A/N - Written for elleg85 for the Christmas Gift Giveaway 2012.

Prompt : Jon and Sansa hooking up while they are trying to outrun the Others who breached the Wall.

Warning: Spoilers up to and including A Dance With Dragons.

When The Walls Fall, So Do We


When he sees her for the first time it is after a battle. His arm is hurt, his leg is slashed, and he sits atop a horse with blood pooling in his eye as he and his men are led to the Dragon Queen. The Wall is breached and only remnants of the Night's Watch remain.

Before him stands Barristan the Bold, Tyrion Lannister and Davos Seaworth, a curious collection of emblems on each of their chests. It is a testament to the war that they are fighting, one that is man against monster. Beside Harry the Heir stands his wife, kissed by fire and eyes wide with recognition of him.

Jon does not say a word as he passes her to enter the largely constructed tent. There is a war that needs to be tended to. He thinks it is best not to dwell on the sudden appearance of his former sister.

He is placed second in command to the Queen. She is young, younger than him, yet her eyes have seen horrors and her skin has seen pain. She is the only one who can touch fire. She is the only one who can control her beasts.

She speaks to Sansa often, the little girl inside her craving the friendship of another. Sansa looks at him just as often, her lips parting as if she is to tell him news, but when he looks at her, she looks away and Jon thinks that the dance continues.

He sees the way she cringes when Harry the Heir kisses her cheek.

Harrold Hardyng dies by Jon's sword during a battle against the Others. Jon likes to think that it is an accident.

When her bruises fade and she smiles more easily Jon thinks that maybe it wasn't.

"You wish to ride, my lady?"

She startles as she looks to him, her hand pausing on the leather straps tied around her former husband's steed. "I fear that I'm a poor rider, Sir."

He smiles despite himself. "I am no Sir. A mere man of the Night's Watch."

She stiffens slightly, her face devoid of emotion. "A Commander. A Targaryen."

He walks towards her, his hands taking the straps from hers, his fingers lightly running through the dark mane of the horse between them. "I am no dragon."

"Aye," she says softly, her voice laced with pain. "You look too much like father to have fire in your veins."

He does not say a word as he pets the steed and she does not mention their history as she picks up the tool to brush the horse down with hands that have partaken in hard labour. He wonders what life she has led before the Wall broke and the world turned to ice. He wonders if she misses the days back in Winterfell with Father, Robb, Bran, Rickon and Arya. He thinks she must, for there is a sense of loss in her eyes that is as familiar to him as his own.

They do not speak of the past and of what they had lost. But they do speak of other more unimportant things. Jon begins to see her more and more each day, seeing a confidant in a woman he would have once called sister.

Mayhaps they could be more than mere acquaintances. Mayhaps they could become friends.

It is a battle almost like any other. His sword, forged in dragonflame, cuts frozen skin, killing creatures with dead eyes that sparkle more brightly than anything Jon has seen. Such a battle is a blur to him as he feels the cold seep through his fur and smell the blood of the fallen.

But then he sees her, cowering in fright as an Other advances. He kills it without a thought and watches as it pools among his feet. He then takes her in his arms and retreats with the rest of the men. They are outnumbered. They need to survive this battle.

It is later, when they set up a camp, simple in its premise and far from the battle, does Jon finally let his shoulders sag with relief.

"You're hurt," she says, as she tries to move away from him.

"As are you," he argues.

A tent had been set up for the surviving women, many of whom had not sustained an injury and are outside tending to the soldiers. After much of an argument, he seats her on a chair before he kneels before her. Her leg is badly cut and in need of medical attention. But the soldiers are of great import; they would heal her after the army had their war wounds looked at.

His hands, battered and frozen gently lift up her skirts until it rests upon her thighs. Her breath hitches, but she does not say a word.

Jon studies her leg methodically. She wears stockings to the middle of her thigh, as is fitting for highborn ladies, the material made of costly silk and soft to the touch. Her breath hitches again when he lets his fingers lightly skim its border. She has bruises colouring both her legs but it is her left leg that bleeds.

His hands are gentle as he removes the boots from her feet, first from her injured leg and then from the other. She winces with the pain but stays still, her blue eyes watching him curiously and with baited breath.

Jon first moves to her left leg, placing her foot on his own thigh as his fingers slip under the border and roll it down her leg as slowly as possible. When the silk reaches the gash on her leg, she stiffens, teeth gritting and head dipping forward as her hand falls on his shoulder. She squeezes him hard as he eases the stocking off her leg, her touch burning like fire through his boiled leather. Once it is off her foot and tossed aside, she breathes easily.

