#jonsa-creatives

[part-timewonders]

NOW WITH A BRAND-NEW CHAPTER 2!

Fandom: Game of Thrones (TV) Rating: Teen Relationship: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark Tags: Season 6, Season 7, canon-compliant Summary:  

When he smiles at her, she feels warmth flooding back into her bones. She’d almost forgotten what it feels like, she’s been cold for so long.

Sansa and Jon learn to be something other than ships passing in the night.

Author’s Notes: Surprise? 3 years later, I finally wrote the Chapter 2 I was intending to all along... I hope the fandom will accept this late offering.

You can also follow me on Twitter, although I mainly post Star Wars and round animals there.

[alaynestcnes]

by braydenjaselle

[cellsshapedlikestars]

I feel like I've had zero creative energy since I got covid, and it's annoying me. I did write one thing based off a small fever dream I had, but it's way too short and there's literally no plot so I can't bring myself to post it on ao3. Instead, I'm gonna post it here just because I do like it, even if my brain can't come up with an actual plot for whatever this is. Maybe some day.

.

The pickup bumps and rattles over the road, and Jon grits his teeth and tries not to curse. Where his taxes go, Jon has no idea, but it certainly isn’t to road maintenance. At least not out here. 

On the radio, they’re playing some song he swears he hasn’t heard in a decade, but somehow knows all the words to. Ghost lets out a snort as they hit another bump, and Jon meets his eyes in the rearview and says, “sorry buddy.”

As he rounds a bend in the road, his foot eases off the gas when he sees something up ahead.

No, not something. Someone.

It’s a girl, and when she hears the engine of his truck, she turns, sticks her thumb out. A hitchhiker. He didn’t think people did that anymore. He doesn’t even know how she got out here to begin with.

Against his better judgment, he slows. Hitchhikers can be dangerous, and he doesn’t need any trouble. He isn’t some bleeding heart. He left his childhood dreams of being a grand hero back in the North.

Yet still, he slows to a stop next to her, leaning over and rolling down the passenger side window.

She’s pretty. It’s the first thing he thinks.

The second thing he thinks is that she has no business being out here. Not with those earrings, or the heels he noticed before he pulled up, or the set of expensive leather luggage, now coated in dust and mud.

“I need to get to Riverrun,” she says through the window. A Northern accent, though much less harsh than his. Polished. It matches her earrings.

“How’d you get all the way out here?” he asks. The nearest town is likely a two hour walk in the opposite direction, especially dragging that set of luggage behind her.

“Can you take me or not?” she asks, eyes squinting against the sun. The baby hairs not caught up in her copper ponytail curl and stick to her forehead and neck. The rivers that crisscross the countryside make the humidity nearly unbearable in the dead of summer.

“Yeah, I can take you,” he says. He’s heading there anyway, and he can’t leave her out here by herself. She’ll get into trouble.

He watches her struggle to load her bags into the bed of his pickup, then she gets into the passenger side. She’s wearing a loose dress covered in pastel blue flowers, and when she sits, it hits mid thigh. He pulls his eyes away.

Definitely trouble.

“You know hitchhiking’s dangerous,” he says, pulling back onto the road as she buckles herself in.

Out of his periphery, he watches her look at him. “You going to murder me?” she asks. She doesn’t sound very concerned.

He lets out a breath through his nose, and says, “no, but you don’t know that. I could be anyone.”

“What if I’m the murderer and you’re the one in trouble?” 

His eyes cut to her. There’s no real expression on her face, she’s just watching him, waiting for an answer.

“I think I’ll be alright,” he says, looking back at the road. She gives a hum. He doesn’t know what that means.

She twists in the seat. “You’re big.”

Jon looks at her, then the rearview. Ghost pants happily, ears perked forward at the attention.

“Am I allowed to pet him, or is he a murderer, too?”

“No one’s going to murder you,” Jon sighs, hands tightening around the wheel. “I was just telling you, you shouldn’t be hitchhiking because it’s dangerous.”

Especially someone like her, but he doesn’t say it. She’d probably get offended.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

He blinks, then remembers what she actually asked. “Yeah, you can pet him.”

“What’s your name?” she asks, holding her hand out for Ghost to sniff.

“Ghost.”

He can feel her looking at him again, but he keeps his eyes on the road.

