AN: So this is the end, my friends! Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this story since the beginning, and I hope this last chapter lives up to your expectations. Let me know what you think!

Oh, and Merry Christmas + Happy Holidays!

Every Loyalty

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Chapter XXII:

The Lion and the Wolf

On the day of her coronation, Sansa woke before the sun rose, with unease weighing heavily in her chest. She didn't allow her new handmaiden to see it cross her face, though the dark-haired Dornish girl was a quick little thing. She'd come recommended by Lady Dorna and Prince Aldemar himself, a distant half-cousin twice removed, or something of the sort.

She helped Sansa dress in an ornate blue dress, accented in silver, and when she stood behind to brush through Sansa's long red hair, the girl's gaze found hers in the vanity mirror.

"My Queen, Lord Baelish wishes to speak to you before the coronation."

Sansa sighed through her nose, lips pursing. The man had remained an irritation in her side since they'd conquered King's Landing. His lingering, purposeful looks from across rooms and dining tables reminding her of his intentions were no less unnerving that before his apparent non-death, and she was growing tired of placating Brienne's increasingly firm offers to deal with him.

"Of course he does," Sansa muttered.

In short, Petyr Baelish was a nuisance. And yet, there was perhaps a small part of her that indulged him. In a way, he had seen her potential as a leader early on, maybe even before he betrayed her. She was under no illusions; the man was a master of manipulation, and likely harbored no real feelings for her other than lust for her status, and after, for her body.

Still, he made things interesting. Sansa wondered what that should bring, now that he would no doubt try to court her openly.

"Is there something wrong, your grace?" asked the maid. She took half of Sansa's hair on either side and braided it, pulling it back to continue into one. The braid fell over the rest of her hair, laid loose down her back. She would be a Southern Queen with Northern blood, and she would wear her hair today as her mother did.

"No, though I have a lot to do," Sansa replied, "today, and much more afterwards."

When the maid finished, Sansa had her follow as far as the long hall to the throne room before she bade the girl off to bring her a glass of wine to settle her stomach.

Sansa walked the rest of the way alone. The very walls of King's Landing were still filled with ghosts of the all too recent past, following her every step as she entered a large, gilded room. There in the center of the raised dais was the Iron Throne, cleaned of the dust and debris that had covered it when the Red Keep crumbled. The many hundreds of swords embedded and forged together were without even a mark. Sansa stood at the foot of the dais, though she kept her gaze ahead, even when she heard familiar soft steps approaching from behind.

"It suits you," said Lord Baelish. The gravel in his voice no longer enticed her as it once did, but she let it wash over her as she turned to him.

"You suspected it would," she said.

"I knew it would," he returned, just as her maid arrived with two cups of sweet Dornish wine. When they both accepted their cups, Sansa dismissed her.

"That's all for now. You can help in the preparations for high noon," she said.

"Yes, your grace." The maid bowed respectfully and took her leave.

Sansa then traveled the few steps up to the throne. She remembered the arrogant tilt of Joffrey's head as he'd sat there in a state of recline, then leaning forward while his guards tore at her dress and assaulted and humiliated her before the court.

"It won't be long before you'll sit upon it," Baelish said. He still stood at the foot of the dais. Sansa glanced back at him over her shoulder.

"I've often wondered how it would feel," she admitted.

"To be the one holding the power?" he said, a telling glint in his eyes. "To be the one who stood above all your enemies, and with but a word, claim all that you desire?"

Sansa turned fully to face him, not yet bringing the wine to her lips. She considered him, perhaps clearly for the first time. "I thought it was Cersei, but I now realize that I learned the most from you, Petyr."

He raised a brow, and at the invitation of her softened look, he made his way up the steps of the dais to join her before the throne. He asked, "How so?"

"When I first arrived here, I was a silly girl with silly dreams. I learned that life was cruel, and to get what you want, what you need," she said, "you must be willing to sacrifice, even when it means betraying someone you care for. I'm not saying I forgive you. I'll probably never forgive you…but if your intentions toward me are true, then you'll have to prove it."

