Title: Redefining Family
Pairing: Jon/Sansa, Arya/Gendry
Rating: M+ for explicit sexuality and language
Word Count: 3776
Summary: Sansa's pregnancy means different things to each of them.
Author's Note: I think of this as a sequel of sorts to Discord, although there's no reason you can't understand this fic without having read the other. They're just the same worlds. Written for the gameofships' second porn battle. It's supposed to be smut and it ended up being a bit more than that. Prompts were family and pregnancy.
**This is edited to meet 's content requirements, but the uncensored fic can be found at LJ or AO3**
It should have occurred to her when Sansa stayed in King's Landing whilst the rest of them traveled to Dorne.
That Sansa would stay behind was unusual to say the least. Jon always wanted her nearby. He frowned and became sullen when his duties took him too long away from her. Men are ridiculous. Her brother especially so.
But Sansa said she was much too busy to join them on their trek.
Doing what? Arya wanted to ask, as she frowned down at the heaps of yarn Sansa had piled about her elaborately embroidered skirts. But she kept silent and didn't give her sister's absence another thought, because having Jon to herself seemed like it would be good fun. It would be like when they were children and she was his little sister and he didn't pay Sansa or her songs or needlework any mind.
Three moons has passed since they departed, and now, as Sansa greets them at the docks, Arya can't help but grimace.
For the exalted King and Queen of Westeros, they're rather informal in their public reunion with what seems like half of King's Landing looking on. Jon's smile stretches his mouth, all of his white teeth showing, as his hand settles at Sansa's waist, his thumb drawing circles where it rests against her middle. Her sister presses a kiss to Jon's cheek, her hand stroking his beard.
Arya can hear him whisper to Sansa, as he leans into her neck, "You look well. Are you well?"
Her answer is a kiss to his lips, when he pulls back enough to let her respond, and Arya can see the truth in her smile and the way he smiles stupidly back at her.
She groans, and Sansa's blue eyes flick to hers over Jon's shoulder.
"Welcome back, Arya."
Arya nods, noticing the billowing of Sansa's skirts as she steps off the dock, the wind catching the blue and grey silk. There's a great abundance of skirts there and Arya understands why. Her sister would have everyone believe it is her desire to start a new fashion. They're blind if they believe her.
It's not a massive production the way some of the dinners tend to be here, but Arya slinks away before the first course is served nonetheless and sits on a low wall just beyond the hall within earshot of the party's happy clamor, taking big, angry bites out of an apple she stole from the kitchens.
She hears Jon's footsteps approach her in the darkness and she hunches her shoulders, pulling them up around her ears. She's too attuned to the sound of his footfalls to mistake them for anyone else's.
"Go back to your lady wife."
"She's the one that sent me to look for you."
Arya rolls her eyes and takes another noisy bite, letting the juice of the apple run down the side of her hand into the sleeve of her tunic.
"Gendry thought he saw you sulking out here in the shadows."
The next time Gendry took it into his fool head to try and kiss her, she'd remember his betrayal and be less likely to oblige. He can stew in his juices, think long and hard about his vows as a member of the bloody Kingsguard—Sansa's idea, and Arya doesn't think Gendry even grasps that the Queen meant to protect Jon's throne in a different way than by means of Gendry's questionable talents with a sword, when she suggested he be added to its numbers.
"May I join you?"
The apple is nothing but core, so she chucks it into the night, hearing it bounce as it hits the ground somewhere off in the dark. That is her only answer to his question, but Jon sits anyway. He settles next to her on the wall, facing in towards the hall, while she resolutely keeps her back turned away from it.
"Why did you have to marry our sister?"
His sigh is heavy. "She isn't my sister, and I love her. So, please don't call her that when she tells you her news."
Arya grunts, and Jon turns a steely glare on her. "And don't act like this with her either. She's very happy and wants to share that with you. The proper thing to do would be to congratulate us."
She'll congratulate them eventually, for Jon will be a good father, as their own father had been, and Sansa won't be complete rubbish, so long as she has a passel of gentle girls to raise. But she can't say the words just yet. She knew their marriage was a real one and not merely a political convenience. They're too openly affectionate to doubt otherwise, but Sansa being with child makes their union painfully real. It makes her feel strangely out of place in this new family. She feels more herself with Jon as her big brother and less a series of faces that aren't her own, but their marriage complicates everything.