“Ghost,” she repeats, twisting around again. Jon can hear Ghost’s tail thumping on the leather seat. He tries to keep his eyes on the road. Tries not to notice the way her skirt rides up. It makes him feel like one of those people he’s trying to warn her against.

The ride is silent except for the radio and the wind through the open windows and Ghost’s thumping tail and happy pants as she scratches behind his ear.

“Almost at Riverrun,” he says eventually, as the roads become familiar, better kept. “Where can I drop you at? There’s a motel and a train station.”

He can feel her looking at him again. There’s a few moments of silence, before she says, “do you know where Blackwater Road is?”

Jon lets out a snort. Of course he does, it’s in the part of town where all the old money families live - but he knows where it is and so he drives her there. His pickup is out of place, but it’s not like he’s never been here before. His work takes him to every part of town.

He notices the car only a second before she sucks in a slow breath. It sits up ahead, at the entrance to the Tully estate, and it’s just as out of place here as his own, though in a completely different way.

The old money families drive nice cars, but they’re understated and elegant. This is a sports car, red and sleek and low to the ground. A man leans against the side, just as flashy as his car.

Jon knows without her saying anything that this is where she needs to be.

“Tully?” he asks anyway.

“Grandma’s waiting for me,” she says as his truck slows, her hand briefly curling into a fist on her thigh.

“What the fuck, Sans?” the man says, pushing off his sports car and walking towards Jon’s pickup. “You jump out of my car, but take a ride from some fucking hillbilly?”

“You alright?” Jon asks, as the girl reaches for the door handle.

She looks at him, and he sees it - the Tully resemblance. He’s only met Minisa a few times, but the eyes are unmistakable.

“I’m alright,” she says.

Then she opens the door and slides out, smoothing her skirt down. The man turns red in the face as she walks to the back of the pickup and starts pulling her luggage out.

“Don’t ignore me, Sansa,” the man says. His blond hair flops into his face, and Jon thinks he’d be handsome if he didn’t look like a petulant child. When she doesn’t answer, his face turns a shade of red Jon doesn’t think is healthy. “Did you at least pay the man for the ride? I bet you fucked him, didn’t you? Only thing that whore mouth is good for-”

Jon feels his teeth grind together, and he sets his truck in park and reaches over and pushes the passenger side door open, clicking his tongue. Ghost hops over the center console and out, ears flattening. The man makes a choked noise and steps back.

The girl pauses where she’s stacking her luggage, and she looks at Jon. What she’s thinking, he doesn’t know, but she doesn’t seem shocked at the language, or the situation. Then she reaches out and pets Ghost’s head one last time, before tilting the stack of luggage and carefully rolling it up the Tully estate driveway.

Jon waits until she’s out of sight before giving a sharp whistle. Ghost jumps back into the truck, and Jon reaches over and pulls the door closed.

Then he puts the truck in drive, and he knows peeling the tires isn’t good for them, but he does it anyway, kicking up a cloud of dust. The blond man lifts an arm to cover his face as Jon u-turns from the estate and heads back out to Riverrun proper.

[kitnjon]

JON SNOW CREATORS EVENT - DAY 01 - MOVIE INSPIRED Enchanted AU

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I don’t know. It’s just that… it’s like you escaped from a Hallmark card or something.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

[sweetaprilbutterfly]

Jon Snow Creators Event: Day 2 - ‘A thousand skulls and the bastard boy again’ | fear | Resurrection AU | Freefolk!Jon

When Jon resurrected, he told Melisandre the truth, he really didn't see or feel anything, there was only darkness, but he came back to life only because he felt that Sansa needed him. Jon didn't tell anyone, he fully come back only when he saw Sansa and she was in his arms.

[hisqueeninthenorth]

Astra Inclinant, Sed Non Obligant (The Stars Align Us, They Do Not Bind Us)

Jon II snippet. Chapter coming soon to Ao3. Read here

“Winter kills the variety of weaker men. You’ve been examined, Ser Harold. You’ve been weighed, measured and the balance is wanting.” He stepped over Ser Harold’s prone body as if he weren’t there, paying no mind to the slack jaws and wide eyes he left in the courtyard.

