Sansa V & Rhaegar V

She is a sweet, innocent little thing.

Sansa tries not to think, vividly, of how this child was set to die. So many holes by a Lannister man… Red Lannister cloaks to hide the blood of too small corpses. Dragon Spawn. That is what Robert Baratheon called them, how father did not disavow him, I will not know. But I suppose love makes you blind. She shoves that thought, down, down. Because in front of her is a sweet, little girl, nearly two namedays old, already a standing toddler. She eagerly looks at Sansa, pushes past her mother's skirts, and demands for Sansa to pick her up with the simple gesture by opening her arms, wide and ready. She is delicate, tanned skinned, with big wide indigo eyes like her father, but the lovely black hair of her mother. And she smiles at Sansa.

Sansa looks at Elia, who is looking down at her small daughter bemusedly but gives Sansa her permission with an indulgent smile.

This is the first time she has met the princess, and Sansa thinks that is a deliberateness in the wake of their uncertainty. She does not know how she has gained their trust, but she will not betray it. Carefully, Sansa drops to her knees. Opens her own arms wide. Little Princess Rhaeneys flies into her arms. Warm. Baby smell. For a single moment, Sansa feels her heartache with a fierceness of what has never been. Because she has never had this- No babe at her breast. How funny to think that Sansa Stark would still be a maiden at eight and ten, still truly unwed, when at one and ten all she had wanted was to be a mother and have so many babes. She lifts the Princess in her arms, breathing her in, lips pressed into her black curls.

Sansa feels her heart beat like a bird, rapid even tempo.

"Hello, little sunshine," she says, softly, running her hands through black silk. She feels her smile come to her, natural as breathing, even if she did not feel as if her smile was easy to truly make, "My name is Sansa."

The little girl presses her face against Sansa's throat. Rubs in her face sighs against the delicate skin of her neck with a happy gurgle. For a moment, Sansa remembers baby Rickon. Hair pulling and sticky spittle in her favorite gown. She had cried when she had first held Rickon. Princess Rhaenys somehow smells the same. Somehow takes the scent of babyhood and makes it universal. Takes Sansa back to the day she had first held her brother before grief fueled days of Autumn and the freezing terrors of Winter.

Her little brother so quick to defend her. Her losses are like a physical blow. It is only the weight of the Princess Rhaenys that keeps the tears at bay. Sansa breathes her in.

"I'm Rhaenys...And you're Pretty," mummers the girl, soft and happy, "You're pretty."

An innocent as Sansa once was. Part of her heart belongs to this little girl, already, with her happy memories and the terrible fate that Sansa will never allow.

"Not as pretty as you."

The girl shakes her head, side to side. She pulls back from Sansa's neck to look her square in the eye. Serious as a babe of near two namedays can be.

"You're prettier than Papa."

Sansa laughs. It feels so strange on her tongue, her laughter. A half-forgotten melody.

"High praise!" She says, and she smiles because who could not smile with such true sweetness? Sansa, bereft of it, cannot help but smile as she does.

Then Rhaenys giggles. And Sansa sees Jon's smile pull at the little princess's lips. Their eye shape is the same, as are the riotous curls. Oh. It is hard to imagine the fact that this little girl was Jon's sister, but she sees it, and she cannot help but give more of her heart to her. She is not her kin- but she is kin of her kin and she is innocent and good. It takes little for Sansa to love someone, now that she knows so much of the world, but she finds herself quite willingly giving part of her heart to this little princess.

"Where is my Princess?!" the King comes into the room.

And he falls silent. Sansa is startled, even as she drops to her knees quickly. Rhaenys tightens her grip on Sansa's neck.

"My King," mummers Queen Elia, "I have introduced our Princess to our dear Maid of Fire."

"... I see," says the King, voice soft.

Sansa feels her heart fall. When she is allowed off her knees, she carefully moves to give Rhaenys to her father- The girl's grip goes all the tighter. Her heart stutters.

"Now sunshine," Sansa pleads, blinking back tears. She does not want to seem a danger to this poor princess, scare her father further, "You must greet your father."

"No. Stay with Pretty!" returned the princess, firmly.

Sansa looks helplessly to the King. And is startled by his soft expression. His face is lovely. Again, she is reminded of how a young girl could have been hopelessly eager to run off with such a pretty man. But then she thinks of Elia, just as lovely, and Sansa cannot understand how Rheagar could leave her for her aunt. How he could leave such devotion? Sansa will never leave such devotion herself. Unlucky as she was in love, Sansa would cling to such emotion and devotion as best as she is able if she were ever to receive it.

"AND HERE IS YOUR FAVORITE UNCLE!" A joyous voice.

Prince Oberyn barges into the room with toys and books, obviously gifts to the princess. Sansa remembers pity in his eyes, same as she remembers contempt for her act as a simpering, injured dove beneath Cersei's heel. As if she could do anything else but pretend to be stupid surrounded as she had been. His eyes go wide as he takes her in, Princess in her arms. His dark eyes are sharp, just a touch arrogant. His smile, innocent and gentle, turns into something wicked and sly. Wanting. Lust.

"The Maid of Fire," he all but sings.

Sansa wonders faintly if he was worse or better without his paramour by his side. She is leaning towards worse. It is startling to see him so young. She is reminded of Young Griff, in the plains of his face. The same arrogance in there. The same casual perusal of her body. Of wanting her. She reminds herself not to grip tightly on Princess Rhaenys, lest she hurt the poor babe.

"Go 'way Nuncle Obi," said the girl seriously, "You scaring my Pretty away!"

Sansa huffs because from the mouth of babes only truth comes.

