This story is meant to be a continuation of the show: a sort of a speculation on the events post-season 6. It will be centred around Winterfell, particularly the Jon-Sansa relationship and its progression toward a real romance- something we haven't seen on Game Of Thrones in quite some time :p (RIP Robb, Talisa, Ygritte, etc.)

Sorry in advance for any inaccuracies regarding the books/show's facts...I have read and watched it all but mistakes are easily made in a setting as complicated as this. I'm trying my best though; my goal is to make the story gradual and believable. The evolution from a semi-incestuous relationship to a romantic one is not easy, and should make for interesting moments! I'm crossing my fingers for something like this story in Season 7, but am not overly optimistic, since this is Game Of Thrones,and it has a way of crushing one's dreams.

So please let me know if you like this, since writing it is a lot of work and I'll need motivation...also if you have any theories, speculation, or hopes for Season 7, please let me know in the comments, I'd love to see what others are thinking after the awesomeness that was season 6!

Sansa rode her silver mare through the Wolfswood, relishing the feel of the fading rays of feeble sunlight on her face. As late afternoon slipped into evening, the snow-blanketed forest already grew dark. The daylight succombs to night's shadow earlier with each passing sunrise. Sansa reflected sadly. Winter truly has come.

As if to deepen her unease, the forest around her trembled with the stirrings and rustles of wild animals. Though the coming of winter appeared to foreshadow death, the frozen Wolfswood seemed to be coming alive, as though strange winter creatures, dormant through the long summer, had decided to resurface. Sansa caught herself shivering at the thought, and subconsciously glanced rearward to Brienne, astride a sturdy brown charger, who looked resolute and undaunted as always.

Sansa was grateful for her protector's presence and unflappability, even if Brienne's insistence on accompanying her everywhere grew a bit tiresome on some occasions. I shouldn't complain. Sansa insisted to herself forcefully. I finally know freedom and safety. she reflected, her throat tightening at the memories of her gruesome recent experiences. Indeed, Ramsay Bolton would never have trusted Sansa to stray from the castle, whereas Jon had begrudgingly agreed that she should be allowed outside should she wish, provided that Brienne would accompany her. There was no comparison, really, between Ramsay, who she had despised with every waking breath, and Jon, who she was grateful for with every act.

She had taken several rides beyond the walls of Winterfell since having reclaimed it in the battle a fortnight past. With each trek she noted the longer time required to warm up upon return, as though the temperature was dropping consistently. Nevertheless, she valued the time outdoors to collect her thoughts and not be bothered by any diplomatic matters, of which there had been an abundance as of late. Nearly every day she and Jon had received guests of some form in Winterfell's great hall; be them lords, smallfolk, or messengers, and every one had some grievance or proposal for the King In The North.

Sansa's thoughts were halted as she arrived at a fork in the trail: to the left the trees thickened and the path dipped deeper into the Wolfswood; to the right the trees thinned and the trail opened onto the moors which flanked Winterfell. She could see the turrets of the castle poking stoically over the rolling hills.

Brienne cleared her throat and trotted her horse up to Sansa's side. "I think it best we return, my lady. Your brother surely worries."

Sansa nodded and turned her horse to the right, but noted that Brienne had not referred to Jon as his grace and smiled almost unintelligibly. Jon would probably be pleased, he seems to detest formality.

She and Brienne exchanged few words as they rode toward the castle, for which Sansa was grateful. Her teeth were nearly chattering and her cheeks stung from the bracing northern wind. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and a dull greyness had settled over their surroundings.

Despite the sombre atmosphere, the land beneath Winterfell's walls was alive with commotion. The village outside Winterfell's walls- which was typically just a collection of small buildings- had swollen to a staggering size. The leftover wildlings already camped there from the battle had been joined within days by smallfolk from every corner of the north who had pitched tents, huts, and even well-constructed cabins in the shadow of the looming castle walls. People mingled everywhere; they traded, argued, and exchanged stories...it was much like a real village, but much less permanent. It was also still growing. New northerners continued to arrive steadily every day. Davos liked to call it the Winter Village. Several of the Northern Lords insisted that Jon should send the people away, but he insisted that they were harmless, perhaps made proud by the fact that they trusted him and sought his protection.

