#jonsadungeonsanddrabbles

[kitnjon]

Jonsa Smut Week - Day 04 - Duty

for @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles event

Arranged Marriage AU

[cellsshapedlikestars]

sometimes they come true

for the @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles New Year event

Prompt: Wishes or Traditions

read it on ao3 here

(this could probably be a companion piece to one of my other prompt fics keep you safe)

......

It starts when she is a girl.

When she feels hopeless or angry or frustrated or powerless, she writes on a small slip of paper and goes to bury it in the godswood, under the heart tree. She keeps the Seven, as her mother does, but when she wishes for things, somehow she always finds herself in the godswood, hands digging through the earth, burying her heart's desire along with her tears.

Sometimes they come true, but never how she imagines.

When she wishes to go South, she does, but it is nothing like she thought it would be.

There is no heart tree in King's Landing, but she keeps wishing anyway, though she does not dare to write them down anymore. She writes them in her mind, buries them in the Winterfell godswood in her mind.

When she wishes to no longer be betrothed to Joffrey, she is set aside for Margaery Tyrell.

But then they marry her to the Imp.

When she wishes to be away from King's Landing and her new husband, Petyr Baelish secrets her away to the Vale.

But then he hides her for himself and she watches her aunt die, one of her last remaining kin (for who knows where Arya is, and she has heard no news of her Uncle Edmure since Riverrun was taken).

When she wishes for family, she gets Jon Snow.

At the Wall, she finds that one of her other wishes had come true - for a true knight to take Janos Slynt's head – and once again, it did not happen as she thought it would. It was no knight, but Jon Snow himself that had done it.

When she wishes for Winterfell, Jon takes it for her, but they lose Rickon.

She begins to write her wishes again, begins to bury them at the foot of the heart tree.

When she wishes for hope, Bran arrives, Arya arrives.

When she wishes for a miracle, they survive the Long Night.

Jon announces he is to go South with the Dragon Queen and she buries wish after wish under the heart tree, but she has lost her magic. Her wishes do not work, she buries them with her tears and, once, with her blood (later, when Jon sees her hand, he asks what happened in that concerned voice of his and she wants to scream because he is leaving).

She stops making wishes the moment he rides out the gates of Winterfell.

She understands now that her wishes never came true, they were simply coincidences. Magic does not exist. She has no wishes when the news arrives of the destruction of King's Landing, of Jon's imprisonment. She buries no slip of paper beneath the heart tree before she heads South, she sheds no tears.

In the South, in the city she loathes, with strangers surrounding her and Jon in chains, it is a promise she makes, not a wish – a promise of a Northern army willing to fight for his freedom.

She loses Bran to the South and Jon to the far North and Arya to the West. She is alone and she makes no wishes.

She is crowned. She rules as well as she can – she tries to be as honorable as her father, as kind as her mother. She tries to be as brave as Arya, as wise as Bran, as fierce as Rickon (she tries not to think about Jon at all).

She tries and tries and tries and still she feels empty. Tired and lonely, with the crown she wanted as a little girl resting like a punishment upon her head (though she knows it is not the crown she hates, it is the loneliness, but it is easier to blame the crown than to remember that her family has abandoned her once again).

It is coming on a year when she loses the battle with herself, when the loneliness is too much to bear and she rises out of her bed and makes her way down to the godswood, refusing her guard's company. It is at the foot of the heart tree that she kneels and she realizes she has not written her wish down, and so instead she digs her hands into the cold ground and she whispers her wish into the earth and her tears fall like they have not in so long.

She hates herself when she is finally back in her rooms, shivering from the winter air with dirt beneath her fingernails. She curses the little girl still inside her, for giving in to her silly belief and her childish dreams. She goes to sleep with hot tears staining her cheeks and she tries not to think about it again.

A month later, when a guard comes to tell her of a visitor, she does not think of the tree, she does not think of her wish whispered into the earth. She thinks of nothing at all until she hears the delighted shouts from the courtyard and her feet move faster and her heartbeat thrums in her ears and then she sees him, standing in the falling snow with Ghost at his side and a smile on his lips.

And all she can think, as she throws herself into his arms, is that magic is real, her wish did come true.

[vivilove-jonsa]

don’t kiss me goodbye, kiss me goodnight Part 1-Dreams

@jonsadungeonsanddrabbles​ Day 1 prompt-dream

The hotel banquet hall is full of the usual suspects tonight; politicians, lobbyists and daydreamer idealists, donors with deep pockets, journalists, corporate ‘yes’ men.  There's women too; pricey call-girls his father always makes sure are here, the blue-blooded wives and girlfriends, some of whom want into this male-dominated scene.  All of them in an array of suits and dresses that come from the most prestigious tailors in town to off-the-rack clearance-bins.

Oh, and scores of attorneys because, sooner or later, everyone in this room needs one of those.

Expensive cigars and high-dollar scotch mix with cheap cologne.  The endless cacophony of voices above the band that plays old standards and patriotic drivel on cue. Whether loud and assertive, boisterous and ridiculous or waspish and stinging, these people never shut the fuck up.

Jon hates this scene so much.

Normally, he can avoid it even with his father being who he is because he’s a Snow, not a Targaryen.  But tonight, all eyes are on Aegon and Jon’s got to be here in a show of solidarity. That’s what it is, too. A show.

Elia spies him across the room no sooner than he’s walked in.  Her eyes just as quickly cut away. That’s not a show. She doesn’t care for her husband’s bastard being here on her son’s night.

He edges around the far side of the bar, hoping to blend in if he can’t escape yet.

“Oops! Excuse me!”

He’d had his eyes on his father, hadn’t seen her backing away from the bar. But if someone's going to bump into him here, spill Merlot on him, he won’t complain about it being her.

Gorgeous red hair, a strappy, sparkly silver dress and blue eyes. A face straight out of a magazine. She’s all adorably flustered smiles as she ineffectively wipes at his suit. Who is she?

“I’m so sorry!”

Her voice is a song, lilting amusement as he stares at her trying to think of something witty to say, coming up blank like usual.  “No, it’s…it’s nothing.”  You dream of being a writer but can't come up with anything to say.  Pathetic.

“Jon? Godsdamn, you made it!”

One strong arm thrown around his neck, a whiff of body odor and bourbon. Aegon's already sweating bullets behind all those smiles he’s been giving and dousing his nerves with liquor every chance he gets.

He cups Jon’s face, eyes wild with the adrenaline of a rush Jon will never know or understand. “I knew you’d come, cubby.”

Jon scowls, eyes involuntarily flashing towards the pretty redhead. He hates when his brother calls him that. They aren’t terribly close but they’d tried when they were kids. Doesn’t mean his brother, who’s not even a year older than him, mind you, still has to call him that stupid nickname.

