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She cried the day they returned to Winterfell. Naturally, Sansa waited until she was alone in her chambers and far from curious eyes or well-tuned ears. Only then did she let herself break.
 
When she and Arya first rode through the gates, there had been many cheers and much celebration. It seemed as if the whole North - at least all who had not journeyed south - were in the castle's courtyard to welcome the Stark sisters home. The people of the North could not be more pleased: a Stark was Lord Protector of the Six Kingdoms and they were an independent kingdom once more. There was a Queen in the North whose name was Stark and they need kneel to no one else. News of Arya's intention to travel west was met only with more cheers and the banging of goblets and stomping of boots in the great hall as they feasted that night. A toast was made to the Queen in the North. Another to the Savior of Winterfell. A third to the King of the Six Kingdoms. 
 
A fourth toast was then raised to Jon Snow, for that was what they still called him in the North, not traitor nor Aegon Targaryen nor Queenslayer. Their toast was in celebration, not mourning. "A good man, a good king, a good hero," was the general consensus in the room. Sansa sat at the head of the table, in the spot that was once her father's, then Robb's, then Bran's, then Jon's, and forced herself to smile. After all, there was much to be grateful for and to celebrate. Sansa should smile. Years of suffering and strategy had given way to the freedom she and her people had long craved. Justice had been rendered unto the North. A weight had lifted. The long wars were over and the North was free. Yet, Sansa did not feel whole. She missed Bran and his silent, knowing glances; the dreamy, mystic voice he had taken on since growing into a man. She already missed Arya, who had wasted no time in planning her exploration of the map's horizon. She'd be in Winterfell one month only, and then gods knew how long it would be before the sisters reunited. Most of all, though, Sansa missed Jon, who was no doubt lonely and cold in Castle Black, full of shame and sadness and guilt. She missed him terribly. So terribly it hurt. Thus, when the feast ended and she finally was alone for the first time in weeks, Sansa cried. 
 
The pain was better now, she supposed, as the tears finally began to subside. Yes, it was better than it had been a months earlier. The day a raven arrived informing Winterfell the King in the North, whose name was decidedly not Stark, had admitted to killing Queen Daenerys Targaryen was still burned into her mind, fresh as snow. Her knees had gone weak when the scroll was read to her; she had felt sick to her stomach instantly and the room had begun to spin. Jon was held in prison on charges of treason and Sansa had not been able to see anything but her father chained and dirty, his useless leg bent awkwardly as he was forced to bare his neck for the blade. 

"I told him not to go south," she had screamed at nobody in particular, "I told everyone. Bad things happen to Starks who go south." Her servant girl had clung to her and called for the maester and for guards as Sansa shook uncontrollably, consumed in dark memories and in fear. After, she had made all witnesses swear to secrecy regarding her violent reaction, though she knew how little that meant. A day later, Sansa had left her chambers, chin held high, eyes hard and cold, manners impeccable, and done her duties as Lady of Winterfell. She sent ravens South and prayed both in the Godswood and in the crypts, pleading with the ghost of her father and Lyanna to protect Jon. It was only when Arya arrived home with their Northern army, dirty and wounded, furious beyond words that Jon had been locked up for saving the realm from the Dragon Queen, that the rage flourished in Sansa's chest. 
 
"It's his kingdom," her little sister had spit out. "He's the rightful king and they all know it! Jon saved the bloody realm! You should have seen what she and her damn dragon did, Sansa! Women and children, animals - the whole city is gone. It's just gone!" Arya's chest had heaved with anger. "And after, after killing thousands and thousands of innocents - they tolled the bells before, Sansa, the city surrendered before she began obliterating it- she had the nerve to stand before her hoards and tell them they would liberate other cities the way they liberated King's Landing. And they cheered! They cheered for her! Jon did the right thing, he's a hero! He's the King! In the North and the south!" 
 
The anger and hatred had boiled in Sansa as she listened to her sister, and then it had boiled once more as Arya recounted the same tale, albeit less colorfully, in front of gathered lords and banner men as they debated what to do. Half wanted to go to war again, this time against the Unsullied and Dothraki as well as the houses that had pledged to Daenerys and saw Jon only as a Queenslayer, rather than the rightful King of Westeros. The other half called for diplomacy. Alliances forged by marriage, lands, and fealty were discussed as means of swaying other Westerosi houses to their side. After all, the Dorthraki and Unsullied were invaders and this was a a matter for the Seven Kingdoms to decide. All in the hall had agreed on one thing. Every man and woman present hailed Jon a hero, his bending the knee to the Dragon Queen now thoroughly forgotten. Through all of it, Sansa had felt sick with both fear and rage. She was so tired of the world constantly taking the people she loved and destroying them. 
 
Eventually, she swayed the assembled banner men to pursue diplomacy. Their army was weak and wounded. War was a lost cause if fought at once. Robb had gone to war to save Ned Stark, an accused traitor, from imprisonment in the Red Keep. It had ended in their father's death. Sansa had no taste for repeating history any further. Within weeks, the leading lords and ladies of Westeros had agreed to meet in King's Landing under the peace banner of diplomacy. Arya had insisted on brining an army, even if they would be required to wait outside the city gates. Sansa hadn't fought her on it, she only insisted on Bran and Arya joining her in the diplomatic delegation heading south. 
 
Her memories of the summit in King's Landing were tinged in red anger. The smell had hit them first, still miles from the city. Rot and burned flesh and ash. Two months had passed since the sacking of the capitol, but the air still stank of it. Sansa had fallen ill twice as they passed the rotting bodies outside the city gates that nobody had bothered to bury. The journey through the broken, burned streets was no better. Charred bodies were strewn everywhere. Arya had not lied when she spoke of children burned alive in their mothers' arms. The stench of death persisted in the Dragon Pit, hanging over the assembled lords and ladies like a sour cloud. The utter destruction of the city she had once known and hated was unfathomable. The group had been silent in shock as they waited for Grey Worm, the acting would-be King - if one could call occupying a destroyed castle and brooding in vengeful anger ruling. Sansa's rage persisted through the summit, even as her brother was named king, she won the North, and Jon's life was spared. 
 
Sansa had wanted to cry, to truly weep, when she and her siblings bid goodbye to Jon. It had felt too final and too unjust. His eyes had been hollow and haunted, face gaunt with hunger from the months he spent imprisoned. But in that moment Sansa had known to stay strong and stoic. It would not do for the newly minted Queen to sob. 
 
"He was spared, we can be grateful for that if nothing else," Arya had muttered one night as they ate dinner in Sansa's tent on the long road back to Winterfell. 
 
Sansa had scoffed. "Bran would never sentence Jon to death nor allow him to rot in prison the rest of his life. This is the harshest punishment they could have otherwise chosen. And we both know Bran is acting on the advice of Tyrion Lannister." 
 
Arya hadn't replied. She'd been much quieter since the sacking of King's Landing. She was till a force of nature in her own right, but withdrawn. 
 
Now, returned from the smoking capitol, alone and in private, Sansa's rage was gone. It was replaced with utter sadness. She sunk down onto the floor as sobs wracked her body once more. Why must everyone, everyone, be taken from her? Soon she would be the last Stark in Winterfell. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. "I'm sorry," she cried, speaking to a long dead father. "I'm so sorry." 
 
It felt like Cersei's last cruel joke. Or maybe it was Daenerys's or Littlefinger's revenge. Sansa was finally queen, finally held Winterfell, finally had won independence for the North, was finally free of war. Yet, she lost her family. She lost her pack. It made the victories feel hollow and tainted. As the sobs calmed, her sadness was replaced by solid determination. Sansa felt armor harden around her like a shell. She had lost others before and carried on. The greatest task now fell to her: that of ruling. And in that, she was utterly resolved to be good.
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The weight and responsibilities of the crown came naturally to Sansa. Her whole life had led to this, she was sure. Her mother’s example of love and devotion to her people and family, Septa Mordane’s insistence on courtesy and manners, Cersei’s hard lessons in politics, Littlefinger's instruction in reading friends and foes and strangers. Sansa set about to healing the North immediately. There was no excess of feasting or celebration, for food and time could not be wasted. Her coronation was a thoroughly practical affair. Food was given to those who needed it most, as was wool and wood and medicine. She heard the requests of layfolk and lords alike, doing what she could to repair the damage of the Night King's army and years of warfare. Sansa wasted no time in establishing a Queen's Council, and did what she could to aid Arya in her preparations for travel. 
 
After the North saw Arya off, Sansa immersed herself in her work. She visited towns, sewed and embroidered, held court, oversaw the rebuilding of Winterfell, managed the household, and practiced diplomacy and trade with the free folk and the Six Kingdoms. Her Council jested that they were not needed as Queen Sansa let no person do work she could do herself. Two moons after Arya left, Brienne arrived from the south. She was honored to serve in the King’s Guard, she told Sansa, but it carried too many memories she wished to forget and the North too many she wished to remember. Without pause, the Queen in the North named Ser Brienne Captain of her Queen’s Guard, welcoming her old companion home.
 
For a while, it was all enough to distract her from her loneliness. It was only when Sansa visited the crypts that the icy hands of loss wrapped around her like a winter chill. There was father, mother, Robb and his family, and Rickon. Some of their bodies there, most not. Most of the bodies in the crypt were lost to the Night King, anyhow. Even her bones were the only Stark bones in Winterfell – the rest were just dust. Despite the grisly memories of that long night when the dead walked, Sansa made it a habit to visit the crypts at least twice a week. She lit candles for those she had lost and sometimes sat and talked to them. It was pathetic, she knew, but it was all she had left of family with her siblings and Jon spread so widely. She always lit candle for Lyanna – the aunt she had never known, but whom her father had loved more than anything. Sansa wished she remembered some of the stories her father told her of his sister. Eddard had spoken of her rarely, and when he did it was often in lecture to Sansa. The candles were for her aunt, truly, but they were also for Jon. She had instructed her maesters to keep in contact with their counterparts at Castle Black. Every new moon she was told the goings on of the Night’s Watch.
 
Unsurprisingly, Jon had quickly been made Lord Commander once more, though it seemed he was never at Castle Black. First, he went north to lead the free folk home in a gesture of gratitude and friendship – though when she had first heard the news, Sansa was convinced he would choose to live beyond the Wall as he once had. Two moons later, however, Winterfell received word the Lord Commander had indeed returned, though it was only long enough to greet new recruits, many orphans of the war. By the next moon he was gone again, once more beyond the Wall, this time scouting for repairs. The Wall was not needed anymore, not as it was in the old days, but out of tradition or maybe disbelief the Night King could so quickly be defeated, the Night’s Watch intended to maintain and rebuild the Wall.  As the months drove on, the news stayed the same. More often than not, the Lord Commander was away. Slowly, the ranks of the brotherhood filled again. Supplies were requested and inquiries made.
 
Once, seven moons after her coronation, Sansa journeyed to Castle Black herself. The Wall, and the Night’s Watch, were firmly under the purview of the North, not the Red Keep, and Queen Sansa intended to let the brothers know they were not forgotten. If she had gone hoping for an audience with the Lord Commander, she was bitterly disappointed to find him once more away, this time responding to a request for aid from a wildling village plagued by raiders. Lord Commander Jon Snow had made peace with the free folk it seemed, and Sansa was grateful. The realm was safer for it.
 
Bran was just as distant. He seldom wrote to her, though Sansa heard often from his advisors and lords on matters of trade, diplomacy, and, of course, courtly gossip. From what she understood from Tyrion, and from what Brienne told her upon arriving North, her little brother was adjusting well to his crown too. He was a kind, if somewhat detached, ruler who valued the advice of counsel and focused on the rebuilding of his war ravaged kingdom. Sansa knew the least about Arya, but that was to be expected. She received only one raven from her sister and it was sent while the younger Stark was still at sea. Every day, Sansa prayed for her safety despite having little faith in prayers any longer.
 
Every night, she lay awake in a cold, empty bed staring at the ceiling and willing nightmares to stay away. Every morning, she woke to a cold, empty bed and thought of all she’d lost. Then the work would start again and her armor would creep over her heavy shoulders, protecting her from memories and mourning.
 
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It wasn’t until exactly one year had passed since her coronation that Sansa finally allowed herself to acknowledge her loneliness, and the duties she was not meeting as Queen.
 
A grand feast and tourney was planned in celebration of the anniversary, and a steady stream of bannermen from across her realm had been arriving in anticipation of the festivities. The morning of the tourney, Sansa donned her coronation gown once more, arming herself with the symbols and sigils of those she loved - those who could not be at her coronation and still could not be there for the celebration of it a year later. There were the weirwood leaves for Bran, and for Winterfell. The scales on her sleeves for her mother. The armor on her chest for Robb, and for Cersei for whom she had no love but who had taught her more than anyone about what a queen should and should not be. Her simple direwolf crown recalled the house of her father and brothers, of fierce little Arya so far from her now. The half cloak at her shoulder, black and shaggy, reminded her of Rickon and his Shaggy Dog, but mostly of the cloak of the Night’s Watch. Jon’s cloak. 

Sansa examined herself in a polished silver mirror while her maid plaited a simple long, auburn braid down her back. She remembered another tournament held long ago, back when days were long and golden, and the future bright. Her dress then had been velvet soft silk, not hard northern wool. Her hair had been twisted up in the southern style, emulating a queen she practically worshipped. Swallowing the emotion bubbling in her throat, Sansa tore her eyes away from her own reflection and the memories that still stung. That was what she hated most of all. The way even good memories from her childhood and from her time in King’s Landing with Arya and Father were now stained; drowned in sadness and shame and loss. 

“You look splendid, m’lady,” Alysa told her with a smile. The girl tied off the end of Sansa’s braid and stood back, examining her work. Sansa chose not to correct her title.

The queen stood, thanking and dismissing her maid. She could hear the clamor of swords in the courtyard below her windows as lords and their sons and knights practiced for the imminent tourney. It was her Council who suggested a tournament and feast, and visiting bannermen who finally convinced her to hold the festivities. “The North needs to celebrate, your Grace. We’ve lost so much over the years. We must do that sacrifice justice,” Lord Umber had told her. Sansa knew he was right. Such festivities were also a good opportunity to solidify her place as queen. Littlefinger taught her the value of whispers, and Sansa had eyes and ears throughout the kingdom. Her people loved her, she knew, but there were still doubts in all corners. She was young, and a woman, and had been raised by Lannisters and bedded by Boltons. There was no question to her legitimacy, but should the need for arms arise, Sansa worried over how many would flock to her call. 

There was another reason for the tourney, though. Another reason lords had arrived with their sons in tow, flaunting wealth, power, and lineage. Sansa was young, the last Stark in Winterfell, and unmarried. Her people wanted heirs to secure peace and avoid a power struggle after her death, and Northern lords were eager to claim the seat of the North and its queen. Sansa's stomach roiled at the thought of being sold off again. No, I am Queen now. They cannot make me marry against my will. Not again.
 
There was a knock at her door. "Come in," she called, turning away from the window. 

Ser Davos entered. "Your Grace," he nodded.

Sansa was grateful for the gruff man. He had honored his fealty to Jon by offering to serve Sansa in whatever capacity she may need. "The King named you his Hand," Sansa had told him as they departed King's Landing many months ago. "I shall do the same." He'd immediately accepted, and served her faithfully since. 

"You look lovely," Davos smiled. "A dress fitting the occasion to be sure." 

"Thank you, Ser Davos," Sansa replied. "I'm happy to have a reason to wear it once more." She motioned for him to sit at the small table she had by the fireplace. In the evenings when the castle grew quiet, Sansa liked to sit and read through scrolls and tally budgets there. The older man nodded in thanks. He pulled out her seat first and waited until she was seated before sitting across from her.  

"I wanted to speak with your Grace before you greet the gathered lords and preside over the tournament today. The council and I met this morning and agree, it is best to address the issue head on." 

Sansa smiled, already aware of where this conversation was leading. Her council had danced over it for months now. All who knew Queen Sansa knew she had little interest in marriage. "And what issue is that, Ser Davos?" 

The onion knight paused, as if the words would not come off his tongue. "Your Grace," he began, bringing his forearms to rest on the table and leaning in close, as if sharing as secret. "The Council and I serve you, and only seek to advise." Sansa nodded in agreement. 

"Yes, and you know I value your counsel above all else." 

"Thank you, your Grace." He paused again and pursed his lips. "We feel, as do many of the lords gathered here today, that it would be prudent for you to wed." 

The news didn't come as a shock to Sansa, but she felt herself tense all the same. Davos saw it, and held his hands up as if in defense. 

"I know, your Grace. I know you have no interest in being married again, and who could blame you? However, there is the matter of an heir." This, Sansa could not argue on. For years now she had known she did not want children. It seemed cruel to bring them into this world. She wished for death as girl so often. How could she curse another with life, especially if it ran the risk of going the way her's had? However, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and with Ayra and Bran near certain to not produce children, the task fell to her. As all tasks seem to do. 

Sansa sighed, turning away from Davos. "I am aware. I have thought on this matter myself at length." 

"Should King Bran sire any offspring, which he likely never will if maesters are to be believed, they should be heirs to the throne in the south." I thought the south would pick kings from now on, Sansa thought bitterly. She saw little value in a system of governance that would allow the most powerful to select rulers. All that would lead to is war, murder, and very few, if any, queens. "Should you sister Arya have a child, they could inherit Winterfell and the North," Davos continued, his voice drifting off at the end as if unsure of how to continue the sentence. 

"She will not," Sansa said, finishing the sentence for him, as they both knew the answer. "Arya has no interest in children or titles. She is wild," the queen added, voice fond and proud. "I will not tame her. I could not even if I wanted to." 

"No, I suppose not," Davos chuckled. "Well the matter remains then, your Grace, that the North needs an heir. A Stark heir. Otherwise your seat will never be truly safe. While they have chosen to do away with heirs in the Six Kingdoms, I do not believe the Northern lords would be willing to do the same." 

Sansa nodded. None of Davos's reasoning was new to her. She'd gone over it herself close to a thousand times. They know no king but the king in the north whose name is Stark. "It would also make your lords happy," Davos continued, "to see you wed." 

"Because they do not want to bend the knee to a woman." 

Ser Davos frowned, clearly unhappy but ever honest. "Some do not, your Grace. Men are proud - foolish, truly."

Sansa was quiet a moment, pushing the frustration building in her belly down and away. "I will not give away my crown, Ser Davos," she said carefully, parsing each word to be sure she was clear. "Not to any man." 

"I know," he sighed - not in frustration with her, never in frustration with her. Over the past months, Ser Davos had grown to be her closest advisor and confidant. Littlefinger made it hard for her to trust any man, but Ser Davos was close to breaking through her walls. His warm advice and encouraging, honest manner was very welcome to her.

"My husband will have to forsake his house and take my name. Any children will have to be Starks." Her voice was hard. These terms were non-negotiable.

Davos smiled wryly. "The wolves will come again," he muttered. The phrase had become popular in the North over the past year, with a Stark back in Winterfell and an independent North. 

"Yes, they will. Winterfell will never leave my family again. I will not allow it." 

Her Hand leaned back in his chair, watching her closely but not quizzically. "So, what would you propose?" 

"My husband will not be King in the North," Sansa replied. Jon’s image instantly conjured in her mind. She pushed it aside. "He will be Warden of the North." 

"That is your title."

"A title, yes, but it will be a gift to my husband. It is better than Prince Consort, is it not? More fitting. My husband must take a more active role in my kingdom. He must have a deeper connection. He shall be Warden." 

“Alright, that’s settled then. You have given this thought, haven’t you?” 

Sansa returned the friendly smile he sent her. “I think through everything, Ser Davos. Perhaps too much.”

“No, never too much, your Grace.”

“I suppose the true question you have come to discuss is the matter of whom.”

“Indeed. The Council and I have discussed some options, all Northerners. Though, if I were you, your Grace, I would consider Southern lords as well. We could send to King’s Landing for the suggestions of Lord Lannister and His Grace. An alliance between the kingdoms would be beneficial.”

Sansa shook her head. “No. The Warden of the North must be of the North. And any alliance forged by marriage depends on the names of both husband and wife to solidify ties. My husband must have no name but that of Stark.”

“You ask a high price.”

“A necessary one. If I must sell myself, I will not sell my name or home as well.”

Davos winced at her phrasing. He, like all others, tiptoed around the circumstances of her prior marriages and the horrors of Ramsey Bolton. It was common knowledge by now what had happened to Sansa Stark after she left Winterfell with her father and sister. Most pitied her, which she hated. She didn’t want to be pitied. She didn’t want to be seen as a frail little bird ever again. “It is true, Ser Davos. Women are sold like horses to please the games of men. Let us not ignore my past. I do not ignore it, I learn from it. No choices will be made without my expressed consent.”

“Never, your Grace,” he responded, unable to meet her eye. 

“My past will affect my prospects, will it not? I am not a virgin. They all know that.”

The knight looked decidedly uncomfortable across from her. “Perhaps, but the honor of leading the North at your side will be enticing enough.”

Sansa was not so sure. Men were happy to parade themselves and their sons despite her ruin, so long as they could expect a crown, title, heir, and honor for their house. When she announced her husband would need to forsake all and give himself to the Stark name, as well as bend his knee to her even in marriage, many would recoil. Men were fickle things. They may love her as their queen, but pride was too big a barrier for many.

She stood suddenly. Davos scrambled to do the same. “I must attend my court, Ser Davos. Please see to it that a list of the Council’s suggestions is brought to me. Better yet, let us meet on the morrow to discuss the matter further. As always, I value your advice.”

Her Hand nodded, “Yes, your Grace.” 
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The tournament day was a great success. The festivities were nearly enough to distract Sansa from her discussion with Davos that morning – though the many lords and knights visiting Winterfell served as constant reminders of her new task at hand.

Lord Glover, Lord Norrey, Lord Flint, and Lord Cassel were rather on the nose about it. All were recent widowers, and all did little to hide their intentions. Lord Glover insisted on escorting Sansa to the tourney yard while also loudly discussing the benefits of a man’s protection, the impertinent Lord Norrey gave her a token of his affections before a joust along with a rather ridiculous wink, Lord Flint was blunt and simply told her the North needed a king and he believed he was the right man for the job, and Lord Cassel had the nerve to kiss her hand for two beats too long.

Then there were the lordlings who complimented her dress, her hair, her eyes. Knights who gave her winter roses and dedicated their victories to her. It felt as if every eligible male eye was on her the whole day, and Sansa found the whole performance exhausting.

There had been a time when it was all Sansa dreamed about – a tournament where she was the object of every noble man’s eye. She dreamed of it there, in that very castle, as a little girl. Now that it was finally coming true, she felt rather ill. Sansa knew Davos was right; it was in her best interest to marry, and to marry soon. She was loved by the North, but power was an unstable thing. In order to consolidate and strengthen her claim to not just Winterfell, but the whole realm, she needed an heir and, she bitterly conceded, a husband. It was not a necessity per se, but it would make things easier.

And life might not be so lonely, a small voice said inside her. Despite it all, the little girl she once was did lay hidden deep down in her heart. It would be a lie for Sansa to say she didn’t crave companionship; crave family. Marriage terrified her – giving a man that much power over her was something she never wanted to do again. Yet, if she could find the right man, a good man… perhaps. I will find you someone brave, and gentle, and strong, her father had told her once. She wished he had been given the time to do so. She’d give up her crown in a heartbeat if it meant her father or Robb could have it. If it meant Jon could have it.

Sansa was jolted out of her thoughts by a great crash on the field below as Ser Toryn was knocked from his horse. The victorious knight, Ser Kerwin, rounded his horse and rode to the royal podium, bowing his head deeply to her before riding off the field. Sansa could feel eyes on her, all of them from would-be suitors trying to catch her eye in return. The queen tightened her jaw and ignored their glances. It made her skin crawl to be watched. Littlefinger had watched her like that. Resolutely, Sansa denied their glances and focused on the next round of jousting. Yes, she knew she should marry, but that concession to a man did not mean she must accept others. The Queen of the North would be courted and marry on her own terms.

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The list of names provided by Ser Davos and the rest of her council did little to improve Sansa’s opinion on her impending nuptials. None of the names stood out as particularly good matches. They all, of course, were the sons of well-respected and well situated Northern lords. The council and queen were all in agreement that it would be harder to strip a lord from his name and title than it would be to strip a lord’s son, particularly a second son.

“They are all honorable men,” Ser Davos, told her as he handed Sansa the list. “Each one vetted by us. They are proud but no arrogant men, all from good families that have long been loyal to the Starks.”

The names were all familiar to Sansa. Ashwood, Cassel, Hornwood, Tallhart, Wells, Mollen. Good and loyal bannermen.

Sansa sat, the council following suit. “I know these names well,” she told them. “I even believe a handful are cousins of mine – through my grandfather’s sisters.”

“Yes, your Grace,” replied Maester Horryl. “No doubt many of the names on that list would have been considered by your noble father, had the gods given him the chance.”

Yes, had I grown up in Winterfell with my family. Had we not all been lost. Then, perhaps, father may have betrothed me to one on this list – but who? Sansa knew the history of the North, and had spent many hours since winning Winterfell back from the Boltons studying the more recent history, yet she still felt lost looking at the names on the parchment before her. She knew their sigils, their keeps, their family tree and history. She knew all had pledged to her father, and to Robb, then to Jon, and finally to her. Of their character, though, she knew little.

Sansa set the parchment down and glanced at the faces watching her. “I do not want to be bid over like a piece of meat. The terms I told you yesterday, Ser Davos, are they known?”

Her Hand shook his head. “No, your Grace. I did not have your permission to share them so I did not.” Sansa smiled him, grateful for his loyalty.

“I give you permission, all of you,” she said, turning to her gathered advisors. “Let it be known that any man who seeks my hand must take the name Stark and forsake any claim to his house. My children will be Starks, and will be heirs of Winterfell. My husband will be Warden of the North, not King, and he will bend the knee to me.”

“These are hard terms, your Grace,” Maester Horryl told her quietly.

“They are, but they are necessary. I once swore to myself I would never marry again. I marry now for my realm and for my family. It must be on my terms.”

The maester nodded and soon the council moved on to more pressing business regarding the realm.

Sansa had expected the number of suitors and the ardor of their affections to decrease once the conditions of marriage to the Queen in the North were widely spread. She was wrong. If anything, both increased, to her disappointment. When lords came to court they carried the façade of discussing affairs of the realm and of their lands, but more often than not it quickly turned to the matter of marriage. It infuriated Sansa. Had she not won their respect? Was she not their Queen? Was she to be reduced to nothing but a potential wife? As the fervor of suitors grew, her desire to marry waned.

Yes, she still saw the benefits of marriage, but the cost felt too high. Sansa felt like a pawn in a game once more and it hardened her bitterness to the idea of a new Lord of Winterfell. The last straw was a letter that arrived from the Red Keep. King Bran had seen to it that a messenger deliver the missive, not a raven, which Sansa understood once she saw the length of the scroll. “Sent by King Brandon the Broken, Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” the messenger barked out, his accent heavily southern.

Ser Davos took the missive from the man and handed it to Sansa where she sat at the center of the high table in Winterfell’s great hall. The messenger had said the letter was from Bran, but Sansa recognized Tyrion’s handiwork once she began to read. It didn’t surprise her. She’d long suspected that while Bran was king in name, Tyrion was king in action. Her brother was too lost in his mind, and in the futures and pasts of the world, to tend to the daily needs and political realities of ruling.

