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Chapter Text

It is after Ned has killed Lady that he looks upon the faces of his two daughters and knows he’s made a mistake. Their faces show grief, devastation, disbelief, and betrayal. Arya’s mouth parts and she looks at her sister with compassion belying the screaming matches the two always seemed to get into. But it is Sansa’s face that he finds most disturbing. What is worse than all those emotions swirling within is the part of Sansa’s usually lively countenance that grows blank and closed off, as if something has shuttered within his eldest daughter permanently. He thinks perhaps it is a loss of innocence that he sees. And when her blue eyes flash up at him, they are icy in a way that churns his stomach. He’s seen Tully blue eyes go icy like that before only once in his life. When his wife Catelyn had looked at him as he cradled a bastard from the war in his arms and understood she had been betrayed. He’d never forgotten that look, and it haunted him even now. He never expected such a look again, nor for it to come from Sansa.

Yes, he has a made a mistake. A grave one. He’d thought he was doing the right thing. Robert demanded it despite Ned’s efforts to change his mind. He’d only wanted to give Lady the most merciful death possible. Ned trusted himself more than any Kingsguard to give her that. And besides, he is the one to blame, more than Arya, Sansa, or Nymeria. He had allowed the wolves to stay in Winterfell when Jon had argued in their defense. Then he had allowed his daughters to keep two and bring them South. Robert was right that they weren’t appropriate as pets. He’d thought he would demonstrate honor to Arya and Sansa by taking that responsibility. But now he sees he has failed. More than that, he worries Sansa will never forgive him.

Ned realizes all of this with a dreadful feeling that he cannot protect his daughters in the South. That he can expect that Robert may make requests of him that harm his family. That he cannot trust Cersei, her family, and Joffrey, crown prince and his daughter’s betrothed. He is now Hand of the King. He cannot disobey the King’s orders even if they break his daughters’ hearts. He cannot watch over Arya and Sansa the way he would like. So, as much as it scares him, he knows what he must do. He must write to Jon and pray to the Old Gods that he’s not taken his vows at the Wall yet. Jon is the only son he can turn to now to protect his sisters—Robb is Lord of Winterfell. He must pray to the Old Gods that this is not a mistake. He’d made a promise to Jon before they’d parted on the Kingsroad. Ned wasn’t sure he could keep that promise anymore, not with Jon so near the King, and he hates to think he will fail another child. But he had to do what he thought made them all safest.  Ned sends the raven to Castle Black as quickly as possible, asking Jon to come south.

---

I understand this is not what you wanted, Jon. But I must ask you. If you have not taken your vows, son, come south. Come quickly. Protect your sisters and be there when I cannot.

Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King.

Jon doesn’t know how many times he re-reads the last few lines of his father’s letter, the meaning sinking in slowly. Something horrible has happened. Lady is gone, by his father’s own blade. Try as he might, he cannot understand what could have possibly possessed his father to do such a thing. His muddled explanation, some conflict with Joffrey, Sansa, and Arya. Some orders from the King. He shakes his head uncomprehendingly. But then he’d remembered a few days before when Ghost had howled in a way he’d never heard from him before, and it resonated in Jon’s body as grief, even if he hadn’t understood. Jon had wondered idly if his homesickness, loneliness, and misery at Castle Black had simply taken a toll on Ghost as it did on him. But now he knows it was more than that.

Lady is dead.

Jon’s blood boils. For Lady. For Sansa.

What had that little shit done? Jon had wanted tear that pompous prince apart the night of that feast, in his cups and watching Sansa on Joffrey’s arm. I should have done it, too, a dark part of Jon whispers. He remembers how he’d taken it all out on that straw dummy pretending it was Joffrey, Sansa’s betrothed. How it was easier to beg uncle Benjen and his father to go to the Wall, so as not to think about it. But he had thought about it anyway, especially when he found the Night’s Watch to have been nothing like he’d thought.

Sam eyed him and the scroll curiously in the mess hall. He smiled timidly. “A letter from your father?” he asked in interest.

Jon liked Sam. How would he tell him? “Aye, it is,” Jon sighed tiredly. Jon crumpled the scroll in his fist.

“You don’t seem very happy about it. I thought you and your father got along?” Sam asked.

“We do,” Jon said lowly. He uncrumpled the scroll in irritation and then crumpled it again. “But it’s not good news.”

Sam turned pale. “Your brother? Jon, I’m so sorry.”

Jon shook his head. “No, there’s nothing on Bran yet. It’s my sisters.”

Sam looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

I just need to say it. Once I say it, it’ll be real. “I have to go.”

“Go?”

“Go south.”

“Why?”

“My father wants me there to protect my sisters as a sworn shield, they need me,” Jon said.

“But the Watch—”

“I haven’t taken vows.” And thank the Gods I haven’t.

“So that’s it, then? You’re going?” Sam asked with a hint of sadness and fear.

He didn’t want to hurt Sam’s feelings. He knew Sam had had few friends. Jon had tried to protect him and he knew Sam was afraid now. He was sorry for it. But it was his sisters. It was Sansa and Arya. “Aye, I’m going. Edd, Pyp, and Grenn will look out for you, Sam.”

Sam nodded. “You’ll be missed,” he said regretfully.

Jon snorted, thinking of Alliser.

“You’re sure about this? You said you wanted this.”

“I did. But my sisters need me.” And I was wrong about this place. He still had trouble admitting it though, even to himself.

Jon readies himself to leave as quickly as possible. He says to goodbye to the few friends he’s made, Lord Commander Mormont, and Maester Aemon. Asks them to leave word for uncle Benjen when he returns. He considers stopping at Winterfell. But his father had been clear. He needed to come quickly. And so he would. Jon tried not to think of how hard it would be, to go South and see Sansa with Joffrey at her side. But it would be good, Jon thought, to see them all once again. And his father had promised he’d tell him about his mother the next time they’d see each other, which would be sooner than he expected.

More than anything, though, he thought of how his sisters needed him. How his love needed him now. Maybe not in the way he wished, but his love’s wolf was dead. Sansa needed him. He’d have to learn to keep himself in check in the south. No one could know of Jon’s secret love—least of all Sansa herself. But still he couldn’t help but think…

How sweet it will be, to see her again.

Chapter Text

Jon hates King’s Landing. He hates even more that he had to leave Ghost behind. But Jon knew better than to bring his direwolf here with what had happened. He’d told Ghost to go to Winterfell, and he likes to think Ghost has made his way to Bran’s side to watch over him just as he knew Bran’s own wolf was. It was a comfort in their separation to think that a part of him could stay in the only home he’d ever known and watch over his little brothers. But as he takes in the city, its foul smells and bustling streets and the poor going hungry, it’s hard to feel much comfort. It seems his love’s dreams of the south (along with her golden prince) were just as wrong as his own dreams of the Wall.

But it is good when Jon sees them again. When he can embrace Arya, his father, and finally Sansa, his secret love. And it is good to see her, good to feel her in his arms like he couldn’t when they’d parted before. Jon wonders if it is because they are no longer in Winterfell and she does not have to worry about her lady mother chastising her. It is good and yet, his heart mends and breaks at the same time at the sight of her; at the limp way she leans into him; at her bland expressions when she pulls back and looks at their father.

Sansa is different. Sansa has changed. And he knows why. Jon can only imagine how it would feel if Ghost were dead—a part of him ripped from his chest never to recover.

He kneels with his sword at Sansa and Arya’s feet and repeats the words his father tells him and they repeat the words they’d been taught to receive his vow—from their mother or Septa, Jon doesn’t know. Or rather, Sansa says the words while Arya half-heartedly mumbles her way through it. He quirks his lips at Arya’s disdain for courtesies but otherwise keeps his composure until he can arise. Sansa goes to her rooms, that same blank (nearly dead) expression on her face, slipping away as soon as their father gives them leave. Arya bombards him, trailing him at every step as his father shows him to his chambers. Jon knows she is grieving too about Nymeria being gone and her friend’s death but her spirits are high at their reunion, and he will not ask her about it now because he does not want to dampen what cheers her. Jon tries to be cheerful with his little sister too. He loves her dearly and values their bond, but he can’t shake his inner turmoil with Sansa’s despair replaying in his head.

First Jon asks his father about the incident that led him here. He knows his sisters will have their own versions of the story and likely point fingers at each other and he’d rather get a clearer view than he would from them. But Jon aches to talk with Sansa about it too. He wants to know what he can possibly do to erase those changes he’d seen in her. It was as if some spark inside her went out.

Jon sinks back in the chair facing his father’s desk in his solar as he completes the whole tale as he understood it. Jon is trying not to gape at his father, but he feels somehow more perplexed now that he has gotten the full story. “So, you just killed her?” Jon asked. His father winced. Jon hadn’t meant to sound harsh, but it had just come out before he’d had time to think over his words.

“My King gave me an order, Jon,” he said. Jon could tell his father was struggling with it, but he did not want to be pressed on the issue.

But Jon keeps seeing Sansa’s face. “You couldn’t have just cut her loose, let her run off?”

“And if Robert realized I let her go? If I blatantly defied his orders when he has made me Hand?” Ned asked.

You didn’t have to become Hand either, Jon thought. He’s your friend or he’s supposed to be. Lady Catelyn didn’t want you to do it. He’s not sure he’s ever agreed with his father’s lady wife before, but on this Jon did. And you didn’t have to betroth Sansa to Joffrey. He wasn’t going to say any of that aloud though, as Jon could see his father was struggling enough.

And Jon had other questions. “When you said you saw me again, you would tell me about my mother,” Jon said, trying to keep his voice even as he leaned forward in his chair.

Ned sighed and shrunk back in his seat, and Jon felt anger building within him, though he tried not to let it show. “Father?”

He had to tell him. He had given his word. “Jon, son, I know we need to talk about this. Now that you’re here, circumstances have changed.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

His father met his eyes wearily. “It means that I have three children in King’s Landing I must keep safe, and a more tenuous position than I realized before.”

“What does that have to do with my mother?” Jon asked, standing from his chair. His hands curled into tight fists against his will.

Ned stood from his chair and walked to Jon, placing a hand on his shoulder as if in comfort. “It is hard to explain.”

Jon shrugs his hand off. “You promised.” He doesn’t want to believe his father would lie to him.

“I did. Circumstances have changed,” Ned said, his eyes imploring Jon to understand.

But Jon has done nothing but understand for a long time now. For so long, he’s wanted to know about his mother but accepted his father’s silence. Attempting to shove down his need. But now, now when his father had given him that promise as a shred of hope only to take it away? Jon looks at his feet, angry and hurt and unable to understand whatever his father wishes him now to accept without question. “You owe me the truth,” Jon said, willing his voice not to quaver.

“I know,” Ned said quietly. Jon looked up at his father once more, thinking he looked tired and spent and aged in a way Jon doesn’t recall seeing before. “When I last saw you, son, we thought we’d be apart for a long time and only have visits. But now you’re here, we’ll have more time—”

“So you intend to make me wait? For what?” Jon interrupted in frustration. He usually is not so impertinent with his father, but he cannot hold his tongue.

“I need time,” Ned said in a tone which brooked no argument.

“For what?” Jon repeated.

“Jon,” Ned said warningly.

“No! You gave me your word, where is the honor in lying to me?” Jon raised his voice, backing away from his father, the backs of his legs hitting the chair he’d sat in.

His father’s face twisted in a way Jon had rarely seen since he was a boy. It was the face he’d make when Robb had talked him into mischief, playing around in the stables and releasing the horses. “I will tell you what I can of your mother soon, Jon. I cannot do this right now. My position as Hand requires my absolute focus and I need to protect you and your sisters. I understand you are disappointed. I will do what I can to make it up to you. I am still your father and you will not speak to me in such a way, am I understood?” he said, voice hard.

Jon looked at his feet once more, face heating in anger and shame as he willed back the tears. “Yes sir,” he said stiffly.

Ned sighed, as if the anger had flooded out of him with Jon’s acquiescence. He placed his hand on his shoulder again and this time Jon didn’t fight it. “Son, I know you hoped to find honor at the Wall. But there is honor in protecting your sisters,” he said, seemingly changing the subject.

Jon bit back whatever words of disdain and resentment rested on his tongue. He would protect his sisters—but a spiteful part of him insists it is not for his father in any way. No, it is for Sansa and Arya. Jon will watch over them and keep them safe for their sakes, not his father’s. “Yes, father,” Jon said, only now meeting his gaze again, and the look of relief in his father’s eyes is almost enough to send him raging again. But he won’t, as his father returns to his seat and Jon follows and they discuss security for his sisters.

---

After his father leaves to attend to his duties, Jon familiarizes himself with the Tower of the Hand, learning its layout. He will need to familiarize himself with all of the Red Keep, but not until he has the opportunity to do so when his father gives his leave. Arya is waiting for her instructor Syrio Florel for her water dancing lessons. Jon was surprised to find his father had discovered Needle and allowed her not only to keep it, but set her up with lessons. From talking with his father and Arya, though, he gets the sense that his father granted them in part out of guilt over what happened with Lady and Nymeria. Jon wonders what their father has gifted Sansa. If it has brought her any joy like Arya has as she spars with her brother.

After some time sparring he tells Arya he wants to check on Sansa in her chambers. Syrio is supposed to arrive soon but he and Sansa shall remain here. Jon is concerned because his father said Sansa wasn’t eating and he wonders if he might draw her out of her chambers. Arya scowls. “Let her rot in there,” Arya said. “It’s all her fault.”

Jon pinched his forehead in frustration. “No, Arya. It isn’t.” The truth was, Arya’s friend and Lady were marked for dead as soon as Joffrey and Cersei had them in their cruel sights. Sansa couldn’t have stopped it, even their father hadn’t figured out a way to stop it.

Her mouth dropped in betrayal. “You’re taking her side?”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” Jon said, trying to keep his voice gentle and reason with his sister.

“You should be taking my side!” Arya said, looking at him in disbelief. “She lied!”

“She had to, Arya,” he said.

“Had to? I told the truth and Sansa is a coward,” she spat.

Jon grimaced, anger bubbling up. “She is the prince’s betrothed and she’s older than you. Sansa couldn’t afford to go against Joffrey like you did.”

Arya scoffed and shook her head furiously. “I can’t believe you. She hates you and you defend her.”

Jon sighed tiredly and folded his arms over his chest. “No, she doesn’t Arya.”

He understands why Arya would think such. But Jon—Jon knows.

He remembers the time before Arya was born or when she was too young to remember. When Sansa didn’t understand why he was a Snow and not a Stark. She was kind and sweet, spoiled yes, but sweet nonetheless. She liked embroidering for both her brothers. She liked giving them favors on their namedays. And Jon remembers when Lady Catelyn began pulling her away, insisting that only Robb was her brother. Telling her she could not go to the courtyard while the boys sparred. Sansa had never taken an active interest as Arya had—she was a lady through and through. But she liked to watch them and cheer, and he and Robb (and sometimes Theon) would pretend they were knights in a tourney, competing to crown Sansa the Queen of Love and Beauty. Sansa was obedient of her mother. That was the difference between Arya and Sansa, as Arya always had a more rebellious streak than her older sister. And it’s possible, Jon thinks, that in time Arya would have drawn away from him too as she grew older and her mother grew less tolerant of her disobedience.

And Jon knows the little ways Sansa had shown him she cared after she followed her mother’s instruction. Little things Sansa would do that he never shared with anyone else, not even Robb or Arya. She’d bring him treats after a big feast when Jon would leave early, slipping from his secluded corner as he could not sit with his trueborn siblings. After they found the direwolves, Sansa had sneakily made Jon a favor—a handkerchief with a white wolf on a grey background, matching Ghost and with the reversed colors of House Stark. She’d furtively slipped it to him on her way to her mother’s Sept, glancing around to ensure no one else saw. “Thank you, Sansa,” he breathed, looking at her in awe as she smiled and chirped a “you’re welcome” before walking off. Of course, she could also be insensitive. He remembers a few years back, when Jon had been upset after Theon taunted him for his baseborn status over dinner—Sansa had probably been about Arya’s age then. While Arya threatened to give Theon a black eye and Robb punched him in the arm, Sansa said nothing, staring at her plate. Later, she’d found him taking out his frustration on a straw dummy, as he so often did. She’d uncomfortably shifted on her feet, clearly feeling out of place. Her hands were clasped at her front as she tentatively approached him.

“Jon, I’m sorry you’re a bastard,” she said consolingly. He nearly laughed at her words but thought better of it; she wouldn’t take kindly to it. And that was the thing: she’d called him a bastard, but she wasn’t trying to insult him. Jon knew she genuinely meant it when she said she was sorry. She had curtsied to him like a perfect little lady and left him a plate with two lemon cakes she sneaked from the kitchens. While he bristled at the comment, he could also appreciate it in some way and thanked her.

But Arya knew none of this. And Jon didn’t wish to tell her. These things belonged to him and Sansa alone; just as Jon gifting Arya Needle had belonged to them.

But you don’t feel about Arya how you feel for Sansa. The mere thought of such a thing repulsed him—Arya was his sister while Sansa…Sansa was always something different to his other siblings. Was it because of her mother separating them? Was it because she would sing to him when he was sick? Was it because of all the little things they’d done for each other without anyone else knowing, giving their relationship a secret and forbidden quality? Was it because every time Sansa called him her half-brother, he couldn’t be fully offended because he knew in his mind and heart he always called her half-sister too, making the shame of his sin lesser somehow? And because a part of him hoped that in some way, Sansa calling him such might come from similar feelings, no matter how foolish it was for him to hope such things? Whatever the reason, he loved Sansa as a man loved a woman.

“She does too!” Arya insisted. “I told her how you said Joffrey looked like a girl and you know what she said?” Arya brought her hands to her chest dramatically as she did whenever she did impressions of Sansa. “Poor Jon, he gets jealous because he’s a bastard.”

Jon winced, though not for the reason Arya likely assumed. She is right Arya. She is more right than either of you know. I am more a bastard than you can imagine for loving my half-sister Sansa. Jon thinks (hopes) that Sansa believed his jealousy was only because of Joffrey’s superior status. The jealous part of him that always dreamed of being Lord of Winterfell was one thing he knew quite well, but he didn’t envy the idea of sitting on the Iron Throne. In reality it was mostly because of Sansa, that Jon could not have her. That he could not be her prince and love.

…Poor Jon

…I’m sorry you’re a bastard.

Insensitive. Complicated. But there was genuine sympathy too, Jon believed. Or perhaps pity. In any case, he can’t hold it against her much. Not when her assessment is so correct.

Does she know?

He doesn’t think so. Then she would surely hate him.

“Arya, I am a bastard. I don’t like it. But it’s the truth. She’s not wrong,” he said.

“I can’t believe you,” Arya muttered again. “What about how she treats me?” she challenges.

Jon knows what Arya expects. Because Arya is his favorite sister. It’s just that, Arya doesn’t know Jon’s never really seen Sansa as a sister. “Aye, and what about how you treat her?” he challenged back. Arya was two and ten now. A child still, but she wasn’t a baby anymore.

She gaped. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, Arya. The both of you need to be kinder to one another. Especially now. You both have a fair share of grievances, aye, but it’s time to put it behind you. You need each other. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.” Her chin trembled.

“I lost Nymeria because of her,” Arya said sadly. “And Mycah.”

“It wasn’t her fault Arya. It was Joffrey, Cersei, and the King’s fault.” He embraced her gently. “And Lady is dead, can you imagine what she’s feeling right now?”

“No,” she sniffled.

“Just try okay?” he said, crouching to meet her at eye level. “Try to get along with her. And don’t talk badly about the prince or the Lannisters or the King. Don’t antagonize them.”

Arya nodded, drying her tears, and Jon ruffled her hair, making them both chuckle. After Syrio arrives, Jon approaches Sansa’s chambers and knocks tentatively.

“Sansa? It’s Jon. May I come in?”

It is quiet for a few moments, before he hears Sansa respond. “Are you alone?”

He gulped. He was indeed alone, but it made the whole thing seem more improper. “Yes. Father is gone and Arya is at her lessons.”

There was a pause again. “You may enter,” she said quietly. Sansa usually opened the door to allow guests, but now she sat listlessly on her bed, holding some embroidery on her lap, staring at it as if she didn’t understand its purpose.

“Sansa?” he said, walking toward her. She lifted her head and her striking blue eyes met his.

“Jon,” she nodded, eyes flitting about the room before settling once more on the embroidery. “I am afraid I am not good company.”

Jon sat on a settee across from Sansa. “I wanted to see if you were alright,” Jon said quietly.

She nodded again but said nothing further. “Did father give you a gift?” he asked awkwardly, unsure how to make conversation—lessons for Arya and for Sansa…?

She stared at him blankly as if she didn’t understand the question before vaguely gesturing to the doll that sat in a nearby chair. Jon frowned. A doll? Sansa was five and ten. Sansa would have appreciated the gift in her much younger years, when her dolls and tea parties allowed her to practice her manners and act as a hostess. But now? Jon knew that Sansa was always more Catelyn’s daughter while Arya was more their father’s, but he’s surprised that his lord father would be so far off the mark. Jon thinks he must get Sansa some sort of gift, something to make her feel seen and loved.

And oh, how he loves her. It pains him to think she is still so beautiful in her melancholy. But she looked so alone that Jon could hardly bear it. What he could begin to do he wasn’t sure. “I’m so sorry Sansa, about Lady,” Jon said quietly.

Sansa’s gaze lifted from her embroidery to meet his eyes. Her blue eyes were the like the ice on the Wall when the morning sunrise hit it just right. Jon almost wanted to tell her but knew such comments had no place coming from her bastard half-brother of all people. Those eyes staring into him were vacant, leaving him nearly lost in the storm of her grief. “Thank you,” she said softly. Genuine feeling passed in her expression before her eyes darted away from him again. “I’m sure Arya told you it was my fault,” Sansa muttered.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sansa,” Jon told her.

“How was I to know, Jon?” she looked up at him pleadingly.

“You couldn’t have,” he said.

“Arya did,” Sansa remarked and bit her pink lip, “she set Nymeria free and my Lady had to pay for her wolf’s crimes,” she said in frustration.

“Sansa, you must know Arya never would have imagined they would punish Lady,” Jon entreated. He wanted to believe that maybe he could bridge the divide between his sisters, foolish as it may have been. There were too many dangers here for Arya and Sansa to war against each other.

“I suppose not,” Sansa granted. “But Lady was the one to pay. And I am the one to wed him,” she said despairingly, looking to the floor as if she wanted to sink into it.

Sansa didn’t love Joffrey anymore, Jon realized. He nearly felt triumphant for a moment, and yet his stomach twisted at her words—the hopelessness within them. Without thinking Jon moved to sit beside her and took her in his arms. “It’s going to be alright, Sansa,” he whispered into her hair as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I’ll protect you, I promise.”

Sansa hiccupped something between a laugh and a sob. “You can’t protect me. No one can protect anyone,” she muttered. Gone were her romantic ideals and dreams. Something hollow had crept into her chest and replaced them. But Jon would not allow it to continue onward.

“I will,” Jon said stubbornly. “I’ll prove it to you.”

Chapter Text

Sansa wakes in her bed each morning. She breaks her fast with her father and her sister each morning. She walks the halls of the Red Keep and through the gardens with Septa Mordane at her side each day, who is always instructing and lately, reprimanding. It all passes Sansa by in a numbing day to day monotony from which she cannot break free. Each day is the same as the last and she can feel nothing. Everything around her means nothing since Lady is gone. Not only is her loss a grievous hole in Sansa’s heart, but some part of her is gone. It is disorienting, as if her body no longer understands how to sustain itself, how to take each step as she walks because nothing seems to be in its right place. It is not something she can fix or explain to anyone, not that there was anyone to explain it to if she could. Jeyne had been sent back North after Lady’s death. There is only her father, who is always flustered and guilt-ridden around her now, her sister, who blames her for everything, and her Septa, who only wishes to impart lessons on how to be a good wife. Joffrey has blessedly avoided her since the incident, and she sees Queen Cersei eye her suspiciously despite the fact that Sansa had done what she was supposed to do. She did not contradict her betrothed, even as she couldn’t bring herself to besmirch her sister in that moment, instead attempting to be neutral. Sansa had foolishly thought it would be enough, that it would fix everything and instead her world had been shredded apart.

She is alone and yet Sansa is not lonely. She cannot be when there is nothing but an emptiness inside her, and that emptiness is howling within her. Howling as Lady never would again. And so, the days pass and nothing changes until her half-brother Jon Snow appears and swears his sword to her and Arya.

It is surprising, and Sansa doesn’t understand except she knows her father has called for him, asked him to leave the Wall to protect his sisters. Jon had wished to be one of the black knights of the Wall, and she isn’t sure why her father has forced him to give up his dream—for Jon is duty and honor bound as any of them, Sansa knows, even if they are not particularly close. She wonders briefly if Jon will hate her for it, but then she realizes that Jon is too gentle to hate in such a way, whatever his bouts of sullen brooding. A part of her resents her father for pulling Jon from his dream. Let him have his dream at least if I cannot have mine, she thinks.

Her father looks to her and her sister with a tentative smile when Jon kneels before them—a silent question as if he wants to know if he has done enough. If he has repaired whatever ails Sansa and Arya, though Arya has seemed to bounce back quite well. How could she ever begin to tell her father that she is not sure there is any way to repair what Sansa has lost and what her father has allowed? She misses her mother. She misses home, which she never thought possible.

And it is confusing, she has to admit, to have Jon here. He is her half-brother and she loves him, but if her mother forbid Jon from sitting with them at important feasts because he was a bastard, how will the nobles here react to him? How could Jon begin to protect them when everyone would look upon him as her father’s shame? It is not fair to him and Sansa tries, as she always has, to be kind to Jon, even as she knows there is something scandalous about kindness toward a bastard, half-brother or not. But why should she care anymore what the highborn lords and ladies, or her betrothed or the Queen may think of Jon when she knows Jon is kinder, gentler, and more honorable than any of them?

Jon has always confused Sansa, in a way. At least since she was old enough to understand he was different from her other siblings. He was family, a part of the pack even without the Stark name. But her mother would prefer she see Jon as a stranger, which she couldn’t bring herself to do, and Arya and Robb would tell her to treat him just the same as her other siblings. Her father, strangely enough, never seemed to take a position on how she should view Jon. And so she had always tried to maintain a balance, to show Jon she cared but refrain from offending her lady mother, to see him as family even if she understood that as a lady, it was improper. Categorizing Jon in her life had always been nigh impossible for her. To make matters more confusing, there was always something about Jon that was different. Whatever Robb and Arya might say, however they might see Jon, Sansa knew that she and Jon could never quite conceive of each other as full siblings. It was not just Sansa but Jon too. She could sense that he did not view her precisely the same either, and it wasn’t—from what Sansa could tell—because of the difference in station and Jon being her half-brother. No, it was something more, something just beneath the surface that she could never quite uncover. She’d even entertained the idea, some time ago, of speaking to Jon about it, but something within Sansa knew it would be inappropriate even if she wasn’t sure why.

Regardless of her confusion, Sansa knew that she could trust Jon. Jon had not made fun of her for her romantic dreams as her other siblings did, though he had disparaged Joffrey, a thought which brought a slight quirk to her lips now that she has seen Joffrey for what he truly is. At the time, Sansa had believed Jon to merely be jealous of the attention the prince received, the respect he commanded by name alone. But now she wonders if Jon had seen a glimpse of something she hadn’t, and while she dreaded the notion of marrying Joffrey, a small part of her felt hopeful that Jon had always been skeptical of her betrothed and now was sworn to her. She could not let Jon be overzealous in protecting her, as Sansa knew he wanted from his promise to her, because she would not place him in such danger. But just the thought of someone there to protect her and who understood—it was a balm to the ache in her chest since Lady’s death. And so Sansa knew she would desire to keep Jon close, that he was perhaps the first person she could confide to about the changes within her after losing her direwolf. Jon was someone who would keep Sansa’s secrets, and despite everything, that gave her a tiny spot of hope.

---

Jon is determined to remain focused on his sisters and it is perhaps the biggest event yet, the tourney to celebrate his father’s appointment as Hand, when he sees the King, Queen, and Joffrey once again. At the very least, Jon does not have to witness Sansa on Joffrey’s arm, as the two betrotheds appeared to be avoiding each other. Sansa didn’t love Joffrey anymore. It shouldn’t make him nearly so happy as it did, because Lady was dead and this was the monster whom Sansa would wed either way. Could Jon have been happy for her, if the prince was good and kind, and she would be happy and safe with him? But he already knew the answer. Jon knew in his heart he would be happy for her, even if it devastated him too. It was what Sansa deserved: a happy life, a kind husband. Still, when Jon was the one she turned to for comfort, he could not help the sense of satisfaction running through him.

Jon sat between Arya and Sansa, watching over them both—primarily scoping out lecherous men around Sansa and restraining Arya from sneaking off and getting into trouble. Septa Mordane sat next to Arya, presumably for the same purposes, and Sansa awaited their father’s return at her side. Jon tried to pay little mind as his father greeted the King and Queen politely. He was still angry at his father, and he didn’t wish to draw attention to himself as a bastard. What would King Robert think of his presence?

“You showed up!” the King said, slapping his father on the shoulder and drinking from his goblet. Jon knew his father would rather not attend the tourney, as he found it a waste of coin. But Jon and Sansa had both told their father he couldn’t decline such an event in his honor.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Ned said unassumingly.

“I heard you brought your bastard to King’s Landing,” the King remarked, and Jon stiffened. Arya’s hand clenched into a fist as she looked back at their father and Robert with a glare.

“Watch ahead for the tourney, Arya,” Jon said. The last thing they needed was Arya drawing the King’s attention after the incident with the direwolves. Arya obeyed him and Sansa gently brushed along his forearm soothingly in a gesture of comfort. It sent shivers up and down his spine. He smiled at her and Sansa smiled cautiously back.

“I thought it might be best, to have a familiar face protecting the girls,” Jon heard his father say. There was something in his father’s voice Jon had never heard before, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Perhaps the King made his father nervous? But Jon couldn’t understand that, either. They were friends, and his father always said Robert was a good man. But there was no doubt in Jon’s mind that his father’s voice and bearing carried a hesitation Jon was unfamiliar with in Lord Stark. Judging by Sansa’s knit brow, he thought she imagined much the same.

“The capitol certainly has more opportunities for the boy to get his wick wet,” Robert bellowed. Jon clenched his jaw in irritation at the implication. Everyone thought as much of him because he was a bastard. But could Jon really blame them, when he looked upon his half-sister Sansa the way he did?

“He’s a good lad,” his father said. Something in Jon’s heart twisted at his defense.

“Aye, I’m sure,” the King said. “Perhaps he can join us on a hunt sometime.”

Ned’s feet shifted. “Perhaps, Your Grace. I wish to see the boy settled first,” his father said uncomfortably. Jon felt his heart sink at that. He was still a bastard, even to his Lord Father, unfit to be near a King.

“Alright, alright,” the King said, restless and bored. “Let’s get this started!”

Ned rejoined them, sitting next to Sansa.

One knight covered in armor was approaching from the left. The man looked more heavily adorned than Jon would expect. How did these men fight in tourneys with such heavy armor, surely it impeded their movements? But then, Jon knew little as to how southerners did these things. He heard Sansa’s intake of breath. “It’s the Knight of Flowers,” she said with a smile. Jon looked at her with a furrowed brow as the man on the horse approached, lifting his helm.

The knight stopped in front of Sansa and handed her a single red rose. “Thank you, Ser Loras,” Sansa said with a shy smile and a blush. Jon scowled, wishing he could run the knight through, pulling back the jealous growl currently working its way up his throat. If Joffrey noticed such a display, he didn’t seem to mind, and Jon glanced over at his father, half-hoping he’d tell Sansa to stay away from this Ser Loras. Ned merely watched the festivities. His love brought the rose up to smell, closing her eyes. He couldn’t help but look at the lovely expression on her face, wistful and young. “Isn’t it sweet, Jon?” Sansa said, looking at him.

“It’s a nice gesture,” Jon said noncommittally, his sullenness making him tense.

Sansa looked at him quizzically. He needed to do better. Jon knew it. He’d known as soon as he began making his way south. “It’s lovely,” Jon said with a tense smile, and Sansa brightened.

“I’m sure if you were participating, you would win, Jon,” she supplied.

Jon ducked his head, face heating with a blush. “Thank you, Sansa.”

---

They get the news that Bran is awake, and despite their joy, Jon notices how his father still seems strange. Jon thinks mayhap his father is keeping something happening from him, and it only serves to make Jon more anxious. If there is something going on, how can Jon best protect his sisters if he isn’t being told about whatever vexes his father?

And of course, Jon can only think of what else his father hasn’t told him. To have put him off about his mother still hurt, and Jon wondered if his father truly understood just what it was doing to him. How could Jon tell him that it was like there was a gaping hole inside of him, never to be filled? How could Jon put into words how very lost it made him feel, and how the hope to fill that hole had been snatched away when his father refused him? How could he, when he feared the tears that may spill from his eyes at such confessions in front of his lord father? Jon knew he needed to be a man, not a boy. Still, he ached.

His love takes to spending more time in the Godswood. In fact, Sansa takes to spending more time with Jon in general. He isn’t sure how much of it is because she craves companionship or if it is merely for her protection, but Jon couldn’t begrudge it either way. No, it is a thrill in its own way, to stroll the castle grounds with Sansa.

Sometimes she speaks to him of Lady. Jon grows in his understanding of how it all came to be and it strikes him as hopeless. Could Jon have protected Lady if he had been there? He understands too, how his father was under the mistaken impression that their wolves were mere pets. It must have confounded his father greatly, to see Sansa’s reaction as a part of her slipped away.

“It is as if I don’t know who I am anymore,” Sansa tells him in the gardens. “That must sound silly,” she says, averting her eyes from him.

“No, not at all, Sansa,” Jon says. He sighs in thought. “I’ve felt there is a part of me I could never understand.”

Sansa eyes him curiously. Somewhat abashed, he continues. “It’s just never knowing my mother, or knowing anything about her…” Jon trailed off.

Sansa looked at him in sudden remorse. “I’m so sorry, Jon, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright Sansa, really,” Jon reassures her, patting her forearm and she clings to his elbow more tightly. It is wrong of him. It can only be his bastard blood that sings at such contact—that greedily wants more.