“Oh shit, this is perfect!” Aegon exclaims next, noting the woman still standing there with only half of her Merlot still in the glass and the other on Jon’s black jacket.

Jon’s scowl deepens. He knows how Aegon flirts and he doesn’t want to see it, not with her.

But the beauty speaks up before Aegon can utter one dumb pick-up line.

“So, this is Jon, is it?” She holds out a perfectly-manicured hand. “I’ve been hearing about you.”

“About me?” he says, half choking on his surprise. “Well, don’t believe anything this guy's told you.”

“I only believe about twenty-five percent of what Aegon says.”

“Smart lady.”

“Alright, alright. That’s enough bashing,” Aegon grumbles playfully. “This is Sansa, my girlfriend.”

Jon blinks and swallows a sigh. Of course, she’s Aegon’s girlfriend. Aegon always has the best luck when it comes to women.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sansa,” He shakes her hand, internally noting how smooth and perfect her hand feels in his.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Jon. Again, I’m sorry for the spill.”

He doesn’t even get a chance to reply before Aegon wedges his way in between them, rambling away and making Sansa laugh. Sometimes, he loves his half-brother. Sometimes, he can’t stand him.

Before long, their father’s taking the stage and gesturing for ‘his family’ to come up and join him. It’s time for the announcement everyone knows is coming. Aegon will be running for their father’s seat with Rhaegar ready to step down.

Aegon kisses Sansa on the cheek, tells her he’ll be right back. She isn’t ‘family’ yet then. Aegon will be looking for a wife though. It’s all part of the show. Doesn’t mean he’ll get Sansa. At least, part of Jon hopes he won’t.

Jon's hoping to stick by Sansa, maybe see if he can get out one complete sentence without Aegon jumping in.

But Aegon has other ideas. Much to the chagrin of their father and Elia, he drags Jon up on stage next to him. “I’m gonna need you by my side, cubby.”

“I’m going overseas in the fall for…”

“Come on, Jon. I’ll need you by me. It’s your duty as family,” he adds with a none-too-gentle poke in the ribs.

“Where’d you meet her?” Jon asks out of the side of his mouth to avoid a fight...and because he has to know.

“Coffee shop near her university. Bright girl. Studies geography…or geology...something. Asked her if I could buy her coffee in exchange for using her charger for a sec.”

Jon smirks. Aegon’s never afraid to go up to any pretty girl.

“Plus, she’s a Stark.”

Of course, she is. The only question Jon has now (which he doesn’t ask) is had Aegon known that before he’d gone up to hit on her.

It doesn’t matter. They can all have this scene. Sansa’s a stranger to him, his brother’s girlfriend. And no matter what his father’s family thinks, Jon has his own life to live.

But later that night, when he sees them dancing, the pair of them near golden perfection in the spotlight, Jon dreams about something he’d never expected. He dreams of being in his brother’s shoes for once…just to be the one holding her.

[cosmicait]

For the @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles New Year Drabble Event prompt: Dreams

title: in my dreams

author: mshoney

summary: sometimes the idea of finding the lost prince was all that kept sansa going in the wake of so much loss. // an Anastasia au

link: (ao3)

[madgrad2011]

Autumn Drabble for @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles Prompt: Dark Nights

Read on AO3 here.

i. break my heart in the blink of an eye

“I’m not some damsel in distress,” she hisses, ushering her brother and his best friend upstairs. “I don’t need you to defend my honor.”

She can feel the eyes of the party guests on her back and can hear the rumble of their collective whispers beneath the low thrum of the music. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror on the landing. Ponytail askew. Cheeks flushed. Eyes red-rimmed.

This is definitely not how she expected to spend her fall break.

“Sansa-” Robb starts, his tone contentious, as they reach the top of the stairs. His bottom lip is split and a bruise is already blooming on his jaw. She grimaces and gently pushes him towards the bedroom at the end of the hall.

“Jeyne, will you please help him get cleaned up?” She’s so mad at him she can barely see straight. Robb clenches his jaw but does not respond. Her best friend nods and grabs her brother’s elbow. 

“C’mon,”  Jeyne whispers, tugging on his arm. “I’ll get you some ice.”

She watches the two of them walk away, her hands shaking slightly. She hears Jon shifting from one foot to the other beside her. She spares him a glance. His uninjured hand is shoved in the pocket of his jean jacket, his shoulders tense and expression contrite. Someone laughs downstairs and the music gets louder. She sighs and opens the bathroom door, pulling him inside.

She gestures towards the toilet. “Sit.”

She hears the clack of the lid closing as she crouches down to look for the first-aid kit her parents bought Robb when he moved off campus with Theon. She glances at Jon’s hand and frowns. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, leaning forward slightly to catch her eye. His voice is low and husky, his breath whiskey-warmed. The concern she finds in his grey eyes causes her breath to catch.

“Fine,” she mutters, her cheeks heating under his intense gaze. “Mortified, but fine.”

She and Margaery had been chatting quietly in a corner of the living room, discussing her plans for college next year, when Jeyne found her.

“It’s Robb,” Jeyne had said, grabbing her hand. She had swiftly followed her outside, chest tight as she feared the worst.

If Theon dared him to do something stupid again, I’ll kill him.

She had frantically shouldered her way through the large group gathered around the bonfire, her breath a mist in the chill, autumn air.

“Robb,” she had gasped as she reached the center of the crowd, her eyes searching for his familiar form. She stopped short when she saw Joffrey being helped up from the ground by a friend, mud and grass staining the back of his letterman jacket.

What is he doing here? She had thought, confused and panicked, as the fire popped and orange sparks whistled towards the navy sky. We broke up over a week ago. No one in the crowd had noticed her presence yet, intent as they were on witnessing a fight.

“Let me go!” Robb had shouted, pulling her from her thoughts. He was standing across from Joffrey, his face red with fury, struggling against Jon’s grip. She heard Jon grunt as he wrapped his arms tighter around Robb’s stocky shoulders, his feet slipping slightly on the damp grass.

“Jon,” she had yelled, pushing forward. “What’s going-”

“Let’s get out of here,” Joffrey had snarled upon spotting her, his emerald eyes flashing in the firelight. “The silly little slut’s not worth it.”

She had recoiled as if slapped, inhaling sharply. “What-”

Jon had been on top of him in an instant, his fist connecting with Joffrey’s jaw. 

