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Jon holds her tighter than he ever has, once the raven arrives. Come South, as Jacaerys and Sansa Targaryen, or I come North, his aunt demands, her tone clear even without more words to support it.
Sansa shakes and rocks in his arms, body wracked with her sobs. She clutches at his shirt and stains it with her tears as she watches her worst nightmares becoming her reality again. “I can’t go back, Jon. I can’t.”
They should be dead, but they aren’t. They have both suffered abuse and faced loss, lead men and lost them, fought wars and fought the dead, seen into the iciest eyes and stopped believing in the songs. Yet somehow, they have recovered. In her gaze, he found the songs again. Beneath her touch, he found something else to believe in. Finally he can live again.
Daenerys will tear that all away to secure her throne and secure her line.
But she needs heirs. The realm needs heirs. Children of Targaryen blood to secure stability for all seven of the kingdoms. Without that stability, there will be more wars and uprisings. Every lord with an inclination to be a king can name himself and crown himself and Dany will not be able to stop them without burning fields and children. Jon always knew that the cost of peace will be his happiness, but that he is willing to pay.
He just didn't realize it would ruin Sansa's ending, too.
He strokes her copper-bright hair, so soft and delicate beneath his fingertips, and caresses her face in his hands. He runs his thumbs across the smoothness of her flushed cheeks and presses a gentle kiss upon her crown. “I’ll be there, Sansa. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Never again. If anyone tries, my sword will be through their heart within a moment.”
Sometimes Jon thinks the only reason he rose again was so he could gaze into Sansa’s eyes, so bright and blue when she stares up at him like she does now. These sinful thoughts filled his head, even before Bran discovered his true parentage. Even now, when Arya still calls him ‘brother,’ all he dreams of is the taste of Sansa’s lips against his own and the feeling of her body pressed against his.
“After everything we’ve been through…” She says, her voice soft and quiet as her needle slipping through its cloth.
“We’ll still be together.”
“Together,” she sighs and buries her head against his neck. No more tears escape her eyes, although sadness is still rooted inside her heart. Even the seven hells together could not bring the pain to Sansa which their relocation to King’s Landing will. Nothing ever could trump the memories and nightmares that invade every inch of the Red Keep. "Promise me, Jon. Promise me we'll find strength together through the whirl of the cesspit of a court."
He nuzzles his chin against her hair, and whispers so only she can hear, “Always. I promise.”
“And now I present, my heir and his new wife, Jacaerys and Sansa Targaryen!” Daenerys cries, her voice ringing out across her people, loud as a dragon's roar. She smiles wide and spreads her arms to frame the couple, beautiful and bold in the red and black of Sansa's new house, their hands clasped together. It might be their wedding day, but Dany looks the happiest of anyone, knowing her legacy and her kingdoms are secured.
The crowds of smallfolk beneath the steps of the sept roar for them, shouting their names and waving pennants with dragons and even some direwolves high in the air. The noise of their adoration is deafening, but to her everlasting credit Sansa favors them with no more than a small half-smile.
It is unlike her, to refuse to play the political games of the capital, but she is so very tired now, beleaguered by the never-ending list of foes and half-friends in this city. Jon holds her hand tight in his own and squeezes to assure her he is there. Together, like he promised. He brings her hand to his mouth, and brushes his lips against her knuckles soft as butterflies landing on flower petals. Sansa’s smile brightens then, but it is only for him.
If they are to marry, they should be in a godswood, the summer snows crowning Sansa's head. The cloak on her shoulders should be a white wolf on a grey field, the sigil Jon prefers to use, but none of that has come to pass.
They are Targaryens now, even if this is something neither of them ever wanted to be. At least this mad, ignominoius love between them is no longer a disgrace. Jon can love her for all of Westeros to see and not care about the reactions. He is a Targaryen and Targaryens love who they will. Brother and sister once, it makes no difference, because he is hers and she is his, from this day until their last, and no one shall come between them. They are Targaryens which means they are Exceptional and he can love her for anyone to see.
Before he follows his aunt down the steps, he wraps his arms around Sansa and pulls her into him. His lips meet hers as her arms wrap around his neck.
Their bodies were so close he could smell the sweet, sensual fragrance of lemons and lavender that massaged her skin. His heart beat faster as her lips moved enthusiastically against his own, the taste of her blossoming in his mouth like a strong dose of wine that would stay there for hours after. With her teeth she giddily bit his lip and tugged. They shared one breath, one body, one soul, and all that he was and all that he would be belonged wholly to her.
These strange people, who stood by through all of Joffrey’s torments to Sansa and did nothing to save her from the torture, cheer louder for the wedded matrimony of siblings. They love the as their rulers; they love them as Targaryens.
She is his, with no one to stand in their way any longer. He kisses her fiercely. If he must wed his sins, he will wed them well, Jon thinks. He will love Sansa until the end of time and through the next Long Night and even the Dragon Queen can’t end that by any royal decree.
“You need to ride Viserion more.” Deanerys chides him. “The people need to see that you’re truly a Targaryen, Jace.”
Jon had refused to be addressed by his supposed birth name, but relented when the Dragon Queen began to call him by the nickname of the last Jacaerys. At least it sounded normal, almost like "Jon." Sansa still whispers that name in his ear, when they dance at balls, when she holds his hand, when he's buried inside her and she screams for more.
“Yes, your Grace,” he says, his voice flat. This is an age old discussion between them. Jon and his family are never Targaryen enough. Their children’s names, the first bone of contention: Lyarra, Torrhen, and Rickon were names too Stark for the Queen’s liking. She wanted a legacy of Fire and Blood to rule Westeros long after she is gone. But a babe named for the King Who Knelt? Impossibly unfortunate.