“Father has never told you anything about her?” Sansa asked in a quiet voice. He wonders what she must be thinking, of the woman who enticed their father to betray her lady mother. But when Jon looks at her, he sees her face is cautious and caring.

“No. He promised he would when I went to the Wall. He swears he’ll tell me more soon but he hasn’t.”

She furrows her brow. “That isn’t like father.”

“No,” Jon agrees.

Sansa shakes her head, turning pale. “Sansa?” he asks, concerned.

“Did he say why?” she asks.

Jon is a bit flummoxed but answers her anyway. “Not really. He said he had to focus on his position as Hand and keeping us all safe.”

Sansa snorts in a most un-Sansa like way. “I suppose that it is his answer for everything,” she says lowly.

It’s a familiar bitterness that neither comes to easily. Jon wants to believe the best of his father. But he can’t entirely disagree with Sansa’s assessment either. Perhaps the south has changed all of them.

They stroll through the garden, and Sansa lightly runs her fingertips among the petals and vines. Jon’s noticed this habit of hers before. She is always moving with her hands when she is thinking. Jon wonders if that is why she takes so well to embroidery, her hands busy working and stitching, allowing her meditation in a way Jon can only seem to find in the Godswood.

“Will you accept his answer then, Jon?” she finally asks him. There is no admonishment in her tone, no suggestion of what he should do—just a simple inquiry.

“Do I have a choice?” he asks back at her.

 “You answer my question with a question,” she sighs, but the exasperation is half-hearted at best given the small smile playing upon her lips.

“My sincerest apologies, my lady,” Jon says jokingly. He can tell part of her wishes to prompt more, but Sansa heeds his evasion and drops the subject.

 “We should head back,” Jon eventually tells her after circling the gardens and growing uncomfortable in the southern heat. Sansa nods in agreement.

On their way back to the Tower of the Hand an unfamiliar man steps in front of them to nod in greeting. He is wearing finer clothes than Jon thinks he’s ever owned, a small mockingbird pin on his lapel. He has salt and pepper hair and an accompanying mustache and smiles at them, but Jon feels there is something distinctly slimy about the man, his eyes beady as he studies them.

Especially as he studies Sansa. “Lady Sansa, how pleased I am to make your acquaintance,” the man says, reaching out to take Sansa’s free hand and place a kiss on her knuckles. Jon can feel Sansa stiffen and he wants to whisk her away from the strange man immediately, though he knows he cannot and Sansa would never stand for such rudeness.

“Thank you, my Lord,” she says, clearly not knowing this man either.

“My apologies, I should have properly introduced myself, Lord Petyr Baelish,” he said with a glimmer in his eye after releasing Sansa’s hand. “I suppose I forgot myself, thinking on how much you resemble your mother.”

“You know my mother?” she asks with a small hint of interest. Jon imagines she misses her mother. Whatever his differences with Lady Catelyn, Jon can understand that.

“Oh yes, I was fostered with the Tullys at Riverrun, your mother and I grew up together so we are quite old friends,” Baelish says. Jon doesn’t miss the way this man’s eyes rake over Sansa’s form and it twists his guts. Jon clears his throat, prompting the man to look at him and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, nearly becoming a smirk. “And you could only be Ned Stark’s natural born son,” he says with a flourish on his supposedly polite euphemism, the tone revealing it to be anything but. “For you are the spitting image of him.”

“Jon Snow,” Jon says curtly, unconsciously holding Sansa’s elbow tighter. This man makes him angry. It is worse, Jon thinks, to so intentionally omit the word. “And no need for such pleasantries, my Lord, you can say bastard.” There’s a nearly unspoken challenge in Jon’s words, and he can’t help feeling pleased when the man’s mask drops for a moment, as he takes a near imperceptible step back. He feels Sansa’s elbow dig into his side in warning and tries to return a polite smile to his face.

“A man who knows who he is,” Baelish says with that slimy unsettling grin. “I admire that.”

“Do forgive us, Lord Baelish,” Sansa says, cutting the tension of the moment as best she can. “But I’m afraid we must be getting back to our father’s chambers.”

“Of course, my Lady,” Baelish says, eyes flickering toward Sansa again, something hungry and dark in them that Jon does not like at all. “I’m sure we will be meeting each other again,” he says with a polite bow and Sansa and Jon depart.

When they reach their chambers in the Tower, Sansa pulls him into the room and faces him incredulously. “What were you doing, speaking to him like that?”

Jon bristled. “I don’t like him.”

“You can’t be rude like that,” Sansa reprimanded him.

“He was taunting me,” Jon said. He was looking at you. He won’t say that.

Jon thinks they are about to fight and he dreads for his love to be with cross with him. He knows he shouldn’t have responded in such a way, but the man unsettled him so much.

But instead of upbraiding him further, she takes a breath and her shoulders slump. “I don’t want you to get hurt. We don’t need more enemies,” Sansa said quietly, picking at the ends of her sleeve anxiously.

“You’re worried about me?” he asked, not quite able to process it.

Sansa looked up at him, her deep blue eyes arresting him. “Is that so hard to believe?” she asked. The slight pout to her lips filled him with a simultaneous guilt and an overpowering urge to take them with his own.

“No, no my—” Jon froze. He’d almost said it.

My love.

“It’s not hard to believe, Sansa.” Jon cleared his throat, it felt rough and scratchy. “I won’t do something like that again. I got carried away is all.”

Sansa nodded in relief and put a palm to his cheek. It takes everything within Jon to not leap out of his skin at the intimacy of the touch. He cannot remember such a close touch from Sansa since she had been but a girl of three or four. But she has changed now. Perhaps, he thought as he leaned into her touch, not all those changes were for the worse. “We must be careful, Jon. It is not safe here,” she said solemnly.

Jon pressed a kiss to her palm. “Always,” he told her.

Chapter Text

His lord father knows of this Lord Baelish already, as the man is Master of Coin, with his father on the small council, and his father also confirms that Baelish is an old friend of Lady Catelyn. More to Jon’s concern, however, is that the man was in love with Lady Catelyn and had even fought his late uncle Brandon for her hand, before she had married Jon’s own father. Jon really didn’t like the way Lord Baelish had looked at Sansa, but he also wasn’t sure how to phrase it for his father’s sake. “I have a bad feeling about him,” Jon decides to say instead. His father will not push aside his gut instincts, Jon thinks. “Just don’t trust him, father,” Jon said.

Ned nods solemnly. “I don’t like him much either, son. You and your sisters stay away from him. I fear we can only trust family and those we brought from the North with us,” his father said with regret.

Jon is certainly willing to obey his father in this respect, though part of him worries what he might need to do if this Baelish fellow doesn’t back off. But that is another problem to deal with on another day. “Is there anything else?” Jon asked his father, quirking a brow in question. A few times each week, they will meet to discuss security issues with Jon watching over his sisters, and making sure that Jon is up to date on his father’s schedule, so that Jon may reach him or send someone like Jory to find him in case of an emergency.

Ned sighs and shakes his head. “No, Jon, that will be all for now,” his father said. Jon wonders if his father knows his unspoken question.

Will you ever tell me about her?

He’s grown more intolerant as the weeks passed. Jon is less and less inclined to accept his father’s answer, as Sansa had put it. Even more after dealing with the slimy Lord Baelish. The way the man had put him down for his parentage while smiling as if they were old friends. Jon thinks that maybe, it wouldn’t hurt so much if he had answers. It’s only a matter of time, Jon thinks, before he seeks his father out again.

Later that night he dreams he is within Ghost.

The dreams started around the time Jon left Winterfell for the Wall. He isn’t sure what they might mean—but he misses his wolf and something within him warms to feel close to him again. Yet, Jon is quite sure this can’t really be Ghost, as his direwolf is running through the wolfswood, searching for a scent he’s losing track of. Jon knows Ghost should still be with Bran at Winterfell.

Jon in Ghost’s form runs and runs, desperate to find her. In a clearing up ahead, Ghost’s ears perk and the scent hits him again. Jon doesn’t recognize the she-wolf as he and Ghost chase after her, he only knows that she is important, and they must get to her.

When they get closer, Jon sees the smaller she-wolf with gray fur and yellow eyes turn to them. Lady. Jon’s heart lurches as they race toward her. Jon doesn’t understand how, but Lady suddenly seems to grow wings. Ghost sits back on his haunches watching her, astonished. She raises to the skies and flies until she is out of sight.

Jon wakes up in a cold sweat. He doesn’t know what it means. He thinks to talk to Sansa but for now, he decides against it—he doesn’t want to upset her by mentioning Lady. Yet Jon can’t shake the feeling that perhaps it is a warning of some sort.

---

When Cersei invites her to tea, Sansa is at a loss as to how to refuse her politely.

“She shouldn’t have to go, father,” Jon said insistently as they sat down to break their fast.

Her father turned to her. “You do not have to go if you do not wish, Sansa,” he said plainly. She looks between her father and Jon, then at her sister Arya, who would not go to tea if she tried to drag her along.

“Father, do you believe it is wise?” she asked him, thinking on how she must do her duty. Sansa is touched by the way Jon is always trying to keep her safe, but even she knows she cannot simply refuse a Queen. A Queen who is to be her goodmother, no less.

“Likely not, my child,” Ned said sadly. “But I will not force you.”

“I thought you loved the Queen,” Arya said somewhat petulantly, but also a bit curiously.

“Arya,” Jon said in warning, to which their little sister rolled her eyes.

“Not anymore,” Sansa said quietly. She would not say as much if even her Septa were here, but they are alone for now and Sansa can be honest. She’d thought the world of Cersei when she first met her, a beautiful and glamorous Queen whom she wanted to emulate. But after she ordered Lady killed, and she and Joffrey bore matching smirks as Sansa wept, she could no longer believe the woman was good or kind as Sansa assumed.

“Then don’t go,” Arya shrugged.

Sansa shook her head. “It isn’t that simple,” she said.

“Why not?” Arya asked.

“She is the prince’s betrothed,” her father remarked. She noticed Jon clench his jaw and shift in his seat at her father’s words. Sansa knows Jon is uncomfortable with her betrothal, but there is nothing to be done about it. The Baratheon and Stark houses were meant to be joined before with King Robert wedding Lyanna, which never came to be after her poor aunt’s kidnapping and death. Now she and Joffrey were to repair this rupture, and Sansa knew she could not simply break a betrothal with the crown prince. It would be a huge insult to the royal family, and Sansa didn’t like to think of the position it would leave the entire family in if her father tried to break the agreement now.

“I will go,” Sansa told him, ending the discussion even as she dreaded the meeting.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jon whispered as he pulled her to the side later as she finished plaiting her hair.

“Jon, I cannot avoid them forever,” she said. It was her duty to show Queen Cersei the proper respect, just as it was her duty to marry Prince Joffrey. How was it that the thing she had wanted most became the thing she most feared? She couldn’t be the person she was before Lady’s death, but she needed to play her part nonetheless, for the sake of the realm.

“I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he reassured her, eyes gentle but imploring. Jon was really the perfect gentleman, Sansa thought. It was strange, that he seemed more a prince than Joffrey to her.

“I know, Jon,” she said with a smile, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. Jon stammered and turned red, and Sansa bit back a laugh at the sight of it. Jon was quite handsome indeed, she wondered how it was he never appeared interested in the many girls at Winterfell that would moon at him.

When she sat down to tea with Cersei, the Queen studied her with green, cat-like eyes, as if she desired Sansa to spill all her secrets. “Thank you for joining me today, little dove,” Cersei said, her smile tight. Sansa had grown to despise the pet name. She thinks me a foolish girl. Sansa wanted to reply that she was a wolf, but Cersei had taken that from her, hadn’t she?

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sansa said politely as she sipped the tea and set it back on its dish.

“I fear we haven’t seen nearly enough of each other,” the Queen said, letting the statement hang awkwardly in the air. It was thick with an intention of some sort, perhaps to prompt an apology.

“Pardon, Your Grace. I suppose I am merely growing used to the capitol. It is quite different from home,” Sansa said with a smile as forced as Cersei’s.

“Of course, little dove,” she said in a motherly tone, reaching over to pat Sansa’s hand. “Though I hope you know you can always confide in me. Come to me with whatever you might need. It must be hard, without your mother here,” she said with a light smirk and quirk of her brow as she ran her forefinger along the rim of her teacup. “And of course, we will need to begin planning the wedding soon.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa agreed, nodding and ignoring the woman’s intended barb at the mention of her mother. I will have to get used to nodding, Sansa thinks. She refuses to think further on a wedding to Prince Joffrey. It will not occur until Sansa is at least six and ten which is still moons away. And, Sansa thinks, she and her father may be able to delay it further so her mother and maybe even her brothers can attend. Anything to hold off a little longer gives heart to Sansa.

Cersei tilted her head curiously. “Have you spoken to Prince Joffrey lately?” she asked, and Sansa could tell she tried to pass the remark off casually, though it didn’t feel that way; not to Sansa’s ears.

“No, Your Grace, but I understand the prince is busy,” she replied.

Cersei sighed. “Young men can be so…complicated, I suppose. But I know Joffrey loves you,” the Queen said. The older woman studied Sansa’s face at her words.

Sansa knew she was being played, but tried not to show it. Better to let Cersei think she is that foolish girl. It was safer. “As I love the prince, Your Grace.”

Cersei finished her tea. “Of course you do, little dove. Nonetheless, I will speak to my son. He shouldn’t neglect you so,” she said sweetly.

Sansa gulped. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. After more trifling conversation Sansa was dismissed, leaving with a stiff curtsy. She let out a long breath as she took Jon’s proffered arm.

“I fear we will be seeing more of Joffrey,” she whispered to him. No one was in the hall with them, but Sansa feared someone could come upon them quickly.

Jon scowled. “I know. I heard,” he said.

“You were listening?” Sansa asked. Jon’s eyes went wide and he bumbled awkwardly.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, I was just—I was trying to keep you safe and I was close to the door and—”

“It’s alright, Jon,” she said with a light laugh. He smiled at her genuinely, Jon’s eyes crinkling at the corners. It was a rare sight: Jon’s smile.  She felt a warmth in her chest whenever she coaxed one from him. They walked in a companionable silence back to the Hand’s chambers.

When they get inside Jon looks at her nervously. “Sansa, would you mind coming to my solar for a moment?” he asked.

She hesitated for only a second. Sansa felt it was a little improper, but why should it be improper? He is her half-brother, after all, it isn’t as if Jon would ever—

Ever what, Sansa? She doesn’t know what she was thinking for that half a second, but it is enough to make her blush as she follows Jon to his solar.

“I um, well, I got you something,” Jon said shyly.

“You did?” she asked, furrowing her brow. Sansa didn’t want to admit she’d been a little jealous when she’d found out about Jon giving Arya Needle when they parted before. She knew he favored Arya just as she favored Robb. But still, it was nice that he thought of her.

“I did,” he confirmed with a small smile. Jon went over to his drawer and pulled something wrapped in a light cloth out. He presented Sansa with a dragonfly pendant, silver she thought, with two small sapphires for eyes. “I know how much you like dragonflies and well, the blue jewels made me think of your eyes.”

Sansa’s breath caught. “Jon, it’s beautiful. I love it,” she said with a smile, holding it tenderly at her chest.

“I couldn’t afford to have it made into a necklace,” he said sheepishly.

She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it—I can wear it as a pin or find a chain for it. Even if I just kept it in a jewelry box, I would love it,” Sansa beamed at him. It really was so beautiful and thoughtful. He remembered I like dragonflies. Jon smiled at her and without thinking she pressed a kiss to his cheek again. “Thank you,” she said quietly, ducking her head. Perhaps she had been too familiar.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said hoarsely, and her eyes lifted to meet his. Jon’s eyes were shining with something Sansa couldn’t name, but it somehow made his dark eyes look bright.

The moment was broken as they heard Arya bounding in with her instructor Syrio. “Jon! Jon! You have to see what I learned today,” she yelled excitedly. His eyes met hers again and they laughed together softly at their sister.

“I’m coming,” Jon called back, and he and Sansa joined them in the common room.

“Oh, Sansa,” Arya said in surprise, looking between them for a moment. “I guess you can watch too, if you want.” She and Arya were getting along better than before, and Sansa didn’t want to get her hopes up too much, but maybe they had really turned a corner with each other. Sansa nodded in agreement and sat on the settee next to Jon as Arya demonstrated with Syrio some sword tricks she couldn’t follow, but in which Jon seemed immensely interested and Arya enjoyed.

Her little sister moved deftly, with skill and grace, a kind of dedication Sansa had never seen from Arya before. Sansa supposed it was easier for Arya to dedicate herself to such pursuits than things like embroidery. At Jon’s urging, she is trying to understand that Arya is different and just because they have different interests, it doesn’t mean one is better than the other. Arya needn’t disdain Sansa’s courtesies and skills at court, and Sansa needn’t disdain Arya’s swordfighting. That if Sansa showed respect for Arya’s interests, maybe Arya might show respect back to Sansa. In truth, she had her doubts. But Sansa was the elder sister so she would try. She only worried a little what their mother would think about all this. “It is like a dance,” Sansa said.

Arya looked at her and huffed. “It’s not like that!”

She thinks I’m mocking her. We have mocked each other far too long.

“Arya,” Jon said.

“I—I only meant you moved gracefully,” Sansa said.

Syrio nodded. “The best swordfighting is an art much like dance,” he said.

Arya softened, though there was still a measure of skepticism about her. Regardless, Arya eventually broke into a smile and said, “thank you, Sansa.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. Arya gingerly moved toward her and gave her a hug. Sansa had a moment of surprise before returning it. When she looked over Arya’s shoulder, Jon was looking back at her, smiling.

Chapter Text

Ned Stark has always had the reputation of an honest man. Of course, Ned knows that for the most part, this is true to how he strives to live his life. From the very beginning of growing into the man he would become, when he was faced with the prospect of taking the claim of his father and Brandon, he’d known he would have to live as honorably as possible. It was the only way Ned felt he could begin to serve the North and the Stark legacy. It was never supposed to be him. It was supposed to go from his father to his brother Brandon. In the beginning, he’d even felt guilty for marrying Catelyn, the beautiful young woman meant for his brother.

And then, of course, there was his sister Lyanna. Perhaps it was a bit easier to process the deaths of his father and brother knowing he had a war to fight—to protect his little sister. Ned wanted to see the Mad King Aerys held responsible for his crimes against his family and the realm itself. And yet, if he is honest with himself—and he tries to be such with himself in everything, even the secrets he keeps—his driving force became saving his only sister. Ned couldn’t bring back his father or his brother. But he could rescue Lyanna from the brute Targaryen who had kidnapped her.

And so it was that when he found her on that fateful day in the Tower of Joy, everything he thought he knew began to collapse in upon itself. His sister—not kidnapped but in love. Ned still believed Rhaegar had taken advantage of his young sister, but she had insistently made her choice, as Ned found that Stark stubbornness in her just as indelible as always. He could question how he might have helped her—might have pressed Robert to be a better man she wouldn’t dread marrying—or found a way to end the betrothal, though it was ultimately a decision left to his father and perhaps his elder brother. But it was too late for such speculation. He only wanted whatever time he had left with his sister and her newborn son.

Promise me, Ned. She had implored him. And he could never have refused her. He could not save his sister—but he could save her babe. He could make Jon his son. Ned loved the boy immediately. He knew that both for the sake of his sister and the sake of the babe, he would cast aside his honor and protect Jon. It was strange enough, to think of his wife’s house words when he moved North knowing the anguish that awaited his young marriage. Family. Duty. Honor.

Jon was family, and he would come before Ned’s honor, before his duty. He had not expected Catelyn to be happy about it—he expected that she would hate him, in fact. He hadn’t told her—and even seventeen years later, he isn’t sure he’d made the right decision. Yet, Ned and Catelyn were virtually strangers, no matter that they were wedded and bedded, that she had given him Robb. With Ned the Lord of Winterfell, Catelyn would have no choice to accept Jon’s presence as his bastard. His invocation of that power over her likely stung as much as the belief that he’d bedded another woman. He saw little choice in the matter, however. If Catelyn knew the truth that Jon was a Targaryen…

Even then he’d known his wife was not a callous or cruel person. But, new as they were to each other, new as their first son and the peace holding the Seven Kingdoms together, he feared Catelyn might tell the King. Not because she wanted to betray Ned, but because she would worry her own life and Robb’s would be in danger should the King discover the truth in another way. She was fiercely protective of her children.

As time passed, it all became harder. Harder to imagine telling his wife the truth. Harder to resolve the rift down the middle of his family.

The strangest part of it all was knowing that it was his and the Starks’ reputation for truth and honor that allowed Ned to deceive everyone for so long. If Ned committed the dishonorable act of fathering a bastard, he would surely do what he could to restore that honor by bringing the child into his home. No one, at least that Ned believed, would think that he would lie and claim a child not his own.

But in King’s Landing—he wonders. He doesn’t trust Lord Varys or Lord Baelish, no matter what Catelyn may think of the man. He doesn’t trust that this nest of vipers won’t uncover his secret hidden in plain sight. Varys was unreadable. Spies could be anywhere. Then there was Robert, a man he only occasionally recognized from his youth. It wasn’t going to be easy to bring Jon here and keep them all safe, he knew. Some part of him had always hoped that if somehow, the secret was discovered, he could talk Robert down from an immediate impulse to kill Jon. Jon, after all, was the last living piece of Lyanna, the woman he loved, despite his faults. But this was a man who was unhappy as King, unhappy with his wife, drinking to dull his boredom, and ready to send assassins to Jon’s Targaryen aunt in Essos. His paranoia is growing, and Ned cannot blame him, which makes the situation all the more dangerous. It was why he’d made Ned his Hand, wasn’t it? Because he trusted him.

Ned was looking for ways to minimize the influence of Cersei and the Lannisters. If he could follow his suspicions about Cersei. But if he needed to do this, Ned needed allies—for himself and for Robert. Not to mention, others who could assist Ned in curbing Robert’s temper and impulses. The lives of his own children may even depend on it. And who better than Robert’s blood? True Baratheons. Renly was amiable enough, but slippery. Ned needed Stannis here, and he suspected Stannis’s departure stemmed from his own suspicions of the Lannister family. Stannis was a rigid man, but Ned also believed him to carry his own sort of honor.

“Schemers everywhere, Lannisters everywhere I turn,” Robert told him in exasperation, after showing his temper to the squire serving him.

“Might it not serve to bring Stannis to King’s Landing?” Ned had suggested.

Robert shook his head. “He’s a hard one,” his friend told him, gulping back his wine.

“You want loyalty? Who better than your brothers?”

“You’re more a brother to me than either of them, Ned.” Robert had said.

“We could use his help,” Ned had argued and believed Robert to be coming around to the idea.

But Ned had felt a twist of guilt at Robert’s words. Robert saw him as his true brother. What did it mean that he’d lied to him for so many years? What would Robert do if he discovered the truth and that Ned had kept it from him?

His conscience gnaws at him day and night after his broken promise to Jon. Ned knew the time was coming. He could see it in Jon’s anger and withdrawal from him. So like Sansa after he killed Lady, Ned thought sadly. It would not go on forever. Jon would expect answers.

And yet, when Jon finally confronts him as he’d known he would, Ned feels as unprepared and nervous as if it had taken him by surprise.

“I want you to tell me of my mother,” Jon told him in his solar one evening. His son looked him in the eye, straightening to his full height as he made his case. “I have been here over a moon’s turn. You promised me when we parted. You didn’t keep that promise, and I’ve given you time. I think it is only fair, father, that you tell me something of my mother.”

Ned sighed. Jon was always a serious boy—he grew up too fast, as was the case for bastards. He was growing into a serious man. A good man, Ned believed. He knew he’d failed his son by keeping the truth from him. No matter that he was actually his nephew, Jon was his son as much as his other children were his own. But how to tell the boy that? How to tell him any of the truth? But as he looked his son in the eye, he knew he couldn’t turn him away completely. He had to give him something, though he feared Jon’s reaction. “Jon, sit,” Ned said quietly.

Jon’s eyes widened for a moment, likely surprised by his acquiescence, before he sat down and looked up at his father. “Would you like something to drink?” Ned asked, preparing himself a drink to give him something to do with his hands and to settle his nerves.

Jon considered it for a moment before nodding. Ned brought back two mugs of ale, handing one to Jon before sitting across from him. “Jon, I cannot tell you everything—”

“But—”

Ned raised a hand to halt Jon’s interruption. “I know I promised you. I will tell you some of it now, if you can be patient with me,” he said. Ned didn’t know if this was the right thing, only that it felt like the right thing. The truth would be so much to digest. In any case, he didn’t want Jon to react angrily and perhaps draw the attention of one of Varys’s little birds. There were ears and eyes everywhere. But some part of Ned felt it was also for himself—not just Jon and the rest of his family’s safety. He didn’t want Jon to hate him. He didn’t want Jon to stop thinking of Ned as his father. He should have told him ages ago, Ned thought to himself. But at first Jon was too young to understand, and he couldn’t count on the information remaining secret in a child’s hands. Then, like with Catelyn, the years passed, and it got harder and harder to think of telling him—to think of how Jon would demand to know why he hadn’t told him sooner.

“Please, father,” he said. Ned nodded and took a drink of his ale. His son seemed to mimic the action, and despite everything, it brought a small smile to his face.

“Your mother was…” Ned paused. Lyanna. Could he say it aloud? Promise me, Ned.

“Who was she?” Jon asked, leaning forward in his chair. “Was she…was she—” he cut himself off.

“Was she what?” he asked.

His son looked at him nervously. “A tavern wench? A whore?”

Ned would have choked on the ale if he’d been drinking at that moment. “No, Jon. No.” He shook his head. “She was…she was a good woman,” Ned said. Just a girl, really. Sansa was one year older than Lyanna had been. It staggered him to think of it.

Jon looked at him curiously. “Highborn?” he asked in a soft voice.

Ned nodded. “Yes.” How often, Ned wondered, had Jon thought about this? How had he never considered all the possibilities that must have flitted through Jon’s mind when he lay in bed at night? How had he ever believed that he on his own, with five other children and Winterfell and all of the North to look after, was enough for Jon?

“Who is she? Where is she? Did she not want me?” he asked in increasing desperation.

Ned’s throat felt thick as he crossed the space between them, kneeled at Jon’s seat and reached for his son. “She wanted you, son. Never doubt that. She loved you so much, Jon.” He wrapped Jon in his arms and his son cried against him.

“Then why all the secrecy? Why does she not know me? Is she alive?” he asked.

Ned squeezed his eyes shut in pain and pulled back slightly. “I’m sorry Jon,” he said thickly. He needed to be strong, but Gods this was hard.

“She’s not alive, is she?” Jon asked him, his eyes growing hard with realization.

“No, son. She died shortly after you were born,” Ned said shakily, roughly rubbing along his forehead to quell the pain causing a throbbing in his head.

Jon’s face sank as a tear ran down his cheek and Ned wiped it away. He’d made so many mistakes in his life, but perhaps Ned should have told him nothing, because he could hardly bear the pain he saw in Jon’s expression.

First Sansa. Now Jon. Am I destined to harm everyone I love?

“Did you love her?” Jon asked.

“Very, very much, Jon.” Ned felt a sad smile come to his face, the same whenever he spoke on Lyanna. He feared that might give him away.

“I need to—I think I need to go,” Jon said, standing up suddenly.

Ned stood, watching his son at the door. “We both loved you Jon. I love you, son,” he said. He rarely said it, uncomfortable with emotional displays. But Ned needed Jon to know.

Jon nodded and left the room without another word. Ned collapsed into his seat wearily, the weight of the years bearing down on him.

---

Jon couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He only knew he needed to get out. He couldn’t bear to look at his father. Jon had wanted answers—and he’d gotten them. Some of them, anyway. And now he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

His mother was dead. She’d been dead all his life if his father told true. Had his birth had something to do with it? Jon knew many a woman, especially when they were young, died in the childbed. Did his mother give her life for his own? Jon couldn’t imagine it was worth it—he was a bastard and that was all he’d ever be.

But she loved me. Father said so. Highborn. Beautiful too, Jon decided. Just as he’d always dreamed. It eased the pain in his chest a little, but he still felt tears in his eyes as he went to his own solar. He’d always thought he might meet her in person one day. It could never be. Jon stood still, his palms flat on the table in front of him, trying to collect himself. He barely realized he was moving before he was at Sansa’s door knocking.

Sansa opened the door, and somewhere in the back of his mind he was happy she was greeting her guests actively again, perhaps coming a little back to herself, but mostly—he crumpled before her. She gasped at his tears. “Jon,” she breathed and pulled him into her chambers.

 “Are you okay?” she asked, drawing him hesitantly into her embrace. Sansa rubbed along his shoulders soothingly. “What’s happened?”

Jon shook his head as it rested on Sansa’s shoulder, his tears likely staining her dress. “I—” he gasped in air sharply, trying to quell a sob. “Sansa.” He couldn’t say anything else. He just wanted Sansa—his love.  

“Jon, sit,” Sansa said calmly but not demanding. He realized she’d said just what his father had before telling him of his mother. They were more alike than they knew, Jon thought. He sat on her settee and she joined him, her knee brushing against his. He caught his breath and wiped away some of his tears.

“I’m sorry Sansa,” Jon said, feeling foolish now for running to her like a little boy.

“Do not be, Jon,” she said firmly. “What’s happened?” He looked at her as she studied him worriedly.

“My mother,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “Father told you who she is?”

“No. Not exactly,” Jon said. In his grief, he’d nearly forgotten he still didn’t know her name. “But he told me,” he took a breath so he didn’t start crying again, “he told me she died shortly after I was born.”

“Oh, Jon,” Sansa said, her brow knit in sorrow. She pulled him into her arms again, this time without hesitation. “I’m so sorry.” He held onto her at the waist.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” she asked.

This was part of the reason he had gone to her, in truth. Jon knew Sansa would not push him with loads of questions—she would try to comfort him and ask what he needed. And he felt like all he needed was her. “No,” he said as they pulled apart. “Could we just sit here for a while?”

She squeezed his hand in her own. “Of course,” Sansa said gently. And there they sit for a time, quietly, with his hand in hers. It doesn’t erase everything, but it is good all the same.

Chapter Text

Just as Sansa feared, Joffrey decides to pay her a visit a few days later. In the Hand’s chambers, it is only herself, her Septa, and Jon when the prince comes to the door. Septa Mordane answers, and when Sansa hears the woman say, “my Prince,” in greeting before taking her leave, Sansa feels cold all over. Where once there had been butterflies and anticipation at the prospect of Joffrey, now she feels her skin crawl.

Jon looked over at her, his eyes silently telling her he would keep her safe. But in truth, Sansa didn’t know if she was more afraid for herself or for Jon.

“Ah, there is my intended,” Joffrey said as he entered the room with the Hound by his side. Sansa tried not to look at the man. The scars on his face were unpleasant, but mostly it was the man’s ever-present snarl and his size that made her uneasy.

“My Prince,” she greets with a modest smile. Joffrey’s eyes gleam as she stands and curtsies. There was an interest in his eyes, one she had first taken for romantic—that he’d found her pleasing to look upon and could not turn himself away. But now, Sansa sees it is more of a fascination than genuine interest in her person or even appreciation of her beauty. No, it is the fascination he would have with exotic animals or some such like. She did not like to think on what that meant for her. Jon stands a little behind her, and eventually Joffrey’s gaze moves to him.

“So this is the bastard,” Joffrey said with a cruel smile.

Sansa hears a light scuff that could only be Jon angrily shifting on his feet behind her. She seeks to calm the situation immediately, going to Jon and bringing him forward at her side, grasping around his arm. She will properly introduce Jon as he deserves but does not usually receive.

“This is my half-brother,” she said, and she sees Jon squint at her with a sidelong glance. Oh no. Does it bother him that she calls him half-brother? It hadn’t occurred to her before that it might. It was just—well, it was the truth, wasn’t it? It was only accurate. Arya would never call him such, but she and Jon had never been like Jon and Arya.  She tries to brush off the concern for now. “And his name is Jon,” Sansa corrects Joffrey with a hint of haughtiness that is inappropriate for a prince and her betrothed at that, but she finds she cannot help it.

“Jon, is it?” he asked mockingly. “Well, Jon, I would like a moment alone with my bride to be, so get out, keep my dog company,” Joffrey said, motioning his head toward the Hound.

Jon scowled. “I doubt my father would wish me to leave Lady Sansa unattended.”

“Excuse me?” Joffrey asked in his nasally voice.

Sansa’s heart jumped in her throat watching the anger build in Joffrey’s eyes. “Jon, it is fine, you go,” she said as evenly as possible. Jon snapped his head to look at her skeptically. He wasn’t scared of Joffrey and Sansa could see why—Jon could easily take the prince in a fight. But he was the crown prince and he could have Jon killed, perhaps by his Hound. Sansa could not bear the thought of such a thing.

She willed him to see in her eyes the plea she was making with him. Sansa wanted Jon safe. Eventually he relented with a sigh and Sansa could breathe again. “I’ll be right outside,” Jon said, talking to Sansa but his eyes were on Joffrey. Jon and the Hound exited and Joffrey set his menacing green eyes back on Sansa.

She was nervous but tried not to show it. Better yet, to play off her nerves as those of a lovestruck girl, but since Lady, she wasn’t sure she could pull as much off. Still, she had to believe Joffrey was not fool enough to harm her now—she was his betrothed, such an action would be inexcusable. (Wouldn’t it?).

“Sworn shields,” he said with a contemptuous eye roll. How had she missed it before? “Tiresome beasts they are. I could get rid of him once we are wed, my Lady.” Sansa could not tell if it was more intended as a threat or an offer that, in Joffrey’s twisted mind, seemed generous. Mostly because he sounded bored.

“No, my Prince,” Sansa said, trying to show composure. She couldn’t show Joffrey how much she cared for Jon for it could make him Joffrey’s target. “He is loyal and quite suitable for his role.”

Joffrey studied her. “Loyal to you or loyal to the crown?” he asked.

Sansa gulped. “Both of course, my Prince.” He smiled, seeming amused at some private joke.

“Of course,” he agreed, stepping closer to her, and it took everything within her not to step back. “You and I and the crown, we are all one and the same, are we not?” His face softened as he brought a palm to her cheek. Inside she squirmed at the feel of his clammy hand on her skin but gave no outward indication of her distress.

Was he actually trying to court her now? It could only be his mother. “Yes, my Prince, we are one,” Sansa said sweetly and falsely, remembering Cersei’s lilt when they had tea and mimicking it.

