap. It feels wonderful against the aching emptiness between her legs, so she moves even closer, gasping at the throb of pleasure it gives her. She grins when he makes a similar noise. It feels so good, so she does it again. And again. She keeps moving, rubbing against him and kissing his lips. Her hands knead at those shoulders she wanted to touch so badly earlier. She whines when he pulls away, chasing his mouth with her own, but he holds her back with his hands cupping her cheeks.

“I want to do something else,” he rasps.

Sansa can’t help but whine again. She doesn’t want to do anything else! She wants this.

He pecks her lips and holds her back when she tries to deepen the kiss. “You remember what I told you earlier?”

What he told her earlier? He said a lot of things earlier. She can’t think of anything in particular, especially not anything that would be relevant right now. Reluctantly, she shakes her head. Her lips form into a pout when he lifts her out of his lap and sits her on the table in front of him. He grins indulgently at the look on her face, so she assumes he’s not too upset with her for forgetting something. He pecks her lips again and then drops back into his chair. She’s higher than he is now, so he has to reach up to tangle his fingers in her hair and pull her to him. He doesn’t kiss her, just lays her forehead over his.

“I said I’d touch you more if you wanted,” he says, his lips brushing her own. “And I promised it’d be nice. D'you want that?”

“Yes,” she breathes, and she feels him smile.

“Good girl.” He gives her another gentle kiss, and then his hand moves out of her hair. His fingers trail down her neck and over her collarbone before settling at the neck of her gown. He kisses the curve of her jaw, and Sansa feels a hint of tongue when he moves away.

“Can I take this off?” He kisses a tender spot beneath her ear. “Hm?”

She goes still. Letting a man kiss her, even sitting in his lap, is one thing, but letting him undress her is something else entirely. Before she can properly think about this, the memory of the last time a man undressed her hits like a mailed fist to the gut.

“Boros, make her naked,” Joffrey says. “Beat her bloody.”

Her heartbeat kicks up, and her chest feels scraped raw. She can’t breathe—

Suddenly, a warm hand squeezes her waist, and she blinks.

Her breathing begins to calm once she takes in her surroundings. She’s not in the throne room right now. Ser Boros isn’t about to shove his hand down her bodice. She’s in the galley of a pirate ship, and the ship’s captain has a concerned look on his face and a finger hooked in the top of her gown. A hysterical laugh bubbles up from deep in her chest, but she manages to suppress most of it. All that comes out is a whimper, nothing too different from sounds she’s already made. Hopefully, Jon doesn’t notice. She suspects he does, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he leans forward and whispers in her ear.

“I promised, remember?” His voice is missing the playful edge it had earlier, and his hand is moving soothingly up and down her side. “It’ll be nice.” He presses another light kiss to the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

Sansa closes her eyes and nods. He did promise, and nearly everything he’s done so far has been nice. Nothing he’s done has been painful or humiliating. A moment later, she opens her eyes. His mouth is no longer on her neck, and he’s looking up at her. She gives him a slight smile and then leans forward to capture his lips with hers. He returns it, smiling against her mouth. It’s comforting, and, more than that, she gets that feeling from before, like she’s floating.

“Yes,” she whispers when they break apart, and he smiles at her again.

“There’s a girl,” he murmurs. He nips at her lower lip, but it doesn’t quite distract her from what he’s doing. She feels her dress come loose and holds her breath when his hands move  away from her laces. They slide up her front, between her breasts, and then settle on her shoulders. She releases the breath when he gives her shoulders a squeeze and then move down her arms, opening her gown. Once it’s past her elbows, she lifts her arms out of the sleeves and lets the dress pool around her on the table.

Jon gives her another kiss, and his hands slide up and down her arms. A moment later, they’re back on her chest, just over the neck of her shift. He traces a teasing finger down the front of it before going back to the top and unlacing it, planting open-mouthed kisses down her neck as he does it. There’s a hint of teeth in his kisses, scraping lightly over the delicate skin of her neck, and it makes her shiver. She doesn’t realize she’s gripping his shirt until his hands land on her shoulders and push her back a little. She lets go, panting, and he nudges her shift down her arms. It pools around her on top of the dress, and she is naked from the waist up.

The only time she’s been like this in front of a man was when Joffrey had Ser Boros beat her. This time…there’s really no comparison. There are no lords and ladies snickering at her tears this time. There is only Jon looking at her like she’s something amazing, his mouth red and swollen from her kisses. This time, there is no searing pain from where Ser Boros hit her. All she can feel are Jon’s kisses and touches thrumming beneath her skin and a wet, aching emptiness between her legs.