Arya kicks her legs, letting the heels of her boots knock against the stone. "Proper? Sansa's nonsense has rubbed off on you."
"I hope she has." He smiles at her, though she can see in the way the smile fails to reach his eyes that he is still annoyed with her petulance. "You and I could both use a little polish."
"I'm glad she's happy." Arya stops to raise her hand in an imaginary toast and lifts her chin. "When the Queen is happy the King is happy, and when the King is happy so is Westeros." Jon raises one dubious brow at her, and Arya lets her hand fall. "I just don't need to sit through an announcement. I'm not stupid: I saw it plain when we got off the ship. Doubt I'm the only one to have noticed."
That only makes it worse. Sansa doesn't trust her to tell her before half the world has figured it out.
"It's still important for her to tell you herself."
"If that's so, she might have told me before we left for Dorne."
"We had our reasons, Arya."
Reasons they won't share with her, no doubt. Sansa had only to say to her once that some things are kept between a lord and his lady wife for Arya to begin to feel once more that she was the only Stark left, having lost her sister and brother both to this marriage, to this Iron Throne, to the Targaryens.
"Now stop pretending that you want to be stupid and solitary. Come inside."
"I'm not pretending," Arya says through gritted teeth.
Jon bumps his shoulder into hers. "You can't really have wanted to be alone. We both know that if you wanted that, you'd make yourself so scarce no one would be able to find you."
"I'd make myself invisible."
"Or is it just that I'm the wrong person to have found you?" Jon asks in a lowered voice. "Shall I send for Gendry?"
Jon chuckles and smiles at her. Not quite the smile he gives Sansa. This is a brother's smile. Seeing it almost soothes her temper. Almost.
Jon opens his mouth to speak all the questions about Sansa's health he has been kept from asking in the presence of the rest of the court, but as the door closes heavily behind them, Sansa's arms grip his and she raises up on her toes to press her lips rather forcefully to his. Wholly caught off guard, he rocks on his heels, having drunk somewhat more than usual, and his hands settle on her waist to balance himself. His hands press against the new shape of her, as she bites at his lower lip, drawing a moan from deep in his chest.
"Take this off," she says, as she breaks off her kiss with a great gasp for air.
Jon's brow furrows, but he belatedly understands her meaning when her fingers go to the hooks on his leather doublet and begin to tug. He parts his lips, as he watches her desperate attempts to free him of this article of clothing.
"Jon!" Her eyes are wide, the black nearly eclipsing the blue, as she looks up at him. "For the love of the gods, take this off."
His hands finally take action, unhooking himself as her hands fly to the laces on his breeches. Again her motions are hurried, her hands bumping into his growing erection with each pull at his laces. He is unquestionably aroused, but also pleasantly bemused by her unbridled passion. Sansa is not usually so aggressive with him. Even her most determined seductions are gentle. And when he left King's Landing she was so sick—perfectly normal, Sam assured them though he stutters and stammers anytime he is called upon to discuss the Queen's health, somewhat lessening the effectiveness of his assurances—that the most he could do for her was bathe before he came to bed so that he did not smell of wine or game or incense or any number of things that turned her stomach.
He shoulders out of his doublet, letting it lie where it falls at his feet, just as his breeches go slack around his hips. Her gaze rakes over him slowly, stopping finally to meet his eye and give him a wolfish smile. Her hands slip under his tunic and her nails trail lightly over his stomach, making him twitch with anticipation. His wife has missed him. As much as he has missed her.
Her hands flatten against his chest and she pushes him backwards. Hard enough that he nearly stumbles over his unsteady feet. "On the bed, Jon," she commands, her voice sweet, though her intentions seem anything but.
He laughs a little shakily, as he complies, shuffling backward with his breeches inching their way down of their own accord.
"You're all right then? Feeling all right?"
He feels as if he must ask before this goes any further, and yet, he's panting for her, his breath already ragged, and just a name day ago that unrestrained desire for her would have made him flush, but there's little uncertainty or shyness between them with his babe inside of her.
The backs of his legs collide with the bed, and she manages to yank his breeches and smallclothes down before he sits heavily on its edge.
"I will be much better in a moment," she promises, as she holds onto his shoulder with one hot hand and bends down, grasping great handfuls of her skirts with the other.
Jon doesn't know what she's about until she's stepping out of her smallclothes.