A new light entered Baelish's eyes, subtle, but it was there. For the first time, he looked as if he hadn't anticipated her words. Sansa was surprised by them herself. She watched him recover and search her eyes, probing, then imploring for the truth.

"I had planned to court you properly, of course," he said, "I'm only surprised that you're agreeable to it so soon. If I may be so bold to ask, what changed your mind? Or should I say, what changed your heart?"

It was a fair question, she supposed. She sipped at her wine, steeling herself. She looked up at him boldly. "I don't know that anything has changed. I know you desire the throne, but I think you desire me too. Not just as a prize, but for who I am, as your equal."

For a long moment, Baelish only stared down at her. She knew the gears were turning inside his mind, weighing the possibility that she was lying, as was his nature. She didn't blame him for it.

"Either I've taught you well, as you say, or I'd almost believe you're serious," he said, his voice edged with a hint of doubt. She couldn't help that, but there was one last thing she could ask of him this day, before she took her oaths as queen.

"Will you do something for me?" she asked. At once, Baelish's lips curved into a small smirk as he gave a deferential nod.

"What would my queen ask of me?" he said. She cast her gaze to the Iron Throne.

"Sit," she said. "The last to do so was Cersei, and I'd rather not be the next."

Baelish eyed her with amusement, though his gaze slipped to the throne. "Are you afraid she left a residue? I'm certain your people have polished it thoroughly."

"It's the principle of it," Sansa said. "I refuse to inherit this throne from her family line, the Baratheons, or even the Targaryens. I'm creating a new line, hopefully forged with peace, not fear."

Eventually, Baelish inclined his head. "As you wish." He sat on the Iron Throne at last, and in his eyes, Sansa could see every man or woman that had ever underestimated the man called Littlefinger. His smile was genuine, if edged with darkness. Finally, he considered the wine in his cup and brought it to his lips. Sansa did the same, and they drank together for a moment in silence.

"Is it how you imagined?" Sansa asked. When Baelish met her gaze, his was still filled with hunger.

"Nearly," he said.

Then, his hand convulsed, and the wine fell, clattering onto the dais floor. His other hand raised to his throat as he coughed and wheezed for breath. He looked up at her, first with shock, then betrayal and anger. He reached for her, but Sansa stepped aside as he fell out of the throne. His knees hit the stone floor first, before his writing body uncoiled onto his side. His eyes were unnaturally red as he emptied the content of his stomach down the stairs.

Sansa folded her hands into her dress and approached slowly, standing above him as he glared up at her with every hatred.

"The Tears of Lys," she said. "A favorite of yours, I believe."

It was a heavy dose, one that dimmed the life in his eyes quicker than it had for Jon Arryn all those years ago. Without that, perhaps her father, mother and brothers would still be alive. But for the sake of those she had left in her life, and for the sake of this kingdom, Petyr Baelish was her responsibility to resolve.

Sansa took in a steadying breath, at last turning away from the sight of the body. With but a call, her maid returned from where she hid discretely in the hall.

"Have this mess cleaned up, please," she requested.

"Some would say a…tragic accident such as this on your coronation day would be an omen," said Tyrion, who entered with a letter in hand. While her maid went off to carry out the order, Sansa stepped down from the dais to meet with Tyrion. Today he would be declared her Hand. He didn't look entirely pleased though.

"I understand your worries, but it's not necessary," Sansa said. Already she felt exhausted. "I'm not the Mad Queen, and I don't intend to make this a habit."

Tyrion touched her arm supportively. He met the heaviness in Sansa's eyes with understanding. "I'm surprised you hadn't done it sooner."

Sansa was relieved that he understood. She felt no guilt for what she'd done, but she would rather not be seen as Cersei or Daenerys in his eyes. Noticing the unsealed letter in his hand, she gestured to it.

"Is there news?" she asked.

"From your brother," Tyrion said, offering her the letter. "He expects you in two months' time."

Sansa sighed in exasperation, alleviated only by her smile as she read the letter. "Jon has no proper sense of timing. I'll only have been queen two months, and he expects me to travel north?"

"He's getting married, after all," Tyrion said, smirking.