She buries her fingers in Jon’s hair and drags his mouth back to hers. She doesn’t think about how brazen she must look until she’s already done it, but he groans loudly, and she decides it must not trouble him too much. She sighs shakily when she feels his hands on her, the feeling of warm, callused palms on her bare skin setting fire to her blood. When those hands close over her breasts, she lets out a loud moan, and she feels him laugh against her mouth. His thumbs slide over and around her nipples until they tighten into hard peaks, and then his fingers pluck and play at them until they’re tender and flushed dark pink.

Then, he uses his mouth.

His tongue is a soft, teasing glide over her nipple, soothing the ache he put in it before taking it into his mouth. Sansa gasps loudly at the wet heat of him around her and cries out when he suckles at her. It hurts a bit, but it also makes something clench between her legs. The pain soon lessens, and she doesn’t realize that she’s holding his face to her breast until he starts moving away. He gives her nipple a last, lingering kiss, and then his thumb takes its place, gently caressing. His mouth moves to her other nipple and repeats the process, and she’s panting by the time he moves away. He kisses between her ribs before moving lower, mouthing at her stomach, and she mewls when he nips playfully at her navel. He makes a disgruntled noise when he moves past her navel and gets a face full of silk and linen, like he’s forgotten that she’s only half-naked. In truth, she had too. He straightens and tugs her down for an eager kiss.

“Stand up for me, sweetheart,” he says a moment later. He takes both of her hands, entwining their fingers, and pulls her toward him. She follows without protest, sliding off the table and standing between his spread legs. Her gown and shift slide down her legs, leaving her in her smallclothes, stockings and slippers. She shivers at the heat in his black gaze. His warm hands curl around her hips, his thumbs tracing at the ridges of her hipbones, and her mouth drops open when he starts mouthing at the top of her smallclothes.

“So…fucking…lovely, Sansa,” he murmurs between kisses. His hands slide down her legs to knees and then back up. He looks up at her and then gives the laces of her smallclothes a pointed look. “Let’s take these off, hm?”

She nods, but he doesn’t see it, his teeth already closing around one of her laces. Her breath hitches when he pulls back, undoing the knot. The smallclothes slip down her legs and join her gown on the floor, and he presses a kiss just above her mound. His lips trail over her skin as he straightens, and he looks up at her. “Move back a step for me?”

She does what he says and promptly stops breathing when he yanks his tunic over his head, leaving him bare from the waist up. He is lovely, lightly muscled with pale, soft-looking skin, and her fingers itch to play with the sparse black hair on his chest, to trace the ridges of muscle on his stomach. She reaches for him but stops when he tosses his shirt behind her and then leans forward to reach after it. After a second, she realizes that he’s spreading his tunic out over the table. He plants another kiss just above her mound, and Sansa shudders when she feels a hint of tongue. She looks down at him and finds those dark eyes looking up at her.

“Sit back on the table, sweet girl,” he murmurs.

She moves back and sits on his discarded tunic.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pulling her down to him for a hungry kiss. After a few more kisses, Jon surges to his feet, his hands tangling in her hair, and she moans gratefully. Her hands grip his bare shoulders for a moment before sliding down his chest, her fingers slipping through the hair there before trailing over the lean muscles of his stomach. He’s trembling a little, and she relishes the idea that she affects him as strongly as he does her. She starts when he pushes her, but she allows him to lay her down. When they’re flat on the table, he arranges her hair so she’s not lying on it, and she smiles at his thoughtfulness. She tips her head back to look at his handiwork, but it’s her view of the lower tables that rips a shocked cry from her throat.

Joffrey is still in the room.

His face is blood red, and the makeshift gag in his mouth is so soaked with spittle that a thin stream of it is running down his chin. His wrists are bloody from fighting his bonds, and his green eyes are glittering with hate and impotent rage. When they connect with hers, he starts grunting and yelling around the gag.

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut. Her face feels like it’s about to burst into flames, but a coldness that could rival the Wall is settling in her belly. This isn’t like letting a man hold her or kiss her in front of some pirates. She is naked, and Jon’s been touching her in ways no man ever has in frontof her betrothed! Joffrey will never forgive this. He'll—

She can’t even finish the thought. Her breath comes in short, panicked bursts, and it feels like her heart is about to beat out of her chest. Then, she feels lips on her forehead. She opens her eyes, and there’s Jon. He lays his forehead over hers, she begins to calm in spite of herself.

