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"Only death can pay for life, my lord. A great gift requires a great sacrifice." (ASOS, Davos V)
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The Red Woman asked Sansa what she was willing to give up to bring him back.
She may as well have asked her what she would give up to see her home again–to gaze upon her father's solemn eyes or her sister's smile once more, to smell the first cold frost in the air from within Winterfell’s walls, to feel safe again.
So Sansa answered honestly. “Anything. Everything. If it will bring Jon back, tell me the price and I will gladly pay it.”
The priestess’ face remained inscrutable when she replied in that low, alluring tone, “The price is blood, my lady.”
King’s blood.
The blood of Winterfell flowed through Sansa’s veins–the blood of eight thousand years of Kings of Winter, a bloodline more ancient than any Southern house, descended from the First Men before there were ever kings in the south. Was there truly magic in kingsblood?
Petyr had told her about the rumors coming out of King's Landing, that smallfolk whispered she was a witch who killed King Joffrey with a spell before changing into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flying out a tower window.
But there was no magic that day in King's Landing when he died, nor anywhere else for that matter. For life is not a song, Sansa has learned to her sorrow, and magic only existed in tales for children, too innocent and foolish to know better. So what was she doing here? Why would she trust this strange woman who served some strange god?
“It may not work, my lady, or perhaps not as we hope,” the priestess warned, and it was this humility and cold truth that convinced her. “We are at the mercy of the Lord of Light’s will.”
Sansa didn't care about this strange god, but she was desperate and all the other gods, both old and new, had abandoned her long ago. She had nothing left to lose.
The Red Woman’s eyes shone greedily when Sansa nodded her agreement. “Take my hand," she said, “and let us save your brother.”
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“The dwarf’s wife did the murder with him,” swore an archer in Lord Rowan’s livery. “Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws.” (ASOS, Jaime VII)
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Sansa left her riding gown on, as threadbare and dirty as it was, and only removed enough of her smallclothes as she needed to complete her part of the ritual.
The Red Woman had said that at the Red Temple of Voluntis, Sansa would have been anointed in fragrant oils until she smelled as rich as spiceflower and cinnamon, as befitting an offering to their fiery god. But Sansa arrived at the Wall with nothing but the soiled clothes on her body, so the swipe of sweet oil from the foreign priestess’ own stores would have to do.
After a fortnight of hard riding, her mare had been nearly dead from exhaustion when they arrived at Castle Black, but her relief was quickly crushed by the news that her half-brother lay dead within the ice cellars beneath the Wall. When she accepted her proposal, Sansa had told the Red Woman that she would do this alone, without spectators to her humiliation. She had endured enough of that in King's Landing.
But when reality of what she was about to do closed in on her, all she could see was his lifeless body stretched out before her, at her mercy. She swallowed thickly. There would be no turning back from this.
Sansa tried to keep her breathing steady as she straddled his unmoving body, focusing on her balance so she wouldn’t get lost thinking about what came next. But her legs started shaking uncontrollably anyway as she hovered over what used to be Jon Snow.
Her heart was hammering in her ribcage, and her hot breath fogged in the cold air. But he–his body–remained completely still, and a heavy shroud of silence hung over them both. He looked peaceful, as if he was merely asleep and could awaken at any moment. A hot flush rose on her chest from thinking of him at her mercy when she had been extended none for so long.
“Forgive me, Jon,” she whispered, lifting the faded black blanket that had been laid over him, just enough to reveal his manhood.
His entire body is rigid, cold from death and the icy room he'd been kept in. But that didn’t prepare her for the way his cock was already standing upright, all hard and smooth and pale as marble.
Blushing, she quickly looked up at his face and kept her gaze there. With his full lips and the smooth slope of his strong jaw, she had to admit he was rather fine–beautiful, even. She had been afraid to see her father in his features, but Jon’s face was almost princely compared to the usual ruggedness of Northern men. His mother must have been a great Southern beauty.
Sansa shook herself, ashamed. What a foolish and selfish girl she was, trying to find comfort in this abomination she was committing. No, she must face the ugly truth and bear the responsibility of her choices.
