Summary: Jon finds himself torn at the worst possible time. Stuck between the feelings that have grown for his sister, and the attraction he feels towards the dragon queen asking him to bend the knee. Shock, doubt, mistrust, and questions arise as the North discovers Jon's true parentage. Daenerys still finds herself leaning towards Jon, causing confusion as someone will end up betrayed and hearts crushed. Things become difficult when Jaime and Sansa grow a connection, and Jon finds out Sansa isn't his sister. This is going to be a pre-season 8 as it will be mostly flash backs of behind the scenes not shown between the time lines of this seasons episodes. So much was left out. It may do some jumping as the character reflect on hidden scenes we didn't see as well as scenes they did see.

Sansa sat in the Godwood, her mind racing - her thoughts clouded. The cold freeze that over took Winterfell nipped at her aggressively, but her thoughts were to deep to notice. It had been only days nearly a week since Jon had left to meet the dragon queen. Sansa closed her eyes, going back to their last argument. They had grown close since retaking Winterfell, and despite their political disagreements, and her stubbornness to be heard despite her gender, they had many tender moments in private. Sometimes he would surprise her in her room with a lemon cake, usually with a silent apology hanging in the air. He didn't owe her one, but it wasn't like Jon to ever point out blame. Sometimes his honest and noble tendencies irked her - because she worried for him like no one else.

Sometimes Sansa would look at him - studying his strong features. She knew her mother hated him because he looked most like Ned, but she didn't see it. She saw a stranger, someone who was present at certain points of her childhood, but even less so then Theon: who was the ward of her father. She felt guilty for still not seeing Jon as a brother, not like she saw Bran or Rickon, but she did see him as a Stark. She both admired and hated his stubbornness, only because it mirrored her own in a way. They would find themselves in little quarrels and disagreements, but by the end of the evening one or the other showed up with a peace offering.

She remembered how angry she was when Jon told her that he planned to go to mine dragon glass. She knew that he named her his successor not just because he believed in her, but because he wanted to silence her. He knew her better then she thought he did sometimes. Jon was impressive that night, the way he listened to her yell at him when no one could hear, the way he quietly countered her arguments.

"Sansa you know it has to be me," he said sitting in his seat watching her pace the fire, her red hair glowing with the flames, her cheeks red with anger. The room was warm and he could see she was flushed. He smiled softly as he remembered these small features of her. He wondered if it was because he wanted to finally see her as a sister, or if because he was afraid that if he didn't return he would forget her face. He didn't know why, and he hoped she didn't notice the way he watched her, the way he always watched her - since the moment she walked through castle black. He let himself pretend for awhile that it was because he wanted to be a protective brother, but he felt ashamed that he couldn't see her as a sister… not the way he saw Arya as his sister.

She continued to talk on, reminding him how he needed to be smarter, and better then Ned and Robb. He knew she repeated this because she thought he didn't listen, but he did. She paced and she paced, the skirts of her dress sweeping the floor. She was so deep in speech that she hadn't even noticed him stand up and walk towards her. Two strong hands grabbing her firmly.

"Sansa," he said with force. She stopped for a moment, unaware she had become instantly mesmerized, "everything will be alright."

"But what if it isn't?" she asked feeling a strange fear in the pit of her stomach, "you don't have to always be the brave one, Jon. It's okay to rely on others every now and then."

"If something happens to me, Winterfell and the North will have you," he said gently, a hand stroking the back of her hair. She loved the way he would touch her, yet never in front of others. But somehow it always felt intimate: from a kiss on the forehead to a squeeze of the hand. Siblings didn't act this way – she wondered what others would think. His eyes dug deep into hers, and he found himself speechless for a moment.

"If she hurts you I will kill her," Sansa said it fiercely and he knew she meant it, "I will take the North against her. A dragon is no match for a wolf."

"Aye, not a wolf like you," Jon chuckled, he knew that a dragon would probably eat a wolf, but Northern women like Sansa were far too few and he could see her wreaking havoc. Sansa stared into his eyes smelling the ale on his breath, and for some reason her heart fluttered in response to the sound of his chuckle. Sansa thought she never wanted a man to touch her again, but she felt something strange inside of her at the idea of Jon being so close. Her hand reached up tracing the scar on his face, and his eyes closed feeling the warmth of her hand.