She swallows hard, remembering how Jon’s eyes - dark and unfocused - had met hers when she called out to him again; how warm his cheeks had felt in her hands as she knelt on the cold ground, pleading with him to get Robb and go inside; and how the knot in her chest had untangled when she told Joffrey to leave and never come back.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” Jon says, his brow furrowed and voice pained. “I shouldn’t have-”

“You don’t need to apologize” she interrupts, breathless and a little dizzy. She stands and sets the first-aid kit on the sink. “Robb is an idiot and Joffrey is-”

“An asshole.” His hands unconsciously curl into fists and he winces. She rolls her eyes and tries not to smile, turning on the faucet.

“Yes, that’s one word for him.” She carefully wrings the excess water out of the rag and kneels, taking Jon’s injured hand in hers. They’re both quiet as she gently cleans the broken skin around his knuckles. His calloused fingers tickle the inside of her wrist and she shivers.

(She can count on two hands the number of times she’s been alone with Jon since Robb introduced him to the family as his best friend nearly ten years ago. Yet, Jon’s been a steady, (somewhat) sullen presence in the periphery of her life ever since. They’re not unfriendly; they’re just not friends.

So why did he do what he did for her tonight?)

“You’ll need to ice this,” she finally says, breaking the silence. “Robb is going to have to explain his split lip to our parents. You don’t want them interrogating you too during family dinner.”

He gifts her a lop-sided smile. “I definitely don’t want to get banned from dinner. It’s the main reason I’ve put up with Robb all these years.”

She snorts, sitting back on her heels to admire her handiwork. “I promise I won’t tell.”

“Sansa” - Jon scratches his jaw with a frown - “I’m sorry if what I did hurt you.”

She glances up, surprised.

“I mean, I’ve known you since you were like eight,” he continues hurriedly, “and I-”

She stands, waving her hands dismissively. She knows what he’s going to say - what they all say.

Just a porcelain doll in need of protecting, she thinks bitterly.

“Jon, you don’t-”

“Sansa” - he grabs her hand and squeezes - “I don’t think you need rescuing.”

“What?” Her hand is limp in his firm grasp.

“You’re the strongest person I know and I’m sorry if I made you feel less than that.” His tone is insistent, his eyes soft and beseeching. 

She jumps as someone knocks loudly on the bathroom door and Jon reluctantly releases her hand.

“Be right out,” she croaks, closing the first-aid kit with a snap. She watches Jon run his fingers through his dark curls, his cheeks tinged pink.

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and clears her throat. “I’ll get you some ice, okay?”

[schnoogles]

trapped (but not really)

written for

@jonsadungeonsanddrabbles

autumn drabble event!

Also posted on

Ao3

 She just finished counting down the till. October was always the busiest time of the year, even on Samhain. Although there are few in Wintertown who still participated in the religious practices of the holiday, everyone still celebrated. Sansa got her things and prepared to leave when it happened. A flash of bright white light filled up the room. The surprise of the light and the shadows it created scared her so badly she flinched back, hitting one of the coffee tables and dropping her things -that included coffee- to the floor.

“Shit,” she muttered, “What the hell was that?” Bonfires shouldn’t be starting for at least another hour. Even then, bonfires don’t have flashes like that, not even when some daring soul pours oil in it to watch the flames jump high. So that means it must’ve been mischievous children pulling pranks. Or maybe it was Arya and Rickon. She wouldn’t put it past them to somehow get their hands on halogen construction lights to flash her shop. They loved scaring her. Unfortunately, she heard a rumble. On no. It wasn’t a Samhain prank, it’s a storm.

Sansa quickly cleaned the spilt coffee and told herself she’ll mop it properly in the morning. She hated thunderstorms and wanted to get home. Another lightning bolt struck. This one alarmingly close and almost blue in color. Another loud bang followed. Shaking, she searched for her keys in her handbag, so she didn’t hear the crackling noises. Before she was able to open the front door, another loud crash. But this one wasn’t from the thunderstorm. No, this crash came in tandem with the large weirwood tree that now lied horizontally in front of the door. In front of her outward swinging door. Face to face with not just any weirwood, but a heart tree no less, Sansa let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Knowing the front door could no longer open, she rushed to the back. Robb still had her backdoor key so she wouldn’t be able to lock up properly, but fuck no was she going to stay here. She slammed open the back door. Or, she tried to. It barely made two inches open before something blocked it. No no no no. Peeking out the crack of the opened door, she saw what was blocking it: a giant dumpster bin, the one that doesn’t get emptied until tomorrow, so it’s completely full and nearly impossible for anyone without a garbage truck to move it. Nearly.

Retreating to the breakroom -because yes, in her floorplan designs she included a breakroom, but not doors that swing in instead of out- she took out her phone to call Robb, her mother, somebody.  

Dead phone.

“What the fuck?” What kind of shit luck did she have? She was sure she had her phone charging. Arya said it was- Sansa swore, “Arya!” Grabbing the landline, she began dialing before she remembered her parents cancelled their landline because no one used it, and she hadn’t bothered memorizing anyone else’s number because they changed so often. Then she remembered. Jon hasn’t changed his number for as long as I’ve known him. Quickly she dialed. __

“Where’s Sansa?” Robb looked over to him.

Jon shrugged, “I dunno, probably already at Torrhen’s Square for the festival? Everything got moved to the mansion when the rain started and Arya said she was meeting us there.”

“Alright, well I’m gonna pick up Talisa. Sure you don’t need a ride?”

“I’m sure. Now get outta here, your lady awaits,” Jon joked. He still had some work to do before joining everyone for the night’s festivities.

A few minutes after Robb left, Jon got a call.

“Hello?”

“Jon! Thank the gods you answered. Please come to my shop! The thunderstorms- it- they- then everything went dark. Power’s out and a weirwood fell over and the dumpster is blocking the other one and-” he could hear Sansa crying over her babbling. She sounded utterly terrified.

“Whoa whoa whoa, hold on Sansa, slow down. What happened?”

“I’m trapped in my coffee shop, please come get me,” she begged.

Jon swore, “Alright hang tight. I’ll be there in less than ten.”

Grabbing his coat and keys, Jon rushed out. __

With Jon on the way, Sansa calmed down enough to make herself another pot coffee. She needed something to do. Sitting by the empty fireplace with a warm drink in hand, she waited.

“Sansa?” Jon climbed over the tree and jumped down to the door.

“Jon! I’m in here!” Sansa stood up and waved towards Jon through the glass door.

With all the strength he could muster, Jon moved a particularly heavy branch of the tree out of the way, opened the door, and slipped in. Opening his mouth to speak, he was cut short when Sansa flung herself at him. Not sure if it was adrenalin or the pot of coffee she just drank, but her heart was racing as she clung harder to Jon.

“Hey hey hey, calm down love, you’re safe, I’m here.” Rubbing her back in soothing circles, Sansa’s breathing evened.  He kissed her forehead and pulled back, “There, all better.” Smiling softly at her, he pushed her hair back and wiped her tears. “How ‘bout we get you outta here?”

