A/N: I've been hovering on the fringes of this fandom for years, but recent episodes of GOT have been very inspiring so I wrote this little number, mostly to exercise my Jon/Sansa demons so I can scurry back to my other fics. This is mostly show canon with a bit of book reference thrown in here and there. I hope everyone enjoys and feedback is lovely (just like yoooou).

R+L=J applies.

The End, Bitter and Sweet

"I've grown rather tired of fighting, Lady Sansa."

"A sentiment I echo, Your Grace."

Dany smirked and sipped idly from her goblet. The wine was sweet and spiced but heavily watered. Winterfell, like much of the North, had suffered from years of warfare and strife, but still struggled toward some semblance of refinery and comfort. Dany wondered if anyone would go hungry to accommodate for the earlier feast, filled with its tense Northern nobles and freezing Southern guests. The woman seated across from Dany certainly appeared as though she frequently skipped meals, thin and pale beneath the simple wool gown, direwolves dancing along its hem.

"So you agree that the North should bow to my rule?" Dany hedged, more in jest than actuality.

Lada Sansa, she who would call herself Queen of the North –though the small folk had different names for her; Wolf Queen or the Queen of Winter- quirked a slight smile.

"The North will never again bow to Southern rule, Your Grace," Lady Sansa said and sipped from her own wine glass.

They were entirely alone, though Brienne of Tarth and Daario lingered just outside. Tyrion and Jon had sulked like babes when she'd made it clear that she would only speak to the Lady Sansa alone. Tyrion had a habit of speaking around and under her and Jon, well, she wasn't yet sure what to make of the man who claimed to be her nephew. He'd survived dragon fire, so his lineage was difficult to argue, but she wasn't at all certain what she meant to do about it. Killing him would be easiest, she knew, but she balked against the idea of slaying the last of her kin. She'd already lost so much…

The Lady Sansa was yet another enigma. She was prim and well mannered, but cold and distant in her way, as if she held herself eternally aloft. The woman was as lovely and as frosty as her homeland, but beneath the rather frail exterior, there was a hint of steel. Danny, who'd frequently been underestimated for her sex and appearance, would not make a similar mistake.

"Perhaps I might suggest an alternative."

Dany nodded graciously, concluding, rather begrudgingly, that she respected this woman who'd lost everything and fought tooth and nail to reclaim it. They were very different, she thought, and yet they had so much in common. Tyrion had certainly spoken highly of her, in his way.

Lady Sansa set her wine glass aside, blue eyes as cold as snow cast in shadow. "The Northern houses have always been different from those in the South. Their memories longer and their loyalties firmer." Dany pursed her lips, thinking of the tales she'd heard of another self-proclaimed Northern ruler who'd been murdered by those he'd considered loyal, but said nothing. "If you'll forgive me, Your Grace, you grew up half a world away and, while your accomplishments certainly cannot be ignored, you know little of Westros and its people, you will have a hard enough time claiming and keeping Kings Landing, leave the North to those who know it better."

There was a long pause. "I hear no concessions in your pretty speech, Lady Sansa," Dany said stonily, though Tyrion had already voiced much of what the other woman said. The Imp had proved a valued advisor, though she was reluctant to part with nearly half the kingdom she'd intended to take. "The North is weak from years of war and a myriad of rulers, each more unfit than the last. It would not be hard to claim."

"No, it would not," Lady Sansa agreed, "though you might find it hard to keep."

Another pause and Lady Sansa rose to pour them each another glass of wine. She was graceful and efficient in all her movements and Dany mused, not for the first time, that a woman's armor might be subtler than the heavy steel plates of men, but it was no less impenetrable.

Lady Sansa sat, took a drink, and said, "As to concessions, I have several, many of which I think might eliminate several potential problems for us both."

Jon paced before the hearth in what had once been Eddard Stark's study, angry and lost. It was wrong to feel ire toward the dead, but Jon was having trouble mastering his emotions.

Why had he never told him? The question was never far from his mind, these past moons.

First Bran had insisted, though few of them had believed him, Jon included, then the Dragon Queen had come sweeping through the North and attempted to kill him with dragon fire only to prove their kinship as Jon walked naked, but unharmed, from her ire.

Little had truly changed, however. He was still a bastard, just a bastard from a different sire.

Why had Ned, the man he'd called father, never told him?

Jon banged a fist against the hot stone of the mantle with a growl, then sighed and let his forehead rest against it. Gods, he was weary. Weary of war, weary of life, weary of the convoluted leaps each moment seemed to present.

The door opened and Sansa strode breezily into the room. Jon stiffened and turned, heart in his throat. They'd grown closer over the months, become friends even, but now a great chasm stood between them. He'd found purpose in life again, being her brother, her protector. Now he felt adrift.

"Daenerys has agreed to leave the North in peace," she said, studying him in her quiet almost glassy way. They'd grown used to each other, in the months of battle and bloodshed, but still he found it difficult to read her at times.

"What was her price?" he asked, though he hardly dared believe she spoke true. The Dragon Queen was not precisely known for her mercy.