"Gods, Sansa," he murmurs, transfixed by the blithely discarded undergarment and the flash of her delicately embroidered stockings.
He would ask what has gotten into her, but she's pressing him back into the linens, and he finds himself rendered mute. Action comes easier, so he takes her hand to steady her as she climbs atop him until she's straddling his hips with her skirts rucked up about her milky thighs. He runs his hands up them to the point where leg meets body, dipping his thumbs in between her thighs and reveling in their softness for the briefest of moments, but then he can't focus on the feel of her skin beneath his calloused fingers, because she takes him in her hand and guides him into to her.
He's swearing, a string of foul words that he shouldn't say in the company of his lady wife, as she sinks onto him. She shifts and moves above him, her pink mouth gone slack. There's no tentativeness, no pretense. But it's been so long. Too long. And she's perfect.
His fingers dig into the flesh of her thighs, and she leans forward, her belly pressing into him, to whisper his name hotly against his ear, to bite his earlobe, his neck, his shoulder. Everything is teeth and nails and each long rock of her body. He has to clench his teeth to keep himself from thrusting up into her, for the moment he gives in to that urge, he knows this will be over much too quickly. As it is, his hands twitch restlessly against her, her frantic pace making him think of holding fast to her hips to slow her motions, but her hands fall to his chest, her fingers twist in his sweaty tunic, and he feels her tighten around him.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Already?"
Her only answer is a whine he knows well enough, so he grabs her hips to help her keep her rhythm. Her legs begin to tremble, squeezing against his sides hard enough to make him wonder at her strength. He's reminded of all his wife's unexpected qualities in a heady rush, and her beauty is no secret. She collapses on his chest, her body seized with tremors of pleasure that he can feel from the inside.
"There's my girl," he grits out between clenched teeth.
There's no longer a reason to hold back that he can recall, so he thrusts up into her, moving at his own equally frantic pace. It's as fast as he suspected it would be, but it's not worth fighting off his release with her limp and satisfied against his chest. He gives in to it; the muscles in his stomach contract and his head jerks off the bed with his release. It feels endless and infinite and quite nearly painful in its intensity.
Time starts again as he flops back boneless into the mattress tick. Even now his chest feels tight until he realizes he needs to breathe and he exhales heavily into the waterfall of red hair draped across him.
He slides a hand up her back and fists one heavy handful of her hair, pulling slightly until her head is tilted so that he might kiss her lips. He nips her lower lip and then soothes it, his tongue begging entry. It's a lazy kiss he can fully enjoy without his heart rattling against his ribcage now that his pulse is slowing.
He pulls back, releasing her hair to run his thumb over the apple of her cheek, where a pretty flush still paints her skin.
"That was a most welcome homecoming reception," he says with a grin, nudging her nose with his.
She hums her content, and he kisses her again on the tip of her nose.
She wets her lips, her eyes twinkling with some kind of mischief. "It's all I've thought about for two moons."
Jon can't help but laugh at that.
He wouldn't mind staying like this for hours, her pillowed atop him, her head resting atop his beating heart, so he makes a noise of protest when she abruptly slips off of him, rolling until her back is to him.
"S'uncomfortable," she mumbles into the linens.
Yes, her shape is a new challenge, but he did not mind the view of her sitting atop him while they made love. Or her taking control. It is all new and welcome.
He blindly searches with his hand for something to clean up the mess they have made, but comes up with nothing. His tunic will have to do. It feels a monumental effort, as the day's travels and celebrations settle into his bones, which is why he can't suppress a moans as he sits up and pulls his tunic off over his head. His tunic has been greatly abused by the time he finishes and she stirs alongside him.
"Unlace me, please. I can hardly breathe."
Tossing the tunic aside, he moves to assist her. His mind no longer feels as fogged with wine and arousal, even though untying the ribbons at her back will bare the rest of her to him. He can think properly for the first time since they crossed the threshold to this room.
He leans down to kiss her shoulder. "You best tell Arya about the babe, my love."
He frees her of the last tie, the gown loosens, and she sighs in evident relief. "Yes, I planned on it."
"Tomorrow. First thing tomorrow."
"Why?" she asks, as she pushes up in the bed and slips one arm at a time out of her voluminous over tunic.
Jon bends down to free his breeches from his boots and begin working at the buckles that hold them fast.
"Because, you very much look as if you are with child, and she should know before the rest of Westeros does."