“There you are,” he repeats in the low, soothing voice he used when he first sat her in his lap. He presses a soft kiss to her lips, and the icy weight in her stomach begins to break apart. “You’re alright.”

She feels calm enough to breathe properly now, but none of this is 'alright.’ She looks toward where Joffrey is sitting and then back at Jon. “But…”

Jon kisses her again. “He doesn’t matter, remember? We can say or do anything we want to, and there’s nothing he can do about it.” He pinches one of her nipples, and she gasps at the bolt of sensation it sends between her legs.

He grins against her mouth. “All he can do is watch and know that he’ll never make you feel like this.” His hands slide up and down her sides before coming up to her breasts and squeezing. The icy feeling in her stomach dissolves, heat taking its place. It grows the more Jon touches her.

“Yes,” Sansa breathes, writhing under him.

He kisses her again, and then his mouth is moving down, over her neck, her breasts, and then her stomach. He stops a couple of inches below her navel, planting a lingering kiss there. His hands follow the path of his mouth and then go further, sliding over her thighs to her knees. He looks up at her beneath his lashes, and she finds herself holding her breath. She doesn’t resist when his hands push her knees apart, but she does blush furiously, remembering Joffrey’s presence only a few feet away. She can hear him now, panting and yelling behind the gag, and she wonders how she ignored it before.

She feels something wet slide between her legs, and she looks down, eyes wide. What did Jon just touch her with? The heat in her cheeks flares again when she sees how wide apart her legs are and Jon standing between them. He’s staring between her thighs, breathing heavily, and part of her wants to close her legs against his scrutiny. Another newer part is reveling in his reaction. It’s the same look he had after their first kiss and after he first saw her topless. His face is flushed, his eyes are half-closed, and his red, kiss-swollen mouth is hanging open. That look sends a powerful wave of want through her body, and she feels another wet slide between her legs.

“So wet,” Jon groans, sounding like he can’t believe it.

Sansa winces. She can’t believe it either. She’s felt this before, but it was never so…much.

“That's—” The word comes out so raspy that Sansa can barely recognize her own voice. She clears her throat and manages to whisper, “That’s good?”

Her stomach flutters when he looks up at her, and his almost drunken expression turns sly. He leans and lays an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, no more than a handspan away from where she’s wet. “It’s very good. Means I’m doing something right.” He looks pointedly behind her. “He never made you wet like this, did he?”

Once again, the realization that Joffrey is watching them hits her like a bucket of ice water, and she squeezes her eyes shut, feeling blood rush to her cheeks.

“Ah-ah. No getting shy on me now, sweetheart.” Jon smacks the outside of her thigh, not hard enough to hurt, but it does make her eyes pop open. He grins at the dumbfounded look she must have on her face and slides his hands up and down her thighs. “Now, answer my question.”

“N-no,” she stammers.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, straightening up to peck her lips again. “I’m the only one—” He gives her another, deeper kiss that has her melting into the table, nevermind that Joffrey’s still watching. “—and I’m going to stay the only one. Because I mean to keep you, Sansa Stark.”

Joffrey screeches in protest, and Jon looks up, unimpressed.

“You can’t have her,” he says matter-of-factly, and he sounds like he’s taking a toy from a child throwing a tantrum.

The realization hits Sansa like a lightning bolt.

That is exactly what’s going on. Joffrey’s a spoiled child throwing a tantrum, because, to him, she’s just a toy that Jon is taking away.

A mad giggle passes her lips before she can stop it, and Jon looks down at her, frowning.

She beams up at him and then curls her fingers in his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers.

She is not Joffrey’s toy anymore. She won’t be anyone’s toy anymore. Starting now, she will make her own choices.

She hooks her legs around Jon’s waist and hauls him as close as possible, both of them grunting when he collapses on top of her, but she doesn’t break the kiss. When he tries, she tugs him back by his lower lip. She explores his mouth with a boldness that both shocks and delights her, and then she is the one who ends the kiss. He pulls away, panting, when she lets go of his hair. He looks over her face, taking in each of her features and clearly wondering what’s come over her, but she only gives him another bright smile.