“Good,” he said softly. He then framed her face with both hands. “I’m afraid I’ve behaved monstrously these past few weeks.”

Sansa says nothing, knowing it is wise neither to contradict or agree. “You are my lady now. You will be my wife. My Queen. I will never be cruel to you again,” Joffrey said, still in that deceptively soft voice.

And oh, it scares her to think how easily she could have fallen for this. But not now. Not with what happened to Lady. Not now with Jon here. She isn’t quite sure what Jon has to do with it, only that he’s given her strength she feared she would have lost along with her wolf. Sansa smiles at her betrothed nonetheless.

“I’ve brought you something,” he said, pulling out a necklace with a locket, a lion engraved on its face. “May I?” Joffrey asked gently.

She turned around knowing she had no other choice. She can only think of Jon’s dragonfly currently pinned along her lapel. Jon’s gift was beautiful, thoughtful, and borne from his knowledge of Sansa. But this gift was nothing but Joffrey marking her. Curiously, as a lion rather than a stag. “It’s like your mother’s,” she said as she turned back to face him. Sansa hadn’t meant to say it so directly, but truly that is what the necklace is. Perhaps Cersei decided this too.

Joffrey smiles, thinking her pleased. “She is a Queen. As you will be.” He cups her face between his palms again and leans forward. Sansa can’t help but draw back a little in instinct, for she does not wish to kiss the prince. Must her first kiss be with him? All of her kisses will be, she thinks forlornly.

Joffrey looks at her lips and back to her eyes. “Nervous, are you?” he asked with a light laugh. But there was something dark beneath it. She pulled further away only for Joffrey to pull her close again. “You are my lady,” he said again, voice somewhat caught between his attempt at chivalry and the cruelty of his nature. “It is only natural for us to share a kiss.”

“Pardon, my Prince, I have never—” she stammered nervously, tensing in his arms and shaking her head as she tried in vain to pull away.

“Hush, girl,” he commanded in a low harsh voice. He forcibly pressed his lips to hers. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as Joffrey’s lips pushed harder and hers went still.

Eventually he pulled away. “You will have to get better at that,” Joffrey said matter-of-factly, “not so frigid.”

“Yes, my Prince,” she said meekly, hoping her disgust would merely seem demure and shy. Sansa must have succeeded from the way he smirked and straightened, as if his mission for the visit had been accomplished. He turned to leave and Sansa steeled herself not to cry. She didn’t wish to alarm Jon. She wished to be strong. For her family. For the realm.

---

Sansa is nearly white as his wolf when Jon returns, and he bounds over to her immediately. “Sansa, what happened?” he asked, gently caressing her arms and checking her over for injury. “I’ll kill him,” Jon said, moving away only for Sansa to pull him back.

“No, Jon,” she said. “It’s alright. Nothing happened. And you can’t say things like that,” she reminded him.

“I know something happened,” he said. Sansa looked visibly shaken.

He noticed the necklace around her throat. “A gift?” Jon nodded to the locket embossed with a lion. His voice sounded foreign to his ears. Suddenly he wanted to pommel Joffrey for another reason. He looked to his own gift, her dragonfly pendant on her lapel. His gifts could never compare, he thought dejectedly.

Sansa looked down at the necklace around her throat and began to pull it off. “Yes. Probably from Cersei, in truth,” she remarked, tossing the necklace onto the table in disgust. Jon was well aware he should not feel so pleased by that, but he was anyway.

“Sansa—talk to me, what happened?”

She sighed tiredly. His love wrapped her arms around herself protectively and he wanted nothing more but to take her in his own. But Jon feared she might not welcome his touch, skittish as she’d become since Joffrey’s visit.

“Nothing, really—Jon, can we not talk about it?” Sansa asked.

Jon wanted to protest, but then he remembered how Sansa had let him be the other night after he’d learned of his mother. Something had changed between them more since then. They’d already been growing closer, but now, Jon felt more than ever that Sansa was his safe place and he wanted to be that for her. He wouldn’t push her. “Alright, we’ll not talk of it until you’re ready.”

They sat down next to each other and Jon wondered how long they’d have until Septa Mordane returned. Time alone with his love was his greatest treasure, and Joffrey’s presence a sharp reminder that soon, they’d have less such time. Sansa would be another man’s wife. He’d known he’d never have a wife or a family. When Uncle Benjen had tried to tell him that he didn’t understand what he’d be giving up by taking the black, something inside him snarled angrily. Jon well knew the feeling of never having what one would want. He could not have Sansa. He could not have Winterfell. The truth was he had nothing to offer a woman. And of course, Jon knew in his heart that he wanted no wife or children unless he could have it with Sansa. He could not even let himself dream—for it would only lead to dashed hopes.

Jon was so caught up in his thoughts it took him several moments to notice Sansa studying him intently. He looked at her. She looked at him. The air was heavy. Something was shifting between them, but he knew not what. Sansa turned to him more fully, looking as if she was steeling herself for what she was about to say.

---

“Jon,” Sansa said nervously, fighting the urge to fidget in her seat and look away from him.

“Yes?” he asked, leaning closer to Sansa.

“I um, I wanted to ask you something. About earlier,” she said, feeling her face heat and imagining she must have a blush. Why did this feel such a strange thing to ask?

“Yes?” Jon prompted, and he waited patiently in such a way it made her smile a little.

“When I introduced you to Joffrey, and I called you my half-brother,” she paused, feeling Jon take a sharp breath. “Did it bother you? Does it, I mean? When I call you half-brother?”

Jon’s eyes flitted between hers intently and she could see his throat bob as he swallowed. He cleared his throat before speaking. “I—um, no. It doesn’t bother me,” he said in a low voice.

Sansa nervously rubbed her right wrist with her left thumb. “I never really gave it much thought before. I know Arya would never put it that way—”

Jon reached for her hands, halting her anxious motions. His touch was warm and soothing. “It’s alright, Sansa. It’s different,” he said gently.

“Different,” she echoed faintly. Sansa watched his eyes drift to her lips. Involuntarily she did the same. Different. Always different, the two of them. Something inside was nagging at her. Something she’d never cared to examine all that much.

Something that now seemed unavoidable here in this room with Jon.

Something about why she always called him half-brother.

“We’re not full siblings,” Sansa said, sounding almost…defensive.

“No,” Jon agreed hoarsely. “We’re not,” he said, his gaze flickering between her eyes and her mouth. She felt she understood now, that they both did, even if she couldn’t put it into words.

Sansa thought back to Joffrey and how he looked at her. Never as soft, and never as sweet as Jon’s eyes felt upon her. How even in Winterfell, a part of her compared them. How she’d fallen in love with Waymar, unconsciously seeing a knight close to what she’d truly wanted. She thought about Joffrey’s lips upon hers, wormy and forceful. It was nothing like she’d thought a first kiss to be. Nothing like she’d imagined.

Sansa let out a breath shakily and looked down to her lap. Knowing now what she wanted—wrong as it was. What she had imagined—whom she had imagined—when she thought of her first kiss, somewhere in the back of her mind. To feel Jon’s lips upon hers. She had wanted it for longer than she had known. For longer than Sansa had admitted to herself. This was why she’d called him such, never allowing the idea that he was like her other brothers. What sort of lady was she—to want her own half-brother? But thinking of her life with Joffrey, knowing he would never be as good or kind as Jon, could she perhaps give herself, give them both, this? The way Jon looked at her, she believed there was a chance he felt the same.

As she’d broken their eye contact, Jon of course took notice and brought a palm to her shoulder entreatingly. “Sansa?”

---

Sansa looked back up at him and Jon felt his breath catch. It was as if every part of his body was hyper aware of her own. Jon didn’t know what to think. His love stared at him almost desperately. “Sansa?” he said again. Jon needed her to say something. He didn’t know what to do, something foreign and intoxicating settling over them. Jon needed her to guide him through it because he had no direction, no reference point for this. Whatever it was.

Finally, Sansa spoke, and it was not at all what he expected. “What happened before—Joffrey, he kissed me,” she said in a quiet voice.

Coal hot rage and jealousy burned in his stomach and chest. It was not right, the way his insides cried out at what felt like an egregious injustice. That Joffrey should have his lips on her, should have his hands—

“I’ll kill him,” he muttered again. Sansa startled him by pressing her forefinger to his lips.

“Hush. You cannot speak of such things,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. He knew she was right. But from everything that happened since Lady, and how upset she’d been when Joffrey had left, Jon knew this was not a kiss she’d wanted. And so his anger burned brighter than just his jealousy as the need to protect her took over. “I’ll tell father,” he said.

Sansa grabbed his free hand. “And say what? That my betrothed kissed me?” She smiled at him sadly.

“That he took liberties—”

“Liberties which are his to take,” Sansa said defeatedly.

“No! That isn’t true, Sansa. Maybe we can get father to break the betrothal.” He was near desperate now.

“It’s dangerous, Jon.” He could tell Sansa was trying to reason with him. But it only served to agitate him more.

“I cannot just stand by, Sansa,” Jon said. “I cannot.” She gently cupped his cheek in her palm. By the Gods it did things to him when she touched him like that.

“I—Jon,” she croaked. He took her face in his hands and she stared at him helplessly.

“What can I do, Sansa?”

She studied him. “Would you…” Sansa trailed off apprehensively.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“Would you kiss me?” Sansa asked.

Jon could have sworn his heart stopped at her words. “What?” Surely, she could not have just said what he heard, could she?

“I want you to kiss me, Jon. I’d never been kissed before and I don’t want to have Joffrey’s lips on mine as the memory I’ll carry with me. I want you to be my true first kiss,” she said boldly.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmured, shaking his head as his thumbs swept across her cheekbones. But already Jon knew he likely was not strong enough to deny her.

Her forehead crinkled. “Do you not want me?” she asked.

“Of course I want you,” Jon said without hesitation—without forethought, the truth falling from his lips before he could even think to stop it. His love smiled at his words and Jon felt a floating sensation, a fluttering feeling in his chest.

“Well, then,” Sansa whispered, leaning toward him. He pulled back slightly. 

“But Sansa. You are betrothed, and I am—”

“My half-brother,” she said.

“Half,” he agreed. It was a feeble rationalization, but Jon found he did not care at that moment. “I’ve never kissed anyone,” Jon said. He’d had opportunities, serving girls who’d liked him. Robb had taken him to a brothel once, and he’d nearly kissed a woman there named Ros. But he couldn’t. Her hair was a similar shade to Sansa’s and he would have felt shame swallow him to have kissed her, knowing he’d be thinking of Sansa and oddly feeling as if he were cheating on her at the same time, though she’d never been his.

But now, at least for this moment, Sansa could be. He didn’t want to let her down with his inexperience though.

She smiled softly. “Then it will be the first kiss for us both,” Sansa said so sweetly. Any fight left in him evaporated. She leaned forward and Jon followed her.

Ever so gently, Jon pressed his lips to hers. Soft. Her mouth was soft. Her rosy lips pressed back against his. One of Jon’s hands caressed the nape of her neck. She shivered against him, and Jon pressed his lips a little harder. They moved slowly, tilting their heads to the side, exploring each other shyly.

He could not give thought as to how wrong it was. Not when it felt so right. They pulled apart slightly, catching their heavy breaths as he rested his forehead against hers. “Sansa,” he whispered in awe.

“Jon,” she answered and pressed her lips to his again. Her mouth parted and Jon felt dizzy. He tentatively traced her lips with his tongue, and Sansa gasped, opening wider, allowing her tongue to meet his. Their tongues caressed each other lightly as Sansa’s hands held him close, gripping his shoulders. One hand went to her waist and pulled her closer. Jon knew he should stop this. This was more than just a light first kiss. But he couldn’t bring himself to end it. Each brush of his lips against hers affirming his love, affection, devotion—his desire to never be parted from her.

Their kiss began winding down, moving to lighter and lighter pecks until they eventually pulled apart. Sansa smiled at him dazedly. Her lips were kiss-swollen and her cheeks a rosy shade of pink. He felt pride at making her look at him like that, slightly mussed but just as radiant as always. Jon ran a hand through her soft as silk hair.

The Gods would damn him—of that he was certain. But Jon didn’t care. He’d do anything Sansa asked of him. Her knight, her half-brother, her love, any or all of these things—Jon would be for her. It mattered not. The only thing that mattered now was that Jon was hers: utterly and completely.

Chapter Text

It was dangerous to give a bastard hope. This Jon knew. And yet, when Sansa smiled at him or held her soft hand in his as they ventured to the Godswood, Jon found that he could not help it.

Sansa gave him hope. Jon knew his love would never fully be his, but he could be hers and she would be his in whatever limited way she could, until she was wed. Jon knew Joffrey would never show Sansa the kindness and gentle love she deserved, and if Jon could give her this now, a reprieve, then he would do it.

This is how he justifies it to himself, as Sansa sneaks him into her chambers at night when everyone else is asleep. She tugs him to her bed, and Jon’s heart thuds in his chest. “I will not take your maidenhead,” he whispered to her as she crawled into his lap and his arms engulfed her protectively.

“I’m not asking you to,” Sansa whispered against his lips, and as much as he knows they cannot, a tiny part of him feels disappointed. But it is quickly done away with, because how could he feel anything but elation at the feeling of his love in his embrace? “Just love me,” she pleaded, fingers curling into the nape of his neck.

“Yes, Sansa,” he said, planting kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her jaw, soft as a feather down her neck. “Yes, my love,” Jon confessed against her skin and she shudders against him. She is layering kisses of her own around his jawline.

“Do you mean it?” Sansa asked, a light tremble in her voice.

Jon pulls back to look at her beautiful face, brushes her hair behind her ear, his thumb raising her chin so Sansa meets his eyes. “I mean every word. I love you, Sansa,” he told her. Sansa’s breath hitches as her mouth opens in slight shock, before she launches herself toward him again, crushing her lips to his. Jon meets her passionately, tongues dancing together until he feels like he has no air. But he would not stop. Would never stop—if only he could do this forever.

Jon holds Sansa’s body against his, clutching with a palm on her back and another on her hip to help her keep balance. He will not touch Sansa in more places, the places he guiltily imagines, unless she gives permission. “Jon,” she breathed as her lips left his, “I love you too.” Jon gulped a breath, stunned speechless by her words in the most wondrous fashion.

He must be looking at her searchingly for his love begins to explain herself. “I have been a fool, Jon,” Sansa said, her eyes casting downward as an errant tear escapes her eye.

Jon kisses it away gently. “Never, my love,” he murmured.

“I have. All this time, Jon. I was looking for my prince and he was right in front of me all along,” she said shakingly. “I never allowed myself to admit it, but I never thought of you like Robb or Bran or Rickon. You must have thought me terrible—”

“No, Sansa. I never thought of you the same way either. I couldn’t, Sansa. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t.”

She smiled shyly at him. “Kiss me again,” she asked with a furrow of her brow, as if she might actually expect him to refuse her. Jon captured Sansa’s sweet mouth with his own. She squirmed in his lap and Jon hissed at her motions. She pulled back slightly. “Am I hurting you?”

“No, no. You’re definitely not hurting me,” he mumbled in embarrassment, feeling his face heat. Sansa looks at him inquisitively before a dawning realization appears on her face.

“Oh,” she said in surprise, a giggle falling from her lips. Jon doesn’t know how much she knows about men and women and the marriage bed, though he imagines she must know something as she is betrothed to be wed after she turns six and ten…

No. Jon will not allow himself to think of that now. Not when he has more than he ever thought he would. For now, he is Jon and she is Sansa and he’s telling her sweet words and she’s returning his affections, and no one can take this moment away from him. Sansa leans forward to kiss him once more and experimentally rocks her hips against him. Jon moans deep in his throat, making her laugh against his chest.  

“Is that funny, my love?” he growled against her lips.

“A little,” she admits, nipping along his bottom lip. Jon returns the favor and rocks his hips upward, and a high-pitched whine escapes from her as he does so.

They continued to kiss and move their bodies together in a strange heretofore unknown dance. For how long, Jon knows not. Jon only knows that by the time he leaves Sansa’s chambers, it is still before dawn with him telling her to get some sleep before a quick goodnight kiss. A dark voice inside him questions if she’ll really go to sleep right away, or if she will reach beneath her shift to bring herself release as he will surely do in his own chambers. By the time he lies in his bed to attempt sleep, Jon knows it is with a dopey grin on his face.

---

Lord Stannis Baratheon is set to soon arrive in King’s Landing, and his lord father becomes busier than ever before. Jon is having a much more difficult time seeing his father on a regular basis, he is always in a meeting or somewhere in the capitol. He cannot help but have a foreboding feeling about it all. And he knows he is not alone. Sansa is nervous too.

In the Godswood they pray, sometimes with Arya coming along. Today, however, they are alone. “Do you believe father will go on the hunt with the King?” she asked him quietly.

“I do not know, but I doubt it. He won’t want to leave us here,” Jon answered. He had a feeling Sansa felt safer, too, with their father close by—he would make a point to tell his father as much when he sees him.

Jon is still pondering the possibility of approaching his father to end Sansa’s betrothal. Sansa had been adamant, though, that they mustn’t create more trouble. She was ready to do her duty, no matter her fear, and it gave Jon a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

When Jory returns in the evening and Jon questions his father’s whereabouts, Jory reveals nothing except to say that he is in the city seeing to his duties. Jon, Sansa, and Arya share a glance. He mulls it over for a moment before asking Jory to watch over his sisters.

“You’re not to leave the Keep,” Jory reminded him with a stern brow.

“I will stay on castle grounds,” Jon told him. Sansa looks at them anxiously. He gives her a reassuring smile and makes his leave.

He finds his father at a forge in Flea Bottom, talking to a blacksmith that looks around Jon’s age. Jon doesn’t approach, but he knows he is in for trouble when his father catches his eye and frowns. Nonetheless, Ned finishes the conversation before making his way over to Jon. He has a darkened, hard, almost stone-faced look about him. “What are you doing here? Your orders were to stay in the Keep.”

“The girls were worried. Don’t blame Jory, I lied to him.” He wouldn’t admit to his father that he was worried too.

Ned sighed and looked at him wearily. “You know better,” he said, hands on his hips. The ghost of his mother still lies between them. Jon pushes it away. He does not think he can afford to think on it too long just now.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Jon admitted. “You came here alone, no guards?” he asked, looking about their surroundings and imagining all the danger that could befall the Hand of the King.

“I can take care of myself,” his father said and guided him to start walking back to the Keep. Jon knows his father is avoiding the issue—why come alone unless he was hiding something? Was Jon about to blow his cover? He would need to be more careful, but he also needed his father to give him more information if he wanted to protect Sansa and Arya. If there were threats he needed to know about them.

“How can I keep them safe, if you do not talk to me?” he asked his father in his solar after they’d made their return.

Ned narrowed his eyes as he studied Jon. “If you weren’t here to protect your sisters, I’d be taking your sword for disobeying me,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. He tried not to think about what his father might do if he discovered what Jon was doing with Sansa in the night or whenever they had a spare moment alone.  

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose angrily. “I have it handled. You and your sisters must obey me or I cannot protect you, do you understand?”

Jon felt the anger in his father’s tone lash through him. Whatever was going on, his father would not be pushed. “Yes father,” he said mechanically, his own anger threatening to take over so he left his father’s solar quickly.

---

It is the strangest thing, to hold joy and trepidation both so keenly in her heart.

Sansa knows it is perhaps silly to find herself blushing whenever Jon gives her one of his half-smiles. Knows it is most unladylike to feel a burst of heat when she watches Jon spar in the training yards, his jaw set firmly in concentration, his taut muscles working, and his graceful body moving about as if he was a weapon all on his own. Sometimes he catches her looking at the end of a match, and he sends her a little wink that makes her bite her lip as her tummy flutters.

“You’re acting weird,” Arya observed, squinting at her elder sister as if she could uncover the cause of Sansa’s change in demeanor.

Sansa stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. Arya, she can tell, does not quite believe her. But Sansa doubted Arya would ever guess the truth of it. Or, so she hoped. Arya always thought of Jon as her true brother. Such things would not occur to her.

Glorious things pass between her and Jon, things she’d only heard whispers of—things of which her mother or her Septa would never speak.

It will be painful that first time. Yet, in time it can become pleasurable, her mother had told her of the marriage bed.

She and Jon do not venture so far. But Sansa had never known about the shivers and goosebumps that trail her skin when Jon nips along her earlobe. Or the satisfying push-pull of their bodies pressed together.

And it is terribly romantic, the way Jon gazes at her adoringly when he caresses her cheek.

Sansa brings his hesitant hands to her breasts one night, and Jon’s eyes grow dark and wide as if they could devour her whole. He kneads them with strong, warm palms. She mewls against him.

“Shh, we must be quiet, my love,” he tells her. My love. The endearment slips so easily from his lips and it warms something in her chest each time.

Oh, how easily she could allow herself to fall into nothing but daydreams of Jon’s kisses, Jon’s touches, their blossoming love which expands beneath her ribcage.

But she knows that she cannot forget where they are—how precarious their position is. Jon would never forget—his duty as his sisters’ sworn shield could never allow him to do so. Her duty as Joffrey’s betrothed requires the same.

Something more is happening, they suspect. Her father is more avoidant than ever. Not only with her, as Sansa had come to expect, but to Jon and Arya as well. The children he’d felt more kinship with, the children who more closely resembled him. The children whom he loved more—

No, no. Sansa tells herself. He doesn’t love her less. Deep down she knows it is true. Jon and her father have reached a strange sort of impasse after discussing his mother. But her father’s easy ways with Arya always stung a little more—for they were the two girls of the family. She and Arya could not help but compare themselves to one another. What one had, the other seemed to lack and vice versa. What should it mean, though, for their father to pull away from all of them?

And this isn’t her only worry. Cersei has acquired a kind of restlessness that Sansa is unfamiliar with in the Queen, usually so polished and put together. It was the sort of thing that Sansa had once admired in the woman. Now, however, she seems to have developed a distinctive temper, an aggravation underlying all her words and deeds. If Sansa wasn’t mistaken, it appeared as if there was a sort of desperation about her now. The Queen calls upon her more frequently, and she catches the woman looking at her from afar in passing moments. Sansa struggles not to fidget under her gaze—a restrained panic rising within her at the thought that somehow, Cersei knows.

Knows what Sansa does in the dark with her Jon.

Her Jon. For that is what he is, and she cannot find it in herself to be sorry for it.

---

When the Queen calls her to her solar one day, Sansa fears she is to face accusations from her future goodmother. Jon stays outside the door, and she knows he will listen closely, and she draws bravery from the knowledge of his presence close by. But the Queen is not accusing. Cersei is drinking wine earlier in the day that Sansa would expect. Her eyes are a little glassy from drink, and Sansa smells the sharp scent of the liquor when she kisses her cheek stiffly and greets her: “little dove.”

“My Queen,” Sansa said, dropping into a curtsey.

Cersei regards her in a detached fashion as Sansa rises. She brushes Sansa’s hair back from her face. “You’re not wearing Joffrey’s locket,” she remarked with a hint of displeasure.

Sansa’s hand jumps to her throat, finding it bare. Gods, she’d meant to put it on. “An oversight, my Queen. I had a maid polish it and forgot to put it back on—it is almost too beautiful to wear,” she said with a practiced smile.

Cersei arches her brow slightly but seems to accept her answer, taking a sip of her wine. “It matches mine,” Cersei said, palming her own locket and Sansa smiled as the necklace caught the light. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, though it repulsed her for what it represented. “We will look like mother and daughter,” she whispers.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa said. I will never be your daughter. Perhaps by law but never in my heart.

Ladies maids’ bustle about them, and Cersei pulls Sansa to the center of the room and calls for a seamstress to take Sansa’s measurements. Sansa looks to Cersei in silent question. She isn’t aware of any upcoming event which would require Cersei’s seamstresses to work with Sansa.

“We shall start work on your wedding dress, little dove,” the Queen said with a flourish of her hand instructing another maid to bring forth a bolt of ivory fabric for inspection.

“My dress?” Sansa stammered in confusion. “Is it not early, my Queen?”

Cersei smiles at her in a way she cannot read. “It is never too early, is it? I had thought you would enjoy it. I remember when there was a time you couldn’t wait to be Joffrey’s bride.”

“Certainly, Your Grace,” Sansa said, biting back her discomfort.

“That is good to hear,” Cersei said. “I thought to share an idea, little dove,” the Queen said conspiratorially, leaning in as if they were two girls gossiping.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Since you are so excited to wed Joffrey, I thought we might move your wedding up,” Cersei said, grasping Sansa’s forearm in a falsely tender gesture, the feel of Cersei’s thumb brushing across her skin making Sansa wish to shudder in a way wholly unlike when she is in Jon’s arms.

“Pardon—Your Grace, I’m not sure I understand,” Sansa replied. Her voice comes out much steadier than she feels, and Sansa is relieved for it, even as a mounting alarm builds in her once more. “My betrothal agreement says I am to wed after I turn six and ten—”

“Easily remedied when the King returns,” she said lightly. “You may put in a good word with your father in the meantime.”

Sansa nods. She will not break or tremble before this woman and her schemes. A hasty knock at the door interrupts them.

Cersei bids the person enter with irritation. Sansa is not surprised to see Jon, face blank, mouth a firm line. “Pardon, Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “The Lady Sansa’s Septa has sent word she expects her right away.” Sansa knows it is a lie immediately. Whether Cersei knows too, Sansa cannot tell.

“Very well,” Cersei said, “I suppose we’ve finished with your measurements.” She steps closer to Sansa, and in her periphery, she sees the way Jon’s sword hand flexes. “Remember what I’ve told you, little dove,” she whispered to her. Sansa nods once more and soon she and Jon are taking their leave.

Jon clings her arm to his closely as he rushes through the corridors. “We must speak to father,” he said tightly.

“Jon,” she faltered. Jon stops for just a moment to look at her. She can see his wish to hold her closer, to kiss away her fears.

“It will be alright, Sansa,” he told her with gentle eyes that made her believe him despite everything that suggested the opposite. “We must speak to father,” he said again determinedly.

Sansa did not know what Cersei was playing at—and she was too frightened by the prospect of a much sooner wedding to truly begin questioning what was going on. She clung to Jon as he protectively shielded her—leaving passersby only to smile or nod in greeting rather than attempt conversation. She is grateful not to make small talk with courtiers, though part of her fears their swift movements will cause a stir.

They arrive at the Tower of the Hand and make their way to their father’s solar. Fortunately, he is there and welcomes them in somewhat tensely. She thinks they must be interrupting important business, but Jon insists they talk now. Her father glances between them worriedly.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, his eyes falling to Sansa joined still at Jon’s arm. She disentangles from him, but meets Jon’s eyes for a moment and his gaze soothes something within her. Before their father, they are a united front.

---

“What is it? What’s wrong?” his father asked them. Sansa pulls away, separating them a moment later than they should have; but he hopes that once his father hears of Cersei’s scheme, their closeness will not look odd. He darts a reassuring glance at Sansa, and she nods at him minutely before he turns back to his father.

 “It’s—” Jon began, but stopped himself momentarily, looking at the large tome on his father’s desk, laid open as his father must have been reading just before they’d burst in in a panicked frenzy. “Is it safe to speak here, father?” Jon said more quietly.

His father’s face smooths out in consideration. “As safe as can be for now,” he said solemnly. “As long as you do not make a spectacle of things.”

Jon knows his father only means for them to be quiet, but something in him bristles anyway. He tenses before releasing a breath. “What is it?”

“It’s the Queen,” Jon said, voice nearly a whisper as Sansa and his father draw closer.

Ned’s jaw clenches. “Aye, what of her?” he asked in a hard voice.

“She called on me today,” Sansa supplied, and their father turned to her. “She—she began having seamstresses take measurements and said we would begin preparations for my wedding gown. She wishes to move my wedding day up, before I turn six and ten,” she said, her words spilling out of her swiftly as she wrings her hands.

Ned crosses his arms over his chest and takes a steadying breath. “How often have you been seeing the Queen, Sansa?”

For a moment, her eyes flick to Jon’s before meeting her father’s gaze once more. “Whenever she calls upon me.”

“And how often is that?”

“Perhaps once or twice a sennight,” Sansa estimated.

Ned looked over at Jon warily. “And you did not think to tell me she called on your sister more frequently?”

Jon stiffened, an anger alighting his bones once more. “You haven’t been here,” Jon hissed.

His father deflated slightly. “I suppose you’re right. What else Sansa? What else has she said to you?”

“She wishes for me to convince you to change the betrothal agreement, so I wed Prince Joffrey sooner,” Sansa said quietly. His love did not falter, nor did she show fear. She is still a wolf, Jon thought.

“Is that why you’re here, Sansa? The answer is no,” his father said in exasperation, looking at her aggravatedly.

Sansa’s lips parted in surprise. “Father, I—”

“I want you to go to your chambers now, Sansa. You are not to meet with Cersei or Joffrey again without my direct leave, is that clear?” his father asked sternly.

Sansa shrunk back, and Jon’s fists clenched. The urge to throttle his lord father was not one he’d ever experienced before. “Yes, father,” Sansa said. She picked up her skirts and swiftly departed the solar. Jon moved to follow after her when his father’s voice halted him.

“You will stay, Jon.”

He whipped his head back. “You act as if she did something wrong,” Jon said. His father looks at him curiously, and Jon fears that somehow his father can see his true baseborn nature, in that moment, as Jon attempts to protect Sansa, not only as a brother but as something more.

“I cannot allow such a thing, Jon,” he said.

“That is not the point. Sansa did not ask for this betrothal to be changed. You made her feel as if it were her fault.”

His father sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly, leaning back against his desk. “I did not mean to do so,” he said. “War is easier than daughters.”

Jon knows his nails are digging into his palm sharply enough to leave moon crescents as his temper piques. The words fly out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I suppose you gave the war more thought and consideration than you give Sansa,” he snapped.

Ned’s head snaps upward in surprise. He rises from his perch and walks closely to Jon. Jon feels an urge to shrink but he straightens his spine. The words were impertinent, but he will not take them back.

“You do not speak to me in such a way,” his father said.

“You fail her. You fail her again and again—”

“Jon—”

“No! You killed Lady! You bought her a doll to fix it. She hasn’t played with dolls since she was eight. But you wouldn’t know that because you don’t even see her! You betroth her to Joffrey, tie her to them—”

“She asked for the betrothal!” His father said furiously.

They still whispered to each other, but the heat of their words made it feel like shouting. Jon felt as if his lungs were burning.

“She is your daughter. You are supposed to protect her!”

“I am trying, Jon!” he said, pacing away from him in agitation. They are both silent for a moment, catching their breaths. The feeling of dread in Jon’s body forces him to look at his father once more.

“Why is the Queen trying to move up the wedding?” Jon asked.

Jon believes his father must know something of it, for the way his face darkens at Jon’s question. It has to mean something, Jon thinks. His trip to Flea Bottom, his frequent meetings, Stannis’s impending arrival, now Cersei attempting to wed Sansa off.

“I cannot know for certain,” Ned said haltingly. He looked to his desk in distraction.

“But you have a suspicion,” Jon said, feeling quite sure of it.

His father turned back to him reluctantly. “Aye, I do.”

“What is it?” Jon finally asked after waiting a beat for an elaboration that never comes.

“I cannot tell you all,” his father said. “I can only suspect that Cersei is looking to ensure her power and influence.”

Jon doesn’t know what to make of this, not entirely anyway. All he knows is that Sansa cannot wed Joffrey, for he is cruel and for whatever games the Queen is playing, he cannot allow Sansa to become her pawn. He wants to run with Sansa back North. His father still thought Sansa might be in agreement with Cersei’s plans, not only for her former dreams but for her sense of duty.

No. Jon will not allow Sansa’s duty to endanger her like this. “She does not wish to wed Joffrey. Not anymore,” Jon said quietly.

“Really?” Ned asked in surprise.

“Really,” Jon said with a trace of impatience.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. I worried she would fight me on it.” His father looked to his feet before meeting Jon’s eye again. “I really don’t see her, do I?” He asked sadly, a vulnerability in his reflection that nearly takes Jon aback. He has rarely seen his father like this. Though it was not far from when they discussed Jon’s mother.

Jon considers that he could console his father with lies, but his father wants the truth. He needs to hear the truth, and if it makes things better for Sansa, Jon would even accept his father pummeling him in the training yard for speaking so crossly with him. “No, you don’t,” Jon said, his father wincing slightly.

Jon takes a step forward. “But it’s not too late to start seeing her.”

Chapter Text

When Stannis Baratheon arrives in King’s Landing, Ned studies the man and his party, his hands behind his back with a solemn look on his face. Stannis hasn’t brought his wife or his daughter, though Ned knows the man’s wife is sickly and his daughter’s greyscale scarring likely would do her no favors at court.

And yet, she would come before Cersei’s three children in the line of succession.

Cersei stands at Ned’s side as she welcomes her goodbrother to the capitol. Robert is not here, despite Ned’s repeated attempts to talk him out of the hunting trip to remain for his brother’s arrival. Whether Stannis is offended, it is hard to say. He is grim-faced all of the time, from what Ned knows, and there may be people Stannis loves in his life, but Ned gets the feeling there may be no one in his world whom he likes. Certainly not the Queen, though he gives her a stiff kiss to the cheek, before stepping toward Ned and extending his arm.

They clasp forearms. Their eyes lock for a moment, and Ned is sure. Stannis knows.

He knows, and this is why he’d left. And perhaps, it is also why he returned when Ned had asked him to. But Cersei quickly steps between the men with a smile and is whisking Stannis away to his quarters in what Ned is certain is an attempt to keep them apart. The Queen was not happy about Stannis’s visit, but there was nothing she could truly say about it. Ned had more power as Hand with Robert gone.

He has taken to staying away from Cersei and claiming illness for Sansa. He doesn’t know if she believes it, but she can’t very well challenge him on it. No, Cersei must fear what is to come but she cannot challenge him on any of it. Not without giving herself away.

A part of Ned wishes to warn her. To tell her to flee with her children for Casterly Rock or better yet, Essos. But Ned has three children of his own here. Most importantly, Jon, who could be a threat to the Throne. If he goes to Cersei, he fears she will somehow discover the truth about Jon and make her play before Ned gets the chance. Mayhap with Stannis, they will find another way to spare the children.