"Yes, well, he didn't come to any of mine," she muttered. She folded up the letter and handed it back to Tyrion. "Tell him I'll need three months at least. If he could wait this long, another month won't kill him…and, send Larisa my thanks."

Tyrion raised a brow. "For what?"

Sansa reflexively felt for the small, empty vial hidden in a pocket of her dress, a parting gift.

"She will know," said Sansa. She then looked up to the throne as two guards carried Petyr Baelish's body off of the dais. "Have that thing melted down and prepare the new one for the coronation."

"Don't worry," Tyrion said, "the new one isn't so pointy. It's made of good cedar and the finest silver."

As they walked together out of the throne room Sansa took in a deep breath, a true breath, and sent a prayer to the Old Gods and the New that her father was somehow watching.

The second day after Sansa was crowned Queen of the Southern Kingdoms, she sat with the Queen's council at a table that was almost full. On her right was Tyrion, and on her left was Theon Greyjoy, Master of Ships. Tyrion's friend Bronn, with his newfound wealth, was chosen for Master of Coin. Varys had agreed to return to his position as Master of Whisperers in support of Sansa's reign, while Brienne of Tarth naturally took up the role of Queensguard.

The only problem Sansa foresaw was Jaime, who Sansa had appointed Master of War. For all their forced, awkward civility, Brienne and Jaime clearly still had affairs to work through. Though she suspected one night of airing out their frustrations would relieve the…tension, rather nicely.

"Well, the biggest topic for today is that we have not yet acquired a Grand Maester," Tyrion said. Then, with a teasing note, "I admit, Davos would've been perfect for Master of Ships, but he's already playing Hand to Jon Snow."

Theon raised brow. "Really, I feel grateful just to be included," he said wryly.

"As amusing as we all find your repartee, if I might move this along," Varys said, offering up a parchment filled with names. "I've compiled a list of those we might consider from the Citadel."

"That list is as long as me arm," said Bron.

"How do we know if they're qualified unless we review them in person?" said Brienne.

"A good point," Tyrion admitted.

"Yes, let's just have a caravan of maesters line up and see how thoroughly they mash up some herbs," Jaime quipped sarcastically. Brienne shot him a thin look, and Sansa took it as her cue to intervene; she was in no mood for one of their petty arguments.

"Varys, have the Citadel choose three candidates and we'll test them thoroughly," she said.

"Yes, my Queen."

Once the meeting came to an end, Sansa and Tyrion walked out together. She knew what he was going to ask before he finally voiced it.

"How does it feel?" he asked. "Your newfound position, I mean."

They slowed to a stop just outside of the throne room. She could see the dais from where they stood, and a bright, sunlit courtyard behind them.

"I understand why Jon didn't want the responsibility at first," she said. "But I feel more right than I ever have been."

Tyrion nodded. She countered with the same question.

"Am I the right queen to serve?" she asked. Tyrion smiled, and gazed up at her honestly.

"I'm not sure," he said. "But I believe in you."

Hearing laughter coming from the courtyard, they both turned to see Theon Greyjoy chase his new wife, Martha formerly of House Marbrand, into the garden. She held a basket filled precariously with bread and other lunchtime provisions, no doubt. When Theon finally caught her, he clasped her hand tightly as he pulled her into a quick, but tender kiss. Then they parted and continued on their way.

Sansa usually found such displays exasperating, but she caught herself in a small smile and forced it back down. She met Tyrion's knowing look.

"It seems he's doing the chasing for once," Sansa remarked. Together, they continued on their way down the long hall.

Tyrion's smirk grew. "I admire a formidable woman. Imagine how creative she must be to get him to follow her around like that."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Your deplorable sense of humor hasn't matured at all, has it?"

"As one only can," he replied. "With experience."

Larisa wrapped the boy's hand firmly with her ivory bone quill. He dropped his own onto the hardwood table, recoiling with a glare.

"Ouch!"

Larisa edged his quill away from the parchment before the ink bled. "Straighten your letters or you'll start from the beginning."

This boy, Kaden, was the most stubborn of the group. While the other young children diligently worked, each tracing their letters and practicing their spelling, this one always managed to test her patience. Just this morning, she came to help him with his list of Northern houses. Just as she sat beside him, a frog leapt out from the collar of his tunic and scared her half to death.