[elegantwoes]

Staying up all night and coming up with good nicknames for ASOIAF characters is one of the biggest fun I have had in a while. @istumpysk @decadelongsummer @thetullyshadbettersense

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - "Nodology", Part 1

It's best to read this story after first reading "No More Scars", since this is a sequel. While it's not necessary to do so, it helps paint a picture of Jon and Sansa's current relationship, and there are some references to scenes from that fic that might be lost on new readers. "No More Scars" was about the organic progression of Jon and Sansa's relationship on the road to Riverrun after he rescues her from King's Landing, and this is the story of that singularly-focused narrative now entering into the larger world of family and politics and societal expectations. Long story short, shit gonna get messy from here on in, folks.

Like in "No More Scars", there's been some speeding up/condensing of the timeline, and aging up of all characters. For those that are new, Jon died up at the Wall and then went South to rescue Sansa. Expect lots of creative license being taken, lol.

Nodology

Chapter One: There's a Poem in there Somewhere

"The knot fastens ever tighter." - Jon and Sansa. After rescuing her from King's Landing and bringing her to Riverrun, the two try to navigate a love they never intended to start, especially with so many watching eyes.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1

* * *

All things come to an end, Sansa realizes.

This is what she thinks when she makes her way through the gates of her mother's family home.

(This must be how it ends – their journey.)

It's not home, but it's as near to it as Sansa expects to be for a long while. Riverrun's gates open before them, and Sansa sees her family, standing at the bottom of the stairs leading into the main hall at the end of the courtyard. The breath stalls in her chest. She's hardly aware of the halt her horse makes when she settles before them, Jon leading the horse on foot, keeping the proper decorum between them. And she's hardly aware of the offer of his hand for her to hold onto when she dismounts, rather than the familiar way his palms used to fit around her waist to help her down. They left intimacy back on the hill, after all. And part of Sansa's heart hurts for it, but in this moment, she hasn't a mind for it.

"Oh, Sansa," her mother cries, and then she is folded into her arms.

Everything comes undone in Sansa's chest. Her breath rakes from her, her eyes wetting instantly, and when she reaches trembling hands up to the back of her mother's dress, she fears she may crumble against her form.

"My dear Sansa," Catelyn cries into her hair, a hand stroking the back of her head, the other wrapped tight around her shoulders.

The sob catches in Sansa's throat. "Mother," she croaks out, voice breaking. And then the tears truly do come.

They hold each other there in the open courtyard. Robb watches them with a trembling lip, his throat flexing. He opens his mouth, perhaps to say her name, to say something, but nothing comes. He clamps it shut, the quiver in his chin barely discernible, his eyes never leaving her form.

And then there is Jon, still holding the reins of the horse she'd rode in on. Still watching, always, from a distance. She meets his eyes over her mother's shoulder.

He offers her a tender smile, just the slightest quirk of his lip, his own eyes wetting at the sight of their reunion.

She mouths a silent 'thank you' to him, her tears hot along her lids, and then she buries her face in her mother's shoulder.

Her knees buckle, but Catelyn holds her.

She is home, home, home.

(Because home is not a place.)

Sansa doesn't bother to smother her cries this time.

* * *

Catelyn frets over her the first several hours, and dinner that night is awkward for her at the beginning, the anxiety still bundled in her chest, the fear still wound tight throughout her gut.

The last time she sat at a dinner table, Cersei sat across from her, wine goblet in hand, sneer in place.

Her appetite is slow in returning.

Catelyn brushes a stand of hair behind her daughter's ear with affection. Sansa smiles tenderly at her, seated beside her, before refocusing on her plate.

Jon sits across from her. Ghost lies at her feet beneath the table.

More than her appetite may be slow to return. But he is here.

And she is safe.

And there is time in the world for everything else.

* * *

Jon had expected to be the one to break the terrible news of Arya no longer being in King's Landing, but before he can, Catelyn is already assuring Sansa of their search for Arya, her hands cupping her cheeks, her eyes fervent on hers.

"She's been seen in the Riverlands, and I've sent trusted people in search of her. Your uncle is helping," she says with a nod to her brother Edmure.

Tears bead in Sansa's eyes.

The air tangles in Jon's lungs – equal mix dread and relief.

She's been spotted, at least. She's alive, at least. But beyond that...

He meets Sansa's eyes across the room and finds the same tangle of emotion reflected in her gaze.

In this world, and in this war, they have no guarantee of anything, after all.

* * *

There's a knock on her chamber door. She calls for the visitor to enter and stops her perusal of the many dresses her mother has laid across her bed for her.

Robb enters, eyes meeting hers briefly before glancing to the floor, and he closes the door behind him. He meets her gaze again in silence.