Ned meets Stannis in the man’s chambers a few hours later. The man is as curt and stodgy as he remembers, but something about it is oddly comforting when he thinks of the hard Northmen of home. He wishes to return North. But if he cannot, he must find a way to secure his children’s passage North regardless.

Stannis eyes him wearily, and his man Ser Davos takes the book Ned holds in his hands, putting it on Stannis’s desk. The man begins to page through the book, the one Jon Arryn had used, and a lash of grief lances through him for a moment. Stannis looks up at him. “So, you know?”

Ned sinks into a chair across from him. “Aye.” Davos brings them drinks but truly Ned would rather keep a clear head, so after a sip he sets it aside.

“And Robert?”

“Do you think he’d be off on a hunting trip if he knew?” Ned asked.

Stannis shook his head and leaned forward on his desk. “My brother is a drunken buffoon.”

“That’s treasonous,” Ned said mechanically, though he couldn’t help but agree.

“Yes but he’s my brother and I’ll speak of him as I like in my own quarters. He’s also my King and I’ll continue to serve him. What about you, Lord Stark?”

“Aye, I’ll serve my King,” Ned agreed softly.

Stannis studied him for a moment. “Tell me, Lord Stark, as Hand of the King you’re in charge until Robert returns,” he paused.  “What will you do now that I’m here?”

Ned sighed. He figured with Stannis he must speak plainly. The truth of it was, he knew Stannis would not go against Robert, and that meant he and Stannis were on the same side, at least on this issue. “I think it best we wait for the King’s return. I am not certain moves against…other parties—”

“Powerful parties,” Stannis interrupted to point out.

“Aye. I’m not certain such moves are likely to instill loyalty with the goldcloaks, the council,” Ned said.

Stannis nodded. “Yes. Very well then, we’ll wait for his return. But in the meantime, we look to ensure allies.”

Ned agreed. “Whom do you have in mind?”

---

Jon had told Sansa as soon as he got the opportunity that their father was going to end the betrothal.

His love’s sky-blue eyes had filled with tears at the news. Jon had immediately taken her in his arms. The candlelight in her chambers after dark cast shadows throughout the room. “I was prepared to do my duty Jon,” Sansa whispered into his neck as he rubbed soothing circles on her back.

“I know my love,” Jon said. Her relief was palpable but Jon knew she felt guilt over that as well. Jon took her face in his hands and made her look at him. “But this is beyond duty now. I will keep you safe.”

Sansa smiled and her cheeks were rosy with a blush. She stepped forward, winding her arms around his neck, while his hands fell to her hips instinctually. “My Aemon the Dragonknight,” she whispered. There was an innocence to the words, harkening back to their old childhood games—rescuing maidens, come into my castle—when Jon would live only for the sweetness of Sansa’s kiss on his cheek. But now, there was a heat in her expression and her sultry tone of voice that spoke of far from innocent notions. Jon heaved a breath before Sansa brought her lips to his own.

Soon she was walking him back to her bed smoothly. Crawling into his lap. They were well used to such things by now, but something about this night was different. Sansa rocked against him, trailed her hands down his chest and stomach…

He grabbed her wrist as her touch had wandered downward. “Sansa,” he breathed. It was part warning, part plea.

She leaned until her forehead was touching his. “I want to feel you. I want you to feel me,” she said huskily.

Jon whimpered in his throat. “Are you sure?” he asked. She nodded and palmed his crotch. Jon’s breath hitched and his hips arched upward into her touch. Sansa more assuredly began rubbing against him as she kissed along his neck.

“Sansa, Sansa,” he gasped helplessly. Part of Jon wished to stop her before he spilled in his breeches, while another part felt like he might die if she stopped.

“Is that good?” she asked him shyly.

“Yes,” he groaned and Sansa kissed him, their tongues wrapped around each other as his grip went to her bum. He feared she might push him away but instead she began grinding against him in time to her hand’s motions. Jon squeezed her flesh in his hands and she moaned, and Jon nipped along her bottom lip.

“Wait, wait Sansa,” Jon said suddenly and Sansa halted her hand’s movement but did not remove it.

“What is it?” she asked breathlessly. She was mussed and glorious and radiant—a true picture captivating him.

“I want to touch you too, Sansa, my love,” Jon said. “But if you keep going like that I am bound to finish.” She bit her lip and moved off his lap, and Jon immediately missed her warmth.

She laid next to him on her bed, taking one of his hands in hers and pulling him closer. Jon hovered over her partially but kept most of his weight off her. “What should I do?” he asked, hypnotized by the expectant look in her eyes and her chest rising and falling with excitement.

Sansa guided his hand first to her breast—as they had done before. His love wore nothing but her shift, and while he itched to rip the fabric from her, he would always let Sansa lead the way, afraid that he would make her uncomfortable if his want of her was fully unleashed. Still, he could see the outline of her as her nipple hardened beneath his touch. Jon took her earlobe between his teeth gently and she gasped. Soon she was guiding his hand downward.

“Touch me here, Jon,” Sansa whispered, as she ran his hand along her mound.

Jon moaned into her neck and hair. “On top of your clothes?” he asked in a strained voice as he nosed her temple.

“No,” she said. Something within him snapped at that and he hauled upward to take her mouth again with his own. She released his hand and Jon’s fingertips glided beneath the shift. Her skin was impossibly soft—maybe the softest thing he had ever touched. His hand moved up her thigh and Sansa opened her legs beneath him. Jon came to rest fully between them, her knees touching his hips as he gently pulled her smallclothes to the side. He broke their kiss.

“Sansa,” he said brokenly. Jon felt her wetness and his eyes rolled back.

Sansa squirmed beneath him. “Okay?” he checked, looking back at her, flushed and beautiful.

“Yes,” she said. Jon teased at her entrance and, remembering what he’d learned from Theon, his thumb moved upward to find the nub at the top of her sex. Sansa bucked her hips when his touch glided across it.

“Good?” he asked, though he suspected he knew the answer. Jon had peppered her neck and face with kisses but pulled back to observe her reactions.

“Yes, it’s—yes,” she said with a whine, her eyes fluttering shut.

He’d never seen anything more beautiful. Jon smiled in satisfaction and set about making her peak. One of his fingers sank inside her, and they gasped in unison—Sansa’s eyes snapped open. She felt so good, so warm and so…

“So wet,” Jon growled. Sansa’s hand went back to his manhood, stroking him as he continued to work at her. It all felt amazing, but he treasured most the whines in her throat, the way they breathed each other’s air.

“Jon—yes, yes, right there,” Sansa cried and arched into him.

“Uhh…Sansa!” he groaned as she pulsed around his hand, her climax triggering his own. He kissed her gently after and for some time they held each other before Jon sneaked back to his room.

Jon knew he should feel more guilty, and part of him did. Sansa was his sister, they were no Targaryens. But remembering the look of ecstasy on her face, knowing that his love cried out for him—it left him in a satisfied haze that left little room for shame.

---

Jon found himself continuing to think about it, leaving him distracted in the light of day. Arya had knocked his sword right out of his hand while they sparred in the common room.

“What is wrong with you?” Arya asked him in frustration and impatience.

Jon snapped his head up at her words. “Nothing,” he said as he reached for his sword.

“You’re not even paying attention!” she scowled. Normally, Arya would be thrilled that she had bested Jon. But now it was grating on her nerves and Jon could understand. Jon, Sansa, and Arya were effectively confined to the Hand’s chambers now, and Jon knew it was getting to all of them. He felt restless and more than that, useless.

“Sorry,” Jon said, rubbing his forehead tiredly and sheathing his sword. Arya rolled her eyes.

Sansa, seated on the settee with her embroidery, laid down her hoop and looked to Arya concernedly. “How about a game of cyvasse?” she suggested, trying to resolve some of the tension in the air.

Arya crossed her arms. “That game is stupid. Being stuck here is stupid. You’re stupid!” she burst out, and Sansa drew back in surprise.

“Arya!” Jon reprimanded. They were all stressed out, but it wasn’t fair to take it out on Sansa.

Arya whipped her head toward her brother. “And you! You’re acting weird and always taking her side,” she gestured toward Sansa, “I used to be your favorite!”

“That’s enough, Arya!” Jon retorted, gaze flitting to Sansa worriedly. Favorite sister? He wasn’t sure what she would think of that or if it would hurt her feelings. It was too complicated to reason out now when they were so much more to each other. But Sansa was looking down at her clasped hands resting in her lap.

He looked back to Arya and she glared. “I hate you both!” she yelled and stormed off to her room.

Jon sighed, his hands on his hips. He wanted to go after her but knowing Arya she’d need some time to cool off. Jon felt terrible now—he’d come between Sansa and Arya in a way he’d never expected, and after trying to bring them together. Arya must have noticed them growing closer, must have felt left out. And Sansa was surely hurt too.

Jon approached her and sat down next to her as she sighed and leaned into him. “I’m sorry she said those things—you didn’t deserve them,” he told her.

Sansa nodded and bit her lip. “I’m more worried about her,” she confessed softly.

“I’m worried too. I feel awful.”

“Should I try to talk to her?” she asked him, looking lost.

Jon shook his head. “I’ll talk to her,” he said. “It’s my fault anyway.” He rubbed his palms on his legs, readying himself to talk to his little sister.

“Favorite sister, huh?” Sansa asked, but the smirk on her lips told him she was jesting.

Before rising, he leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. “You know why. You’re something else entirely.” She giggled and Jon pressed a kiss to her cheek before standing and going to Arya’s chambers.

“Go away!” Arya called out as he knocked at her door.

“C’mon Arya,” Jon entreated. “Just talk to me.” She said nothing, but a moment later he heard the latch open on the other side of the door. He stepped in and Arya already had her back to him, plopping down belly first onto her bed.

“Arya…” Jon said and trailed off, unsure what to say. She turned her head to the side against her bedding, so Jon could see her profile. She no longer looked angry—just tired.

“I want to go home,” Arya said.

Jon deflated a little and moved to sit next to her. “I know. Me too.”

Arya sat up and faced him. “He won’t even let us leave this stupid tower,” she complained of their father.

“It’ll be better soon,” Jon said, though truthfully he didn’t know. He believed his father was going to be different now—but his father was biding his time, perhaps waiting for the King’s return. Jon could only hope he’d let them in on whatever was happening soon.

“Do you like her better now?” Arya asked in a small voice.

“Of course not,” Jon said. He pulled her into a hug. “You know I love you both, don’t you?”

She nodded against his shoulder. “Sansa will never replace you in my heart, Arya.”

Arya pulled back and looked at him sheepishly. “I don’t hate you. I don’t even hate her, really,” she admitted.

Jon chuckled. “I know. I’m sure Sansa knows too, but it wouldn’t hurt to tell her.”

Arya huffed. “Fine, I’ll go apologize,” she said. She looked back at him with a grin. “But only if you admit I bested you soundly.”

Jon smiled back. “Arya Stark—the best swordsman I know.” She beamed before they headed back to the common room.

---

Later that evening, Sansa sits in her chamber and works on a sketch of her Lady. Melancholy threatens to overtake her. She and Arya had made up and everything seemed to be fine now between Jon and her little sister too. But Arya’s anger toward her had dredged up the memories of when they’d been more hostile—which inevitably drew up her memories of Lady’s death.

A knock on her door startled her. Sansa was sure it wasn’t Jon, for it was not dark yet, she thought with a flush. She tucked her sketch away beneath a pillow and went to her door. To Sansa’s surprise, her father stood before her. He gave her a small smile. “May I come in?” Ned asked hesitantly.

“Of course, father,” Sansa said, moving aside to let him in. She closed the door and watched her father sit upon her bed and he patted the spot next to him. Sansa obediently went to sit by his side.

At first, Sansa wondered if Jon or Arya had said something to their father about the quarrel from earlier, even though they had resolved things. But they sat in an awkward silence for too long for that to be the case. Eventually, Ned looked to her.

“I wanted to apologize,” her father said.

Sansa was taken aback. She didn’t know parents could apologize to their children, nor did she know what he was apologizing for.

“I made a lot of mistakes, Sansa. For that I am truly sorry.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed and Ned looked down to his hands. “I’m sorry I killed Lady. I should have risked letting her go,” he said.

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath. She couldn’t speak as the loss echoed through her once more.

“I’m sorry I betrothed you to the prince. I’m sorry I blamed you for Cersei’s trying to move the wedding up. I know Jon spoke to you.”

Sansa nodded.

“You will not wed him,” he said, looking back to her face determinedly. “In time, things will be different, but I ask you to be patient right now.”

Sansa finally found her voice again. “Yes, father,” she said. More quietly, she muttered, “thank you.”

Ned gave her a tired smile and brought his arm around her, kissing her temple. After her father left her chambers, she felt lighter than she could remember—save for when she was in Jon’s embrace.

Still, his words continued to ring through her mind. In time, things will be different.

She couldn’t help but wonder what exactly that meant.

---

Ned experiences the first seeds of true panic when he learns that Daenerys Targaryen has been killed by an assassin. Lord Baelish—Littlefinger, Ned thinks derisively for the man has exhausted all of his patience—delivers the news in a small council meeting with an oily smirk. The man is clearly satisfied that his assassin succeeded where Varys’s failed.

If Lord Varys is offended by Baelish’s superiority, he does not show it—instead keeping his hands hidden in his robe and nodding stoically at the news. Ned leans back in his chair. “She was just a child,” he said feebly, his now familiar argument weightless in light of Littlefinger’s success. Ned wonders vacantly for a moment what it would be like to punch the smug expression off the man’s face.

“You’re kind,” Varys supplies, “but truly this saves more lives in the long run.”

Stannis had cautiously made the case they could use Varys as an ally. Supposedly Lord Varys serves the realm, Ned has his skepticism but at least the man seemed more tolerable than Baelish.

“We should be including Queen Cersei in these meetings, while the King is gone,” Grand Maester Pycelle remarked. Ned and the rest of the council stared at the man for a moment but gave no other response. Pycelle was outnumbered—that much was clear—and the scowl on Stannis’s face was enough to send most men to retreat as the weathered man sank into his seat. They’d already deduced Pycelle would be loyal to the Lannisters until the bloody end. Yet, Ned had other calculations to make, knowing he must protect his family.

Ned, for his part, studied Stannis intently for his reaction. Lord Baratheon sighed. “I suppose it is for the best—she would have had Dothraki screamers at her back. Robert will need the news as soon as he returns,” Stannis said, stepping up from the table abruptly as if ending the meeting.

Ned stares at the space where he left, knowing he would need to find Stannis later. There was still much left to do to ensure the safety of his children, and he hated to think that now with Daenerys’s death, Jon would move to the top of Robert’s kill list were he ever to discover the truth. Stannis’s indifferent reaction to the news was not reassuring for a potential ally in his favor. Someone that might help Robert see reason past his rage. “He’s a man of few words,” Littlefinger said. “Much like yourself, Lord Stark,” he said with a grin.

“It is better to talk too little than to talk too much,” Varys said, looking between them.

Ned smiled weakly. “I’m a man of the North, we don’t have much use for riddles.” He stood up, considering what his next steps would be as they all departed the meeting.

Littlefinger lingered in a such a way it made Ned uneasy as he headed for the corridor. “I do wonder, Lord Stark,” he said.

Ned paused and took a deep breath, trying to summon whatever patience or good sense needed for whatever came out of the man’s mouth next. “What is it you wonder, Lord Baelish?” he asked, turning back to face Littlefinger.

“You nearly gave up the position of Hand on the mere thought of Daenerys Targaryen’s death, what will you do now that she’s dead?” he asked.

Ned considers what Baelish must want (besides power and his wife) and how best to deny him. “And you suppose I’ll share these plans with you?”

Littlefinger smiled lightly. “I suppose not. But I suppose your family would like to know, wouldn’t they?” he asked tauntingly.

There they stood alone in the council room, and Ned felt they could hear a pin drop for the silence that overcame them then. But Ned quickly decided to make another move, closing the distance between them swiftly. Baelish was, at the end of the day, a coward. Ned could see as much from the way he stepped back and stared at his shoes as Ned approached him. It did not take much to intimidate the man.

“You will do well not to speak of my family, Lord Baelish,” he said tightly in warning. Baelish liked to push buttons, to play people as pawns, but he did not know Eddard Stark truly. He did not know what Ned would do for his family. Ned began to turn away when the Lord spoke again.

“Not even of your bastard son?” Baelish asked.

Ned froze, fist clenching as he slowly turned to look at the man then. Littlefinger looked cool and collected now, back in control, and Ned despised it. “Excuse me?” Ned said. He would give this man nothing. Did he mean to test him?

“I’ve often wondered, what kind of woman could have enticed the honorable and married Lord Stark to stray, especially from a woman as lovely as Lady Catelyn,” he said, licking his lips as he spoke Cat’s name.

It was the last straw as Ned grabbed hold of Baelish by his throat, pinning him against the wall. “If you like breathing I’d suggest you refrain from speaking Lady Stark’s name,” Ned said, the tiny man struggling futilely in his grip, “or making clever remarks on my marriage or my son.”

Baelish was huffing against his hand, gasping for air, yet a small smile curled along his mouth. “Your son? Tell me, Lord Stark, has anyone ever questioned it?” Unconsciously, Ned loosens his grip as the fear clutches in his chest. Littlefinger chuckles with the new air in his lungs.

Ned pushed him harder against the wall. “Don’t you dare—”

“I am not your enemy,” he said. Despite himself, Ned laughs dryly.

“You threaten me and then try to tell me you’re not my enemy?” he asked in disbelief.

Mischief gleamed in the man’s eyes. “Threatening you? I am merely warning you, Lord Stark.”

Ned stepped back and released him, leveling him with a glare. Baelish continued undeterred, rubbing along his neck. “If the wrong people were to discover the truth, if your friend, the King, were to discover it, what do you think would happen?” he asked deviously.

The man surely couldn’t have proof. Maybe it was merely a suspicion. His reaction will surely impact what Baelish now believes. And he’d mucked that up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with a calm authority, even if it was far from how he felt.

Littlefinger smirked. “Of course you don’t,” he said with amusement, smoothing out his clothing. “I’d best be getting back to work, if you’ll excuse me, Lord Stark.” The man walked by him coolly, as if unaffected by the altercation.

Ned stood stock still alone, trying to think of his next move. Gods, King’s Landing was going to be the death of him. He should have listened to Cat—should have refused the position of Hand, should never have betrothed Sansa to Joffrey.

Sansa—whom he’d failed completely. Jon had been right, and Ned must have known it on some level, it was why he’d been avoiding her, why he’d become so easily flustered in her presence. His own daughter! What had been doing all this time? How could he not see that the distance he’d created between them only made things worse? Ned apologized to her the night before, but he worried it wouldn’t be enough to fix things. He always feared Arya was too much like Lyanna—but Sansa—wouldn’t it have made sense for his eldest daughter to run away, to turn from her home and family? He’d never been more grateful or more terrified to have Jon here, knowing he was perhaps the only thing keeping Sansa tied to her family and her roots.

But now with Littlefinger’s insinuations—Ned feared he was out of plays. He only saw one way forward. Stannis was the closest thing he had to an ally. He knew the truth of Cersei and her children, the product of incest with her twin brother rather than the King’s heirs. Cersei knew the walls were closing in—it was the only explanation he could gather for her plotting to wed Sansa to Joffrey. Surely believing if Sansa was legally tied to Joffrey, Ned would never besmirch him. Over his dead body would Sansa marry that louse. Baelish could be working with Cersei or simply be his own agent of chaos.

He needed to talk with Stannis. He needed to get his children out of King’s Landing. Perhaps most of all, Ned needed to start telling the truth.

Chapter Text

Their father calls all three of them into his solar and Jon knows immediately from the grave look on his father’s face that he is about to deliver some news—perhaps whatever it is he had been hiding all this time. Sansa fidgets in her chair and Jon looks at her gently in comfort. Whatever is going on, he is pretty sure this is not because their father has discovered the truth of their relationship. Jon doesn’t believe he’d have Arya here, for one thing, and for another his father would have probably already had him laid out on the floor if that were the case.

Arya sits on his right and his love to his left while his father perches at the edge of his desk. Ned looks over to the hearth contemplatively—it is not lit, for it is summer and the south—but there seems to be something wistful in his father’s gaze. He takes a deep breath and looks back to his children with a strained smile.

“I know you’ve all been quite impatient,” he begins, “especially since you’ve been stuck in these chambers, but what I do, I do for your safety.” His father’s eyes fall singularly on Jon for just a moment, but Jon almost wonders if he imagines it—the fearful look in his father’s eyes. Eddard Stark afraid of anything seems a foreign concept to Jon, even as he knows his father had always said true bravery came from times of fear.

His father leans forward and places his palms on his knees as he continues—his words quiet and firm. He tells him of the discoveries he’s made about the Lannisters, about how he believes them to be betrayers of the King—but when he reveals his biggest discovery of Queen Cersei and her brother Jaime’s affair, of the true parentage of Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, Jon feels he might faint.

Arya gasps in disgust at the revelation. Jon does not look at Sansa. He can’t. But he can only imagine the color draining from her face as Jon feels his own hands grow sweaty—his fingers unsure and gripping on the arms of his chair. We aren’t like them, are we?

Words come out of Jon’s mouth seemingly of their own accord, for he does not feel remotely ready to say anything: “We need to leave.”

It must have been his wolf dream pointing to danger, he thought. They needed to get Sansa out, maybe more than anyone else now that Cersei had set her sights on wedding Sansa as quickly as possible. He has an urge to grab Sansa and run.

“There is more I must tell you all,” his father said, interrupting his thoughts.

“More?” Sansa asked, her voice sounding choked. Jon looks over at her now, her eyes flit across their father’s face in bewilderment.

“Jon,” his father said. Jon turns to look at his father, who stands from his desk and straightens, his body going rigid as Jon meets the grey-storm eyes so like his own. Ned moves to crouch right in front of Jon’s chair. He can sense both his sisters’ eyes on the two of them, and Jon almost feels as if he has forgotten how to breathe. “You remember what I told you before we parted at the Kingsroad?” he asked in a small, halting voice.

Jon looked at him questioningly. They’d already spoken of this, and Jon had thought he’d learned everything he would be permitted to. “That you would tell me of my mother,” Jon answered quietly.

A small smile came to Ned’s face. “Yes. I also told you that you may not have my name, but you have my blood.”

Jon nodded. Why was he telling him this?

“I need you to know that despite everything—you have always been and always will be my son,” his father said, thickly swallowing as if it could tame whatever emotions were caught in his throat.

“What is this about?” Jon asked fearfully. Whatever it was—he knew it wasn’t good.

Ned sighed but met Jon’s gaze. Idly Jon thought of how his father taught his sons to look a man in the eye before carrying out an execution. Somehow, he felt it was similar. “Lord Baelish—I don’t know if he has proof or merely suspects—but he is threatening me with knowledge of your mother.”

“What?” Jon asked, sitting forward in his seat. “What do you mean?”

“He may know your true parentage—your mother,” Ned inhaled sharply, “and the man who sired you. Jon—your mother was my sister Lyanna and the man who sired you was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

It is quiet.

It takes perhaps a full minute before Jon is able to respond. “No,” Jon said brokenly, leaping to his feet and inadvertently knocking his father backward. Jon made for the door.

“Son, listen to me—” Ned said as he pulled himself from the floor.   

Jon whirled back to look at his father—his uncle. “Son?” he spat, gritting his teeth. “Son? Is that what I am to you?”

Ned stepped forward. “Keep your voice down,” he hissed darkly. Jon moved away from him until his back met the wall. In his periphery Jon could see Sansa and Arya had moved close and held one another’s hands as they anxiously watched the scene unfold.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Jon said childishly. His voice wavered and he hated himself for it. But at that moment—he hated the man before him even more. “You’re not my father,” he bit out. Ned winced and Jon felt a pang of guilt for it, but a part of him wanted Ned to hurt as he did. Even as another part of him didn’t want to believe it. “My father is a kidnapper and rapist!”

“No,” Ned exhaled and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Lyanna was in love—she went willingly. They were wed.”

Jon shook his head slowly—the life he knew crumbled around him. “You lied to me. You lied to me my whole life. Does your wife know?” Not likely, Jon thought. His very presence brought her pain and irked her.

“No,” Ned said quietly, looking to his feet.

Hysterical laughter bubbled up from his throat. “I’m not a bastard then. My whole life. I was never a bastard.”

His father looked back at him. “No,” he confirmed.

Something about it felt hollow. Another thought came to him bitterly. “You let me go to the Wall. You weren’t going to tell me until I’d taken my vows—” he cut off. His sisters—cousins—began to move forward but Jon held his hands up to halt them. He hated the wounded look on Sansa’s face and the irritated way Arya narrowed her eyes, but he couldn’t accept their comfort right now. His skin felt tight with the need to rage and fight. “Until I’d be out of the way of your friend’s reign.”

“Until you were safe,” Ned snapped back. “All I did to keep you safe. I promised Lyanna to always protect you. I know you are angry. You have every right to be. But Jon, now all of us are in danger and we have to work together. I’m going to do everything in my power to get the three of you out of here.”

Jon slumped against the hard wall at his back. He noticed his father (uncle) did not include himself in those plans. Jon wanted to scream and cry. But how could he when he knew they were all in danger? It was all too much. “Give me a few minutes,” he said. Ned nodded and Jon went to the door to head to his own chambers.

“Jon, wait!” Arya called out, moving toward him until Sansa pulled her back.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut. “I just need a little time, Arya,” he said. Jon did not look at Arya. He did not look at Sansa either—he couldn’t. Jon loved her too much and he feared he may grab hold of her and crush his lips to hers just so something made sense again.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and left for his rooms.

---

“You should go in there,” Arya told her as they hovered outside Jon’s chambers.

Sansa looked at her little sister. “No, it should be you,” she breathed. Arya would always be Jon’s little sister in a way that Sansa couldn’t be—he needed to hear that, or so Sansa thought.

Arya shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow authoritatively. “No, you.” It almost felt comical, how nervous they both were. “You’re better at this than me.”

“This?” Sansa asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, like feelings and words,” Arya said. At that, Sansa did chuckle a little. “Go. Go help my brother Sansa, please.” Her little sister looked up at her in a way she seldom recalled.

It tore at her guts, the way she pleaded. Sansa nodded. Arya gave her space, headed back to their father’s solar where he still sat, waiting for the boy (man) he called son to come back out and speak to him again. They’d given him perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, but they didn’t have much time. Sansa knocked.

“Jon, it’s me,” Sansa said tentatively. Perhaps he would send her away.

Jon opened the door to her and she immediately saw his red-rimmed eyes. It shattered her heart to see him so. She began to reach for him, but Jon looked out into the corridor and tugged her inside instead.

Behind the closed door, she approached him in the intimate way she craved. Sansa cupped his cheek and he exhaled, leaning into her, pulling her closer by the waist. “Oh Jon, I’m so sorry,” she said, feeling quite helpless.

Jon shook his head, leaned his forehead against hers. “You have nothing to be sorry for, my love.”

She smiled tremulously. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut. “What is there to say?”

Sansa grappled for something to offer him. “You’re still Jon.” She didn’t know what it was worth, but it was all she could think of.

His lips quirked and he opened his eyes. “A Targaryen,” he said.

“You are as much a Stark as any of us,” she argued. Sansa didn’t want to tell him how to feel, but she did want him to know he still belonged.

Jon laughed gruffly. His face had a mixture of sorrow and dark amusement. “Certain things make sense, I must admit,” he said, his hand moving to tuck back her hair behind her ear, his warm touch settling at her jaw. “But we are cousins,” Jon said.

“Cousins,” she agreed, feeling herself blush. It wasn’t the point right now with everything at stake, perhaps it was selfish, but she was relieved that Jon had thought of it too. “You should know though, that Arya told me to come here and help her brother.”

Jon chuckled again and pressed a light kiss to her lips. “Nothing makes sense,” he said quietly, eyes boring into hers.

“I know,” she agreed, hugging him close. “But we’ll figure it out. We’re getting out of here.” Now that they knew the truth, Sansa knew she’d stop at nothing to help protect Jon and the rest of their family. Now that Joffrey was no longer the rightful heir, there had to be a path to freedom.

Jon looked at her resolutely. “I suppose we should get back out there,” he said.

Sansa nodded and took Jon’s arm, leading him out of his chambers.

---

“Seven Hells, Ned,” Stannis groaned irritably, looking from Jon to his father (uncle?).

It was a risk, but one they’d calculated among themselves to be the safest possible way forward. They needed to get ahead of Littlefinger—who hoped to divide and conquer. And Ned was already working with Stannis, in concert with Davos, a smuggler, who had already been making arrangements for Jon, Sansa, and Arya to get passage to White Harbor. Stannis was pragmatic, or so his father said, and one couldn’t fight two battles at once. And so it was Ned and his Targaryen nephew, or the Lannisters, for Stannis to decide on. Ned had brought Sansa and Arya along too, not willing to split the family up at this critical moment.

“You,” Lord Baratheon continued, shaking his head. “The honorable Eddard Stark. More brother to the King than me, and you hide this?” Stannis looked back to him again, and Jon forced himself to look the man head on. He couldn’t show weakness now. The time of childhood, Jon thought, had finally ended completely. He had to be a man now. For his family.

For Sansa.

“Do you have proof?” he asked.

“There are documents I’m sure, buried in the Citadel,” Ned conceded.

“Ones the snake would have gotten?” Stannis asked. Jon thought it was a good sign that the snake was still Baelish in Lord Baratheon’s mind, but he wouldn’t let his guard down.

“Possibly,” Ned said. “I doubt it—but possibly. Besides that, there is my testimony and Howland Reed could attest to it.”

“And you mean to attest to it openly?” Stannis asked.

Ned sighed and scratched his beard. “I mean to stop Baelish from shifting the target to my family for his own and the Lannisters’ gain. Jon is no threat to Robert—but I knew Robert would not see it that way—not when he still mourned my sister,” his father said uncomfortably, glancing to Jon for a moment.

All of the fleeting stories of Aunt Lyanna now belonged to his mother. He wished he’d known more—wished he’d spent more time at her statue. Jon couldn’t picture her in his mind’s eye.

Stannis studied them both. “How do I know you don’t mean to make a play for the Throne?” he asked, though it was unclear whether he was posing it to Jon, Ned, or both.

His father paused thoughtfully. “Would I have told you as much if that were my goal?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Stannis said, looking hard at his father.

Jon broke in. “You know because of how long I’ve known,” he said confidently. Stannis looked back to Jon. He had the man’s full attention now. Jon prayed to the Old Gods his father would not contradict him. “I’ve known since I was two and ten, Arya’s age,” Jon continued, nodding to his little sister. “And you know I went to the Wall. I was going to take the black, say my vows to renounce all titles, claim no lands or wives.”

A half-truth was more effective, he now knew as he glanced at his father, who went along with his lie. Jon’s bitterness over the Wall would likely to stick to him for a while.

Stannis sighed. He looked back to Ned. “Why should I ally with you when you have lied to your King?”

“Because you cannot fight us and the Lannisters. You know it, Stannis. You are a military man. You know that I am more loyal to the King, more loyal to the Baratheon line. Why else would I have called you here knowing full well the risk I was taking? This is all about allies and enemies,” Ned said, stepping forward, looking a little more in command—like the Lord of Winterfell as Jon recalled him in his earlier years. “You need more allies. You need less enemies.”

“Fewer,” Stannis remarked dryly, hands on his hips.

Ned huffed. “What does it bloody matter? Are we allies or not? Speak plainly.”

The Starks in the room waited with bated breath. “How can I guarantee you will abandon your Targaryen name and any subsequent claims? Bending the knee formally may not be enough. Will you return to the Wall? You already left once,” Stannis said skeptically.

Jon hid his sharp inhale at the thought of returning as his father shifted uncomfortably. Even the Wall is not enough, he thought dejectedly.

“We will do you one better, Lord Baratheon,” Sansa cut in, stepping forward. His love was regal as she regarded the prickly Lord in front of her. “I will wed Jon. He will take the Stark name and become a bannerman of the North.” Jon tried not to gape at her, studying his father who looked at her in surprise. Arya scowled in distaste but said nothing. Sansa had said it all so smoothly. He wondered when she had come up with her plan.

Stannis’s brow furrowed. “You’d marry the boy you called brother?”

“He is plainly my cousin. We have known for years now,” Sansa continued, building on Jon’s deception. “My mother kept us distant for appearances’ sake. What proper lady would spend time with her bastard brother, anyway?” She stared at him primly.

Once upon a time, her words might have hurt him. But not now. Now he was touched beyond words for what his love would do for him.

Stannis stared back at her for a full minute, Jon thought, but she did not falter. “You will approve this marriage, Lord Stark?” he eventually asked.

Ned looked from Sansa to Jon and back again. Did he suspect? Would he throttle Jon in private? Ned cleared his throat and tucked his hands behind his back before meeting Stannis’s eye. “Aye, I will,” he said.

Jon could not believe it. He felt quite dizzy. He wanted to sit down, but thought it too inappropriate to do so. This morning he had woken a bastard, now he was a prince, not his father’s son, and was to wed his love?

“I have no guarantee that Robert will agree,” Stannis said.

“No,” Ned agreed.

“But I will argue in your favor when the time arises,” Stannis stated.

Jon exhaled. He met Sansa’s eyes and they tried not to smile.

It can’t be this easy, he thought.

Unfortunately, the knock at Stannis’s door a moment later proved that suspicion to be true.

The King was dead.

Chapter Text

The King was dead.

Ned had no time to mourn the man who was once his best friend that grew to someone he hardly recognized. No, instead he and Jon (his son, his nephew, his prospective goodson of all things) are almost immediately on their knees pledging fealty to Stannis as the rightful King. Stannis had been as amenable as Ned could have hoped for, he supposed, in allowing Jon to live but things had now become more dangerous for them all. Surely Cersei would be looking to crown Joffrey immediately—and he could not allow his family to be killed once Jon’s parentage was discovered.

Davos has rejoined them after the news and Ned pleads for their help in speeding up Sansa, Jon, and Arya’s departure. “It should be under the cover of night,” Davos said, looking to Stannis. Stannis nodded absentmindedly, and Ned could tell the man’s head was elsewhere.  

“I’ll still need your assistance and support, Lord Stark.”

“You have it, Your Grace,” Ned said, quickly adapting to the new reality as best he could.

“Not just with the Lannisters but with my brother,” Stannis clarified.

“Your brother?”