The other children had enjoyed that a bit too much.

"This is stupid," said Kaden. He pushed the parchment away and scowled, his gaze cast down as he crossed his arms.

Larisa sighed and settled into the seat beside him. "You are a stubborn one, aren't you?"

He refused to address her respectfully, but that was all right. She watched his profile: dark hair and eyes, and a sharp little chin. Only his cheek was marred with fierce burn scar, a waxwork pattern of burned flesh from temple to neck.

He had survived the war, only because his mother had thrown her body protectively over his when the Wights had come to snuff them all out beneath the Keep. His father had fought and died in the battle for King's Landing, and now this boy was but one of many orphaned by the cost of peace.

"Do you know why it's important to learn these things?" Larisa asked him. "Reading, writing, arithmetic, history."

"Doesn't matter," he grumbled, then his scowl softened as a deeper pain entered his eyes. "Nothing does."

Her heart broke a little bit more. She touched his shoulder with a gentle hand. He was one of those boys that, on the surface, didn't seem to want closeness or warmth, for the fear of needing that warmth. He reminded her of Willem at that age.

"Men don't just win wars with swords," Larisa said. "We all must learn the skills we need to survive in this world, as many as we can. This way, we also learn from what we have survived, so the sacrifices our loved ones made will matter."

Kaden glanced up at her from the corner of his eye, and Larisa took that as a sign that he was listening, if not altogether convinced.

"We keep living," she added, "to honor their memory."

She could see the boy was fighting his emotions, fighting his tears. She squeezed his shoulder and let him be for now. When they finished with their lessons, she would make sure to stay a while. If he finally needed someone, she was willing to offer that comfort.

"You're doing well," said Dorna. She joined Larisa at the head of the small room, the older woman's gaze travelling over every child busily working. Larisa bent down to where Ghost was curled up, napping by her chair. He'd taken to following her when she traveled away from Jon, or out of the Great Keep. She didn't know if it was Jon's way of keeping her safe, or the direwolf's own instincts, but she appreciated Ghost as a companion, especially when she needed to get warm quickly. His fur was softer and warmer than elk furs.

"They are the same lessons you once taught me. I can't take much credit," Larisa shrugged, scratching Ghost between the ears. With a noise of contentment, he yawned, ears flicking at her gratefully.

What a good boy, she thought.

"Not just that," Dorna replied. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "I make sure they are dressed and fed, but these poor dears have endured so much…you're giving them a better education than they would've ever received, even if their families had survived."

"What you're doing for them is just as important," Larisa said. She had been the most surprised when her mother announced she was journeying north with them. She had given up her place on Prince Aldemar's council, which he'd not been pleased about, but graciously allowed. Now, she cared for nearly twenty wayward children in Winterfell, who hadn't been claimed by any willing family or Northern house. Yet there was something that been nagging at Larisa for months, as it did every time she saw her mother acclimating to the ways and traditions of the North.

"Objectively, I know that you came here for me," Larisa said at last. "Words can't say how glad I am that you're here, and we're together again…but I saw how you were. For the first time since I can remember, you were wholly yourself without fearing Father's offence. You spoke confidently to the Prince of Dorne and advised him well. You were part of his court, and even stood toe-to-toe with Lord Baelish. You had a comfortable life there, Mother. What made you leave it behind?"

Dorna smiled, as if she were indulging a small child's curiosity. Larisa did feel a bit like a child then, as Dorna touched her cheek softly.

"Oh, my dear. A woman is capable of a great many things, but in my heart, I am a mother first," she said. "You will learn this soon enough, when the Gods grant you a child of your own."

Larisa unconsciously held in her breath, as a familiar pain lanced through her heart. Fortunately, she was saved from replying when Samwell Tarley entered the room. He wore the clothes of a Maester now, and he had been serving Winterfell officially for two months to the day since Jon was crowned King in the North.

"A message from the South," Sam said, offering Larisa a sealed letter from Sansa.

"How is Gilly feeling today?" Larisa asked while she opened the letter.

"She's a bit restless," Sam admitted. "This child's coming slower than the other two."