The letter was a list of lords from the Six Kingdoms, all with unmarried sons, the benefits of connection listed below each name. Sansa’s blood boiled at Tyrion's nerve. It was enough that her own people wanted her married – but to have Tyrion Lannister send her his suggestions, all of them southern, was infuriating. Not three weeks before, half of her council had advised she marry a lord from Six Kingdoms to solidify ties. Sansa wondered which one of them had sent a raven to Tyrion. “A list of southern lords,” she announced to the room, “for me to consider in marriage.”

Ser Davos did little to hide a chuckle. He had been audience to her scalding refutation of a southern marital alliance.

“You may tell my dear brother, his Grace, and his Lord Hand, that I have no interest in a southern union, but that I thank them for their tidings.”

The messenger nodded, clearly miffed at Ser Davos’s laughter, and sank away from the head table. Sansa looked back down at the letter once more and fought to not roll her eyes in exasperation. Tyrion had been bold enough to list his own name at the bottom, offering to “renew” their sham of a marriage. She hoped it was a joke. Sansa’s lukewarm feelings towards the Lord of Casterly Rock had significantly cooled in the months since he forsook Jon. To presume otherwise, or that Sansa would give up the North to join him in King's Landing, or allow a Lannister as lord of her keep and bedchamber, was laughable at best, insulting at worst. 

That night, Sansa sat at her table by the fire in her chambers and mulled her options. The matter of her marriage had consumed her duties. It was all her advisors and her subjects ever seemed to discuss. She was ready for it to be decided and over so that she could get back to real work – and so her sworn lords would stop viewing her a simply a prize to be won. She had half a mind to send the whole plan to hell and announce she’d take no husband after all. The list Ser Davos had given her contained Stark cousins, though they had different names and houses now. Perhaps she could simply select one of them or their children as heir when the time came. She could even take one of their sons to ward now and raise him as her own child. It was not ideal, but it would save her the hassle of finding and then having a husband.

With a huff, she stood and undressed, slowly pulling her hair out of its long plait. She wished there was a clear candidate, or that Arya would by some miracle return with a babe. She wished father had betrothed her to a northerner before King Robert had insisted she marry Joffrey.

 “Bloody Lannisters,” she spit out, the words like venom. Tyrion’s letter was sitting on her table still open as if mocking her. The man found a way to make a joke out of everything. Before this morning, Sansa had thought her ire after the sacking of King’s Landing and the mummer’s farce that were Tyrion and Jon’s trials was settling. The mockery Tyrion made of her current predicament brought it all back. Sansa strode over to her desk and pulled out a box of scrolls she had saved – all carrying the heavy black seal of the Night’s Watch. She missed Jon often, but tonight especially she wished he was at her side. The man was stubborn as a mule, especially when they disagreed over policy and strategy, but Sansa would give anything for his opinion on her current predicament. She debated writing him, but it felt useless. He was seldom at Castle Black anyhow, and it felt silly to bother the Lord Commander with as girlish a question as “who should I marry?”

If I should marry at all, she added, bitterly. She sank onto her bed and gazed around the silent room that had once been her parents’. The loneliness came creeping back in. When she was a girl, Sansa would sit by the same hearth with her mother, discussing etiquette or the romantic stories she loved, often also complaining about Arya or the boys. Not long ago, it was her and Arya who would sit before the fire together. Her younger sister’s experience in the destruction of King’s Landing had made her softer. Not soft, not by any means, but softer. Perhaps more than that, though, it was the younger Stark’s impending journey that made Arya come to Sansa’s chambers that last month.

Before that, before Daenerys Targaryen had marched through Winterfell’s gates with her hoards and her dragons, before Tyrion had sent for the King in the North to pay homage to the Dragon Queen, it was Jon who had spent many an evening in her chambers. More often than not, it was spent in heated discussion and debate over the many crises they faced. Sansa’s favorite memories, though, were of her sitting by the fire with her needlework while he scoured maps at her table, a cup of ale at hand. He’d told her of his time in the Night’s Watch and above the Wall, and she’d shared, piece by piece, bits of her time away from home as well. They had laughed over shared memories of childhood too, both glossing over their frosty relationship as children. Most nights, Ghost joined them. The great wolf slept at Sansa’s heel as she stroked the soft, white fur between his ears. The room had felt so peaceful and warm then. It had been a refuge from memories and impending battles.

That was what Sansa missed most about Jon. It wasn’t his advice, or the way the northern lords loved him, or even the protection he offered. It was simply his companionship and the peace that he brought her; a peace she hadn’t known since before King Robert pulled her family away from Winterfell.

He didn’t deserve to be banished. Sansa didn’t understand why Jon had made all the choices he did at Dragonstone, but she knew him well. She had learned his character, not just on the battlefield and in the great hall, but here in her chambers as he spoke earnestly about a woman named Ygritte and a boy named Olly. Everything Jon did was in the service of someone else. He was a man with no care for his own name. Duty and honor were his guides, as they had been her father’s. Jon had been treated like a scheming criminal in King's Landing. It was wrong. Jon was a good man. A brave and strong man. A gentle man.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat.

“No,” she whispered, the cogs in her mind already turning. When you’re old enough, I’ll make you a match with someone worthy of you. Someone who’s brave, and gentle, and strong. “No,” she repeated, rising from her bed. She paced back and forth as if her legs meant to keep up with her mind.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought of it before. She had, though it shamed her to admit even to herself. Countless times after arguments over how best to retake Winterfell, and then how to rule the North and defeat the Night King, Sansa would return to her tent or her chambers breathless. In the heat of argument, her eyes had drifted to Jon’s lips on more than one occasion and his closeness sometimes made her skin prickle and her insides flutter. When she had sat at the King of the North’s side at court and at feast, a fire had burned in her belly at the way others looked at them, seated together as her mother and father once were. Even in their quiet shared moments here in this room, she’d sometimes imagine it was not Ghost’s white fur she combed her fingers through, but Jon’s midnight curls. Through it all, a dark cloud of shame had hung over her. He was her brother, she'd believed, and it was deeply wrong. Sansa had worried Ramsey’s bedside manner had sprouted a perversion in her, and late at night she lay in bed ashamed at her thoughts and at her traitorous body.

For a long time she had refused to name the feelings bloomed for her bastard brother, but when Littlefinger’s predictions rang true and Jon returned to Winterfell with Daenerys at his side, it became impossible to ignore. There was much Sansa did not like about the Dragon Queen. She did not like how the woman viewed herself as a god. She did not like the crazed look in her eye or the casual way she discussed the carnage reaped by her “children.” Most of all, she despised Daenerys's talk of liberation and birthright, as if she knew what the North had sacrificed. Jon’s pet name for the Dragon Queen, the way the white-haired woman looked at him, the whispers about what had transpired between them on Daenerys’s ship, how Jon defended the woman’s every action – it only made Sansa’s blood boil more. It also made her more greedy for his affection.

The news of Jon’s true birth offered some relief to the shame, but not much. She had wanted him before she knew it was not sin.

Sansa drew to a halt where she had been pacing. It was not a sin, though. Not in the eyes of men or in the eyes of the gods. Sansa sank down to her bed once more. It was no sin – in fact, it was custom. It was quite common, expected even, for noble women to wed cousins. It cemented family ties and further united allied houses. Had things been different and Jon raised knowing his parentage – had he been raised by Lyanna or Rhaegar – had Prince Rhaeger not died, but been named king – it would have been expected that Jon marry Sansa. Her eyes widened at the thought. When you’re old enough, I’ll make you a match with someone worthy of you. Someone who’s brave, and gentle, and strong.

Jon had not claimed his Targaryen name, nor the inheritance it came with. Jon was well loved by the North, now more than ever, a former King himself, and was raised by Eddard Stark. He had offered her a crown before, even if it meant losing his own. Banished in the south, his heirs could not inherit Dragonstone, as he had no claim to it while the judgment stood. As Queen of the North, she had the authority to lift his banishment to the Night’s Watch in her realm.

Of all men in the world, she trusted Jon Snow the most.

Immediately, Sansa began to think through the consequences. Yes, they were cousins, but many had known them as siblings. She would provoke the Six Kingdoms, and the Unsullied across the sea by lifting his banishment and even more so by wedding him. Some lords may be insulted that she chose a banished Targaryen as her husband over their sons.

There was also the question of whether or not Jon would even accept the offer – which, frankly, was unlikely. To him, she was a sister. He had loved his Dragon Queen. He swore an oath to the Night’s Watch. He was prone to guilt and self-loathing.

And yet, it made sense. Sansa hugged her arms around herself, suddenly cold. It made so much sense.

Chapter Text

Ser Davos was quiet a long moment, forehead creased with thought. The old knight’s jaw was tight with worry.
 
Sansa let him ruminate patiently. She had summoned him to her council chambers, without the rest of the council of course. Someone had sent a raven to Tyrion regarding southern suitors, and Sansa was not inclined to let word of her intentions surrounding the Queenslayer find their way to the Red Keep before she even had made up her own mind.
 
“It is a risk,” the onion knight finally breathed out, his stormy eyes meeting hers. “I won’t lie to you, your Grace, it is a great risk.”
 
“Bran will not move against me, I am sure of it. If the Unsullied come, the North will rise to meet them.”
 
“And if other lords in the south decide to break with their king? If they decide to rebel and march despite his biddings? You'll put yourself and your bother in danger.” 
 
“It has been close to two years since the sacking of King’s Landing and Daenerys' death, anger has subsided.”
 
Davos laughed sardonically. “Your Grace, you of all people should know that deep anger and insult does not subside so fast.”
 
Her stomach rolled in frustration. “Daenerys Targaryen was in Westeros for all of a couple months. She demanded we all bend the knee, but she had no deep rooted loyalty here. What debt do we owe her? Yes, she aided in the destruction of the Night King and his army, I do not deny that, but so did the North and so did the free folk. It was my own sister that finished it. And King’s Landing – she killed Cersei and crushed her forces, but only at the cost of the entire city.”
 
“There is anger,” was Davos’ only reply.
 
Sansa pursed her lips. He was right, she knew he was right. But she was willing to gamble there was not enough anger to provoke war. “There may be tension for a few years,” she said. “But after they realize he does not seek Dragonstone or the Six Kingdoms, they will let it be.” Davos opened his mouth, ready to refute, but Sansa held a pale hand up to stop him. “I am only proposing I lift his banishment in the North, not in the Six Kingdoms. The Wall, and the Night’s Watch, and Jon, are all of the North. It is my right.”
 
Ser Davos sighed and shook his head, though the smile on his face almost looked proud. “It seems you have already made a decision, your Grace.”
 
Sansa returned his smile. Guilt bubbled in her at the rather large aspect of her plan that she had omitted. After a full month of thinking, Sansa was certain her best course of action was to both pardon and marry Jon, if he would have her. During her deliberations with herself, not a single lord or knight who offered her his hand tempted Sansa. The trouble was that she now compared every single lord or knight to Jon Snow – which was plainly unfair. Jon was Jon, and nobody in the North or the Six Kingdoms, or Essos for that matter, could be considered his equal. At least not in the eyes of the Winter Queen. Yes, Sansa was quite resolved that practically, politically, and personally, Jon was the best option for marriage. He was the only option.
 
But Ser Davos did not need to know that, not yet. It wasn’t that Sansa didn’t trust him. Rather, she felt it would only be right to speak with Jon first. If he ever stays put at Castle Black long enough, she thought. She had instructed Maester Horryl to request the maesters at Castle Black send a raven as soon as they received word the Lord Commander would be home. Now, it was simply a matter of waiting.
 
“To tell you the truth,” Davos said, cutting through Sansa’s thoughts. “I’m quite glad you plan to pardon Jon. I’ve missed him.”
 
Sansa smiled at Davos. “Many of us miss him, he has been away from home too long.”
 
“You think he will come back to Winterfell, then?”
 
She tugged at her dress sleeve anxiously. “I hope he will.” She prayed on it, in fact, every day in the godswood, after she prayed for Father, Mother, Robb, and Rickon, before she prayed for Arya and Bran. I hope.
 
________________________________
 
The raven came three days later. Sansa had been in the kitchens discussing budgets and supplies with the cooks, at least that was the official reason she gave for the visit. In truth, one of the cooks who had known her as a child invited the queen to meet his new granddaughter, who had been born just a week before. The sweet babe was warm against Sansa’s chest, her innocent face shining with joy and wet gurgles. Sansa sat on the bench she once had as a little girl stealing lemon cakes while they were still hot, and rocked the child in her arms, whispering sweet nothings.
 
“She’s beautiful, and so very sweet,” she told the cook, Gren. She smiled back down at the little girl. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
 
The fat, old man chuckled. “Won’t be long until you have one of your own, your Grace. I look forward to that day, I do. I remember when you were as little as she - how they rang the bells all day when you were born. The first babe born in Winterfell to the new lord and his lady. Imagine what they'll do for the new prince or princess.” The thought of her own babe filled Sansa with longing. She’d like to bring something that beautiful and sweet into the world. Someone untouched by war and hate. Someone she could surround with love. 
 
A steward interrupted them before Sansa could respond to Gren. “Your Grace, Maester Horryl sent me to fetch you. It’s a raven, from Castle Black.”
 
Sansa’s heart stuttered. It was not the usual time for Winterfell’s monthly missive from the black brothers. A raven now could only mean one thing. Jon.
 
Gently, Sansa handed Gren his granddaughter, kissing the girl on her forehead before letting her go. She then hurried after the steward, pulling up her skirts to move faster through the snowy courtyard. Maester Horryl was waiting for her when she arrived.
 
“I sent for you straight away, your Grace, as you asked. Maester Pinard tells me the Lord Commander has sent word to Castle Black that he intends to stop by briefly to restock in a fortnight. He requested they send for more salted meat and leathers to prepare for his and the Rangers’ arrival, and then their departure back north.”
 
Sansa’s eyes scanned the scroll and hungrily drank in the words. She felt like a girl again, giddy with excitement. “Thank you, Maester,” she beamed. “Thank you. Write back immediately and tell the brothers that they shall have the supplies they need and more, straight from Winterfell.”
 
“Very good, your Grace,” Maester Horryl chuckled. Her joy appeared to be infectious. Sansa turned and forced herself to keep a measured pace back to the keep. It would not be seemly for the queen to run like a maid. Her mind raced with new tasks. She had to inform her council and tell Brienne to prepare. They would depart for Castle Black in a week, and this time Sansa was determined to not leave until she had seen the Lord Commander.
 
_______________________________________
 
The first time the Queen in the North visited Castle Black, she had brought an impressive retinue with her. Twenty knights and ten wagon loads worth of supplies for the Watch, which at the time had been in desperate need of aid, accompanied her then. She wore the finest dresses she had, and even donned her crown. The splendor had been less for her benefit than it was to show respect to the Night's Watch. She had wanted them to know she valued them as an important and dignified order. 

This time, however, Sansa opted for a more humble entourage. Instead of donning queenly finery, she wore and packed simple wool dresses in the Northern style. Brienne would be her only knight. One wagon of supplies was packed as well - including all and more than the Lord Commander had requested his maesters purchase. Two stewards drove the wagon, both trained to fight in case it came to that. Sansa was not worried about attacks, though. The North was at peace and she led her people with love. Ser Brienne was all the protection she needed. The queen wanted to travel fast and easily, as well as refrain from putting any burden on the Night's Watch. It was to be a quick trip, with only one night's stay at Castle Black. A quarterly meeting of lords, a tradition begun after her coronation, was to be held shortly at Winterfell, and she could not miss it. 

The small party set off from Winterfell in a powdering of light snow which grew heavier as they traveled North. The long night was said to have ended the with Night King's death, but the North seemed to have forgotten. Winter was still upon them, though much lighter than those of the past, according to many a maester. Spring would be soon, the Citadel had proclaimed. Still, spring in her kingdom was what many southerners considered winter. 

The journey was fairly quick, and the traveling mostly easy, though the nights proved hard for Sansa. Despite her best efforts, she had trouble keeping memories of another journey to the Wall from her mind. Her escape with Theon haunted her still. The chill she felt to her bones had been nothing compared to the utter terror in her heart, and while at Winterfell she woke drenched in sweat and calling out in fear to memories of Ramsey or Joffrey, on the road to Castle Black she woke shivering with the sounds of starving hounds ringing in her ears. The stewards said nothing, for which she was grateful. They pretended to sleep as Ser Brienne held Sansa tightly in the chill of the night, reminding her of where she was and who she was with. The knight did the same fairly regularly in Winterfell when the night terrors came. Many moons ago, Sansa's maids had learned to call upon Brienne when the queen woke with shrieks and clouded eyes. During the day, the stewards smiled kindly at the queen and Sansa was almost able to ignore the pity in their eyes. 

Before long, the looming structure of the Wall came into view, and not long after they reached Castle Black. It wasn't until the ancient castle was in view that Sansa began to grow nervous. It had been over a year since she'd seen Jon - and their parting had been rather sorrowful. She was suddenly too aware of the simple woolen clothes she had chosen, and self consciously tried to tuck loose hair back into her braid. Brienne smiled knowingly at her. "You look lovely, your Grace."

Face flushed with embarrassment at having been caught, Sansa nodded. "Thank you, Brienne." Her stomach twisted in knots. How would he look? Would he be happy to see her, or angry she hadn't warned him of her impending visit? Did he even want to see her? He had never written to her, or asked to visit. Perhaps this had all been a mistake.  Sansa's sudden nerves frustrated her. Her worries were girlish and silly. She was a woman grown now - a queen.  

A black brother watched their approach from the ramparts, a hand up to his eyes as he tried to identify the party. The small group was clearly no threat, and the gates to Castle Black were open to the late morning light, but the man still called out, "Hold. Who approaches?" 

Before Ser Brienne could respond, a great white wolf bounded out of the open gate. Sansa's heart soared as Ghost ran to meet them. If he was there, so was the Lord Commander. The horses whinnied in fear at the direwolf's approach, but Sansa dismounted swiftly and gracefully to meet Ghost. The beast was a fearsome thing in battle, his half ear and scarred face a testament to his ferocity, but today in the golden sunshine he seemed to be no more than a large dog, dancing and yipping about her in unabashed joy. 

"Hello, boy," she laughed, scratching him behind his ear as she knew he liked. "I missed you too." She pressed a kiss to his head. Sansa suddenly felt her throat tighten and the warmth of tears behind her eyes. She was overwhelmed by emotion at the reunion with such a dear old friend, but quickly steeled herself back into queenly regality. Ser Brienne dismounted too, and led both her and Sansa's horses by the reign through the gate of Castle Black. Sansa followed close behind, Ghost still nipping playfully at her hand, and the wagon rolled along in the rear. 

Brothers of the Night's Watch looked on curiously as the party entered. The simplicity of her entourage and dress gave her a moment of anonymity - but as soon as a handful of brothers realized her identity, word quickly spread through the yard. Soon, the men and boys were on their knee, murmuring words of greeting and fealty. 

She felt Jon before she saw him - her skin prickled at the feeling of someone watching her, but there was a familiarity in it she didn't understand. Something tightened deep within her and it felt as if butterflies danced in her belly. There was something heavy and primal about the way his eyes felt at her back; about the way she just knew it was him without looking. 

For a moment, she tensed in fear, nervous after such a long time spent waiting for this. But then Ghost gave her a warm, wet lick on her hand and Sansa turned around, just as she had years ago, to meet the dark grey eyes she had missed for so long. 

He was standing where he had that first time she came to Castle Black, back when her name was lawfully Bolton and he was freshly returned from the dead. The look on Jon's face was again one of shock, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. His shoulders were tense and his hands gripped the rail before him tightly, as if it was all that was keeping him standing. Longclaw was in its familiar place on his hip and he was dressed in his shaggy, black cloak. The garment made his shoulders look three times as big as she knew they were. His inky hair was longer than it had been when last she saw him. It curled around his face and melted in the the fur around his shoulders, matching the cloak's lining in its wildness. His beard was longer than she had ever seen it, though still fairly trimmed and tidy. When Jon finally moved towards the stairs, Sansa noticed a slight limp in his tread. 

Her feet moved of their own accord, swiftly stepping to meet him in the middle of the yard. When they were but a few feet apart, both Jon and Sansa stopped, their eyes locked as black coals met sapphire waters. Sansa's heart pounded in her chest. She took in the weathered red of his cheeks, the crease between his brows, the new and old scars on his face, the way the breeze brushed a loose curl across his forehead. His eyes seemed to search her face as well and she wondered, somewhat absent-mindedly, whether he too was noting all the changes close to two years had wrought. The yard was silent as Lord Commander Snow swallowed hard and slowly bent down, kneeling before Sansa with a bowed head. "Your Grace," he said, voice hoarse and gruff and so delightfully familiar. The sound warmed her more than her fur cloak ever could. 

Sansa stepped toward him and held out her hand. "Rise, Lord Commander Snow," she told him softly. Jon looked up at her then, something akin to wonder in his eyes, and he gripped her hand as he rose. The warmth of his touch made her shiver. They stood frozen a second more before the clatter of metal on stone somewhere in the distance startled both into the present. Jon swiftly dropped Sansa's hand, a slight blush creeping across his cheeks. 

"I didn't know to expect you," he told her, brow still furrowed. 

"Your maester sent to Winterfell for supplies, and I thought I would deliver them to the brave brothers of the Night's Watch myself." She broke her gaze with him then, and looked around at the gathered men, though when she spoke again it was still to Jon. "I am grateful for your mens' work and service. We are a small party," she continued, turning back to his heavy eyes. "And we will only stay one night. Forgive me for not giving you more notice, Lord Commander." Then, with a small smile playing on her lips, Sansa added, "You've been hard to reach of late." 

Jon returned her smile sheepishly. It was strange to see such a wild, imposing man look at her like a little boy caught making trouble. "Jon," he said softly. "Please, call me Jon." There was a haunted look somewhere in his eyes that tempered the joy building in her. Sansa's throat was suddenly tight with emotion again.

 "Jon," she said, gently and quietly so only he could hear. 

He looked at her a moment longer, surprise slowly giving way to something almost sorrowful. "Luca," Jon called, turning back to the man that had stood behind him on the stairs. "Please see to it my chambers are prepared for Queen Sansa, I'll stay in the barracks tonight. Prepare rooms for her company as well, and see that her horses are tended by Jonah. Torren," he turned to a man off to the right, "gather men to unload these supplies. Some will stay here others need to be packed for the Rangers. And inform the cooks to try a bit harder at dinner tonight, they'll be serving the Queen." There was a wry smile on his face when he turned back to her. "I'm afraid the food at Castle Black hasn't improved much since your last visit, your Grace." 

Sansa grinned. "No, but I did not come here for the food." 

A blush crept over Jon's face once more. He turned to greet Brienne then, and shook her hand in the way fellow men at arms did - a gesture of respect towards the unusual knight. "I'm sorry to tell you Tormund isn't here." 

Her Queen's Guard smiled. "I believe he shall be more disappointed than I, my Lord." 

"Aye," Jon chuckled heartily. The sound made Sansa's heart swell again. "He'll be green with envy when I tell him I had the pleasure of seeing you. I don't think he'll let me come back here without him ever again." 

Jon's eyes met Sansa's, and she caught the sadness he tried to mask with mirth once again. Now that the joy of seeing him had settled, Sansa took note of the weariness in his features and the slight tinges of grey at his temples. He looked too old for his young age. He looked like a haunted man. Jon must have caught her quizzical gaze, because he hastily turned away, barking more orders at a few other men.

Sansa and Brienne let their horses be led away to stable, and watched as stewards collected the supplies from their wagon. Jon begged their pardon, he had some tasks to finish and was certain the black brothers he chose to escort Brienne and the queen would keep them entertained until he was free to visit with them himself. 

Sansa smiled as he bowed and turned back to the stairs. As soon as he was turned away from her, she felt her lips fall into a concerned frown. He hid it well, but Sansa could see that Jon was not whole. Fear and, she realized with shame, jealousy, curled in her as she let herself be led into the walls of the keep. Did he still love her? His Dragon Queen? . In all her deliberations, Sansa hadn't considered that Jon's heart may still belong to Daenerys Targaryen.  Had he sworn himself to celibacy, or to never marry, because of her? Was that why he spent so many months in the isolated north?  She used to love stories like that: the ones where a gallant knight or lord lost his lady love and pledged never to love again; never to marry or even look fondly upon another woman. Now those stories just seemed silly to her. All the same, the thought made her heart ache for Jon. 

The brothers who escorted Brienne and Sansa to a table and brought them drink and food did prove to be great story tellers, but Sansa could hardly taste nor hear. Her thoughts remained with the Lord Commander and the sadness in his beautiful, dark eyes.

_______________________________________
 
Jon joined them an hour later, and Sansa couldn't help but smile at his obvious and hopeless attempt to somewhat control his hair and look more presentable; more like the king he had once been. The official duties came first. Jon gave Sansa and Brienne a tour of Castle Black, introducing them to his various officers and new recruits who stared at the queen and lady knight with gobsmacked looks on their faces. The looks the new men and boys gave Jon were no less awestruck. Even here, where he was a brother, Jon's reputation as the best swordsman in the realm, rider of dragons, fighter of White Walkers, son of Rhaegar and former bastard of Eddard Stark, King in the North and Queenslayer, the Lord Commander who rose from the dead, made him a living legend. Sansa could see Jon's discomfort with that status. He shied away from the wide eyes and excited smiles and hid behind sullen looks and gruff words in his thick northern brogue. 

As they rode down from the top of the Wall, Sansa couldn't help but feel as though Jon's formality and quiet was just as much a shield to him as his great cloak. He hid behind his reputation as a brooding man of little words and many talents. But Sansa had known Jon Snow - she had spent evenings by his side in tents on campaign, in her solar at Winterfell, and at the great table when the lords of the North had celebrated their new king. She knew his laughter, and his tenderness. She knew how he stumbled when he drank, how only then could he be persuaded to dance and if you were lucky, you could hear him giggle like a girl at one of Tormund's more outlandish stories about bears and giants. She knew how he looked as he spoke about his defeats, and when he spoke about his victories. She knew the spark of passion in his eyes when he rallied men to his cause. She knew the look of deep love of trust in those eyes too, and the ferocity in them when he swore to protect those for whom he cared. She knew how he looked bloody and muddy after a battle, and bathed and polished as king. 

Try as he might to hide behind the title of Lord Commander, Sansa could see the man that lay beneath. And what she saw made her ache to take Jon in her arms and soothe away the ghosts and ash that followed him. She became more hardened in her resolve to at least pardon him - to let him know he was loved and respected by his people. The more time she spent with Lord Commander Snow, the more she understood his near constant absence from Castle Black. 

______________________________

They returned to the yard as the afternoon sun began to lower in the sky. Ghost was nowhere to be seen, Jon told her he was likely out hunting. Sansa missed the great wolf. She still thought of her dear Lady often, and Ghost was a welcome companion. They stood awkwardly in the yard for a minute, new recruits practicing sword play around them. Jon seemed tense and unsure of himself, more focused on the clashing of wood and steel around him than on the two women standing beside him. Sansa reached out and took hold of his arm. "Jon?" 

He turned back to her then and cleared his throat. "I've had my steward prepare the Lord Commander's chambers for you, I'll escort you there, if you'd like."

Sansa thought it was strange how he detached himself from the title, but she smiled anyways and nodded. He led the way back up the stairs, taking her arm on the icy steps to be sure she didn't slip in her long skirts. Brienne followed behind them, but stopped when the reached the door to Jon's solar. "Brienne?" Sansa asked. 