Pulling the rest of the tattered blanket off his body, Sansa gasped.
The brutality of the marks all over his body made her throat knot up and tears burn behind her eyes. Blood crusted black at the stab wound right above his heart. Jon didn't deserve to die like this, so violently betrayed.
And she was about to commit another one against him. After all the unwanted touches she has endured from other men, she was about to force herself on Jon, even if he wasn't really Jon anymore. What god would accept such a thing as an offering?
Sansa did not understand this fire god and his strange religion. It was nothing like worshipping the Seven; her mother's gods favored beautiful hymns and prayers, not blood sacrifices and desecrating the dead.
“We are only his vessels,” the Red Woman had said. “Give yourself over to him and his purpose.”
The words had meant nothing to Sansa. From King's Landing to the Eyrie, she had been pursued for her claim and her body–a vessel indeed. Finally escaping Lord Baelish’s watchful eye, she had fled the Vale during the chaos following the joust where Ser Harrold Hardyng had fallen and broken his neck. Now, at the cold edge of Westeros, Sansa was about to commit an abomination all because some foreign priestess told her it was the only way.
Sansa closed a hand around the base of Jon's member and moved to kneel over him. Holding it between her legs, she rubbed her slick on the head until it was coated, and then slowly pushed it inside herself.
But she was too tight and it slipped out, so she tried again, grasping at the stiff length with slippery fingers until she had him pressed between her folds once more. After a few more attempts, Sansa finally sank herself onto his cold, stiff cock, and a strangled moan escaped her lips. The strange feeling of being spread open almost felt good, and a fluttering sensation of guilt and pleasure and disgust burned in her tummy.
She took another deep breath as she sank down further, wincing at the sharp pain from getting stretched down there. But she kept going, even as it felt like being pierced with a knife, until Jon's entire cock was seated inside her.
And just like that, she's a maid no more.
Ever since she realized that life was not like the songs, she had feared how this would happen. Not the deflowering itself, but the pain and humiliation that would surely come with it. Would it be Joffrey taking her for sport, or would he have his Hound do it before everyone at court? Perhaps Petyr would forget she was supposed to be playing his daughter and lose restraint during one of his stolen kisses. Or Ser Hardying would finally corner the lovely Alayne alone, and what was a bastard girl’s word worth against that of the Vale’s heir? But no, they were all leagues away from her or dead, and Sansa was doing this on her own terms and by her own hand.
Slowly, she began pushing herself up and down along his length, fighting the nausea creeping at the edges of her thoughts. She couldn’t think about what she was doing right now.
Blinking away her tears, Sansa looked out into the darkness of the empty root cellar, with its meager stores and echoing silence. When the Starks ruled as the Kings of Winter, it had been their responsibility to keep the Night’s Watch provisioned. Now it was the Iron Throne’s duty, and they had all failed the Watch.
Burning incense and spices filled the cold air with dry smoke that stung her eyes, and a deep musk hung in the dim room that reminded her of animal carcasses. Red candles flickered, casting wavering shadows. It was only her own shape moving against the walls, but it unsettled her all the same, as if she was being watched.
The cellar was so cold that she could see her breath coming up in puffs as she panted and worked herself on her dead brother’s cock.
The worst part was how good it was starting to feel, the stinging and aching fullness.
But she mustn't forget her purpose here, that this was the cost of the Red Woman's spell. Sansa was doing this for the North, for Winterfell, and for her family.
Family. Duty. Honor. Tully words would get her through tonight, and she would do what she must.
But what was any of that worth? Her father had lost his head for honor, as did Robb. She still had her maidenhead while her family all lay dead. Even her half brother, all the way up at the Wall, wasn’t safe from the Stark’s curse. It is a small trade then, her innocence in exchange for one of them back. Her blood for her own blood, even if only half.
Death is all around her. Death has never left her. It was fitting then that she should be death’s bride, wedded and bedded. She felt delirious, dirty, and exhausted. Then she wondered again if this was just a cruel trick, and came back to the same conclusion that it didn't matter–she had no other choice. Jon was her last hope.
And maybe she was his.