There is no reason to be as gentle with her other leg, but he is. The silk rolls down her leg easily, too easily, and there are moments when Jon slows his actions as he looks up at her through his dark hair. She watches him intently while her foot rests on his thigh and her hand tightens on his shoulder. When the silk falls off her foot and is tossed aside with the other, he doesn't let her go.

He looks intently at her uninjured leg as his fingers lightly brush her smooth skin in deep study. There have been days when he had dreamt of this, nights when he had taken himself in hand while thinking of how he would like to touch her. In a previous life he was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and bound by honour. But now he was simply a man in black, no longer bound to a wall with scars littered around his skin where daggers were once plunged and then healed by a Red Priestess. And yet, the woman who is seated before him is not pulling away when his burned hand circles her ankle.

She is as stiff as tightly wound wire, her eyes studying his actions carefully. Jon does not think before he bends his head and places a light kiss to the top of her knee. Her leg jerks, and his hands tighten around it to keep her still. When he looks up to meet her displeasure he can see that her eyes are closed as her hair falls on both sides to curtain her features. She does not say a word. She does not tell him to stop.

Jon's heart beats faster as her legs part slightly. He knows his lips are rough as he once again places them gently on her knee. A soft sigh escapes her and he continues his route. He then kisses her lightly on the inside of her knee and is gifted, as he legs are parted further. He follows the path laid out before him, his lips opening over the skin of her inner thigh, his tongue warm on her skin as he licks a trail slowly up her leg as his hands caress her leg gently. When he moves from her uninjured leg to the inner thigh of her injured leg, brushing his lips lightly over a bruise, her hips rise off the chair and her legs fall apart completely. He looks up again to see that her eyes are still shut while her chest rises and falls rapidly before him. He remembers Harry the Hair and wonders if he ever treated her the way she is supposed to be treated.

His hands are gentle, yet quick as he pulls her hips closer to him, letting her skirts pool around her waist and leaving her exposed in her small clothes. Sansa whispers his name and he does not pay any mind. He licks at the skin from one thigh to another, watching the way she squirms with half-lidded eyes, while his hands remove her small clothes with gentle tugs. And when she lay fully exposed, he does not give her time to protest before he kisses her between her thighs.

Her back arches and she keens in approval as he licks and sucks her in ways he had been once taught in a dark cave many moons ago. Her hand finds its way to the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair in an effort to both keep him close and push him away. Jon holds her down the best he can as she squirms under him and his name falls from her lips in soft, breathy pleas. And when her body finally tightens and then slackens, he finally lets her go to look up at her eyes studying him intently.

He expects her to be the same Sansa he once called his sister. She was to slap him and demand he apologise before she ran from him. But she does neither. This Sansa leans forward and kisses him, tasting herself on his lips as she brings him closer so that he kneels before her fully. Jon feels her small fingers as they untie his breaches, her breath warming his cheek as their kisses grow more feral.

Their actions are quick as they release him, then slow as he enters her for the first time. He breathes deeply to stay in control, knowing how long it has been since he had last been inside a woman. Her body welcomes him, her folds slick and warm as he begins moving against her.

He whispers her name as he kisses her jaw, her cheek and her neck, letting his fingers curl amongst the soft strands of her hair as she responds to him. Her body is pliant against his own, her breaths quick.

They are as silent as they can be as he quickens his pace. She gasps, kisses his jaw and lets his beard tickle her soft skin. She is the first to reach the precipice, her body tightening around his only moments until he feels himself spend inside her. He curses under his breath and against her shoulder; he was supposed to pull away. But just as he tries to move from inside her, she holds on strongly to him, her lips sweet as they brush gently against his.

"I believe it is time for supper, Sir," she says softly, her gaze studying his.

"Aye, my lady," Jon whispers before bestowing another gentle kiss on her parted lips. "You must be healed first."

She lets him go easily and they spend a few moments fixing their garments. Without another word, they leave the tent to tend to their own affairs as they have been given. Jon watches her as she smiles easily and ignores him for the rest of the night, wondering if he had made the mistake that could cost him dearly.

Yet, later at night, when he is lying wide-awake in his tent and she comes to him, alone and shivering with a plea for something in her eyes, he doesn't turn her away. He kisses her instead. Gently, deeply, until they forget all but this.