He was surprised as she usually didn't instigate any kind of physical connection, he assumed it was from what she faced with Ramsay and Joffrey. He was usually the one to brush against her, or to connect with her by kissing her forehead, her hand, or her cheek. He found himself stunned that before he could stop it - he had placed his lips onto hers. The warmth of her lips and the smell of lemon on her breath intoxicated him. He pulled back quickly, but she had not responded right away only stared blankly at him. He had crossed a line, and he didn't know how to fix such a mistake.

Before Jon could apologize Sansa crashed her lips against his so aggressively he thought she had been possessed. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she pushed her breast up against his chest. This was so not like Sansa, and he wondered what had taken over her. She felt his arms wrap around her back as he pulled her closer to him. Jon met Sansa's feverish kisses, her tongue reaching into his mouth to taste him. She let a moan slip as his fingers tangled into her hair. For a moment he wondered if she was trying to get something from him.

"Sansa," he tried to breathe but she would not let him get another word in, her lips crushing into his desperate to devour him if possible. Jon had gently pushed her backwards up against a wall, their passion flowing unbridled as he lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist. A knock at the door caught them off guard bringing them back to reality. He release her letting her drop as they backed away from each other, awkwardly trying to readjust themselves.

"Your grace," Davos said as he walked into to see both Jon and Sansa disheveled, "is now a good time…?"

"Can it wait a moment?" Jon said slightly out of breath, awkwardly glancing over at Sansa who had turned to face the fire - hoping to hide her red cheeks.

"Aye, of course, I'll return later," Davos looked at them suspiciously, but the onion knight knew his place wasn't to ask questions. He would speak with his King later.

"Sansa?" Jon asked awkwardly after Davos closed the door.

"Hm?" Sansa muttered turning to look at him, her hand covering her mouth, her chest still heaving from nerves and excitement.

"I'm sorry," he didn't know what else to say, "I acted…"

"We acted, Jon… you and I," she said it so casually he almost for a second didn't feel guilty about what he did with his sister. More importantly what he would have done had he not been broken away from his impulsion, "I know what you are going to say…"

"You do?" he asked stepping towards her.

"Don't say it…" her voice cracked and for a moment he saw a glimpse of the girl she was, not the hardened Lady she was forced to become.

"I have to," his voice broke to, he didn't want to say it. It wasn't right. Ned would hang him. The North would disown them. Incest was not the Northern way, and cousin relations were the only really still practiced in the North.

"No one has to know," Sansa pleaded in a near whisper. She stepped towards him, but he put his hands up to motion for her to stop. She didn't listen.

"You are my sister, Sansa," Jon said his fingers wrapping around her shoulders to firmly hold her at distance. But she struggled anyways - breaking free.

"Do you really see me as your sister? Have you ever felt any kind of sibling bond?" Sansa asked with teary eyes, she hated herself for looking so weak at that moment. She couldn't deny she had wondered about his kiss far before now.

"It doesn't matter what I see or feel, if anyone found out…" Jon shook his head and turned away, "I am not a Targaryen, they have a reputation for incest and that is one reason why they are so despised. How do we ask the North to remain loyal to us when we follow the same wicked path of Cersei and Jaime, as well as the Targaryen's?"

"Jon," she said firmly but then stopped.

"Sansa, I love you…" Jon looked her in the eyes, "I don't know what that means just yet, all I know is its dangerous to be anything other than family."

" Don't go, I will do anything you ask – I swear it," Sansa made one last desperate plea.

"I must," he said. His heart aching as he watched her turn to leave. He knew she wanted power, but at this moment he could see to his surprise - she wanted him more. Whatever way that may be, it gave him a strange feeling of comfort. His silence though spoke volumes, and with a sad broken heart Sansa left without another word.

The next morning Jon had visited the crypts praying that his father would forgive him for kissing his sister when Little Finger had appeared. He thought of everything Sansa went through and because of it Peytr's voice grated at his innards making him want to rip him apart. He hated leaving Sansa alone with him, but he knew she had Brienne… and he had a great admiration for Brienne's skill and loyalty.