“Renly will look to take the Throne himself,” Stannis told him as he moved the Starks to the door.

“Surely not,” Ned said in disbelief. Would Renly do something so reckless as to risk a divide now?

Stannis gives him a look Ned finds hard to decipher. “I believe you’ll find that not everyone is as devoted to their siblings as you, Lord Stark.”

“All the same—”

“I will need your support against any and all other claimants to the Throne,” Stannis said, gaze flicking to Jon for a moment.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Ned agreed.

“And if it be war?” Stannis asked next.

Ned could hear a fearful gasp from his side as Sansa’s hand flew to her mouth. He saw at the edge of his vision how Jon took her other hand, rubbing a thumb across her palm. He didn’t have the time to think about that right now, either. “We will rally the North’s bannermen to fight for you, Your Grace,” Ned said, swallowing thickly. He dreaded the very idea of another war. “What of the children?”

Stannis looked between Ned, his children, and back to Davos. Davos cleared his throat. “My preparations were meant to secure passage to White Harbor in three days, Lord Stark,” he explained.

“Three days?! That is far too long when the Queen will want Sansa presented to Joffrey immediately,” Ned argued. Jon pulled Sansa protectively closer to him when she flinched. Gods, give me strength.

“I have other time sensitive issues, Lord Stark. Ser Davos will secure their escape as swiftly as possible. In the meantime, keep your guard close to your children,” Stannis stepped closer to him and lowered his voice. “They will marry in White Harbor.” Jon and Sansa must have heard for they both blushed. “Escort them to the Tower of the Hand and keep all the guards you know you can trust. We will need to secure the City Watch.”

“With Lord Baelish as Master of Coin half of them are in his command,” Ned argued. It was one of the many disturbing realities Ned faced as he assumed his position—the man had a great deal of riches to bribe his way into greater and greater power.

“And the other half are in Lord Varys’,” Stannis said.

“You trust him?” Ned asked.

“No,” Stannis said, jaw clenched. “But I need him. Now go,” he instructed.

Ned bowed. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said. Jon mimicked his bow while Sansa dropped into a dutiful curtsy, though Arya simply moved straight for the door. He began to send an apologetic glance his new King’s way, but Stannis had already turned his back to them, speaking with Davos. Ned ushered his children out to the halls of the Keep.

They said nothing as they swiftly made their way to the Hand’s chambers. They seldom crossed any courtiers—soon the bells would be ringing for Robert’s death, but gossip was surely already being spread. He pondered whether the Tower was even safe anymore as they arrived. Ned immediately summoned Jory for his help in sweeping the chambers as the children moved to the settee in the common room, varying degrees of shock on their faces.

Once they’d determined the chambers were cleared, he instructed Jory to gather their northern guards and wait in the hallway before facing his children. Jon and Sansa sat further apart than he’d expected. In fact, when Ned’s attention moved to them, he noticed Jon scoot a little closer to Arya on his right. His hands rested on his knees and he looked to the floor guiltily. Sansa nervously clasped her hands while Arya gave the two wary sidelong glances.

Ned sighed tiredly. He squared his shoulders and crossed his arms. “How long?” he asked, looking between Jon and Sansa.

Sansa looked away while Jon reluctantly met his eye. “How long what?” Jon asked.

Ned huffed. “Don’t play games with me boy, you know very well what.”

Jon shifted uncomfortably. Arya’s face twisted in disgust at them. “Arya, go to your chambers,” Ned instructed.

She stood. “You’re not really going to let them, are you?” Arya asked.

He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. “I see no other choice, Arya,” Ned answered.

His youngest daughter gave a departing scoff before he heard her open and close the door to her chambers. When Ned opened his eyes again it was only Jon and Sansa before him. Jon stood nervously to face him as Sansa looked up at her new betrothed—wistful and longing. How hadn’t he seen it before? He’d known they had grown closer, had even been grateful for it, but this…what had they done? A flare of suspicious anger flashed through him as he studied them. “If you have dishonored her—”

Jon’s mouth parted as if he were about to speak but Sansa abruptly stood next to him. “He has not dishonored me, Father,” she said in a steely voice that reminded him of Cat. “Jon is…Jon is good, a-and kind and he would do anything to protect me and—”

“Alright,” Ned interrupted, raising a hand to halt her speech. “I hear you.”

Jon went to take Sansa’s hand in his. “I love her, Father,” he said, looking from Sansa back to Ned. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. I never meant for it to happen, but it did,” Jon said with a catch in his throat. “But I love her very much and I will honor her and protect her. I will be a good husband to her. I swear it, Father,” he said desperately.

Unbidden, a small smile crossed Ned’s face. Jon had called him father. He feared such a thing would never occur again.

“And I love him too,” Sansa said, clutching Jon’s hand tighter.

“Very well. I cannot say I am very comfortable with this, but it needs to be done. You will wed at White Harbor…”

They let out a breath of relief in unison. “It will need to be at a Sept, since Stannis follows the Seven and House Manderly will be your witnesses. Once you arrive in Winterfell, perhaps we can have a ceremony before the Heart Tree.” They sent each other furtive smiles. “I will have to write your mother,” Ned continued, watching Jon slump a little in response.

If I make it out of King’s Landing, Cat is going to kill me herself, he thought. But it had to be done. And he knew that Jon would be a good husband. They would be happy, he thought dumbfoundedly. He could not repair the lies he’d told Jon nor fix the pain he’d caused Sansa when he killed Lady. But perhaps he could give them this.  They looked at each other like they had the first bloom of love. It even reminded him (against his will) of him and Catelyn. Forgive me, my love.

Jory entered the chambers that moment and reported that Stannis had summoned him to return. Ned bit back a groan of frustration. “Stay here, do not open the doors for anyone but me,” he instructed Jory, “and do not let them leave.” Jory nodded gravely.

Ned strapped Ice to his side—he would leave the guards to his children and had an ominous feeling he might need the greatsword all too soon.

---

Jon held his love’s hand as Sansa anxiously looked to the door from which their father and Jory had just departed. He cupped her cheek in an attempt to bring her back to him and soothe her worries. “You were brilliant, my love,” he told her. Sansa smiled and blushed at his praise.

“I was only doing what I must to protect you,” she said modestly, and Jon leaned in to press his lips to hers briefly. Sansa eyed him cautiously. “How are you feeling…about all of it?”

Jon pondered it—all the revelations of the day, none more so than the truth of his birth. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I just don’t understand how he could lie to me.”

Sansa averted her eyes from him and chewed her bottom lip. Jon knew that meant she was thinking something that she was holding back. “What is it?” he asked.

She looked back to him. “He’s betrayed us both, I know.” Sansa hugged herself protectively, Jon knew she thought of Lady and he stepped closer. “But he did what he did to protect you.”

Jon exhaled, willing the tension out of his muscles. “I know.” It was true—his father (or uncle) had protected him against everything and stained his own honor to do so. But it still hurt. Jon couldn’t shake the conviction that he could have told him sooner. “I just wish…” he couldn’t finish the sentence, something he couldn’t name lodged in his heart.

But Sansa understood. She always did. “I know,” she said consolingly. “He loves you. Your mother loved you.”

Jon nodded, emotion thick in his throat. “I’m glad I know the truth now, at least. I’d always wondered who she was. I just hope she would be proud of me. She gave her life for me. I don’t think I can ever repay that.” He thought of her now, his mother. Her hopes and dreams. What she would have wanted for him. Jon had a name and a face now, to put to her—some combination of her statue and Arya’s face as he tried to picture her. People had always said he had the Stark look, that his mother left little of herself in him though the opposite turned out to be true. He was glad of it—he didn’t want to be a Targaryen.

Sansa cradled his face in her delicate hands. “You don’t have to repay it. You are enough, Jon.” He shuddered at her words. The nightmares of the crypts that haunted him—the feeling that he did not belong in Winterfell, among his family—all that time his mother’s remains rested where he’d felt so out of place. Somehow, he believed Sansa. He looked at her now: his love. The woman he’d given his heart to long before it was proper for him to do so. But she was never his sister. Maybe they were always meant to end up here; together.

“All my life I’ve wanted to be a Stark,” he observed. “You’re giving me the Stark name,” Jon whispered in astonishment.

“It was always yours Jon,” Sansa said. “You’ve always been a Stark.”

Jon’s breath caught for a minute. It was the kind of acceptance he’d been craving his whole life. He pulled her flush against him, palm at the back of her neck. He kissed her hard, tongue seeking out her own, teeth clashing as her hands dug into his hair. Jon wrapped his arms around her waist and held her so tightly he partially lifted her off her feet.

She giggled into his mouth. “And just what is so funny?” he asked, feeling lighter, kissing her chin and down her neck as he let her catch her breath.

“You kiss me like you mean to devour me,” Sansa said, a soft gasp leaving her as he grazed his teeth along her neck.

He raised his head to whisper deeply into her ear: “Maybe I do.”

“Jon,” she reprimanded him, pressing down on his shoulders. “You know we cannot now.”

Jon sighed, setting her down and resting his head in the crook of her shoulder. “I know,” Jon agreed sadly. He wanted to love his Sansa in every way, but he knew now was not the time. Jon looked back at her, amazed that she would truly be his. “You’ll be my wife.”

She smiled. “And you will be my husband,” she remarked, brushing his curls from his forehead. He closed his eyes at the touch, thinking he could get used to it—to be loved and cared for, doted on, even.

But when he opened his eyes once more, he saw the way she looked uneasy again. What was hanging over them, what might happen next, had returned to her mind. “Sansa,” he said hesitantly, pulling her back onto the settee where she sat, knees pressed to his own.

“I’m afraid, Jon,” Sansa confessed, her blue eyes striking something within his chest.

“I know, but it’s going to be okay,” Jon told her. She didn’t look like she fully believed him and truthfully, Jon didn’t know if he believed it himself, much as he wanted to. But he still believed it was what she needed to hear. “Remember I promised to protect you, Sansa. That will never change.”

She looked at him determinedly, her chin jutting out proudly. “We protect each other,” Sansa corrected him.

“Aye, we do,” Jon said, entwining his fingers with her own.

A moment later, the bells rang out mournfully to announce the King’s death. Sansa blanched at the sound, rising to her feet and looking out toward the balcony. “Septa Mordane should have returned by now,” she said uncertainly, turning back to face him. The woman always went to the Sept of Baelor for her prayers and singing, but Jon only now realized that Sansa was right—it was getting later in the afternoon now and she usually returned at midday.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Jon told her, again not knowing if he even believed his own words.

Sansa shook her head slowly in consideration. “No, no. I think she would have been back by now.” His love wandered about the common room anxiously.

“Sansa—” he began, but was cut off by a ruckus sounding from the hallway.

For a moment, they both froze and stared at each other in common understanding.

Scuffling feet, steel clashing. There could be no doubt as to what was happening. Jon’s stomach clenched in dread. The Lannisters were coming for Sansa.

Jon dashed for his sword and grabbed Sansa’s hand.

“Where will we go?” she asked him anxiously.

“First we get Arya.” He called for her as they rushed to their little sister’s room. No answer came. “Arya, we need to leave,” he said. Jon was running all on adrenaline now. They’d go through the hidden tunnels, he decided, ones he’d found exploring the Keep. His father had told Jory to keep them here but surely, they couldn’t stay now.

And Jory…

Jon didn’t want to think about that.

“Arya,” Sansa called hurriedly and pushed open her door.

The room was empty.

Sansa looked around despairingly. “Where did she go?”

Jon spotted her open window in the corner, curtains billowing in the breeze. “Gods dammit Arya!” he groaned in frustration.

A loud thud on the chamber doors caused them both to jump and Sansa yelped.

“Stay behind me,” Jon told her. He stepped forward cautiously, heading back to the common room, sword at the ready, drawing closer to the sound. The door was barred, but Jon saw the red pooling as it ran beneath the door.   

Sansa gasped behind him. He whipped around to face her, holding his forefinger to his lips in a motion for her to be quiet. She nodded. There was no way Sansa could shimmy from the trellis from Arya’s room, from what Jon could figure her skirts would be caught. But Jon’s own room and window was a little closer to the ground, still higher up than he’d like, but without a trellis, they could make their escape that way—but Sansa would be immediately spotted. He took Sansa’s hand in his and walked her back to her room. “You need a cloak,” Jon whispered. She nodded once more and grabbed one, wrapping her red hair under the cloth.

“OPEN UP BY ORDER OF KING JOFFREY!” A man shouted as he pounded at the door.

There was no time to think. Jon grabbed Sansa and hauled her to his room. He would protect her to his dying breath. They would not get Sansa. The pounding continued until it sounded as if they had a heavy object ready to break the door down.

Jon opened his window and turned to Sansa, who had gone pale with fear. “Come on, you go first.” He held out his arms. “Come on, I’ve got you.” A tear fell down her cheek as she embraced him. “I love you,” he told her as he began to guide her out the window.

“I love you, too,” she said, her eyes darting between his. The door broke down in the next second. Sansa panicked halfway out the window at the sound, and clutched to him. He grunted with effort as she teetered. He was forced to pull her back into the room or let her fall out the window. She stumbled back in, knocking them both to the ground.

Jon blindly pushed her behind him and reached back for his sword, which had clattered to the floor. A man’s boot came down on his wrist and he winced as the man’s other foot kicked his sword away from him.

“Now, now, is all this really necessary?” the man’s mocking voice rang out. Jon looked up to find Jaime Lannister smirking down at him.

Chapter Text

“Don’t hurt him!” Sansa cried from her corner as she watched Ser Jaime towering over Jon. Nothing could happen to Jon. She couldn’t let it. Jaime Lannister turned his head to glance at Sansa, still holding Jon beneath his boot, a look of dark amusement on his features.

“Sansa, don’t,” Jon warned.

The other Kingsguard were rifling through the Hand’s Tower, doubtless looking for Arya or anyone else that could be here. The Hound stood at the door of Jon’s room, however, blocking the entrance and seeming bored with the events playing out before him.

I am a stupid girl. I should have been brave but my courage failed me.

Sansa stood and moved closer to Jaime and Jon on the floor. She could see Jon silently trying to warn her, but she had to try to protect him. “We have done nothing wrong, Ser Jaime. Please release my brother.”

Jaime was handsome, but he looked between them with an arrogance that repulsed Sansa to her very core. “I would never dream you guilty of crimes against the Crown, Lady Sansa. But I must admit—the two of you trying to sneak away certainly changes my perspective.”

“We saw the blood, we were scared!” Sansa said, her voice growing hysterical as Jaime moved his boot onto Jon’s chest, pinning him down and making him hiss in pain.

“Lady Sansa was only sneaking away because I urged her to do so. I am her sworn shield and feared for her safety,” Jon said with rasping breaths.

“Of course,” Jaime said dubiously. Obviously, he believed neither of them.

A gruff voice called from the common room. “No sign of the other Stark girl.”

Jaime titled his head. “Where is your sister, Lady Sansa?”

“I do not know, Ser,” she said honestly.

Jaime looked down at Jon. “And what about you, bastard?”

“No,” Jon shook his head vehemently.

Jaime chuckled without humor. “You know nothing, huh?” Sansa could see Jon narrowing his eyes dangerously at Jaime above him. She spoke to draw the knight’s attention away.

“I am sure all of this is a misunderstanding, Ser,” Sansa said, hoping to give strength to her voice and use whatever charms she still had to convince him of their innocence. “There is no need to hurt him,” she motioned to Jon on the floor.

Jaime smirked at her. “A misunderstanding I’m sure, Lady Sansa. One we must clear up with Queen Cersei and King Joffrey.”

Sansa swallowed and nodded. Jon did not protest but she could see the fear in his eyes. Sansa should have forced Jon to go through the window first—if she were captured by the Lannisters they likely would not kill her, at least not right away. But Jon was only a bastard in their eyes, or perhaps worse, if they discovered he was the heir to the Throne. How would she save Jon now?

“Trant,” Jaime called out, and it was as if a stone sank into the pit of her stomach at the thought of one of the worst of Joffrey’s knights. “Bring in the chains for the bastard.”

“No!” Sansa cried, stepping forward again, nearly grappling to touch Jaime in her desperation. “He hasn’t done anything wrong! I swear it!”

“Don’t Sansa! Just don’t,” Jon pleaded with her, his eyes mournful but imploring. Trant entered with a scowl on his face as he and Jaime brought Jon up from the floor. Sansa trembled as the Hound moved closer to her, as if ready to step in if she got the foolish idea to challenge grown men with swords. She knew it would be fruitless, but oh how she wished now that she had learned to wield a blade like Arya. Anything would be better than just standing here uselessly.

They began shackling him. “It’s merely a precautionary measure, Lady Sansa.” Jaime said airily. “Until we clear up this misunderstanding.” He finished with a quirk of his brow.

They shuffled Jon forward and Sansa was pushed forward by the Hound.

“Don’t touch her,” Jon growled.

“The bastard wolf has teeth, does he?” the Hound said.

“Watch your mouth boy,” Trant spat at Jon.

“That’s enough,” Jaime said smoothly, seeming to mediate their anger. “No need to further upset the King’s betrothed. Come along, Lady Sansa—we would not want this to end in violence, would we?” he asked her with a seemingly sarcastic smile.

“No, Ser,” she answered.

“Then you both will come along,” he said, leading them away from the Hand’s chambers. The Hound stood at her side as Jon walked in shackles between Ser Jaime and Meryn Trant ahead of her. Sansa could not look at the bodies in the hallway—though she could see the blood and gore from the corner of her eye—it was enough to make her feel the need to retch. She did not want to see Jory or the other Northmen her father had brought with them. Tears filled her eyes and she stubbornly blinked them back.

She would not give up. Her father was somewhere—Arya was somewhere. Stannis, the rightful King, was somewhere close by gathering his own forces. She had to keep herself and Jon alive in the meantime. She could do it. She had to. Be brave. Like Father. Like Arya, like Robb, and like Jon. Her beautiful Jon.

They were escorted to the Queen’s chambers. Sansa was filled with dread, expecting to see Joffrey with a crown and his sinister gaze raking over her once again. But there was only Cersei, Lord Baelish, and Maester Pycelle awaiting them in the Queen’s solar. She and Jon were unceremoniously shoved forward. Jaime, Meryn, and the Hound remained to keep them from trying anything.

Cersei sat relaxed at her desk, the late-afternoon sun poured in through her balcony, giving the room a cheerful looking glow completely at odds to the misery roiling within her. Cersei smiled at her pleasantly, as if it were any perfectly normal day. As if Jon weren’t in shackles, as if her father’s guards had not just been murdered, as if they hadn’t been brought here as hostages.

No, Cersei was not done playing games yet.

“Little dove,” she greeted her with false courtesy and Sansa bit her tongue to keep herself from sneering or talking back to the Lannister Queen. “Please sit,” she motioned to the chair across from her desk as Lord Baelish and Pycelle stood on either side of Cersei. Sansa numbly sat in the chair as instructed. The Hound stood by her chair menacingly while Jon was kept under close watch from the corner by Jaime and Meryn. Sansa could not bring herself to turn her head and look upon him for more than just a heartbeat or two—she hoped he could see in her short glance how much she loved him, and how much she would try to protect him and stall things until help could arrive. She could certainly see his love for her when he looked back. She could still feel his eyes on her as she looked at Cersei. She prayed that Jon would not do anything to incur the wrath of the Kingsguard.

Cersei leaned forward, folding her hands in front of her. “It seems like we may have a bit of a problem, little dove,” Cersei told her—the woman’s voice was sweet like honey.

“A problem, Your Grace?” Sansa asked. Her confusion was not entirely feigned. Sansa did not know all of what Cersei knew—she forced herself not to glance at Lord Baelish—the man who had threatened Jon with the truth of his parentage.

 “Yes. I’m afraid your father has made treasonous moves against Joffrey, my son who is now the King—and right after my husband and his own oldest friend passes tragically,” Cersei said, her head tilted to the side. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, little dove?”

“No, Your Grace,” Sansa said urgently. She kept her hands folded so she did not nervously wring them, though she felt her palms getting sweaty. “I’m sure there must have been a misunderstanding. There must be some mistake. My father loved King Robert. He would never betray the Crown, I’m certain of it.”

Cersei would never believe her lord father was innocent, Sansa was sure. But whether she thought Sansa was so naïve was another question. If she did, she might be able to buy them more time. “There is evidence, dear girl,” Baelish said in a simpering voice.

Before she could respond Cersei spoke again. “Where is your sister, Lady Sansa?” she asked in a tight voice.

“I don’t know, Your Grace. My sister is a bit wild, as you well know. She is always running about without thought as to what is proper,” Sansa said, letting some sisterly exasperation into her tone.

Cersei narrowed her eyes and glanced to her brother Jaime. The two exchanged a wordless conversation. Now that Sansa knew the truth of them, she wondered just how much they could communicate back and forth. Cersei looked back at Sansa. “I suppose that is the truth of your sister, Lady Sansa. Ser Jaime, Ser Clegane—I want you to send further knights to continue the search for Lady Arya—then you may go to guard King Joffrey while Lady Sansa and I discuss things.”

“And the bastard?” Jaime looked at the Queen in question. Cersei looked at Sansa—studying her for a reaction she was sure. Sansa schooled her expression as best she could.

“He will remain here for now,” she said, not taking her eyes off Sansa. “Ser Meryn will guard him.”

She would have picked Ser Jaime or the Hound to guard Jon over Meryn Trant, Sansa knew. He was the worst of them all. She thought Cersei must know it too. She could have had Jon thrown into the black cells—but maybe keeping Jon right in front of her—where at any moment he could be snatched away or beaten by Ser Meryn was altogether scarier than not seeing him at all.

She’s trying to rattle me. I cannot break. Neither of us can.

The other knights left. Ser Meryn barred the doors.

“I’m afraid Lord Baelish is right, little dove. Your father has been conspiring with Lord Stannis to take the Throne from our dear Joffrey.”

“My father would never—”

“But he did, little dove,” Cersei interrupted. “All the while knowing you were to marry Joffrey. Why would he sabotage your betrothal, Lady Sansa? Why would he compromise your happiness?”

She wishes to make me angry with him. Truthfully, I would be if father hadn’t told us the truth. Not for trying to end the betrothal, but for leaving them all so vulnerable. Would he have let me marry Joffrey? No.

But it scared her to know she’d gotten so close.

“I’m certain I don’t know, Your Grace,” Sansa said.  

“You still want to marry Joffrey, don’t you?” Cersei asked.

“Of course, Your Grace. Nothing would make me happier,” she said. Sansa could feel Jon’s eyes practically boring holes into her—she hoped he understood why she said as much, though it likely hurt to hear. It hurt to say.

“Good. That’s good, little dove,” she said in a soothing voice that turned Sansa’s stomach. “And I assume you wish for your family to live as well?” Cersei asked.

Sansa’s eyes flitted to Jon without her permission, but something within his dark gaze made her feel strong.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Cersei studies her for a moment. She looks as if she is trying to decide her next words very carefully. “Your father and your Septa are in the black cells now.”

“No!” Jon cried, moving hastily forward but Trant struck him hard enough to force him to the ground. Sansa was on her feet and moving to him immediately.

“Don’t hurt him!” she pleaded once more.

“Do what she says, Sansa,” Jon whispered to her before being hauled back to his feet.

“Lady Sansa,” Cersei called to her sharply. “You will sit. You will write to your brother the Lord of Winterfell to make his way to King’s Landing and bend the knee to King Joffrey. Do this and your father will be sent to the Wall. Refuse, and he will die.”

Did she really have Sansa’s father? Sansa wasn’t so sure. But what choice did she have?

“Do it, Sansa,” Jon said, his eyes gentle but urgent.

“Listen to your brother, little dove.”

Jon nodded at her, and Sansa moved back to her seat across from the Queen. “Yes, Your Grace.”

This is only for now, Sansa told herself as Cersei gathered parchment and a quill. My father and his allies will destroy them all.

Chapter Text

She hadn’t meant to leave them—not really. After her father had banished her to her rooms she’d not been able to resist pressing her ear to the door and listening in as father spoke with Jon and Sansa. Then, father had left and she had heard the two of them alone together and wanted to retch. Arya couldn’t understand how any of it could have happened. The Sansa she thought she knew hated Jon. And Jon was always hers, did Sansa now have to take the one thing of Arya’s that she’d never had to doubt before? Another part of her knew it was necessary to save Jon’s life and she certainly would never marry her brother—so Arya supposed she should be grateful in a way. Still, the whole thing made her sick.

When the bells had rung Arya had a sinking feeling in her stomach that something was distinctly wrong. More than what they had already learned that day—wrong like they may not make it out of here alive. She’d heard Sansa worriedly mentioning Septa Mordane, and then the sounds of a fight in the hallway. Arya couldn’t say for certain how she knew she had to leave right that second, to shimmy out her window and get someplace hidden away—she just knew she had to get moving. If she’d learned anything about stealth and sword it was to trust her instincts.

She’d circled the tower enough to see what had become of Jon and Sansa—at least enough to know they’d failed to escape as Sansa stumbled back into the room rather than descending from Jon’s window. That was when she ran. She felt guilty leaving them behind. Her instincts had been whirring so loudly she’d hardly given it a thought until she slowed, gulping air in nervously. A little voice in her head said it wasn’t just her instincts that made her flee, but her anger with them too.  But she would not abandon them. She couldn’t. She had every intention, even as she ran, of finding some way back to them, some way to help them. Arya thought of Nymeria—lost to her but still alive—she could feel it. Arya thought of Mycah with guilt. She thought of Lady with equal parts anger and shame. She and Sansa had both been foolish. Jon was right. They were still a pack and they needed each other.

Arya made her way through the dark tunnels in the bowels of the Keep until she’d stumbled upon the tomcat she would always follow like Syrio encouraged. Syrio. Just like that, she grabbed the cat and held it stubbornly despite its howls and scratches, feeling an absurd burst of pride that she finally captured the beast. She took off in a run again. Arya knew what she had to do.

---

When he returned to the King’s solar, Ned found Stannis and Renly in the middle of an argument, both muttering under their breath. Davos was looking between them both anxiously, as if he stood at the ready to pull them apart if things came to blows. Ned also did not miss that now Lord Varys was among them, hands as always tucked in his robes, an almost flat but congenial expression on his face, studying Ned and his sword at his side. More City Watch were outside, so he supposed Varys had held up whatever deal Stannis had made with him.

“Lord Stark,” Stannis called with a grim look upon his face. “Perhaps you might talk some sense into my little brother here.”

Ned stepped forward wearily. He was tired of games. He only wanted his children out of this godsforsaken city. He hadn’t wanted to leave them at all, but his King had summoned him. “How might I do that, Your Grace?”

Renly turned toward him, eyes going dark and a smirk coming to his lips at Ned’s words. “Your Grace, then?” Renly asked teasingly. There was something airy and jovial about his manner, but it felt more affected than genuine. “That easily? You see, I was just telling my brother that Kings need friends. They need to be liked.” Renly shot a meaningful look Stannis’s way.

Stannis sighed tiredly but his body grew rigid at Renly’s words. “Likability is over-estimated, little brother. I am the rightful heir and I have more friends than you think,” he said, squaring his shoulders and moving closer to face his brother until they were almost nose to nose.

“You are family. You are brothers.” Ned told them.

“If he wishes to challenge my claim,” Stannis said to Ned but kept his eyes locked to Renly’s all the while, “then the fact that we share a mother will not be enough to save him.”

Seven hells, Ned thought, looking between the Baratheons, Davos, and Varys. “We cannot fight a war amongst ourselves,” he said. For the love of the gods, he was talking to them like he talked to his children. But there was nothing for it. “You cannot fight a war amongst your family. The true Baratheons must align themselves if you ever wish to defeat those who would falsely rule in your late brother’s name,” Ned finished, voice harsh with impatience.

Finally, Renly stepped away from his brother and looked to Ned. “You’re right, Lord Eddard. But if we are to talk rightful succession—then I am to come before the King’s daughter, am I not?” he asked.

Stannis’s jaw clenched. Ah, so this was the true contention, Ned surmised. “My daughter will be my heir—”

“You cannot expect Shireen to rule at court—” Renly scoffed in amused disbelief.

“Do not speak ill of Princess Shireen,” Ser Davos cut the young lad off.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Renly said nonchalantly. “She is my niece. But it is a mere fact that she is a girl—and as sweet as she is, you surely know a disfigured woman could never safely hold the Throne, not without marriage—and with marriage, her husband shall rule, the Baratheons will lose their claim.”

“Not if she marries a lesser lord,” Stannis argued.

“Do you wish to risk it?” Renly asked, raising a brow.

Stannis huffed. Renly pounced with confidence. “Make me your heir and I will stand down.”

Stannis narrowed his eyes at his little brother. But even Ned could see he was going to give in to the demand, even if he gritted his teeth while doing so. “And you will marry and have children?” Stannis asked. Ned could have sworn he saw the smallest flinch from Renly then.

“Yes, of course,” Renly said quickly.

“Very well,” Stannis relented with a nod. “You will be my heir, but Shireen will be your heir until you and your wife produce children. She will remain in the line of succession.” Renly agreed and the tension filling the room began to ebb away.

Ned could see Ser Davos was displeased with this turn of events but said nothing. For his part, Ned could not find it in himself to care overmuch. Squabbles of the South did not interest him—he only wished to save his family and return North, never to return to this nest of vipers again.

The bells rang out then, announcing the King’s death. Stannis looked at Davos and then to Lord Varys. “We must make our move now,” he instructed.

Ned clutched his sword as they moved toward the door. “One last thing, Your Grace, Lord Stark,” Varys said, halting them mid-stride. It was the first Ned heard him speak since he arrived.  

“You certainly have impeccable timing, Lord Varys,” Stannis said in irritation, turning back to glance at his new ally. “Out with it.”

The man’s face was still mostly unreadable to Ned, but as he stepped forward Ned was certain whatever it was would only add to his current list of worries. “I believe you should both know who is truly responsible for Lord Jon Arryn’s death.”

The man began to speak and as a white-hot rage built within him, Ned vowed to finish what his brother Brandon had started. Before the end of the day, Baelish would be dead by his hands.

---

Jon watched his love sit primly as Cersei made to join her, sitting to Sansa’s side and thrusting the quill into her hand. “Well go on, little dove,” the queen said, and Jon bit back a snarl at the woman’s false endearment.

Sansa looked over to him fleetingly and he nodded reassuringly. She turned back to the parchment as Cersei began dictating Sansa’s letter. Jon’s fists clenched and unclenched stiffly. He tried not to move too much, or else have Trant strike him again. He could take it, but he didn’t want to bring more trouble down on Sansa if she tried to get in the middle. When she’d come to him before, seeking to protect him from subsequent blows, he did not miss Cersei’s arched golden eyebrow. The woman surely knew then that Jon was a weak spot for Sansa. It would not take much for her to realize Sansa was his own either.

Perhaps Cersei or Littlefinger had seen the wince he tried to hide when Sansa said she wished to wed Joffrey. He’d known it was a mummery, but it left him feeling aggrieved. Not because of jealousy as it once might have been, but because Sansa had to lie through her teeth like this again, all to protect them.

I’ll protect you, I promise. He’d told her.

No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone. She’d answered.

He’d vowed then to prove her wrong, but now he feared that he would fail. But he refused to lose hope now. Not when Sansa was putting on her bravest face in front of the monster of a woman she once might have called goodmother. And so Jon did what he’d done so many times before, he played the role of the bastard and stood aside, nearly unnoticeable aside from the glance Baelish would occasionally send his way. Let them believe he is docile. Let them believe he is a wolf tamed.

Soon, he thought, he prayed, Jon would show them otherwise.

He watched Cersei grip the arm of her chair tightly until her knuckles turned white. He saw her accept a drink from Pycelle. She was still queenly, still regal in her own way, but as false as the day Jon had first seen her. But something was different now, Jon thought as he took the opportunity to study her. He realized what it was.

Fear.

Jon had felt fear when she’d spoken of their father (his uncle) in the black cells. But Jon watched now. Sansa finished off the letter and Cersei smirked in her victory as she made to hand the scroll to Pycelle, but Jon could see her arrogance was truly a mask—something beneath the surface in the twitch of her jaw that told Jon all was not as it seemed. A flare of wild hope burned in his chest as he thought maybe she didn’t have their father.

Pycelle retrieved the scroll and stepped toward the desk to seal it when a black cat came through the balcony and onto the desk, knocking over the ink and spilling it across all the papers that laid atop it and the wax for the seal. Pycelle grunted in annoyance as he righted the mess as best as he could, before plastering on a smile. “I’ll be needing wax, my Queen,” he said deferentially.

“Yes, yes,” Cersei said with a sigh, waving him away. “Lord Baelish, will you please take the filthy creature out of here?” she asked, motioning to the cat. Her orders were in no small part, Jon imagined, to demonstrate her control of the situation at hand.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Littlefinger said with a bow before picking up the cat and holding the animal away from his body, as if afraid of getting stray fur on his no-doubt fine suit. Jon bit his lip to hold back a grin. He hoped this could work for him. The tomcat with one ear that Arya was always chasing around—something told him it was a good omen. Meryn looked bored and regarded Pycelle and Baelish with a curt nod as they made their way to the door. Jon discreetly tested the strength of the chains around his wrists, thinking he could only break free by tearing his skin and bleeding profusely. But mayhap he could do something…

Pycelle had opened the door and a pained grumble from the old man had all the others whipping their heads in his direction. The old man fell to the floor, blood flowing out of his mouth as Lord Baelish took off in a panicked run.

In that moment, several things seemed to happen in the space of a few seconds—but later on Jon would not be able to recall their exact order and sequence—something that could only feel like fate intervened. Trant charged forward without looking to meet the assailant and their swords clashed as Trant’s opponent skillfully parried his offensive moves. Jon had only a moment to see the flash of the man he’d known as Arya’s “dance” instructor before hearing him speak.

“What do we say to the God of Death?”

Jon snapped his head in Sansa’s direction when she let out a dreadful cry. He found Cersei furiously grabbing her and yanking her by the head. She was frantically and desperately pulling Sansa backward with considerable effort, looking as if she meant to fling Sansa from the balcony. Jon moved quick as Ghost on an attack, pulling Cersei away from his love as he wrapped his chains around the Queen’s neck from behind.