Sansa didn't know what to make of the bedraggled people outside Winterfell's gates, but they seemed fond of her- always stopping her to offer gifts or praise her beauty. Today she was invited to share in a family's feast on a wild turkey by a bearded man (which she politely refused), and offered a small sewn tapestry by an old woman. The elder shoved the drapery into her arms and would not let Sansa leave without it, so she thanked the woman hastily and buried it in her saddlebag without even having glanced at its contents. "So nice i' is, t' see Starks in Winterfell.." Sansa heard her mutter as she hobbled away.

Eventually Sansa and Brienne made it to the gates of the castle, and were hurriedly accepted inside before any stowaways from the Winter Village could creep past the guards. As she dismounted and handed her horse off to a stable boy, she noticed that Jon had appeared on the wooden landing that overlooked the courtyard. He smiled in his understated Jon-ish sort of way and swiftly descended the stairs to meet Sansa and her knight.

"I was starting to wonder." Jon mused, looking Sansa over, then placing a gentle hand on her cheek. "You're cold as ice and white as Ghost." he remarked, concerned but amused. Brienne shot Sansa an I told you so kind of glance.

"I wanted to enjoy the sunlight before it disappears entirely." Sansa insisted with a small smile, shrugging Jon's arm away. "Apparently the lords aren't keeping you busy enough if you still find time to worry about me."

"I worry about you whenever we're not together." Jon muttered quickly, immediately looking somewhat taken aback, as though worrying he had overstepped. He recovered a moment later and seemed to want to change the subject- he appeared exasperated. "Anyways it's been more of the same. Talking alliances and feuds, arguing responsibilities, proposing matches. Come inside and get warm and fed. Perhaps in your company I won't murder the next lord who flings his daughter at me." Jon grumbled.

Sansa nodded and followed Jon, with Brienne closely in tow. She noted an unbidden sense of approval at Jon's reluctant attitude towards betrothal; she hated the idea of having to share him with someone else.

I've finally found one of my kin; no one is going to take him from me. Not if I can help it.

A few moments later Sansa was seated at the high table in the Great Hall immediately to Jon's left, supping on a stew of beef and vegetables. Brienne took her supper at one of the tables below, and Jon was reading one of several letters, having hastily downed his own stew already. Sansa watched Jon's dark eyes skimming the tiny script and noted his severe expression and brow furrowed in concentration. He looked a real king, seated in father's old chair, draped in a Stark cloak and reading important letters.

"Walder Frey was murdered." Jon stated suddenly, his eyes never leaving the letter.

Sansa nearly choked on her stew in surprise; her chest tightened and she was overcome by a wave of...shock? Satisfaction? Relief? She wasn't sure, but Jon seemed to sense her uncertainty and cautiously took Sansa's hand under the table. Immediately she remembered to breathe and was able to resume thought.

"The gods have sought vengeance for our family at last." She said quietly, her voice nearly breaking. Jon glanced at her solemnly. "Apparently they don't know who did it." He noted, his eyes searching hers.

Sansa stiffened. "It doesn't matter. Dead is dead." She proclaimed firmly.

"Well, I say we drink to that." Davos muttered from his seat at one of the lower tables. "To the death of Walder Frey, and to vengeance for the House of Stark." he called grimly, causing the remaining occupants of the hall to raise their goblets in salute. Tormund looked confused, evidently not understanding the magnitude of the situation, but raised his tankard to his lips anyhow and drank deeply.

The silence was deafening, and Sansa felt her throat swell with emotion. It should have been Robb and his wife in these seats, not Jon and I. she reflected sadly. But then where would I be right now?Just as quickly as she felt herself approaching her breaking point, Sansa steeled herself and regained composure, gripping Jon's hand firmly in her own.

"So what did the rest of the letters say?" Sansa asked quietly, ending the painfully drawn-out silence. "Anything of Bran or Arya?" The rest of the room's occupants resumed eating and chattering quietly.

Jon shook his head in disappointment, his face pensive. "This one's from Sam in Oldtown, saying he's begun studying at the Citadel." he said, looking dreadful.

"Isn't that good news?" Sansa quipped, trying to understand Jon's despair.

"He doesn't know that I'm….I'm…"

"King?" Sansa piped with raised eyebrows.

Jon nodded and extracted his hand from Sansa's. "Sam's still a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. He'll have to go back but I won't be there."

"Well he can always come visit…" Sansa suggested, trying desperately to provide some comfort.

Jon smiled a little despite himself. "That's not really how it works and you know it."

Davos seemed to sense a shift in their conversation and rose from his chair, evidently having something prudent to say.