Sansa faltered and her eyes dipped away from his. His sister –no, cousin- was not easily unsettled and he had an urge to cross the room and take her hands in his. She'd been strong for so long, been strong for so many, and he hated to see her bear new, impossible burdens.

"We agreed on a marriage, one that would unite the North and South and the promise of an heir so that she need not marry… as it is quite clear to everyone that she has no intention of doing so again."

Jon's blood went cold and his hands balled into fists at his side. "Sansa-"

She lifted a pale hand to silence him. His mind raced, wondering what Southern prick she'd be forced into bed with after living through so much, enduring so much at the hands of those she'd been made to wed. It was a sacrifice she shouldn't have to make, not again. His hatred toward the woman who was supposedly his Aunt only grew.

"Please Jon, you must hear me out," Sansa insisted, looking smaller somehow in that moment. "I-well, I could think of no other way to secure our safety, to ensure that she would leave us both be. With a male Targaryen heir, it makes her claim shakier and more uncertain," –cold dread began to pool in his gut- "I believed that it was only through o-our union that we might… mitigate any such danger." She broke off and her gaze, when she finally lifted it to meet his, was pleading.

"Gods, Sansa," he cursed and turned from her, thrusting a hand through his hair and pacing away. "You can't be serious." He felt sick at the implications.

"If you've a better idea to keep her from burning Winterfell to the ground and placing a knife between your ribs, I am eager to hear it," she bit back.

Jon braced his hands on Ned Stark's desk, mind churning and churning. Just when he'd thought his life could get no more ridiculous, the Gods saw fit to contradict him.

"You're my sister, Sansa," he whispered harshly, though he knew what her answer would be.

"No, Jon, no I am not."

They married in the godswood and he wore the three headed Targaryen dragon on his back. He was grateful that, despite the huge breech in tradition, it was he who would be losing his cloak. One of the conditions of their marriage was that Jon would be a consort only, not a king, and he wasn't sure who was more relieved, he or his Aunt.

Sansa was deathly pale as she walked alone down the lighted path. A queen was given away by no one, she'd insisted despite their frowning bannermen. None of them had dared to refuse her, for which Jon was privately grateful. The godswood, which might have once been a safe haven for her, held only bitter memories of a monster wearing the guise of a man.

She'd been coronated earlier that morning, the Dragon Queen sitting attendance, and the crown of the North, its spiked blades glistening in the lantern light, sat upon her brow, woven into the braids of her fire touched hair. She was like a woman born of song and legend as she glided across the snow, and Jon's heart lodged in his throat. Bran, stationed beside the heart tree in a chair, offered him an encouraging smile. He carried the weight of the dead in that smile, and for a moment he saw the faces of his dead siblings, each distinct, each loving, before the moment passed.

Sansa paused at the last lantern and Jon willed himself to say the words. "Who comes? Who comes before the gods?"

"Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North," she said, voice ringing clear and true through the people gathered, "comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Jon licked at his lips and drew himself to his full height. He could do this. He could do this for her. "I, Jon of House Targaryen, Prince of the Andals and the First Men," –he nearly slipped over the titles- "claim her. Who gives her?"

Here, they deviated from tradition, and Jon found himself holding his breath as Sansa said the words.

"I, Sansa Stark, as Queen of the North, give myself to you, Prince Jon Targaryen. Will you take me?" A smile, bare and fragile, tugged at her lips as her eyes held his. It was almost a jest, that look, a reminder that the two of them were constantly throwing caution and tradition into the faces of those who opposed them.

Jon felt as though a weight had been lifted by that small, uncertain smile and it was easier than he'd imagined, easier than it should have been, to say, "I take you, Sansa Stark."

She crossed the distance between them and he took her hands in his. Together they turned and knelt in the snow before the heart tree. Jon felt a boy in that moment, recalling all the times he'd found Ned Stark, the man who would always be as a father to him no matter who his parentage belonged to, had knelt where he knelt now. Jon bowed his head and prayed that together, he and Sansa might find some measure of peace. Her fingers tightened in his.

They rose together a few long minutes later without a word between them and Jon discarded his cloak. Sansa stood close, nearly the same height as he, and smiled as he turned so that she could place her cloak about his shoulders. He'd worried that it might be awkward or that someone might protest, but somehow, it felt the most natural part of the entire ceremony.

He was a true Stark at last, he thought as the crowd raised a cheer, but it was a far bitterer fact than he'd ever imagined.

"Have we ever danced before?" Sansa asked as he led her toward the center of the hall. People parted to make way and their eyes felt damning.

"No, we haven't," he said quietly. As a girl she'd always quietly, but efficiently made it very clear that she had no intention of dancing with her bastard brother. Her bastard cousin turned husband was apparently another matter.

He'd never held Sansa responsible for their childhood distance. It had always felt so foolish a complaint in light of everything they'd endured, everything they'd lost, but now the old bitterness arose.

As the music swelled and he pulled her toward him, she read his expression and her own softened. She'd proven quite adept at reading his moods. "Perhaps it is fitting that this is our first, all things considered."