“Not today,” Jon growled at the woman in his grip, never before feeling as angry as he did in that moment, knowing how she had meant to take Sansa’s life. She gasped for air, but Jon only tightened his hold, the sounds of Syrio and Meryn’s battle fading as he concentrated on snuffing out the life of the so-called Queen. She stopped fighting and eventually went limp, no longer breathing. Jon dropped her lifeless body to the floor and raced to Sansa, collapsed on the floor across from them.

“Sansa,” he called, crouching and putting his hands to her cheeks as she gazed at him in shock. Whether it was from fear of what she’d barely escaped or of the brutality of Jon’s act, he did not know. But something about his touch seemed to awaken her and she looked at him with a watery smile.

“Jon,” she breathed, gripping his wrists, before looking for anything to break the shackles around him.

“Jon! Sansa!” They heard the cries of Arya behind them as she raced toward them. Jon turned to find Meryn Trant dead at Syrio’s hand just as Arya hurdled into them both, nearly knocking them all backward. Cries of relief and laughter echoed through all three as Sansa, Arya, and Jon embraced in joyful disbelief.

“Gods I’m so glad you’re both okay,” Arya said, looking between them.

Sansa pressed a kiss to the top of Arya’s head. Arya didn’t even scrunch her face in disgust at Sansa’s gesture of affection—only continued to look at them both as if she’d never let them out of her sight. “You saved us, Underfoot,” Jon remarked.

Arya shrugged. “It was Syrio, mostly.” She gestured to the man who now approached them with a few scratches but looking no worse for wear, sword still in hand.

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa said reverently as she began to rise, Arya and Jon joining her on their feet.

Syrio smiled and nodded in acknowledgement before looking to Jon. “You look like you could use some help with those chains.”

---

“BRING ME HIS HEAD!” Joffrey’s screech was almost unhuman in its pitch as Ned, Stannis, and their forces descended on the Throne room. Ned didn’t know to whom the boy-king was referring in that moment as there were so many contenders.

Jaime Lannister and the Hound advanced ready to take the order into their own hands. Ned deftly avoided Clegane’s sword, Ice heavy in his hands, somehow feeling young again as the old, familiar humming of the fight coursed through his body. The melee was chaos. Ned could only keep his attention on his own survival and vengeance: allowing him to power through the Kingsguard as he made his way closer to the iron chair on which Joffrey was still perched, spitting with fury as he watched his men battle for him.

Ser Barristan stood down at Stannis’s order, and a good deal of the Kingsguard followed his leadership. Jaime was shouting on about protecting their King, moving back on graceful feet toward his son. Ned would have killed both but they were not his real intended target. Lord Baelish had finally made his entrance, pale and with a sheen of sweat as he yelled the warning of the attack on Cersei’s solar.

Jaime had stilled in alarm as if ready to run to his lover and abandon his son. Someone tackled the man in his distraction and from there, it was no use for those to defend the pretender to the Throne, though some inevitably still tried. Stannis’s men cut through the opposing forces clean as a knife. Joffrey was dragged along with his true father, screaming in impotent rage, out of the room in chains. Ned barely processed these things around him, so single-minded was he on his pursuit of Littlefinger.

In the end, the lowly man was on his knees crying for mercy, promising deals, attempting to warn Stannis of Jon Snow’s true parentage as if he, Eddard Stark, were the one not to be trusted. Ned stood before the man blocking any attempt at escape but awaited Stannis’s order. Baelish’s pleas fell on deaf ears, though Ned was not the least surprised as he’d already discussed it with his new King.

Baelish is mine, he’d insisted to Stannis. Jon Arryn had been like another father to him. Had saved his life rather than give him over to the Mad King. Stannis had acquiesced though with conditions.

“You stand accused of the murder of Jon Arryn, in league with his wife Lysa Tully Arryn, of treason against the true King, of bribery and theft of funds as Master of Coin. How do you answer these charges, Lord Baelish?” Ned bit out his words sharply with contempt.

“I deny it!”

“You deny it?” Ned barked at the man. “Very well then. Lord Varys give your testimony,” Ned spat, his eyes remaining on one Petyr Baelish as Lord Varys recounted his crimes over the man’s protests.

“What do you find this man, King Stannis Baratheon?” Ned asked impatiently. The ceremony was necessary by honor and for the others stood down to witness the impromptu trial, though Ned itched to finish it. He did not relish or enjoy killing—but he had every intention to see this through—to see swift justice after the man’s crimes and the threats to his family.

“I, Stannis Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, find Lord Baelish guilty of these crimes and sentence him to die.”

“Please!” Tears were in the man’s eyes now.

“Take your justice, Lord Stark,” Stannis said darkly.

Without hesitation, Ned swung Ice through Baelish’s neck.

Chapter Text

Their father had found them huddled together in Cersei’s solar. Syrio helped free Jon from his shackles and Jon took Meryn’s sword for his own, keeping the girls behind them. It was all they could do to wait. When Sansa heard the voice of her father on the other side of the barred door, she nearly collapsed with gratitude that he was safe. He’d hugged each of them fiercely, and perhaps for the first time since he had killed Lady, Sansa felt her father’s love most unconditionally.

Jon ventured in the hall to Pycelle’s body. “Father,” Jon said haltingly, as if uncertain how to address him now.

“Son?” Ned asked as he turned toward Jon. Sansa saw something brighten in Jon’s eyes at the title.

Jon slipped a paper retrieved from Pycelle into their father’s hand. Sansa had only a moment before she remembered.

The letter Cersei made me write.

“She told us you were in the black cells,” Jon explained, and Sansa swallowed thickly. She didn’t want them to think her disloyal.

Ned turned to her as he perused the scroll. He put an arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. Sansa shook her head, unable to bring words from her throat. Ned ventured to the hearth and started a fire before tossing the scroll away into the flames, and she watched the parchment curl to ashes. He turned back to them resolutely. “The new King will not doubt our loyalty,” he said. Ned embraced all three again before leading them to the door. “There’s much left to do.”

When Septa Mordane is found unharmed in the black cells and released, each of the Starks (even Arya, to Sansa’s surprise) breathe a sigh of relief. Yet Sansa also knows her little sister has an altogether different sort of relief when their Septa tells their father, grim-faced, that she prefers not to continue service with the Starks in Winterfell. The older woman was shaken by whatever befell her when she’d been captured, that much was clear. Despite everything, Sansa does feel a bit of sadness knowing Septa Mordane is to depart from them. But she is ever proper as always with both girls, tells them to be good and mind their manners, and gives one last nudge beneath Arya’s chin as she tells her sternly to work on her posture.

Sansa wonders at the woman’s absence after all the time she’d spent under her instruction, but knowing they are soon to return North, she also craves to be in her mother’s arms once more. When she looks over at Jon, she cannot help but feel guilty for it. The two had been nigh on inseparable since they’d been taken by the Lannisters and Jon had killed the Queen. It took little time for Stannis to absolve him, as surely Cersei would have died either way, and he had acted in defense of Sansa. But even with Joffrey and Jaime in custody, Jon seemed unable to part with her for long, as if fearing someone may snatch her away if he turned his back. Yet it is harder for them, now that father and Arya know of their affections for one another—their nightly visits unfortunately coming to a halt. Their betrothal would be public before long.

Baelish’s revelations of Jon’s true parentage in the Throne room before his execution had set tongues to wagging throughout King’s Landing and surely soon to the rest of the Kingdoms. And so their father had written her lady mother immediately. Sansa thought it was rather the sort of news that should best be delivered in person, but there was nothing to be done for it.

“She will hate me even more,” Jon murmured as they held hands beneath the dinner table. Sansa squeezed his hand in hers, and his thumb automatically swept across her knuckles in response.

“I don’t see why,” Arya said as she picked at her food, and Sansa looked away from the sight of her little sister talking with her mouth full. “You’re not father’s bastard after all.”

“Arya!” Sansa exclaimed as Jon chuckled. Sansa shook her head in mystification at the two of them: “it’s uncouth,” she said. Jon smiled at her fondly even as Arya rolled her eyes.

“It’s the truth,” Arya shrugged. “Why would she hate you more?” Arya asked Jon curiously. Sansa knew that whatever Jon’s true parents, he would always be Arya’s big brother, and she was glad of it.

“It might have something to do with my marrying her eldest daughter, little sister,” Jon said with a sigh.

Arya laughed at the two of them. “Sansa gets her prince after all! I’m not so sure mother won’t be pleased.”

Jon leaned forward in his chair. “I won’t be a prince, Arya. That’s really important for you to remember.” His voice was gentle or else it might have seemed a reprimand, but his imploring honest eyes shone through. This was important. Stannis had given them approval to go back North on very precise conditions, and while Sansa believed that their family was safer with Stannis on the Throne than any Lannister, she knew they all needed to be careful still. Arya nodded. Jon looked over at her and a silent look of understanding passed between the two of them. Yes, they would be leaving King’s Landing soon but not without changes wrought on them all—good and bad. They knew now what it was to play the game. But Sansa was certain she could not ask for a better partner than Jon.

Sansa was determined in her mind now, how best to endeavor with her lady mother to accept Jon as her goodson. He saved my life, she imagined saying. Family. Duty. Honor. They were the Tully words and her mother still held them in her heart, Stark or no.

“She will see the sense in it, Jon,” Sansa told him one evening as they sat before the hearth in his solar. Their father was not privy to her whereabouts, but she knew she’d have to leave soon. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he cradled her in his lap.

“Perhaps,” Jon said contemplatively, staring into the fire. “Or perhaps she will see you as a sacrifice for my safety.”

Sansa leaned forward until she touched her forehead to his. “Then I shall tell her how I love you. How happy you make me.”

She felt him shake his head minutely. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

Sansa swallowed back a rebuttal. “Jon, you’re mine,” she said instead. It was the truest thing she knew. Once she was six and ten she would be considered a woman grown. A woman grown who chose her husband.

Jon smiled gently. “Aye, I am,” he said softly, pressing a sweet kiss to her lips.

---

Jon’s father (uncle) was serving as the interim Hand to the King Stannis Baratheon until Stannis would have his coronation and appoint another, likely Ser Davos. In the meantime, their family would remain for at least a fortnight in King’s Landing. Jon couldn’t say there was no relief now that the Lannisters had been deposed. But a new sort of unease presented itself as word of the former bastard of Winterfell turned secret prince spread throughout the capitol. Never had Jon experienced the attention he did now. Stannis desired that Jon and Ned make appearances as deferential to the King, so there would be no mistake of Jon’s status. Not a prince but a soon-to-be Lord. The last known Targaryen who would become a Stark, who pledged fealty to the Baratheon line. The sidelong glances and whispers accompanying any appearance at court were something Jon felt unprepared for. As a bastard, he’d always been afforded a certain level of anonymity. Sometimes that stung, to fall beneath everyone’s attention. But it served him well at times, too. Jon was not used to thinking of proper etiquette, courtesies, and manners.

Sansa, however, was experienced enough to help Jon. They practiced deferential nods and bows. His love instructed him in dance, in preparation for their wedding. She’d smiled at him as she said he must dance with her at the occasion and Jon had never felt such excitement at the mere prospect of a Northern reel.

Jon was most anxious to return North and marry Sansa and as the days stretched on, his patience felt more and more tested. He missed Ghost, though a part of him felt guilty knowing Sansa would never have Lady back. Ned was obligated to participate as a witness in the trials of the Lannisters, which at the very least, took the attention away from Jon as a sideshow attraction. His father/uncle also pled for the lives of Tommen and Myrcella. Jon knew as well as Sansa and Arya that the two younger Lannister bastards were innocent children, even if Jon had found them tiresome upon first meeting them. (And maybe a part of him could now admit his disdain was borne of envy for their royal status—but he could take no pleasure in the reversal of fortune. To be declared bastards was to become outcasts at best, if the King even let them survive. Jon could never wish such pain on the younger Lannisters).

We must give Tywin something, his father/uncle had argued to the King in his solar, presenting not just a defense of the two on the grounds of compassion but on a more practical point. It was wrong for him to listen in on their communications, but something in Jon needed to know what was happening. For one thing, Jon had killed their mother. It sat in his gut uncomfortably to think on it. He’d done what he did to protect Sansa. He didn’t regret it and he’d do it again. But there was still a part of him that was haunted by taking a life, a woman’s life, no less. Honor and duty—vows and rules broken. He’d not known before just how much honor could stand in the way of protecting your family if you let it. Maybe they would whisper Queenslayer as they did with the Kingslayer. But wasn’t it just as his father (uncle) had sacrificed his honor, had lied to everyone—all to protect Jon? If it was the price Jon had to pay to protect Sansa, then he would bear it. And how could he hold a grudge against his father (uncle) when he now knew the burden it must have been?

But it didn’t make it easier to process who he was. He didn’t think he could explain it, not even to his love, his soon-to-be wife. At least, not yet. Jon had thought on it at night: Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon would always be his siblings, no matter how strange it might be for him to see Sansa differently. But he couldn’t entirely forget that in truth he had had half-siblings: true ones, murdered along with their mother. And everyone in the kingdoms knew it had been on Tywin Lannister’s orders, didn’t they? The people of court might pretend, may forget their existence, but Jon finds he cannot. It might have twisted something angry in his gut to think Tywin’s family would be spared, but deep down Jon did not want Myrcella and Tommen to suffer as Rhaenys and Aegon had.

Would they have loved him, if things had turned out differently? Would they have hated Jon and his mother? Would Princess Elia look at him with the kind of agony and offense that Lady Catelyn had? Perhaps, Jon had been destined to harm families wherever he may have been born and raised. No, that wasn’t fair, not truly. Sansa had told him time and again that it wasn’t right to take such guilt upon himself.

And yet, seven and ten years, nearly eight and ten now, he had lived as a bastard. Now he was to have all that he never dared to dream of before. How could it not feel like some undeserved twist of fate? Oh, but he loved her. Jon loved Sansa so very much. He would do whatever he could to be worthy of her love.

Still, he had some trepidation concerning their return to Winterfell. Jon would be returning not as a bastard, but as Sansa’s husband or at the very least, her betrothed. Lady Catelyn was surely going to be angry about it, no matter how determined his love was to defend him. Arya had already been disgusted, even if she seemed to come around to accepting it. What about his other siblings? Robb? Robb was not only Jon’s brother but his best friend. And he knew how protective Robb was of Sansa. Jon had likened himself to be similar to Robb, but his need to protect Sansa was never entirely brotherly. And now Jon worried that Robb would see it written all over his face—how he loved and desired and lusted after Sansa. And how surely, those feelings must have begun before Jon knew Sansa wasn’t his sister. The two boys had always been thick as thieves, how could he hide the truth?

“You will not pay for my sins, son. Not anymore,” his father/uncle had told him. It was a nice thought, Jon mused, but he wasn’t sure it would be so easy.

Jon decided instead to review the lessons on lordship as he’d learned them in the past. He was never meant to use them, but now he would need those lessons and more. Ned had informed him and Sansa that eventually they would settle in the Gift as one of the North’s bannermen. But first they would remain at Winterfell as repairs were made and both Jon and Sansa could become better skilled for their roles. Sansa had thrown herself head-first into her future role. She asked questions about the cold farther North in the winter, the forests and livestock, and any trading posts between their eventual home and other holdfasts. She wanted to know how many days’ ride were between the Gift and Winterfell, how often they could visit, and what would be expected of them as bannermen upon their arrival for feasts, harvests, or other events in which the Warden may call them to Winterfell. Jon could not help but smile watching Sansa read some book or other, her brow knit in concentration. Now that Jon could look his fill of her, he wondered if he would ever be able to train his eyes elsewhere.

---

Ultimately, Jaime and Joffrey were set to be executed for their crimes. Ned eventually persuades Stannis to spare Tommen and Myrcella. The infamy with which the Lannisters are greeted upon the revelation of Jaime and Cersei’s love affair undoubtedly shamed them and angered Lord Tywin. Ned fears what may come of it. The new King’s unorthodox solution finds him legitimizing Tommen and Myrcella as Lannisters, allowing Tommen to be heir of Casterly Rock. The imp Tyrion seemed most displeased but nonetheless resigned. Whether it will be enough to discourage revenge for Lord Tywin, Ned doesn’t know. He can’t imagine Tommen and Myrcella making good matches in their futures when all the kingdoms know who their parents are. But the Lannister name gives them something, at least. Ned only wants to move North, praying to the Old Gods that his family be spared any more woe.

Cat’s response to his letter had been curt. Come home, she’d said. He knew she would be displeased with all the revelations, but she would not argue with him in letters. Varys had produced further witnesses, chiefly his little birds, Baelish’s whores, and other smallfolk sent on errands to document Baelish’s crimes. The documents which revealed his thefts as Master of Coin would have been enough to warrant his execution, Ned figures. But it is Baelish and his goodsister Lysa’s involvement in the death of Jon Arryn that is hardest to stomach. The transport of the Tears of Lys to Lady Arryn. The whispers of Baelish and Lysa’s affair. His goodsister apparently confiding to a trusted handmaiden that she’d be wed to Lord Baelish and they had gotten rid of Jon Arryn together. Her letter to her own sister Catelyn a falsity. She’d never been a stable woman in the time Ned knew his goodsister, but he hadn’t expected such a level of treachery. When the Lords of the Vale had taken her in custody, she had screeched that she and “her Petyr” would have all their heads—and became hysterical when she learned of Baelish’s death.

Cat was sure to be angry, but Ned wasn’t certain where the bulk of her anger would be directed on this account. He suspected she would want to take Robin Arryn as a ward with them, and while Ned would have no real objection to it—he wasn’t sure it would be good for the boy who would need to one day rule the Vale. Taking her childhood friend’s head, well…Ned wasn’t sure how she’d feel about that either.

One thing he had no doubt of was that she would oppose Jon and Sansa’s union, and she would be furious that she discovered Ned’s lies along with the rest of Westeros. Ned had vowed to Jon that he would no longer pay for Ned’s wrongs, and he would keep that promise. For too long he’d refused any question on Jon’s mother, and it was to the detriment of both his marriage and his son/nephew. He was the lord and protector of his family and yet, Ned had let this secret fester within the home instead of finding another way forward. The only way he knew to begin was to plead with Stannis for a little more time, to allow the Starks to return to Winterfell before Jon and Sansa would wed instead of doing so at White Harbor immediately. Sansa would be a moon’s turn away from sixteen by the time they reached Winterfell. Eventually Stannis had agreed.

Jon and Sansa had been a bit crestfallen at the news of a delay to their vows, which Ned expected though he felt incredibly uncomfortable with it. Some of their disappointment came from the fear that their betrothal may be undone. “I will not wed anyone but Jon, father,” Sansa said with a defiant lift of her chin. He wasn’t sure when his eldest daughter had grown a spine of steel, but there was no mistaking it now. She was every bit as much a wolf as she was a fish. Jon had looked upon her in that moment with wonder. It was clear to Ned that Jon truly adored Sansa. A part of him still felt unwell at the thought, to know such feelings had arisen before they knew the truth about Jon, but he supposed the Gods had their japes. Perhaps Jon had been right all along about the direwolves, that the Stark children were meant to have them. Ned had taken that away from Sansa, and so perhaps this was a strange twist of fate invited in by his hand. Perhaps, Sansa needed another wolf like Jon, to be the man she needed, and Jon’s own Ghost could be hers as well. Jon was growing into a man Ned was sure would be a good husband, a man who would love her and protect her always. He supposed he would have to count his blessings as he reassured them that their betrothal would not be broken.

It had taken longer than a fortnight: another moon’s turn before their departure. Waiting on the docks before setting sail to White Harbor with his children and their party in tow, he took a deep breath of the southern air. May it be the last we see it, he thought as he stood on the ship with his children and the skyline of King’s Landing faded into the horizon.

Chapter Text

Jon isn’t sure who is most anxious upon their return to Winterfell. Arya seems to be the only one among them whose excitement is unabated by a mess of nerves. His father/uncle is to his left and places a hand on his shoulder when they dismount from their horses in the courtyard. Ned nods to him, motioning for Jon to help Sansa out of her wheelhouse. His love gave him a timid smile when he reached for her hand and she stepped into the courtyard. Arya was already bounding over to Lady Stark, Rickon, and Robb as they gathered to meet them. Jon released Sansa from his hold as they made their way over.

Lady Catelyn was not looking at him, though this was nothing new. He wasn’t sure if it was good or bad or really meant much of anything as she clutched Arya in her arms and motioned for Sansa to join them. He looked to Robb, wondering what he’d find in his brother’s face—condemnation, anger? But Robb only gave him his crooked grin before pulling him in for a hug, like the one they’d had when Jon left for the Wall, slapping his back. When they pulled apart Robb crossed his arms and a mischievous gleam came to his eyes. “So, Prince Targaryen, huh?” he said in amusement.

Jon rolled his eyes while secretly feeling relief. “Oh, come off it,” Jon said lightly.

“Should I call you Your Grace?” Robb asked with an arch of his brow.

“Gods no,” Jon said, shaking his head with a slight laugh. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting but he was pleasantly surprised. At least so far, he thought. Arya and Sansa moved to greet Robb and Jon hugged Rickon without looking at his father (uncle? Goodfather? He probably needed to choose at some point) and his father’s lady wife as they reunited. The two embraced briefly and were speaking in hushed tones to one another.

Jon looked back to Robb. “Bran?” he asked, and Sansa and Arya immediately perked up as well.

“He’s inside with Old Nan,” Robb said with a soft smile. Jon felt warmth in his chest to know his little brother was okay.

“We have to see him,” Arya said.

Sansa turned toward Lady Stark. “Mother? May we go see Bran?”

Catelyn turned from Ned and looked at her children, and for half a heartbeat her eyes locked to his before glancing away. It was too brief for Jon to read. She cleared her throat, “yes, let’s go inside,” she allowed, looking to her husband once again. Jon may not know much about marriage (not yet), but he was sure Lady Stark’s look said we’re not finished. But Jon swallowed back his trepidation and followed the others inside. He was going to see Bran.  

Bran looked tiny in his bed and furs, but awake and lively where he’d been so lifeless before. It brought tears to his eyes and he stubbornly blinked them back as his little brother sat up and Sansa and Arya ran to his side. He was all smiles hugging them. “Jon!” he said excitedly. Jon moved forward to embrace his little brother as Arya scooted to the side.

“Bran,” Jon said, his voice thick and his vision blurring. Bran’s wolf, now called Summer, he told them, sat in the corner.

“Thank you for sending Ghost,” Bran told him.

“Of course,” Jon said, looking about the room knowing his wolf wasn’t there, but not wanting to ask.

“He’s in the wolfswood, I think,” Bran said with a thoughtful look on his face Jon felt was new to the boy.

“I figured,” he said with a small smile, his eyes cutting to Sansa briefly, worried for the pain he might find there. But perhaps his love was too caught up with the reunions for she only smiled back at him.

“Tell me about King’s Landing,” Bran said to his siblings.

Jon sighed and he could see Sansa brace herself in her seat. “It’s awful,” Arya complained and began to talk about the noise and the smells animatedly before the group heard a throat clearing authoritatively behind them.

They all turned to Lady Catelyn and his father at the door, who looked at him solemnly. “Jon, Sansa, we wish to speak to you both in our solar,” Ned said. Unconsciously, Jon gulped before he and Sansa stood up from the bed and followed them.

---

“Whose idea was it?” Sansa’s lady mother asked stiffly, looking between her, Jon, and her father.

“Cat—” Ned began, taking a step toward his wife.

“Whose idea was it?” she asked sharply.

“It was mine, mother,” Sansa said. She stood tall and moved to place herself protectively in front of Jon. “It was my idea to marry Jon to save him from the King.”

Catelyn’s lips parted as she took in her daughter’s expression. “Your idea? Not anyone else’s?” she asked, glancing back to Jon with suspicion.

“Yes, mother. It was mine,” Sansa said confidently.

“It as I told you, my lady—” Ned said quietly and her mother raised a hand to halt his speech as if she could not bear to hear another word from him.

Sansa broke the silence. “I knew that King Stannis needed a guarantee that Jon would not attempt to usurp him—and he was skeptical about the Watch because Jon left for King’s Landing already—”

“Your doing,” Catelyn muttered to her husband.

“It isn’t as if I was still going to wed Joffrey and Jon needed a match right away. It was my idea mother. Neither Jon nor father anticipated it when we met with the King,” Sansa explained. Catelyn sighed, rubbing her thumb and forefinger at the bridge of her nose.

Sansa moved back to stand next to Jon once more, suspecting that giving her mother greater physical distance might help her process things better. “Why does it have to be Sansa?” her mother asked her father as if her patience was leaking out of her. “If he must take a noble name why not betroth him to Alys Karstark—she is of an age and the Karstarks are our kin.”

Alys Karstark my foot, Sansa thought.

It was only when Jon shot her a pleased grin that she realized she spoke aloud—a blush colored her cheeks as her mother looked at her in surprise.

“It is now by King’s order, my lady,” her father said to her mother, “such an arrangement cannot be undone.” It was not something her mother could argue, Sansa knew, Catelyn drew in a resigned breath to her daughter’s fate as she and Jon brightened.

Her mother stared at the two of them befuddled, crossing her arms as if to hug herself before turning back to her husband. “And how do we ensure Robb’s heirs are not threatened if he takes the Stark name?” she asked.

Sansa felt Jon stiffen next to her. She watched his jaw clench at her mother’s words. Of all the things of which bastards were to be accused, Sansa imagined the idea of usurping Robb had to be one of the most hurtful to Jon. She did not feel confident enough to hold his hand as they stood before her bickering parents, but she gently brushed the back of her hand against his. Jon looked at her with soft eyes and a weary smile.

“He is—by line of succession, I mean,” her father said, looking to Jon briefly, “not my son. He will be Robb’s bannerman just as Bran or Rickon would be—a branch of the Stark line. But it will align with Sansa’s position in succession,” he said.

As much anger and feelings of betrayal she’d felt toward her father in King’s Landing, Sansa could not help but feel grateful toward him now as he defended them. Her mother turned back to them as her father hovered at his wife’s shoulder. “I may not be able to stop this,” Catelyn said, chin lifted, “but we are not done talking on this—and what is expected from you,” she looked at Jon sharply.

Jon nodded quickly. “Yes, Lady Stark,” he said quietly.

Her mother sniffed. “Well then, the two of you may go,” Catelyn, granting them reprieve with a motion of her hand toward the door. Sansa could hear Jon’s exhale next to her. She did not miss how her mother looked at her father as she and Jon exited the solar.

In the corridor she and Jon stood for a moment alone, Sansa smiled sheepishly at him. “It went better than expected, yes?” she asked.

Jon looked back to the door and chuckled. “I suppose.” He looked back at her. “Thank you,” he said softly, daring to take her hand in his if only for a moment—they could not be sure when someone may venture in their path. Sansa decided she could be daring too and pressed an answering kiss to his cheek and as she pulled back, she spied a rosy blush on his cheeks.

He held out his arm for her to grasp. “May I escort you to your rooms, my lady?” Jon asked.

Sansa clasped her arm around his elbow. Something about being in Winterfell now gave a heightened sense to their interactions—perhaps a bit of a wicked thrill, even. Sansa thought it felt more courtly now, and while she was still anxious to wed, she appreciated it nonetheless—and Jon was quite dashing and gallant. “You may,” she said with a grin, and he rewarded her with a beaming smile.

---

The door of the solar shut with what felt like an ominous click to Ned. His wife moved to lock the door before turning back to him and walking toward her desk. She stopped in front of it, giving him her profile as she looked down at the desk, her fingers spread against the grain wood. It was still and silent—but not the comfortable silence that accompanied some of their intimate moments, holding his lady in bed beneath the furs, feeling her head against his chest.

Ned felt quite helpless in that moment—wanting to hold her; to comfort her. But how could he when he was the one who caused the hurt? She would not look at him and he wondered if he should speak or give her more time. “Cat?” he said softly.

She closed her eyes at the sound of his voice and inhaled deeply, as if trying to gather her composure. “Do you remember, my lord, that night years ago: when I asked you about his mother?” she asked. Catelyn looked at him now, her blue eyes arresting and condemning though she kept a stoic expression.

Ned cleared his throat and nodded shakily. How could he forget?

“When I asked you about Ashara?” her breath hitched at the question and she turned away from him. Ned, without a thought, put his hand on her shoulder, wincing when she flinched away. “I had to hear the whispers—I had to deal with being gossiped about and what’s worse, pitied,” she said.

Ned sighed. He’d swiftly put an end to the gossip—or so he’d believed. Now he wondered how long the whispers must have gone on before she steeled herself to ask him. “I felt I had a right to know,” she said and looked back at him. “I had a right to know whom my husband had lain with a few moons, at most, from when he wed me, from when he’d gotten a child on me.”

Ned squeezed his eyes shut against his wife’s pain. “Some part of me—perhaps foolishly—thought that if I knew the truth I might be able to heal that hole in my heart, that I might find some semblance to cope with the utter humiliation,” she said, trembling. “Did you know it was the first and only time you truly frightened me?”

Ned’s lips parted at her words, he was at a loss. No, he had not known. But he supposed he could not be surprised. He had been frightened when she asked—to know that any question of Jon’s parentage was bandied about in Winterfell, how it might carry elsewhere and how would he keep his promise to Lyanna then? But Ned had not given her his fear, he’d only given her his anger to mask the truths beneath.

“You commanded me not to ask any further about it, and I never did. You forced me to watch him grow up among my children, our children. You do not know, my lord, you do not know what that was like,” she said angrily.

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly.

“And then I have to find out along with the rest of the realm that my husband betrayed me in an entirely different way,” Catelyn said, wringing her hands before throwing them upward in agitation, “or perhaps both, who is to say, really?”

“Never, Cat,” Ned rasped, coming forward to rest his hands on her arms. At least now he could be honest in this. “There was only ever you,” he said, cupping her face in his palm.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, but did not push him away. “I do not know how to forgive you, Eddard Stark.”

“I am sorry,” he repeated. He knew not what else to do.

She sighed deeply. “I will need time,” Catelyn said softly.

He knew he was being dismissed. Ned placed a tentative kiss to her forehead. “I understand,” he said. With those parting words he left her to be alone as she wished.

---

“Well, well, if it isn’t the prodigal bastard turned prince of a dead house,” Theon Greyjoy drawled as he sauntered over to Jon and Robb, catching up and casually sparring.

Jon’s jaw ticked in irritation. “Greyjoy,” he grunted in acknowledgment. He’s never liked the ward. One might think they could bond over being outcasts of a sort, but Theon had always taken those insecurities and worked them out on Jon. He may not be a Stark but at least he was above a bastard—or so he imagined Greyjoy’s logic went. Theon was always there with some biting remark or other to take Jon down, especially in front of Robb. But perhaps, most of all, it was the way Theon looked at Sansa that grated most on Jon’s nerves.

“Don’t listen to him, Jon,” Robb said goodnaturedly, as was his way. “He’s just jealous,” his brother said with a grin.

For a moment Theon faltered before smirking. “Oh, yes, very jealous, Stark,” he said to Robb, keeping his eyes on Jon, “he gets to marry your pretty sister,” he taunted.

Robb gave him a punch to the shoulder and Jon felt his hand clench into a fist. He was torn between wishing to lay the Iron Islander out flat and avoiding Robb’s gaze at the mention of him and Sansa. “Don’t be gross,” Robb complained.

Jon shuffled on his feet uncomfortably. He and Robb had not spoken of it, and Jon had allowed himself to think it would be avoided—but Theon of course had to get in the way of the silent truce they’d formed.

“Gross?” Theon asked in amusement, and Jon looked at his feet. “Maybe to you, Stark, but to me and the bastard?” He looked at Jon, allowing the question to trail off and reach its own conclusion.

“He’s not even a bastard, Greyjoy,” Robb said, shaking his head.

“He was raised as one,” Theon said, and Jon looked back up at the older boy with disdain. “You don’t think a bastard ever dreams about his lovely trueborn sister…”

“That’s enough, Greyjoy,” Jon growled as he moved forward, ready to give him a punch before Robb stood between them.

“Alright, alright,” Robb said, shoving Theon backward. “That is enough for today Theon.” Greyjoy began to walk backwards, but he shot Jon one last snide grin. He knew he’d given the ward what he had wanted with his reaction and what’s more, Greyjoy had planted the idea in Robb’s head. Surely Theon would count this as a win, and he turned away whistling idly. Robb sighed. “Sorry about that, Jon. You know how he is—you can’t let him get to you.”

“Right,” Jon muttered, unsure how to proceed. Robb looked at him with a furrowed brow, and Jon couldn’t quite read the expression on his brother’s face. It made him nervous. They walked next to each other silently, returning their swords to the armory and heading toward the stables. Jon thought they might go for a ride when Robb abruptly turned to him and cleared his throat awkwardly.

“My mother,” Robb started uncomfortably, “she thinks she might be able to get the two of you out of this.”

Out of this. Out of this.

Jon knew what that meant. For whatever reason Jon couldn’t comprehend, Robb hadn’t seen the truth like Jon thought he would. That Jon didn’t want out of this, and neither did Sansa. But did he tell him that? What did it mean that Lady Stark had spoken to Robb of this? Did she ask Robb to speak to him? Jon didn’t think Robb would do such a thing, but he couldn’t be sure, Lady Catelyn was his mother, after all.

“She mentioned that earlier,” Jon said noncommittally.

“And?” Robb asked expectantly.

“She—well, um,” Jon coughed, Robb’s brow furrowed further, “Lord Stark listened to her suggestion but he said in the end it was by King’s order, so we would move forward…with the betrothal.” Jon finished his sentence slowly, leaving out the moment of Sansa’s jealousy over the Karstark girl, though the memory of it even now sent his heart to a flutter and warmed his cheeks. Sansa truly wanted him just as he wanted her and despite everything, that made him ridiculously happy. But he felt he needed to shield that now from Robb.

“What did Sansa say?” Robb asked, looking more confused than angry, but that didn’t bring Jon comfort.

“She agreed with fath—Lord Stark, that we couldn’t go back on the agreement,” Jon said.

Robb nodded slowly as he processed the information. “And what did you say?” he asked.

Jon tensed. “I didn’t really say anything while they discussed it, Robb. I was trying to be respectful to your lady mother.”

“And Sansa,” Robb added.

“And Sansa,” Jon quickly agreed. “Of course.”

“But what did you think about it?” Robb asked him, his Tully blue eyes studying him shrewdly, as if he meant to uncover all the contents of Jon’s heart and mind.

Jon sighed and willed himself to calm. “I tend to agree that we must stick to the agreement.”