"Sorry to interrupt, your grace, my lady." He muttered, nodding to Jon and Sansa, respectively. "But I couldn't help but overhear you discussing maesters, and it got me thinking that you really ought to have one here. In Winterfell."

"Seeing as I executed the Bolton maester, I suppose we could use one." Jon admitted, considering Davos' suggestion. He gestured for the knight to continue.

"I have been in communication with my nephew, as it be, who's forged the beginnings of his chain at the citadel. He hasn't much experience, but he's looking for work, and I reckon he could be here in a week's time, seeing as he's only in White Harbour. I'd be ever so grateful, your grace…"

"Alright, I suppose, at least until we can find someone more experienced." Jon agreed with a small sign, looking exhausted and slouching against his throne.

"Thank you, your grace. I'll send him a raven immediately." Davos exclaimed happily before shuffling quickly from the hall.

Sansa turned her attention back to Jon. "That was kind." she said gently. "We could easily have found a new maester ourselves."

"Well, an inexperienced one we can trust is better than a learned one whom we cannot." Jon said bitterly, evidently still brooding over his dilemma with Sam.

"So what did the other letter say?" Sansa prodded carefully, fixing her eyes on his and hoping for a change of subject.

"It was from Littlefinger. Very cryptic." Jon grumbled, passing the parchment to Sansa for her to read with her own eyes.

Sansa scanned Petyr's loopy, fiendish handwriting for a moment, then sighed. "A celebration of the union of our houses? Makes it sound like a wedding- and I'm not marrying him." she added quickly at Jon's disgusted reaction. He appeared to breathe a small sigh of relief. "I suppose it's a sort of dinner party, then."

"But he hasn't invited us to the Vale…" Sansa muttered, scanning the letter again.

Jon shook his head. "Even if he had, there's no way I'd let us go- I don't trust the man at all. I think this letter is his way of getting himself invited to Winterfell."

"Then we won't invite him." Sansa announced firmly, slamming the paper onto the table rather harder than she had intended to.

Jon perked up and looked a little surprised at her forcefulness. "We don't really have a choice, given how he aided us in our weakest moment." he mused, his eyes sweeping the great hall as if reflecting on just how much he owed Littlefinger.

Sansa shot him a sharp gaze, wondering if he was insinuating something and recalling their past arguments on this subject, but there was nothing but concern in Jon's eyes, so she softened.

"Then we do what we must, and we do it carefully. Littlefinger is dangerous." Sansa muttered, holding Jon's gaze for a moment, before rising from her chair. "I'm going to retire. Good night." she stated briskly, leaving Jon to ponder his political troubles. As she headed toward the doors of the hall Brienne made to follow her, but Sansa assured her that she was quite safe, and bid her goodnight as well.

Candle in hand, Sansa ascended toward her tower room. She was currently sleeping in her old chambers, while Jon dutifully inhabited the lord's chambers. It had taken nearly a week to convince him not to sleep in his tiny old room and to claim his rightful sleeping quarters (he was the King, after all) and still he asked Sansa every morning if she would prefer to take the suite instead. Though she rejected this offer obligatorily every time it was presented, in the deepest corner of her mind she wondered if they would do better to just stop pestering each other and share the room. It's just a room, after all, and it would be nice not to sleep alone. She would think quietly to herself. But then the dutiful opposing side of her brain would cry but it is unbecoming of an unmarried woman to share a bed with a man, especially her brother. And her thoughts would spin into deep turmoil.

On some nights- typically the colder and darker ones, Sansa found herself creeping back to her initial train of thought, and she had come so far one night as to nearly knock on Jon's door, but something always sent her crawling back to her cold, lonely chambers. So, dutiful as always, Sansa entered her room and lit her candles, trying not to feel scared or anxious. She immediately noted that the chill of her ride had returned once she had left the vicinity of the great hall's roaring fireplaces.

Hardly a moment had passed when Sansa jumped as a small knock sounded on her door.

"M'lady? I'm here for your soiled riding clothes." a familiar voice called.

"Come in, Eva." she responded, trying to hide the relief in her voice at having some company.

Sansa's new handmaiden stepped briskly inside. She was a lithe, strong girl, the bastard daughter of a more remote northern lord, who had offered to enter Stark service as a handmaiden after the battle, in exchange for safe lodging at Winterfell. Sansa had taken quite a liking to her, as she was pleasant to talk to and easy to trust- something Sansa had rarely felt after all of her experiences with Ramsay.

