Chapter Text
Six years later
Another six years passed before Jon returned to Winterfell. He badly needed to set foot in the North again. In the last period his relationship with his wife had been abysmal, to say the least: Daenerys had been getting crazier and crazier, she was starting to become paranoid, and Jon seemed to be the only one who could calm her down when she lost her temper, and sometimes it took very little. She had now lost count of the number of times he had distracted her from the thought of incinerating someone who herself had done nothing serious in some cases.
This time the prince, when he landed with Drogon in the meadow near Winterfell, did not find Arya and Sansa to greet him. To see them together with the rest of his family he had to enter the castle, and as soon as he had crossed the threshold of the main hall a twelve-year-old girl ran toward him. Sansa wrapped her arms around his body. When she pulled away from him he found that she was smiling radiantly. She had grown up; she was now a little girl. She kept her auburn hair half-pinned up in a typical northern hairstyle.
"You get more beautiful every year, Lady Sansa." He complimented herself. She could have sworn that her blue eyes were the same as her aunt's. The older she grew the more striking the resemblance to the eldest daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark became.
"Prince Jon, welcome." It was Gendry who had spoken. He had not even noticed that he had approached. If his daughter looked exactly like his aunt, Gendry looked exactly like Robert Baratheon. His dark hair came down to his shoulders, he had a short beard, and his blue eyes stared back at him. He wore dark-colored clothes, as did his wife and children. Only when Eddard and Robert came alongside his older sister did he realize that they looked nothing like his sister: they were the same as their father and Arya. It was as if the gods had sent another Sansa after taking the first one.
"Jon you should rest now, it was a long journey from King's Landing to here, even riding a dragon.” Arya observed. He nodded, he had to admit that he needed to rest. He left the hall with the impression that the only person truly happy to see him was a 12-year-old girl.
A few hours later Jon went to see how Drogon was doing. Arya demanded that when he came to see them the dragon stay away from the walls of his city. His cousin had not objected the first time and did not intend to do so a second time either. A surprise awaited him when he reached Drogon. In fact, he was not alone; with him was Sansa as well. The little girl showed no fear as she stroked his huge muzzle.
"I thought your mother had forbidden you to go near Drogon." He observed. The little girl turned toward him smiling, without taking her hand off the behemoth's snout.
"I like him. My mother says he is dangerous, however, he fascinates me." She replied cheerfully. "Jon, please. Please!" The tone of her voice had become pleading and she looked at him with pleading eyes.
"No, forget it." He didn't need her to tell him what he wanted.
"Please, we will be gone for a short time. My mother will never know." Insisted the redhead. Hhe was silent for a while, then finally let out a sigh.
"All right, but we will be gone for a short time and your mother will never have to know." He relented. Her eyes lit up; she had the face of a little girl to whom they had just given a magnificent gift. He helped her onto Drogon's back, then settled in behind her.
Within minutes they were soaring through the sky above the white clouds. His brave little cousin was much more serene than he was the first time he had ridden his wife's "son."
They stayed away a few minutes, and that flight seemed to please Sansa quite a bit, who had been smiling the whole time. At one point she had even startled him because she had spread her arms wide. When they landed waiting for them was a somewhat contrite Arya Stark. The brunette held her arms entwined at chest height.
"What were you thinking, taking her flying on that monster?" She thundered furiously, striding toward them. The daughter put her foot down first.
"Mother, don't take it out on Jon, it was my idea. I begged him to take me for a flight." She defended him. Her mother gave her a stern look.
"Go away!” She ordered in a tone that admitted no reply, and she with a surrendered expression walked away. "You are reckless!" She shrieked acontrariously. He opened his mouth to retort, but the other silenced him. "Stay away from Sansa!" She said, turning her back on him and heading toward Winterfell. He stood there motionless as if petrified. He thought back to Sansa and wondered if she, too, would be angry if she knew he had taken her daughter for a ride on Drogon. It had taken him twelve years, but he finally understood that the big mistake had not been sleeping with Sansa, but marrying Daenerys. This he could not tell Arya; he dared not even imagine what she would do to him if she found out; she would probably turn him into a eunuch. And how could he blame her? The worst thing was that he could never apologize to Sansa and only the gods knew how much he wanted to do that, but she was dead and there was nothing he could do about it.
Four years later
Queen Daenerys had called a joust, and this in itself was a good thing, as it meant that the ruler was in good spirits. Jon did not intend to compete in the joust; he would leave that honor to other knights and sit on the royal box with the queen.