Maybe it was the way he looked at her. Maybe it was the way he was always the one coming to her rescue. Maybe it was just them standing in the dark in such close proximity. Whatever the reason, she cupped his face and kissed him. Hard. Breathing heavily, Sansa pulled back and looked into Jon’s -now darkened- eyes. Before either one could say anything, they heard a crack. Another part of the weirwood snapped off and completely blocked off the door and covered the windows.

They both swore. “Shit.”

[tayl0crow]

shut up and put your money where your mouth is

for the @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles New Year event

Prompt: Luck or Lies

It was only a joke. They’d whispered in one another’s ears last night amongst the packed club as she’d been trying so hard to get his undivided attention. How was his best friend’s little sister going to win out over said best friend, Vegas dancers, and alcohol?

“Let’s get married.” Her voice had been laced with the lemon drops giving her the courage to lean in close to Jon Snow’s ear.

Jon threw his head back and didn’t laugh, but rather grinned in disbelief. Sansa could call herself an expert in Jon Snow facial expressions and what each meant. After all, she’d been studying since she was 8.

“You’re in white.” Jon had tugged at the skirt of her mini dress and her breath had caught.

The joke only grew as the night went on. Between the bright casinos and seedy clubs, they began calling each other pet names and Jon even referred to her as Mrs. Snow before planting a sloppy kiss to her forehead. Their mutual friends were completely oblivious it seemed. They were also far drunker.

So when Robb, Theon, and Jeyne headed back to the hotel, Jon grabbed Sansa’s hand and they went to the Little White Chapel. Elvis and all.

Their words were slurred, vows full of laughter, and Jon’s terrible attempts at winking.

Now it’s hot in the hotel room. The sun shines much too brightly on her face and Sansa rolls over to Jon Snow’s shirtless body and feels her mind spin. They didn’t, did they?

She peers down at the half eaten ring pop on her left finger and knows immediately - Sansa Stark, er, Snow, got lucky in Vegas.

[nessataleweaver]

FIC: Moonlight Sonata

Part of The Strange Case of Dr Stark & Mr Snow series (more will be coming when I shake off the lethargy of my bad phase and start writing again)

For @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles KinkWeek 2020 Day 5: Exhibitionism

AO3 tags: Victorian era AU; Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde; Benjen adopted Jon; married Jonsa; though Sansa got more than she bargained for; but she’s up for the challenge.

Historical notes: for anyone who cares, the Perseus statue is a fairly good copy of Perseus with the head of Medusa by Benvenuto Cellini, without the panels in the base.

‘wag-tail’ is Victorian Era slang for a promiscuous woman or sometimes a dissolute man.

The Hightower’s ball was an absolute crush. The retiring room held and regurgitated a steady stream of ladies, gentlemen gambled for increasing stakes in the card room, and the buffet had been refreshed once already. The ballroom glowed with golden light from the chandeliers, and the music flowed from the string quartet’s instruments like water.

Sansa Stark was no stranger to scandal, but dancing exclusively with her own husband was raising more than a few speculative eyebrows among the grand dames.

“Jon, what are you thinking?” Sansa asked warily. Something in Jon’s gaze had become suspiciously dark, harkening something that should really be kept inside their own house.  Or least places without witnesses.

“Joffrey Baratheon keeps looking at you.”

“We’re at a ball, Jon, lots of people are looking at me,” Sansa pointed out evenly.  She snuck a glance at her husband as she turned under his arm; to her dismay, the waves of his close-cut hair were already tightening into riotous curls.

“Not like this.  I think I’ll grab a toasting fork from the fireplace in the card room and shove it into his throat.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Jon was growling, now; Sansa had to defuse him quickly.

“Because if you do that you’ll have to spend hours explaining yourself to the police and you won’t be able to bed me until at least dawn.”

Several bars of music went past, as Jon considered that.  “That’s a very good point. When this dance is through, go into the gardens. I’ll meet you there.”

“Why not come with me?”

“I want to see if Baratheon follows you.  If I kill him out there I can roll the body into the fishpond and the police won’t bother us.”

Sansa bit back a sigh. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to sacrifice this gown in order to distract Snow - it was a favourite of hers. But she really couldn’t let him go around killing men for looking at her lustfully. Even if it was generally agreed that a world without Joffrey Baratheon could only be a better place.

As the music came to an end, Sana gently curtsied to her husband, then bent her head to murmur to him, “I’m only going so far as statue of Perseus. Meet me quickly or you won’t be allowed to touch me at all in the carriage on the way home.”

There – that should reorganise his priorities.

The cold night air was a slight shock, after the heated ballroom.  The gardens were more brightly lit than the ballroom by the full moon, clearly showing Sansa’s path as she walked quickly to the statue of Perseus, his head bent and eyes closed, his face serene as he brandished the head of Medusa high in the air. She sat on the stone bench next to it’s pedestal, and calmly waited for her husband.  The furthest wing of the ballroom was visible from her perch, golden light spilling from all the windows, and she watched another set of figures whirl on the dance floor.

“There you are,” rumbled from behind her.

“Is Lord Baratheon still alive?” Sansa politely enquired.

“Given that I stopped him from following you out into the garden, barely.  I hope you’re prepared to compensate me for the loss of that satisfaction.”

Well, at least Snow was articulate and speaking clearly tonight.  Jon had explained that degradation of Snow’s speech patterns was a dangerous sign.  Much as Sansa enjoyed this hedonistic, heedless aspect of her husband, she had no intention of losing the gentlemanly scholar she’d chosen to marry, long before he’d created a certain sparkling green potion.

“Is that not our agreement?  I will satisfy your lusts in any way you desire, and you will confine those lusts to me alone?”

“I think we’re beyond bargains, Mrs Stark. Why don’t you start by sucking on my cock? It’s already nice and hard for you.”

Sansa turned sideways on the bench to find Snow looming over her, wild curls tumbling nearly to his shoulders and beard shadowing his jaw.  The mixture of untamed man and exquisitely formal suit was devastatingly arousing. Sansa felt heat pool between her thighs as she reached for the fly of his trousers, distorted with lust as Snow had promised. A moment’s work freed his hard manhood, and Sansa bent her head to run her tongue along the length of throbbing flesh.  An approving growl echoed above her head, and Sansa responded by taking the tip deep into her mouth and sucking hard.

“Take all of it,” growled the beast that dwelt inside her husband.

Sansa obeyed, skilfully taking in his sizable erection into her mouth and down her throat until her nose pressed against the black cloth of his trousers.

His organ vibrated as Snow chuckled, and Sansa’s eyes rolled up to meet his in enquiry.

