It's the first night in the North, and it's been a moon's worth of travel through heavy snow and biting cold, nearly a moon's worth of sleeping at her side. Every night Jon awakens to fingers grasping at his tunic and Sansa's breath fast against his neck. Nightmares. Haunting nightmares trouble her sleep and have since the day he took her from the Vale. It is the nightmares that prompt her to ask him in a shaking voice that first night to stay with her.

They're not brother and sister, sharing a bed in the nursery; they're a man and woman grown, who share no parent. But if Sansa finds nothing improper about curling into the side of her once brother, Jon can't see why he should either. She knows better, and he lets her be his guide.

She needs him and that it enough reason for him.

On their first night in the North, however, he does not awaken to twisting fingers and terrified pants. He awakens to something else entirely.

"Sansa?" he asks. Because it can't be her. He is lost in a dream. Something from the past. Red hair and pale legs.

"Yes, Jon?"


She smiles. He can feel it against his skin, her blooming smile. "Not quite. Though it feels like it. Doesn't it?"

It most certainly feels like something. But this is Sansa. Sansa. Sansa.

His heart beat quickens under her touch—more practiced than he thought it would be, and oh, he's wondered and hated himself for wondering—and he doesn't know what to say to stop her or urge her on.

"We're home," she whispers, as her teeth scrape his collar bone.

"Not yet."

"Almost. The air is different, isn't it? When we're this close to home?"

Winterfell is still distant and they have hard travel ahead of them. Surely she knows that: she has seemed anything but optimistic since he found her. Fatalistic, more like. He's promised her that Winterfell was hers and he would take her there, but up until this point she has always looked at him as if he cannot be believed. As if no one can be believed.

His hands slip down her body, settling on her hips. He intends to still her movements, but doesn't, not at all. "Are you quite awake?" One of them must be asleep.

"Quite," she assures him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

She draws a groan from him and his fingers dig into her hips. "What are you doing?"

"I'll be Lady Stark of Winterfell, will I not?"

Jon's reaches up a hand, fisting her hair, pulling it free of her face so that he can see her better in the dark, forcing her to meet his gaze. He promises her once more. "Yes, Winterfell is yours."

She traces the length of his nose with her finger, smoothing her fingertips over his cheek bones and his brows, as if to memorize him or to recall something from his face that she'd lost. "We'll go home, you and I, and I'll make you a Stark."

He murmurs her name, trying to dissuade her of this madness, but she presses her fingers to his lips, silencing him.

"Then it will be both of ours. Lord and Lady Stark."

It's more tempting than Stannis' offers ever were, and Jon is only a man, despite his rebirth. Perhaps he will awake in the morning to find that it was only a dream after all, but tonight he will let Sansa have her way. He'll let her make him a Stark.