The sun was shining high in the cloudless blue sky; it was a beautiful day. The ideal day for the last jousts. The favored Knight was the second son of the prince of Dorne: Mors. The boy was handsome, with long black hair that he always wore tied in a low ponytail; he perpetually wore an orange robe with the suns of House Martell embroidered on it. His father was a cousin of Doran who had taken power after the death of his cousin and his son. Mors had attracted the attention of all the nobles of marriageable age.
"I wonder if Prince Mors will win." Observed Daenerys, who appeared immune to the prince's beauty. That day she wore a black dress with decorations that resembled the scales of a dragon.
"Mors is very skillful.” Her husband replied. Soon the young man was to face his next opponent, and if he won he would participate in the last competition. Up for grabs was a sack full of glittering gold coins and the chance to crown his own Queen of Love and Beauty. Jon was curious to find out who the lucky maiden would be.
Mors managed to easily unseat his opponent, a boy from the Valley who was slightly younger than the Dornish. The crowd excitedly cheered the winner, especially the women, who hoped to be crowned Queens of Love and Beauty by that charming Martell.
In the last joust, the Dornish had no trouble unseating even his last opponent who stood between him and victory. After the two challengers shook hands, Daenerys rose from her chair.
"Congratulations Prince Mors.” She congratulated herself. He made a hand sign and a servant arrived with a leather bag and a red cushion on top of which was a magnificent garland composed of yellow roses and green leaves. Mors mounted his horse, clutching the garland in his hand. He rode around the field and then headed toward the audience. Needless to say, the girls sitting there were in a frenzy and stared at him with dreamy eyes.
"Lady Sansa. I crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty." Only when Arya's daughter stood up to be crowned did Jon realize what had happened. The crown of yellow roses rested on the noblewoman's red hair.
"Thank you, Prince Mors." She said smiling, then returned to sit next to her father and older brother. Her mother and younger brother had in fact remained in Winterfell, and the lady was being accompanied to the capital by Gendry and brother Robert.
"It seems that your cousin has a suitor.” commented the Queen.
"It seems so," He replied. He liked Mors and was a good suitor, but was Sansa willing to leave the cold North to live in the much warmer Dorne?
Soon Jon was walking among the tents of tournament participants, eager to congratulate Prince Mors in person. There was confusion: knights talking, sometimes arguing with their acquaintances or giving orders to squires, and squires arranging their masters' weapons. That afternoon there would be the melee in which Mors would not soon take part. He was evidently content with having won the joust.
The fabric of the prince's tent was orange, and on the entrance was drawn a large sun with a spear stuck in it, which did not surprise him. The 20-year-old man must have particularly cared about his house, and that was something he liked about him. He made to enter when he heard a voice he knew well.
"I feel as if I have not thanked you enough for the honor you have given me by crowning me." It was Sansa's voice. He moved the cloth drape so he could see inside the tent, but being careful not to be seen. Sansa was standing in front of Mors, who had his back to him and was clasping the 16-year-old's hands.
"You have thanked me sufficiently, but if you would like to add a kiss I would be delighted. " He replied. Then she took his face in her hands and bowed her head. Their lips touched and the prince's hands descended to her waist. Jon let go of the cloth drape, which fell covering his view, and wondered if his mother had also kissed Rhaegar after the tournament. He realized it was time to leave the two lovers alone. He would congratulate the winner later.
He had almost reached the boxes where his wife was waiting for him when he passed Lord Gendry who was coming toward him.
"Prince Jon, have you by any chance seen my daughter?" He hesitated before answering, undecided whether to tell the truth or play dumb.
"No, I have not seen her. Maybe she is with Eddard." He had said the first thing that came to his mind. The other shook his head.
"No, Eddard is preparing for the melee in his tent and I just came from there." He replied, looking around, probably searching for his daughter. "I wonder where she got off to." He added.
"I have no idea, but rest assured, Sansa is perfectly capable of handling herself and you will see that she will be back in time for the melee.” Jon commented. Gendry nodded, although he did not seem entirely convinced.
"You are right." He agreed. They walked away together to join the rest of the audience that was beginning to gather around the enclosure where the melee was to be held.
As she had planned, Sansa returned in time to witness it. She was alone; there was no Martell with her. He saw her talking to her father, but was unable to hear what they were saying to each other.
One year later
Dorne was in celebration: prince Mors Martell would marry Lady Sansa Baratheon. For the occasion Arya Stark and her future Fatherin-law had invited all the members of the noble Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, including of course the prince consort and the queen. Daenerys preferred to have as little to do with Arya and her family as possible, but she had chosen to accompany her husband to the wedding anyway.