Jon flushed a little as he led her through the steps. It was a pretty song, all strings and beautifully haunting chords and Sansa looked lovely in her gown of white and gray. The direwolf was stitched into nearly all of her clothing and one stood proudly at her breast, swooping and racing across the modest cut of her gown.

"Perhaps," he said, mostly for a lack of anything better to say as they fumbled through the steps for a moment before they found a rhythm together. He was trying very, very hard not to think of the bedding ceremony and what the rest of the night would entail, but with the warmth of her bleeding through her dress and against his palm it was becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

Sansa leaned into him as he spun her out and back in again, "Don't be afraid. We'll be alright, you and I."

Jon, distantly aware of the irony of a bride comforting her husband on their wedding night, tightened his grip on her waist and sighed, comforted by her words despite himself. "You look beautiful, by the way," he said, unable to give voice to his tremulous emotions.

She chuckled as he spun her again. "You look very handsome as well, my lord," she replied and Jon flushed, feeling foolish. He wore a black tunic with silver threading and embroidery, but he was certain he paled in comparison to his new bride.

The song ended a moment later and the hall applauded as they returned to the high seat where the Dragon Queen waited, a sardonic smile on her face.

"You are more Targaryen than I thought, nephew," she whispered to him as she reached for more wine and Jon felt a chill creep traitorously up his spine as he realized that, just for a moment, the thought of bedding Sansa hadn't felt such a terrible idea after all.

Hours later, they stood facing each other in the chamber Catelyn and Ned Stark had once shared, studying one another. She wore a simple nighttrail and a pale blue sleeping robe tied demurely at her waist with her hair, loosened from its intricate coifs, hanging down her back.

"We needn't do this, Sansa," he said after what felt like an endless silence. He wasn't even certain he could do this.

Sansa offered him a small, wavering smile. "Winterfell will need an heir, Jon." Unspoken, but no less important, was the knowledge that their union would be required to provide an even more important heir for another throne as well. That, however, was a worry for another day.

"I know what it is you've been through, Sansa," he found himself saying. "I would not leave you with more scars."

She studied him in silence for another long moment before taking first one step and then another toward him. He forced himself to remain still, unflinching, though he felt as if he ought to be running for the door. Hesitantly, she reached out and took his hands in hers. Her fingers were shaking and instinctively he closed his around them, seeking to still the motion, to offer her comfort.

"I trust you, Jon," she whispered earnestly, "I trust you as I thought I could never trust another… not after what happened to father, to our family. This… this is not the union that either of us wanted, but I hope, at least, we can have trust." She lifted her gaze to hold his, her blue eyes, lovely and bright with hope, bore into him. He smiled at her, though he felt it shake on his face.

"Yes, Sansa," he said. "We have at least that much."

Despite his fears of incompetence, once she was beneath him, laid out across the furs, his body rose readily to the occasion. A place inside him, private and dark, realized that he was far more like Jamie Lannister than he'd ever wanted to be. The thought nearly ended things before they began, but Sansa took his face in her hands and brought his forehead to hers.

"Trust me, Jon, trust me," she whispered, stroking his face, her breath hot and sweet against his lips. Her legs shifted slightly and parted and Jon trembled at the sensation of her warm, silky thighs gliding against him as he slowly sank down toward her.

He couldn't refuse her. As much as he wished he could, he knew they had little choice. All he could do was make it as brief and as easy for her as possible.

Swallowing heavily and closing his eyes, his forehead still pressed to hers, he let his hand drift between her legs. He petted her gently but insistently in the way he'd learned with Ygritte what felt like a lifetime ago, parting her folds and searching. She tensed, gripping his shoulders, and he could all but taste her fear and uncertainty, but he knew it would be a greater agony for him to take her dry and unready and gods, he didn't want to hurt her.

Her breath caught as he worked a digit against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her cunt and a flash of heat shot to his groin that he was powerless to stop. He worked her gently, listening carefully to her breathing as her little nails dug into his shoulders through the thin cloth of the shirt he'd thought to leave on. It wasn't long before she was slick and panting slightly and he was caught by a sudden urge to kiss her, to taste her.

Instead he let his head fall to nestle between her shoulder and neck where she smelled of lavender and lemon. Telling himself that he had to be certain, that he had to be sure she was ready for him, he slid first one finger and then another inside of her, biting his lip to stifle a groan at the sensation of her clenching around him. Sansa, however, made a no attempt to quiet her whimper of pleasure, her hips bucking instinctively against his hand in a way that nearly made Jon forget himself.

"Are you alright, Sansa?" he asked, ashamed of how wrecked his voice sounded. His cock fair pulsed with the need for release and she must have felt him against her thigh, heavy and hard and shameful. Gods, it had been so long.

"Y-yes, I think so… that's nice, Jon, thank you," she said, voice husky, and she stroked his back lightly. Her gratitude for his rather bare efforts to please her made him want to strangle a variety of people, most of whom were already dead.

"I think I'm ready now Jon," she told him, her fingers now carding through his hair to scratch soothingly along his scalp. She was so kind, so attentive. She deserved so much better.