"I'll be out here, your Grace," the knight answered with a small, knowing smile. 

Sansa ducked her head to hide her blush, and continued in after Jon. She pulled the door shut behind them as Jon poured her and himself a cup of ale. "Much like the food, I'm afraid the ale of Castle Black has not improved much either," he told her with a small smile. 

Sansa laughed. "Well, food and ale are hardly what the Night's Watch are known for, so I suppose I cannot complain."

A fire was already burning in the hearth and a few chairs had been placed around it. Sansa sat in one, her mug of ale clasped tightly in her hands. Jon joined her a moment later and they sat in comfortable silence for a while, warming up and sipping at the overly bitter ale. Sansa sifted through topics of conversation in her mind. She needed something safe, something to ease Jon into the more difficult conversation ahead. There were so many questions she was burning to ask him, but she didn't know where to begin. 

Surprisingly, it was Jon who broke the silence first. "I heard about your coronation," he said, voice warmed by the ale. "About your visit here too. I'm sorry I missed both." 

Sansa shrugged. "You had duties to attend to." 

Jon looked guilty into his cup. They both knew that wasn't necessarily the truth, yet Sansa didn't mind giving him the out. He had been north for a reason and it wasn't her place to question it. 

"Still," he murmured into his cup, "I'd like to have seen them crown you. And to have seen Arya off on her travels. Have you heard from her?" 

Ah, thought Sansa. This is a safe subject if ever there was one.  

"She's only written me once," she told Jon. "From the boat. But I've heard some reports from friendly captains that she's having quite the adventure." 

Jon smiled, face fond and full of pride. "Aye, I'm sure she is. And Bran?" 

"He's doing well. All reports indicate he's a good king, though I suspect Tyrion has a role to play in that." Sansa watched Jon's face cloud over at the mention of Daenerys's former Hand. "Ser Davos sends his blessings," she quickly added. "He is now my Hand." 

At that Jon laughed. "His blessings. I can't imagine what his blessing could be." 

Sansa bit her lip, holding back a grin at the thought of the old smuggler.

"And the North is well?"

"Yes, independent and healing." 

"Good," Jon nodded. "I'm happy for you, Sansa. Proud of you too. I’d always knew you’d rule someday. Even when we were little." 

She swallowed thickly. "I couldn't have done it without you, you know. None of us could have." Jon met her eye briefly, but quickly looked away. "You'd have found a way. You always were smarter than any of us." 

"I'm not so sure." 

"I am."

She just shook her head. “And you, Jon? Are you well?”

He released a heavy sigh. “Aye.”

Sansa frowned at his weary demeanor, but said nothing about it. “The free folk have kept you busy.” It was a statement more than a question.

Jon nodded. “There’s plenty of work to be done.”

She looked at him for a long moment, frustrated but not surprised at the lack of detail he provided. They fell into silence once more, a longer one that before. Neither knew quite what to say to each other. Somehow, the time and distance apart made it harder rather than easier to talk. Finally, Sansa could bear it no longer. Two questions were eating her up inside, burning at her like the flames in Jon’s hearth. She let her gaze fall heavy upon the Lord Commander. "Do you miss Winterfell, Jon?" 
 
He remained silent at first, as if considering his words very carefully. She watched him closely, trying to see past the cool expression on his face. He must, she told herself. He must miss it. He must be frustrated with the lot he's drawn.
 
"Aye," Jon answered with a sad sigh. He looked up to meet her gaze. Emotional was raw in his eyes, though she couldn’t quite place just which emotion. "I miss it." His words hung in the air, as heavy as his eyes on her. When the weight of his gaze became too much, Sansa looked away. Nodding, she began to examine her skirts and asked the question she cared more about. After all she’d known the answer to the first before she asked it. "And the queen, do you miss her?" 
 
Jon chuckled again, letting some of the tension evaporate. "Aye, your Grace, I've missed you as well." 
 
Sansa smiled, glad the first queen in his mind was her. "No, Jon,” she said softly. “Your Dragon Queen."
 
His laughter died in his throat and Sansa felt a twinge of remorse for bringing up such a sore subject. The last thing she wanted was to bring him more pain, but she had to know. She hadn't had the chance to truly speak with him when he was sent away from King's Landing, after all.
 
Jon flexed his hand and stood suddenly, his back to her, bursting with nervous energy. Sansa worried she had overstepped an invisible boundary. “Jon, I didn’t mean to pry. I know you loved her, so-”
 
“Do you really not know?” His voice broke through her own as he turned back to her, brow drawn in either anger or confusion – Sansa wasn’t sure. She sat in stunned silence, trying to parse his meaning. Jon scoffed and shook his head. There was a wry, bitter smile on his lips. “You told me to listen to you, Sansa. I did.”
 
Suddenly it all clicked into place. What a fool I’ve been, she thought. What a damned fool. “It was an act,” she murmured.
 
Jon sighed, eyes on the floor and dark with shame. “We needed her dragon glass – that’s how it started. I knew what was coming.” His voice was earnest and his northern brogue more pronounced with emotion. It almost sounded like he was begging; begging Sansa to understand. “It wouldn’t matter who bent the knee to who when the dark winds arrived. The dead don’t care who you’re sworn to. We needed dragon glass, and as many men as we could get, and dragons…” Jon’s voiced trailed off. He shook his head and glared hard at the fire. “She would not yield and I could tell she never would. We went north to get a wight for Cersei. I also hoped it would persuade Daenerys to our cause. It went… badly.” His voice was pained now.
 
A shudder went through Sansa at the thought of Jon sinking in that frozen lake. “I remember,” she murmured. She’d heard the story at least a dozen times during Daenerys’s stay at Winterfell. “All hope was lost and then she arrived on her dragons.”
 
Jon nodded. “If you had been there, Sansa, if you had seen it…” he shook his head more in frustration than disbelief. “We needed those dragons. Lord Commander Mormont once asked me if it mattered who sat on the Iron Throne when wights and White Walkers threatened the realm. I know what the North means to you and what it meant to you then. It means the same to me. But the North meant nothing if we could not defeat the Night King.”
 
They had been through this reasoning before, in many of their prior arguments before the Night King came, before King’s Landing and Jon’s banishment. Sansa held her tongue though – her mind was racing and she needed to hear Jon’s words.
 
“I did bend the knee, I had to.” Jon paused. When he spoke next shame was thick in his voice. “I also made her think I loved her.” He clenched his hand into a fist. “I could tell early on she wanted me, and truth be told a part of me wanted her. She also terrified me, though. I knew what she could do to Winterfell in an instant. I knew you would fight me, and would fight her, on Northern independence, so I planned ahead. I was smarter than father - than Eddard - and smarter than Robb, at least I tried to be.”
 
“You made her love you in case the alliance fell through,” Sansa whispered. “You made her believe you loved her, to convince her of your loyalty.” I am loyal to King Joffrey, my one true love.
 
Jon nodded, dark eyes full of remorse and guilt. “In the beginning, I saw the good in her. Truly. I wanted to believe what she said about building a better world. I hoped that I wouldn’t need to pretend for long – that I would grow to love her the way so many others clearly did. She was beautiful and powerful and hopeful. But then, back at Winterfell, when I learned more about her true nature and when it became clear that you and she would not see eye to eye,” he paused and released a great sigh. “Sansa, you are the smartest person I know but you quite literally played with fire. It became even more important I placate her – I knew what would happen if we defeated the Night King. I knew she wouldn’t allow Northern independence and you wouldn’t bend the knee. I knew what would happen when you refused.”
 
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sansa asked. Jon just shook his head and turned away from her again.
 
“Tell you – you of all people – I was manipulating a woman’s emotions in order to control her? In order to use her? I made myself sick, Sansa. I was too ashamed to tell you. I was a coward.”
 
Sansa’s throat burned as emotion welled behind her eyes. Of course. She’d told him about Ramsey, and Littlefinger, and Joffrey. Jon wasn’t one to play games or to lie. He was honest. He kept his word when he gave it. She swallowed hard as she imagined the crushing guilt he must have placed on himself. He was raised by Eddard Stark, who taught his sons honor came before all else. Sansa, who had lived among Lannisters and worse, knew the value of a well-placed lie. Jon still clung to Eddard’s teachings. Daenerys had been dangerous, but even Sansa had seen the queen’s softer moments. She’d seen the way Jon looked at Daenerys, and was sure those looks were not always false. Especially in the beginning. Yet, he’d known all along he was lying to the woman he called his queen. Sansa knew Jon, and she knew it must have been torture for him.
 
“It was harder when Sam told me who I am,” Jon continued. He now came back to the chair beside Sansa and sat with his shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world were on them. “It made everything more dangerous, and aye, I don’t feel like much of a Targaryen, but it meant Daenerys was family. I was her only family. And I was lying to her. I didn’t take her at her word, as family should.”
 
When he looked at Sansa there were tears in his eyes. “I kept hoping I was wrong about her. I waited too long but I didn’t know what else to do. If I revealed who I was to everyone, revealed that I was the rightful heir, I was afraid she’d kill me or that the Northern lords would turn against her and there would be nothing to stop her from destroying Winterfell and you, Arya, and Bran. She had dragons, Sansa. No matter how many men may have declared for me it did not change the fact she had dragons. And I still hoped – until the end I hoped I was wrong.” Jon was crying now, bitter tears spilling down his scarred cheeks. Sansa wanted to reach out and comfort him but she was frozen in place. How could I not have seen? Did I really have that little faith in him?
 
“You saw King’s Landin’ – you know what she did. It wasn’t any better after. They killed Lannister men in the street. I watched her, Sansa. I watched for any sign of remorse and there was none. Only victory,” he scoffed then. The hand that came up to nervously run through his wild curls was slightly shaking. “I knew what I had to do, but it felt so wrong. She was my aunt and lie or not I swore fealty to her. I tried to think what father – what Eddard – would have done, but your words kept coming back to me. I had to be smarter. Tyrion pushed me too; he also knew it had to be done and that it had to be done by me. I could get close enough.” His voice broke over his next words. “She trusted me.”
 
Jon bent towards Sansa suddenly, grasping at her arm. He looked intently at her and Sansa could not look away even if she wished to. “If I didn’t kill her, if I hadn’t of lied to her…” his voice trailed off, but Sansa could fill in the rest. She would have met a fate similar to the Tarlys. Winterfell would have burned, along with the other great castles and towns of Westeros that did not meet Daenerys’ demands. Sansa looked at Jon. She took in his disheveled state, the desperation and shame in his eyes. He still thinks he is wicked and dishonorable, she realized. He thinks I will judge him.
 
Slowly, she covered Jon’s hand on her arm with her own hand. “You did the right thing, Jon,” she told him, her voice barely above a whisper. “I wish to the gods you’d told me sooner so I could have helped. You did the right thing.”
 
“I am a Queenslayer,” he spat out. “How can that be right?”
 
Sansa pulled his head towards her own and rested her forehead against his. His skin was hot to the touch, as were his ragged breathes on her lips. “You are Jon Snow, 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, former King in the North, Prince Aegon Targaryen, and Savior of the Realm. That is who you are. You have many titles Jon, but queenslayer is not one of them. Just because someone declares herself queen does not make it so – it was never her throne to take in the first place. She forfeited all right when she slaughtered close to a million innocents.”
 
Jon’s grip on her arm tightened. “I’m sorry for lying to you – forgive me for not telling you.”
 
Pulling her head back from his, Sansa grasped Jon’s hand in her own. “There is nothing to forgive.”
 
Jon was silent for a long moment before he turned away from her. A deep quiet fell over them as both watched the fire, hands entwined still. 
 
"At times I miss her," he answered Sansa’s original question, honestly, voice quiet and careful. "Someone once told me a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. It’s strange to me, to think I’m the last one – that I even am one. I miss her for that. And she wasn’t all bad, truly. She had a good heart but she… she was," he searched for the words. Mad, Sansa thought. She was mad. Jon sighed, seemingly unable to speak the words himself. Instead, he brought the conversation back to his own deeds. "I do not regret the choices I've made." He dropped her hand.
  
"Good, you should not regret your choices," Sansa said without hesitation. "It was profoundly ridiculous of them to send you back here," she added haughtily, standing to gaze out the window. Her frustration was making it difficult to sit still.
 
"Would you have had them kill me, then?" Jon asked, almost sounding indignant. She nearly rolled her eyes. He knew as well as her the lords and ladies of Westeros had more option to give him than the Black or execution.
 
"You did what others could not and saved the realm. You are a hero." Jon looked away from her, clearly uncomfortable with being named hero for killing a queen he had sworn to. "Why any of us bowed to the wishes of the Unsullied is beyond me,” Sansa continued. “They were just as guilty of massacring King's Landing as their queen. I was in no position to negotiate when we met in King's Landing, but I have not forgotten. It was an insult. You are the true heir to the realm. They had no power to decide your fate. Even Bran did not." 
 
Jon opened his mouth as if to speak, anger and anguish both painted across his face, but he closed it, shaking his head. Sansa watched his hand flex, remembering in the back of her mind that it was his burned one.  Funny, I thought fire could not harm a dragon. 
 
"I have no interest in crowns. I never did." His voice was icy and resigned.
 
"They should have at least offered it to you. You had the right to deny it and choose your fate.”
 
"I accept my fate," Jon replied instantly. "Tyrion was right. If I were to sire heirs they could claim the throne. There is logic in their decision. The realm has had enough battles for the Iron Throne."
 
"There is no Iron Throne anymore. And Lord Lannister is one to speak of punishment. His own brother killed Daenerys’ father and what was his punishment? You said it yourself, Tyrion believed what you were doing – what you did – was right. Why banish you to the Wall then? If you were a Lannister-" 
 
"Aye, but we are not the Lannisters, Sansa."
 
"We are not.” Sansa caught Jon’s eye. She steeled herself for what she said next. “We are also not subject to southern will. I love Bran dearly, but he is not my king, and you are not his subject. Should you want a pardon, I can grant that, Jon. At least in the North."
 
He smiled at her sadly. “Thank you, Sansa, truly. But as I said, I accept my fate. It is what is best for the Six Kingdoms and the North, and it is what I deserve for my actions.”
 
Brave, honorable, stupid man.
 
“What you deserve for you actions?” Sansa scoffed, suddenly angry. “Do you realize how your people view you? You are a hero to them, Jon – lords and lay people alike. They’ve already written a dozen songs about you.”
 
“Sansa-”
 
But she pushed on, moving to stand right before him. She could feel heat rising on her cheeks though whether that was due to her sudden temper or her closer proximity to the fire, she was not sure. “For once Jon, do something for yourself!”
 
“Aye, do something for myself,” he spat back at her, standing to meet her – the tenor of his anger surprising yet satisfying to Sansa. She wanted him angry. She wasn’t sure why but she needed this fight. “I do something for myself and then what? Where will I go, Sansa? What will I do? I am a man with no family, no home, and no name. What difference will your pardon make?”
 
“No family?” Sansa seethed, stalking closer to him and invading his space. “You have family in Winterfell. Are you only a Targaryen now? Is Dragonstone your only home? My father may not be yours, but that doesn’t mean your place is no longer at Winterfell!”
 
Thick tension bloomed between them. Sansa was suddenly aware of just how close she had stepped into Jon’s space. They were a few inches apart, so close she felt his warm breath on her face and the heat radiating off of him. That deep pull in her belly returned – the one she had felt so often when his title had been King in the North and she had sat beside him. Sansa let her eyes flicker to Jon’s lips, then back up to his eyes. He was watching her, pupils blown wide. She’d always loved his eyes, ever as a girl.
 
“I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children,” he whispered in a dangerous sort of way that felt more like a shout. “I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post.”
 
Sansa knew the oath. Her Uncle Benjen had taught her it once when she wouldn’t stop pestering him about why he had no lady wife.
 
Before she spoke, Sansa knew her words would were too biting. She knew it was a step too far and that it would do little to warm Jon’s feelings towards returning to Winterfell with her – let alone the much larger request she had not even broached yet. Still, she said it; in a whisper, just like Jon had. “I knew a King who once spoke those words, and more than a few children have been born of the Night's Watch.”
 
She watched the rage curl across his face. It was a low blow, to go after his honor like that. It was something she would have done as a girl when Jon was nothing but her bastard brother – a shame on her father and family – an insult to her beloved lady mother. Silence filled the room again, as thick as the building tension. Sansa's accusation hovered thick as smoke in the air. It reminded her of the way the air felt on summer days in King’s Landing, just before a thunderstorm.
 
The stalemate was broken suddenly by a rap at the door. "M'Lord Commander, you are needed in the yard." 
 
Neither moved for a moment. They were still bare inches apart. Eyes still locked on each other.
 
“M’Lord?”
 
Jon turned away from her, quickly putting a few large strides between them. “Yes, Toric, I’m coming,” he called to the man beyond the door. At the last moment before he reached the door, Jon turned back to Sansa. His eyes were hard. Slowly, he bowed his head. “Your Grace,” he muttered, before pulling the door open and slamming it shut again.  
_________________________________________
 
They did not sup together. Jon elected to sit with his men in the hall of Castle Black while Sansa dined in his solar with Ser Brienne. Dinner was a quiet affair. Brienne had been stationed outside of Jon’s chambers earlier and no doubt heard parts of the argument. Without question she saw the furious way the Lord Commander had left. Sansa was grateful her loyal companion didn’t ask about it. As she ate, Sansa ran back over the conversation and subsequent argument. She was now more disappointed in herself than shocked with Jon’s display of political savvy. Had she truly underestimated him so much? Underestimated his sense of duty, family, and self? Believed he would let a beautiful woman make him forget all else? He had played his part masterfully, and was now paying a heavy price for it. Because he insists on brooding in his own guilt and shame, refusing to see that his battle of wits was just as dangerous and admirable as any strategy on the field of war , she thought bitterly. Finally, as the last of the stew disappeared from their bowls, Sansa looked her Queen's Guard in the eye and broke the silence. "Do you believe Jon is guilty?" 
 
Brienne looked startled, whether by the question or the end of silence, Sansa did not know. "He has confessed, your Grace. He killed Queen Daenerys."  Yes, the fool turned himself in to the Unsullied rather than finding his allies first. He truly is Eddard’s in all but blood and name – putting honor before his life.
 
"He did. I suppose I didn't phrase my question well. Do you believe him deserving of his punishment?" 
 
With a sigh, Brienne pushed away from the table and leaned back in her chair. "It is not for me to decide, your Grace. He took a life he swore to defend. However, by taking that life, I believe he saved thousands upon thousands more. He does not deserve death, to be sure." 
 
"But the Wall?"
 
"It is not my decision."
 
Sansa crossed her arms. "Nor was it mine but I still have an opinion on it." 
 
Brienne nodded, smiling fondly despite Sansa’s sharp words. "You are not angry with me, your Grace," she said gently. Sansa's eyes softened in shame. 
 
"No, I am not. Forgive me, Brienne." Sansa reached across the table - Jon's table - and grasped her guard's hand. "You are right, I am not angry with you. I am angry with him, for so easily accepting this fate." 
 
"If Jon were to defy the decision, it would lead to war. He knows that."
 
"Only if he were to claim the throne in the Six Kingdoms, which we both know he will not."
 
Brienne shook her head. "He seems happy enough here. Somber, yes, but the Lord Commander has always been a sullen man." 
 
Because he has never been given cause for joy or hope, she wanted to reply. Sansa knew what it was to be forced to live somewhere you didn't want to be. There was a time when she wanted nothing more than to live in the Red Keep in King's Landing, but the moment her stay turned from a visit to imprisonment her world dimmed and her hope died. The Red Keep turned from a dream to a nightmare. Whether or not Bran, Brienne, Tyrion, or Jon wanted to admit it, Jon was imprisoned at the Wall. She would not make a decision for Jon, but she could give him options. He had said he had no home and no family. That could change. Sansa rose and poured herself more wine. "Brienne, will you send for the Lord Commander? There is more I’d like to discuss with him."
 
For a moment Sansa thought the Captain of her Queen's Guard was going to speak, but the moment passed and Brienne simply nodded. Sansa watched the large woman stand and disappear out the door. With a grimace, she finished the glass of wine in one sip. She'd need it for the coming conversation. 
 
__________________________
 
She was seated before the fire once more when he entered. Sansa heard the door open and close, caught the familiar hitch of his breath and fall of his boots on the old stone floor. She didn't turn to face him when she spoke out of fear she'd lose her nerve. It was nothing less than an impossible task she was poised to ask, especially after their quarrel. Yet, it was one that had to be asked, even if only to be rejected. "Forgive me," she said softly as he sat beside her. It was a peace offering; a bridge to a more difficult conversation. 
 
Jon sighed. The anger had left him, she noted. Once more, he simply looked tired. He always looks so tired.
 
"There is nothing to forgive," Jon admitted. "You spoke the truth. I did break my vow before." His voice was low and gruff, but not unkind. Sansa noted he made no comment on her mention of children.
 
Reaching over, Sansa took his hand. "Had these been peaceful times, I have no doubt you would have kept your oath." Jon looked at their entwined hands, his face unreadable. When he didn't answer she pushed on. “And I should not have thrown it in your face the way I did. When you took the crown, you were doing it to save Winterfell and to save the North.” And to save me.
 
Jon remained silent. His face was clouded and gloomy. Sansa steeled herself beside him. She knew her insults earlier had been a mistake and that her prospects of convincing him to abandon the Night’s Watch were lower now than they had been before. Even so, she came to the Wall with a purpose.
 
"I want to tell you my true reason for coming to Castle Black," Sansa told him. She took a deep breath before continuing. "I want to make the wolves come again. Arya won't do it, and I won't ask it of her. Bran cannot. It is my duty. And I want it." She smiled at Jon softly, pulling her hand back. Turning, Sansa looked into the fire once more. "For so long I thought I didn't want children. The world was too cruel and the thought of a man..." she shuddered and blinked away the memories. "But I want to bring the Starks back, Jon. Not for duty; not to ensure there is always a Stark in Winterfell. It is selfish, I suppose. I want my family back." 
 
Jon smiled at her gently. "You will be a wonderful mother, Sansa." 
 
Sansa swallowed hard. "In order to bring the wolves back, I am in need of a husband. He will never be King. No, my children must have my name. He will be Warden of the North and sire no heirs to any house but that of Stark."
 
Jon nodded in understanding, his dark curls moving in rhythm. She liked him like this, dressed in his shaggy dark cloak, hair loose and wild. Sansa would sooner believe him to be half wildling before she'd believe him to be half dragon. 
 
"Half of my council advises I marry a southern lord’s son - for alliances of course. It is wise, I admit. It may even be the most politically advantageous choice. Bran has sent names, and Tyrion has taken it upon himself to offer a renewal of our marriage, in his words. I can't decide if it is a joke or not."
 
Jon was looking away from her now, eyes fixed on the hearth before them. Tension was locked in his shoulders and Sansa had the sudden urge to smooth the wrinkle on his brow. Perhaps he had similar feelings towards the Last Lion, as they now called Tyrion in the south. She watched him curl and stretch his hand again, that old familiar tic of his.
 
"But I do not want a Southern man," she continued, after a moment. "I want to bring the wolves back, and the wolves must have Northern blood." 
 
Finally, Jon turned back to her, his eyes dark and hard to read. "I'm sure you'll have no end of Northern suitors. Even if they must concede house and crown." 
 
Sansa let out an amused huff. "I am tired of suitors. It seems everyone is a suitor, even knowing their children will not have their name."
 
Jon smiled at her. "Well, the Red Wolf is very beautiful and there is no keep that matches Winterfell."
 
She laughed then, fully and freely. "Don't you take to calling me that ridiculous name too." Jon smiled widely at her. It was a beautiful sight to behold. She'd told him that once, in Winterfell before he left for Dragonstone and brought back a new queen. His face had gone bright pink at the compliment, she remembered. The memory warmed her. It strengthened her too; allowed her to get to the point. 
 
"Long ago in King's Landing, father told me something I haven't forgotten." Sansa watched Jon closely now, her voice quiet even though it was only the two of them in the room. "I was a foolish girl. I thought I was in love with Joffrey and when father said we must leave King's Landing I was convinced it would break my heart. I had no inkling of the danger we were in - nor of who the Lannisters truly were." She scoffed bitterly, remembering those days so painfully well.
 
Jon began to refute her, an indignant look on his face. He did hate it when she spoke ill of her younger self, though she could not imagine why. Young Sansa Stark had nothing but contempt for her bastard brother. No, not brother. 
 
"Father tried to console me," Sansa continued, cutting Jon off before he could begin to speak. "He told me that one day he would marry me to a lord who was brave, gentle, and strong." She smiled ruefully. "I told him that I didn't want someone brave, gentle, and strong - I wanted Joffrey." Sansa let out a heavy sigh, as if the memory's weight pressed on her shoulders so much it affected her breath. "When I discovered Joffrey's true nature, I remembered father's words. When I was wed to Tyrion, I remembered father's words. When I discovered Littlefinger's villiany, I remembered father's words. When I was wed to Ramsey Bolton, I remembered father's words." 
 
It was hard, ensuring her voice did not shake. She could see the flash of anger in Jon's eyes at the mention of the many men who had wronged her; those monsters that still haunted her. She didn't want his pity though, or his anger. She needed him to simply listen. 
 
"Sansa," he began. She cut him off once more with both her voice and a gentle hand on his arm. 
 
"I told myself I would never marry again, Jon. But I want children - and truth be told, I want a husband, though it scares me. I want companionship, someone to share the burdens of leadership. I want what my parents had. More than all, I want what father wanted for me." She looked him in the eye. "I want a Northern man who is brave, gentle, and strong." 
 
"You shall have one, I am sure." 
 
She smiled softly, and lifted her hand to cup his jaw. His skin was like fire. He can be so oblivious at times. "Jon, I have thought long on this. It is no small decision to me." She stood, moving closer to the fire. It would be too much to lay it all on the table as she sat so close to him. No, it was better to give him space - to give herself space too. Sansa spoke her next words into the flames, her voice clear and loud and unmistakable in the cold silence of Jon's quarters. 
 
"I want a Northern man who is brave, gentle, and strong. I want a man who has led armies, has refused crowns, has stood for what is right, who puts duty before all else. I want a man of the North who will give my children the look and the character of the North. I want a man who will raise my sons as well as he was raised by Eddard Stark." 
 
She heard the stutter in his breath and turned. Jon's eyes were wide with realization, and with distaste. Sansa's heart sank, but she pushed on. It was the only sensible option. He had to see that. He had to. "I want a man who I know will serve as Warden of the North with honor, and who will treat me with kindness and respect as my husband. Jon-" 
 
"Sansa, I can't," he stuttered, voice low and gravelly. It sent an involuntary shiver down her back. Though disappointing, his reaction was not unexpected. His warm, dark eyes seemed to dance in the firelight, hard and determined. Resolved. Sansa sighed. "I know it may sound strange. We are not siblings, though, Jon." Her voice was gentle now, comforting even. "Raised together perhaps, but none could oppose the union." 
 
It still felt wrong though, on a certain level. She herself could admit that. She'd spent the vast majority of her life believing he was her brother, and she’d spent the better part of a year fighting what she believed to be a perversion born from the way Ramsey and the others had broken her. Even now, knowing any intimacy between them was acceptable in the eyes of the gods and in the eyes of men was not enough to fully remove the sense of shame. Had we known, had things been different, she repeated to herself as she had before, we would have been betrothed. We would have been crowned together. I'm sure of it.  
 