He grins back and surges over her, his mouth covering hers in a flurry of kisses. They lack the skill of his previous ones, but the pure excitement in them makes Sansa giggle and bring her hands up to grip his bare shoulders. Her legs tighten around his waist, and he groans. Then, his hands seem to be everywhere, his rough calluses scraping lightly against her skin. She feels them squeezing her breasts, sliding up and down her sides, gripping her hips—she gasps loudly against his mouth when she feels his fingers trailing through the wetness between her legs.

He finds a spot that makes her cry out and jolt against him, and he focuses on it, rubbing in quick, sure strokes that send bolts of raw pleasure ricocheting through her veins. She whines when he breaks their kiss, her head lifting off the table to chase his mouth, but he doesn’t come back. Instead, his mouth closes over one of her nipples and sucks, and she cries out at the violent spike of pleasure-pain. His tongue flicks over her nipple and then moves to the other, sucking it into his mouth. He alternates between them, and his fingers are relentless between her legs. Soon, it feels like something is building inside her; every touch, every feeling is being compressed into a great ball at the base of her spine. Suddenly, the building tension snaps, and her vision goes white as wave after wave of sensation explodes through her body.

She lays there, panting and trembling, for what feels like a long time, and it’s only when he tries to move that she realizes one of her fists is clenched in his hair. Her fingers ache from being tense for so long, so it takes a moment to let him go, but when she does, he straightens quickly. Shaking hands attack the laces of his breeches, fumbling a few times, and then he’s pushing them down. She bites her lip at the sight of his manhood, thick and red against his belly, and she wonders how it will fit inside her.

Another part of her distantly wonders how she could do any of this. She’s ready to let a strange man, a pirate no less, take something that was meant for her husband. The thought of her husband makes her head tilt back, and there is Joffrey, red-faced and struggling against his bonds. His face is contorted in fury, and Sansa can clearly see what he’s thinking.

This is supposed to be him. Her maidenhead is meant to be his.

She looks right in his green eyes, meaning to glare right back, but what comes out instead is a laugh. His eyes widen, and she laughs even harder. Above her, she sees Jon give her a questioning look. She drags him back in for a kiss, not offering an explanation.

She doesn’t know how to tell Jon that Joffrey was right after all. She wouldn’t be a maid when he went back to King’s Landing.

She grins when his body covers hers again. He smiles back, and then his hand is sliding down her chest, to her stomach, and then lower. A moment later, she feels something large and blunt between her legs, and she goes still. Remembering overheard advice from her septa and other married women she knows, Sansa takes a deep breath and lets her legs fall open even further, trying to relax.

He pushes into her.

He goes slowly, stopping several times, and she can’t decide if that makes it better or worse. It doesn’t hurt as badly as she always thought it would, but it doesn’t feel very good either. It’s uncomfortable and strange, and she feels like one false move would split her in half. After what feels like a long time, he stops moving completely. For an even longer time, he stays still. She forces herself to relax and take deep breaths, the latter becoming easier as the pain eases. The fierce sting soon subsides for the most part, but having him inside her still aches. To distract herself, she focuses on touching him, her hands rubbing his shoulders and down his back.

She captures his mouth with hers, pleased when he relaxes into the kiss, and the tension soon leaves his shoulders. His hands begin to move as well, sliding over her sides, and he plants kisses over her jaw and throat. His actions aren’t overwhelming like they were before—she’s still too aware of the sharp ache between her thighs for that—but they are comforting. She shows her appreciation by kissing his shoulders and neck, her teeth scraping the base of his throat, and he shudders at that, making her smile.

She gasps loudly when he begins to withdraw from her, slowly but steadily. Sansa can’t really describe how it feels. The closest word is intense. It’s too much to feel good but not quite enough to hurt. It’s the same when he pushes back inside her, and so are the next several thrusts. After a time, he speeds up, and the intense feeling inside her begins to dull, finally edging closer to pleasure rather than pain. She starts to feel the same stirrings of tension inside that she did when he used his fingers on her, but before it can grow too much, Jon’s rhythm begins to falter. He thrusts inside her one last time before going still, groaning low in his chest. She giggles breathlessly when he collapses on top of her.

He nuzzles her neck. “I am definitely keeping you, Sansa Stark.”

“I’d like to keep you too,” she says, making him grin against her neck.

Muffled shouting erupts behind them, and they both look up to see Joffrey tugging at his bonds again, snarling behind the gag.

“This is your own fault,” Sansa tells him, and the words make her giddy. She doesn’t wait for his reaction. Instead, she turns her attention back to Jon.