He lifted his head and kissed her. She seemed startled, stiffening beneath him for a moment, before slowly relaxing into the pressure of his lips. He shifted his hips as he tilted his head and prodded his tongue lightly along the tight seam of her mouth. After a moment of confusion, where he could sense her inexperience warring with her anxiety, she opened to him slightly and he slowly tasted her. He took the time to learn the feel of her by slow, delicious degrees, and it helped to banish the torrent of dissenting voices in his head. She was warm and soft and sweet and when her tongue tentatively brushed against his he groaned into her mouth. He fucked her with his fingers for a few moments longer, devouring her little gasps and mewls, relishing perversely at the increased moisture against his hand as he kept his mouth to hers.

Burning and desperate, he finally took his cock in hand and positioned himself against the wet heat of her cunt, pressing slowly but firmly forward. She stiffened almost instantly, clutching him so hard he wondered if he might bruise, and pulled her mouth from his. Her head fell back against the pillows and her eyes screwed shut, cheeks flushed and lips plumped, but he knew her reactions were not born of pleasure or desire, but terrible, terrible remembrance.

He paused, though the promising, tight depths of her were almost more a temptation than he could withstand, and he cupped her cheek to run his thumb along the sharp slope there. Gods, she was so lovely, so far beyond someone like him.

"Look at me Sansa," he said softly, "I'll stop if you ask me, always. I promise."

Sansa let out a shuddering breath and forced her grip on his shoulders to relax before her eyes opened. There were tears there, and pain and fear, and he kissed her forehead and cheeks and each eyelid until the tension within her receded. When he pulled back she gave him a gentle, heartbreaking smile, and shifted her hips up toward his in a clear indication that he should continue.

He didn't last long.

It might have been embarrassing under different circumstances, but he figured it best he ended things as quickly as possible. Still, the pleasure he found in her was hard to ignore. The feel of her skin against his, the little pants she made as his pace quickened, and the signature smell of her seemed to burn any thought, any face but hers from his mind. It was her name he moaned as he found his peak, face buried in her neck, and in the blinding heat of pleasure, as his balls tightened and his stomach flexed, he could not remember to be ashamed.

She held him through his release and smiled at him when he flopped boneless to his back beside her. They didn't speak for long moments as Jon willed his heart and breathing to still and the shame and personal revulsion crept back in. He rose, intent to leave, but she gripped his arm and shook her head when he turned toward her.

"Stay with me, Jon, please."

Jon swallowed back a mouthful of bile, disgusted at the pleasure he'd found in her body, and nodded. He could do this, he told himself for the thousandth time that endless day, at least for her. He lowered himself back onto the furs and she hesitantly curled herself around him.

"Jon?" she asked a long while later and he started a bit, sure she'd been asleep.

"Yes?"

"I-I know it is wrong, perhaps," she said, her palm flat on his chest, just below his heart, "and that you wish it was otherwise but… I am glad it is you."

He tensed, unsure of what to say, but tightened his arm around her. Part of him, the part of him he wished he could ignore, the part that Ned Stark would surely murder him for, was glad as well.

"Sleep now, Sansa," he said instead. "I will watch over you."

She slept a short while later, her breathing deep and even, but Jon found no rest until the first touches of morning peeked through the window coverings.

After Daenerys, her army, and her dragons departed south, they fell into a routine.

Rebuilding the North would take decades, but Sansa seemed hell bent on achieving what everyone else believed impossible, focusing all her attentions on rebuilding the lives of her people. Jon's responsibilities fell more toward local problems, by concentrating on Winterfell and managing the keep and people within it, he allowed Sansa to deal with the broader issues of their fledgling kingdom. It was a simple pleasure, to manage the place he'd once called home, and many of the people within it remembered him with more fondness than he might have imagined.

Still… the ghosts of his family lingered. Sometimes he'd turn a corner and be struck dumb by some memory of he and Robb as young boys, darting about the stables, or he and Arya sitting beneath a tree in the godswood, sharing an apple. Such memories were bitter sweet.

He and Sansa saw little of each other during the day, though if she happened to pass him in the halls she always made a habit of stopping and speaking with him, asking after his day and if he'd eaten. It was rather nice… he found, having someone fret over him.

Still, as the sun began to set every night, he found himself dreading the darkness and what it promised more and more. He longed for the release, for the pleasure he found within her body, but dreaded the crippling guilt and shame that always followed closely after.

Six moons later, when Sansa smiled softly at him and told him she was with child, Jon couldn't help but feel relieved. Insisting that she and the babe would be better rested if he found his sleep elsewhere, he'd claimed another chamber that very same night. If she looked disappointed, well, he told himself he'd merely imagined it.

"We must write Daenerys," Sansa said one afternoon, having summoned him to her solar. She looked beautiful in the late autumn sunlight, her hair braided simply over one shoulder, her skin glowing and flushed. Jon gripped the hilt of his sword to master the sudden wave of traitorous desire.

"Couldn't we wait till after the babe is born?" he asked.