“You can see into the ballroom from here, did you know that?”

Sansa quirked her eyebrows. Of course she did.

“That piss-ant Baratheon’s standing in the windows looking out at us.”

Sansa’s eyes flickered to the side, noticing how brightly the silver moonlight lit up the gardens, and realised that it must be clearly lighting their figures as well. The thrill that shuddered through her was only slightly of horror.

“Like that thought, don’t you?” Snow diagnosed accurately.  “You like the thought of that shitstain watching you suck your husband’s cock.”

She did, actually. She really did.  

Sansa’s passion mounted as she sucked harder, using her tongue to tease and rub the rod of muscle to further hardness. Let her former suitor see comprehensively what he’d missed out on when he tossed her aside, leaving her reputation in ruins. Let him see why there was no chance in any of the Seven Hells that she’d ever venture outside of her marriage to the man who’d saved her social standing and restored her to respectability, and shown her a world of respect, caring and learning that she’d thought was only the province of fairy tales. The man whose dark side had taught her hungers and satisfaction that she’d only heard of in clandestine whispers.

Snow’s balls were throbbing, and Sansa grinned recklessly as she let his erection escape her mouth.  “Then why don’t you show him how a real man treats his woman?”

Snow threw back his head and roared with laughter.  “Aye, my beautiful wag-tail, why don’t I?”

He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet, bringing them both to the end of the bench. Licking his lips salaciously, he ordered her, “Turn around.”

Sansa did so, positioning herself so that they were both in profile to the ballroom windows. Snow reached around to unhook her bodice almost to her waist, reaching in with his left hand. Sansa moaned as his hand delved beneath corset and chemise to cup her right breast, squeezing her hard nipple between two of his knuckles.

“Like that, don’t you.”

“You know I do.”

“Now lift your skirts good and high for me, and bend over.”

As Sansa carefully gathered layers of skirts, petticoat and chemise in her hands so as not to wrinkle them too much, she again wondered what she might become if she asked her husband for a dose of the apple green potion he’d dubbed Original Sin.  After all, the very first time Mr Snow had appeared, he’d ripped and sliced her drawers from her body, and ordered her to never again wear clothing that impeded his contact with her quim. No matter how mortified Jon had been the next morning, how he’d begged her forgiveness for his shameful use of her for his lusts... Sansa had not worn drawers a single day since.

Sansa bent forward over the bench, supporting herself on one arm, the other still holding her skirts bunched at her hips. She wondered if Snow could see her womanhood clearly in the brilliant silver light, see that she was wet and aching for him. She gasped as he filled her, his initial thrust swift and deep, her quim thrilling at the shock of his invasion. His shadow engulfed hers, swallowing the white stone of the bench as he bent over her, and Sansa gazed down into the darkness as he set a rapid pace, barely withdrawing as he rolled his hips to bury his cock in her molten core again and again.  His hand dipped back into her bodice again, grasping and squeezing the flesh of her breast, and Sansa braced herself against the bench with both hands, the cold stone heightening the hot rush of being fucked.  Snow’s other arm was around her waist, the unnatural strength of his bestial aspect matching the beastly lust he slaked with her body. Slaking the lust he sparked within Sansa herself.

She no longer cared if Joffrey was watching. She no longer cared for anything but the grip on her breast, the hard cock pumping in and out of her randy quim, and the growing tension between her thighs, building and building until –

Sansa moaned helplessly as she climaxed, all but hanging in Snow’s iron grip.  Her quim convulsed and clenched, and Snow snarled as he unleashed his seed, gushing like lava inside her.

Sansa’s head whirled with pleasure, until she felt the touch of cloth on her now-empty quim, delicately cleaning up the excess juices of their coupling.  The hand on her breast had been withdrawn, though the mound of flesh ached satisfyingly, and would probably be bruised tomorrow. As her skirts were carefully pulled down and tugged to hang correctly, Sansa stood up, and turned around.  Her husband stood there, moonlight falling across his cleanly-shaved jaw, his hair short and almost-straight again... and blushing wildly.

“Um, are you quite alright my love?”

“Oh, yes, darling,” Sansa reassured him as she fastened her bodice.  “That was really a very good orgasm.”

Even though he’d been the one to teach her the word orgasm and what it meant, Jon blushed even brighter.  “Well, I’m glad of that.  But that’s not what I meant.”

Sansa smiled lovingly. “I’m quite alright.  I think we’ve satisfied our social obligations for the evening; why don’t we go home so you can take me to bed?”

Even as she spoke, Sansa was filled with longing for just that – Jon his shirtsleeves, bowtie hanging undone around his neck, dismissing her maid to undress her himself.   Sweeping her up in his arms to carry her to the four-poster bed, settling her onto the sheets.  His hard-muscled body sculpted by candlelight as his own clothes dropped to the carpet.  His dark head between her spread thighs as his mouth caressed her womanhood. His worshipful touch as he made love to her, soft as rose petals whispering against her skin.

“Oh, yes,” Jon exclaimed.  “I’ve had more than enough of society.  Let’s refuse all callers tomorrow and give the servants a day off.  I want no company but yours.”

So Sansa nodded her agreement, took her husband’s arm, and headed home to bed.

[scatteredmoonlightt]

by her command

Written for @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles Sugar and Spice Day 2: First/Anniversaries

read on ao3

Jon returned to Winterfell a sennight ago. Time felt as though it existed on a standstill. Of course, Winterfell had long changed and the North as a whole, too, upon the official inclusion of the lands beyond the wall into Winterfell’s sovereignty. But Jon had changed. His hair had greys, and wrinkles lined his eyes with souvenirs from deep guffaws. Most of all, he seemed happier. Sansa supposed that was all that counted in the end. 

“I enjoy seeing you like this,” she told him one evening at supper. As he had accounted his final goodbye to the wildlings, a tear had sprung from the joy of remembrance. His wrinkles came alive, and she longed to trace her thumb over them. “The north did you well.”

“It did.” Jon sipped from his goblet. “But Winterfell does me better.”

Then he softly took her hand in his, just his fingertips around her palm, but this had never happened before. Sansa grew all too aware of the fact that he had never been her half-brother.

“I missed you, Sansa.” He squeezed her hand lightly. “I wasn’t as happy in the north, not without you.”

Her brows crinkled in confusion. “You’re so happy because of me?”

He nodded. “I no longer know what we are to each other, but I love you and I missed you. If you would permit me, I would like to stay in Winterfell till the end of my days.”

She clutched his hand as if it were life itself. “You never need permission to stay. Winterfell is as much my home as yours.”

He grimaced. “I’m a Targaryen.”