Larisa grinned, even though she stamped down the burgeoning prickle of jealousy. She had come to love Samwell and Gilly, and she wished them every happiness in the world. That reminder alone brought a swell of guilt.

"You're going to be outnumbered soon," she said. "Savor these final weeks of peace while you can."

Perhaps Sam saw the way her demeanor fell. Unknown to her as she read Sansa's letter, he shared a look with Dorna, who left them to continue the children's lesson.

Sam touched Larisa's hand in a warm, brotherly gesture. She looked up at him and fought the well of emotion that surged at seeing his sympathetic, comforting gaze.

"The brew I've been working on is almost ready. I'm just waiting on one more ingredient from the South," he said. "Your friend Ellie has been a very helpful partner in this."

Larisa bit back the acerbic voice inside that yearned to say, Don't bother. She knew those words came from a place of pain, to protect herself against her own insecurity. The deep-seated thought, that she wasn't worth the trouble. That it probably would do nothing but raise her hopes, only to crumble them again.

Instead of voicing that thought, she gave a short nod. "Thank you, Sam."

According to Sansa's message, there would be more to arrive from the South in the month to come.

Jon greeted his sister warmly. Sansa's caravans had finally arrived early in the morning, and every remaining noble house in the North had come to Winterfell; not just to celebrate his wedding, but to honor how they'd already made a great amount of progress in rebuilding Winterfell, despite the difficulties winter snow and wind brought to the process.

With Ser Davos's help in delegating and finding resources, they'd managed to restore each tower and clear out the rest of the wreckage from the battle, repurposing the wood and stone to fix their borders, roofs, walls, and even furniture.

"Not bad," Sansa said, as he led her through to the Great Keep. While his men helped Tyrion, Brienne, and the rest of her party settle into their lodgings, Jon and Sansa entered the main hall, where two thrones now sat.

"Where is your bride to be?" she remarked, her eyes noting the second throne. She raised a brow. "It's a bit rude not to help escort a queen, let alone your sister-in-law."

Jon smirked. Some things just didn't change.

"I'll remind you that you're very late, and she's still helping the rest of you settle in," he said. "When I agreed to give you three months to get here for the wedding, I didn't think you'd get here the day of."

"It's not until this evening," Sansa replied with a smirk of her own. "And it's just as well. I have a gift for you…or rather, for her."

Jon had noticed the heavy bundle she carried and assumed it was just another winter coat. What she offered him was something more.

Meanwhile, in the large courtyard before the Great Keep, Larisa reunited with so many people she had come to count as her family. First there was Tyrion, cheeky as ever, but still somehow serious and sentimental. Her warmth for Jaime surprised both of them, and they parted just a little awkwardly.

She'd spotted Theon and Martha, and was able to smile without any lingering feelings of resentment or spite. Elinor and Addam had arrived days before with the Prince of Dorne, and even Tormund and his men had travelled down from the frostbitten North after a missive from the Night's Watch had finally reached them.

Now that everyone had arrived, all that was left was getting married.

After Davos took over ushering in Sansa's caravans, Larisa wandered off alone before her attending ladies and her mother could drag her back into her chambers, and begin their onslaught of preparations for this evening. Putting up her coat hood, she wrapped her arms around herself and walked into the cold, trekking a ways until she reached the quiet of the Godswood.

It was the first place she had found any peace when she arrived in Winterfell, and even now, it provided a balm for her restless, anxious heart. As happy as she was to have her mother here, especially today, she missed her brother. Wherever he was, she hoped he was happy, finding whatever it was he needed to find.

"Having second thoughts?" asked Bran. She hadn't even heard him and his creaky wheelchair coming, but she wasn't surprised that he was here. It wouldn't be the first time they'd shared a bit of silence under the Weirwood tree.

"No," she said, but she did need a moment to calm herself. Ever since yesterday, she had been trying to push down the well of anxiety blooming in her chest. She laid a hand on her stomach, breathing in deeply.

"You are good at holding in secrets," Bran said with a smile. "You have another, don't you?"

Sucking in a breath, Larisa looked down at him with wide eyes. She supposed shouldn't be so surprised. He was the Three-Eyed-Raven after all, and it was all the more impossible to tell what he was thinking.