Sansa shook her head, face grim, and he had the urge to take her into his arms. "No… no we ought to write her now, informing her, or she may suspect we mean to recant our promise."

Jon couldn't deny that he wished to, but he understood that such a thing would likely mean war, one they could ill afford, but since the moment Sansa had told him she was expecting their child, a spark of hope flared within him. He'd once dreamed of a wife and child, a family, and though it was not the woman he'd imagined, he found he was desperate to hang onto the pretty dream.

"As you say, Your Grace," he said and her eyes, cold and haunted, followed him for the rest of the day.

Daenerys arrived a fortnight before the babe was due and threw the entire castle into turmoil. The Queen of Dragons was a most intimidating guests that sent even the hardiest of serving maids darting around corners. Fortunately or unfortunately, the job of entertaining Jon's royal Aunt fell to him. Sansa, who'd been avoiding him more and more as her pregnancy progressed, was all but a stranger to him in those final months, and was of little help.

Jon fair ached with worry, but the distance was not one he knew how to gap; Sansa barely looked at him anymore, hardly sparing a word at their evening meals and walking swiftly past him in the halls should they happen to encounter one another.

Jon wondered if she resented carrying his child, or perhaps the deal she'd struck with Daenerys to buy his life. He certainly resented himself for it.

"You're terribly broody, nephew, has anyone told you that?" Daenerys said as they strolled through the godswood. The man, Daario, the Dragon Queen's eternal shadow, trailed behind them.

Jon grunted and sighed. "A few may have mentioned it."

"A man with such a pretty, sweet wife ought not to look so dejected."

Jon internally groaned, wishing he could have pushed his aunt, with her prying eyes and smirking mouth, off on someone else. "It has perhaps not been the easiest of adjustments," he admitted and instantly regretted it. He was terrible at political mind games, which likely had a lot to do with why Sansa never forced him to attend council meetings with foreign dignitaries. He had a talent for inserting his foot directly into his mouth when given the slightest opportunity.

Daenerys merely looked thoughtful, almost concerned. "Is it because you were once siblings?" she asked, as if they idea was utterly foolish.

"It does put a bit of a damper on things," he said dryly, internally railing at himself, but he was oddly desperate to discuss the situation with someone, anyone.

The Dragon Queen scoffed lightly and stopped, forcing Jon to do the same. "You might find that you are wasting a great deal of time on concerns that bear no weight, Lord Stark. You and your Wolf Queen have more between you than most spouses ever have: trust and no small amount of affection, that much was clear upon my last visit. You would be a fool to squander it."

Jon was shocked by the strangely sentimental turn of the conversation, but they were interrupted by Sam erupting from a side path, red faced and winded.

"T-the Queen, she's, she's-"

Jon, heart pounding an erratic rhythm, took off down the path before the Maester could finish.

"You can both stop behaving as though I plan to rip the babe from your arms and immediately climb on the back of a dragon," Daenerys said, accepting a glass of wine that Jon resented pouring for her.

Sansa's expression was icy from her position upon their bed, their son tucked tightly to her breast. Jon found it fascinating that, no matter where his wife sat, she made it appear a throne. A servant had brushed and braided her hair and she was wearing a fine lawn shift with a dove gray robe wrapped about her. Jon thought her the loveliest thing he'd ever seen.

"Isn't that exactly what you intend to do?" Sansa asked coolly and his aunt sighed.

"I've put a great deal of consideration into this and I believe it best that I don't rob the North of their first born."

"How gracious of you," Jon half growled and Sansa shot him a look.

Daenerys ignored him entirely. "I would, however, like to test him."

Sansa frowned. "Test him? Test him how?"

The Dragon Queen glanced over at Jon and he understood. "No, that is out of the question! He's just a babe."

Daenerys rolled her eyes. "I hardly mean to throw him into the hearth, nephew. Just a simple candle flame and I will leave you both in peace."

Sansa was silent, but the tense line of her jaw clearly reflected her displeasure.

"And if he's like us, if he's dragon born?" he pressed, situating himself between Sansa and Daenerys.

The Dragon Queen studied him for a moment, brow arched, and said, "Then I will wait till you produce another child before taking him. I am not entirely heartless."

Jon bit back a scoff and turned toward Sansa. It was ultimately her decision, he knew, but he was desperate to throw them both on the back of a horse and ride far, far away. Sansa gave a single sharp nod and leaned over to snatch a candle from the bedside table.

"Sansa…" Jon half growled, unable to stop himself.

"Take his hand Jon, it should be us who does this," she said stonily and waited patiently as Jon forced himself to walk forward and take his little son into his arms. He was sleeping soundly, his little mouth lax, features perfect and fair. Jon took one of his son's hands and the impossibly tiny fingers curled around one of his. He closed his eyes and prayed for strength.

"Stretch out his palm, Jon," Sansa said softly, words clearly meant only for him, and he found her eyes haunted and fearful for a moment before she slipped her emotionless mask back into place.

They had promised to trust one another that look said.