Lady Sansa looked magnificent in her gray gown that left her shoulders bare and a stag and a half-wolf were embroidered on the bodice. Sansa had not bothered in the least to hide her belly, which was barely visible beneath the light silk. But perhaps Jon could not avoid noticing it, as he was aware that she was three months pregnant. In any case, soon everyone would find out, and if all went well in about six months there would be a new prince or princess in Dorne.
The newlyweds looked very happy and in love, sitting in the center of the main table. Hanging behind them was a huge banner with the sun of House Martell and the stag of House Baratheon. Daenerys and Jon were seated a short distance away.
"They look more in love than we did when we got married." She observed the queen. It was strange, but he seemed to detect a note of bitterness in her voice. "And soon they will also have a baby." That was the real problem. Daenerys could not have children. The lack of heirs was a topic she did not like to talk about and that her husband did not feel like dealing with. The strangest thing about that wedding was seeing Arya wearing a dress, which was gray like her daughter's.
Toward the end of the banquet Jon rose from his chair to stretch his legs. He could take no more of sitting and approached the bride and groom.
"Congratulations. I wish you a long and happy life together." He exclaimed. The bride smiled warmly at him, along with her new husband.
"Thank you." She replied. He went in search of Arya; she was not sitting at the table, but somewhere in the packed hall. It took him several minutes to find her: she was standing beside one of the tall marble columns in Gendry's company and clutching a goblet with wine in her hand.
"You will be happy for your daughter." He noted. A year earlier, a few months after the tournament, Sansa had convinced her mother to let her go to Dorne. She had had no particular trouble convincing her mother to let her go and now they were there after inviting them to her wedding.
"Yes, and soon we will have a grandson or granddaughter. I wonder what name they will give them." It was the Baratheon who had spoken, not the she-wolf, who remained silent.
"Maybe they will choose a Baratheon name." He hypothesized. It would have been nice of them to decide to honor an ancestor of Gendry.
"We'll see." The future grandmother simply replied and then left without adding anything else. Jon took no notice; he was used to being ignored by her. Seventeen years had passed since Sansa's death, and things still hadn't settled down between them. He had a bad feeling that he would never be able to make peace with her.
"Excuse me." Gendry said, then walked past him to join his wife.
"Jon." He heard his wife's voice calling him. His relatives had just left. Daenerys had chosen to wear a magnificent elegant blue Dornish-style gown that looked really lovely on her and she wore no bodice underneath. "Is Jon coming to eat cake?" She asked. The cooks had just brought a large five-tiered cake that had been decorated with flowers.
"Yes." He said, walking away with his consort.
A little later he witnessed the tender scene of the bride and groom feeding each other. They were indeed a beautiful couple, and he was happy for them.
"I haven't seen a couple so in love in a long time." Affirmed his wife. He was surprised that she had taken notice. He had not loved her for years now and did not know how much he wanted to leave her and get as far away from her as possible, but he could not do that. He dared not even imagine the possible consequences. If he had married Sansa instead of acting like a love-blinded idiot, he would be at his cousin's wedding now, and with him would be Sansa, gorgeous in her elegant dress. Instead there was Dany with him and there was nothing he could do about it.
Months later news spread through the Seven Kingdoms that Sansa Martell, born Baratheon, had given birth to a beautiful baby girl, whom she and her husband had decided to name Elia. The child had olive skin and black hair, but the real mystery was her indigo eyes.
Daenerys Targaryen screamed betrayal, and Jon did not know how to explain to her that there had never been anything between him and Arya. He could not understand how this could have happened. Eventually Daenerys became convinced that the child must have inherited the violet eyes from the Targaryen woman her ancestor had married. The queen's husband became convinced in turn that it could not be otherwise. After all, what other explanation could there be? I mean he had slept with Sansa, not Arya, and Sansa would have to be dead for Arya to wear her "face," and he thought it unlikely that for months he had been pretending that her sister was not dead, and for what purpose anyway? As he thought of wild theories he seemed to hear Ygritte's voice insistently telling him: you know nothing Jon Snow, you know nothing Jon Snow, you know nothing Jon Snow.
A few days later, during the night, he dreamed of Sansa. It happened to him sometimes. She looked at him with a serious expression painted on her face, then turned her back to him and slowly walked away from him without him being able to do anything to stop her. He called her name, shouted her name several times, but to no avail. She continued walking as if nothing had happened.