Robb looked at him sympathetically and nodded. “Perhaps. But we might be able to fight it—”

“Robb,” Jon said deeply, shaking his head.

Robb straightened at Jon’s interruption. “What?”

“There is no fighting it,” Jon said.

Robb’s eyes narrowed on his own. He felt raw as some degree of suspicion worked its way into Robb’s features. “You don’t want to fight it,” he said quietly.

Jon stared at his brother, his lips a thin line. He didn’t know what to say. He knew well what Robb wanted him to say—that he was giving Jon the opportunity to deny it. But Jon didn’t know how to lie to Robb, of all people, about something so personal. He wasn’t even sure lying was a good option now, anyway. He would be Sansa’s husband. Robb and everyone would have to learn to accept it.

But could he still accept Jon?

Robb shook his head. “I can’t believe you,” he breathed.

“Robb, it’s—it’s hard to explain.”

Robb laughed darkly in disbelief. “Is it something you can explain?” he asked dubiously.

Jon closed his eyes and tried for patience. “I’m not her brother.” They were the best words Jon could come up with in that moment.

Robb scoffed. “So you’re not my brother either?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Jon said. “It’s different—I…it’s different,” he repeated. Robb looked at him a moment more, shaking his head and frowning sadly, before turning to walk away. “Robb,” Jon called out, but Robb just waved him off without looking back.

Jon sunk to the ground outside the stables in defeat. There was nothing he could do. At least not now. Maybe in time, Robb might come around but…

Jon’s thoughts were interrupted when he caught the blur of white headed his way. Ghost. Something within him settled as it hadn’t been since their separation and he smiled as the direwolf approached him where he sat. “Hey there,” he said quietly, petting Ghost. His wolf had supposedly been out on a hunt but his muzzle was clean.

“I hope you don’t mind that I found him first,” Sansa came around the corner, smiling at the two of them. “Or, he found me, I should say.”

Jon lifted himself to his feet, dusting off hay and dirt from his breeches. “Not at all,” he told her fondly. “You cleaned him?” he asked.

Sansa flushed a little and grinned. “Just at the pools in the Godswood, he was quite filthy…” her brow scrunched adorably in distaste, “why are you laughing?” she asked curiously.

He couldn’t help his chuckle. She was just so utterly Sansa, and he loved her. “You’re beautiful,” Jon told her. She ducked her head and bit her lip.

As he watched her with Ghost, Jon realized it would be a risk, but it was one he felt was worth taking. He tilted her head up and captured her lips with his own for one quick kiss. Her eyes were wide with surprise when he pulled back, but then she was smiling at him like they were the only two people in the world.

Definitely worth it.

Chapter Text

They’d been in Winterfell for nearly a fortnight, and yet everyone still appeared to be in conflict and unease. Sansa had come to the conclusion that, if things were ever to improve, she would need to address them herself.

“Do not fret, my love,” Jon murmured against her chest, as she clutched him to her in the dark of night. The rumble of his voice against her and the feel of the beginnings of his beard on her exposed collarbone, where he was currently trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses, caused Sansa to whimper and writhe beneath him.

Oh, this was certainly not ladylike. She had sneaked into Jon’s chambers only a few times since their return, neither wished to be caught before they were wed. “I will handle it,” Sansa whispered with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel.

Jon sat up gingerly and looked at her with dark but soft eyes. “You are not responsible for fixing all this,” he told her, drawing a hand down her arm until he took her own hand in his, pressing a kiss to her palm. She shivered and Jon gave her a knowing grin. Gods but she could remember when he first kissed the inside of her palm like that, back in King’s Landing. She couldn’t help but wonder idly if being surrounded by enemies was, somehow, less complicated than what they now faced.

“I do not have to be responsible in creating conflict to be responsible in helping to end it,” Sansa argued and Jon laughed lightly.

He planted a warm kiss to her lips, over and over, nearly chaste, between his words. “You,” kiss “are,” kiss “so,” kiss “stubborn,” kiss, and she could feel his grin against her mouth after the final kiss before he moved to her neck.

“You love me just as I am,” Sansa countered, and this much she could be confident in.

“True,” Jon said, nipping her skin with a light scrape of his teeth.

Sansa hummed contentedly and wrapped one of her legs around Jon’s calf and his resulting shudder sent chills down her spine. “Don’t leave any marks,” she tried to tell him evenly, but it only sounded breathy and dazed.

Jon chuckled again. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my darling,” he whispered. There was something of a smug tone to his voice, knowing the effect he had on her. Sansa pulled his head up to slant her mouth against his, sweeping their tongues together.

Sansa longed for Jon, was hungry for him despite such urges going against all she’d been taught. Now that they had no Septa for the time being, the only person Sansa could imagine asking questions to was her mother, and she did not think her lady mother would react favorably to her curious inquiries.

Sansa felt excitement and just a little fear whenever she thought on being with Jon as husband and wife. She liked when Jon placed his thigh between her legs and helped her move her hips in a rhythmic motion. She liked even better when he touched her beneath her smallclothes as he did now, grunting into her neck as she palmed his length. A moment’s shame lingered but she’d quickly forgotten it as Jon moaned her name, “Sansa, Sansa,” and the coil within her snapped as she reached her peak and soon after Jon followed.

No one had ever told her about this. Jon’s smile made her heart flutter and after pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, he cleaned himself and returned to hold her in his arms a little longer before she’d make her leave. Sansa wished she could lie in his arms all night and felt the same anticipation to truly be Jon’s wife—so they may share a bed together always.

“I love you,” Jon told her earnestly and she whispered the words back, enjoying the flush in his cheeks, before slipping out of his chambers.

---

The next morning, Sansa followed her mother into the Sept. Though her other siblings kept both the old Gods and the new, Sansa knew she and her mother were the ones to most frequent the place of worship her father had made for his Southern wife. Lady Catelyn currently stood before the Mother, hands steepled as Sansa entered. Mother had taken to her chambers and was not seen for three days upon the evening of their return. It had made Sansa anxious, even if her mother had conceded that she could not stop the upcoming wedding. Robb had observed bleakly that it was like after Bran took his fall. After that she had resumed her regular duties but even now, Lady Stark had been detached and distant, her mind preoccupied.

Her mother looked over her shoulder, and upon seeing Sansa, held out a hand, motioning for her daughter to join her. Sansa did so, her mother’s hand clutched in her own as they beheld the statue in contemplative silence. After a moment of silence passed, however, her mother sighed deeply, and Sansa could hear a hint of exasperation in it. “I know why you are here,” Catelyn said.

She never was good at keeping things from her lady mother, nor her father, for that matter. Sansa knew she’d had a reputation among her siblings of being a tattle-tale. She supposed that she always tried to do what was right and obey what she’d always been taught. But now things were different. She was different. Still, Sansa had no desire to lie to her mother now. She wanted to be honest, even if that meant she wasn’t the perfect obedient girl Sansa had always tried to be.

“Jon is good, mother,” Sansa said softly. “He is good and honorable. He will be a good husband. I believe we will be happy, mother.”

Her mother’s head turned to look at Sansa. “You give too much, sweet,” she said wearily, cupping Sansa’s cheek. “You always have.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed. “No, that isn’t true.”

Jon has given me so much, she thinks but doesn’t say.

“Then why do you wish to wed him, Sansa?” her mother asked, eyes searching her features.

Because I love him. “He saved my life, mother. He protected me in King’s Landing when I’d nearly given up believing such a thing was possible.”

Her mother stiffened and looked down to their joined hands. “We should never have betrothed you to Joffrey,” Catelyn said.

“No,” Sansa agreed. “But what’s done is done. Jon will be good to me.”

“Do you love him?” her mother asked her.

“I do,” Sansa said shakily. She didn’t want to disappoint her mother—but she couldn’t live a lie, not after everything she’d been through.

“Even though he was your brother,” Catelyn murmured thoughtfully, staring at Sansa.

Sansa swallowed nervously. She was prepared for condemnation, but Sansa couldn’t deny it was hard to displease her lady mother still. “I don’t know how to explain it,” she said. “Things…changed in King’s Landing.” This much was true, even if it wasn’t the whole story. But she didn’t think her mother needed to know that she’d loved Jon in her heart for far longer than she realized—than she had been willing to acknowledge. Sansa didn’t like to think of what might have been if Jon had stayed at the Wall. Would she ever have realized that confusion she had about Jon was related to the un-sisterly feelings she had for him?

Catelyn shook her head. “I suppose I never wanted any of you to think of him that way: as a true brother. Perhaps the gods are punishing me.”

Sansa did not know what to say to that. Her mother’s eyes glazed over in such a way that Sansa wondered if she was caught in a memory.

“I won’t make you any promises,” Catelyn said, looking at her daughter directly once more. “But…I will try. I suppose I have no choice.”

Sansa could hear the disappointment in her words. But she reached forward to hug her mother anyway. “Thank you,” she breathed as her mother’s arms enveloped her.

---

Next, there was Robb. Sansa watched her brother and Jon skirt around each other uncomfortably. They hardly spoke at all, save for grunts at the dinner table or in the courtyard. And Robb seemed to be avoiding her as well. That simply would not do, and her big brother had underestimated her.

That much was clear when she met him outside the armory, where she’d been waiting for who knows how long for Robb to show up. He jumped when he stumbled upon her, brow knit in confusion. “Seven hells, Sansa,” he said, shoulders slumping. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Sansa smirked and took ahold of his arm. “Walk with me,” she said. Robb stiffened for a moment, probably in annoyance, before acquiescing with a sigh.

“What is it, little sister?” he asked.

Sansa hummed and considered her words. She could remember the wary eye Robb had cast on Joffrey when he first arrived in Winterfell. How did she appeal to him now? “I’ve noticed you and Jon are not speaking,” Sansa said plainly.

Robb snorted in derision. “Did he tell you that?” he muttered.

Sansa barely refrained from rolling her eyes. “He didn’t have to. How long will you punish him?”

He halted defensively. “I am not—”

Sansa cut him off with a look.

“Alright, fine! What do you want me to say, Sansa?” Robb asked her. “Do you want me to say I’m happy about this?”

“You don’t have to be happy about it, Robb!” she said, frustrated. “But you shouldn’t be shutting him out.”

Robb pulled backward and crossed his arms over his chest. He was quiet for a long time, gazing out in the distance. It was a silence so long, Sansa wondered if he would say nothing further or walk away from her.

But then his nostrils flared, and the blue eyes so much like her own bored into her. “When you were little,” he began slowly, “father would take me and Jon aside, tell us it was our job to protect you—to look out for you. Show you how you should be treated. Keep you from being taken advantage of by men who would use you,” Robb said. “But now, he’s using you and he wants you.” Her brother looked away in disgust.

“He is not using me,” Sansa said. She could deny the former, if not the latter. “He isn’t,” she insisted when he shot her a skeptical glance. “Because I want him too. I love him, Robb.”

Robb shook his head sadly. “No. Not like that. You’re confused, Sansa, that’s all,” he told her with conviction.

“I am not,” she said, bristling at his condescension.  “You know I’m not confused; it’s why you’ve been avoiding me too. Because you knew what you would hear if you talked to me.”

“Well, I don’t understand it, Sansa!” Robb replied, throwing his arms up in exhaustion. “I don’t understand how you two…” he gestured awkwardly. “How that happened.”

“We never fully saw each other as siblings, Robb. We were always different, you know that,” Sansa said.

Robb scowled. “I didn’t think it meant anything like this,” he said on a sigh, shaking his head.

“Stop punishing him,” Sansa said. “If you’re going to punish anyone, then punish me. I have just as much say in this as Jon. More, even. He would never force me.”

Sansa walked away, leaving Robb to consider her words.
---

That same morning Jon headed down to the crypts alone. He’d nearly asked Sansa to come with him before deciding against it. Jon knew she would make it easier on him, but he wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted or needed right now. He’d spent too many nights wondering about his mother, alone. Something in him figured he needed to do this alone too. And after learning the truth, he’d hardly had the time to really think about it—he’d been so worried about getting out of King’s Landing and protecting Sansa.

All this time spent in Winterfell—and Jon had never known how close his mother was. He lit a candle in front of her statue. Jon remembered those dreams which tormented him—when the ghosts of Starks past would condemn him and order him away from a place he never truly belonged. But his mother was here. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

The woman is important too, Arya had told him not long before he’d left for the Wall. He smiled at the words now, hoping his little sister was right.

Jon studied the face of Lyanna Stark’s statue. He wondered if it bore a strong likeness. Father—uncle—had always said Arya looked like her. That meant Jon looked like her too, didn’t it? He was glad of it. Of course if he’d been born with the silver hair or purple eyes of his true father’s line, it would have been much harder for Ned to protect him. But it was more than that—when the Stark look was one of the few things that made him feel like he belonged.

What would she think of me? What if she’d lived?

He let out a shaky breath at the thought of it. Jon would never have to doubt he was loved or wanted. He wouldn’t have spent years hoping Lady Catelyn would treat him as her own. He would have known from the beginning that Sansa wasn’t his sister…

Or perhaps both Jon and his mother would have died at the hand of King Robert. Jon sighed. There were too many variables involved; he’d only drive himself mad if he kept thinking on it overmuch.

When he left the crypts, Jon ventured to find his love. He found her in an empty room in a mostly forgotten corner of the castle. Somehow, he’d known she would be here. Sansa didn’t see him immediately and he took a moment to drink in the sight of her. She was twirling in some dance number, her arms held out for an imaginary partner.

Jon smiled softly to himself. He moved to join her, holding his love in his arms. Sansa’s breath hitched. “Jon,” she said with a grin, their steps continuing. “How did you know I was here?”

Jon shrugged. “Just a feeling, I guess.”

“Are you alright?” she asked him, and Jon knew she must have seen the haunted look in his eyes from his visit down in the crypts.

“I am now,” Jon said truthfully. He swept her across the floor deftly, picking up the pace as he whirled her around.

“You’re very good,” Sansa said proudly, and Jon’s chest puffed.

“Thank you, my lady,” Jon said. He was quite practiced now thanks to her lessons.

Sansa giggled in his arms and Jon smiled. He could see in her blue eyes an entire future: lazy mornings and sunlit strolls, bringing her roses and giving her children. In those eyes of hers Jon would drown happily. Sansa bit her lip, suddenly shy, no doubt from the intensity of his gaze. Jon pulled her closer by the waist, rested his forehead against hers. She hummed with content, closing her eyes, and Jon wanted to kiss her, wanted to peel off her layers and make love to her—

“Ahem.”

Jon barely keeps himself from darting clear across the room from Sansa at the sound of Lady Catelyn’s voice. Instead, Jon disentangles himself from Sansa slowly. It wouldn’t do to leap across the room from her, it would only make what Jon was doing seem inappropriate, and it wasn’t inappropriate to dance with his betrothed, no matter how licentious his thoughts had rapidly become.

“Mother,” Sansa said brightly.

“Sansa,” Catelyn said stiffly. Jon looked to his feet. “If you don’t mind, I would like to speak with Jon—alone,” she said. Jon’s head whipped up in surprise. Speak to him, alone? Jon was quite sure this had never happened before.

Jon tensed and looked toward his future goodmother before glancing at Sansa. His love smiled softly, as if to comfort him, but the look in her eyes said she would stay if he wanted, even if it meant defying her mother.

Jon nodded at her, letting Sansa know it was alright and she could leave them. He was a man now. As he had to be. Jon would soon be her husband, and he would not cower in fear at the mother of the woman he loved any longer. Not if he wanted to be the husband Sansa needed and deserved.

His love sent one last nervous glance between them before leaving the two alone. The door closed behind her, and Jon prepared for the woman’s anger as silence enveloped the room.

Chapter Text

She’d said his name, a surprise enough as the only time she’d ever said his name was when Bran was in his sickbed, possibly never to wake. He couldn’t help but wince at the memory. It should have been you.

Now Lady Catelyn, mother to his siblings, to his love, the woman who had always kept away from him stood across the room stiffly. Jon noticed her knuckles turning white as her fists clenched. He wasn’t sure what she wanted to do—if she wanted to speak with him or if a part of her wanted to strike him. But he wasn’t afraid of her anymore.

She cleared her throat again, and the hands clenched into fists began to uncurl themselves slightly, and he could see them trembling. Jon looked away.

“I suppose you hate me,” Lady Catelyn said plainly.

Jon’s back straightened. “No,” he said gruffly. And it was the truth. Jon couldn’t exactly say he was fond of Lady Catelyn, but he’d never hated her. She took care of his siblings and Sansa, she loved them. Jon had only ever wished to have that for himself. Sansa and their siblings loved Lady Stark and for that alone he could never hate her, even if he had wanted to. There were times where he was bitter and resentful, but mostly he tried to avoid getting in her way and she avoided him too, knowing she resented him as well. But now that he knew the truth, he didn’t really know who to be angry with anymore. His father (uncle) could have told her and saved them both a lot of heartache, and Lady Stark must have known that too.

She sighed disbelievingly at Jon’s one-word denial, crossed her arms at her chest and strode over to a window at the side of the room, her back to him. “I don’t know what to say,” she said, so softly Jon wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or to herself. Lady Catelyn breathed raggedly.

Jon said nothing and stood perfectly still—he would wait for her to say her piece, whatever it may be, for the sake of Sansa and the rest of their family.

“I tried to love you,” she whispered.

Jon inhaled sharply through his teeth and shut his eyes: unable to process her words. This wasn’t what Jon expected. He couldn’t believe she would say such things to him. She’d always been cold, to him anyway, though he’d seen her easy affection with her own children. He’d shoved aside any desire for similar affection from her long ago. He couldn’t help but imagine it when he was younger, but he’d learned to push his longing down until it became so small not even Jon could know it was there.

Jon had been ready for her anger—not whatever this was. Her breath fogged the window and he supposed it was easier to talk like this for her.

“I did try. But all I could think about when I looked at you—was the woman who must have taken my husband’s heart. She must have because he brought you here and refused my questions—he made me live with it, and I could not forget. I couldn’t. No matter if you were blameless, I simply could not. It turns out he did love her very much, just not in the way I imagined.”

It was then Jon realized how the ghost of his mother must have haunted them both, tormenting them with all the unknowns. For that split second, he felt he could understand Lady Stark a little better than before. “He should have told you,” Jon murmured without thinking and opened his eyes in surprise. He expected a reprimand for speaking ill of Lord Stark, but Lady Catelyn had turned her face toward him, lips pursing in a way that made Jon think she was hiding an actual smile.

“He should have,” she said primly. “And he should have told you.” She looked away from him again.

Jon swallowed thickly. In truth, a rather large part of him wished to flee, not from fear so much as discomfort. They had certainly never been alone this long.

“My daughter says she loves you,” Lady Catelyn said.

Jon bit his lip and shuffled his feet awkwardly. Oh, but this was even stranger than discussing it with Robb.

She stepped forward, inching a little closer. “If you have taken advantage or played with her affections in any way—” she said warningly.

“I did not,” Jon said sharply. More sharply than he’d intended.

“I would not,” he said in a softer voice. But this was one accusation he could not let lie. He’d known what she would think before they’d even arrived back in Winterfell. That Jon would use Sansa as a means to raise his own status. It was true he’d envied Robb and dreamed of Winterfell, but those dreams had always been laced with shame. He would never use Sansa in such a way. The insinuation cut him too deeply to simply shrug it off. “I love her, Lady Stark.” He forced himself to look her in the eye.

She studied him warily but at least she didn’t seem to completely dismiss his words. Lady Catelyn exhaled. “Words are wind. A man’s love is seen through his actions,” she remarked.

Jon nodded, not knowing what else to do. He’d proven himself to Sansa, and that was what really mattered to him, even if he hoped in time Lady Stark would see his love for Sansa. That at least might make things easier for everyone.

Lady Catelyn moved to the door, and Jon’s shoulders fell marginally with relief. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I never thanked you,” she said.

Jon’s brow furrowed. “For what?” It was so strange to be talking to her like this.

“For saving Sansa’s life,” she breathed, her voice cracking with emotion. “So thank you.”

Jon exhaled shakily. “I’d never let any harm come to her,” he said truthfully. She looked back at him for a moment, something like respect in her eyes, before nodding minutely and taking her leave.

---

Sansa was dreaming, and she knew she was dreaming by the fact that she could feel snow beneath her paws. Ghost drew near and she felt a warmth in her heart as he nuzzled at her neck.

Sansa knew she was dreaming because she was with Lady and Lady was dead. It must be a dream, then. She and Ghost were running through the wolfswood playfully chasing one another. The dream felt sweet but also sad, and she couldn’t tell if she wished to remain or to wake instead.

Lady never got to run like this, Sansa thought absently. She howled into the cool night air. Ghost was at her heels as she stumbled into a pool of half-frozen water, clawing at the ice, fear taking her over as she scrambled for purchase.

Ghost was grabbing the scruff of her neck with his teeth, pulling her upward, and as he pulled her out of her nightmare’s would-be icy grave, she was shaking…shaking…

“Sansa…Sansa!” Jon’s voice woke her as he lightly shook her shoulders. Sansa jolted upward, gasping for air as if she’d truly been drowning, eyes flitting everywhere about her bedchamber.

“Sansa, sweetheart,” Jon said, and Sansa blinked in disorientation, suddenly dizzy. Jon’s hands cupped her face warmly. “Sansa, it’s alright. It was just a dream. You’re safe, love, it’s alright now,” he cooed and hugged her close.

Sansa clutched at his shoulders, holding him to her as she struggled to catch her breath. “Jon,” she said thickly.

“It was just a dream, Sansa,” Jon repeated soothingly, rubbing one hand up and down her back as he tucked her head beneath his chin.

She did not want to cry. And what’s more, Sansa had felt that all her tears dried out of her after everything that had happened…and Lady…

She let out a small whimper. Jon squeezed her in his arms, sighing as if her pain was his own. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sansa pulled back from his embrace to look at him, finally feeling as if her lungs were working once more. The light of the hearth cast them in shades of orange and yellow, and Jon’s face was soft with concern.

“I dreamt of Lady,” she said, her voice feeling hoarse, as if it were unused.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jon said sadly, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“Ghost stirred and he wouldn’t stop scratching at the door until I got up. He led me to you,” Jon explained. He nodded his head toward Ghost, whom she only now just noticed, sitting on the floor and watching them.

“I’m glad he did,” Jon continued, taking her hand in his.

“Me too,” Sansa said.

The door suddenly opened and they both startled as Robb rushed in. “Sansa,” he said urgently, moving toward them, tripping on the cloak haphazardly wrapped around him. It was clear to Sansa she must have woken him, as he stared dazedly at them.

“Robb!” Jon said too quickly, and though he began to pull away from her she held onto his hand. He looked back at her a moment, his anxiety palpable before looking back to their brother. “Sansa had a—”

“A nightmare, yes, I heard her,” Robb said, rubbing his forehead.

It wasn’t all that strange for Robb to hear her with his room so close to hers. If Robb was uncomfortable with Jon being in her room, he was nearly too tired to show it, blinking with droopy eyes as he moved to sit on the other side of Sansa’s bed.

“Are you alright?” Robb asked with a yawn. Never mind that Sansa was nearly a woman grown and soon to be wed, he was still her big brother.

“I am now,” she said, looking back to Jon who smiled at her in relief.

Robb eyed them skeptically. “How did you hear her?” he asked. Jon’s chambers were still too far off for such a thing.

“I didn’t—it was Ghost who brought me here,” Jon said. Robb nodded as Ghost trotted toward them. The direwolf rested its head on her furs, and Sansa reached forward to pet him. “Sansa, why don’t you keep him with you for the rest of the night?” Jon suggested.

Sansa stared at him in surprise. “I wouldn’t want to take him from you,” she told him.

Jon studied the two of them as Sansa’s fingers remained in Ghost’s fur. “You need him right now more than I do,” he said. “Besides, I don’t think I could get him to leave with me if I tried,” he finished with a smirk.  

As if to confirm Jon’s theory, Ghost climbed atop the bed. “He does seem to have made his choice,” Robb commented with a chuckle. The three of them laughed and for a moment it was like the awkwardness between Robb and Jon was forgotten.

When their laughter had faded, the two boys glanced at each other somewhat uncomfortably. “Well, um, Jon and I should probably be getting back to our own rooms,” Robb said, but Sansa was sure it wasn’t merely a suggestion. At least Robb hadn’t assumed the worst, but he certainly wasn’t going to leave them alone in her room at night.

Jon nodded in agreement before turning to Sansa. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked tenderly, brushing her hair behind her ear as he studied her for any signs of distress.

Sansa could feel Robb’s eyes on them. He was watching to see how they were together now, she realized. Robb should see how Jon cared for her. Sansa nodded. “I’m alright.” She punctuated her statement with a quick press of her lips to Jon’s. Let him look, Sansa thought as Jon looked at her wide-eyed.

“Okay,” Robb said uncomfortably as he stood up from the bed, hands on his hips and staring at his feet. “I’d say that’s enough for tonight.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle at Robb’s tone. Jon shot her a wink as he rose to his feet. “Goodnight, Sansa,” Robb told her, leading Jon out.

“Goodnight,” she told them both. As they left, Sansa settled back into bed and Ghost burrowed into her side. Her dream tugged at her heart. When it felt to be too much, she cuddled closer to Ghost. Sansa realized dimly that she would need to find a way to truly lay Lady to rest.  

Chapter Text

Sansa spent the better part of a night and half the day arranging a wreath of blue winter roses. Jon had collected them from the glass gardens for her. When he realized their purpose, he held her tight, kissed her forehead, and asked if she wanted him to go with her.

Sansa was tempted to say yes, but something within her urged her to say no. And so, she ventured to the lichyard alone with the wreath she’d made for Lady’s grave. The ground was nearly frozen and hard beneath her feet. It wasn’t hard to find—and Sansa wondered if something of the bond remained, as if, somehow, Lady’s bones still called to her. At the mound of dirt, Sansa dropped to her knees, uncaring for her dress or cloak in that moment. Hot tears gathered in her eyes as she removed her glove and touched the soil.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, just for Lady to hear. It wasn’t that she blamed herself—not anymore. But she was sorry. Sansa wished there was something she could have done. Sansa was sorry that Cersei, Joffrey, and the former King could be so cruel. She was sorry that her father had gone along with it. She was sorry Mycah had been killed by the Hound.

If she had known what it meant to go South…

Sansa shook her head, shaking off the thought. There was nothing she could have done. Her father promised her to Joffrey, and even though she’d been excited about it, in truth none of that mattered. She had been promised and would do her duty. She wasn’t sure if it was better or worse, to know she’d never had a choice in the first place. A part of Sansa was gone, forever. But at least, that piece of her and Lady’s remains were home in Winterfell. It was where that part of her—her innocence—belonged.

She thought of Lady, kind and gentle, well-mannered just as a direwolf named Lady would be. Sansa hadn’t cared if Arya had laughed at her wolf’s name. It was right for her. It was how it should be, Sansa thought. Sansa couldn’t bring Lady or that piece of herself back, and maybe that was the hardest part. But Sansa vowed to herself that she would remember. She would remember to be kind and gentle. She would remember she’d had a wolf she fed under the table. She would remember sneaking lemoncakes with her, giggling mischievously. She would remember that once she’d thought her life a song. Despite her prior castigations, that did not make her stupid, Sansa had realized. Because in Winterfell she had always been safe and protected. They all had been. Sansa would remember to protect the softest parts of herself and cherish them, precious as they were.

Sansa laid the wreath atop Lady’s resting place and felt something settle within her chest. She allowed herself to cry quietly, for how long she didn’t know. When she felt a bump at her hip, a strained laugh came from her chest. Sansa knew it was Ghost before she turned to look at him. She raised herself higher on her knees and wrapped her arms gently around him. He scratched lightly at the grave, and Sansa knew he was grieving the loss of Lady, his sister, too.

“I’ll always love you,” Sansa told Lady, hoping that somehow, somewhere, her wolf could hear her. Sansa ran her fingers through Ghost’s fur and there they sat with Lady until Sansa’s legs had nearly gone numb.

Her mother fretted over her appearance when she returned to the castle, and Sansa changed as her lady mother bid. At the table as they supped her father discovered where she’d been, and his face had grown pale and stony. He opened his mouth as if to speak but Jon shot her father a look of warning, one that made him look a man grown and caused her mouth to go dry, that had her father clamping his mouth shut. It wasn’t that she opposed her father talking to her about it again if he wished, but he had already apologized, and in any case, she didn’t want him to do it here. Jon squeezed her knee protectively under the table and she smiled as they shared a glance.

---

Ned couldn’t say precisely what it was he felt when Jon shot him that look, which told him he would say anything to Sansa at his own peril. His lips closed shut and he watched Jon and Sansa share a look, a silent conversation. He had that sense again that he was looking at a younger version of himself and Catelyn.

Jon never looked more a man than when he sent Ned that challenging, protective stare. Sansa was no longer simply his daughter, but Jon’s betrothed and soon-to-be wife. It was strange to think Sansa would soon be under Jon’s protection rather than his own.

Still, he smiled softly to himself. Truly he couldn’t imagine a better man to be his daughter’s husband, her partner and protector, than Jon. Maybe he wasn’t feeling chagrined by Jon. Maybe he was feeling proud. He glanced at Catelyn, who swallowed her wine and pretended not to notice the way Jon and Sansa looked at one another. Slowly, she was coming around to Sansa and Jon’s impending marriage.

Whether she was coming around to forgiving Ned was another story. In truth, he hadn’t fully known what to expect. In some ways, it was much like his return from the South nearly eighteen years ago. When he’d brought Jon into their home and Catelyn had frozen him out as much as she could. But then they’d also had Robb, a squalling babe to bond over. No such cushion or mission existed between them now.

Their longest conversation had consisted of the discussion of their nephew Robert or Sweetrobin Arryn. Cat wished to ward him in Winterfell. “He needs to be around family,” she said. The boy had lost two parents, what with Lysa awaiting her trial and sentencing. He imagined Stannis wouldn’t execute the woman, but he couldn’t say for certain. If not, she would be relegated to the Silent Sisters.

“He has your uncle Brynden, my love,” Ned pointed out. She sighed sadly. “Yohn Royce is a good man, and as heir to the Vale he could do with remaining at the Eyrie,” he reasoned.

Cat laced her fingers together and rested her hands just below her stomach, she looked down at them rather than meet his eyes.

“Perhaps I may go visit then. After this wedding business, that is.”

Ned shuffled on his feet and studied her. He debated whether to ask what he was thinking. But then he decided to say it. Not telling her things had gotten them into this situation in the first place, after all. “To get away from me?” he asked in a soft, small voice.

“I didn’t say that,” she said, lifting her eyes to him.

“You didn’t have to,” Ned remarked.

Cat had looked at him defiantly. More defiant than he could ever remember her. “It may do us some good to have some time apart.”

It had been nearly a sennight since that exchange, and she hadn’t brought it up again. Ned hoped that meant she was reconsidering though he couldn’t be sure. He’d made it clear to her that if she wished to visit the Vale, he wouldn’t stop her. He’d given her enough grief to last a lifetime and he didn’t want to give her any further reason to feel trapped or resentful.

But now, watching Jon and Sansa, he ached to hold and love his lady once more.

That night he worked up the courage to knock on her chamber door. Catelyn wore a pale blue nightgown and matching robe, her auburn hair spilled along her shoulders and down her back.

“Might I join you, my lady?” he asked quietly, nodding toward her bed.

Cat immediately stiffened. “Not—I meant only to sleep…and to hold you.”

They hadn’t shared a bed even to sleep, since his return. Before they’d always done so, usually in her chambers as they were warmest, and he missed it dearly. Catelyn swallowed thickly and considered before finally nodding her assent. Ned couldn’t help his smile then. He cautiously moved to place a kiss to her forehead. Something softened in his wife then as she exhaled against him. She reached to take his hand in hers and led him to the bed.

---

Her sixteenth nameday was quickly approaching and her mother and father had agreed that she and Jon could wed on her nameday if she wished. Sansa had excitedly nodded, and she could tell Jon was trying not to look too eager in front of the Lord and Lady Stark. But Sansa doesn’t miss the loving look in Jon’s eyes whenever they meet hers, nor does she miss the more heated, hungry gazes he gives her that send a shiver down her spine. Sansa is beginning to suspect his eager embrace of their dancing lessons has less to do with actual dancing and more to do with having their bodies pressed closer together.

Not that she’s complaining.

“You’re such a good girl for me, Sansa,” Jon huskily whispers, his breath hot on her ear as he works beneath her smallclothes. He’s sneaked away to her rooms again and rests his body between her legs as they are sprawled atop her furs. She keens at the way he touches her, at his praise.

Soon he is kissing her neck and pulling her shift downward to free her breasts. He groans at the sight of them, eagerly sucking one nipple into his mouth.

“Oh Gods, Jon!” she cries softly as her hips buck upward.

He moves to her other breast before muttering against her chest. “I want to try something.”

“Yes,” she answered immediately and Jon chuckled, looking up at her as he moved downward. Sansa didn’t know what he was going to do, but at the moment she felt she’d let him do anything. If she didn’t have the tight coil of heat and desire within her, it might frighten her.

Jon shoulders her thighs apart and lays flat on his stomach as he undoes her smallclothes and takes them down her legs. “So pretty,” he breathes and presses a kiss to her inner thigh. Sansa shudders as she feels his mouth on her most private place. His full lips and exploring tongue cause her to gasp in surprise.

“Do you like that?” he asks softly against her mound.

“Yes,” she moans, her hands going to his hair as his tongue moves to her nub, as he lashes it with licks and sucks it into his mouth.

“Oh!” It’s unlike anything she’s ever felt before. When one of his fingers enters her slowly, tentatively, she shivers. It’s an intrusion, almost pinching, but Jon is gentle, and she finds it feels good when he moves it a certain way. Eventually, she cannot hold back and she peaks, rutting shamelessly against his face, his accompanying groans vibrating through her.

Jon raises to his knees as she comes down from her high, dizzy and slick with heat. His hand is quickly moving along his member as he looks down at her. A wildness overtakes her then, and she finds herself sitting up and unlacing his breeches. “Let me,” Sansa asks him as he stares at her hotly, wide eyes boring into her own. He removes his hand as asked and she sees him bare here for the first time. She hadn’t expected to find his manhood beautiful, but she does. Sansa wants every part of him.