"No," Jon's voice broke through her self-assurances. "No," he repeated, louder than before. He stood now, keeping the distance between them but clearly too agitated to sit. "No, Sansa. I want more than a political marriage for you. You deserve love. You deserve to love your husband. You cannot -" 
 
"Jon," Sansa stopped him. She came closer then and put her hand on his arm. He flinched at her touch, as if she'd burned him. Sansa did her best to ignore it; to fight the tears behind her eyes. She'd known he would fight her, at least until he saw the logic in her proposal. She didn't expect such a visceral reaction, though. "I would love my husband," she reassured him.  "Yes, perhaps not in the way they sing about in the tales I loved as a girl, but love nonetheless. I trust you. I know you. You can give me the Starks back, and I can give you the Stark name and Winterfell. We both crave family, why should we not create our own?" 
 
At the mention of family, Sansa could have sworn she saw longing in his eyes. Those dark, dark eyes. "I am banished from the realm. You would open a healing wound in the south. You would invite danger into Winterfell. You would endanger yourself."
 
"The Wall is in the North, and you are my subject, not Bran's. It is my decision to make. Your children would be my heirs, not the Six Kingdoms'. Let the Unsullied come and meet the true strength of the North."
 
"My vows -"
 
"Have been broken before. And, I have the power to pardon an oath breaker."
 
He gave her a hard, sullen look. "Sansa," he pleaded. Jon looked pained, as if he wished she would take the words back - remove them from his ears. Instead, Sansa removed her hand from his arm, allowing him that small comfort of distance.
 
"Please, Jon. Consider my offer. I leave in the morning for Winterfell, but you can send a raven if you would prefer." Sansa looked at him for a long moment, drinking him in. His face was flushed, whether from embarrassment or anger or something else, she could not say. She noted, as she had earlier, how wild he looked. There was a fresh scar on his face, still angry and red unlike the older, more familiar ones. "Take your time, Jon," she added, gently. "Think about it, please. You do not belong here. You belong in Winterfell, you always have."
 
Jon nodded, too overwhelmed, it seemed, to do much else. Slowly, he pulled his eyes away from her and strode over to the door. "Your Grace," he murmured, slipping out of the chambers. 
 
Only after the door closed did Sansa let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding in. It was out now, in the open. The offer, her plan, all of it. It could have gone worse, she supposed. Though it also certainly could have gone better. Sansa didn’t have much hope he would come around. Even back in Winterfell, she had feared his sense of guilt and duty would be too strong to break – even if it meant coming home. She also had no idea how he viewed her now. Was she still a sister to him? Would she always be?
 
____________________________
 
Sansa struggled to fall asleep that night, Jon's shocked face and the way he had flinched when she touched him churned in her mind. Had she made a mistake? Had she not thought this through enough? Gods, maybe Ramsey did make a perversion of her. 
 
Sansa flipped onto her stomach with a huff. It was a childish and girlish action, something she did often back before everything had gone to hell. But there was nobody here to impress, no mask she had to wear. She could be a girl again. In the silent chill of the Lord Commander's bedchamber only the flames in the hearth watched her movements. 
 
It didn't help that she was sleeping in his bed. The whole room felt untouched - as it likely was considering how long Jon had been north of the Wall. There had been dust on the table that afternoon, the air was stale, and few ashes had been in the hearth. The bed, though, smelled of him. A dark, musky smell that made her think of the godswood in Winterfell. Perhaps, these were the furs he'd brought with him on his travels. The ones that warmed him on cold nights in the far north. She imagined what it would be like to smell this every night; to sleep against his side - his body warm and heavy beside her. Perhaps it would be easier, she thought. Perhaps Ramsey would come less often. It felt too intimate to lay there in his bed. The comfortability of it, the ease with which she imagined Jon there with her, made her uncomfortable. It was all right and good, now that he was not her brother, but it still felt odd. Like a secret she still couldn't share. 
 
Finally, Sansa began to slip into darkness, lulled to sleep by the warmth of the furs and the strange sense of calm and safety she felt at Castle Black. A sudden knock on the door jolted her out of half-sleep. She bolted up, pulling Jon's furs around her as her heart pounded. 
 
"Who is it?" she called.
 
"Jon," he responded, his voice unmistakable. Sansa's stomach rolled with nerves. "I want to talk, if you don't mind... your Grace." He tacked on her title after beat, fumbling over the words. 
 
Sansa pulled the furs tighter around her, too aware of the thin sleep tunic she was wearing and her loose hair. A stubbornly practical voice in the back of her mind hissed a warning about the rumors that may spread if any of his men happened to see the Lord Commander visiting the queen at this hour. She stood then, draping the top most fur around her like a robe, and moved to the door. If possible, Jon looked more disheveled than he did earlier. There were dark circles under his eyes and she could smell ale on his breath - not strong, but present. Sansa stepped to the side, allowing him to pass her and enter the room. He wasn't wearing his shaggy, black cloak anymore and Longclaw was missing from his hip. Jon walked all the way to the hearth, stopped, walked to the window, and then paced back to the fire, visibly agitated. Sansa closed the door softly, her bare feet cold on the icy stone floor. 
 
The click of the door seemed to jarr Jon out of his thoughts, his eyes locked on her as she moved back towards the bed. She tucked her feet under her as she sat and pulled the furs tighter across her chest under his heavy gaze. And heavy it was. Sansa felt his unreadable eyes move from her bare feet to her calves, just visible due to the fold of the fur, up the furs - his furs - to her exposed shoulder, finally landing on her face. He swallowed hard. "I've been thinking," he muttered. "About your offer." 
 
Sansa clenched her jaw. His agitation was spreading to her. She felt the need to move, to pace, to be near him but away from him at the same time. Instead, she stayed rooted in place on his bed, willing her heart to stop racing. "Jon," she began, but he cut her off. 
 
"Why? Why do you want this?" 
 
"I told you, politically it- "
 
"Sansa," he said sternly. "I see no political advantage here. I know you want children, I understand. But my children..." He let out an exasperated huff. "Should I have children, they would be in constant danger. My father's blood, his name - it would follow them like a curse. They would always threaten the King of the Six Kingdoms." He paused, as if to give her the chance to offer a rebuttal, but Sansa remained silent. She had spoken her piece earlier. It was his turn.
 
"It would endanger you as well. If you pardon me, it would cause tension, if not war, with the south. If you marry me, it would all but guarantee it. Bran may be king, but I have no doubt he will act in the best interest of his people. His people are not us anymore. He gave that up. And then there is the matter of the Northern lords. I have no doubt many of them still consider me a traitor for bending the knee to Dany in the first place. They see me as the Targaryen I am now. And, should they see me as a Stark, it would be as your brother. Do you want to invite the ridicule Cersei and Jaime Lannister endured? At least their affair attempted to be private.
 
"Finally," Jon said, in his familiar Northern brogue. She'd never picked up the Northern accent, her voice mimicked that of her lady mother and the women in the South. He dragged a chair from the table to the side of the bed and slumped in it. The action made her look down at him. Jon sat with his head in his hands for a moment before lifting his eyes once more to her face. "Finally," he repeated, “there is the matter of you, and your right to yourself. As I told you, you deserve to marry a man you'll love. I remember well how much you loved the songs as a girl; how you longed for a love like that between the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys. You, Sansa, of all women, deserve that. You deserve to share your marriage bed with someone you love like that. I don't," he swiped a large, burned hand over his face irritably. "I don't want it to be a chore for you," Jon finished, voice quieter than before, softer. 
 
A part of her wanted to tell him then. To tell him of how disgusted she'd felt for so long because of the thoughts she had late at night. Thoughts of a man she believed to be her brother, a man many still considered her brother despite the revelation of his birth. She wanted to tell him about how her stomach churned when she was told he had taken up with Daenerys, how she'd roiled in anger the first time she heard the name Dany slip from his lips. She wanted to tell him how, even in this last year, every time she spotted dark curls her first thought was a hopeful one - that maybe, just maybe, he'd returned for her. But it all sounded childish, and he had made it clear that his feelings were strictly familial. No, she concluded. No, now was not the time. She wasn't sure if there ever would be a time. 
 
Jon was looking up at her, his eyes watching her carefully, no doubt trying to understand her motivations and willing her to understand his hesitations. 
 
"I know, Jon," she sighed, suddenly exhausted. "Believe me, I have thought through all of this myself. I disagree with you on Bran. The Wall belongs to the North. You belong to the North. I am not under the power of the Red Keep. I cannot lift your banishment from the Six Kingdoms, but I can free you of your punishment in the North. It is my right. The summit in King's Landing wanted to ensure you could produce no heirs to the Iron Throne and claim no title, especially not that of King. By marrying me, you would do neither. Our children," she paused, the words tasted strange in her mouth. "Our children would be my heirs. They would wear my name. You would not be King in the North, but Warden of the North. As to the Northern lords, you underestimate the love they have for you. Any ire they felt at you bending the knee disappeared the moment you stuck a dagger in Daenerys' heart." Jon looked at the ground, shame clouding his face. "My whisperers tell me far more lords are displeased with kneeling to a woman than still express anger towards you. If anything, you've become an even greater hero. They feel the same injustice I do. With you at my side, my legitimacy would be absolute.
 
"You are not proud, Jon," she added, gently. "The men who court me," her voice drifted into a frustrated huff and she turned her face away from him. "They all say they would not mind losing their house, but I can see through them. Men have used me too long for me to not see their intentions now. They want my power - to take it from me and wield it themselves. I wish you thought more of yourself, Jon, to be honest," Sansa looked back at him, his eyes were still trained on the floor. Slowly, she reached out and lifted his chin. Only when his eyes met her own did she continue. "You would not take my power from me. You would rule with me. You would respect my claim. You are the only man in the world I trust to do that." 
 
She felt more than saw his jaw clench.
 
"And what if a few years from now you meet a man you do trust?" Jon asked quietly. "A man you love. A man you want. What happens then?" 
 
Sansa smiled bitterly. "That will not happen. I am not the girl that rode south with my father and the king all those years go." 
 
He tenses at the implication of her words; the unspoken story of how violently she left girlhood behind. Sansa dropped her hand from his jaw. "I respect myself too much to give myself away, even to you, without having given the decision considerable thought. Surely you know that." 
 
Jon seemed to hesitate on something, his face conflicted suddenly. When he spoke it was very quietly, as if he was afraid of his own question. "Do you see me as a brother, Sansa?" 
 
She considered him a moment, weighing her options. In the end, she opted for truth. "No. To be frank, I never have. Even as a girl. I tried, when we took back Winterfell. I have always seen you as family, more now than as a girl to be sure." Sansa hesitated, not sure how much to reveal. "You are not the same as Bran, Rickon, or Robb. I'm not sure how to describe it." And that was the truth, wasn't it? She loved him. She had for a while now, but not as a brother. Not quite as a husband either, though she felt sure that could grow. Brick by brick, as her mother had told her once. The want was certainly there already, though it still made her feel ashamed. No, she did not see him as her brother, not fully, even before they learned of his heritage. Even so, the moment she saw him at Castle Black years ago now, she trusted him completely. She felt a fierce loyalty to him too. His opinion was the first she cared about. His wellbeing more important than her own. Yet, she could not explain why. Jon was simply different than anyone she had known before. She truly could not make sense of it. 
 
Jon's eyes fell and he leaned back in the chair with a sigh. "I hope you know," Sansa added softly, "I do not mean that as an insult. I do not want to lie to you. I owe you more than that." 
 
He nodded, wild curls dipping with his head. "I know," he said simply. Jon stood then, hand clenching once more. Silence fell as he made his way to the window, gazing over the dark courtyard. Snow was falling, as it always seemed to be this far north. They were quiet a long while, both lost in thought and considering the arguments made by the other.
 
"I won't give you an answer now," Jon told her. She looked over at him, still by the window. His face was folded in its seriousness, a crease forming on his brow. "It isn't a decision I take lightly."
 
"Nor I, Lord Commander," she replied. Jon offered her a small, shy smile at her formality. "You'll send a raven then, when you decide?" she asked.
 
Jon shrugged. "A raven seems informal for such a decision." 
 
She let out a light laugh. It made him smile again. "I never took you for such a romantic, Jon." 
 
"Dark wings dark words. Marriage tidings should never be dark, not for you." 
 
"Even in rejection?"
 
He joined her then on the bed, sitting close enough that she could reach out and touch him but leaving enough distance so as to not make either of them uncomfortable. "Sansa, if I reject you I would most certainly do that in person." Her heart beat hard in her chest at the "if" in his statement. It isn't a flat no. He will consider it, truly. “That is,” he added a moment later, “if I have your permission to leave the Wall and travel to Winterfell.”
 
Sansa looked at him, puzzled, for a moment. “Of course – you may come whenever you’d like.”
 
He nodded. “I – I was sure,” he explained. “I was banished here, it was never clear to me that I could go south of the Wall. I figured it was best if I didn’t.”
 
Sansa’s chest tightened. She’d suspected that was why he had never visited, but the sadness in his eyes made her heart heavy.
 
Jon rose then, and stood before her. There was determination in his eye she did not quite understand. The old familiar sadness was still there too, as it always was. He leaned forward and down, towards her, and for a quick moment Sansa was afraid he might kiss her. Instead, his lips landed on her forehead - an action that pulled her back to a similar moment that felt so long ago now, when she had told him he was a Stark, always, to her. The irony was not lost on Sansa. When he pulled away, Sansa could feel her cheeks burning. Jon's lips had been warm and soft on her skin, his beard rougher. Just as she remembered from before. 
 
"Goodnight, Sansa." 
 
"Goodnight, Jon." 
 
He gave her one last small and still slightly sullen smile before leaving the room. She laid back in bed, her mind racing through the conversation, picking it apart over and over. Long after he had gone and the fire had died down, as the first birds began their morning song in the cold dawn air, Sansa still felt the warmth of Jon's lips on her skin. 
 

Chapter Text

Jon departed before her the next morning. He was taking a small contingent of men north to discuss trade with nearby wildling villages. Jon had made it his mission to continue to build trust between the old enemies. Sansa was proud of him for it. There was no reason for the free folk and Northerners to quarrel, in truth there never had been a reason. 
 
She met him in the courtyard after she broke her fast and dressed in her traveling clothes. Jon wore his heavy traveling furs as well, all black of course. His hair was still loose and wild, snow sticking to his curls. He smiled when he saw her. "You are just in time, your Grace. We were about to depart." The men behind him were already on horseback. His brothers wore nearly identical outfits to him, all black shaggy fur and boiled, black leather. Crows in a flock, she thought, remembering the wildlings’ name for the Night's Watch. 
 
Jon handed his horse off to his steward and met her at the base of the steps. They took each other in as the snow danced in the air, both drinking in features they feared they may not see again. The world was safer now than it had been before, but it still was not kind. "I'd like," he murmured low so only she could hear, "to give you a true goodbye, but the little I remember of courtesy tells me it would not be appropriate for a queen." 
 
The combination of his husky, low voice and the implied request for an embrace made her insides flutter. Sansa smiled at him and then, without a second thought, wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace. In a second, his arms were around her as well. Strong and sure. Her senses were overwhelmed with the scent of leather and the distinct musky, forest like smell she associated with him. He was warm, his furs soft and his metal and leather hard. "I won't keep you waiting long," he murmured near her ear. "When I return I intend to bring you an answer." An involuntary shiver went down her back as his breath tickled her ear. 
 
Sansa pulled away first, but not before planting a quick, chaste kiss on cheek. She knew it was not the most prudent course of action, not with so many onlookers and especially not now that they were not brother and sister. And yet, it had felt appropriate in a strange way. When she pulled away, his gaze was heavy on her.
 
"Safe travels, Lord Commander," she told him, her voice cool and queenly. 
 
Jon nodded at her. "Your Grace." He mounted his horse, a great black beast. 
 
When he looked back at her, his eyes drifted over her shoulder and he smiled. A moment later, Ghost nudged her elbow with his nose. The huge wolf looked up at her expectantly. "Ah, there you are," Sansa smiled, scratching the great animal behind his one good ear. "Keep him safe." After a final pat, she watched Ghost join his master and the waiting brothers. Jon nodded his head at her again in goodbye. 
 
"May the gods bless you, Lord Commander, and your brothers." There was a murmur of appreciation as various formalities were muttered by the criminals and bastards and passed over sons. They slowly filed into formation, Jon in the lead as was his place. With one final look at her over his shoulder, he kicked his heels and the company was off, disappearing into the darkness of the Wall. 
 
Sansa waited until the last black brother disappeared into the great shining structure before turning back up the stairs to Jon's chambers. She instructed a steward to ready their horses for travel before pushing the door to the Lord Commander's rooms open. Once the door was closed, she leaned against it and let her head drop back against the ancient wood. She had done it. She laid it in the open: her plan and so much more. Now it was in Jon's hands. I did all I could, she told herself. She just had to trust Jon to see the merit in her offer. If, in the end, he did reject her, she couldn't fault herself for never trying. She'd simply have to move on to a new plan. 

 _____________________________________
 

 When Sansa and Brienne arrived home at Winterfell, Ser Davos was waiting to greet them. He bowed to both as a light dusting of snow began to fall, and fell into line with Sansa was the trio walked towards the keep. “I’m glad you are returned, you Grace,” Davos told her, his gruff voice warm and familiar after many days on the road. “How was your visit?” Sansa could feel his curious eyes on her and knew the true question he was asking.
 
“Good, though short. We were fortunate, the Lord Commander returned with his Rangers the night before we arrived.”
 
She hid a smile as Davos’ steps faltered. “He was there, then. Gods – how did he look?”
 
The party arrived at Sansa’s solar, Brienne nodded at Sansa and Davos before taking her post at the queen’s door. Davos entered the warm room, but Sansa held for a moment. “Brienne, please come in - our journey has been long and cold. You should rest and get warm.”
 
“I do not want to intrude, your Grace.”
 
“You are no intruder,” Sansa smiled. There was a pause of hesitation from Brienne, before the knight nodded and followed Sansa into the solar. Once the door was closed, Sansa turned back to Davos. “Jon was well, his typical brooding self, but well.”
 
The old knight chuckled fondly. Sansa knew how much he cared for Jon. “I’m glad to hear it. Damned glad to hear it.”  Jon has no idea,  she thought. No idea how much he is missed by so many .
 
“And the pardon? Did you discuss it?”
 
Sansa nodded, catching Brienne’s smile. When she raised a brow in question, Brienne replied, “I had my suspicions, you Grace. I’ve known you a long while now.” The queen smiled.
 
“I want to discuss something with both of you,” Sansa told them. “I offered Jon more than a pardon, and though I do not know his answer yet, I feel it would be prudent to tell you both. I trust you most in this castle, and I trust that I can depend on your discretion.” Brienne tried to hide another smile, as if she knew what was coming next. Sansa didn’t doubt that she did.
 
“You can depend on us, your Grace,” barked Davos. His brow was furled in question.
 
Sansa took a deep breath and told them. Both were silent for a long while after. The silence didn’t make her anxious – Sansa had laid bare everything, the reasons for and against taking Jon as her husband. Her companions had much to consider, and she was grateful they were thinking before sharing their opinions, of which she was sure they’d have many. 
 
Brienne was the first to speak. “Your Grace, I have served you for three years now and through many difficult times. I want nothing more than to see you happy, and to see that your mother’s wishes for you are made true. Like you, I have little trust in men,” at this Brienne offered Davos and apologetic look, which he promptly shook off. “But, also like you, I trust Jon Snow. If he will have you, I will stand by you and your decision.”
 
“Thank you, Brienne.” Sansa took the other woman’s hand in her own and squeezed it lightly. She then turned her eyes to Davos. The man had a hard, serious look on his face.
 
“Such a marriage would give you many benefits in the North, your Grace. It is true that no man is as loved as Jon Snow here. I agree, he would be accepted. I also agree that he is a man who would have no trouble setting aside the title of king and the name of his father. You trust him, as do I, to be a good husband to you. And, it is perfectly lawful so long as your shared upbringing is no obstacle to you.”
 
Sansa swallowed. “It is not, Ser Davos.”
 
Her Hand nodded. “As I said, in the North, it is a most excellent pairing. However, it will not be received well at all in the south. I warned you a pardon would lead to tensions, a marriage may well lead to war. There is also the concern of our friends to the east who would gladly kill Jon if presented the opportunity. You children too, would be in danger.”
 
She was quiet a moment and stared into the fire, thinking. Unlike others, Sansa was quite confidant war would not be a result of her marrying Jon. Bran was king, after all, and for all their enemies in the south they also had many allies. High Garden, at least, would have no part in a war began over the killer of Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa voiced as much to Davos.
 
“If my brother were to declare war, which again I am rather confidant he will not, it would lead to rebellion within his own kingdom. His advisors who may be keener to avenge the Dragon Queen will not risk the still fragile alliances holding the Six Kingdoms together. I do not deny that it will be taken as an insult by some and as an assertion of Northern independence by most, but why should I not assert my power as sovereign over the North? I have respected their punishment for over a year, and I will make no claim over Jon’s ability to travel south of the Neck.”
 
“I must agree with Queen Sansa’s judgement, Ser Davos,” Brienne said. “You only need go to a one tavern in Wintertown and you will hear at least two songs about Lord Commander Snow, both favorable. Among the small lords of the Six Kingdoms there is little love for Daenerys Targaryen. Even if there are some powerful houses who kneeled before her, not all their bannermen did the same.”
 
Davos sighed and nodded, flashing a kind smile at the two women. “Well, I suppose I can’t argue with you both. Queen Sansa has seldom, if ever, been wrong in her judgment. For your happiness, your Grace, I hope Jon agrees to the match. It would be nice to have him back here, and I have grown extremely tired of your suitors.”
 
“That would make two of us, Ser Davos,” Sansa said, smiling. She felt more reassured now that she had both his and Brienne’s blessing.  
 
Ser Davos chuckled. “Do you have any idea when Jon will give you an answer?”
 
Sansa shook her head. “No, he has gone north again. He said he would have any answer when he returns, but gods know how long that will be.”
 
Nodding, Ser Davos rapped his knuckles on the table twice. “Well,” he stated, “we may have ample time to determine if you two’s assumptions about the south are correct.”
 
“What do you mean?” Sansa asked, confused. Brienne also seemed at a loss for Davos’s meaning.
 
“Maester Horryl had a raven this morning from King’s Landing. It appears Lord Lannister will be joining us before the next moon.”
 
Sansa was shocked. “Did he say what the reason for this trip is?”
 
“No, just that he comes on behalf of the King. I believe it is simply a diplomatic trip.”
 
Sansa pursed her lips, remembering the last time Lannisters came to visit Winterfell. “I should like to see this scroll, Ser Davos. And if he is only one moon away we must inform the kitchens and send for our most respected lords. Lord Lannister will no doubt expect a feast, and I would like to show off the power of our kingdom.”
 
Ser Davos nodded, rising from his chair. Ser Brienne did the same. “Aye, your Grace,” he said, before he and Brienne left Queen Sansa alone with her thoughts.
 
___________________________
 

True to his word, Tyrion arrived right on schedule. He rode into Winterfell in a sea of banners, all carrying the new sigil of the Red Keep. As the Six Kingdoms had done away with hereditary monarchs, the leading families had agreed on a new sigil the king would take upon his coronation. It was a simple golden crown on a field of dark gray. A kingdom risen from ashes.

Tyrion Lannister traveled with fifty knights and a small company of wealthy merchants, seeking to increase trade opportunities with the resource laden North. Queen Sansa greeted the Hand in Winterfell’s courtyard, much like her lord father had greeted him and his family so many years ago. This time, however, it was only Sansa and her council waiting rather than a full line of Stark children, and only Tyrion arriving rather than an entire royal family.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion greeted her loudly as he stepped out of his carriage. “You look as lovely as ever. They’ve taken to calling you the Winter Queen in the Six Kingdoms, and I must say the cold does suit you. You wear it better than any of us could.”

Sansa smiled tightly. She had worn one of her finest gowns, made mostly of soft white wool with snarling grey direwolves hidden throughout the intricate weave. Her silver direwolf crown sat upon her brow, a braid forming a second crown around her head with a river of auburn streaming down her back. Her maid had once told her the gown made her look like a living weirdwood, all white with her hair red like the leaves of the great trees. “Thank you, Lord Lannister,” she replied, voice even and refined, ever kind and ladylike. “You are most welcome in Winterfell, and in the North. I offer you the warmth and protection of my hearth.”

Tyrion bowed before her, again wearing the Lannister colors he seemed to have given up during the war. “Thank you, your Grace.”

He then moved to Ser Davos who stood next to Sansa, and greeted the former smuggler just as warmly, making a jest about their shared duties to Stark monarchs. Finally, he nodded to Brienne and told her she was missed in the south.

With the formalities over, Sansa turned back to Winterfell as Tyrion joined her. “The North looks well,” he told her. “I was pleased by the journey here. There are towns where I don’t recall them before. That is a sure sign of prosperity.”

Sansa smiled, appreciative of his compliment. “My people were eager for peace. Once that was accorded, we all began the hard work of rebuilding. I’m sure the same is being done in the south.”

“Yes, yes,” Tyrion said, his eyes scanning around the courtyard, no doubt noting repairs and changes since the last time he had been there. Sansa clenched her jaw at the memory of the smoldering remainder of Winterfell after the Battle for the Dawn, as the people had taken to calling it. “King’s Landing is slowing rising. Your brother is a wise and prudent king.”

“And his Hand no doubt is wise and prudent, as well,” the compliment came easy to Sansa. She was unhappy with Tyrion, yes, but she did not dislike him. He had treated her with kindness as a girl, and that was not forgotten.

“You are too kind, your Grace.”

They entered the keep and watched stewards and maids move goods and luggage about in the courtyard. “The crown suits you as much as winter,” Tyrion said softly, looking up at Sansa. “I could see it in you even when you were young. You were born to be a queen.”

She smiled a bit ruefully. “None of us were born to be anything, my Lord. We grow into who we become, and meet the tasks and challenges we are dealt.”

“Wise words.”

Sansa sighed, pushing memories away, and turned to Tyrion. “Would you join me in my solar for a drink? Some of our principle lords are visiting and we mean to host a feast in your honor this evening. We should get out of the way to let the servants prepare.”

He flashed her a smile, punctuated by a wink she would have found impertinent coming from anyone else. From Tyrion, it was simply expected. “I brought many casks of Dornish wine, I’d be glad to share some with you, your Grace.”
 
Back in her solar, they discussed trade and diplomacy, the progress being made to restore the Reach and the rebuilding of King’s Landing. Soon, the conversation turned to Bran, then Arya, then to her coronation and then that of her brother. By the time the sun had grown heavy in the sky and Sansa’s most trusted and most powerful banner men had began to gather in the courtyard below, anticipating the feast to come, Sansa and Tyrion’s conversation had grown relaxed and friendly.

“I have heard they call you the Red Wolf here,” Tyrion said with a smile. “You have many names now, your Grace, each more impressive than the last.”

Sansa shook her head, smiling slightly, refusing to ask the question he was prompting. She had no interest in hearing the other names that had been concocted for her. Years of hard lessons had taught her nicknames may appear sweet, but often carried silent insult. “I only have one name, Lord Lannister. Stark.”

"Ah yes,” he replied, voice full of mirth. “How could I ever forget the name of Stark.” He paused then, swirling his wine before flicking his shining eyes back up to her. “I have also heard," Tyrion said slowly, as if mulling over each word, "that the Red Wolf has frequented Castle Black." 
 