Her chair skidded as she turned to him. She held their hands to her heart and looked him clear into his dark brown eyes, as dark as his mother’s, Lyanna Stark. “I love you, and it doesn’t matter who you are. If it pleases you, then your Queen permits you to stay.”

He gazed at her for a long time. His fingers twitched under her hold and touched the furs of her cloak. “Thank you, my Queen.”

[kitnjon]

Jonsa Smut Week - Day 02 - Anger

for @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles event

(What actually happened after this fight)

[cellsshapedlikestars]

a feral resolution

for the @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles New Year event.

Prompt: Resolutions or Dreams read it on ao3 here .. The winter air is bitter cold and she curses and picks up her pace towards the school. It's an hour earlier than she was supposed to be here – Rickon was supposed to wait in aftercare until she got off work, but the call had come in and she'd had to excuse herself to her boss (he was not thrilled) and run all the way down here – and for what?

Don't worry, sweetheart, mom had said. Rickon's always calmer after the holidays, he gets all his energy out then.

And yet here she is, not even a full day back in school and Rickon's already in trouble. 

As she reaches the main doors to the building, she curses her parents and their second honeymoon (why do they even need a second honeymoon? Rickon is proof enough that they're still going at it like rabbits after all these years), and she curses too-swamped-with-work-Robb and suddenly-won't-answer-her-phone-Arya and smokes-too-much-pot-Bran, because of course that leaves her to take care of Rickon while they're away.

Does she want kids someday? Sure. Yes, obviously. But right now she is twenty five and trying to focus on her career, not ditching work early for her feral little brother.

She makes her way to the principal's office and at the desk outside sits old Ms Mordane, who takes a moment before smiling at her.

“Sansa Stark,” she greets and waves her back into Principal Mormont's office.

She expects to see Principal Mormont. She expects to see Rickon. What she does not expect, though, is to see Rickon sitting on the floor and a man she's never seen before standing near the windows.

Oh gods, is her first thought. Rickon's been in a fight. This must be the other parent, the dad. Please, please, please tell me Rickon didn't hit someone.

“Ah, Miss Sansa,” Principal Mormont greets with a smile and she feels a wave of relief – he doesn't seem angry, which is a good sign. “I was hoping not to have to call you, that we could clear this up ourselves, but it's getting towards the end of the day and we've had no luck.”

She's about to ask with what when Rickon comes bounding over on all fours and sits at her feet and leans into her leg.

“You see,” Mormont says with a stern look that just barely contains his amusement, “Rickon has decided that he's a wolf.”

She looks down and Rickon looks up, grins, then butts his head into her leg and makes a growling noise and... there are no words.

“We think it's because of this,” the unknown man says and turns from the window with a piece of paper in his hands and seven save her do they normally make dads this hot? And young? Is he young? Maybe he's her age? Still young to have an eight year old (though look at her own parents, who started popping out kids at eighteen and just never stopped).

“Ah, Sansa, this is Mr. Snow. Mr. Snow, Rickon's sister, Sansa. She used to go here, perfect attendance, if  I recall.”

Mr. Snow?

This is Mr. Snow? She's heard Rickon talk about his teacher, with enthusiasm, and even mom had raved once that he was the only teacher to get Rickon to behave, but Sansa had assumed he'd be... old? Some graying, jovial professor type. Not...

She snaps herself out of it in time to take the paper from his hands and when she looks down, she sees, in Rickon's scrawl: my new years resolution is to be a wolf because wolfs don't have to do homework. Under that is a drawing of what she thinks is supposed to be a wolf and just... well, she resists the urge to correct his spelling, that can wait until later. Right now she has bigger problems. She thinks for a moment before speaking.

“So, I guess I have a wolf now instead of a little brother?” she asks Rickon, who only growls and headbutts her leg again. She sighs. “Alright, we'll have to stop at the store and pick up some kibble,” she looks up thoughtfully and taps her finger on her lips. “And a dog bed? I don't need you shedding on my couch.”

At the word kibble, Rickon had looked up at her with a little furrow between his eyebrows.

“Well, wolves can't eat people food,” she tells him in her most Sansa-is-right voice. “Which is a shame, because I was going to take you to McDonald's tonight and I guess now I'll have to eat all those brownies myself...”

Rickon lets out a whine and she resists the urge to smile – Rickon's sweet tooth rivals her own. She knows this. She exploits this. She's walking a fine line here – Rickon isn't stupid, if she's obvious, he'll realize she's trying to manipulate him and then dig himself deeper into his wolf game. Luckily, food is his blind spot.

“Brownies?” Mr. Snow says, “they sound great.”

She looks up at Mr. it-should-be-illegal-to-be-that-hot-and-a-teacher Snow and she can see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he plays along.

“I made them with extra chocolate chips,” she nods. “Maybe I'll give them all to Arya-”

“No!” Rickon cries and then he's suddenly on his feet.

Gods her siblings are so easy.

She pretends she doesn't see Mormont or Mr. Snow trying to hide their smiles as she leads Rickon out of the room and promises the two men that Rickon will be doing his homework that night.

So what if she wraps up an extra brownie in Rickon's lunch the next day and tells him to give it to Mr. Snow as an apology? That's just her being polite. Mr. Snow sending a thank you note back in Rickon's homework folder? Also polite. 

  And, in a few months when Rickon's school play comes up, if she tags along with mom and dad to come see it and ends up flirting with Mr. Snow in the hallway while all the eight year olds sing showtunes in the auditorium?

Well that's... less polite.

[esther-dot]

anger for @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles

[jonsa-events]

Jonsa Fandom Event List 2021

*I will attempt to keep this list as up-to-date as possible. It will stay pinned to the top of this blog for easy access.*

24th - 30th January - New Year Drabble Event hosted by @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles​ 

13th - 14th February - Jonsa Valentine’s Weekend hosted hosted by @jonsa-valentine​

22nd - 28th April - Jonsa Spring Blossoms & Autumn Leaves by @jonsaseasonalbash​ (no details yet)

?? Summertime - Jonsa Week hosted by @jonsa-week​ (no details yet)

?? June - A smut based event hosted by @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles​ (no details yet)

[madgrad2011]

Autumn Drabble for @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles Prompt: Magic

Read on AO3 here.

iii. I don’t wanna dance (if I’m not dancing with you)

“I know why I’m not dancing,” Jon says affably, sliding into the chair beside hers. “Why aren’t you?”

She forces a smile. “Two left feet?”

He snorts, eyeing the half-empty flute of champagne in her hand.

(Robb had snuck it to her when their parents were greeting guests in the receiving line. “We’ll meet him next time you visit,” he had whispered pityingly.)

“That’s not true,” Jon retorts, slipping off his suit jacket. She twirls the stem between her fingers. “You love to dance.”

