Chapter Text
Whistling cheerfully to Bear and a Maiden Fair, the King of the Seven Kingdoms makes his way to his beloved wife’s chambers.
It’s early in the morning, the first rays of sunshine shyly greeting the gardens and illuminating the colorful stained glass that decorated this side of the former Maegor’s Holdfast. Nearly everything had to be rebuilt after the War of the Two Queens, from the ugly throne room to the last of the royal chambers. It had taken many years, a third of the gold confiscated from the now extinct House Lannister and the life of a drunk glazier who dared to try and take a peek at the Dragons’ treasure, but it had all been worthy in the end.
Jon had never been to King’s Landing before the wars, when the fortress was still mostly intact, but he knew from the tales of his wife that for all its opulence, it wasn’t an inviting place. Not somewhere where his sweet winter rose could grow and flourish, not the place any of them truly dreamed of living, of raising their future children.
Had he been any better of a man, he would have put up a fight to keep her away from this terrible place with all those terrible memories. He would sit her on a weirwood throne and find a place for Viserion to live amongst the snow – Jon Snow would. Jon Targaryen was happy enough with having half the week with his sweet wife in this wretched city if it meant he could have her.
For all that the rest of the castle is draped in red and black banners and decorations, Rhaenys’ Holdfast has a different sort of ambience. Big windows where the sun could shine through, a beautiful view of the ocean, curtains and carpets of light blues, creams and lilacs. Fresh flowers in gold and silver vases, crystal chandeliers and the occasional direwolf banner here and there. All tailored according to the High Queen tastes, to the endless confusion of the court, who love to whisper about his marriage. Or rather, his marriages.
Barely glancing at the guards at the doors, Jon unceremoniously enters the chambers where Daenerys had commissioned a big canopy bed to be built, in which amongst her many embroidered pillows and soft furs, Sansa laid, sound asleep.
“Nephew.” A cold voice calls him from the balcony. “You’re early.”
Turning to where his aunt was busy brushing the knots of her shoulder-length hair, Jon distantly takes note of her nakedness before starting to remove his own clothes.
“Aunt.” He greets her with feign happiness. “I had such a harsh trip.” He sighs. “The Stormlands is terrible this time of Summer, and I could not help but worry about my lady love alone here.”
Daenerys has her brows furrowed in disapproval, as she always is when it comes to him, but Jon is too busy climbing the bed to notice.
“There’s no need for you to worry about my wife, nephew.” She replies, putting on her robe as he creeps under the covers. “Let her rest. We had a long night.”
Jon chuckles, half-amused and half-bitterly. “And we’ll have an even longer day.” He mutters, knowing she could hear him.
Ignoring Daenerys jealous scoff, Jon pulls his sleepy wife flush to his chest, basking in her presence. Sansa lets out a soft whine in her sleep as he mouths her bare shoulder, one of his hands moving to fondle one of her nipples while the other strokes the gentle bump of her belly.
It takes all his self-control not to shoot a self-satisfied smirk at Dany, who is leaning over to land a goodbye kiss at their wife’s lips. She can keep them here, she can keep her three headed dragon ruse to maintain her access of Jon’s beloved, she can force him to share his wife’s heart and bed, but she couldn’t put a baby in Sansa’s belly like he did. She wasn’t deep inside of her, taking root. She wasn’t in Sansa’s blood, in her childhood memories, her family three. She was only Sansa’s wife through him.
Daenerys might be the other side of Sansa’s heart, but she would always be the weakest link.
“I’ll be back as soon as the sun sets on the morrow.” His aunt says stiffly at him before leaving, but only after shooting a last loving glance at their wife. And there it is. The only reason why none of them would arrange the other to die in an unfortunate accident as soon as Sansa gives birth. For all they disliked each other, they still loved her more.
The door closes, and Sansa moves in his embrace, awaken by all the movement.
“Shh, my sweetest love. It’s okay.” He mumbles at her hair, the hand on her bump moving south to where she’s still wet and sensitive from Dany’s attentions. Sansa moans, still half-asleep, and he pinches her nipple. “Your husband’s here, sweet sister.”