Sansa scoffed, "Frequented is a strong word. I've gone twice since my coronation, over a year ago. The Wall is now part of my kingdom, and the men of the Watch under my care. My father never neglected their needs, and I intend to do the same."
 
It looked as if Tyrion was holding back a smile, a private joke between he and himself. It fed her simmering irritation with the man. Despite his kindness to her, Tyrion always had had a way of getting under her skin. His mention of the Night’s Watch also reminded her of the part he played in Jon’s banishment, and the memory made her wine taste bitter.
 
"Ah yes, the needs of the Night's Watch," Tyrion murmured, a smug smile still on his scarred face. He took a long sip of wine, eyes never leaving Sansa. "And," he said once he had swallowed, "how is he, your Grace?" 
 
It felt as if a bolt of lightning went through her, but Sansa kept her face neutral, sweet even. A little bird. "Whomever do you mean, Lord Lannister?" 
 
Tyrion let out a bark of indignant laughter. "Come now, Sansa, surely you respect me enough to not play dumb with me." 
 
Sansa lifted her chin and straightened her back. She did not like him calling her by her name - her title had become armor around her; politics did not feel so personal when she wore the armor of Queen. "He's not there," she answered. It was petty and barely above a lie, she knew, but Sansa wanted to see his reaction. Two could play this game of words. 
 
As expected, Tyrion's eyes widened in surprise and his mouth twisted in displeasure. "Not there?" With interest, she noted the tone of fear in his voice. 
 
"Don't worry, my Lord Hand. He has not escaped justice. As Lord Commander, it would seem Jon follows in the steps of Commander Mormont. When there is a ranging mission, he leads his men. The maesters of Castle Black inform me he has been above the Wall nearly all of the last year; first leading the free folk home, then surveying damage to the Wall so efforts to rebuild may begin. He is still banished, he has not left his post. Your sentence as was passed in the dragon pit holds."
 
"It was not my sentence, it was the King's." Tyrion was silent a moment, watching her carefully. She didn't break eye contact, refusing to show any weakness. He was searching for something in her face, exactly what Sansa did not know. "And is that bitterness I hear in your voice, your Grace?" His voice was quiet and cool, with tinges of laughter as if this was all some great joke only he was in on. 
 
Sansa let out a small laugh herself and stood, moving towards the window. She tried to calm herself - it was of no benefit to let emotion guide her actions. No, if Cersei and the others had taught her anything it was to always hide her true feelings. She must appear cold, indifferent. Opinionated yes, but not emotionally invested. Dropping her shoulders, Sansa turned back to her first husband. "Not bitterness, my Lord. Confusion, perhaps," she slipped back into the mask of a little bird; innocent and sweet. Tyrion didn't reply. He simply raised his eyebrows and drank more wine, firelight bouncing off the shine of his Hand's pin. She was pulled back to King's Landing; back to when that very pin sat on her father's chest. His memory gave her strength. It made her stand a little taller and sharpen her eyes. "I wonder, Lord Lannister," she said sweetly, voice tinged in ice. "What did you discuss with my cousin mere hours before he killed the Dragon Queen?" 
 
Though he hid it well, Sansa saw the brief moment of shock on the Hand's face. "He came to visit me in prison," Tyrion answered, voice careful and measured. Sansa held back a smile. It was a foolish answer, one that gave away his surprise at her knowledge. 
 
"Yes, my Lord, I am aware. I asked what you discussed?" 
 
"He came to bid me farewell, I suppose. I was accused of treason." 
 
She walked back to the table and seated herself across from Tyrion, looking her former husband in the eye as she laid her accusation on the table before them. "Jon was not Eddard Stark's son. Not by blood. He was raised by him nonetheless - raised with not just Northern values, but Stark values. Eddard Stark would sooner die than kill a monarch he had pledged loyalty to." 
 
"Yes," Tyrion interrupted, clearly sensing the coming implication. "Yet Eddard Stark joined in Robert's Rebellion. That could only end in the death of at least one king." 
 
"My father did not deal the blow himself," Sansa replied coolly. "He would not have, I am certain. He would have demanded a trial, had your brother not removed the Mad King first, and once judgement was passed act upon it." 
 
Tyrion remained silent, his eyes hard and calculating. 
 
"As I said," Sansa continued sweetly. "Jon was not my father's son, but he was raised by my father and holds my father's values. He would not easily come to the decision to kill Daenerys, even knowing the necessity of it. I find it very interesting the Lord Commander visited you and not an hour later killed Daenerys. I have to wonder, what was discussed in your cell? You had already been accused of treason, had already expressed concern over the Dragon Queen. So, I ask once more, my Lord, what did you discuss with my cousin?" 
 
His eyes were hard and unreadable. For once, the wine on the table had been forgotten by the last Lannister. "It seems you already know," Tyrion replied, voice stony and quiet, yet not unkind. 
 
Sansa leaned back in her chair, not breaking eye contact with him. "Why did you not defend Jon when the time came? You, who convinced him to act. You, who had the power to all but select the next king. Your counsel held sway in that court." Her voice wasn’t harsh now. Instead it was full of disappointment. She did respect Tyrion, after all. Sansa just didn’t understand why he hadn’t fought harder for Jon.
 
Breaking her gaze, Tyrion looked towards the fire. "You would have had me name Jon king?" 
 
"It was his birthright. The whole of Westeros knew as much by that time too, thanks to Varys’ diligent scroll writing before his… before he died. We both know Jon would have refused it, but he should have had the freedom to choose." 
 
"He did choose when he put a dagger through his queen's heart." Tyrion's eyes were back on her, challenging her to question his statement. Sansa did not, after all he was correct. Jon knew the implication of what he was doing. When he freely gave himself up and admitted to his actions, he knew it as well. Drogon had taken his mother's body. Jon easily could have lied; could have said he did not know what had become of Daenerys. But he was Jon, so naturally he hid nothing and embraced the shame, guilt, and punishment honesty delivered him. 
 
Sansa stood then, this time walking to the fire. "Bran was a wise choice for king, although unexpected. And to be quite honest, Lord Lannister, I care little for the affairs of the south now. As long as my kingdom is let be, I have no intentions to interfere in your politics." She turned back to him. "When your brother killed his King, he was rewarded. When Jon did the same he was shamed. As I said, I'm simply confused."
 
His laughter startled her, though she supposed it shouldn't have. So much of life was a joke to him. Sansa wished she could see some of the humor in it as well.
 
"Horseshit, your Grace." Sansa felt her face redden, but Tyrion continued on. If he sensed her indignation, he did not care. "You are many things, Lady Stark, but confused is not one of them. I have a question for you now, if you are done heaping your accusations on me. Why, sweet lady, do you care so much about the fate of the Lord Commander? He has accepted his fate - it seems he has taken to it well. He chose to join the Black once before, he commands the Watch, he has the freedom to go beyond the Wall as often as he likes. You say you don't have any interest in the affairs of the south - yet you pressure me on this point. Why?" 
 
"You of all people should know why." Sansa states plainly. Tyrion's brows raise in question. 
 
"And why is that, my Lady?" 
 
"Your Grace," Sansa corrected. "I have very little family left, Lord Lannister. They call you the Last Lion, surely you can sympathize." 
 
"I cannot, my brother and sister are dead. Yours are living."
 
"I have lost two brothers, a sister I never knew, a niece or nephew I'll never know. My mother, my father. My only living brother is now king of another land, and not at all the boy I once knew. My sister has sailed west and I've heard from her only once since her ships set off. I am the only Stark in Winterfell, and I am lonely. We are wolves, my Lord. Wolves are pack animals." 
 
Tyrion eyed her curiously. "Jon is a Targaryen."
 
"He is of the North," she immediately replied. "No matter his heritage, no person can deny he is a Northerner." She returned to her seat. "He was also my closest ally, and friend, during our campaign to reclaim Winterfell and to defeat the Night King. He was my king."
 
"I recall a time when you would not look at him, much less speak to him," Tyrion quipped. 
 
Sansa smiled wryly. "As can I." 
 
With a fond sigh, the Hand leaned back in his chair and sipped at his wine. The tension from moments before had melted, though unspoken words hung in the room like drapery. "I wish I could have given him a choice, Sansa. Truly I do. I respect and admire Jon Snow. I always have." 
 
Tyrion now rose, but only to pour himself another glass of wine. "You are correct, as always. When he visited me in King's Landing I urged him to do what he already knew he must do. Though, I have no doubt that he would have done what was right with or without my advice. All my words did was prompt him to act a bit sooner. I calculated, as I'm sure you did in the Dragon Pit, that fully pardoning Jon was foolish. The Unsullied would not stand for it and some of the houses that had allied with Daenerys would revolt. I could have made a stand, but alas, I am a coward I admit." He paused then, as if waiting for Sansa to reassure him of his bravery. When she did not, Tyrion continued. "I truly believe that it is best for the seven - six - kingdoms that we do away with hereditary kings. And despite what you may believe, I did defend the Lord Commander. I could have let them kill him, instead I ensured he would sire no heirs and seek no crown. I do not regret my choice. And," he added, tipping his wine glass towards her, "I may point out you did little to defend him as well."  
 
"I had just requested a kingdom and been granted it. In doing so, I lost any position of power in determining the Six Kingdom's justice."
 
Tyrion nodded, conceding her point. 
 
"It has been more than a year, my Lord," Sansa continued. "The Unsullied are gone and Bran is an established king. Would a pardon not be prudent now?"
 
"And what would Jon, do?" Tyrion huffed, frustration evident in his voice. "Where would he go? Come back to Winterfell? Would you have him take your crown from you, your Grace? Would he go to Dragonstone and claim his Targaryen heritage? Where does he have to go but the Wall? It was a kindness to send him there - this way he does not have to face the fact he is worse off as the true heir than he was as Ned Stark's damn bastard! I know what it is to not belong. At least he has been given a place to belong." 
 
Rather than reply right away, Sansa took a quiet sip. "You know the Lord Commander well. You know how he lets guilt sit on him as a rock. A pardon may ease that burden, and he would be free to choose his future without causing conflict. He could stay at the Night’s Watch if he so chose."
 
Tyrion looked at her with exasperation, his face red with frustration and wine. Suddenly though, it shifted, and Sansa suspected he had finally realized the truth. She was sure of it the moment he barked out a laugh. 
 
"My sister taught you well. You would let him share your crown, and your bed. Your own brother - truly Cersei would be proud." 
 
She did not fall into his trap; did not let his insult touch her. "He is not my brother. Had things been different, and he been raised the legal heir of Rhaegar and Lyanna, we would no doubt have been betrothed by our parents. It is a tradition among high born families, as you know." 
 
"It is not legal, not while he is unpardoned. He would not accept you, anyways. He loved her. Daenerys. All the more reason to accept punishment and guilt." Tyrion's voice was hard. Not angry with her, but not pleased with her idea at all. 
 
"You know perfectly well love has little to do with this," she replied evenly, ignoring the way her answer felt like a lie on her tongue.
 
Tyrion looked at her quizzically. "Have you asked him?" 
 
She schooled her face. "As you said yourself, he is unpardoned and Commander of the Night's Watch. You have guessed a strategy I have considered, not one I have implemented. Nor one I am likely to implement."

He gave her a hard and disbelieving look. They were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Your Grace,” Ser Davos called.

“You may enter,” Sansa responded, her eyes still on Tyrion.

Her Hand entered the room, his eyes flickering between Sansa and Tyrion. No doubt he sensed the heavy tension. “I’d advise your Grace and Lord Lannister come to the great hall soon. The lords are gathering and getting rather rowdy.”

Sansa rose, ever regal, and offered a hand to Tyrion. “Come, my Lord Lannister. Let’s put this quarrel behind us. Tonight, is a night of celebration, and of unity.”

He eyed her carefully even as his mouth curled into a smile. “Of course, your Grace. I’ve never been one to refuse a feast. Especially not one held in my honor.”

________________________

The great hall of Winterfell was lined with banners, alternating the fierce direwolf of house Stark and the new sigil of the Six Kingdoms. The room was packed with Northern lords and knights, Tyrion’s retinue, and various honored guests from Winterfell and Wintertown. A fire roared in the enormous, ancient hearth and food, ale, and Tyrion’s Dornish wine were in ample supply.

Sansa performed the expected honors and duties of welcoming a guest, and prompted a toast to good friendship between the North and the Six Kingdoms. Tyrion shared one of his own, to putting old feuds behind and beginning as new as the first greens after a long winter. Before long, music began only to later be drowned out by the roar of laughter and conversation that so often accompanied copious amounts of alcohol and Northern men.

Sansa was beginning to feel the effects of the ale herself, as the room grew warm and fuzzy around the corners. Some guests had pushed aside a table and begun to dance, feet moving wildly to the pounding rhythm of the Northern music. Tyrion was laughing beside her at his own story, explaining one of his many ridiculous experiences to Ser Davos, who was also considerably besot by wine. Every few minutes a new lord would come up to the high table and pledge his undying love for the Queen of the North, begging her hand in marriage. As the night progressed, the proposals grew more exaggerated and desperate, making even Ser Brienne laugh at Sansa’s side.

Just as the servants began to bring out yet another round of food, Sansa dimly registered the door at the far back of the great hall opened, letting in a quick breath of refreshing cold air. A few lords and knights towards the back of the hall turned, no doubt to yell at the poor man who had let in the frigid draft. Instead, however, they fell silent. The silence spread through the hall like wildfire until even the musicians let their hands go still. All eyes were turned to the open door. Sansa felt the lemon cake she had just grabbed fall from her hand in shock. Tyrion sucked in a breath beside her. Suddenly, one eager Northerner erupted in a cheer, and just as quickly as the silence began, it ended. Northern lords banged beer mugs on the table, and stomped their boots on the floor. They hollered and cheered and some even cried. Through the din and the chaos, Sansa’s eyes never left Jon’s. He stood just inside the door, the torchlight from the wall sconces lighting his face in a warm orange hue. The great shaggy cloak on his shoulders was white with quickly melting snow, his hair shorter than a month earlier, and tied back as it had been the last time he was at Winterfell, his beard was shorter and better managed as well. At his right stood Tormund Giantsbane, at his left, two black brothers Sansa did not recognize. Her heart beat in time to the rhythm of the Northern drums as Jon took a step forward into the hall, offering her a sheepish smile in greeting. A moment later, he was enveloped in a crowd of thrilled, and rather drunk, Northmen.

“My gods,” Davos muttered, voice rich with joy and wine.

“My gods, indeed,” repeated Tyrion, his gaze heavy on Sansa.

With a small smile, she turned to her former husband. “No, my Lord, that is no god. It is only Jon Snow.”

Chapter Text

It was Tormund who finally managed to free Jon from the crush of Northerners. The huge wildling shoved the men aside, one hand pulling Jon forward by the arm. It was almost comedic to watch the slow progress of the new arrivals as they waded their way up to the high table. Sansa watched them, unable to wipe a smile off her face even as her stomach churned in nervous excitement. She hadn't expected Jon so soon - to be quite honest, she hadn't quite believed he would actually come to Winterfell. Yet here he was, grinning at the delighted Northmen, letting Tormund drag him like a child.

He was here, which meant he had an answer for her. The thought terrified her almost as much as it excited her.
 
Davos was unable to hide his joy at Jon's arrival. He stood and briskly walked around the table, meeting Jon, Tormund, the brothers of the Night's Watch, and, Sansa noted with a smile, Ghost. As the direwolf weaved his way around the crowd and high table to Sansa's side, Davos reached Jon. "My gods," he repeated. "It is good to see you."
 
"Ser Davos," Jon replied, simply, before pulling his former Hand into an embrace. The hall finally began to quiet into some semblance of calm as Winterfell's many guests watched the exchange at the high table. Sansa let her eyes escape Jon's form just long enough to glance around at the many faces. Tyrion's men, she noted, were still seated and decidedly not wearing the same joyful expressions as Sansa's guests. Her shoulders tensed. She could still feel Tyrion's eyes on her rather than the new arrivals.
 
Davos pulled away from Jon, beaming, and turned back towards Sansa and Tyrion, seated at the high table still. Sansa heard Brienne shift where she stood behind the queen's chair. The hall was suddenly thick with tension and silence.
 
"I present Queen Sansa Stark, first of her name. Wardeness of the North, Protector of the Realm, and Lady of Winterfell," Davos declared. It was certainly not a necessary introduction, but it was custom, and the North was nothing if not a land of tradition.
 
When Davos was done, Jon kneeled before Sansa without ever looking away from her. His dark eyes almost looked molten in the light of a hundred torches, and for once the creases on his face were from smiling rather than worry. Pride shined on his face too, as his eyes drifted to the crown on her brow. The look warmed her as well as the wine had. "Your Grace." His voice was deliciously low and gravelly, so much so that Sansa felt her skin prickle with goosebumps. She nodded at him, signaling he and his companions could rise.
 
As Jon stood, Davos spoke once more. "And, our honored guest, Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand to King Brandon the Broken, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm."
 
Jon seemed to notice Tyrion for the first time, his eyes widening and the smile immediately disappearing from his face. "My Lord," he said, a moment later. "I did not know you were visiting Winterfell."
 
"I could say the same to your, Lord Commander Snow." While the Hand's voice was not unkind, it lacked its usual mirth.
 
Sansa stood, commanding the room's attention back to her. "Your arrival is a surprise, Lord Commander, but a welcome one. You and your brothers timed it well - we are feasting in honor of the peace and friendship between our kingdom and our ally to the south." She watched Jon's face pale slightly. While she was quite pleased with his timing, Sansa could imagine Jon had a rather opposite view of it. "I'm honored to welcome you to the hospitality of Winterfell. My hearth is your hearth, my table your table."
 
Jon swallowed hard, eyes flitting between her and Tyrion. "Thank you, your Grace."
 
"If I may," Tyrion broke in suddenly. "Why are you here, Lord Commander?"
 
Sansa clenched her jaw. Without missing a beat, Jon responded, "I have been busy above the Wall, my Lord, but my brothers and I decided it was well past time we pay our respects to the Queen. We are also here to recruit any interested young men, and to purchase supplies for building. Forgive us for interrupting your feast, we were told to find her Grace in the great hall."
 
"There is nothing to forgive," Sansa told him, shooting Tyrion a hard look. The Lannister returned it. She turned back to Jon. "Please, you and your companions are most welcome to join us. We'll add a chair up here for you." She ushered a steward and he promptly came forward to place a chair between her and Davos. Ghost wasted no time in settling himself between her and the empty chair.
 
"Tormund Giantsbane is here as well, your Grace," Jon told Sansa, "as a representative of the Free Folk."
 
"Aye, your Grace. You'll forgive me for not kneeling, it is not our custom. I am most honored to pay respects to you on behalf of the Free Folk. You are as loved north of the Wall are you are south of it - which is not a common thing for you Starks," Tormund bellowed in laughter. His bright blue eyes were not focused on Sansa though, she noted with a smile. Rather, he looked just over her shoulder to where Sansa knew Brienne was standing. "My lady," he grinned. Jon met Sansa's eye, barely masking a smile. He had promised her and Brienne Tormund would never let Jon come south without him, after all. Yet one more promise Jon had kept to her.
 
"Thank you, Tormund. I am grateful for the friendship of the Free Folk. You too are welcome here. My hearth is your hearth, my table your table, tonight and always." Once more, she ushered to the steward for a chair, this one placed on the other side of Tyrion.
 
Tormund nodded, pulling his eyes back from Brienne for a moment. "Thank you." The wildling man, hair fiery and crazed as ever, clapped a massive hand on Jon's back then and began pushing him to their seats behind the table. "Now, men," he bellowed, turning to the assembled Northerners who had been watching the exchange with interest, "let us interrupt your revelries no longer! Drink!"
 
A roar bellowed through the hall as the music started up once more and the furor of conversation echoed off the old stones of Winterfell. One of Jon's men, his steward, Sansa recalled, helped remove the Lord Commander's shaggy cloak from his shoulders, handing it to one of Winterfell's many servants waiting against the walls. When Jon took his seat next to Sansa, she felt a pull towards him. The queen was hyper aware of his movements; of his presence. Tormund wasted no time calling Ser Davos to his side of the table and regaling him and Tyrion with one of his many sordid, outlandish tales of life in the true north. Sansa was grateful for the semi-privacy it afforded her and Jon.
 
"I did not expect you so soon," she told him warmly.

When he turned to look at her, Sansa let her eyes drift over his face. The scar that had been red and angry when she last saw him had faded to a thin white line on his brow, and now that she was close enough, Sansa could swear there was a tiny spattering of freckles around his nose. Gazing at him, she tried to discern any clues as to the answer he had come to give her. His obvious joy at the warmth of the Northmen's reception had given her hope. Maybe, that would be enough to push him into believing her when she told him he was well loved and respected among their people. Yet, the dark look that had overtaken his smile at Tyrion's presence concerned her. The Hand would be a reminder of both Jon’s deeds in the south and the threat his pardon could bring to the north. Moments before she had been delighted at Jon’s timing. The shock on Tyrion’s face had been a better treat than any of Winterfell’s cooks could have created. Yet now… now it worried her. Perhaps his timing would be the death of any positive feelings he had towards either a pardon or marriage.

“Our business north didn’t take long,” Jon told Sansa. A server handed him a flagon of ale that he readily accepted. “And as soon as I ran into Tormund and told him I’d seen Brienne, there wasn’t much I could do to stop him dragging me back south.”

Sansa still found it so odd when the free folk, and now Jon apparently, referred to the North as the south.

“Well, I will have to thank Tormund then. I’m happy to see you again, Jon. I’m happy to see you here, in Winterfell.” She knew he caught the double meaning in her words – the reference to the reason he came, because surly that had to be the reason. She could see the understanding in his eyes. Discomfort twisted in her when those same eyes flicked over to Tyrion. A moment later, Jon’s focus was back on her.

“I missed it,” he said, so simply and softly that she could barely hear the words over the music and bawdy laughter shaking the hall. A moment later any hope of conversation was dashed as Northern lords began filing up to the table to properly great their former king.
 
_____________________
 
Jon was drunk. Possibly, the drunkest she’d even seen him. There were times when he fell into his cups during their brief period of jointly ruling Winterfell. Sansa also remembered the feast they’d held after the defeat of the Night King. Yes, she’d seen Jon drunk more than a couple times – but this was by far the most drunk she’d seen him.

She couldn’t blame him really. Every Northern lord in attendance had offered a toast in his honor, and quickly followed with a toast to the Queen of Winter, which then, by courtesy, required a toast to King Brandon and his Hand, Lord Lannister. Then, there was Tormund who hosted more than a couple drinking challenges, the final with the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. And of course, Jon’s clear discomfort at the presence of Tyrion Lannister and Jon’s apparently unyielding inability to accept positive feedback of any kind certainly did not help prevent him from drinking heavily.

And here was the result.

Queen Sansa of the North, the Winter Queen, First of her Name, Wardeness and Lady Protector of the North, was barely holding up the very inebriated Lord Commander on the long walk back to his guest chambers. Jon was stumbling along well enough, but leaning heavily on her where their arms and shoulders met and joined. Sansa herself was relying on the warm stones of Winterfell’s walls to keep her steady between the weight of her cousin and the ale she herself had consumed. All those damned toasts.

“’m sorry,” Jon murmured as he swayed towards her, crowding her against the wall. They paused for a moment to straighten up, Sansa dropping her arm from across his shoulders, as his arm was across her own, and down to his waist.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Aye.”

Ghost sat patiently behind them, waiting to follow them once more. What must he think of us. A pair of fools masquerading as monarchs, Sansa thought with a smile. The direwolf seemed to sense her jest and began to wag his tail like a common dog.

“At this rate,” she huffed, moving down the final stretch of corridor, “I’d assume this was your first-time drinking – if I didn’t know better.”

“’s Tormund’s fault. And your ale isn’t pisswater like what’s at the Watch.”

Sansa chuckled, leaning Jon against the wall as she opened the door to his chambers. When she turned to him, he was watching her closely. “You shouldn’t have escorted me. You’re the Queen.”

“I’m your cousin.”

Jon hummed darkly. A crease formed between his brows. “Cousin.” He seemed to taste the word more than speak it.

Instead of dwelling on what that could mean, Sansa pulled on his arm and led him into the room. Jon immediately went for the bed, slouching on it while eyeing the flagon of ale someone had left on the table by the hearth.

“Don’t think about it. You’re going to bed. The last thing you need is more ale. Take off your boots.”

Jon chuckled. “Is that an order, your Grace?”

“A suggestion.”

Jon dutifully began removing his boots. He was looking at her instead of what he was doing and the result was as comical as it was slow. Finally, Sansa yanked the boots off herself. “I always knew you’d be a queen, you know?” Jon murmured. When she looked up to meet his eyes they were soft. She swallowed thickly and rose back up to her full height.

“Take off your belt and scabbard.” Jon went a little red in the face, but his hands began to fumble at the belt around his jerkin.

“You were always ordering everyone around even as a girl.”

“I was a brat.”

“You were sweet.”

She gave him a hard look.

“Aye, maybe not to me but to others.”

“Not to Arya, either.”

Jon shrugged. “Arya was a she-wolf even then. She and I knew we didn’t fit in. That’s why we liked each other best.” The belt was off. Jon tossed it away from him on the bed. “Imagine what we’d have thought as kids if we knew it would be you an’ me who’d end up closest.” His northern brogue was more pronounced than ever. The sound of it felt like home.

“If you’d told me then that you were a Targaryen prince I’d have never left your side,” Sansa replied with a wry smile. She tried not to let her eyes focus too much on the movement of his muscles as Jon removed his jerkin. “I would have told myself you were the Dragonfly Knight or Prince Aemon.”

“Robb and I played at them often enough.”

Robb. The thought of her brother still brought sorrow – as did the thought of her mother, father, and Rickon. Theon as well. Jon’s face also fell at the mention of their brother’s name. My brother, she reminded herself. Jon’s cousin, but my brother. Sansa knew that was a lie though. Jon saw Robb as a brother just as Robb had seen Jon as a brother. That would never change. Does he still see me as a sister?

Jon sighed deeply and let himself fall back onto the bed. Sansa moved around him, grabbed Longclaw, still in its sheath, and carried it over to a chair. When she turned back again, Jon’s eyes were on her. “I owe you an answer.”

Her stomach twisted in knots. “Two answers. I extended two offers.”

Jon hummed in agreement, closing his eyes. He was silent for a long moment – so long that Sansa thought he may have fallen asleep. “Are you happy I’m here? Truly?” When his voice broke the silence, it was quiet and timid, though still thick with ale.

Sansa sat beside him. “Of course, I am. I did ask you to come.”

He eyed her, still laying on his back. “I should have sent a raven. I should have asked to visit; asked if it was a good time.” Jon’s hand began to fiddle with the fabric of her skirts where they pooled by his side. “I was not expecting to see Tyrion.”

“No,” Sansa sighed, collapsing beside him, queenly courtesies and decorum be damned. “No, and I don’t believe he expected to see you.” There was mirth in her voice, but Jon didn’t seem to hear it. His hand had stilled at her side.

“I last saw him in the dungeons. In King’s Landing. After… after it all… after I… after it happened.”

