"I've thought about your solution to the problem of your parentage. You can't just declare me Queen, it won't suddenly mollify their hatred of me," Sansa says naught six hours after he'd told her the truth and said he would proclaim her Queen.

"They don't hate you!"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Well, they certainly don't trust me."

Lyanna Mormont hadn't been the only one of his bannermen who'd called Sansa a Lannister. To them, his sister being held captive and publicly beaten somehow proved she had mixed loyalties. He hated that they punished her for surviving. But they weren't completely wrong. The Lannisters could make a claim that Sansa was still married to Tyrion and try to take the North. They seemed to think the same thing was possible from the Targaryens, what with Daenerys' proposal on top of everything else.

Jon sighs. "They're already rejecting me. And we need to stand together if we –"

"I have another solution," Sansa says, the slight waiver in her voice is the only thing that betrays any hint of nervousness. With her back straight and her face composed she continues, "the two of us could get married, and unite our claims."

His mouth is suddenly dry. He tries to speak, but words do not come.

"They like you. But you're a Targaryen. They don't trust me. But I'm a Stark. It makes sense."

This is the first time he as heard her call him a Targaryen and he doesn't like the way it sounds.

"I see," Jon says.

Sansa reaches across his desk and puts her hand on his arm. He glances down at this now commonplace show of affection, and when he looks back into her eyes she has the smallest of smiles on her face.

"I understand you'll always view me as a sister, and that consummating the marriage will be difficult for you, but you and I are creatures of duty. We'll do what's right."

Jon gulps.

She's wrong. As soon as she says 'consummating' the blood drains from his brain. He's thought about it before, too often, really, but to have seen her lips form the words… it's all a little too much.

"We should discuss this further, I think," he says, "I don't want to be rash. I promised you that you wouldn't have to marry anyone you didn't choose. Not again." Let alone your own brother, he doesn't add.

Sansa's brow furrows. "I am choosing. I'm… the one proposing the marriage."

"You're proposing to me?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Sansa asks, her nervousness more apparent now in a small laugh.

It was. It was just too surreal. He wasn't sure why he was hesitating. He wanted her. The building desire had become a problem as soon as he realized what it was, and that had been months ago. This should be a solution. And yet… it wouldn't be real, would it? He had imagined her pressing her lips to his neck and whispering base confessions of desire, not of diplomacy or doing the right thing.

But she was right. It didn't matter. He would do his duty. And he would enjoy it, sick as that was.

"Then I accept," Jon says, forcing himself to meet her eye and smile gently. She had no idea what she was getting herself into, of the thoughts he hadn't managed to will away. That he hadn't really minded that she was his sister, really, back when he thought they shared a father. That the wrongness of it had made him come harder when he'd taken himself in hand to relieve the tension.

Sansa's shoulders relax, and she smiles back at him as though he is her personal saviour, and gods, he still isn't used to that. Her hand is still on his arm, and she gives it a squeeze, "our heir will be a way to start fresh. A new beginning."

Our heir.

The thought of it makes him want to push aside the papers and his battle plans and pull her onto his desk right then. Instead he pulled his arm away and stood up, turning around to look out the window. She couldn't know. She would hate him for it. "If it's an heir you want we should marry soon. I'll need to go north soon, and I don't know when I'll be back." If I'll be back, he thinks. He tries to convince himself that's why his body has responded like this. He wants to leave something behind in this world.

"I agree," Sansa says, "we just need to call our bannermen. It shouldn't take long. It will have to be a modest feast. But it will raise everyone's spirits."

"You and Baelish can arrange it?" Jon asks, shutting his eyes.

Sansa rises from her chair and stands at his side. He turns to look at her, and she brings a hand to his chest. "If you make them think you love me, maybe they'll love me too," she says, and he leans over and catches her lips in the gentlest of kisses. To show her that he could do just that. But it only lasts a moment before she pulls away.

"You're a better actor than I thought, but maybe a little more passion on the day."

That triggers something in him. He's not sure if it's his pride that's injured or if he just wants to get under her skin the way she's gotten under his. He catches her wrist in his hand as she turns to leave.

"Come here," he says, his voice gruff with desperation, and she turns back, curiosity in her eyes. "Kiss me again," he says, this time a little more delicately. She nods and he ropes a hand through her hair and pulls her close to him. His mouth takes possession of hers. She's slack in his arms. The tip of his tongue runs across the roof of her mouth -

She pulls away again. "Better," she says, and there's something that looks a lot like fear in her eyes. He steps back. He's never felt so guilty.

"I suppose I ought to get back to this," he says, gesturing at his desk vaguely.

She nods, all emotion gone from her face yet again. "I'll take care of everything. Don't worry," she says, and with that she is gone.

Author's Note: you can read more of my work at theonbaejoys on tumblr.