Sansa bit down on her lip until she tasted the tang of blood, her tears burning a trail down her cheeks. To her shame, she was getting wetter as she worked herself on the hard, lifeless member jutting out from her brother's corpse.
Her maiden's blood was smeared across Jon's pale waxy skin, red and glistening in the low firelight. She held her breath, waiting, looking for any signs of life, but he remained still and cold beneath her.
Undeterred, Sansa lifted her hips and sank back down, spreading herself on his stiff cock again. She reached down to touch herself where they were joined, rubbing at her pearl with slick fingers as she kept moving and feeling the cold stiffness gliding in and out of her.
Soon the slapping sounds of their bodies echoed against the stone walls, taunting her with how aroused it made her. There was a deep ache building up between her legs and she couldn’t stop riding him, not when she was so, so close.
Her knees were raw from being pressed against the rough stone and wood, and her muscles burned with the strain of holding herself up. But Jon’s body still showed no sign of life, not even when she began moving faster and digging her nails into his shoulders.
A wolf howled in the distance. Sansa felt powerful as she moved her body over him, using him for her pleasure. Something was coming, it felt inevitable and it frightened her as much as it thrilled her. She was already at the edge of it. Sansa whimpered. She just needed to give in to it, succumb to the wave that was about to crash over her and let it sweep her away.
She wanted to scream, but all that came out was a silent cry as her body clenched around him, shaking with pleasure. Her mouth was salty from her tears and she could taste the blood from when she'd bitten her tongue.
Leaning over, she touched her lips to his, and somehow that felt like a greater violation than what she was doing to his body. Coming to him in the darkness, unbidden, to steal a kiss and pretend there was any sweetness in what she was doing to him–she was no better than the men who've sought to do the same to her.
But she took it anyway, her first kiss of her own choosing. And it was all the sweeter for it, if not for the memories that his lips stirred in her–of summer days when they were still children, and of a young Jon pressing a kiss to her hand when they played at Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys.
At first she thought she was imagining it, the twitch of his lifeless cock, and dismissed it as the aftermath of her peak. But then she felt the unmistakable sensation of hot blood rushing to his member, and the cold stiffness swelling larger inside her as the rest of his body began to stir.
With a deep rasping gasp that rattled his entire body, Jon snapped his eyes wide open and sat up so abruptly that Sansa almost fell off his lap. But his arms came around to catch her, heavy and strong as he held her up.
He was alive.
She couldn't believe it. A deep part of her had given up all hope when they told her Jon was gone. But here he was in the flesh, breathing, and holding her.
He stared at her with bewildered eyes, drinking her in, his mouth hanging open. Sansa was reminded of a wild animal that had been cornered, agitated and desperate. Then his gaze traveled down to where her skirts were bunched around her waist, and his breathing grew heavier.
He was still inside her, and she could tell the moment he realized it–his entire body went rigid and his jaw ticked. A chill ran down her spine. Was he furious with her for what she did to him? She couldn't help it when she clenched around him in fear, squeezing his cock.
But he was alive, she could feel it in the way he throbbed inside her, and she couldn't find any part of her that regretted what she's done.
With a growl, Jon tore off the rest of her dress and threw it to the ground. She gasped at the cold air nipping at her bare skin, her arms flying up to cover her exposed breasts. But Jon just wrapped his arms around her waist and began thrusting up into her, hard and with purpose.
Her breasts bounced in his face, and without a word he began licking and sucking at them in earnest. It felt too good, and Sansa let out a moan that seemed to drive him into a further frenzy.
It worked, Jon. We can stop now, we should–
But the words wouldn't come out of her mouth. Instead, she rocked herself over him, meeting each of his thrusts and taking him deeper into her body.
Before she could crest her next peak, Jon flipped her onto her back and held her down as he brought his cock between her legs and pushed into her again. She could barely move beneath him except to widen her legs or squeeze them around him.
Jon grunted like a beast as he rutted into her hard and fast, his grip bruising and greedy. She didn't know if he even knew what was happening or who she was. His eyes were so wild and unfocused, barely looking at her as he moved.