Finally Little Finger said the one thing he couldn't handle, his claim to love Sansa – HIS Sansa. His anger boiled over and he found his hand wrapped firmly around Little Finger's throat, squeezing until his own fingers ached. All he could manage to mutter out was, "touch my sister and I'll kill you myself."

The word sister burned like the ashes of an ember in his mouth, but he needed there to be power in his statement. He knew it would get through to Little Finger more clearly this way, that and he didn't need him to speculate on their relationship. He felt something strange at the thought of it - their relationship. Confusion leading to pain because he could never really have her. What future could there be for them?

Sansa had watched Jon as he left the crypt, and climbed upon his horse. He had called for her that morning, but she couldn't bear to say goodbye. She was still humiliated from the rejection. She memorized every line of his weak attempt at a smile, the one that said he was sorry and that he would miss her. She tried to smile back, but it hurt – but like always she stood regal and tall. Raising her hand in response to his farewell, wishing he would leap from his horse and run to her. Little Finger nearly missed it, but caught enough of the moment to see what was really happening. He could see that the reason he had lost control of Sansa was her heart belonged to another. He now knew what else it was she wanted, and that she couldn't have. As always, he calculated how he could use this to his benefit.

Sansa snapped out of her daze, her thumb brushing her lips that she swore were still lit on fire from his kiss. She could still feel his breath against her skin. She wondered if he thought of her, and if he was safe. She was too prideful to send a raven, and though she hoped she would stop feeling a need for him – each day the need grew stronger.

Sansa stood to walk the gods wood. Another thought playing in her mind as she saw Bran sitting in the distance. He watched her. She felt uneasy with Bran, the boy she called her brother was now someone else – a stranger: as was her returned sister. He lifted a hand in a single motion, a simple gesture easily read. One similar eerily similar to the one Jon did before he rode away. She still hesitated to raise her hand in return, his face stoic and void of emotion.

"Sansa," Bran greeted as she slowly stepped towards him observing how he was buried under layers of thick fur that reminded her of Jon. She had hoped that Jon wearing what she made him was a sign that he returned her feelings, and that when he rode away with it he was taking a piece of her with him, "he does miss you."

"What?" she asked kneeling before her crippled brother.

"Jon, you wonder about him. His feelings for you – for this family, guide his every action," Bran threw the last part in to save his sister the embarrassment. He knew she did not know what he knew. He knew he could not tell her until he told Jon first, "he will do something he regrets…"

"What do you mean Bran?" she asked hesitantly, "will he get hurt?"

"He is already hurting, Sansa, it's his desire to relieve his pain that leads him to make a bad choice," Bran looked her in the eyes and she knew that she could not fool him, "remember this later on - when you wish to put him on trial in your heart."

"I suppose you've seen my wickedness," Sansa looked down ashamed. It was hard to act proud and noble before someone who can see anything he wanted.

"Not wickedness," Bran laid a hand on her hair, the first affection he had showed her, she froze afraid of losing this moment. He smiled weakly, she couldn't tell if he was faking or trying to be genuine, "…human."

"I am scared because of my past," Sansa admitted, as if the truth could not be kept to herself.'

"You are strong because of your past," Bran reminded her, "which is why I wonder why you are stuck in your dilemma. I see two choices and I don't see you choosing. Little Finger…"

Sansa sat in her chair, disturbed by the thoughts plaguing her mind. Little Finger stood as usual, a visual reminder of the power he held over her. He watched her. Claimed her with his eyes. She reckognized the look in his eyes, the same look all bad men wanted from her – but he was more then a bad man. He was a smart man. Smart men are dangerous men, and she had the most dangerous of smart men before her.

He whispered in her ear against Jon and Arya as he had for days. He reminded her of how the people loved her, and they grew angrier with Jon. He played on her desire for Winterfell, for her family, for her freedom. He played on her fears, of Cersei, of what a man could physically do to her, and now a fear she didn't realize he knew about. He had started talking to her and she zoned out a bit until she heard what she hoped to not here.

"The dragon queen is quite beautiful," Baelish added in breaking her distracted daze.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sansa grew restless and uncomfortable, she could see the play brewing in his eyes, he saw how he could wedge himself into the cracks in Sansa's strength.