Sansa stills in her surprise, before her manners return to her. She curtsies. "Your Grace."

"Sansa, please – " he starts, hand out-reaching, before stopping. He clears his throat. "You can forget the formalities," he tells her, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Sansa watches him quietly, aching to reach for him, to bury her face in his chest and cry in his arms and call him 'brother' once more, but she's unsure whether he wants that as well. Whether she is still 'sister' to him.

"You've returned to us. Safe and sound," he says in relief.

The anger flares hot and unbidden within her. She purses her lips, turning back to her bed. "Yes, though your definition of 'sound' is questionable at best," she snaps.

He steps toward her. "Sansa..."

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. This is her king, as well as her brother. She turns back to him. "I'm sorry. That was... unworthy of me."

He hesitates a moment, and then he reaches for her, wraps his arms around her frame, sighs into her hair. "You've no idea how worried I was."

"No, I've no idea," she breathes quietly into his shoulder, stiffening in his embrace.

Robb doesn't seem to notice. He pulls back from their hug, his hands resting along her arms. "I want you to meet my new wife. You'll get on well, I just know it."

Sansa heaves an exhausted sigh. "Of course."

Robb peers at her. "Are you tired? You must be tired. Of course, you're tired. I should let you rest." His hands fall from her shoulders. He moves to turn, and then stops, glancing back at her. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. "I'm glad you're back, Sansa. Truly."

Maybe he means it. Maybe he means all of it.

But Sansa cannot think of that right now. She only nods silently, offering a perfunctory smile. "So am I," she says placatingly.

Robb smiles at her, before leaving her chambers.

She drops down to sit along the edge of the bed, her eyes glancing over the dresses laid out across her furs.

It rises in her – sudden and poisonous.

She grabs a dress, slings it across the room with a shriek.

Sansa stands staring at the offending garment, her chest heaving with her ire, and then she grabs for another, throwing it just the same. Another. And another. Her shouts of rage crumble into grievous cries, her arms finally giving out as she stumbles back along the bed, sliding down the side of it to drop to the stone below. She buries her face in her hands, her breaths coming quick, her eyes stinging with unshed tears, her frustration panted into her palms.

She pulls her knees up to her chest.

She is home, home, home.

(And it shouldn't feel like this.)

* * *

Jon finds her in the stables, brushing out the mane of her horse. He glances around the stalls, making certain of their seclusion, before he steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her stomach and pulling back against his chest.

Sansa startles in his embrace, before she realizes it's him, the brush in her hand still held mid-air, her other going to Jon's own hand around her waist. "Jon," she whispers with caution, glancing around the corner for any witnesses to his sudden affection.

But Jon only sighs into her hair, clutching her more firmly. He buries his nose along her shoulder. "Just give me a minute."

Sansa worries her lip, stiffening in his hold, even as his warmth floods her. "Jon, we have to be careful," she hisses, eyes still flicking around the corner of the stall.

"Just a minute, please, Sansa," he rumbles into her neck, his eyes fluttering closed at her scent, her nearness, the steady weight of her braced to his chest.

The ardency of his request seems to move her, and her shoulders lose their tension, her own sigh stealing past her lips as she leans back against him, quietly surrendering.

He's back there, suddenly, back to being on the run like they were only weeks ago, when there was nothing but her and him and a horse and a road. Nothing to stop him holding her like this, and no one to interrupt. Nothing to risk, and no shame to be found.

He breathes her in, his fingers clutching at her, and it's too short – this time that he can hold her. It's too short and too fleeting and too edged with danger.

(He knew this going into it. He knew this when she reached for his hand atop the hill and told him: "This isn't as far as we go." But knowing doesn't make it any easier.

He knew he was still her brother.

He knew this was still wrong.

But knowing and wanting have never gone hand in hand for him.)

He takes a last lingering inhale at her neck, his nose still pressed to her hair, his hands slipping from her waist reluctantly, before he moves to turn her gently in his hold, facing her.

She looks up at him with a tenderness that rakes through his chest.

He closes his eyes and sighs heavily when she braces a hand to his cheek, her thumb brushing over his coarse beard.

"What is it?" she asks him softly, peering up at him when he settles his hands on her hips.

"I just miss you," he manages, his eyes fluttering open to rove across her face.

She smiles up at him, before leaning forward to plant a kiss along his cheek. "And I miss you. Always. Even when you're right across the table from me."