And the appearances of the babes weren’t Targaryen, enough, either, except for Torrhen’s careful purple gaze. Only little Alysanne, white haired and grey-eyed, pleased the Queen. But even then, her name was still not exceptional enough.
“Until Sansa bears a child of proper features, you two must do more.” Despite their pale, calming color, Daenerys’ eyes hold a fire all their own. She motions to her two attendants, who carry forth a black drunk covered in golden dragons.
“My gift, for your next child, and for you.” She says. Jon steps forward carefully and opens the chest. Inside, tumbles cloth are piled to the top. Silk and damask, satin and linen, all with one thing in common: the vibrant red and luxurious blacks in their patterns and color.
“Let the world know this child’s blood, even if its own face would deceive it.” Her tone is final, even if what she says is not necessarily a command.
Jon bows, his arms stiff against his side, and graces her with a small, forced smile. “Thank you, your Grace. I’m sure my lady wife will be pleased.”
She is not, when he tells her of the threats he felt under the Queen’s stern words. But her resolve is strong as his. If this next child is a boy, its name will be Eddard, because he will be theirs and no one else’s in this wide city.
Sansa refuses to let her chin quiver beneath the purple gaze from the high-up chair that looms above them all.
“I’m sorry for your misfortune, Princess Sansa.” She is not. Daenerys sent the man there, Sansa is sure of it, just because her children were not Targaryen enough. This mad queen is obsessed with her bloodlines, reviles her own womb for not being able to bear Jon’s children, and hates Sansa for the love that was so freely given.
“Thank you for your condolences, your Majesty.” Sansa curtsies, but only just enough. Her hands are white against her blood red skirt. Externally, she is the essence of sophisticated grace and courtly courtesy, the cool ice princess from Winterfell, but inside she is the fire of the name forced upon her.
Greyscale has come to Winterfell, to Bran and Arya and their own families. Rickard, Bran’s eldest son, is heading to death’s door because no healers will come their way. Daenerys steps from her iron throne and descends.
And all this destruction because of Sansa, Sansa and her stupid names, the only rebellion she has again the woman who tore her from her home. She thought it would be enough, that the twins were purple-eyed and fair of hair. But Jeyne and Catelyn still offend their great-aunt enough that she would curse death upon their other blood.
Daenerys approaches Sansa and the children’s caretaker, her arms reaching for the babes. “May I?”
“Hello there, little one.” She holds Catelyn up, so that their eyes are level. “I am told my grandmother Rhaella had eyes so bright as these.”
Daenerys smirks, and strokes a finger across Jeyne’s forehead. “And you will be Daenys the Dreamer.”
“Your grace, my daughters have names,” Sansa says, worry flashing through her eyes. Daenerys has not given her the child back, and Jon is not there to help her. Her husband is the only one who can calm the queen since the death of Tyrion Lannister. Jon is now hand, but even he cannot do as much as the dwarf had.
“And now they have new ones, just like their father.” Daenerys says, looking off into the distance. She hands Catelyn back to the nursemaid. “Rhaella is a lovely child. I am sure she will live up to her namesake.”
Sansa can only hope her daughter is like her own lady mother. She smiles when she responds, “Yes, your grace. I’ll pray for that each day.”
“It is unseemly to kneel before your tree. You should pray with the High Septon more oft, Sansa dearest. Like a Targaryen.” Daenerys ascends to her throne once more.
“My last remark for you, dear.”
“Yes, your Majesty?” The tone in the Mad Dragon’s voice frightens her. Sansa pull one of her daughters into her arms, stroking the girl’s hair.
“Torrhen is nearly a boy grown. Before he begins his training as a squire, I would like to have a betrothal ceremony for him and Lyarra. Not too grand, but a banquet could lighten the court’s spirits."
The air escapes Sansa’s lungs. Her children love each other yes, but not in that way. Lyarra is smitten with a knight, now, but only last week it was the son of Casterly Rock. And Torrhen will not look at his sister with anything but the devotion of a younger brother, bent on protecting her at all costs. She is silent, cannot speak for nine and seven are far too young, and her children are far too close.
“Princess Sansa?” The queen’s voice is sharp.
“Yes, your grace. Thank you, your grace.” She escapes as quickly as she can, and knows that something must be done.
Their coronation as King and Queen of Westeros is a quiet affair. Certainly, there are celebrations in the streets, carnival games and jesters and mummer’s plays. But even those turn quieter when the citizens of King’s Landing hear the dragons’ last roar as they follow their last master to the grave.
They are not dragons; they will never be.
They are the Northern King and Queen upon the Southern throne, with titles neither of them wanted after the Long Night. They will rule, and Torrhen after them, but the banners that fly over the Red Keep now are white-on-black, the raised head of a crowned direwolf above them all.
Theirs is the blood of the North, the blood of the First Men, not the blood of the conquerers. King Jon and Queen Sansa will reign better than the ruler who would continue the barbaric practices of Valyria in her vain attempts to bring back the ages of Aegon.
Sansa smiles as she watches her children run amok in the Red Keep’s gardens. They are wild and free, not the children she dreamed of when she first came to this palace but the only ones she wants now. She leans into Jon’s arms, a place that is always home to her and always will be.
“We’re no longer under the Mad Dragon’s claw.” He says, his hand stroking her hair. His voice is melancholy even after the happiness that they survived. Poison is a woman’s weapon, but it is also a useful one when your own life is in danger.
She rests her head against his chest, and sets her hand there. “This may not be the peace we wanted, but its the peace we have.”
And they are both happy to finally have it.