Chapter Text
A sigh escaped her lips involuntarily as his mouth brushed against her skin, tracing a scar on her collarbone. She held her breath, trying to focus elsewhere, stifling the sound struggling to escape her throat when he planted the gentlest of kisses there.
Pleasure had never been part of their agreement, nor something she expected or desired from him. All she wanted was a child. But sometimes, when he lost himself in the moment, she couldn't bring herself to protest. Those fleeting instances hinted at what could have been, if only she had been braver, if their shared burdens and past grievances hadn't stood between them.
If she learned to love him, and he loved her in return.
He was different from the others. She always knew he would be. He was always gentle and sweet, everything they weren't. Some days, it nearly brought her to tears, though she seldom cried anymore.
She didn't cry; she cradled his head instead, pressing it against her chest as he trembled and came undone above her, her fingers combing through his hair of their own volition as she waited for him to catch his breath. He lingered in her embrace longer than usual, and she wondered if he stayed because he wanted to, if her heartbeat beneath his ear brought him any comfort. She hoped it did, a reminder of life beyond the ashes of the South and the distant threats that existed in the North.
Their arrangement was a simple one. He visited often but never stayed long. They didn't retire for the night together, and their interactions in public were limited to brief embraces in Winterfell's courtyard.
Always at night, he entered and left her chambers in darkness, awkward small talk failing to mask their true purpose. The awkwardness never truly went away, and it always ended up like this, with her lying on the bed, listening to the sounds he made and praying to whichever god was there for his seed to take this time, before he left again.
There was no love between them, not the romantic kind, at least. But a mutual care existed.
She couldn't fathom what drew him to her bed time and again—some sense of duty, a quest for absolution, an apology he didn't really owe her, or perhaps some purpose she didn't even understand. She doubted it could ever be desire for her. It might not be love that brought them together, but it was still better than anything she had known before. Whatever it was, it offered solace on lonely nights, a glimpse into a future she dared to envision. A future filled with Stark children running around, laughing, and experiencing the joy she had also felt in her childhood.
And it was all because he agreed to help her. It was enough. It was more than enough.
Or at least, that was what she told herself every time she resisted his attempts to deepen their connection, denying herself the pleasure he offered, haunted by dreams of what could never be.
Dreams where she accepted his offer, or even sweeter dreams, of them in Winterfell, with their children and Ghost. Every time her heart dared to long for dangerous things that could never be, that she could never have.
Deep down, she knew loving him fully would surpass any childhood fantasy, would be better than any story in the songs she used to love. But love had proven poisonous, and she had hardened against it long ago. Yes, she knew he was a good man. She knew he would never hurt her on purpose. But that girl who dreamed of love was dead; the Queen in the North replaced her. They never did and would never stand a chance. If they were different people with different lives, maybe there would be a possibility. But they weren't, and there was no need to complicate things even more.
She might have been ready to share her bed and her body, but she was not ready to share her heart. He wouldn't want it anyway.
Imagining what that life could've been, though, brought her no harm, so she took these final moments before he slipped out of her and left her bed to do so.
"Would you like me to..." Jon started to ask, lifting his head from where it was pillowed on her chest. His hand briefly touched her knee, waiting for her permission. She declined his offer once more, as she always did, knowing he expected it.
"No, thank you," she interrupted before he finished. "You may leave now if you wish."
His lips found her temple before he rose, redoing the laces of his breeches in silence as she rearranged her shift to cover her legs again, averting her eyes from what he was doing. He left her to wrestle with her thoughts in the end.
She should have gotten up and cleaned herself, but she remained in bed, cloaked in this melancholy she found oddly necessary. Like she needed some sort of absolution too and could only find it by punishing herself with her own thoughts.It was always like this once he took his leave. There was this emptiness, this guilt for something she couldn't quite put her finger on. At first, Sansa had convinced herself it was just because of the unconventional ways she had taken to produce an heir. Even if she meant to legitimize her children, she wasn't raised to have children out of wedlock. But as time went by, she realized it was not that.
His lack of words only fueled the guilt she felt. Did he ever feel like she was using him as a stud horse? Did he even know how much she cared for him? She wanted him to come home and stay. She didn't see him as a pawn in her game. Did he know that?
His feelings on the matter remained unknown. Communication was never their forte.
The mess was made; they were too far gone to stop now. But every night, even if he was long gone from her bed, she would wonder if it would have been better had she left him on the Wall to freeze like he had wanted to, never to hear from each other again. But she needed an heir, and she wanted him to father it. He needed a purpose better than watching the Wall for threats that would never come again. Who else could she have trusted?
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Lover.
The word felt foreign on her tongue when she tried to say it out loud, alone in the quiet of her chambers at night.
She had been raised to marry a great lord—perhaps even a prince. Taking a lover had never been something she considered.
But now, there were few other options. Well, she supposed there were other choices.
But her skin crawled at the thought of inviting a strange man into her home, into her bed. Bran would never father children, and she doubted Arya would ever choose to bear any.
She had always known an heir would be necessary. She would not live forever, and the North needed the security it would provide. Yet, she had not expected the Lords of the North to broach the subject so soon. Perhaps she had foolishly hoped that time would soften the scars of the past, that they might fade enough to allow her to make different decisions.
Sometimes, she even dared to imagine Arya returning to Winterfell with a child or two in tow. She didn’t know what her sister was up to, but accidents could happen to anyone. Bastards could be born in any corner of the world. Arya might not choose to have children, but she could someday get stranded somewhere with no moontea to be made. Sansa wouldn't ask a thing. She would make them proper Starks, and then they could raise the children together, her and Arya, in Winterfell. Forever.
But such hopes were akin to wishing Rickon could return from the dead, not as a wight but as the boy he once was—the boy she could now barely remember. A boy who might one day have become King in the North. It was a futile dream.
Sooner or later, she would have to provide heirs herself. And the easiest way to do that was to take a lover. Not a husband, but someone trustworthy and discreet. Someone who would give her a child without asking for more than that
But who?
She hadn’t allowed herself to think of children in years—at least not in the light of day. Thoughts of children were reserved for the nights when Winterfell lay quiet and sleep eluded her. Come morning, she buried those dreams deep, dismissing them as the fantasies of a naive girl. Dreams meant for people who lived happier lives.
Still, she could see them so clearly now—boys and girls with red hair and Tully blue eyes, or perhaps Stark children with long faces and grey eyes, so reminiscent of her father, of Arya… and of someone else.
Jon.
Jon, who she knew for her whole life. Jon, who she knew she could trust. She tried to push the thought away as soon as it entered her mind.
They had once been siblings. He had never forgiven her for revealing his secret. He hadn’t even responded to any of her letters.
And yet… she could ask him. There would be no harm in it. If he rejected her, perhaps her pride would be bruised, perhaps shame would follow, but nothing she couldn’t endure.
She could even make it a simple transaction: he would give her a child, and she would give him a pardon. Did he even want one? It would be easier to frame it that way.
But that wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want to trick him into it, to play games. If Jon agreed, she wanted him to do it of his own free will.
She could picture it now—a baby boy with dark curls and grey eyes. The Prince of Winterfell. She might as well try. She could survive the rejection if it came.
After countless letters, she finally penned the one that truly mattered:
"Come home."