"Why are you so afraid?" he asked. Larisa swallowed.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she said.

Bran's expression turned contemplative. He grasped her hand, more warmly than she thought him capable. She didn't know quite what he was doing, but as not to be rude, she stood in place, if awkwardly. He smiled at her.

"Becoming what I am now has changed me," he said. "But like you, I still wish for my brother's happiness."

Soon after, Larisa took her leave from the Godswood. She returned to her chambers in a bit of a daze, even as her mother became frenzied to get her into the bath and brush out her hair. Even when she was dressed in deep blue accented gold, with every button placed and every lace tied, Larisa didn't quite recognize herself as Queen in the North.

Her ladies made finishing touches on her hair and the folds in her skirts, but Larisa soon ushered them out, until only she and her mother remained.

"What is it, child?" Dorna asked.

Larisa met her gaze earnestly. "Mother, I have to tell you something."

The wedding ceremony itself was rather short, in the tradition of the tradition of the Old Gods. Bran Stark officiated it in the Godswood, while Tyrion formally presented Larisa. She stood before Jon, who looked dapper in his black and grey leathers, though this time, his furs were a deep blue matching her colors, though she also wore a cloak of red and gold for her house. She took in all of this in but a blink, but all she could really see was the smile he wore for her, the warmth in his dark eyes.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Bran began.

"Larisa, of House Lannister, comes here to be wed," Tyrion replied. "A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

"Jon, of House Stark, King in the North," said Jon. "Who gives her?"

"Tyrion, of House Lannister, her cousin."

Bran nodded, turning to Larisa. "My Lady Larisa, will you take this man?"

Her gaze shifted from Bran, to her cousin, and finally to Jon. Tears burned in her eyes, but she had just enough voice to agree, "I take this man."

Her voice rung out through the otherwise quiet Godswood, though full of spectators. Jon stepped forward and unfurled his gift from Sansa—a cloak, dark blue and grey, though rimmed with Lannister gold—and draped it over Larisa's shoulders to cover her crimson one.

For her ears only, he spoke softly in the space between them.

"I promise to protect you, and your happiness," he said. A tear fell down her cheek, but for once, she didn't mind it.

"Then I promise you every loyalty," she said, "for the rest of our days."

It was a challenge, with how much drink and feasting with their friends and family pulled them in all directions, but Larisa and Jon found a way to escape back to what would now be their shared chambers.

In their haste, Jon's foot caught on a stair and nearly sent them both tumbling down, but through muffled peals of laughter, Larisa managed to keep him standing.

"You'll have me roll an ankle at this rate," she panted. Heaving him up was no small feat. Jon's grin was a warning she noted, all too late.

"Can't have that, can we," he said, and hefted her up into his arms, then over her shoulder like the brute he was. At such a height, she yelped and held onto him like a cat to the edge of a bath.

"You'd better not drop me, you hear?!" she demanded, tightly gripping his hair.

Jon entered their room and shut the door firmly behind him, smacking her on the rear for good measure before he unceremoniously dropped her onto the bed. Catching her breath with a laugh, she sat up and dragged him over by the collar, and they began shedding each other's clothing between heated kisses.

She felt a strange, nervous flutter in her heart, for more reason than one. But in this moment, it was because this was real, and this man was now her husband, and she was his wife. Now, only death could separate them.

By now he'd shed her beautiful gown to the floor, along with her underthings, and she'd managed to remove his boots, leathers and furs. The gold chain around her neck, and the pendant that fell above her stomach, was all that was left between them. His heavy hands caressed her sides, palmed at her breasts while his tongue delved deep inside her mouth. Her nails dragged up and down his back with increasing urgency as his hand drifted lower, finding the source of her pleasure with ease.

They knew each other well; he knew without words that his ministrations would have her unconsciously bite his lip as her fingers grappled to find purchase on his arms and back for support, even more when he experimentally probed his fingers deep inside.

Her back arched, and soon enough her first release came rushing over his fingers. Panting for breath, her arms circled around his neck and brought him close as she whispered praises into his ear.