Sansa’s chest felt tighter suddenly. She didn’t know what to say. Before she could think of something, Jon turned his head to look at her. It made the distance between them suddenly feel much shorter. Heat pooled in Sansa’s belly even as her heart thudded, nervous at the intimacy. When Jon’s dark eyes flickered down to her lips, then back up to her eyes, it only made the mix of nerves and want worse. “I hope I haven’t made a mess of your diplomacy, your Grace,” he said softly. “I seem to bring trouble everywhere I go.” He was so close she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Sansa,” she whispered. “Don’t call me your Grace. You are a king yourself.”

He smiled sadly, then turned his head back to the ceiling. “I’m no king. Only a queenslayer. A kingslayer too, now that I think on - I killed Mance. My own father died because of me in a way, so perhaps a princeslayer. He married my mother, who I killed. Does that make me a princessslayer? You always knew more about titles than I.”

Sansa found his hand. His skin was rough on her soft palm. The sudden melancholy after a night of laughter and toasting and singing had jolted her into sobriety. “You’re Jon,” she said simply. “Jon Snow.”

Jon tightened his grip on her hand. “And you are Sansa. Sansa Stark.”

Sansa rose on her elbow and kissed his cheek. Her lips left a blush in their wake as Jon’s face flushed. His eyes were wide and dark. She’d always loved his eyes. Dark grey, so dark they were almost black. What would father have done if he’d been born with purple eyes and silver hair, she wondered. Now that she looked closely, she could almost see a violet tint to his irises. “Sleep, Jon.” She rose from the bed and straightened his boots against the wall. She could feel Jon’s eyes following her.

“I’ve still given you no answer.”

She didn’t look at him. The thought of hearing his answer terrified her. She wasn’t sure if she was more afraid of him accepting her offers or of him rejecting them. “I’d like to retire, so if you mean to do it now, do it now.” The words sounded harsher than she intended, though Jon didn’t seem to hear the severity in her voice.

“No, not tonight. Not like this.” He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “The room won’t stop spinning.”

Relief washed over Sansa as she realized how unprepared she was to hear his answers. “Then sleep. I’ll see you on the morrow.”

“I’ll talk with you then, I promise.” Sansa finally looked back at him. Jon’s gaze was deep and intense, so much so that it sent a tingling feeling down her neck and arms. Not trusting herself to speak, Sansa simply nodded. Jon dropped his head back down to the bed as Ghost jumped up to lay beside him. With one last look back at the already sleeping Lord Commander, Sansa slipped from the room, nerves still churning in her belly.

_____________________________

Jon found her the next morning in her solar. It was early still, the fresh morning sun just beginning to melt the night’s frost into dew. Sansa had been poring over plans for the construction of a new store house when there was a soft knock at her door.

“Come in,” she called, not bothering to look up from the plans. With Brienne guarding her door, Sansa had no fear of unwanted or unwelcome guests.

“I apologize for last night, your Grace.” Sansa’s head shot up at the sound of Jon’s voice. She hadn’t expected him so early. He stood just inside the door with a slightly embarrassed look on his face.

Sansa smiled warmly. “There is no need for apologies, Jon,” she replied, rolling the plan back up and standing to greet her cousin. “And please, just call me Sansa. There is also no need for formalities between us.”

Jon nodded, his eyes searching around the room as if trying to avoid her own. He cleared his throat. “I… I promised you we would talk on the morrow. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

Suddenly, Sansa’s stomach began to twist in knots. What if he’d come all this way just to reject her? Was that why he didn’t just tell me last night? He didn’t want to disappoint me? She nodded and gestured for him to join her at the table, which he did. They sat in silence for a moment, both tense with nerves and both trying to gauge the other’s intentions and expectations.

“You’re right,” Jon said finally, his eyes on his hands rather than her face. “I do want to come home. I want peace and I want a family and I want to put what is past behind me.” He looked up at her. “But I am not as confidant as you are that me coming home, truly coming home, would not put you, Winterfell, and the whole North in danger.”

Sansa picked at her nails nervously. She felt a little sick. “Jon,” she started to protest, but the look Jon gave her made her quiet once more.

“Even so, you always were smarter than me. Smarter than any of us. I trust you and I trust your judgement. And I want to come home.” He sighed and reached across the table for Sansa’s hand. Jon’s skin was warm against her own and Sansa grew nervous he would feel the thunderous beating of her heart through her fingers. “I will accept your pardon, if you are still willing to give it.”

She waited a beat. When he didn’t continue she asked the question that was eating at her. “And my second offer?”

Jon swallowed hard and dropped her hand, his face turning away from her and toward the fire. “I cannot accept that.” It felt like a blow to the stomach. Sansa clenched her jaw and willed the tears forming behind her eyes not to fall. She thought she might actually become sick. But then, Jon continued. “Not yet.”

Sansa breathed out a sigh of relief. “Not yet?”

Jon turned back to her, then. A small, sad smile was on his lips. “You deserve love, Sansa. True love. The love that the Prince of Dragonflies had for Jenny – though with a happier ending.”

“And I told you that would not come. I’m not a girl anymore, I know the truth of those songs and the truth of men. Jon how many times –”

“A year. Just wait a year, please.”

“A year?”

“If after a year you are still convinced you will not find someone better, someone more suited, then I will marry you.”

Sansa leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed. A year was not so long.

“And what will you do for that year? Will you stay at Castle Black?”

“I am the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

Sansa stood, too wound up to sit – especially not across from him like that. She walked to the window just to have something other than Jon to gaze at. “You have given your terms,” she replied after a moment. “Let me give mine.” When she turned back to him there was a hard look on Jon’s face. “You want to wait a year, I agree to that. I request you spend that year here, at home, as my Master of Arms. You’d be on my small council, as is fitting the former king.” The true king.

“My oath-”

“Will be broken in a year’s time anyways – and unless I am mistaken you have not retaken any oaths since you left the Watch a few years ago.” Jon was silent. He knew she was right. Sansa let her face soften. “You would be no prisoner here,” she added gently. “You could come and go as you please – to the true north and back. If the purpose of this year is to be sure we’d be happy in this arrangement, though, it would make sense for you to be here rather than at Castle Black when you are below the Wall.”

“I don’t want to cause trouble for you.”

“Trouble?” Sansa laughed. The way Jon clenched his jaw in indigence only made her laugh more. “Were you at a different feast last night? Did you not see how you were greeted?”

“By Northmen, aye,” Jon shot back instantly. “Also by Tyrion Lannister.”

“His Lord Lannister can hardly object to a son of Winterfell returning to Winterfell upon being pardoned. It is not as if you are taking Dragonstone.”

She could tell Jon was holding back a harsh reply. Why did he want to fight her so much on this? “Jon, you have been at the Wall for over a year. You are still banished from the south and many down there still call you kinslayer and queenslayer. You have been denied the throne that is rightfully yours. That is punishment enough. Come home.”

He looked up at her for a long moment. Finally, he nodded and a flood of relief rushed through Sansa.

“I’ll need to return briefly, to settle affairs and collect my things.”

“Of course.”

Jon stood to leave then, moving back towards the door of her solar. Before he slipped out, Sansa caught the smile on his face. Soon, the expression was mirrored on her own.

He was coming home.
 
_____________________
 
Jon left the next day. It was plain he didn’t want to be in Winterfell, not with Tyrion there as well. And the sooner he left, the sooner Sansa knew he would return. Her first husband joined her in the courtyard as she prepared to bid Jon and his companions farewell. The sight of him made her grit her teeth. Surely, the Hand had to know how little Jon wanted to see him. Sansa had barely seen the two together in the last days, and she had it on the good authority of her whisperers that Jon had not answered Tyrion’s multiple attempts to summon him. However, that morning she had caught the two of them leaving the godswood together as she looked out the window of her chambers. Ever since, she’d been dying to know the contents of their conversation, while perfectly aware she likely never would.

“Good day, your Grace,” Tyrion called to her cheerfully as he approached. She bit back a frown.

“My Lord, it is a lovely day.” It truly was – Jon couldn’t have picked a better one for travel. The late morning sun was bright and warm in a clear sky. “What can I help you with?” Sansa asked Tyrion, hoping against all odds that he was not there for the same reason as her.

Her silent prayers were not answered. “I am here to bid farewell to the Lord Commander of course. I doubt I’ll see him again any time soon. Despite what you may believe, my Queen, I do have some affection for your cousin.”

If she were younger she would have scoffed. Instead, Sansa pinched her lips and looked away from the Lannister. She watched Jon’s brothers saddle the horses as Jon and Tormund emerged from the stables. “I saw you two in the godswood this morning,” she said without moving her gaze. “I don’t suppose you’ll share what you discussed with me.”

Tyrion chuckled. “He’s as unhappy with me as you are, if that’s what you want to hear. I offered him a warning, as his friend.”

That caught her attention. She turned back to Tyrion. “A warning?”

“I told him you’d offer him a pardon soon and that he’d be wise to decline.”

Sansa could have laughed, but Cersei and Littlefinger taught her the dangers of showing your cards. She hummed curiously. “I see. And pray tell, my Lord, what did he say to that?”

Tyrion threw her a sharp glance. “He told me my warning came too late, your Grace. Then that damned wolf of his nearly bit what remains of my nose off.” She made a mental note to be sure Ghost was given a choice cut of meat upon his return to Winterfell. Before she could reply, Jon’s eyes met her own from across the yard. His gaze flicked to Tyrion for a beat before he turned to his companions, muttering some unheard words, and strode to where she and Tyrion stood.

"My Lord," he nodded stiffly to Tyrion. "I wish you safe travels and good fortune in the wars to come."

"Wise words considering the treason you and your cousin have concocted during your brief stay."

This time Sansa did nothing to hide her scoff. "Treason against whom? I bend to no man, not even my brother. Jon is of the North, and a former king at that. If he bends, it is only to me."

Jon's jaw tightened and he stretched his sword hand. "I mean no offense to Bran," he told Tyrion. "As I told you this morning."

"It isn't him who will be offended," Tyrion replied with an utterly mirthless smile. "It is our friends in the Iron Islands and in Dorne and in Essos who will demand answers."

"And when will our friends in the Iron Islands and Dorne and Essos answer for their roles in the annihilation of King's Landing, the burning of the Reach, and their lack of aid in our war against the Night King?" Sansa's voice was hard and sharp as steel. Across from her, Jon looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

Tyrion withdrew his gaze from her cousin and gave Sansa another sharp, pointed look. "For someone who claims to care so little about the affairs of the Six Kingdoms, you sound rather passionate, your Grace."

Sansa let her lips curl into a tight smile. "Forgive me, my Lord, but wolves are rather protective of their own. I've had enough southern hypocrisy to last me a lifetime. My patience is thin."

Tyrion's face was a mix of irritation and resignation. He turned back to Jon, whose eyes had been fixed on Sansa since the moment she mentioned wolves. "I suppose this is not so much of a goodbye then, Lord Commander. The truer farewell will be to your brothers at Castle Black."

Jon nodded, face drawn together in a frown. "Aye. It is just as well. The Wall doesn't need me. There are more brothers now than there were before - too many orphans and broken men from the recent wars. They need a place to heal and to escape. They need a commander to lead them. Castle Black is nothing good to me. Someone else will tend to it better."

Sansa was startled by Jon's admission. Tyrion recovered before her. "Still, I imagine you'll miss it some. Surely you know that when I advised we send you back there, it was knowing you'd be sent to a familiar place. A place with men who were your brothers. It was meant as a kindness, at least as much of a kindness as I could offer."

Jon's jaw clenched tightly as he huffed. Sansa wondered if Tyrion could feel the anger rolling off of him now in the way she could. "The brothers that served with me are all gone. Dead or serving new purposes in the realm. There are a few from before, but they are from Eastwatch. I didn't know them well, if at all."

"Ah," Tyrion said. "I didn't-"

"And aye," Jon continued, eyes now hard and cold. "It is familiar. I can pick out the very spot my brothers murdered me, and the spot where I hanged them after. I sleep in the chamber my corpse once laid in and cross the yard where I watched Mance Rayder burn everyday that I'm south of the Wall. Were I not accepting her Grace's offer of a position here at Winterfell, I'd gladly ride north of the Wall and never look back." A strange surge of pride and pity swirled in Sansa's chest. Hearing about Jon's suffering would never bring her any joy, but she was glad to see him show his teeth.

"Send the Watch my well wishes and thanks," Sansa told him softly, sparing Tyrion the need to respond to the venom in Jon's words. "And my blessing to whomever they select as their new Lord Commander." She pressed a sealed piece of parchment into his hands. Warmth spread through her at the brush of Jon's fingers against her own. "Here is your official pardon and my request you serve me at Winterfell, in case any question it." Then, just because she was feeling especially bold and somewhat rebellious after Jon's rebuke of her former husband, she rested her hand on Jon's arm and leaned up to brush a soft, chaste kiss against his cheek. The gesture left Jon blushing furiously with wide eyes. When Sansa turned to Tyrion, he looked much the same. Despite the purity of her action, it was one full of possessive pride. Jon belonged here. He belonged to her. And she wanted Tyrion to know that.

"I have to meet with my stewards briefly to take stock of the kitchens," Sansa told Tyrion. "But you may find me in my solar this afternoon if you would like to continue this discussion of the Iron Islands, Dorne, and Essos. I'd gladly elaborate on my thoughts. And Jon," she turned, "safe travels. Come home soon."

He nodded, eyes still full of shock after her gesture. "Your Grace." His eyes found Tyrion again. "Goodbye, my Lord."

"I wish you well, Lord Snow. Despite what you may think."

"I know," Jon sighed more than spoke. "I know. Give Bran my love."

Without another word he turned and mounted his horse. A moment later, he and his companions were passing beneath Winterfell's outer gate. Sansa could still feel Tyrion's eyes on her, but rather than address her brother's Hand she turned back to Winterfell and her duties.

____________________

Tyrion didn't bring Jon up again until the day he left, two weeks later. Sansa was grateful for the respite as she had no interest, and nothing more to say, to Tyrion about Jon's pardon. She was especially glad the topic of marriage to Jon was never raised, even during the multiple council meetings Tyrion attended on the matter and the many proposals he witnessed. Even so, without saying a word Tyrion still managed to make his opinion known. She could feel his eyes on her anytime marriage was brought up - deep and knowing and calculating.

"I will do my best to smooth it over," Tyrion told her as she escorted him to where his entourage was waiting to depart. "The pardon, and whatever else you may offer Lord Snow."

Sansa could feel his eyes on her again, but she didn't take the bait. "Thank you, my Lord. Do give Bran my warmest regards, and see to it he gets the clothes I've packed." She'd embroidered and stitched enough tunics, cloaks, and doublets for an entire wardrobe for her little brother.

Tyrion stopped suddenly and grabbed Sansa's hand, pulling her to a halt as well. The look he gave her was deep and sincere. "Sansa, please. I'll always have affection for you and for your family. I haven't forgotten the pain my family caused you and yours. I am trying to help you when I say this; do not extend a proposal to Jon."

Fear curled in Sansa for a moment before she pushed it away. "I'm tired of being afraid," she replied, voice quiet and not unkind. "That is the truth, Tyrion. I understand your reservation, I do." He looked as if he wanted to protest but the queen held a hand up to silence him. "I spent the better part of my life in fear, calculating my every action to determine how others would react. I know the dangers, but I also know the benefits of such a union. Who I marry will be my choice."

Tyrion's eyes looked so sad that Sansa nearly forgot why she was angry with him. "You have already asked him, haven't you?"

For a brief moment, she let her armor fall before Tyrion. Sansa simply nodded at the man before her, as if the truth she was releasing was no great matter. Tyrion sighed with resignation. "I suspected as much. And his answer?"

"He has yet to give me one." It wasn't quite a lie, though it also wasn't quite the truth.

Her first husband looked at her for a long moment - so long that Sansa grew uncomfortable under his gaze and began to walk again. Tyrion fell in step with her. "When he does, I wish you nothing but happiness, your Grace. I only hope you don't lead my kingdom and yours into disaster."

"Surely you must have more faith in me by now, my Lord."

Tyrion chuckled. "I did say you would outlive and outwit us all." They arrived at the Hand's party and turned to face each other once more. "Thank you for hosting me, your Grace. It was good to see the North once more."

"Thank you for honoring us with a visit, my Lord Hand. The North will always be a friend to the Six Kingdoms."

Tyrion kissed her hand and then mounted his horse with the aid of a steward. "Farewell, Queen Sansa. I wish you luck. I wish us all luck."

She watched him go with a blend of relief and worry, hoping her little brother would appreciate the gifts she sent.

____________________

A moon and a half later, Jon returned late at night. He had sent a raven before departing so his arrival was not unexpected. All the same, when her maid came to Sansa in her bedchamber to inform her he had arrived, Sansa threw on a simple, plain grown and hurried down to the yard. Her hair was loose and surely tangled. The cold air made her breath visible in the moonlight. A chill danced its way over her skin, raising goose bumps in its wake. None of that mattered, though, when Jon's dark eyes found her own in the dim light of the stables.

He smiled at her in a way that told her he was still somewhat unsure about his position and place. "I'm here," Jon shrugged. In an instant, Sansa was in his arms and burying her face into the shaggy furs of his Night's Watch cloak. Despite finally, truly, leaving the order, Jon was still dressed in his blacks. When Sansa pulled away, she could feel tears in her eyes.

"You're here.

____________________

 
A week later, Sansa sat in her solar poring over supply lists and tax records by the warmth of the fire. It was a beautiful but frigid day. The North was still waiting for the spring the maesters promised to arrive. So far, it was nowhere in sight. The queen furrowed her brown, trying to make sense of the endless numbers. Ser Tarry, her master of coin, had offered to do the work for her, but Sansa was insistent that she do the work of a queen. She had no interest in parading around in finery and exerting her power on those beneath her while allowing others to do all her work. Wearing a crown should be just as difficult as winning it.
 
Rubbing at her brow, Sansa tried to refocus on the parchment before her, but intermittent thwacksof wood on wood, following by shouts, cheers, and laughs rolled up to her solar from the courtyard below. She did her best to shut out the noise, figuring it was some new building project that would be worth the annoyance once done. However, ten minutes later, the noise began to come more frequently, and the cheers grew in number. Frustrated, Sansa hit her hand on the table and stalked over to the windows, pushing one open to see better through the thick glass. Her irritation vanished in an instant.
 
A gaggle of children had gathered below, ten of them at least, mostly boys but for one girl, stubbornly dressed in boys’ clothes as Arya once had. Two of them held wood swords, the rest held sticks or spare wood they must have found in the yard. And there in the center of them, holding a long branch of his own, was Jon.
 
“Good,” he was telling them. “Now Edd, the next time Rykard parries, you block him, like this.” Jon whipped his stick up as if it were Longclaw, which was still safely in its sheath at his side. The children looked on in awe at the Master of Arms. As soon as Jon brought his stick back down, the children all mimicked the move before breaking out into play fights of their own. Sansa watched as Jon chuckled at the chaos with a smile. When he ruffled the messy hair of the lone girl in the group, she couldn’t help but think of all the times she’d watched Jon, Robb, and Theon battle each other while Arya and Bran looked on. She had always huffed in false annoyance then, and hurried away to sew with Jeyne or to begin lessons with Septa Mordane.
 
As if sensing her eyes on him, Jon suddenly turned and looked up to her. There was a stupid grin on his face and she couldn’t help but return it. Just as he held up a hand to wave, the owner of one of the wooden swords lost his footing and the carved wood slammed across Jon’s stomach with a dull thud as the wood hit leather. Winded momentarily, Jon doubled over as the children hushed and then broke into more laughter. A moment later, Jon was racing after the offending swordsman with false threats of sending him to the Wall, which only prompted more shrieks of delight and laughter.
 
From her vantage point high above, Sansa looked on with a smile and a deep sense of longing. It wasn’t the first time she had seen Jon with children. The various children who lived and worked at Winterfell loved the former king – not just for the legends they heard about him, but because he always offered an easy smile, bad joke, or highly exaggerated story about life beyond the Wall. When they asked him about the Dragon Queen, or what it was like to fight White Walkers, he would quiet, a stony look clouding his face, but he always answered with kind, if very brief, words. He made time for the little children, and it stirred a fire in Sansa like nothing else.
 
She watched for a few more minutes as the battle raged. The girl swore to defend Jon’s honor against his aggressor, and sides were chosen and war plans drawn – all of which quickly melted into more laughter as one boy slipped in the mud. Finally, Sansa pulled the window shut again and returned to her work. Try as she might to focus on the task at hand, however, thoughts of numbers and supplies and resources were drowned out by visions of little boys and girls with dark curling hair and Stark grey eyes giggling as their father taught them swordplay.

____________________
 
The letter from Bran was brief, but very welcome. He is where he should be. All is well. – Brandon Stark
 
“He is as cryptic as before, I cannot make sense of it, your Grace,” Maester Horryl told Sansa.
 
But she knew what it meant. She had Bran’s blessing – whether for Jon’s pardon or a potential marriage, she did not know. Still, it was better than a declaration of war or no letter at all. “My brother sends his love, that is all,” she told the maester before hurrying off to inform Ser Davos and Jon that she had, in fact, been correct in her gamble. Not that she wanted to gloat, per se, but she had told them Bran wouldn’t let it come to war.
 
Sansa learned Ser Davos was away in Wintertown for the afternoon, but couldn’t find Jon in any of the usual places. He wasn’t training men near the armory, or walking with Ghost in the godswood. He wasn’t in his solar, or the council chambers. She knew he had not gone on a hunt in the Wolfswood. Sansa was just about to give up when the heavy door to the crypts caught her eye.
 
When she saw him, Sansa rolled the scroll and placed it in one of the deep pockets sewn into her dress. The news was good, and she would share it with him later, but now was not the time.
 
Jon was standing in front of Lyanna’s tomb, looking up mournfully at the carved stone face. A candle was lit in her aunt’s hand, it’s twin sat aflame in her father’s. The noise of her boots on the ancient stone alerted Jon to her presence. He looked towards her, twisting his leather gloves in his hands. The worry lines on his face were made deeper by the dim candle light; his eyes were deep pools of black.
 
“There you are,” she said softly. He tried to smile in greeting, but failed miserably.
 
In the weeks since he returned to Winterfell, Sansa had grown to know his new moods well. Jon had always been a boy, and then a man, disposed to melancholy. To be fair, for much of his life there hadn’t been too much to be happy about. But it was different now – a deeper, more unshakable sadness overtook him rather than his usual brooding. There were days when Sansa was blessed with Jon’s hearty, deep laugh and his beautiful smiles. On those days the warmth, and even mirth, in his eyes burned hotter than any hearth in Winterfell. But, there were also days like this, when gloom settled on Jon like a fierce winter storm, and almost nothing seemed to pull him forth into the sunlight. Sansa was not entirely sure where his mind went on those days. She had many suspicions, but never asked. It wasn’t that she didn’t care to know, or didn’t want to help him – because she did, desperately. Rather, she knew Jon and knew when he simply wanted to be alone with whichever ghost from his past had chosen to linger.
 
Gently, Sansa curled an arm around Jon’s and leaned into his warmth, staring at the cold statue of his mother in front of them.
 
“I wish I could remember more of the things he told me about her,” Jon murmured. Sansa didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. “All I remember is him telling Arya once that she would have liked her.”
 
“He told me that Lyanna was very beautiful, and that she was kind.”
 
Jon sighed. It was a sound full of weariness and sorrow.
 
They both knew the other stories – the one that Ned hadn’t told them but that they knew all the same.  The tourney at Harrenhal where Rhaegar crowned Lyanna instead of his own wife. The war begun because Rhaegar had taken Lyanna from Robert Baratheon. How Robert had struck down the Targaryen with his great war hammer on the banks of the Trident to avenge Lyanna. When she was a girl, Sansa had found it all very tragic and romantic, but most of those stories had never been true. Lyanna had loved Rhaeger, and he had loved her - so much that they were willing to sacrifice seven kingdoms just to be together. And here she stood, leaning into the warmth of all that remained of their love. All that, she thought, just so Jon could be brought into the world. For a moment, she thought she may understand why Lyanna and Rhaeger chose to let the kingdoms burn.
 
“Sometimes I wonder,” Jon said quietly, “what it would have been like if they had lived – if Rhaeger had killed Robert, or if the truth of their marriage was known. Who would I be? So much of who I am is because of fa- because of Eddard Stark - and because of being raised here, with Robb and Theon and you, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Even your mother. The Night’s Watch is where I learned to be a man. I never would have gone there if I hadn’t of been a bastard. If I’d been raised a prince in Dragonstone or in the Red Keep, I don’t know who I’d be.”
 
Sansa’s brows creased in thought. She wanted to console him. She wanted to tell him that he’d still be Jon – but that wasn’t true, was it? He’d be Aegon. “It doesn’t matter who you’d be,” she told him instead. “What matters is who you are.”
 
He was silent for a long moment, but remained warm and solid at Sansa’s side in the drafty passage.
 
“Your father must have been a good man, if Lyanna loved him so,” Sansa said suddenly, surprised at the sound of her own voice.
 
Jon scoffed. “He set aside his lawful wife and children to be with her, and then left her to die in a lonely tower. He destroyed everything and he destroyed her, all because of his own selfishness.”
 
The bitterness in his voice alarmed Sansa, as did the force with which he spoke. She looked at Jon then. He was staring ahead, face as ashen as that of his mother’s statue. Slowly, she raised a hand up to his cheek and turned his face to hers. “There was good in him too, Jon. I am sure of it.”
 
His eyes bore into her own, full of doubt and fear. “Are you? You’ve heard the saying too. Every time a Targaryen is born-”
 
“Your coin has landed,” Sansa interrupted. Her voice was hard, but not harsh. “Anyhow,” she continued in a lighter tone. “If that saying were true, there wouldn’t be half so many legends and songs about honorable Targaryen knights and princes, including the ones about Rhaegar.”
 
Jon stared at her a moment longer before turning away. She drew his attention back by lightly bumping her shoulder into his. “And, if you doubt my words, remember that you are just as much Stark as you are Targaryen.”
 
Sansa gave him a couple more minutes of silence in the dark crypt before leading him by their entwined arms back up the stairs to the land of the living. When she shared the missive from Bran with Jon later that afternoon, his relieved smile was deep and genuine, and Sansa felt a weight lift off her at the sight. She wanted to spend the rest of her life making Aegon Targaryen smile like that.
____________________
 
Jon wasn't the only one still battling his past. Just as they did before her coronation, the nightmares still came to Sansa in the nights long after. During the day, Sansa was mostly able to keep bad memories away - only when someone grabbed her without warning, or a hound barked too loudly, did she freeze in fear. At night though, her ghosts slipped under her door and plagued her dreams. Sometimes it was Ramsey - mostly, it was Ramsey - but sometimes it was Littlefinger or Joffrey. Sometimes it was her father's head on a stake - the rest of her family lined up there too. Sometimes dragon fire enveloped her and Winterfell. Sometimes the Night King won. No matter the dream, she'd wake up shaking and sweaty. The dreams were the reason she was so early to rise and late to sleep. Often, she could handle them on her own. She'd wake and wrap her arms around herself, reminding herself of where she was and who she was and those she loved that were still alive. Other times, though, it was more than she could handle. 

It was always a maid who came to her then, or, if it was particularly bad, Brienne would be summoned to comfort the queen. The lack of sleep didn't bother Sansa. She'd grown use to it long ago. Instead, it was the way her maids looked at her in the morning she hated. She couldn’t stand the pity in their eyes and the way they tiptoed around the room.