She takes him in her hand at first, spreading the wetness of the tip along the head to lubricate her movements as she strokes. Jon grunts and she looks up to find his head thrown back in pleasure. Emboldened, she moves to lick the underside of his manhood. “Sansa, oh fuck,” he gasps in surprise.

Sansa takes him into her mouth, sucking along the head experimentally, wondering if it would feel good to him as it did to her, her hand working lower along his member. Jon jolts in surprise and when he looks down at her his eyes are pure fire, and she knows it must feel good. She continues, curious to find he tastes somewhat salty, but not bad.

“Oh Sansa, oh baby…” Jon says, somehow sounding debauched and sweetly loving at the same time. Soon he is a panting mess above her, gripping the back of her head and lightly thrusting into her mouth, minding her cues so he does not go too deep.

His eyes roll back in his head. “Sansa—” he groans. “Sansa, I’m going to—I’m so close,” he tells her, releasing her locks so she can pull away, but Sansa doesn’t want to stop. It is so very wanton of her, but she wants to feel him spill into her mouth. When he erupts and fills her mouth a sound escapes from him that is somewhere between a moan and a sob, one she’s never heard from him before. She quite likes it as she swallows his seed.

Jon collapses boneless on the bed, still staring at her in awe. His chest rises and falls rapidly. “You didn’t have to,” he tells her.

“I wanted to,” she says, licking her lips. His eyes darken at the motion and she smirks, satisfied with herself as she moves to lie next to him. Jon pulls her to his side and she rests her head against his chest as his hand runs languidly up and down her back.

“I love you,” Jon says.

“I love you too,” she says and presses a kiss against his chest.

Sansa feels just as intimate with him like this as when they are in the heat of passion. Maybe even more. They lay there quietly for a while, Jon stroking her locks absentmindedly. She feels safe in his arms.

It’s that intimacy and trust that gives her the nerve to say something that has been on her mind. “Jon, I know it will be sometime yet before we leave for the Gift,” Sansa looks up at him, his eyes soft and attentive. Does anyone listen like Jon listens? Not in her experience. “But when we do, I was thinking that—well, the statues in the crypts here help us remember our loved ones. I thought we might have one made at the Gift for Lady, since her remains are here.”

Jon cradles her face in his hands. “I think that’s a great idea,” he tells her before pulling her up to kiss her softly.

---

Jon finds himself gravitating toward Bran as he rides on Hodor’s back in the training yard. Robb is talking to Theon across from them, and he doesn’t wish to be around the Greyjoy.

His younger brothers seemed to have taken the idea of Jon and Sansa marrying well. Little Rickon was young enough to be confused, but otherwise unbothered. With Bran, Jon wasn’t sure at first if it was because he didn’t truly have a problem with it, or if Bran had been more preoccupied with adjusting to his new life without working legs. But then as Jon and Sansa discussed it with Bran, trying to explain in a way he could understand, he had simply shrugged and petted his wolf, Summer. “You were my brother, and you’ll still be my brother—my goodbrother through Sansa,” he said, a slow smile coming to his face along with the realization, a smile that looked like the ones from before his fall.

If only Robb could see it that way, Jon thought. He hoped they were getting to a new start after they both ran to Sansa after her nightmare. Things had been genial between them, but there was still more distance than they’d had before.

And Jon could only be grateful that Robb hadn’t been roused by Sansa’s very different cries the night before. He swore he still had the intoxicating taste of her on his tongue…

“Do you think father will let us visit you when you leave, Jon?” Bran asked, pulling Jon from his lustful thoughts. Jon flushed.

“I’m sure he will,” he answered, perhaps a bit too quickly.

“Hodor,” Hodor said, but he sounded as if he agreed.

Jon thought it should be strange to be a Lord, but it was a rather small keep to restore. It was close enough too, that he wondered if Sam and the other friends he’d made at Castle Black might even visit from time to time. But that was probably too optimistic, they had their own duties. He guiltily felt a wave of relief at the thought that it was no longer his fate. If he had any doubts about his lordship, he was certain Sansa would be an excellent Lady. She would be by his side, as his wife. And he couldn’t feel guilty about the happiness that prospect brought him.

Arya came bounding out into the courtyard not long after, telling Jon about how she’d managed to drive her lady mother mad enough to send her outside with a mischievous grin. “It’s what she gets for making me wear a dress to your wedding,” Arya said.

Jon smiled. Preparations were well under way now. He was sure Sansa’s dress would be beautiful. Arya rolled her eyes at his likely pining expression before stating her desire to go horse-riding. Bran had been given a special saddle by Tyrion after seeing Jon at the Wall and excitedly agreed.

As he, Bran, and Arya readied themselves in the stables they spotted Robb watching them furtively and glancing away whenever they looked in his direction. Jon didn’t know what to make of that. Robb had never been shy, really. He was confident and outgoing. And why wouldn’t he be, as the future Lord of Winterfell? But perhaps things felt different now. As their horses trotted out, Robb stood against a post with his arms crossed.

Arya, impatient, headed toward him. “Ugh Robb will you stop being such a baby already?!”

Robb’s jaw went slack at his little sister’s words as Bran snickered behind his hand. Jon couldn’t help his own amusement, both because Arya was breaking the tension between them all and because, oddly enough, she was presenting herself as the mature one for accepting Jon and Sansa’s union. Of course, Robb was not there to see Arya’s earlier anger—and that just made the whole thing funnier.

“I am not being a—” Robb stammered, and his cheeks reddened. Was there anything more babyish than adamantly stating you weren’t a baby? In all of childhood, Jon doesn’t think they’d ever found something more so.

“If you want to join then join us, if not, get over it! Brooding is Jon’s thing,” she finished, shooting Jon a smile.

Robb looked over at him with mirth in his eyes. “I suppose she’s right, aye?”

“Aye,” Jon agreed with a smile, hope in his heart. Robb let out a sigh of defeat before heading to the stables. “Thank you, Arya,” he said quietly as Arya rejoined him and Bran.

“It was nothing,” she shrugged. “I was just tired of watching him mope.”

“It’s not nothing to me,” he told her seriously.

The four rode for some time, there were laughs and fun, and Bran liked playing in the outdoors, even without use of his legs. It was good for him, Jon thought. It was like before in a lot of ways. And yet, not. Because Jon’s life and future were different. It was strange but not unwelcome.

It was nearing dusk when they returned their horses to the stables and Hodor took Bran back inside, Arya following. “Good luck,” Arya whispered to him before departing, eyes flitting between him and Robb. Jon mussed her hair and sent her on her way.

It was quiet between them for a few moments. He would wait for Robb to be ready. Robb finished brushing his horse before looking over at Jon.

“So,” Robb said tentatively.

“So,” Jon said, not knowing what else to do. Gods, this was weird.

Robb looked at him plainly. He gave another a sigh of defeat, but this one was different—somehow more conciliatory. “I don’t want to lose you. Either of you,” Robb said.

Jon swallowed a lump in his throat. “I don’t want that either,” he said.

Robb nodded and looked at his shoes, as if searching for the right words. He met Jon’s eyes once more. “You love her?”

“More than anything,” Jon said.

Robb looked uncomfortable but he pressed on. “You will be good to her? You will take care of her?”

“Do you really have to ask me that?” Jon said. He sounded testier than he intended.

“Seven hells, Jon,” Robb said tiredly, rubbing a palm along his forehead as if staving off a headache. “It’s not exactly like I know what you’re supposed to do or think or say when your brother is marrying your sister.”

That was…fair, Jon had to admit. Jon could reassure him of his devotion to Sansa. “I’m sorry, you’re right.” Jon let out a huff of air before soldiering on.

“I will take care of her and protect her and cherish her and love her—”

“Alright, alright!” Robb held up a hand, begging him to stop. “No more, please!”

Despite themselves, they both chuckled lightly. Jon might have gotten a little carried away. When it came to Sansa, it was hard not to. Before long, there was a lull of silence and Jon spoke again. “Sansa and I—we never planned this, any of this. I know it’s hard for you to understand. I don’t expect you to. I just hope you can accept it. If not for my sake, then for Sansa’s.”

Robb looked at him reproachfully, but with a small trace of humor. “You don’t fight fair.”

Jon shrugged, unbothered. “I fight with what I have,” he said with a grin. Robb rolled his eyes in response. Jon stepped a little closer. Robb had always been by his side. Whatever divided them, he had been his best friend—his brother.

“Robb, it’s true that I don’t see Sansa as my sister. I can’t explain how it’s different—it just is.”

Maybe it was the Targaryen in him. But then how did that explain Sansa reciprocating his feelings? Maybe some part of them could feel that they weren’t siblings, even if they weren’t consciously aware of it? Jon couldn’t say. Not for certain. All he knew was they loved each other, and they weren’t siblings after all.

“But you will always be my brother,” Jon said firmly. “That is, if you’ll still have me.” He tried not to sound too vulnerable at the end, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded.

“If I’ll still have you?” Robb asked in a tone of disbelief, but Jon couldn’t tell exactly where it was directed.

Not until Robb moved forward and hugged him. “You’re my brother, Jon. You are,” he said.

Jon hugged his brother back, thinking of when they’d said goodbye before. Where that had been a farewell, this embrace seemed more of a reunion. They patted each other’s backs in understanding before stepping apart.

“As to the rest of it,” Robb gestured vaguely. “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. But we’ll always be brothers,” he said, his blue eyes locked to Jon’s.

“Always,” Jon agreed. He let out a deep breath of relief.

They walked back into the Keep together for supper, and Jon had the sense they were all finally getting to a new normal.

Chapter Text

The night before his wedding, Jon paces restlessly around his room, wondering if he might wear a hole into the floor if he keeps this up. He’s nervous.

Not because he’s having doubts. Not about Sansa. In fact, as he imagines his love readying herself for bed through the walls between them, knowing that tomorrow she will be his wife, it sends his heart into a pitter-patter and his body thrumming with want.

It’s just…it’s only…he doesn’t know how to explain it, even to himself.

What if he’s not the good husband he so wishes to be?

What if he can’t provide for her the way she deserves?

What does he really know about being a Lord?

What if he’s not good enough?

He’s so deep in his thoughts Jon startles when he hears a knock.

Jon immediately makes for the door thinking it must be Sansa. His love really shouldn’t be here tonight of all nights, but if he could just see her and hold her in his arms…

But it isn’t her. It’s his father (uncle).

“Father,” Jon said, stepping back in surprise with wide eyes.

Ned takes a look at the boy stammering nervously and despite himself, chuckles dryly. “It’s alright lad, I was hoping we could have a talk,” Ned said, bringing a hand to Jon’s shoulder.

Jon nodded quickly and stood aside to let his father/uncle into the room. Ned sat himself in a chair by the window and Jon stood awkwardly until Ned motioned him closer. Jon gulped and moved to sit at the foot of his bed, facing Lord Stark. Jon’s still a little disappointed that it wasn’t his love at the door but tries not to show it. Mostly, he is wondering what mortifying conversation his father (or soon to be goodfather?) is planning to have with him about the man’s daughter…

Gods but he doesn’t wish to blush like a maiden (though he is one, he supposes), he thinks as he feels his face burning.

“Nervous?” Ned asked plainly.

Jon coughed. “What?” he asked, a little too loudly, voice cracking like a greenboy. He wasn't sure if his father/uncle was speaking about the wedding or this conversation. “Oh, um, no. Not so much. I wouldn’t say so,” Jon lied. There was nothing dignified in it, but the denial had slipped past his lips without even a thought.

Ned laughed again but sent a sympathetic glance Jon’s way. “I remember how nervous I was just before I married,” he gazed out the window contemplatively. “Of course, it was different. I did not know the woman I was to wed, which isn’t the case with you and Sansa.” He looked back at Jon. “Then again, it isn’t as if your match is uncomplicated.” Ned and Jon both shared a not entirely comfortable laugh.

“It’s normal, you know. To be nervous.”

Jon nodded.

Ned studied him. “What troubles you?”

Jon sighed and averted his eyes. The words weren’t going to come out right if he had to look Ned in the face. “I love Sansa. I worry I won’t—that I can’t be what she needs me to be,” Jon said.

“And what’s that exactly that she needs in your mind?”

Jon looked back to Ned irritably. “I don’t know. A high lord.” It was a bit obvious, wasn’t it?

“You were born a prince Jon,” he said.

“And raised a bastard,” Jon said. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Father. I just meant that…”

“What?”

“I feel like it’s all a mistake. Like this wasn’t meant for me,” Jon said, ducking his head.  

“I know how you feel,” Lord Stark said. The boy’s eyes shot up to meet his.

“How? How could you possibly know what this feels like?”

His father/uncle knew nothing of what it was to grow up baseborn.

“When I married Lady Catelyn, it was just after my older brother Brandon and my father died. Lady Catelyn was to marry Brandon, not me. Brandon was to inherit Winterfell, to be its Lord and the Warden of the North, not me. Brandon was our father’s heir, not me. For me to have all of this, my brother first had to die. If I grew to be happy in my marriage and my position, didn’t that mean I was disloyal? I felt a usurper. How could I be glad of anything, when all this came at the expense of Brandon’s life?”

Jon’s mouth clamped shut. He’d never thought of it that way before. His late uncle Brandon, then, must have served as a specter in Lord Stark’s life. How many times had Jon envied Robb his position, and then felt the resulting shame, as if he would ever wish harm upon Robb or the others? How he’d never wished to betray him or any of them.

“The point is, Jon, you can spend all your time fretting over what was meant to be, but none of that will change what is. And who knows for certain what was meant? The Gods, maybe. Not man. We like to think we know our fates, but we don’t. Changes will come just as surely as the winter. If you had the title you were meant to have at birth, you’d have been a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon shook his head. The South was not for him.

Ned smirked knowingly. “Aye, but the North is in your blood, just as I told you before. Maybe you still would have married Sansa.”

Jon looked at him in surprise once again. Meeting Sansa at their ages now, him a Prince, a life in the South—there was no version of his life he could imagine not falling in love with Sansa—but while a part of him liked the idea of having known his status from birth so he would not feel so unworthy of Sansa as he does now, of never having to torture himself over his love for his half-sister, another, bigger part of him was glad to have been raised in the North, with the Starks of Winterfell, with his other siblings and Sansa too, strange as it was to realize. Jon could admit to himself he spent more time bitter over being a bastard than he should have but going to Castle Black had opened his eyes to how lucky he’d been. No, he didn’t think he’d trade it—not even for the title of Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

“You are the kind of match I would want for Sansa—brave and gentle and strong,” Ned said.

“You think I can be a good husband to her?” Jon asked, feeling quite childish but aching to hear it, nonetheless.

“I know you will,” Ned said confidently. “I know you will from the way you stood up to me in King’s Landing. From the way you protected her. I know you’re nervous, but you’re ready.” He stood from his chair as he finished.

Jon got to his feet with him. It was maybe a strange time to say it, but this felt like the most they had talked in years. “I um, I wanted to thank you,” Jon said. Ned glanced back at him. “For protecting me all these years. You took that dishonor at risk to yourself, your family, and your marriage. I don’t know how I could ever repay you for keeping the promise you made to my mother.”

Jon’s words had faltered with emotion. Was this the first time he referred to Lyanna as his mother aloud?

Ned came closer and placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder again. He remembered his uncle had done that when he was still only a boy, practicing with a sword or a bow. “You don’t have to repay anything, and even if you did, being a good husband to Sansa is more than enough.” Ned paused thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. “And while it’s true I was keeping a promise to my sister—you should know it wasn’t just for her. When I looked at you—” Ned took a breath, “—it was for you too, Jon.”

---

His love was beautiful. So beautiful it felt like his heart would stop—her shy smile, her copper hair shining in the sun. She was radiant.

Sansa had dreamed of this moment for what felt like her entire life. Jon’s gray eyes bored into her with an intensity that left her breathless. Jon, she had dreamed of him. Even when she had been too afraid to admit it to herself. Somehow, they had been brought back to each other. Sansa met his gaze and smiled.

It might have gone unspoken for their audience, but Jon and Sansa both felt it in the Godswood—they were meant for each other.

Their vows passed in a heady blur for Jon. He rasped, “who gives her?” for his uncle to answer in the affirmative, bringing Sansa’s hand from his own to Jon’s, her warm palm cupped within his own.

“I take this man,” Sansa said with confidence and Jon’s heart swelled to hear her claim him.

He wrapped her in his cloak. “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Jon said. It wasn’t the old way, but Sansa was half Tully, and they’d wanted to give some tribute to her Southern roots. Somehow, it was this declaration that made his love’s cheeks stain a pretty pink in the cool air. He pressed his lips to hers.

Sansa could swear she tasted his smile.

---

Jon waited what he believed to be an admirably long time before whispering in Sansa’s ear to ask if she was ready to retire. The feast had gone on for longer than he had expected. He’d even set aside any complaints when Sansa danced with Theon for one song.

“He is not the worst sort, Jon,” Sansa had told him, and Jon had nodded before she sweetly kissed his cheek and went to the dancefloor with Greyjoy. But he’d been prodded into a turn with Alys Karstark at the same time, and Sansa shot daggers into the back of the girl’s head. Jon sent Sansa a wink, and she smiled. Soon no Greyjoys or Karstarks would be between them, and they danced together again.

And of course, they had stayed for the arrival of his love’s lemon cakes. Jon watched his wife (his wife!) delicately bring the morsels to her lips, enraptured as he licked his own.

After she’d finished, he’d rumbled in her ear: “I have need of you, wife.” Then he’d watched the delightful flush that traveled down her neck. Sansa looked at him, blue eyes darkened, and bit her lip before nodding.

There would be no bedding ceremony. Jon and Ned thankfully had insisted on that, plus he did not believe Sansa’s poor mother could handle such an occurrence along with everything else she’d had to adjust to in such a short period of time. His goodmother was courteous to him and loving as always to her daughter, and Jon would count his blessings on that. And so Jon had asked Ned to distract the crowd so they may slip away, and Ned nodded (albeit he couldn’t seem to look Jon right in the eye knowing what he knew—but Jon couldn’t quite hold eye contact with Ned either so he would not complain) before requesting the musicians to play a tune and whisked his wife into a Northern reel.

Jon grasped Sansa’s hand in his own, and they took off giggling, happy from wine and love and casting anxious and excited glances at each other.

But if Jon had felt an inclination to hurry away, he felt the need to take his time with Sansa now that they had reached their bedchambers.

They were Sansa’s bedchambers—bigger, nicer, with the hearth already roaring when they’d arrived. Sansa felt butterflies in her tummy, and when she turned to look at Jon, she found he was watching her intently.

Sansa felt herself begin to blush again. It was perhaps silly. It was Jon. But still, she felt a bit nervous, nearly as much as she felt a rush of anticipation.

Sansa and Jon began to speak at the same time:

“So—”

“I think—”

They stared at each other and laughed, and it took some of the discomfort away. A different kind of tension began to simmer between them as Jon watched her glowing by the light of the fire. He needed to say this before he could get carried away.

“I want you to know, if you don’t feel you’re ready we don’t have to do more tonight,” Jon told her.

Sansa smiled and moved closer to him, until one palm rested on his chest and she felt his heart thumping beneath. It was kind and so Jon to offer, and she knew he’d never try to force her. But Sansa knew what she wanted. “Take me to bed, husband,” she instructed him boldly.

Jon let out a groan at her words before crashing his lips messily to hers. Before Jon knew it, Sansa’s hands were in his hair and he was lifting her into his arms, clumsily guiding them to the bed, while his fingers pulled at the laces in the back of her dress.

“Wait,” Sansa gasped as he placed her atop the furs, lips kiss swollen as her hands went behind her back to unlace the corset (Jon had not gotten the hang of such things).

Jon breathed heavily as she tugged the sleeves down her shoulders, eyes roaming the expanse of her chest with only a thin shift guarding her flesh from his gaze and touch.

He hastily began undressing, prompting a laugh from Sansa that made him smile as she stood from the bed and set her dress safely on a chair. When Sansa removed her shift, all humor left Jon. He watched in awe as this beautiful creature graced him with the softest of kisses before he grasped her waist and put her beneath him on the furs.

“I love you, Sansa,” he told her. “I love you, dear girl.”

He was no poet, but she had to know how he loved her.

“I love you, Jon,” she said. Sansa looked up at him in amazement. Her husband. Beautiful and perfect and kind and hers.

Jon kissed his way down her body, intending to worship every inch of her, his lips pressing softly against her belly, her thighs, as he unlaced her smallclothes with trembling hands.

Sansa felt his warm breath at her mound and squirmed beneath his touch. “Shh, it’s alright,” Jon murmured as his nose ran along her slit and brushed her bud. He was teasing her, but she couldn’t object, her breaths growing short and ragged. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he said as he nosed her curls before finally taking mercy upon her and giving her his tongue.

He licked at the parting of her folds and groaned against her. Jon had tasted her before, but now, knowing what else awaited them, that he meant to prepare her body to take him, only made the sweet tang of her on his tongue all the more intoxicating.

When Sansa felt his tongue flick along that sensitive bud, her hips moved upward of their own accord. He suckled that bundle into his mouth devotedly, reverently. Jon reached a hand out and interlocked their fingers together as his other hand teased at her entrance. “Yes, Jon,” Sansa sighed happily and felt one finger, then another, enter her gently.

Jon continued to lap at her in worship. He wanted to bring her to her peak; wanted to do anything to make the next part the least painful it could possibly be for her. By her cries of pleasure, delightful high-pitched sounds and lower, more guttural moans, and the way she began to gush around his fingers, soaking him, Jon was hopeful he was doing just that. But if he wasn’t careful, he was bound to spill in his smallclothes before ever getting inside her, and so he focused on her as much as possible, trying to ignore the throbbing urgent need building within him.

Sansa arched up from the bed as she flew into her peak, greater than any she’d ever experienced, small whimpers of “yes, yes,” falling from her lips in a way she would find embarrassing if she could bring herself to care. As it was, she was in too much pleasure to mind. Jon pulled away slowly as the zings of aftershocks rippled through her. He looked at her as if she were the sun, and it was impossible to feel anything but a swell of love within her for him.

Jon was hastily wiping his mouth as she pulled him to her, kissing him for all he was worth. Jon moaned into her mouth, knowing she could taste her pleasure on his tongue. Sansa began to tug impatiently at his smallclothes, the only barrier left between their bodies. Jon reached to help her, ripping the fabric as he tossed it aside.

“Are you ready?” Jon asked her. He was as hard as steel, but he needed to be sure.

“Yes, Jon,” Sansa whispered against his lips, “make love to me.”

A near sob left him at her words and Jon began to gently slide himself inside of her. “Uhh—Sansa,” Jon said, his head falling against hers. He was only a little way in, and already the feeling was overwhelming. Sansa was still so wet from his previous efforts and tight as her walls began to wrap around his shaft. He panted and closed his eyes at the sensations coursing through him. He didn’t want to hurt her.

“Sansa, tell me what to do. Are you okay?” he asked, stilling himself, trembling.

“Yes,” she said. “Just—go slow,” Sansa said, widening her legs as Jon slid a little deeper and he moaned.

“Sansa—Gods you feel so good,” Jon told her.

Sansa felt a bit of a tearing sensation and it hurt a little. She tensed. Jon could feel it. “I can stop,” he offered.

“No, don’t,” Sansa said. She could tell she was at a precipice, a little more and the pressure would break. “Keep going.” Jon pushed a little further and Sansa felt the release of pressure that she anticipated. The pain didn’t entirely abate, but it began to fade in intensity to something duller as feelings of pleasure began to build.

“Hmm, Jon,” she purred and Jon growled in response. He pushed deeper and Sansa began to thrust upward at him, and soon she’d taken him in as far as she could.

Jon rocked gently back and forth as they found their rhythm. “Okay?” Jon struggled with his words. It felt so good—more than he’d ever imagined.

“Yes,” Sansa whimpered, her arms locked around his shoulders.

She looked at him and her eyes nearly undid him.

“Sansa—Sansa,” he began chanting her name. “I can’t—oh Gods! I can’t last much longer.” He started to rub her clit.

Sansa swallowed his gulping breath as his hips picked up speed. He was getting closer, but Sansa wasn’t sure she could get there. His touch was a little too rough along her nub, and she pushed his hand away to stroke herself more gently.

The sight of her touching herself as he moved inside her was too much. “Sansa!” he moaned as he began to spill inside her.

Sansa’s finger circled faster, and she reached her peak as he slowed his thrusts, riding out his orgasm and gasping as her walls pulsed around him. His whole body shuddered as they looked at one another, breathing one another’s air.

Jon cupped her cheek and rubbed his thumb along her cheekbone. “I love you,” he said, voice rough, keeping his eyes on hers as he pulled out of her slowly.

“I love you, too.” Sansa said, overwhelmed, somehow finding herself closer to him than before.

Jon felt the same—even as he was no longer inside her, they were even more connected now. Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut in contentment. Jon softly kissed her eyelids and wrapped her up in his arms as they both fell into a peaceful sleep.

Chapter Text

Three years later…

His old friend Samwell Tarly came to visit Jon in the Gift in the winter. It has been ages now since he’s seen him, though the two had occasionally exchanged letters after Jon left the Wall. Though it is a lighter winter than the Maesters at the Citadel had predicted, it still seems slightly mad to have made such a trek, so Jon knows it must be something important.

When Sam arrived, Sansa had nudged Jon’s side in the courtyard before tilting her chin toward the young woman Sam was helping down from her horse. The woman wore patched together furs and had stringy hair but a kind face. A wildling, Jon thought. It was evident she was with child.

His love sent him a mischievous smile. So, this was the reason Sam had come.

“Your friend has found a lover,” Sansa hissed at him delightedly. His wife was still a romantic, even in the middle of winter. Jon was a lucky man indeed.

“We don’t know it’s his,” Jon whispered back at her. While a younger Sansa would be scandalized, wedding her once brother turned cousin seemed to change that. This Sansa was undeterred and leaned close to him as she waggled her eyebrows. Jon chuckled.

The two visitors made their way over, Sam looking sheepish and the young wildling woman’s eyes flitting about nervously. He hugged Sam and shot him an inquisitive look as the woman fell into a stiff, unpracticed curtsy. She looked to Sam, who nodded reassuringly as the woman greeted him and his wife: “My lord, my lady.”

“Hello,” Sansa said with a warm smile. “I am Sansa, and this is my husband Jon Stark, Lord of the Gift.” Jon blushed as he always did when Sansa said his title. “Might I ask your name, my lady?”

“I am no lady,” the woman said bashfully. “But my father named me Gilly, for the gillyflower.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Sansa remarked, and Jon inwardly laughed. If she had given him the chance, of course Jon would have said it himself as Sansa had taught him all those years ago. But his wife was always the perfect picture of courtesy. Her way with people had certainly helped him out of troublesome situations more than once since they had taken their roles.

Jon introduced Sam and Sansa, and his old friend explained that Gilly was in need of a safe place to stay.

“If it is not an imposition,” Gilly rushed to say.

Sansa waved a hand dismissively. “Not at all. There is plenty room and besides, it would be nice to have another mother-to-be in the castle,” Sansa said, cradling her bump. Jon couldn’t help his grin as he looked to Sansa’s middle where their babe grew inside her. Their babe.

Jon was nervous, of course, but overjoyed. Sansa’s pregnancy had caused her illness those first few moons, but now, she glowed with energy and happiness, cheeks flushed in the cold as they led their guests inside.

Though he’d rather not be parted from his love, soon she was taking Gilly to find her suitable chambers and a bath.

“I apologize for not being fully forthcoming in my letters,” Sam said, ducking his head remorsefully as Jon led him into the solar he shared with Sansa.

“It’s alright Sam. I suppose the matter is…rather delicate,” Jon said tentatively as he brought his friend an ale. Truthfully, he didn’t believe Sam would break his vows as Sansa had suspected, but one look at the way Sam looked at her—the same way Jon looked upon his wife—he may not be the father, but there was no doubt in Jon’s mind that Sam loved her very much.

“It isn’t what you’re thinking,” Sam said, face turning red.

Jon shook his head. “You don’t have to explain, Sam. She’ll be safe here.”

“Thank you,” his friend said gratefully. “And your people won’t mind a…” Sam frowned.

“A wildling?”

“Free folk,” Sam muttered, and Jon laughed.

“One of them now, aye?” Jon teased good-naturedly.

Sam huffed in embarrassment. “Hardly. It’s just, well—she’s—”

Jon cut his friend off, saving him from his stammering. “It’s alright, I already told you. You don’t have to explain. As for our people, well, she’s far from the first ‘free folk’ to be here.”

“How’s that going?” Sam asked curiously.

“Well, mostly. My uncle Benjen and Commander Mormont have done a lot of the work.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Jon.”

Jon ignored that commentary, though Sansa was always telling him the same. “And Sansa…” Jon sighed happily.

“Yes, I know, a ‘miracle worker’ as you call her in your letters,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

“I merely speak truth,” Jon said with a smile. Sansa could charm anyone, from smallfolk to visiting lords and ladies, even to wildlings. While Jon and Sansa had never expected to be helping wildlings settle in some of their lands, they’d found Uncle Benjen and Commander Mormont’s overtures persuasive. The wildlings were just trying to survive as anyone would, and if settling them south of the Wall helped ease hostilities, Jon was willing to do so. Of course, it wasn’t perfect—they still dealt with the occasional raid, and Jon did not relish carrying out executions—but overall the people, wildling and Northerner alike, were gradually finding ways to live together peacefully. Sansa had developed into a skilled diplomat, their time in King’s Landing and weathering the storm of Jon’s true parentage providing experiences which aided them even now. But Sansa said Jon had a way with people too, that when he spoke, they listened. He wasn’t sure how true that was, but Jon knew whatever skills he’d gained, however good of a lord he might be, it was all because of Sansa: her love made him strong and steadfast, devoted to her protection above all.

“I’ve also got another letter from Maester Aemon,” Sam said, rifling through his things.

Jon accepted the missive, glad to hear from his lone Targaryen family. The old Maester Aemon, whom Jon hadn’t even known was a Targaryen until after he’d left the Wall and Jon’s parents became known to the realm. It was said Maester Aemon had shed a few tears at the news, and Jon could admit he’d done the same when he discovered this sole piece of his father’s family. He couldn’t say he was proud to be Rhaegar’s son, not really, and Ned Stark would always be the man who raised him, but he could be proud to call Maester Aemon kin. It wasn’t something currently feasible with Sansa’s pregnancy, but he hoped to visit the Wall at some point, to see him and uncle Benjen again, though his uncle would visit whenever he had cause and leave to do so. For now they wrote letters regularly.

All the same, he’d read the letter later, likely in bed with his love cuddled beneath the furs against his chest. Setting it on his desk, he looked back to his friend with a mischievous grin. “So, tell me of this Gilly.”

---

Benjen Aemon Stark came wailing into the world in perfect harmony to his mother’s cries. Sansa felt the sweat sticking her hair to her forehead, her whole body slumping in relief, and it was as if she could truly breathe again now that the labor was done. Jon, sat behind her, cradling her between his legs, held her close. For a moment, hiding his emotion from the room, Sansa felt his tears hit her neck.

“You did wonderfully,” he whispered to her. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Sansa said, hiccupping a laugh as the Maester placed the babe in her arms.

Together she and Jon took their child in. Jon’s dark locks, Sansa’s blue eyes stared up at her as her son’s eyes scrunched open.

“Oh, Sansa, he’s so beautiful,” Jon exclaimed, emotion turning his voice thick. Jon had not known just how their child’s entry to the world would feel, and a part of him feared Sansa would be in danger, remembering his own mother’s fate. But now he was positively dizzy with happiness, love, and full of pride in his wife and the life they had created together.

“He’s perfect,” Sansa agreed, slowly counting her son’s fingers and toes. “Benjen Aemon Stark,” she said. They had decided on the name for a boy. Lyanna, for a girl, Sansa had told him one night as he massaged her naked back, sated from their lovemaking.

“I will fill this castle with our children,” Jon had said, mouthing at her shoulder. “Girls and boys alike.”

Sansa hoped so. She wanted a big family just like the one she and Jon had grown up in.

“You’re perfect,” Jon said in awe. “The both of you.” He couldn’t believe he’d been so lucky.

The Maester, handmaidens, and Gilly had seen over her birthing. Gilly’s own son, Little Sam, had been born one moon prior. Jon maneuvered his way out from behind Sansa, and soon she placed little Benjen in his arms. He shook his head, disbelief and joy running through his veins.

Some time later (for time seemed to stop with his son in his arms), Rickon was bounding into the room, followed by Arya, Lady Catelyn, and Ned.

“Boy or girl?” Rickon asked, bouncing on his feet.

“Boy,” Sansa said.

“Can I hold him?”

Jon looked to Sansa. “If you’re seated still and Jon can help you.”

“I should get to hold him first, I’m older,” Arya argued.

Jon laughed. He found it surprising to see his little sister eager to hold a babe, yet he supposed it made a certain amount of sense when it was her nephew. They wished Robb and Bran could be here, too, but there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Jon knew they would see them not long from now, though, when Robb would wed Wynafryd Manderly.

“Actually,” Jon ventured with a breath. “I think the first to hold him should be his grandmother.”

Lady Catelyn’s eyes shone with surprise and gratitude and she nodded, seemingly unable to speak. Jon and Lady Catelyn got on better than he would have ever hoped, though he imagined things would always be a little strange between them. Jon could live with that. As long as his family was happy, that was all that really mattered to him. As he walked over to Lady Stark, he could see she took his offering for the overture it was. His son would know his family. And Benjen would never doubt how he was loved, Jon was determined for that, just as he knew Sansa was too. They would not repeat the mistakes of the past.

But as Jon watched Catelyn hold Benjen, with Ned over her shoulder smiling at the babe, he rather thought the two had done well for themselves. After her trip to Riverrun and subsequent return, it seemed Catelyn and Ned had returned to harmony, much to Sansa’s relief.

Jon came back to Sansa’s bedside, taking her hand in his and placing a soft kiss there.

He held her knuckles against his lips, whispering as their family cooed at the babe: “I can hardly believe it.”

“I am much the same,” Sansa said with a breathless smile.

As Jon moved onto the bed and embraced his love in his arms, he still needed to remind himself this was truly his life, one he thought would never be for him. His fate had been forever changed the day he received that letter asking him to come to the capitol, and in ways he never could have expected. But he knew his uncle had been right three years ago on the eve of his wedding, when he told him changes would come, just as surely as the winter.

And Jon had never felt more grateful.