"How are you so good at that?" she said hoarsely.

He smirked, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Practice."

Larisa huffed a laugh, then curved a leg around his hip so she could roll him onto the bed, reversing their positions. She took his hand and curled both their hands around his shaft, stroking him once and agonizingly slow. His breath faltered as he squeezed his eyes shut, his thighs stiffening beneath her. She stroked him again, until she was sure his patience and restraint would snap, then sheathed herself over him in one quick go, as far down and deep as she could. His hands gripped her hips and thighs almost painfully as she settled over him, and finally started moving.

She was tormenting him a bit, going as slow as she was, but her brows furrowed in concentration as he allowed her to take her time building both of their pleasure. Or at least, he was trying.

"Lara," he ground out, after a while. His fingers were definitely bruising her skin, and he took a fistful of the sheets beneath him to try and alleviate it. "I can't take much more of this."

Beads of sweat beginning to drip down her neck, she relented, smiling as she suddenly snapped her hips down hard on him. With a faltering groan, Jon rolled them over again and took control at a faster rhythm. Larisa lasted only a few more moments longer than him, especially when his fingers reached down to help her find her way.

There was more heat in the room then cold by then, and they laid there a moment with the dark fur covers rumpled, but mostly untouched beneath them. Larisa laid her head on Jon's bare shoulder, twining her fingers with his. He lifted their joined hands up to his lips, and he kissed her hand tenderly.

It's time, she thought.

"Jon," she said, her voice quiet, but steady. He was still a bit dazed, she could tell, but he blinked back into alertness.

"Hmm?"

"I'm late," she confessed. It was a long moment of silence before Jon finally seemed to process her words. Releasing her hand, he turned over onto his side to meet her with furrowed brows. His eyes begged a question.

"Sam…he confirmed the pregnancy yesterday morning," Larisa said. She jumped in quickly before he could get too riled. "However, you know very well that I may not be able to deliver to term. I'm…I'm so sorry, my love, but I may never give you children."

It was a hard thing to confess again out loud. Jon swept her resulting tears away from her eyes, pressing his hand against her cheek in comfort. He pulled her close by the waist and slid his other arm beneath her shoulders, turning her into his chest. She rested her cheek against the scar over his heart.

"When I joined the Black, I knew I was never going to have sons or daughters," he said. "I'll be content with this life, and whatever happens next, as long as I have the ones I love. I don't want to lose you, or anyone else to something I can't control."

Larisa realized that he was speaking of his mother, Lyanna Stark, who died giving birth to him. It was a fate not impossible for her, but she didn't voice that, knowing that Jon was already thinking it.

"I won't tell you everything will be all right," she said. They both knew it very well might not be. She could lose this child, and even her own life if the Gods allowed it.

"You don't have to," Jon said. His thumb brushed her cheek, and he bowed to press a kiss to her forehead. "I know it will."

She almost rolled her eyes. "But what if—"

I'm gettin' real tired of repeating myself," he said. She leaned back a little so she could see his face.

"What?" she said.

"I've told you before," he said, his thumb soothing over her worrying bottom lip. "All that matters is this."

Larisa shook her head, though she couldn't help but smile. Doubt still weighed in her heart, and yet she felt full, and warm.

"What a hopeless sentimental sap you are."

Jon laughed. "You're unbelievable. Know how to kill a mood, don't you?"

"'Oh, how very stoic is the King,' they say," she mocked, her smile growing into a smirk. "If they could only see you now, one step shy of breaking into poetry. Should I call the bard?"

With his own grin, he silenced her with a deep kiss, then rolled over her to prod his fingers into her sensitive ticklish sides, until her genuine laughter filled the room.

Far beyond the King and Queen's chamber walls, outside into the frigid cold of the Godswood, an empty wheelchair creaked under the Weirwood tree. On one of its branches perched a Three-Eyed-Raven, tilting its head this way and that, watching a future no one else could see. Perhaps he had broken the rules, but the boy that had been called Bran did not regret his choice.

It was one last sacrifice. To ensure the happiness, and the continuing line of Starks and Lannisters both.

The bird bobbed its head once, then took flight into the winter sky.