It's the sunrays that wake her up, bright and warm and heralding the end of the long and dark winter. She wonders when was the last time these chambers were so awash with sunlight – a long, long time ago, when she was just a child, and when she'd crawl into Mother's bed at night, settling in between Mother and Father, waking up to Father's kisses on her cheek, giggling as the stubble tickled her skin, Father telling her that she was too old to sneak into the bed at nights, but all the while knowing Mother and he would never turn her away. She remembers Mother's laughter, the feel of her fingers as she sat Sansa up in the bed and tied her hair. She remembers Father's voice, low and deep, yet warm and familiar and loving. She remembers them both as if it was just yesterday, yet feeling like those days had been a hundred years ago. There are sudden tears prickling at her eyes, a little lump in her throat as she thinks of those days, of Mother and Father, and love and laughter, and family and happiness.

"You look sad," Jon says quietly, startling her.

She hadn't known he was awake. She turns to face him only when she's blinked back the tears.

"What happened, Sansa? What's wrong?"

She looks at him, then – grey eyes, so bright, so full of concern. His hair, long and mussed up, as dark as that of the little boy who is sleeping in his arms. She watches the two of them, her lord husband and their Robb, his thumb in his mouth despite how they've been trying to get him rid of that habit, his cheeks plump and rosy, dark locks tumbling over his forehead, eyelashes long and dark, hiding his Tully blue eyes. He looks so innocent when he's sleeping, her little boy; nothing like the mischievous he is when he is awake – hiding in closets and running all around the castle, pilfering cakes from the kitchens, getting his face and fingers all sticky as he stuffs the cake into his mouth before someone can catch him at it. He is the life of Winterfell, their little prince… as bold as Robb, as feisty as Arya, as wild as Rickon, as curious as Bran. Everyone in the castle dotes upon her boy, from the cooks in the kitchens, the lads in the stables, the maids in the scullery, the lords and ladies who come visiting, even Old Nan, who calls him Brandonsometimes, but tells him all the stories she told dozens of Stark children over the years.

She leans forward and kisses Robb's brow, her hand rubbing over his back before she places it on Jon's arm, watching how carefully he holds the sleeping child in his arms, how affectionate he always is with Robb. He shall make a good father, she knows. He already is a good father… he is Ned Stark's son, after all, despite the dragon blood that flows in his veins.

"Sansa?" Jon asks her again, voice rough because he has just woken up, but containing a kind of affection she remembers hearing Father holding for Mother, all those years ago, when Sansa would sneak into their bed just like Robb sneaked into hers last night… the patter of his little feet on the stone floor, his happy giggles as Jon tickled him, his sleepy smile as Sansa sang to him – songs of the Riverlands that Mother once sung to Arya and her, the little fingers clutching at Jon's robe even in his sleep, so peaceful and trusting.

"Jon," she says quietly, and leans forward to press her lips to his, smiling when he is surprised at the sudden gesture, and then pleased when he places his warm hand on her cheek, when he kisses her with a fervour that makes her certain she would have done a great many things with him if their child wasn't lying right there in his arms, his fingers now tangling into her hair before he finally pulls back, leaving her breathless.

She looks at Jon – the brother she never wanted to marry even when they found out they weren't siblings, but the husband she cannot imagine a life without now. Her lord and her king, the father of their child, but above all a man she is certain she has come to love, in the days they spend together running their kingdom, the lazy noons in their chambers, watching Robb trying to climb onto Ghost, the evenings they spend in the godswood, talking of their lost siblings, the nights they spend together, ones that make her blush like a maiden when she thinks of them the next mornings.

"I am happy," she tells him finally, meeting those grey eyes.

She remembers him asking her that the night before their wedding, where they'd met in the godswood and he'd been so awkward and hesitant with her, yet so full of concern and caring that nobody had shown her since Father's death, so intent on keeping her safe yet never making her do anything against her wishes, so intent on making her happy… because you deserve it, Sansa… you, of all people, deserve to be happy.

Are you happy, Sansa? He had asked her, grey eyes so bright in the moonlight. She hadn't replied then.

Are you happy, Sansa? He had asked her again, long after the war was won, when she had told him she was expecting a babe. She had only smiled then.

But now, with the man and the child who mean the world to her, she finds that she can be happy again. There's no Mother and Father, nor any of their siblings; their friends are all dead and gone, as are half their people. But she finds that there's still hope in her – for rebuilding their kingdom, for watching over their people like Father had, for filling the castle with brothers and sisters for Robb, a new generation of Starks who will never replace the old, but who will perhaps fill a little of the void they've all left behind.

"I am happy, Jon," she tells him again, only to be rewarded with his blinding smile, his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into an embrace – the three of them, Jon, little Robb and her, her lips pressing a kiss to Robb's chubby cheek even as Jon rests his head in the crook of her neck, so happy that she knows he is smiling even though she cannot see his face.

It fills her with such warmth, that Jon's happy too, that she's put that smile on his otherwise solemn face. It only makes her happier.

Author's Note:Something I wrote to cheer myself up, and try getting my JonSa mojo back so I can resume writing The Last Wolves. Not my best work, not even close to my decent work, to be honest. But I just thought I'd post it :)