One night, she woke with a gasping scream. Sansa struggled for air, pulling at the invisible hands that had been wrapped around her throat. One of her maids was already in the room, lighting candles and whispering soothing words. "Be still, your Grace. We've sent for Ser Brienne. All is well," she murmured, eyes watching the queen warily. 

Sansa sat up in bed. The room swam before her eyes. Chest heaving, her tangled sheets and furs a mess around her, she struggled to push away the fear. Air, she couldn't get enough air. Her heart pounded in her chest as Ramsey's cruel smile and images of Joffrey clawing at his purple neck bloomed in her mind. Dully, as if underwater, Sansa heard the door open and a gruff voice dismiss the maid. Suddenly, strong arms were around her, pulling her to a warm chest that smelled of the godswood and leather and home. Sansa let herself fall against Jon, breathing him in until her racing mind and heart calmed; until her sobs subsided. 

"You're safe," he was whispering in her ear, voice so gentle it made her want to cry again. "You're safe." 

Slowly, Sansa took stock of where she was. In her panic, Jon must have pulled her into his lap. He sat, back against the headboard, with her wrapped around him in a most unladylike manner, but she couldn't bring herself to care about decorum. Sansa rested her chest against Jon's, her forehead pressed into the space between his shoulder and jaw. "I'm sorry," she whispered against his skin, embarrassed that he had seen her like this. 

A large hand at her back pulled her tighter against him, though Sansa didn't know how that was possible. "Don't apologize."

They sat entwined for a long while. The only noise in the room was the crackle of Sansa's fire and their breaths. Finally, exhausted, Sansa pulled far enough away from Jon that she could look at him. Concern was painted heavy in his dark eyes. They almost looked the way they had before battle - fierce, determined, and... something. Something Sansa couldn't name. Not pity though, she thought with relief. He was still dressed in his leather jerkin and tunic and his hair was still pulled back from his face. Had he not slept yet? She swallowed thickly when she realized she was wearing only her thin sleep shift. She hoped he couldn’t see the scars on her arms in this light. If he had, he didn’t indicate it. "Did they call for you?" Sansa asked him, her voice small and confused. She was grateful he was there, if quite embarrassed, but how he had come to be there was an utter mystery. Surely, her maids wouldn't have had the nerve to summon the Master at Arms to see the Queen in such a state? 

Jon shook his head, one hand coming up to smooth down Sansa's hair. It sent a chill through her that Jon must have assumed was from the cold. Leaning towards her, he reached around to pull a fur around her bare shoulders. The action brought him so close that his bearded cheek scratched pleasantly along her smooth one. "I was on my way to bed - I recognized one of you maids and the look in her face..." Jon clenched his jaw and Sansa felt his hand tighten the fabric at her back. "I knew something was wrong, so I came." 

Sansa nodded. Jon looked at her hesitantly for a moment. "Do you... do you wake like this often?" Worry was evident on his face. 

She sighed and forced herself to fully pull away from him, the intimacy of their position suddenly too much for her. Standing, Sansa pulled the furs tighter around her shoulders and walked across the room to the jug of water her maid had left on the table. "Not often," she replied. It wasn't quite a lie. The nightmares were frequent, but in the past year Brienne had only been sent for a handful of times. "You don't need to worry Jon, I'm fine." 

He was silent, but Sansa could still feel his eyes on her. He hadn't moved from her bed. There was a swift knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Ser Brienne of Tarth. "Your Grace, Alys sent for me - are you alright?" 

Sansa's eye flitted between her Queen's Guard and the former king. Brienne followed the gaze, her eyes widening when she realized they were not alone. "Forgive me, I didn't realize -" 

"There is no need to apologize," Jon replied before Sansa could. He stood, wiping a hand over his face in exhaustion. "I'll leave you." Sansa's body acted faster than, and perhaps without the consultation of, her mind. Before she realized what she was doing, she shot out a hand to hold Jon's arm, stopping him as he made his way to the door. He looked at her curiously. 

"Stay," she murmured, already angry at herself for the request. The last thing she needed was Jon Snow in her bed - yet it was also all she wanted. He made her feel safe. "Please." 

Brienne seemed to take that as her cue. "I'll be outside the rest of the night, your Grace. I'll be there if you need me." And keep curious maids outside until Jon leaves. Sansa could see the words Brienne had not spoken in the knight's eyes. As happened so often, she was overwhelmed with gratitude for her sworn guard. Sansa already felt safer, more at peace, with Jon here, but she also knew how easily word of the Queen of the North inviting her Master of Arms, the Queenslayer, to stay in her chambers would spread and the implications that would blossom with it. 

Once Brienne had left, Sansa turned back to Jon, who was still looking at her with a strange expression on his face. She realized she hadn't asked him if he wanted to stay. "I'm sorry, Jon, I didn't think to... if you would like to leave of course you can. It's just... You see, I..."

"I'll stay," he told her, sparing her the garbled explanation. 

Sansa nodded. She suddenly felt very awkward and unsure of herself. What was it she intended Jon do? All she knew was that she didn't want him to leave, but she didn't quite know what he should do now. She had liked it when they sat on the bed together. His warmth and solidness had made her feel so safe. It had been such a stark contrast to the cold, empty bed she was used to. Yet, how was she supposed to ask him to hold her close without it sounding like an absurd request? 

She hugged herself tightly in apprehension. Jon also seemed unsure of himself. It had felt right and natural before, but that had been in the heat of the moment. There hadn't been time to think through actions or words or positions. Now there was, and it seemed neither she nor Jon knew quite how to navigate those waters. She felt helpless, which only made her feel panicked and worried again. "Would you... would you like some water?" Sansa asked Jon, annoyed at how small her voice sounded. 

He shook his head, "No, thank you," he murmured. His hand moved to rest on the hilt of Longclaw and by the way his eyes widened Sansa knew he hadn't realized the sword wasn't at his hip. I saw your maid, he had said, and I came. Jon cleared his throat. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

Sansa didn't know if he meant the dream or the sources of her dreams, but it didn't matter. The answer would be the same either way. "No." She sighed. "I'd just like to sleep." 

Jon nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. She watched him as he moved to one of the more comfortable chairs that sat by her hearth - the one that had furs draped on it for when she sat up sewing late at night. "I'll be right here," he told her. "For as long as you want me." 

Why did he have to phrase it like that? Sansa wrestled with herself for a moment. She didn't want Jon in the chair by her fire. She wanted him next to her, warm and sure. She wanted to feel the strength of his muscles again, and the solidness of his build. She wanted to hear his soft, even breathes and know, know, he was there by her side in the dark night. And yet, she also didn't want to make it any harder for her to deny her obvious longing for Jon - longing that a sister should never feel for a brother. But he's not your brother, is he?  

Sansa said nothing, but returned to bed. As she pulled the furs and wool sheets around her once more, the bed’s emptiness seemed more pronounced than ever. She watched as Jon blew out the various candles that her maid had lit until only the glow of the low burning fire remained. "Goodnight, Sansa."

"Goodnight, Jon." 

Silence fell. To her credit, Sansa tried. She truly did. She tried all the tricks she had learned to sleep - closing her eyes and counting as high as she could until she eventually drifted off; conjuring a warm memory of childhood when things had all been right and good; focusing on her breaths as they came in and out. It was awful. Somehow, despite Jon being close, she had never felt farther from him. The feeling of phantom hands still wrapped around her neck and she was so, so alone. 

"Jon," she finally choked out. He was beside her in an instant, face shadowy and unreadable in the dim light. "I...." she sat up and looked at him while trying to convey to him what she needed and why she needed it. He was one step ahead of her. Sansa twisted her hands in the furs, watching closely as he sat and removed one boot, then the other. His jerkin was the next to go. Soon, dressed only in his undershirt and breeches, he lifted the corner of the coverings closest to him. Sansa scooted over allowing him room to recline. It was a large bed and Sansa took care to leave him plenty of space. All she needed was to know she wasn't alone, after all. 

Jon had other ideas. 

Barely a minute passed before a strong arm wrapped around Sansa's waist and pulled her against him, her back pressed tightly to Jon's chest. Jon kept his hand where he had placed it to pull her to him - hot and solid through the cloth on her belly. They adjusted for a moment. Jon's other arm slipped under her neck and Sansa felt his nose rest against the back of her head. She let her body relax against him, easing into his embrace, and covered the hand on her stomach with her own. Her face flushed slightly as one of his legs slipped between hers. Sansa felt more than heard Jon sigh deeply, and then she was asleep before she knew it. 

For the first time in years, sun was already streaming through the windows when Sansa woke. Usually, the queen was up well before sunrise, already hard at work as the dawn broke. That morning, however, Sansa opened her eyes lazily to a well risen sun. She felt warm all over and didn’t fully register that she was not alone until she realized the hot air tickling the hair by her ear was Jon’s breath. They were in much the same position they had been when she fell asleep, just more lazily pressed together – almost as if they had melted into one another during the night. Heat bloomed on Sansa’s cheeks as she blushed. The position, particularly Jon’s leg between her thighs and the hand that had drifted up to just under her breast during the night, fueled a deep want that radiated through her body. She felt as if she were on fire. He is a Targaryen, after all.

Slowly, Sansa turned herself in his arms so that she could look up at him. The movement woke Jon. He blinked at her sleepily as his hand, now at her back, bunched the fabric of her shift tightly. Her own hand acted as if it had a mind of its own – reaching up to cup his jaw before sliding into his messy curls. Jon sighed, his warm breath fanning across Sansa’s face, and he brought his forehead down to rest on her own as they both closed their eyes again. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for staying.”

Jon lifted his head, and pressed a long, gentle kiss to her forehead. He pulled Sansa on top of him then, so she rested her head on his chest. Jon’s heart thudded rhythmically beneath her ear and she sent out a silent thank you to the red woman who had made that possible. They lay together in silence for a few more minutes, bodies pressed tight for comfort rather than for pleasure. Finally, the queen in Sansa forced her to sit and then to rise. She washed her face in the basin on her vanity before slipping behind a dressing curtain. As she slipped one of her simpler dresses on, she heard the Jon stirring and dressing as well. He poured himself some water and drank it, sitting by hearth, as she braided her hair.

When she was ready, they both stood and looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, neither sure how to end the pleasant domesticity of their morning. One year, she told herself. Less than a year now, and this can be my life. She had never been so utterly sure that her request would be the same when the end of Jon’s year came. She wanted this, more than she had ever wanted anything else in her life.

That night, as she lay in an empty bed again, Sansa had never felt lonelier.
___________________

Chapter Text

She felt filthy when she watched him practice in the yard. Though there were no battles looming on the horizon, Jon trained daily with the various knights and swordsmen in Winterfell. Sansa had learned this just a few days after he arrived back home and quickly made it part of her daily routine to walk the rampart that crossed close by the practice yard in the late morning. Ghost, her constant shadow these days, accompanied her. He trotted along beside her, non-bothered by the clash of steel. She loved the wolf, but his presence made her feel even more guilty about this guilty pleasure. Ever the strategist, Sansa had planned her route to lead her past the yard towards the end of Jon’s practice – when he was dripping with sweat in the warming weather and his hair was coming loose around his face. As heat pooled in her belly, she’d let her gaze linger on the ferocity in his features, the hard look in his eye, and the way he held Longclaw like an extension of his arm.

Every couple of days, Jon would notice her. It wasn’t much, just a flick of his eyes for half a heartbeat before he was pressing his false foe again. Somehow, the knowledge that he knew she was watching him always sent a warm chill through Sansa. She’d grip Ghost’s white fur in her gloved hand before pulling herself away from the yard, away from memories of the wildness in Jon after a battle, and back to her duties.

It made her feel dirty, and quite unladylike, to have planned her day around such a thing. Even so, Sansa was quite resolved to keep to her routine – that is, unless Jon decided to change his.

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“Seven hells,” Sansa spit as her needle split her skin rather than the hem she was mending. Jon chuckled from where he stood hunched over her desk. For once he was the one spending the evening working while she sat leisurely by the fire sewing and embroidering. Most often, when they gathered in her solar after the sun went down, Sansa would pour over reports and letters and maps and designs and all the many other documents that had become as constant a companion to her as Ghost was to Jon. On those nights, the great direwolf and Jon would sit by the fire, the human sipping ale or reading while the wolf slept. But tonight, Sansa was relaxing as Jon mapped out plans for new watchtowers throughout the realm.

“If you had any sense of chivalry you wouldn’t laugh at your queen stabbing her finger.”

“Aye, but I’m not laughing at my queen hurting herself. I’m laughing at my cousin making a mistake and cursing, both of which she so rarely does.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her true lack of irritation. Ghost stirred at her feet, woken by their conversation after a long stretch of silence. Sansa bent down to scratch his good ear. She and Jon had easily and quickly resumed their old routine of spending their evenings before bed together in her solar. Others had grown accustomed to it too. If anyone looked for Jon after supper and before midnight, they came first to her solar.

A part of her worried about the impression it may give – as before they had shared their evenings as brother and sister, but now the whole world knew Jon was no bastard of Winterfell thanks to Varys and his ravens. The Master of Whispers had all but shouted the truth of Jon’s birth around both Westeros and Essos in a final act of defiance against Daenerys Targaryen, and a last-ditch effort to place a different Targaryen on the throne. Yes, there was a part of Sansa that knew rumors had to be circling about how much time the Winter Queen was spending with her Master of Arms. So much time alone, and so often in the evening. Yet, there was a bigger part of her that relished in the knowledge. Let them talk. Let them presume. She had even hoped that Jon’s presence, and her clear deference to him, would discourage suitors – though thus far, three moons into Jon’s new residence at Winterfell, the river of proposals had slowed little if at all. Sansa had noticed the way Jon tensed up, though, when he was present for a proposal. And the way his hands and jaw clenched when a proposal was read or discussed at her small council. Sansa found that quite interesting.

She was torn from her thoughts by Jon’s hand on her shoulder. “It’s late, I should go.”

For a half a moment, Sansa debated asking him to stay. In the last week, she hadn’t slept half so well as she had the night they shared a bed. Instead of inviting him to stay, however, she simply nodded. “Goodnight, Jon.” Sansa smiled when she felt him kiss the top of her head. Butterflies danced at her belly at the gesture, though by now she thought she should be used to it. He had bid her goodnight the same way for a couple months now. Jon clicked his tongue and Ghost rose, trotting after his master.

As she listened to the door open and then shut, Sansa sighed and put down her needlework. She wished that instead of returning to separate beds at the end of the evening they might return to one bed. Their bed. She had wanted as much long before now. Waking with her body pressed to Jon’s, however, had breathed that flame of desire into a roaring fire. Sansa was tired of her empty bed. She was tired of kisses on her brow or her cheek.

Mostly, she was tired of waiting.

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The glass gardens had quickly become one of Sansa's favorite places in her restored castle. She remembered hours spent in the old gardens with her mother who, despite growing to love the North, always missed her more lush Riverlands. Those glass gardens were long destroyed, however. The new ones that stood in their place were slightly smaller and still growing into the lushness Sansa remembered from her girlhood. As the days grew longer and warmer, she found herself pulled to the gardens more often. Picking at the weeds and tending to the blooms became a task as relaxing as her needlework. Before long, her ladies began to attend the gardens as well, and not long after that their daughters joined. The girls ranged in age from three to thirteen and the giggles and singing that filled the glass structures warmed Sansa's heart. More than ever, she was brought back into the safety of her childhood - though now she filled the role her mother had before.

One blustery afternoon, Sansa retreated to the warmth of the gardens after a particularly long session in court hearing the pleas of her petitioners. A gaggle of girls followed her, pushed on by their mothers' hopes that exposure to the queen would win their daughters favors and give them the opportunity of guidance from the well-loved Lady of Winterfell.

Jon found her there an hour later as she was explaining the meanings of various types of blooms. Asters for patience, lilies for beauty, chrysanthemums for fidelity, daisies for innocence, tulips for love, lavender for devotion, and cornflowers for wealth. The girls were gathered close around with their little skirts brushing against the plants reaching up towards the sunlight. One particularly young one, still only a toddler, rested on Sansa's hip where the queen held her close. As Sansa pointed out each bloom, the little girl reached her chubby fingers out to touch the delicate flowers.

When Sansa finally looked over to the newest arrival her gaggle of girls began to babble to themselves and disperse, the lesson over. Jon had a strange expression on his face when Sansa met his gaze, but despite her inability to read the meaning in his familiar eyes it filled her with warmth. She moved to him before she knew what she was doing. Little Nyra was still on her hip. The child was smelling a winter rose Sansa had plucked for her and occasionally brushing the bloom against Sansa's chin with a giggle.

"I thought I might find you here," Jon said as she approached. His voice was low and gravelly.

"Am I needed back in the castle?"

Jon shook his head and smiled at Nyra who was now holding the winter rose out to him. He plucked it from her chubby little hand and brought it to his nose. "Thank you, my lady," he told the girl, who promptly burst into more giggles and reached back out to take the flower back. "No," he replied after a moment, bringing his eyes back up to Sansa. "I just wanted to see you. I have some time yet before I need to train the new guards."

Before she could respond a steward entered the garden and ushered Sansa away with hurried words of a crisis in the kitchens. She offered a quick apology to Jon, handing Nyra off to his open arms, and let her fingers rest a little too long on his arm. "Septa Freia should be on her way to collect them," she told him. As she departed she heard the girls begin an endless round of questions about Jon's exploits. Sansa smiled despite the hurried rush to the kitchens. She remembered when she was a girl and had the opportunity to meet a knight or lord who had been deemed a hero by all.

That evening, when she finally retired to her solar after a long day managing her kingdom and her castle, there was a bundle of lavender on her desk. Jon was already there. He sat by the fire next to Ghost shuffling through a handful of parchment. She met his eyes with a smile and brought the flowers to her nose.

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On the first truly warm day of spring, at least warm by northern standards, Sansa found herself in the godswood. She had come out for a moment of prayer, but upon finding Ghost lounging in the sun, she impulsively decided to lay down beside him and share in the warmth. Sansa was nearly asleep, and warmer than she'd been in month, when the sound of pine needles and sticks crunching under boots forced her eyes open. In other circumstances, the sound of an intruder would have sparked fear in her even here in her own castle. However, this particular tread of footsteps was as familiar to her as the face of the man they belonged to.

She shut her eyes again as a lazy smile spread across her face. "If you are here to tell me I'm needed back in the keep you are not welcome."

Jon chuckled. The footsteps had stopped and she could feel his presence above her. Ghost moved at her side, no doubt looking up to the new arrival with those silent, red eyes. "I came to find Ghost. I thought we'd go hunting this afternoon. I see he is otherwise occupied, though."

"It was his idea," Sansa replied. She let a hand curl into Ghost's fur as if to make it clear he was to stay with her rather than go hunting. Perhaps if she kept the wolf by her side, Jon would stay there as well. As if reading her mind, Jon settled beside her, though he chose to sit upright rather than lay on the needles as she and Ghost were.

Sansa opened her eyes and found he was already looking down at her. The sunlight filtering through the trees formed a halo behind his raven black curls. They were loose, she noted with another smile. She liked them loose. "As much as it pains me to tell you, your Grace, there is a trade delegation from White Harbor awaiting audience with you. I saw to it they were given chambers and promised your presence shortly." She felt his hand tangle in her hair. When she threw him a curious look, Jon smirked at her. "There are pine needles stuck in your hair."

Sansa huffed. "I suppose I cannot grant audience to the Manderlys with a pine needle crown rather than a bronze one."

Jon picked another needle out of her hair. "I didn't think I'd ever see you laying on the ground," he muttered. "Especially in one of your nice gowns."

"I told you, it was Ghost's idea."

"Aye, I'm sure it was."

Sansa sighed and closed her eyes again. The sun on her face the the feeling of Jon's fingers in her hair were a spectacular combination. "There are some days I wish I didn't have a crown or a kingdom or any responsibilities at all," she admitted. Jon hummed in agreement above her. She sighed again. "I suppose queen cannot lay in the sun all day. And Ghost would enjoy a good hunt."

"The Manderlys can wait an hour, as can I."

She grinned up at him. "Oh, can you, Lord Snow? And what will we tell the Manderlys when they ask where their Queen has been?"

Jon drew his face together in mock sincerity. "Her Grace has many important matters to attend to."

"And far too many needles in her hair."

"Aye, she does." Suddenly, Sansa felt Jon lift her head and shoulders, ever gentle, and shift himself so that when he released her, her head was on his lap, hair spread out on his legs far away from the pesky needles. Despite the change in position, he continued to card his fingers through her long auburn locks. They stayed that way for a while as a comfortable silence fell over the godswood. Closing her eyes once again, Sansa focused on the bird song and the sound of Ghost's panting breathes in the hot sun and the soft rhythm of Jon's fingers.

"We are being irresponsible," Sansa muttered after long minutes of silence had passed.

"You work harder than anyone I've known, Sansa. You deserve a few moments of peace in the godswood."

She opened her eyes and looked up into Jon's dark irises. Sansa had the sudden overwhelming urge to kiss him. Instead, she sat up and brushed off her dress. "And a moment I've had." She stood and reached down, offering a hand to Jon. He took it and rose to stand beside her.

"Do you want me to sit in on your meeting with White Harbor?"

"No," Sansa told him, her hand still entwined with his. "Take Ghost, go for a hunt. You'll never tell me but I know you miss the north. Go be wild for a bit."

Jon furrowed his brow. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but remained silent. Instead he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. "I'll take you one day," he whispered to her as he pulled away.

Sansa looked up at him curiously. "Above the Wall?"

Jon nodded, his face serious and solemn in a way that use to annoy her as girl, but made her want to smile now. "If you'd like. I want you to see it."

To see my people, is what remains unsaid. But she knows that the truth. Countless wilding delegations have visited Winterfell since he returned, often asking his advice or offering friendship and trade. It hadn't escaped her notice that the various delegations, all from different clans and villages, speak to and of Jon as if he is one of their own. It seemed they'd adopted him as much as he'd adopted them. It amused her in a sad kind of way that the son of a Stark and a Targaryen, the true heir to the Iron Throne, a former king, and a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, found his place with the free folk rather than in a Westerosi court. Not for the first time does she wonder if he'd have made a home with them eventually if she hadn't asked him to return to Winterfell.

"Yes, I'd like that. Once the North is more settled, though. And only if Tormund is our guide."

Jon’s face broke into a grin. "If Tormund is our guide we'll be drunk the whole way. I can guide you just as well."

Sansa scoffed and rolled her eyes. She squeezed his hand. "Go," she told him. "I must treat with the Manderlys and I'd love some fresh venison for dinner."

Jon nodded and whistled for Ghost. They walked back to the keep together, parting only when their paths diverged at the stables.

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The feast had not been a grand affair. It was only what courtesy demanded, given the visitation of one of her principle lords. All the same, Sansa’s Northmen never wasted an opportunity to drink, and to drink well. The toasts and challenges and free flowing ale had been expected, but the knock at her door an hour after she left the feast was not.

Sansa threw a fur-lined robe over her sleep shift and lay her needlework on the bed as she rose to answer the door. With her guards posted outside, there were only a few people who would have the access to walk past them and simply knock. A maid, Brienne, Davos, Horryl, or Jon, she thought. The open door revealed the latter.

He leaned against the door frame. “Can I come in?”

Sansa nodded and stepped aside, noting curiously that Ghost was absent. She watched Jon pace in front of the fire for a moment. When she sat in one of the nearby chairs he took a seat across from her. “The feast went well,” he said weakly. Jon seemed to wince at the sound of his own words.

“Yes,” Sansa replied, the lilt of a question in her voice. His presence was certainly welcome but she was curious as to the reason. Jon seemed to be buzzing with nervous energy. One of his knees bounced while his sword hand clenched and unclenched. “Is everything alright, Jon?”

His eyes met hers then and she could see the mix of fear and determination in them. “Aye.” Silence fell again. Sansa took the opportunity to let her eyes wash over him. He was in his cups, clearly, but not terribly so. He hadn’t had that much to drink at the feast. At least not before she left.

“You left early,” Jon said suddenly, as if he’d read her mind.

“I was tired.”

Jon nodded, face suddenly serious. “Aye,” he murmured. “Aye, how have you… do you… are you sleeping well?”

Sansa swallowed hard. She knew exactly what he was asking. Do you still have nightmares? “Well enough.”

“My sleep’s been shit,” he huffed out, falling back into the chair and rubbing a hand over his face. Sansa felt her own face flush at his curse. He typically restrained his language around her, though she wished he wouldn’t. She liked Jon raw instead of filtered through courtesy. The image of him at Castle Black floated into memory – hair and beard long and wild after weeks in the true north. “But that night,” Jon continued, his voice bringing her back to present, “I hadn’t slept that well in years and I’ve barely slept since.”

She didn’t need to ask which night he meant. There was low swooping feeling in her belly. He must be drunk, she told herself. Littlefinger always said people reveal truths in cups more often than in ears. “You’re drunk.” It was more question than a statement despite her assumptions.

Jon shrugged. “Not that drunk. Drunk enough to make me bold, maybe. I know I shouldn’t have told you that – I know you probably don’t want to talk about that night but gods, Sansa.” He shook his head. Sansa was too stunned to speak. She wasn’t sure what he meant, either. Jon clenched his jaw again. “I know you don’t want to talk about your dreams, or about him. That’s fine. I won’t ask. I have them too though – the dreams.”

Jon hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees. “I was up that night because I didn’t want to sleep. I was just wandering around when I happened to run into your maid. Unless I’m dead tired or slip into a wolf dream, I relieve the worst of it in my sleep. I’m murdered again, or the Wall falls under me, or she sets her dragons on Winterfell – on you. I see my mother dying though I can’t never see her face quite right - or Robb dying. Sometimes I see King’s Landing burning and I have to kill Daenerys over and over and over.” He was shaking now and there was a wild look in his eyes. “It always comes back to my death, though. I feel the knife slipping into my heart. I feel the darkness and the cold and the end. Gods, Sansa, I don’t even know what I am or why I’m alive or any of it. I died and that isn’t something that you just… accept. And then I relive it almost every night.” Suddenly his eyes flew up and met Sansa’s. She was sitting in stunned silence, unable to move or speak across from him. “But that night I didn’t dream any of anything. I just slept.”

Belatedly, Sansa realized her hands were gripping the sides of her chair so hard it hurt. “Me too,” she answered quietly, as if afraid of that truth. “I’ve never slept in so late. Not since before father…”

Jon nodded in understanding before dropping his eyes again and Sansa realized that he wasn’t going to ask. She knew what he wanted, but she knew he would never ask it of her. Jon would never make her feel any obligation to welcome a man into her bed because he knew everything. She’d told him about Joffrey and the Hound; about Littlefinger and Tyrion; about Ramsey and Cersei and even her aunt Lysa. He knew she’d watched them separate her father from his head and about the riot in King’s Landing. He knew there were scars on her body and why they were there. He knew everything. Just as she knew everything he had been through in their years apart. She knew his scars and why they were there. She knew about Ygritte and Mance and Qhorin Halfhand. She knew about Lord Commander Mormont and Olly and Sam and Ser Allister and all the rest. Wordlessly, Sansa rose and grabbed Jon’s hand. She pulled him out of the chair and towards the bed, hands slipping down to unbuckle the belt and scabbard around his jerkin. “Sansa,” he began, voice thick and deep with warning.

“I think we both deserve a good night’s rest,” she interrupted gently.

“Are you sure?”