He stretched his son's fingers out and Sansa held the candle flame to his soft palm. It didn't take long. The babe woke with a stuttering gasp and instantly began to wail. Sansa immediately removed the candle and Jon found that Daenerys was at his side, leaning studiously over his shoulder to examine the unmistakable burn mark left behind.

She looked terribly disappointed and Jon very much wanted to strangle her.

"Satisfied?" Sansa asked through clenched teeth and there was nothing cool about her gaze now.

"Yes," Daenerys said simply.

"Then leave, now," Sansa fair snarled and Jon had never seen her so fierce.

And so the Dragon Queen cowed before the Wolf Queen, departing the chamber without another word nor backward glance.

Jon simply could not get enough of his son. Little Robb seemed a dream, at times, and some of the ice between he and Sansa began to thaw. Together they fawned over their son, quietly reveling in every gesture, every look. The name day celebration, held after Daenerys left, was the most joyous Winterfell had had in decades.

Meanwhile, Jon's desire for Sansa had not paled during their months apart. If anything it had grown more potent, more desperate. He could not go a day without imagining her spread before him in a variety of perverse and titillating positions, driving him to terrible distraction as he wondered what her cunt tasted like, or how she would look coming apart as she rode him. He felt as if he were losing his mind.

Motherhood suited Sansa nearly as much as wearing the Northern Crown, and the smile she reserved just for their son made his gut tighten and his heart swell. His desire for her, however, had little to do with their child and everything to do with her passing touches that lingered and her eyes that heated when they fell upon him. Still, he found that he was afraid. Afraid of the want inside him, the need for her that was slowly consuming him at night as he lay alone in his bed, a hand smoothing across his cock as he recalled the heat of her, the softness of her skin and the sweet little noises she made when he moved inside her.

Sansa had always been braver.

She crept into his room several moon turns after little Robb was born and Jon felt as though he were trapped in a dream, one he hoped to never escape from. She stood in the bare light of the dying hearth fire and shucked off her robe, standing bare and perfect in the darkness. Shadows played across her full breasts, heavy with the milk that fed their son –she'd flat refused a wet nurse- and the soft curve of her slightly rounded belly, and Jon was instantly and painfully hard.

"Take off your shirt, Jon," she said, her eyes, heavy and intent, were a physical imprint on his skin.

"Sansa," he managed as he sat up, stunned and burning from the inside out. Whatever fire she awoke in him, it consumed him as true fire could not.

She shook her head and stepped toward him, her hair, turned silver and gold in the moon and firelight, swaying about her hips. "Your shirt, Jon, take it off."

Jon swallowed thickly and stood, slowly peeling his shirt off. She studied him, face impossible to read, as she stood within arm's reach. He shivered as she touched one of the stab wounds, tracing her fingers across first one scar, and then all of them until he was all but trembling with the desire to touch her.

"Oh Jon," she breathed, sounding sad and pained, and then she leaned forward to press a kiss to the one nearest his heart and Jon came utterly undone.

He gathered a handful of her hair and molded his lips frantically to hers. A spark seemed to strike between them as she answered his passion with her own, throwing her arms about him and pressing the length of her naked body to his. They groaned in unison and she sucked at his bottom lip, nails raking down the curve of his spine to grip at his backside. His cock rubbed along the soft heat of her belly and his head fell back with a groan that felt ripped from his very soul.

Sansa pressed him back to the bed and Jon went willingly enough, drinking in the sight of her, all flushed cheeks and moistened lips in the half light. She straddled him in a smooth, wonderfully sensuous motion that was so like his wanton imaginings that he already felt on the verge of release, and bent forward to capture his lips again. But the desperation had cooled to something better, something sweeter as she smoothed a hand over his cheek and beard. He let his hand own hands slowly map the ridges of her spine, the perfect curve of her arse, and the heavy swell of a breast. She moaned lasciviously into his mouth as he tweaked a nipple and Jon growled in response, bucking helplessly against her, desperate for friction.

"Gods, Sansa," he rasped as he felt the slick heat of her brush the length of his cock, "Gods."

She whimpered in response, her hair a curtain about them, and she ground down again, chasing the sensation. His hands fell to her hips as she began a stuttering, maddening rhythm, the wet lips of her cunt grinding against his length as her head fell backward in a deep groan. He had never seen a lovelier sight as she rutted against him, breasts rubbing across his chest, teeth pressing into her full lower lip in a vain attempt to stifle her keening moans, and he leaned forward to suck a spot against the fair expanse of her throat.

His, she was his.

"Jon!" she cried, her small, lithe frame trembling as she clutched at him.

He held her tight, helping her to keep her rhythm as her hips faltered on the verge of release. "Come for me, sweet girl, come for me," he rasped as he nipped at the shell of her ear.

She fell apart with a wailing cry that he was distantly certain the entire household was likely to have heard, and Jon whispered filthy words of encouragement, uttering phrases he'd never intended to say in the presence of his lady wife.

"Take me, Jon," she said when she could speak, her face buried in his neck. "Take me, please."

Jon, who could never deny her anything, found he didn't want to, not anymore. He flipped her gently beneath him and entered her with one smooth push, her back arching and her eyes fluttering.