She catches sight of her parents slow-dancing and her heart clenches.

They had renewed their vows today, surrounded by friends and family, under the rustling, red leaves of the large weirwood tree in their backyard. The autumn air, albeit brisk, had been no match for her parents’ warm affection.

She would never forget the softness in her father’s eyes as he watched her mother walk towards him, the way her mother’s eyes - so like her own - had glistened with tears of joy, or the uneasiness she felt when she tried to imagine a ceremony like this with Harry.

Maybe something is wrong with me, she thinks sadly. Maybe the kind of magical, life-changing romance I’m looking for only exists in fiction and songs.

“Where’s your date?” She asks, hoping to divert his attention away from her and her melancholy.

“Didn’t bring one,” he replies, eyes focused on his drink. “Ygritte and I broke up a while ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” she says, shifting awkwardly.

Jon takes a sip of his bourbon. “It’s okay. Where’s yours?”

She shrugs and finishes her drink, nose wrinkling slightly. “Harry couldn’t come. He had an unexpected work thing.”

(He had called at the last minute to make his excuses: This is the first time you’ve visited your family since the holidays. Don’t you want to spend time with just them? Work is crazy and you know traffic is terrible traveling north from The Vale during fall break. Are you really ready for me to meet your parents? I’ll make time soon, I promise.

Six months in and already so many broken promises.)

Jon scans her face, his eyes lingering on her frown. She feels seen and it leaves her unsettled. She taps her fingernails on her glass, avoiding his gaze.

He stands, loosening his tie. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Come on,” he repeats with a smirk, throwing his tie on the table and unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt. “Let’s dance.”

Her eyes travel from his outstretched hand to his sparkling grey eyes in disbelief. He nods encouragingly as she cautiously slips her hand in his and giggles at the way he walks backwards in the direction of the dance floor, eyebrows waggling.

***

Jon is a terrible dancer.

But, what he lacks in rhythm, he makes up for in enthusiasm.

They’ve been dancing for hours now, only leaving the floor to get a drink and to let her kick off her heels. He’s currently teaching fifteen-year old Bran and eleven-year old Rickon a version of what she thinks is the sprinkler - complete with hip-thrusting and head-banging - while Arya spins like a dervish behind them. From the corner of her eye, she sees Robb and his girlfriend, Jeyne Westerling, doing the twist and her parents attempting to jitterbug.

Home, she thinks fondly as she twirls. Jon catches her eye and grins. His curls are loose and sweat dots his brow. Her chest swells with happiness and she laughs, breathless and dizzy with appreciation for him.

The tempo suddenly changes and a Sam Cooke song starts to play. Jon grabs her hand and pulls her towards him, wrapping his arm around her waist. She gently places her other hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly.

“Thank you,” she whispers as they sway, “I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”

“Me neither,” Jon replies, looking at the floor. His hand flexes on her lower back and she bites her lip as she notices the careful way he’s shuffling his feet so he won’t step on her toes. She tightens her grip on his hand and leans forward, resting her flushed cheek on his collar. He turns them in a tight circle and her forehead brushes against his neck.

If I concentrate, she thinks, maybe I can hear his heartbeat.

“New dress?” He asks after a moment. She pulls back to look at him with surprise and he swallows.

“Do you like it?” She winces a little at the neediness in her voice.

She had received the bolt of the deep blue fabric for Christmas and had been trying to decide what to make with it ever since. When her parents mentioned their plans to renew their vows over the summer, she had been inspired. She had spent hours crafting the perfect mid-length cocktail dress. It had a sweetheart neckline and full skirt with a hand-stitched replica of her family’s crest - a snarling direwolf - on the bodice. She thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever made.

“I like the wolf bit,” Jon says with a soft smile, his cheeks pink.

She beams.

***

The reception ends around 3:00 AM. Jon stays to help clean up and walks her out to her car.

“Thanks again,” she says, bouncing on her toes in the cold, early morning light. Jon nods mid-yawn and holds the driver’s door open for her while she puts her purse in the passenger seat.

“I’m going to sleep until at least noon,” he admits, rubbing his face with his free hand.

She laughs softly. “Me too.”

His eyes are dark in the waning light of the moon.

“I had a great time tonight, Jon.”

He scratches his jaw with a self-deprecating smirk. “Even with my gods-awful dancing? I’m shock-”

She leans forward quickly, her palm cradling one cheek as she presses her lips to the other. His beard tickles her chin and she smiles.

“Thank you,” she repeats on an exhale, pulling away.

Maybe she still believes in magic after all.

[schnoogles]

CH6: Daybreak Written for the @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles ​ autumn drabble event! Day 6: Keeping Warm or AND Clothing Read on Ao3 CH 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5

“I- uh…” Jon stammered and cleared his throat, “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“What did we say about lying Jon?”

Jon sighed reluctantly, “That I'm shit at it.”

“Exactly,” Sansa smirked, “so don't bother. Besides, your predicament can be easily fixed.” She glanced down very quickly and then right back to his face.

Jon cleared his throat. Seven save me. He tried to shrug it off. “Stop leering! Now, if you’ll excuse me while I get the fire going again, yeah? It must've died out sometime last night.” He moved to get up, but Sansa only flung herself right on top of him, effectively preventing him to leave their cozy little nest. Reflex had him gripping her waist.

She stacked her hands in fists right on his chest and rested her chin there. Very aware of where her hips lined with his, he tried to concentrate on looking at her face, but it felt like she was staring into the depths of his soul. His poor, horny soul. “Sorry Jon, the only wood left is yours, and it has better uses.” She'll be the death of me.

Jon shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “Well, we have to figure out something. It's daybreak, barely the crack of dawn and no one will be here for at least another few hours. I dunno about you, but I'd prefer not to freeze to death in a coffee shop.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “You're so dramatic, we aren't going to freeze to death. It's not even that cold.”

“Says you!” he said in a mock outrage.

“What can I say, I'm a true Northerner. Poor Jon Snow and his Southron blood.”

He sputtered, “Excuse me?! I was born in Dorne, that doesn't mean I have Southron blood !”

“To-mae-to, to-mah-to.” she replied airily.

“That's literally not how that works. Regardless, it's cold and that oven idea is starting to sound tempting.”

“Who knew you were such a big baby?” Sansa sat up and flipped her hair back. Jon, unsure what was happening, got up on his elbows to get a closer look. She began to unzip her jacket and his eyes bugged.

“Uh San, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing? I'm giving you my jacket to keep you warm. Here, it's a little baggy on me, so it should fit you fine." Sansa pulled Jon up into a sitting position and wrapped her jacket around him. She suddenly felt very possessive. He should wear my jackets more often, think I like seeing him in them. She was right, it fit him perfectly.

