Jon had hobbled from his bed to join her.

“I promised, Sansa.” He’d whispered as she sat beside his bed. “I have to help her win the South so she won’t see me as a threat to her throne.”

She’d been so angry at him, He was so noble, and honest, and dutiful. He was Father all over again. She made him promise to come home, to come back to the North, to come back to her. And he promised.

Jaime went south too. But Brienne, Podrick, and Arya stayed in Winterfell. What was left of it. They stayed and they rebuilt as best they could. They housed and clothed and fed as many people as they could. Sansa gave orders, organised supplies, traded with allies and Arya was content to help the small-folk, to aid Gendry in the forge, to train with Brienne. They got an occasional raven from Jon. Telling them he was safe, they were winning, they all ended the same way.

“Sansa, I will keep my promise. -Jon.”

He had left Winterfell a kneeler, a potential prince, an injured soldier, he came back a King. Well, a potential king.

“She will grant us Northern independence. With the promise that the heir of Winterfell marries the heir to the Iron Throne.” He’d blushed as he said this and it took Sansa a second to grasp the suggestion.

“You mean, if we wed, the North is free?” Sansa felt her heart lighten. No more appeasing the hatred of the south, no more deferring to others for their safety, just the North. And Jon.

“I will not force you into a marriage you do not want.” He was so concerned for her, it was written in his brows, and eyes, and lips.

“And if I want you?” She asked feeling bolder than she had in an eternity. Jon’s eyes shot up to hers. There was hope in those ice grey eyes.

“Father promised me someone kind, and gentle, and strong.” she murmured moving toward him “I think he meant you.” And she was kissing him, or maybe he was kissing her.  

When their betrothal was announced Sansa had been worried. Worried about the Northern Lord’s reaction, worried about Brienne and Gendry and Podrick’s reaction, worried about Bran and Arya’s reaction.

The Lords had revelled in the idea. They were gaining a King and Queen in the North whose name is Stark. They were gaining independence. They were gaining everything.

Gendry hadn’t blinked an eye, saying something about the ways of Lords and Ladies. Podrick had offered congratulations, and Brienne has told Jon he was a good enough fighter to protect Sansa.

Telling Bran had been odd, as were most encounters with Bran. He’s almost smiled and said their Fathers would have wanted this. Before telling Sansa she would look beautiful. Arya had simply shrugged and said “It’s not like Jon was ever your brother. He was always just your family and now he’ll have our name.”

Within a week they stood before the Heart Tree, snow falling softly around them and Jon was not longer a Snow.

Not a month had past since Sansa Stark became a wife and a Queen than questions of an heir were being asked.

“Not even a whole moon’s turn!” Jon had fumed in their chambers. “As if planning a glass house, rebuilding Winterfell, and supporting the small-folk wasn’t enough, they want to add a child to the mix!”

“Do you not want children?” Sansa knew the answer, she knew deep in her soul, but she wanted to hear him say those words

“Of course I do. I’ve always wanted children, even when I thought I was just a bastard.” He smiled sadly as he came and sat next to her on their bed. “I thought I would name my son Robb.”

“And a girl?” She asked tentatively.

“Lyarra, maybe or Alys.”

“Would you mind having a girl before a boy?”

“I shall love all our children.” He paused and moved closer, embracing her. “I’ve been wondering about, perhaps, establishing a new custom or two for the North.” Sansa hummed a sign for him to continue. “You know how Mormont women are trained to fight?”Another hum from Sansa “And how the Dornish don’t consider sex in the line of succession?” Sansa turned her head to look at him. “I think we should suggest something similar to the Northern Lords.”

“Oh, Jon!” She kissed him, soundly and thoroughly, until she had to stop to breath.

“I take it you like the idea.”

“Yes.” She breathed before kissing him again, stroking his chest and hair and back, starting on the task of producing an heir.

Within two moons of their wedding Sansa was pregnant. She was a glowing figure when pregnant. Wylas Manderly said she looked like the Mother embodied. Sansa had smiled politely. She continued her duties, traipsing around the castle, slowly people began to follow, begging her to rest.

“Please, your grace. Just half an hour with your feet elevated” Samwell Tarly had begged.

“Maybe you shouldn’t run up the stairs to your meetings, your grace.” Brienne had suggested.

“You really should be wearing another cloak.” Arya had scolded. Until one morning eight months into her pregnancy Sansa could not be found.

Jon had been the first to notice, the first to panic, and the first to raise the alarm. Ghost had found her. She was sitting beneath the Heart Tree, on cushions and blankets with an embroidery hoop in her hand.

“The whole castle is in a panic.” He said with gentle reproach. Sansa’s mood had been unstable of late, she was prone to laugh, burst into tears, or start shouting with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Sansa did not look up from her work.

“I needed to be here. I needed Father, and Mother, and Robb, and Rickon.” Jon nodded his understanding and left her in peace. He organised to have warm drinks and food be brought to her at regular intervals but gave strict instructions that Queen Sansa was not to be spoken to unless she spoke first. Sansa was grateful.

Jon had always kept a cool head in a panic. It was his training as a soldier. He could command in battle, defeat White Walkers, ride his dragon. But the screams of his wife almost drove him mad. It did not matter that it was natural, that it was happening faster than most other births, that Queen Sansa was doing well. She was in pain, and he could not help. She was in pain and he’d gotten her into that state. He stood outside the door and paced. He’s tried to follow them into the birthing room but was told that it was not appropriate.

After the third scream Jon stopped in front of the door and listened for anything. And then he heard her, clear as crystal.

“I want Jon. Get me Jon!” He pulled the door open without a second thought and flew to his wife’s side. She gripped his hand and tried to smile at him.

“You are so brave, my love.” He murmured, bringing her hand to his lips. “Braver than I ever could be.” Her face was sweaty and her hair sticking to her forehead, her eyes were wide with exhaustion and fear. He truly believed she was braver than him. He had gone into battle, knowing that he might die, accepting it and not expecting anything. But Sansa had allowed herself to become pregnant, to anticipate a child, knowing her odds of surviving. She had allowed this to happen once and he knew she wanted it to happen again and again and again. She would die for a child she would never know.

“You’re not leaving me.” He murmured as Sansa squeezed his hand and shuddered. “Promise me Sansa. You’re not leaving me.”  Sansa gasped and winced.

“I promise.”

Their first son was born 20 minutes later.

Winterfell rang with the laughter of children and Jon could not have been happier. His eldest boy was almost ready to ride a pony and his younger sister was already following him around.

Jon’s son looked like him, brown hair, grey eyes and a solemn face even at the age of 5. His daughter looked like Sansa. With auburn hair and a gentle smile, with eyes such a pale blue they might have been violet. Sansa waddled toward him. She waddled when she was close to her time, but Jon would never tell her this.

“We’ve had a raven from the Queen in the South.” She handed the scroll to him. His aunt was informing him of her plans to travel North and meet her great-nephew and great-niece. Sansa had been concerned about this. That the barren Queen in the South would want one of her and Jon’s children to sit the Iron Throne.