She smiled at him, trying to wash away the hesitation in her voice. “Yes.” It was such as simple word but somehow this all seemed anything but simple. It felt like one of those rare moments when she could just sense a shift in the world – like when she’d first found out about the Tyrion’s missive from Dragonstone or when she’d rode out of Winterfell’s gates as a girl with dreams of the southern courts.

Sansa carried Longclaw, still in its scabbard, over to her table and by the time she returned Jon’s jerkin, tunic, and boots were off leaving him only in a soft undershirt and breeches. As Jon blew out the candles and lamps, Sansa slipped the bolt on her door to avoid unsuspecting maids finding the Queen in bed with her Master of Arms before removing her robe. She slipped into her bed and then into Jon’s arms, this time letting him gather her to his chest while he lay on his back. Sansa rested her head over his heart and let her arm snake across his middle. For a moment, she imagined what it would feel like if he had removed his undershirt as well – if her fingers slipped across skin and muscle rather than fabric. Jon’s fingers moved idly on her shoulder where his arm held her close. She felt him lean over and kiss the crown of her head. It made her smile. “Goodnight, Jon,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, Sansa.”

The next night, rather than Jon leaving after their usual sit in her solar, Sansa took his hand and led him back to her chambers again. She did it again the next night, and then the next. Before she knew it, sharing a bed with Jon, and as a result often with Ghost as well, became just as routine as her walks past the training yard and her and Jon’s evenings in her solar. Working around the presence of maids and guards was tricky, but Queen Sansa had built herself a devoted following – as had Jon – and if anyone noticed either her new bed guest or the later hour of her waking, they kept it to themselves.
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As queen, Sansa was under no obligation to travel to the wedding of a bannerman, but it was a trip she wanted to make all the same. Every lord - every knight even - sent a request that the queen attend their weddings, funerals, and other events of importance, as was custom. While she was far too busy to attend every request, Sansa did love to take the opportunity to travel her realm when she could. Accepting such requests also went far in endearing her to her people. A queen who locked herself away from her realm and her subjects wasn't fit to be a queen at all.

Thus, when the young Lord Hardwell sent a raven inviting the Queen in the North to Hardhal for his wedding to Lady Fairwyn at a favorable time for her busy schedule, Sansa happily obliged. She selected a small retinue to accompany her on the trip. Hardhal was old and well respected, but not very large. She did not want to impose. Davos stayed behind as castellan while her principle knights, including Ser Brienne, accompanied the Queen. Jon came as well, for though nobody would speak it out loud, least of all the man himself, he was widely still seen as a king. As the king. Any faith in him that was lost when he bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen was restored if not when he killed the same queen for the good of the realm, then when he returned to Winterfell to serve the North once more. He was living legend, and Sansa couldn't help but swell with pride knowing that her people saw him as her equal. The Queen and King of Winter in all but name and law. The thought gave her a thrill.

Though they had not spoken about this, Sansa suspected Jon knew how their people viewed him as well. Northerners didn't hide their admiration or fealty at all. There was hardly any reason for the Master of Arms to attend a bannerman's wedding with the Queen - yet Jon hadn't questioned her invitation. If anything, he had clearly anticipated and expected it.

So it was Sansa found herself traveling the Queen's Road with Jon at her side on the way to Hardhal. Both wore heaving traveling cloaks with thick fur about their shoulders. Even after leaving the Watch, Jon still wore all black, as he had every day since returning to Winterfell. Sansa was in Stark grey and white, a simple ringlet of sliver leaves crowning her head. She was well aware of her own power and worth, but something about riding with Jon at her side and Ghost padding silently out ahead of them made her hold her head a bit higher. In truth, it reminded her of their long rides on the campaign to reclaim their home. She was not power hungry, not like Cersei or Daenerys or Littlefinger, but the power she felt leading her knights alongside Jon was addictive.

Jon let out a heavy sigh beside her. Sansa turned, her brow upturned quizzically. He'd been in a poor mood all day - something she found more amusing than irritating. It took three days to travel to Hardhal from Winterfell, which meant two nights sleeping in tents too close to their retinue to risk sharing a bed. Judging by the shadows under Jon's eyes he hadn't acclimated to sleeping alone well. The week at Hardhal wouldn't be much better. It was far too risky to share guest chambers. If the fool had just agreed to marry me and not wait so long, he wouldn't be in this position, she thought with a small smile. "We should be there by evening," she told Jon, rather than voice her thoughts.

Jon nodded. "Aye, and then I suppose we'll be expected to feast."

"It shall be a whole week of feasting, I hear."

"Ridiculous,” Jon scoffed. “Surely the food could be put to better use."

Sansa held back another smile. She didn't disagree with him, but his grumblings amused her. "Well, I see you'll be the one bringing all the cheer to this wedding, Jon."

He let out a huff of frustration. "I'm tired. That's all."

Sansa remembered his descriptions of the dreams and memories that came to him at night and felt a twinge of remorse for mocking his mood. "You did not have to come," she reminded him, not unkindly.

Jon looked over at her knowingly. "We both know I did," he responded almost guiltily. "We both know I'm expected."

It was as close as he'd come to acknowledging his true place in the minds and hearts of the North's people since returning to Winterfell. Sansa's chest suddenly felt tighter.

It was well past evening when the royal party arrived at Hardhal. They were quickly ushered into the small keep's great hall, which was less than half the size of Winterfell's. Sansa pinched her lips shut to hide a smile when she and Jon were both provided seats at the hall's great table - something that a Master of Arms normally wouldn't receive at such a small table and with so many honored guests.

Dinner was a jolly affair. Lord Arryn Hardwell had spared few expenses and entertained his guests with bards and plenty of ale. For so long the North had not had much to celebrate. Now, when there was an occasion for joy, the joy was tenfold. Marriages and births were particularly celebrated as signs of the newly independent kingdom's success and peace. No less than a dozen men came to visit her at the high table that night, offering both a welcome and their hand in marriage. Hiding her exhaustion and annoyance, Sansa smiled at them all with demure words of rejection. Jon's mood remained as sour as it had been on the road. While he was gracious to their hosts, he didn't try to hide his exhaustion in the way Sansa did. After the third proposal, he noisily and rather abruptly stood from his chair. "I beg your pardon, Lord Hardwell. The journey was long."

The young lord nodded with a drunken smile. "Of course, your Gr- uh, my Lord. I trust a servant will show you to your guest chambers."

Jon nodded tightly before turning to Sansa. "Your Grace," he murmured. Sansa pursed her lips, annoyed at his lack of courtesy. He could at least try to appear content here. With a frown, she watched him stalk out of the hall. His fists were clenched at his side. Surely it wasn't just exhaustion that had put him in such a foul mood.

When they gathered the next morning to break their fast with Hardwell, his future wife, and their families, as was traditional the morning of a wedding, Jon’s disposition clearly had not improved. Later, when there was finally a lapse in their duties, Sansa wasted no time in grabbing Jon by the arm and yanking him into a shadowy alcove. "Sansa what are-"

"What am I doing?" She hissed. Hardwell and his Lady Fairwyn had only just left them and she was not inclined to let anyone overhear her chastising Jon. Though he utterly deserves it. "What are you doing, acting like an insolent child?"

"I am not-"

"I don't know what has put you in such a foul mood but you are here as my guest and my representative and I will not have you continue to frown and glower at anyone who so much as breathes in your presence. Do you understand?" Sansa pushed him harder against the wall, barely aware of how closely she pressed against him. Jon's eyes widened and she felt one of his hands on her hip. The sudden contact made her blush. "And don't you dare blame it on lack of sleep or travel. I've been dealing with the same but you don't see me scowling, do you?" Sansa was surprised at the huskiness of her own voice. Jon's eyes were dark and fixed on her - she couldn't tell where his pupils ended and irises began in the shadows of the alcove. "This is a wedding, Jon. Stop acting like it’s a funeral. Am I clear?"

She watched him swallow. His hand was still heavy on her hip, holding her steady where she was pressed against him in the small space. "Yes, your Grace," Jon muttered. His voice was low and gravely in a way that sent lightning through her. In an instant, she slipped away from him and hurried down the hall. Want was coursing through her and she didn't trust herself to remain so close to Jon.

He found her later, as they gathered in the godswood for the wedding. The gathered lords and ladies stood around Hardhal's great weirwood murmuring to each other and awaiting the arrival of the bride and groom. Sansa had been speaking with Lady Tynea when she felt his hand at the small of her back. "Your Grace," he murmured.

"Jon," she acknowledged as he took his place beside her. Lady Tynea shot her a rather devious smile before turning away. The glint in the older woman's eye made Sansa flush was embarrassment. Was it that obvious?

They stood in silence for a moment as Lord Hardwell and Lady Fairwyn's families gathered before the tree. "I'm sorry, Sansa."

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but didn't reply.

"I don't... I've never..." he stumbled over his words. "I've never felt like I belong at these kinds of things. As a boy and now. I can feel everyone's eyes on me and I hate it."

Sansa leaned into him - just close enough to lend him her warmth in the cold godswood, but not enough to draw attention. "How many times will I have to tell you that you belong," she replied quietly. "You belong at my side." He tensed next to her. Sansa recognized the double meaning in her words, but did nothing to clarify. After all, both meanings were correct. Emboldened by the crush of people in the small godswood and by the heavy cloaks both she and Jon wore around their shoulders, Sansa reached out and grabbed hold of his hand. Their fingers stayed entwined throughout the ceremony.

The feast that night was bawdy and loud, as a good Northern wedding ought to be. The ale flowed freely, the music was loud and fast, and before long, the procession of men asking for Sansa's hand began. Jon was standing at the other end of the table, sharing stories of his time above the Wall with some curious and rather drunk men, when the fifth man approached her. His offer was especially pitiful and Sansa was just about to dismiss him when a voice next to her said, "Oh for the love of the old and new gods, Derny, take a seat with the other green boys. Her Grace simply wants to enjoy the feast." The poor boy went red in the face and hurried away as Lady Tynea sat in the empty seat beside Sansa. The Queen did nothing to hold back a grin at the old woman who reminded her of the Queen of Thorns.

"That was cruel, my lady."

"Perhaps," replied Tynea, "but necessary, I think. You poor thing. You must be drowning in such fools."

Sansa sighed. "Winterfell's walls are overflowing with suitors I fear."

'Men," Tynea huffed. She poured herself some more wine and leaned back in Jon's chair. "The sooner you wed, the sooner they'll leave you be. Surely there are a few candidates you have your eye on?"

Sansa's eyes flicked over to where Jon was laughing, his sour mood forgotten after her warning in the alcove. In a moment her eyes were back on the woman beside her - but her quick glance had been enough to give it away. Tynea was smirking, though not unkindly. "I've seen the way you look at him," she told Sansa conspiratorially. The woman was leaning so close that Sansa could smell the sour scent of wine on her breath. "And I have certainly seen the way he looks at you."

Sansa didn't know how to respond, but judging by the way Tynea's smile widened the truth was written on Sansa's face.

“Has he offered his hand yet?”

"No." It wasn't really a lie. He hadn't asked.

Tynea hummed. "He will. If he doesn't he's a fool, your Grace. I can't think of a more suitable match. A strong pair of monarchs you’d make. And the babes," the woman chuckled. “Your babes would be beautiful. The whole North would be crying for joy.”

Sansa's stomach was twisting, with nerves or butterflies she wasn't sure. "He is well loved," she murmured.

"Aye, of that I'm sure," Tynea replied with a grin. She stood then, her eyes moving beyond Sansa. "My Lord, you look well."

Sansa's eyes darted up to where Jon suddenly stood above her. "Lady Tynea," he nodded in greeting.

"I believe a new song is about to start, I would so love to see you and her Grace dance. Would you warm an old woman's heart?"

Sansa's heart stuttered in her chest of the thought of dancing with Jon. However, unlike Lady Tynea, Sansa was very familiar with the man looming above her. If there was one thing in the world Jon Snow hated it was dancing. "Perhaps the next," he replied with a hesitant smile. "I confess I'm not a skilled dancer."

Lady Tynea hummed again as she stepped out of Jon's chair and back towards the throngs of guests. "A young woman as lovely as Queen Sansa should not spend the whole night up here. Perhaps I can convince Lord Everton to invite you to dance, your Grace." With one final, pointed look at Sansa, the older woman turned and joined the rest of her party at their table. Jon slumped into his seat, his eyes on Sansa.

"Do you want to dance?"

"Do you?"

He grimaced. "I'm shit for dancing." Sansa smirked at his curse rather than chastising him for it. She was about to reply when her attention was drawn by someone clearing their throat on the other side of the table. When she turned, Sansa saw Ser Trynt staring at her. The handsome knight was a favorite among ladies in the North. He had dark Northern looks, and was well aware of his own charms.

"Your Grace, it would be an honor if you'd dance with me." Sansa's eyes immediately found Lady Tynea's. The woman was all but grinning. The meddling didn't anger Sansa though - if anything she was grateful for the excuse to dance.

"Nothing could delight me more, Set Trynt," Sansa replied sweetly. She turned back to Jon with a glint in her eye. Sansa continued to smirk as she rose from her chair, letting one hand run across the back of Jon’s shoulders as she passed him on her way to where dancing partners were gathering.

Ser Trynt was rather handsome, she noted, as they took each other’s hands and prepared for the music to begin. In another life, Sansa would have been absolutely smitten with the young knight. He was exactly what she had thought a knight should be when she was a girl. The music began – a lively and familiar number – and the partners began to move. When Sansa was a girl, she preferred southern dancing which was slow, chaste, and measured. It had seemed so elegant and romantic to her then, compared with the fast, rhythmic dancing of the North. Northern music incorporated drums and was much livelier than what was found in southern courts – it demanded partners stay close to one another and swing into each other’s space. It was a release of emotions perfectly opposite to the repression of emotions in the southern style, and for that Sansa had grown to much prefer the dancing and music of her own homeland.

Ser Trynt proved to be a marvelous partner. He swung her around effortlessly and amused her with jokes and compliments between steps. As lovely as the knight was, however, Sansa spent the dance distracted by the feeling of Jon’s eyes on her. It took all her effort not to look up at the high table where she knew he was watching. She caught his eye once when Ser Trynt spun her out and the hungry look in them was enough to make her forget all of Trynt’s charms. Heat curled in her belly. She’d noticed him looking at her like that more and more recently, though she was afraid to hope for what she thought it could mean. Perhaps her longing wasn’t as one-sided as she had once believed. Lady Tynea certainly seemed to think not.

As soon as the dance ended, the bride and groom called for another. Before they finished the request, another young man was already at Sansa’s side begging for a dance. By the end of the evening her feet were sore and her hair decidedly messier from all the turns and spins, but she reveled in the way her breath came fast and hard. It was nights like this that made her truly forget all her family had suffered; all the North had endured. Nights like this made all the struggle and pain melt like snow in summer. There was still goodness and gaiety in the world, even after all that heartache.

Ser Trynt returned to beg for her hand for the last dance of the night, but Sansa declined with a kind smile. “I’m flattered, good Ser, but I’ll let another lady have the honor.” She pushed through the assembled dancers and drunken wedding guests making her way back to the high table where Jon was still seated, now in conversation with one of Arryn Hardwell’s younger brothers who had recently been knighted. Seeing her own wine glass empty, Sansa barely hesitated before plucking Jon’s ale from his hand and drinking greedily after the exertion of dancing. When she set it back down on the table, Jon was looking at her with a mix of shock and amusement as the knight beside him laughed. “The Queen truly takes what she wants,” the young man roared.

Sansa smiled widely and rested a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Why should Lord Snow enjoy ale when I have been the one working hard all night,” she quipped.

“A good question, your Grace. Your dancing alone could lead the North to victory. I don’t think I’ve ever seen as graceful or lovely a dancer.”

Sansa laughed. “You flatter me Ser Bryn – I see a dozen ladies more skilled than me. I’m afraid I’m rather out of practice. Unfortunately, I’ve found ruling a kingdom is a rather time-consuming task.”

Ser Bryn laughed again and raised his own glass in cheers. “Well, if you ask me you are even more skilled at ruling as you are at dancing, your Grace, and I still believe you were the best on the floor this evening. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Snow?”

Sansa’s eyes met Jon’s. He was looking up at her warmly with a soft smile on his face. Somehow, it made him look years younger. Or rather, his proper age, Sansa thought. The wars had stolen his youth, but tonight it looked as if he’d reclaimed it. “There is no woman equal to our Queen in the North, beyond the Wall, or in the Six Kingdoms, or even across the sea in Essos,” he replied, eyes never leaving her own. Heat pooled in her once more and she leaned against him, ignoring her better judgement.

True to his word, Hardwell hosted yet another feast the next night. Half of the wedding guests had already left so the festivities were decidedly less grandiose than the night before. It didn't take long for a pounding, rhythmic song to begin. Sansa had no intention to dance as she had the night before, she was feeling lazy and tried after a busy three days and such late nights. Lord and Lady Hardwell were decidedly braver than she - so many feasts in as many nights was not only wasteful but simply exhausting. The young lord didn't seem to mind it, however. He was flushed with wine and leaning lustily towards his new wife. The woman was glowing, her eyes full of giddy love. The scene made Sansa smile, though a twinge of longing twisted in her own heart. That secret part of her that still believed in ballads and romances yearned for the tranquility and comfort she saw between Arryn and Fairwyn Hardwell.

Suddenly, the Queen was torn from her thoughts by Jon's movements beside her. He had abruptly scooted his chair away from the table and stood. The hasty action drew her eye and caused her to raise her brows in question. In reply to her silent query, Jon held out his hand to her.

"Would you like to dance, your Grace?"

She nearly snorted. "Dance?"

"Aye," he nodded, as solemnly as if he were asking her to send him to his death.

"But you don't enjoy dancing, Jon."

He offered her a sheepish smile. It was so boyish and sweet that her toes curled in her slippers. For a moment, he looked like the bastard boy she hadn't bothered to say goodbye to when he saddled his horse for the Wall all those years ago. "Aye," Jon repeated, "but you like to dance."

Sansa had the sudden urge to cry, but she pushed away the swell of emotion - of love and gratitude for the man before her - and put her delicate, pale hand in his larger, scarred one. The Queen let Jon lead her to where tables had been pushed away to make space for dancing. Sansa could feel the room's eyes on her and absently wondered if Lady Tynea was in attendance tonight. In a heartbeat, a lively reel began and Jon grabbed her other hand as they fell into the steps both had learned so long ago in Winterfell's walls as children.

At first their movements were clunky as they struggled to find their rhythm. It amazed Sansa how poor of a dancer Jon truly was - especially for someone so light on his feet with a sword. She thought the best swordsman in Westeros, as she'd heard him called on many occasions, should be more graceful at this kind of dancing too. With a smirk, Sansa told him as much. The comment earned her a round of hearty laughter that she cherished like a precious gift.

"The problem is the steps," he told her, pulling her close and then pushing her away again, a movement mirrored by the other couples around them. "With a sword, nothing is planned - you can learn different moves and tactics, but ultimately, it's a living thing - like a river, it constantly changes. This though..." he shook his head before spinning her in time to the beat. When Sansa curled back into him, Jon stepped on her toe. She giggled when he winced more than she did.

"You need to let this flow like a river too," Sansa told him, her voice a little breathless. "It's no different from swordplay, if it is what you say."

"I'm too focused on remembering the damn steps to do much else."

His hand was warm and solid at her back and Sansa swallowed an unlady-like moan when he slid it low to the curve of her hip.

"Forget the steps then," she told him when the dance brought them close enough for her to feel his rapid breath on her cheeks.

Jon gave her an odd look. "Everyone is watching. I don't want to embarrass you."

Sansa swung out from him once more and she and Jon wove around the couple next to them. When they came back together, their hands finding each other's once more, she stepped in closer to him than the dance demanded. Her action caused one of his hands to leave hers and clutch at her waist, his thumb brushing over the side of her belly, steading her. His eyes were blown wide at the way she broke with the careful steps he was trying so hard to follow. "Jon, I'm not thirteen anymore. I don't care if we mess up the steps."

"But-"

"I'm the Queen," Sansa smirked, pushing away from him again and falling back into line with the other dancers. "If I make new steps, all they'll do is follow and assume they were the ones who made a mistake." They met once more, chests nearly touching as the music became impossibly livelier. Jon's dark eyes were looking down at her incredulously. Somewhat impulsively, Sansa reached up and ran her fingers through the dark curls near his ears, relishing the way he shivered. "You are so serious, Jon. The wars are over and we are free. You're alive. Have fun." Without waiting to see the look on his face she stepped away once more, easily falling back into the rhythm.

He loosened after that. Rather than focusing on what little he remembered from the childhood lessons, Jon let Sansa guide him. He grinned and laughed as she spun and pulled and stomped and clapped, following her movements and reaching for her when she strayed too far. Sansa didn’t think she’d ever seen anything half so beautiful as the youthful look on his face, lit warmly in the light of the torches. When the song ended and they collapsed into each other, a mess of grins and giggles and harsh breathes, Sansa could feel the eyes on them. It wasn’t the same as the eyes she remembered in the court at King’s Landing, or even at home in Winterfell when she held her own court. Peeking out from Jon’s shoulder, the eyes she met looked on at her and Jon fondly and with knowing smiles. It made her blush, but also made her swell with pride.

She and Jon danced twice more, before reclaiming their chairs with wide smiles and entwined hands. Not a single man offered his hand to her that night – not for a dance nor in marriage – which was all for the better, considering her hand remained firmly fixed in Jon Snow’s for the rest of the night.

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The knock at her door came just as she prepared to crawl into bed in her guest chambers, feet aching and butterflies still fluttering in her from the evening. Sansa couldn't remember the last time she'd been so happy or felt so young. Her bare feet padded across the stone floor as she swung a warm wool robe over her night shift. Ghost lifted his head from his place before the hearth. He'd followed her from the feast that evening when Jon choose to stay behind. She smiled over at his scarred white face before unlatching her door and pulling it open, fully expecting to see a maid on the other side. Sansa felt her eyes widen in surprise before quickly flitting her gaze to the guards posted near her door, both of whom stared resolutely ahead rather than looking at her or her Master of Arms.

"Jon?" she asked. Annoyance bloomed in her chest at the breathlessness of her own voice. Sansa itched to chastise him for coming to her chambers at this hour. They weren't siblings - not anymore - and it wasn't proper, even if he only meant to stay a moment. To his credit, Jon seemed aware of the impropriety as well judging by the shame painted across his face. There was a hard glint in his eye too, though, as if he were challenging her to turn him away. Instead, she opened the door to let him pass. He slipped past her and went to scratch Ghost's head. The great wolf had stood and begun to wag his tail at Jon's entrance. Despite her annoyance at Jon's impertinence, Sansa smiled at the way Ghost's tongue lolled out like a dog’s.

"I know I shouldn't have come," he said with a husky voice that made Sansa shiver. "I know it isn't right." Turning, Jon's eyes seemed to search her own for something. "I won't stay long - I know I can't stay the night, but..." His voice trailed off and he turned away from her again, slightly shaking his head. "Tonight was... you are..."

Sansa's heart pounded in her chest. It felt like her throat was closing and a million birds had taken flight inside her. For the briefest moment, she thought he was about to confess the words that had been on her lips for month - for years - now.

Jon was silent again but his eyes seemed to plead; to beg for her to understand the words he couldn't form. Suddenly, he crossed the room and clasped her hands in his. The contact sent a shockwave through her. "You were wrong, Sansa," he told her earnestly. His eyes were burning coals - deep and warm and dangerous. "Tonight, you said the wars are over, that we are free and that I'm alive. But that's not true, not for me."

She pulled one of her hands from his and raised it to cup his rough cheek. "Jon." Sansa's whisper was soft and sad. Full of love and unspoken devotion. He leaned into her touch and briefly closed his eyes, as if her closeness was too overwhelming. With a sigh, his fiery gaze met her own again. Jon's usual melancholy was there - but it was mixed with something fiercer. It was a determination she had not seen in him for a long time and a look that set her nerves on fire.

"I don't know what I am, Sansa. I'm not the same man that I was before they killed me. When I came back - I was different. I don't know how to explain it. Beric understood but he's gone and I'm trying to get back to normal but it just isn't the same as before. I'm not the same as before. I feel like I've cheated. I shouldn't be here and any minute the gods are going to realize that and I'll just be a corpse again." The hand that wasn't holding her own had moved to her hip. Jon's grip was tight, hard enough to bruise. It held Sansa in place and grounded her just as much as it grounded him.

"And I don't feel free," he insisted. "I'm not a Stark or a Targaryen or a Snow. I don't know where I belong or who I want to be. Everything I thought I knew about myself was built on a lie - a lie that protected me as much as it ruined me. I feel trapped by what I've done. How can I ever come back from being a kinslayer? Truly? I know I did what was right - I'm sure of that now. But that doesn't mean the act itself was right. Everyone knows that no one is as accursed as a kinslayer. Everywhere I go the name I don't know, that of Stark and Targaryen and Snow, follows me as much as the name I earned in King's Landing. I hate the knowing looks I see - the judgement and the curiosity and most of all the admiration.

"And the wars." His voice broke over those words as he released Sansa's hand and hip to cup her cheeks with both hands. She was trapped by his eyes as much as his soft caress - her heart pounding in her breast. "The wars aren't over for me," Jon said so softly it was almost a whisper. His eyes were on her lips one moment, her eyes the next - searching desperately; begging her to understand. "I carry them with me all the time. Everything is tainted with them. There was a time when I didn't know what it was like to be at war, now I can't seem to understand peace. But I want to, Sansa - gods, I want to."

Effortlessly, Sansa slid her arms around the man before her and pulled him close. She tucked her head into the hollow between his shoulder and jaw still clutching him so tightly it was hard to breathe. Jon held her just as tight; grasping at the cloth of her robe and the length of her hair. After a moment that seemed to last hours, Sansa pulled away just far enough to speak. "I'm still learning too, Jon." She slid her arms down the hard muscle of his arms and stepped out of his embrace, joining their hands together once more. "It isn't easy, but I'm trying. I don't want to let what happened to me define me. I won't let it."

His grip on her hands tightened. "Tonight," he murmured, "I forgot for a little while. I forgot everything that's happened. To you and to me and to our family. It felt like we were young again.”

Sansa smiled sadly. "We are young, Jon." She reached up and let her fingers gently brush against the touch of grey at his temple that didn't belong there. Not yet. "We've survived the winter. We can enjoy spring even as we plan for the next storm." We can weather it together, she wanted to add. Be my husband and we will never have to suffer another winter alone. Let's fill Winterfell with little wolves and repair all that was stolen from us. Please. It's all I've ever wanted.

I love you. And I think you might love me.

As if he could read her mind, Jon leaned into her and rested his forehead against her own. Sansa's hand found the width of his shoulders as his found the dip of her waist. For a long, silent moment they simply breathed each other in, taking comfort in the warm existence of one another. "Stay tonight," she whispered. Suddenly propriety and courtesy seemed like the least important things in the world.

"The guards-"

"I'm twice wed, Jon. What more can people say of me that hasn't already been said?"

Jon pulled away from her with a heavy gaze. "Sansa," he warned with a thick voice.

"I am a queen. It's like the dance. Let them talk - they'll just have to learn my new steps." He watched her closely, almost like a hungry animal. The hands at her waist tightened again. “Stay,” Sansa whispered again. It was more than a request. It was a prayer of sorts. In one word, she conveyed a thousand truths. When Jon’s mouth met her own, he conveyed a thousand more.