He might not be Jon at all, she realized with a start. Perhaps this Red God was some sort of demon or trickster who had taken over her dead brother's body, and it was she who had unwittingly summoned him. For Jon was not acting like Jon at all, as he stared at her like a man possessed.
“J-Jon?” she whimpered when she found her voice, and that seemed to snap Jon out of his trance. His thrusts slowed to a stop, still breathing heavy, and he brought them to sit up and face each other. She grabbed onto the muscle of his shoulders to steady herself, feeling how clammy his skin was from their sweat and the cellar’s chill.
He reached up to touch her hair, but pulled his hand back into a fist before dropping it away. “This must be a dream,” he finally rasped, voice raw.
“This is not a dream,” Sansa replied, voice trembling, but her grip was steady when she took his hand and placed it back on her waist.
Jon shook his head, but still held onto her tightly. “It is, and I don't wish to ever wake up. I'm sorry, Sansa,” he grunted, pushing into her even deeper, “I must take what pleasure I can before I wake.”
“I-I told you, this is no dream,” she panted back, face hot and covered in tears. He felt so big inside her, and it was so wet and slippery where they were joined.
Jon let his hand roam up to brush away the wetness on her cheek, but he did not stop moving inside her. “I know it is. I’ve had this dream before, but not for a long time. Not since leaving for the Wall. But it was my favorite kind of dream.”
“Then you know nothing–oh! Oh gods, Jon!” Sansa gasped, holding onto him as he began to bounce her on his lap, harder and faster. She clutched onto him tighter, even as the wet sounds of his hips slapping against her made her blush fiercely.
Something was coming again, Sansa knew it. She won't be able to stop it, but she didn't want to.
Her walls began to flutter and pulse around his cock again, the friction building with every push and pull. The Red Woman’s voice filled her head, chanting over and over. Submit to him, submit to R'hllor…
So she did, and she stared into the dark abyss of Jon’s eyes as she let go. There are gods, she told herself, all the stories can’t be lies. They gave Jon back to her after all–or at least one of them did. What debt did she owe the Lord of Light now?
Without warning, the heavy door to the cellar swung open, sending a cold gust of air rushing into the sweat and musk-filled chamber. A tall shadow swept into the room, and the flickering firelight revealed Melisandre’s shifting face in the dark.
Jon’s eyes flashed with annoyance but he didn't stop. Instead, he just kept pounding into Sansa as if the priestess wasn't there, as if nothing else existed but the two of them and their bodies locked together as one, writhing and clawing at each other.
His body tensed beneath her, then went rigid and still as a corpse. For a heartbeat she thought he was dead again, that whatever magic that had brought him back had run out.
But then she felt him give into his release, and his strong arms tightened possessively around her. His heavy cock pulsed, filling her womb more with every thick spurt, until he finally stilled and pulled out of her with a deep groan. The sudden emptiness between her legs made her whimper and reach for him, desperate to be close again.
When Sansa squeezed her legs closed, she could feel a cold gush of Jon's seed leaking out of her and her cheeks burned with embarrassment. That's when she remembered that they were being watched, and the reality of what they had just done came crashing down on her. Shivering, she tried to cover herself with the remnants of her dress and Jon's shroud. The Red Woman only smiled at the evidence dripping down Sansa’s thighs.
“When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone,” the priestess recited, voice low as she held her hands up in supplication. “Lady Sansa, you are the red star. And as the prophecy foretold, it is you that has set it all in motion. Do you believe in the Lord of Light's power now? Will you join him against the darkness?”
The ruby at the woman's throat gleamed red and hungry, filling Sansa with unease. There were certainly no dragons here and the only living stone was Alayne, but how could she doubt someone who could raise the dead? The woman's strange riddles and prophecies meant little to Sansa before, but now, after what she has witnessed tonight, after she bled for it–
Oh gods, what has she done?
But when Sansa looked up at Jon and his dark eyes met hers, a quiet understanding passed between them, and she knew she didn't regret any of it. So she turned back to the Red Priestess with her head held high and her hand in Jon's steady grip, and nodded.
“Very well. Shall we begin?”