"You're shivering." Eva said matter-of-factly, noting Sansa's shaking arms. "Why don't I draw you up a bath?" she suggested helpfully.

Sansa was about to decline, recalling memories of her most recent wedding night, but changed her mind upon reflecting on her current state of cold. She doubted she'd be able to sleep without warming up.

"That would be...nice, Eva. Thank you." She said quietly.

A few moments later Sansa was lowering herself into her wooden washbasin, cloaked by the hordes of steam produced by the freshly-boiled water. She emitted an uncontrollable shiver as the water's heat warmed her body.

"Better?" Eva asked quietly.

"Very much." Sansa whispered with a shudder, reflecting on just how cold she had been.

Eva reached forward to wash her hair, but Sansa instinctively yanked it away from her handmaiden's grasp. "No-I'll do it myself." she retorted rather sharply, immediately feeling sorry for her brashness. "I'm sorry...it's just…"

"You don't have to explain." Eva said kindly. "I can't begin to imagine what sort of horrors you had to endure under the...care...of Ramsay Bolton."

Sansa gave her a weak, grateful smile and let her hair fall back against her shoulders, allowing Eva to wash it. She tried not to think about the horrible familiarity of the situation, and to just relax in the hot water.

"So, what of that Cerwyn lad who came calling today?" Eva suddenly chided cheekily as she slowly combed Sansa's hair.

"You mean the one whose head barely reaches my shoulders? Or was that the Hornwood man?" she pondered, smiling a little despite herself. "It's hard to remember which one is which."

"Agreed m'lady." Eva laughed, smiling playfully. "That Glenmore lordling from last week was pleasing to the eyes, though. We handmaidens remember him."

Sansa gave a mock groan. "His conversation capabilities were ghastly, he stuttered every second word."

"Mayhaps he was embarrassed; half these boys act like they've never seen a girl before, let alone a pretty one." Eva mused dramatically as she poured water over Sansa's hair.

"I wouldn't marry any of them anyway." Sansa muttered firmly. "They'll get the message eventually."

"If you'll forgive me for asking, do you want to marry anyone ever, m'lady?" Eva asked tentatively, squeezing the water from Sansa's auburn cord of hair.

"I don't know what I want anymore." She responded quietly, so that it was barely intelligible. "I may be forced to do so at some point or another, but I intend to have a say, this time; unlike my last two weddings." she grumbled with absolute disgust.

Eva smiled. "Well, until then, I must confess that the maids and I downstairs have a running tally of the suitors forced on yourself and His Grace."

"And who's winning?" Sansa wondered, amused at the servants' idea of a game and having not been keeping track herself whatsoever.

"You are, m'lady, as of the two lads who came calling this morning." Eva giggled. She had finished washing Sansa's hair and stood up. "If it pleases you, I'll go and fetch some warm towels from downstairs?"

"Certainly." Sansa said gently with a small nod, causing Eva to depart. As the handmaiden disappeared through the doorway, Sansa's thick wooden door did not close entirely, and, she noticed, hastened to swing back ajar. For an instant Sansa considered calling out to Eva, but decided against it. No one else frequented this tower except Brienne, seeing as the other bedrooms had belonged to Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Sansa closed her eyes and reclined, sinking deeper into her bath and relishing a few extra moments of warmth. She lost herself in her thoughts and let the curling steam send her into a stupor.

"Sansa?" a male voice exclaimed suddenly- Sansa heard her door creak open.

Before she could react properly, she heard Jon's exclamation of surprise.

"San- my lady...I'm, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"It's okay, Jon." Sansa mused coolly, turning her head to regard him but remaining low in her tub. Initially, she didn't know how to feel about him discovering her in such an exposed manner, but then decided that she found his shock to be quite charming, and quite befitting of a man who had had few encounters with the opposite sex in recent years. Sansa caught herself feeling that she had rarely been treated in such a gentlemanly fashion as of late.

Jon looked away stoically, most of him hidden behind Sansa's door. "I just wanted...to let you know that Littlefinger, Lord Arryn, and his company will be visiting in a week's time. I've just sent the raven." he muttered, his voice lacking its usual depth.

"Thank you for telling me, Jon. Good night." Sansa managed to blurt out, the current situation entirely overshadowing his words.

"Good night, Sansa." He answered, withdrawing and closing her door with a thud. Sansa could have sworn she had felt his eyes dart upon her in a fleeting glance before his departure, and felt a strange stirring in her chest at the thought.