"So good, Sansa… so good," he groaned, taking several slow, deep thrusts, reveling in the hot, wet grip of her still fluttering cunt along his length.

"Yes, Jon, oh… yes," she answered and her long, pale legs lifted to wrap about his hips, and there was no more room for words.

He fucked her like it might save his soul, like she held some piece of him inside her, and it was like dying by wondrous degrees. He palmed one rounded globe of her arse, adjusted the angle of his hips, and Sansa cried out, begging him not to stop. He'd never heard a sweeter, more impossible request in all his life.

Still, he felt in that moment that he could go on forever, just to please her, just to watch the fascinating flush that crept up her chest and to her cheeks as her breasts jumped and swung in time with the bruising rhythm of his hips. But then her inner muscles clenched around him as she arched and he lost all sense of reason. Distantly he heard her call his name, high and needy, and he groaned hers in response as the hot coil in his groin flexed and burst with a blinding release that burned away everything else.

When he came back to himself he was cradled in the safety of her arms, his head pressed to one of her breasts as her fingers ran soothingly through his sweat dampened hair. Her heart was a stuttering and wondrously comforting beat beneath his ear and he'd never felt so content, so safe.

"Come back to my bed," she whispered, voice rather hoarse. "Come back to my bed, Jon, and swear you won't leave it."

Jon shivered, waiting for the guilt, the shame of what they'd done to rob him of his happiness, of his hope for a life of joy and peace, but there was nothing but the warm, slightly damp length of her body pressed against his.

"Yes," he said, voice tinged with wonder as he lifted his head to find her lips with his. "I swear it."

"Must I, father?" Robb whined, looking rather green about the edges.

Jon nodded solemnly, though he was privately amused, and crouched beside his son and the deer he'd shot down. The forest was still and quiet about them, the sun not yet at its height.

"You need to learn to do it for yourself," Jon insisted gently.

Robb crinkled his nose, looking from the knife in his hand toward the dead steer with clear revulsion. At seven summers his son bore a rather remarkable resemblance to his namesake, enough so that Jon occasionally found it difficult to look at him, whether from a lingering shame or the ache of loss, he wasn't sure. Now, however, he more resembled his mother when she was faced with a particularly distasteful dish at supper.

"Here," Jon said, relenting a bit. "I will help you make the first slice, alright?"

Robb's shoulders slumped in relief. "Alright, father," he said shakily as Jon rearranged his fingers around the hilt of the blade and clutched his hand firmly in his much larger palm.

Robb didn't vomit, though it was a near thing, but once he'd gotten over the initial shock, he took credibly to the task.

"The Dragon Queen arrives soon, doesn't she?" Robb asked quietly as they washed in the nearby spring.

Jon paused from washing the blood from his hands and turned to find his son staring intently at the small scar on his left palm, a scar that looked a bit like melted wax. Jon remembered the day he'd gotten it clearly. He recalled the fierce anger mixed with terrible relief and a niggling of fear, as if an executioner's axe loomed nearer in response to Daenerys's clear disappointment. An expression further intensified after Eddard's birth and another failed test of fire.

"Yes," he responded at last. "We expect her in less than a week."

Robb nodded solemnly looking, for once, more like Jon than his long dead Uncle. There was no hint of his Targaryen bloodline in his son's visage; he was all Stark edges and Tully features. "Is she coming to take the babe?"

Jon cringed and looked away, watching the clear snow-melt rush over smoothed river rocks. He and Sansa rarely spoke of the promise which had bought them their freedom, but the small folk knew or guessed enough to whisper, and Robb had always been quick.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Depends."

"Depends on if its fire born, like you, you mean," Robb said and, though his tone held no accusations, his words still felt damning.

"Yes," Jon said again, the old bitterness flaring.

There was a long pause in which Jon felt strangely afraid to move or speak, caught in the dread he'd been attempting to ignore since Sansa had first told him she was with child again.

"Edd and I aren't fire born… maybe the babe won't be either," Robb said at last and Jon finally found the strength to rise and pull his son up. He placed his hands heavily on either of Robb's shoulders and looked down at him seriously. His mother's eyes, Robb's eyes, reflected back at him. He wondered if there would be a day that he could look upon his son and not see the dead.

"Your mother and I paid a heavy price to keep the Dragon Queen at bay, my son, if we don't provide her with what we promised, we could risk another war. I know it is hard for you to understand, but we must pray that we can provide Daenerys with an heir."

Robb swallowed thickly and nodded. "I understand, father."

Jon nodded curtly and gathered the deer from the river. "Good, we should get back or your mother will worry."

The courtyard of Winterfell was bustling with activity when they returned, the sun near setting. Sam met them as they led their mounts to the stable, his expression causing Jon to swiftly hand the reigns over to a stable boy and meet his old friend halfway.

"The Queen is laboring," Sam said quietly.

"She has a month yet," Jon protested stupidly, eyes instinctively lifting toward the main tower that housed their chambers.

"Yes," Sam agreed grimly, "but there is little we can do now."

