After Medrick's departure, Jon withdrew into himself. Barely an hour ago, he stood as both warrior and lover; now, he felt adrift, a lost child. The revelation of his familial losses weighed heavily upon him. Not only had he mourned the passing of one family - parents and siblings - but now he faced the shattering truth of a second loss. His mother's demise, his father's fall on the battlefield, and the brutal murders of his half-brother and sister at the hands of The Mountain, under Tywin Lannister's command.

Previously, his family had been revered figures of history, distant yet familiar. Now, they were stripped down to Jon's own flesh and blood, a reality he struggled to comprehend.

Yet, this wasn't the extent of Jon's familial upheaval. Arya, Bran, Rickon, Robb, and even Sansa, were no longer his siblings - though, in truth, his bond with her had always been tenuous. Ned Stark, once his father, now relegated to the status of uncle. Only Uncle Benjen remained unchanged, yet even he had met his end. The weight of so much loss bore down upon him, and with it came a flood of grief. His features contorted, and he was consumed by anguished sobs.

Sansa extended her hand toward him. "Hold me," he whispered.

In that moment, Jon yearned for the embrace of a mother, not that of a lover. He had never known a mother's love, a love Sansa had been fortunate to receive abundantly. Rising from her place, Sansa crossed over to him, kneeling down to envelop him in her arms. As he leaned into her, he collapsed to the floor, causing Sansa to stumble and settle beside him on the fur rug before the hearth. Adjusting herself, she cradled his head in her lap, tenderly running her fingers through his hair. Then, she began to sing a familiar tune, "A Mother's Love," a melody their own mother used to sing to Sansa and her siblings during their childhood.

A mother's love, steadfast and true,

Through every season, I'll be here for you.

In the quiet of night, my heart takes flight,

For you, my son, are my guiding light.

Springtime blooms, and you find your way,

Innocence and wonder fill each day.

My heart swells with pride as you explore,

My son, my joy, forever more.

In summer's warmth, I cradled your dreams,

As fireflies danced and whispered themes.

Autumn leaves fell, and you grew strong,

My arms are your shelter when things go wrong.

When frost-kissed winds weave through the pines,

And snowflakes dance like whispered rhymes,

I cradle your dreams in winter's embrace,

My arms are your shelter in this tranquil space.

So close your eyes, my precious one, and rest,

In the warmth of my love, you're forever blessed.

Through summers, winters, and all in between,

My son, my heart, you are my everything.

Jon gazed up at Sansa, tears brimming in his eyes. "Is this what it feels like to have a mother's love?"

At the sight of his despair, Sansa felt her heart shatter. "Your mother loved you deeply. That's why she entrusted you to Father. She expressed her love in her own way, Jon. Every mother has her own way of showing affection. Father often likened her to Arya. Can you imagine Arya singing lullabies to her children?" she quipped, a burst of laughter escaping her in an unladylike snort.

Jon chuckled in agreement. "No," he replied, shaking his head. "She'd probably be teaching them swordplay."

"Just picture Arya as your mother, but perhaps without the singing," Sansa mused.

Jon furrowed his brow, contemplating the idea as Sansa continued to run her fingers through his hair. "Seven hells, I'll pass," he remarked with a sad smile.

"Why don't you pay a visit to Lyanna in the crypts?" Sansa suggested gently. "She's been by your side for most of your life, watching over you. I'm certain she'd appreciate it if you said hello. Perhaps tomorrow, we can consult with Maester Medrick once again. It seems he holds more knowledge about your parents' past than anyone else alive."

Jon closed his eyes, contemplating the mysteries of life and death. He had faced mortality firsthand, and now, in the presence of Sansa, he pondered the possibility of his mother's spirit watching over him. Yet, as comforting as the notion was, he couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that his deceased family would disapprove of the intimacy between him and Sansa.

"I should rest," Jon declared wearily, rising to his feet. He ran a hand over his tired face before extending a hand to Sansa, helping her up.

Sansa pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Goodnight, Jon," she murmured.

Jon offered her a small smile before enveloping her in a tight embrace. In that moment, he sought solace in her presence; she was his anchor in a sea of uncertainty. "Tomorrow, we must uncover why Littlefinger was rifling through Medrick's solar," he said, his voice slightly muffled against her hair. "Do you think he suspects anything?"