"Jon is young and unmarried, Daenerys is young and unmarried…"

"You think he wants to marry her?" she couldn't hide the anger or disgust at the idea, but she had hoped that Little Finger missed the jealousy in her tone. Her world began to spin, and all she could see was an invisible beautiful queen with silver hair touching her Jon.

"Sansa?" Bran broke Sansa from her thought.

"Hmmm?"

"You have a question… ask it," Bran added.

Sansa told Bran of what Arya had been doing, and what Little Finger was saying. She told him of how she didn't trust him and the things he did to her even though she knew he knew. Bran told her about what he saw, Little Finger holding the dagger to Ned's throat. Sansa was relieved to know that her ill feelings about Baelish were for a reason.

Jon stood at the edge of the boat, the wind pushing against him, as he felt panic rise inside of him. All he could think of was red hair and soft fair skin. Sansa's lips brushing against his own, and the feelings he had developed towards her. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't shake them. It wasn't until a comment from Davos that he realized that maybe Daenerys could be the answer to his problem. It was then that he had started trying to force himself to feel something for the Dragon queen.

He needed to move on from Sansa and Daenerys was certainly beautiful. He thought back to the moment he had just had with the dragon queen, he had taken her to bed in hopes it would scrub him of his wicked thoughts… but when he looked down at her in the moment of passion, he would see Sansa. It didn't matter how hard he tried to be in the moment with Daenerys somehow his thoughts would turn to Sansa.

A guilt crept in slowly devouring him, wondering what would happen should Sansa find out. Daenerys was essentially an easy target which made him feel even more guilty. He needed her army and dragons, and he needed to move on from his feelings for Sansa… and she made it so easy for him. He knew the moment they met the way she looked at him was like the way he looked at Sansa.

He sighed as he rested his face in his hands. He was putting himself further and further into a situation he wasn't sure he could handle. He couldn't be with Sansa, she was his sister. At the same time there was Daenerys, she was convenient, she was there and easily accessible, but the North would never go for another Targaryen he wasn't stupid enough to believe the North would bend the knee simply because he did.

He had been ready to leave and never look back. He didn't care about the war that was brewing, the white walkers, the nights watch, or even the wildlings at that moment. He was full of anger and hate. Anger and hate for the brothers who turned against him, for the father who did not warn him, for the family he grew up without.

When he stood onto the balcony and watched her enter through the gates his breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful, and for a moment he did not recognize who the strange women were. It took a moment for him to realize the beautiful vision before him was Sansa -the true born daughter that never acknowledged his existence.

No thought of turning her away for the way she treated him crossed his mind. All he could think of was holding her in his arms. He knew who she was but she was a stranger. A connection binding them together, something tearing at his insides he had never felt before. From that moment on he would devote everything to keeping her safe. She was the reason he decided to not give up. Every precious moment they spent alone together was another reason to fight. Each touch big or small gave him a hope he feared. Each time she challenged his authority he hated it but at the same time appreciated that they had become so close she felt comfortable speaking up.

It hurt him to be away from her. It hurt him to think of her with another. He knew the moment Baelish said he loved Sansa he wanted to ring his neck. The moment he met Ramsay and knowing only what she would tell and piecing the rest together, he hated the Bolton boy – and he wanted him dead. He hated the idea of anyone touching his Sansa. He worried if the longer he was gone the closer Baelish would get to her, or worst she met someone knew who could take her away unlike Little Finger.

Jon had written Sansa a thousand letters, mostly rewrites, some expressing his love for her some wishing her a happy life – but all ended in the fire. He decided that sending her letters would only complicate things or make them worst, so he sent few updates that were vague. But all he wanted was to tell her of how he thought of her lips every day, and how he missed the way her hair danced like fire. The smell of her after a fresh bath, the taste of lemon cake lingering on her lips, the sweet bell like movement of her graceful movements. He wanted to tell her he missed her. That he needed her. That he wanted to be with her. But he couldn't, his honor would not allow it. He could see shore coming into view, it would not be long now before they reached the shore – and he would have to face Sansa.