Jon clenched his jaw and nodded, turning to Robb as he approached. "Watch after you brother, Robb, the babe is coming and Edd won't understand."

His son paled again, but nodded. "Of course, father."

Jon wished to head immediately to Sansa's side, but knew he'd never make it past the stern, overbearing midwife covered in blood and grime. He took a swift bath, gut tight with worry, and donned fresh cloths before knocking on the door to their shared chamber.

The midwife, sour and pinched, let him into the room and Jon rushed to Sansa's side. She gave him a wane smile, face pale and drawn.

"Don't fret, all will be well," she told him as he bent to sweep a hand over her hair and kiss her brow.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked, unable to stop himself from touching her, from taking her hand and pressing another kiss against her knuckles.

She chuckled softly and pressed her free hand to his cheek. "A birthing room is no place for a man, my dear, perhaps you might say a prayer for me and the babe? Take the boys with you?"

Jon let out a shaky breath and tried a smile for her. "Of course, of course."

She smiled again, stronger this time, and he bent to kiss her, trying desperately not to think of how many women died in childbirth, his own mother included. It was a battle he fought at every birth, but she was right, there was little he could do for her now but pray and care for their sons.

"I will not be far," he promised her before leaving, stealing another kiss before she shooed him affectionately from the room.

Sam was waiting. "I'm taking the boys to the wood," Jon told him quietly, "send for me if, if-" He couldn't quite make his lips form the words.

Sam braced a hand on his shoulder and nodded. "The Queen is strong, you must be strong as well, Jon."

Jon nodded, grateful, and went to fetch his sons.

"The tree scares me, father," Edd, at barely five summers, complained as Jon scoped him into his arms. The heart tree was only a short walk further.

"I never liked it much either," Bran said from the wheeled chair that Robb pushed carefully forward. Jon and Bran shared a conspiring smile.

Jon released Edd when they stood before the weirwood tree, its haunting face staring back at them impassively. His youngest son immediately clung to his leg, burying his face against his thigh. Jon chuckled and rubbed a hand over Edd's dark, wild curls as Robb helped his uncle adjust the blanket over his lap. Jon untangled his son's fingers and knelt to face him. There were tears in Edd's blue-gray eyes, but he managed a defiant scowl as Jon pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"We must pray for your mother and the babe, alright? She will need our strength."

Edd sniffled and rubbed at his eyes with dirt smudged fists. "Is mama going to die, father?"

Jon drew in a sharp breath, eyes darting unintentionally toward Bran. His brother-turned-cousin had abilities he didn't quite understand, abilities that, in all honesty, he found unsettling. But Bran's face was stoic and distant, offering Jon no wisdom.

"She and the babe are in the hands of the Old Gods now," he told his son at last for no one could lie in the presence of the heart tree. "That is why we must pray, can you do that for me, brave boy?"

Edd sniffled again, but drew himself up admirably and nodded, though he still looked a bit weepy about the eyes. "Yes, father. I am very brave, just as brave as Robb!"

Jon chuckled and ruffled his son's hair again. "Of course you are, now come kneel beside me and bow your head. Yes, like that, and in your heart tell the gods what it is you wish and ask them for their help and strength."

"Don't say it out loud, right father?"

Jon nodded as Robb knelt at his other side. "That's right, son, you say the words in your heart, and the gods will hear you."

He waited until both his sons' heads were bowed and their eyes closed before following suit. His heart was a torrent, but he willed it to settle, to calm.

Please, he begged in the recesses of his scarred and darkened soul, please don't take her from me.

As the midwife attended to Sansa, Jon held his daughter in his arms, a familiar welling of love and pride budding inside him as he traced her delicate features with mind and touch. The thin hair atop her perfectly rounded head was dark and curling, her face, though a bit squashed from the birthing, was longer than her brothers' had been, but her lips were full and pink like Sansa's. She was lovely and a bit gangly and Jon thought of Arya, for whom Jon knew his daughter would be named. The choice was perfect for their little she-wolf.

"Let me see her," Sansa begged weakly, still so lovely despite the years and the strain. Jon smiled and came to her side, settling on the bed near her and placing their babe in her arms.

Sansa's face lit as it so rarely did, usually fixed into her careful courtly mask, as she cooed over their daughter, tracing one downy cheek with a finger. Jon wrapped an arm about them both, his pride burning hot in his heart as he realized, perhaps not for the first time, that this was the life he'd always dreamed of, and though it had come to him in a manner he might not have chosen, he was not fool enough to be ungrateful.

"Welcome, little Arya," Sansa whispered and shot him a gentle smile, the one she'd long ago reserved just for him. Gods, did he love her. He'd known it for years now, but their marriage had been such a strange one that he felt unsure of the words despite everything. His worries felt foolish in the face of the life she held in her arms, a life they had created together, born now from passion rather than duty.

Jon placed a kiss on Sansa's temple, mostly to hide his near overwhelming emotions, and covered the hand that held their daughter's head with his own.

Little Arya stretched, sweet and perfect, and blinked open deep, violet eyes.