He sits back up, the blood draining from his head fast enough to make him blink, as he turns to look at her. She's frozen, her gown half off and caught around her hips, with her hands splayed across her belly.
"May I?" he asks, reaching out a hand to do the same.
Her eyes meet his, and her teeth dimple her lip, biting it as she smiles and nods.
Jon places his hand at the top of her and slowly moves his hand downward until his fingers are laced with hers. It seems more real now that she looks as if his babe is inside her. It is still incredible to him that she is giving him a family, but not nearly as deniable.
"Sometimes I feel him move."
Jon is overwhelmed by the desire to feel it, this child they have made together. He shifts to move closer to her and places his right hand on the other side of the swell of her belly. There's nothing but her smooth skin beneath his palms, however.
Sansa wipes her brow, which is beaded with sweat from her exertion, with the back of her free hand. "He's quiet now."
"Why do you keep saying he?"
"You need an heir."
"I already have everything I need."
"You look as if you haven't had much sleep," Sansa observes, as she holds out a plate to Arya.
Arya takes it from her with a scowl. "What did that nosy servant say to you?"
She has said the wrong thing evidently, as she so often does with her sister. "Don't be cross. No one said anything." Arya takes a too big bite of raisin cake, her grey eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Thank you for breaking your fast with me this early."
She had a servant sent to ask if Arya would join her in her solar. Her servant took some time in finding her apparently. Perhaps she was with Gendry. Arya is so very touchy about that and would like to think none of them are wise to it. It is easy enough to play along to spare her feelings.
"I have something I'd like to tell you, but I'm fairly certain Jon has already told."
Jon might be unreadable with others, but Sansa finds it laughably easy to tease out the truth from his tone and frowns that bear no small resemblance to her sister's. Their smiles are similar too. Jon's only somewhat more common than Arya's. Especially now. When he looks down at the roundness of her belly, Sansa feels lit from inside with happiness.
"I could tell when you met us at the docks," Arya says, speaking around a mouthful of cake. "Congratulations." Her tone is flat and her mouth a thin line, as she says it.
Sansa always assumed that Arya didn't want to be a lord's wife, that she didn't want to raise little knights and ladies, but perhaps she was wrong. Her gut twists at the thought that her manipulations in regards to Gendry have prevented her sister from ever having a family of her own, and here she is ready to burst with pride over Jon's babe.
It will make her sister mad if she says it aloud, but Sansa cannot keep silent. She speaks quickly. "Jon would do anything to make you happy. It wouldn't be the first time a man was released from the Kingsguard, and then you'd both be free…"
Arya puts the plate down on the table with a huff, interrupting Sansa's speech. "I'm quite happy being the aunt to your brood. Don't say mad things like that where anyone might here you." Arya stares for a half beat before speaking again. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand," Sansa says, as she smoothes a hand over herself. "I'm sorry."
Arya's face softens almost imperceptibly. "Father would be proud."
Sansa's not entirely sure that's the truth. She knows her mother would not be, but none of that matters anymore. Still, she appreciates Arya's attempt to say something sisterly, something that draws on their shared history together, shaky though it was.
"And you?" Sansa can hear the uncertainty in the waver of her own voice; Arya, who is just as sharp an observer as herself, can't have missed it either.
"Well, that depends. Do you mean to have a boy or a girl?"
"I don't have much say in the matter." She thinks of what Jon said last night. "A girl would be nice, but this one took us so much time, it might be better for the realm if it is a boy."
Sansa doesn't want to think that this could be their only child, but after several namedays passed without issue and then a babe lost before two moon's turn, she is wary of being too certain that they will be blessed again. It is why they have kept this a secret as long as they have, ever cautious lest something happen.
Arya chews the fingernail on her thumb, contemplating something in silence. "Jon's not one of these thick headed Southroners. He would name a girl child his heir, and you could raise a good queen as well as you could raise a king."
Her emotions of late have been hard to control, as she reels from one extreme to the other, and she can feel tears prick the corners of her eyes, but these are tears of joy, not tears of loss and gripping sadness. Arya doesn't much approve of crying, but she doesn't scold her even as a fat tear escapes and rolls down her cheek. She smiles at her in silent thanks for that and her generous words.
"You're useless with a sword though, so I'll teach it to swordfight. Whether it's a girl or a boy."
Sansa nods, too overcome to speak. That's what she wants. That's the family she's seen in her dreams.