"Well met, Ser," she says politely. She soothes a hand down Rhaenys's curls.

"Well met, my dear lady. I have heard of much of you, from port to port, but never have I heard you to be so beautiful," He says smoothly.

He snatches the hand touching his niece's head. Sansa stills. Freezes. Cannot help it. She is not fond of people grabbing her as they please. As Queen, she had been except of that, because Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne all but chopped off the hand of any over-eager man or woman who dared. But she is alone-

Princess Rhaenys slaps her uncle's hand.

"Stop Nuncle! Don't grab Pretty!"

Sansa cannot help it, she giggles and touches Rhaenys's curls once again.

"My, such a fierce defender, my Princess," she says, warmly, "Thank you. But your Nuncle is only wishing to meet me."

Rhaenys looks at her and grabs her face with soft warm hands.

"Nuncle shouldn't grab you. That's bad. Papa said if people grab me, to call for my Knights. I can be your Knight if you don't have one."

Sansa swallows.

"I had knights before, sweet Princess, but I do not think I shall ever have such a kind one."

She mentally apologizes to Ser Brienne for the soft lie. Her kindest Knight. Jaime had been her fierecest, but Brienne had been her kindest, truest friend and Knight.

"Than I must be your Knight."

She laughs.

"Thank you, sweet Ser Rhaenys," she said simply.

Rhaenys giggles and presses messy kisses to her face.

Rheagar paces, it is the first time in a few weeks that he has been alone with his wife.

"Rhaegar-"

"I like her," he blurts to his wife, and he feels his face gain color. He knew if he would look to his mirror, he would be as red as the red of his House.

Elia, Elia knows him so well. She nods, acknowledging it easily. She smiled at it was as if she was blooming, so full and ready it was.

"I as well," she tells him, warmly.

"I am attracted to her. Gods, so attracted," he said and licked his lips.

Elia bit her own.

"As I am. She is so-"

"Yes, so-"

"But what do you want, Rheagar? We like this girl. We are attracted. What does that mean?"

He huffed a breath. He paced quicker, for his agitation was great.

"I-"

"Do you intend to bed her? Shall we be like my brother and bed her together in a passionate fervor?"

Something in him ached at the thought. Something hot and dark wished for that with a ferocity that would have shamed him if he knew not that Elia wanted much the same. He could see it in her face. Saw the heat and promise of her own lust. But- But when he saw Sansa holding his daughter, it had not been lust in his mind. It had not been so baise. Yes, yes he very much wished to have his way with the Lady Sansa Stark of the Highlands. And have her with his wife as well.

Wished it desperately.

But that was not all he wanted.

And it wasn't what she deserved.

"I could not ask her such dishonor. I could never ask her for something so impertinent. We never have done such a thing, no matter our attraction to another. For my father had his mistresses. Had his many. She is not such a person. It is not just to sate my lust nor yours that I wish for Sansa."

Elia sighed in relief.

"Nor do I. Rhaegar, I have never had my heart as moved as I did today watching Sansa hold our princess in her arms. It was right. As if she had been missing all along."

He swallowed thickly. Tried not to laugh at her words for they were achingly what he had felt.

"It touched mine as well. I want- I want Sansa. I want her near us. I want her in our bed. I want her holding our daughter and perhaps a child of mine of her own. I want her here with us. I-"

"You wish to romance her. Have her love us. Marry you, but have us together."

Rhaegar felt he was soaring, the sound of that sounding so right.

"Yes. I want Sansa to love us both."

Elia's eyes gleamed. She grasped his hands. Gripped them tight. She was smiling so beautifully.

"Then by all means my King, let us romance ourselves a new Queen."

OMAKE:

Elia, whispering furiously, "PRETTY LADY IS HOLDING MY BABY, ME WANT."

RHEAGER, BARELY ABLE TO STRING TWO WORDS TOGETHER, "YES. OURS?"

" OURS. MAKING IT HAPPEN. ASAP. CATCH UP, HUSBAND. Get ready to make that woman a crown. She's gonna kill it as my Queen."

"Our Queen of Winter."

"Hell yes."

SANSA, whistling obliviously, holding onto baby. 'Cause baby.

Rhaenys, declaring, "She's my new mommy, I have two mommies and no one can tell me no."

"Oh, sweetie, how sweet, I can't be your mother-"

Rheagar, smoothly for once in his life, "Oh yes, you can. We Targeryons are known for two wives. We can make it official. How does mid-June sound for our wedding? If Rhaenys has approved, who am I to say no?"

Elia, pouncing on it, "We should have it in Sunspear. The Great Sept is much too stuffy."

"Um-"

"Ooh, I like the thought of that. We can have your brother arrange it. Sansa, what color would you like for your wedding gown? I think that silver you wore the other day was fetching."

"I think we should all wear something of silver. For her Stark House. We would all slay in silver."

"But- I- Wait. This joke has gone too far-" Sansa, says, bewildered.

"Oh, sweetling, this isn't a joke. Would you prefer a buffet or courses for our wedding?"

Sansa resigned, and still bewildered, "Buffet?"

"Goodie. Courses are so stifling and limiting. Now, as for your crown- I'm thinking-"

"Design it after the wirewood tree. Red and white. I follow the Old gods-"

"Oooh, pretty, me like."

Or our Dragon King and Sun Queen get themselves a Queen of Winter, shamelessly bribing her with love and the promise of many babies. They gave her many lemon cakes, many dresses, spoiled and adored her, and loved her well. They had ten babies between them and were affectionate idiots to the end of their days, happy Queens and King who ruled and were loved by all.

Then Cersei was so jealous she died.

And they lived happily ever after.