“Well, now I just feel silly taking your clothes.” Secretly, he enjoyed wearing her clothes. It smelled just like her and if he was being honest, being encompassed by Sansa Stark’s scent was intoxicating. But it wasn’t enough, he wanted more of her. Looking at Sansa without her jacket over that sweetheart neckline sweater made him wish she would peel the rest of her layers off, but he'd never say it. Yet.

“Admiring the dragonfly again?” she said knowingly.

Jon ignored her. “Aren't you going to get cold?” he replied instead.

She scoffed. Then in a more teasing tone she said, “I’m no southron bird.”

“You saying I am?” Jon was affronted.

“You did say you always wanted to join the Crows.”

“Yeah, a Northern based Private Investigation company. And besides, I was like 9 when I wanted to become one!”

“Mhmmm.” Sansa wasn’t really skeptical of him, but riling up Jon has recently become one of her favourite pastimes. Suddenly aware of their position, she blushed. She may be confident in using her words, but Sansa wasn’t normally one to initiate physical contact, let alone straddle a man. Flirting was fun. Flirting was easy. This next step though, it made her as nervous as she was excited. Sliding her hands down his shoulders, she made to move off of Jon. “Oh -uh- I didn’t mean to actually sit on you like this. And for so long. I’m sorry.”

Jon tightened his grip on her. “I’m not.” She settled back down. Jon’s eyes flicked down to her lips, then lower to the dragonfly pendant, then back up to her eyes.  

To his questioning look, she nodded. “You said there are other ways of keeping warm, right? Show me.”

If asked, neither one could say who made the first move. But move they did. Lips locking, hands fumbling, thighs squeezing. Their bodies sang.

Alright then, next step it is.

[vivilove-jonsa]

The Kissing Booth

Day 1 Prompt-Resolutions @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles​

Fluffy, fluffy :)

***

Jeyne slides a familiar piece of paper Sansa's way as they wait for the bus.

New Year/New Me

New Year’s Eve, the girls made resolutions with an agreement that they’d check their progress three weeks later.

Looking down at the list she’d made that night, she recites #1: “Get over Joffrey.”

With pride, she crosses that one off because she’s definitely over that loser.

She slides the paper back only to be asked, “Is that all?”

“All?! It’s not even February yet.”

“Yeah, but with the way you turn red as a beet every time a certain someone gets near you, I’d say you’ve been over Joffrey for a while.”

“Will you hush?” Sansa squeaks, glancing over to where Jon Snow is sitting waiting for the same bus.

Jeyne may have a point.

He’s two years ahead and has a car but it’s currently in the shop. Sansa doesn’t think she’s ever felt so conscious of her every little move just riding the bus home.

But the weird thing is, it’s like they’ve got some connection, like they can sense each other.

Okay, maybe that’s dumb but, as she’s looking at him, he must feel her eyes on him because he looks up from the book he’s reading and stares right back at her.  A small smile starts to form on his perfectly pouty lips,

And what does Sansa do?  She freaks out and turns back to her friend, her face fiery red, no doubt.

“Sansa, you’re never going to mark off #3 like that.”

#3 Talk to Jon Snow.

Her heart skips a beat just thinking about going up and talking to him. Why is she so shy? It’s not like she’s shy with other boys or like he’s snobby or anything. Why are crushes just The Worst sometimes?

“Let’s not skip ahead. I’ll do #2 next. ‘Do some charity work.’ Maybe I’ll ask Margaery if there’s a way I can pitch in at the school carnival.”

***

This is not what I had in mind when it came to charity work.

Margaery hadn’t seen what the problem was. “A kissing booth for charity, what fun, right?!”

Granted, it’s not horrible.  It’s only open to students and it’s not like she’s kissing with tongue or anything grody (though that won’t help her cross off #4 on her list-Experience a proper, toe-curling kiss) but it does feel weird sitting here alone since Margaery and Loras had to go deal with some disaster at the pie-eating contest.

She’s either blushing like mad when someone comes up, accepting their stag and giving a kiss, or feeling conspicuous and pathetic if no one’s coming up in the lulls between brave souls with a stag to spare for a good cause.

She’s reapplying her lip gloss when she hears someone clear their throat and say, “Hey.”

Turning, her breath catches to see Jon Snow standing in front of her. “Hi!”

I can now cross #3 off my list. But, Sweet Maiden, what’s he doing here?! Could he want a…

“You have change for a dragon? We’re running short at the dunk booth.”

Her eyes flicker to the booth across the way for which Jon’s handling the till.

Has she been looking over there after every kiss given for charity? And during those in-between times when she’s been sitting here twiddling her thumbs?

Why, yes. Yes, she has.

And has he been looking back more often than not, usually wearing a frown?

Well…yes.

But there go her blasted cheeks getting hot as a furnace again because of course Jon Snow didn’t come over here for a kiss! He came over to get some change for his more popular booth. Who doesn’t want to a chance to dunk a teacher, right?

“Um, change…right,” she says, trying her best not to feel wounded.

You’ve spoken to him. New Year, New You. One step at a time. Think of something to say.

But his own pale cheeks are pink at the moment when she hands him the change and he scratches at the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s not that I wouldn’t, um…it’s for a good cause and all…that is, if you're willing and…”

As he continues stammering though, someone else appears. “Guess I can still get a kiss from her today, huh, guys?”

She grimaces to find Joffrey and his gross friends have descended on the carnival…like locusts. “I’m not kissing you, not even for charity. If Margaery’s willing, she can take your stag. I’m never kissing you again.”

“You can’t tell me no!” His eyes get flinty and mean the way she’s seen them before but she doesn’t back down. He’s just a nasty little coward at heart.

“No.”

“Don’t be a-“

“This booth is closed,” Jon says firmly from beside her, “and you’d better take a hike before I stuff you in that dunk booth over there, you shit.”

Joffrey looks at Jon like he’d very much like to say something back but Jon’s older and has a reputation for being able to handle himself in a fight so he mutters, "Whatever,” and skulks away.

“Thanks, Jon.”

“No problem.”

“But I can’t really close the booth.”

“I know but…” He pulls money out of his other pocket, his money. “I was hoping five stags might buy me a kiss and give you a break…if you wanted it.”

She smiles and nods, taking his money and putting it in the till. “I think five stages gets you a special kiss…if you want it.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Just you though.”

He grins, lightly placing his hands on her waist, and leans in just as she does.

When Margaery returns, Sansa tells her she needs a short break to visit the dunk tank with Jon. Jeyne smirks at her slightly swollen lips when they pass her at the cotton candy stand. Sansa tells her to go ahead and mark #3 and 4 off that list for her.