Sansa drew closer, her tone serious. "If Lady Dustin informed Littlefinger about Medrick's presence with Father in Barrowtown after the war, alongside you, then Medrick would be his first target to uncover your identity," she explained, nodding. "The other individual present with Father was Lord Howland Reed. However, I'm unsure how many are aware of that. Lord Reed would have returned to Greywater Watch before Father's meeting with Lady Dustin."

Jon absorbed her words. "Keep that in mind," he instructed, turning towards the concealed door. "Goodnight, Sansa."

"Goodnight, Jon," Sansa replied, observing his departure through the door.

Before Jon could even shut it, a familiar cry pierced the air. "Ghost!"

Sansa hurried into the room, her curiosity piqued, only to discover the enormous, damp direwolf sprawled across Jon's bed. Despite the situation, she couldn't stifle her laughter. Jon, however, looked less than amused.

"What is so funny?" he inquired, his tone serious.

"I guess you'll have to find another place to sleep tonight," Sansa teased, but her laughter faded as Jon gave her a serious look.

"Have you got any spare furs? Ghost has soaked all of mine," Jon asked.

Sansa shook her head, then an idea struck her. "Maybe Ghost knows best. You shouldn't be alone tonight. You can stay in my bed."

Jon recognized the potential for temptation, but tonight, he craved only the comfort of someone who cared for him. Tomorrow might bring different desires, but for now, he had no bed or furs to ward off the chill, leaving him little choice.

"Very well," he agreed. "I'll let you change in your chambers. Just call for me when you're ready."

"Don't forget, we'll need to apply the poultice," Sansa reminded him.

"How could I forget," Jon sighed, resigned to the evening's events.

⸺⸺⸺◊◊◊⸺⸺⸺

Before retiring for the night, Sansa applied the nighttime poultice to Jon's healing chest, then settled into her own bed and drifted off to sleep. The following morning, she roused Jon with a gentle nudge.

Jon cracked open one eye and offered a sleepy smile. "Good morning," he greeted, his voice heavy with drowsiness.

"You need to return to your own room, Jon. My maids will be arriving soon," Sansa reminded him, a hint of urgency in her tone.

Jon pouted playfully before stretching and sitting up. "I could get used to this," he remarked with a grin. "In fact, the only positive aspect of our revelations from last night is our bond."

Sansa's brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm not sure I understand," she admitted.

"I no longer have to feel guilty about my affection for my sister being deemed inappropriate," Jon explained, shifting uncomfortably as he struggled to control his rising arousal. The mere mention of their taboo love stirred desire within him.

"Oh," Sansa blushed, her cheeks flushing crimson. "I still don't comprehend why the gods would bring us together in such a manner, though."

Jon drew her close, planting a tender kiss on her forehead. "I believe I do," he murmured.

"Really?" Sansa inquired, curiosity piqued. "Please, do tell."

"My true identity will likely be exposed sooner rather than later if Littlefinger discovers it," Jon stated, the weight of the revelation settling upon him. "I fear the Lords of the North and the Vale will not take kindly to a Targaryen presence in Winterfell. Littlefinger will stop at nothing to drive a wedge between us. He'll poison your mind against me. Would we have trusted each other as we do now without the bond we share?" he questioned.

"Likely not," Sansa admitted with a shake of her head. "We must ensure the Lords see you not as a threat, but as a loyal ally to the North. I will see to it—" she began, but Jon cut her off with a shake of his head.

"Littlefinger holds considerable sway as regent," Jon observed.

Sansa recognized the need for a solution that would be irrefutable to the Lords. Marriage seemed a potential avenue, but she hesitated, mindful of the assumptions that could arise, echoing the scandal surrounding Lyanna and Rhaegar.

"At some juncture, marriage may become our only recourse," Sansa conceded.

Jon's brows furrowed in mild surprise at her suggestion. "Wouldn't it raise suspicion if you were to marry him first, only for him to perish and then wed me?" he countered.

Sansa chewed on her bottom lip, deep in thought. "I don't intend to proceed with the marriage. Instead, I propose a betrothal. He has no family, and I would be his closest kin..." She trailed off, noticing Jon's disapproving shake of the head. "What?" she questioned.

"I can't allow it. We need another plan," Jon interjected firmly.

Sansa pondered their predicament. While she couldn't openly announce her betrothal to Jon, there was another way to secure their future. "I have an idea," she began slowly. "We simply remove Littlefinger from the equation. Of course, we must ensure there's a trial and sufficient evidence."

"So, for the time being, we simply observe?" Jon asked, and Sansa nodded.

"Continue as normal, and observe." she said.