Jon sighs out his aggravation, his thumbs brushing unconscious circles over her hips. "I feel like we haven't spoken in days."

Sansa looks down, her hands going to brace along his arms. "We haven't, really," she says forlornly.

He doesn't let her linger long on it though, directing her to the bench across the horse's stall. They settle next to each other, their hands held between them. "How have you been?" he asks her.

She gives a slight shake of her head. "I'm worried for mother. There's been no further news of Arya."

Jon grunts his acknowledgement, his eyes drifting down to their joined hands, his thumb gliding over her knuckles in comfort. "There will be. I promise."

She smiles up at him. "When you say it, I believe you."

"Good."

She squeezes his hands. "I'm surprised you didn't offer to join Uncle Edmure's men in their search for her."

He considers it a moment, his eyes still following the trail of his thumb over the back of her hand. "I thought about it," he says softly.

She cocks her head at him. "But...?"

He looks up at her then. "But Robb is planning his next attack soon and I need to be with him."

She frowns at his words. "Will you be leaving then?"

At her slight pout, the hint of a smile tugs at his lips, and he reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her jaw. "Not immediately."

"I don't want you to go," she says firmly, leaning toward him with a plea in her eyes.

Jon sighs at the urgency in her words, the smile slipping from his face. "Sansa, I have to."

"No, you don't. Robb has enough of the Northern lords behind him. You don't have to risk yourself as well."

"And you're okay with letting our brother go to war without me? Without his family?"

Sansa's mouth thins into a tight line, her throat flexing imperceptibly. Her eyes flick away from his, focusing on the tie of his tunic instead. "No," she croaks out, finally.

But Jon knows where the hesitation comes from.

"Did Robb send you?"

The years apart have made them different people. But he still remembers how Sansa used to hang off Robb's arm at feasts, and how eagerly she played her harp for him, and how she dragged him into her games of pretend when they were children. He remembers her proud smile when Robb first donned the cloak she'd sewn for him, and the way she refused to cry in his presence, and the intensity with which she held him as they said their goodbyes outside the gates of Winterfell, before her ill-fated trip to King's Landing.

Robb was Sansa's favorite brother. Always had been.

And maybe that fact never really hurt before because he'd been his as well, and maybe it doesn't really hurt now because being Sansa's favorite brother isn't even what he wants – now, when what he wants is so decidedly far from brotherly, it isn't even in the same vicinity.

And still:

"Did Robb send you?"

Maybe it hurts now because they've both since learned the answer, even when neither will say it.

"Of course, I want him safe," she says, her voice quaking, her eyes still fixed to his chest. She sighs, her shoulders slumping with it, her gaze falling to her lap. "But I can't lose you both. I wouldn't make it, Jon, not after... not after everything."

Jon releases her hands to cup her face, the gentle brush of his thumb arcing over her cheek. "Hey, look at me."

She does, and the trust he finds in her gaze nearly rends him clean in two.

"Sansa, we have a chance, don't you see? With the Riverlands and the Vale lending their support, and Theon off securing the Greyjoys' alliance – we can end this war."

Sansa's brows dip in concern. "But when Robb married Jeyne..."

Jon shakes his head, a rough sound brewing in his throat. "I know. I know the Freys aren't happy, but we're still in talks. And nothing's been decided. And with Robb as our king, I know – I know we can finally – " He stops, the words clogging up his throat as he takes in her face. "The North can be free. You can be free. And I promise – I promise you, Sansa – neither Robb or I will ever let you be captive again, do you understand me?"

Sansa reaches up to hold his wrists, pressing her cheek into the palm of his calloused hand.

He just wants her to believe him.

Because he means it. He means it more than anything in this world.

Sansa is free when the North is free. And for that...

For that, he would give anything.

"Tell me you believe me," he begs of her, his face inching closer to hers.

The slight sheen of tears blankets her eyes as she blinks up at him. But she nods mutely, and it is answer enough.

He presses forward and kisses her. Just the once. Swift and sure and promising.

She sucks a shallow breath between her lips, her forehead bracing to his when he pulls back. Her hands never unlink from around his wrists.

Sansa is free when the North is free.

(And he needs no further reason to fight.)

* * *

"That's all I know," Sansa says, glancing down at the map of King's Landing Robb has spread out over the table.

Jon watches the tick in Robb's jaw at her words, his hands braced along the edge of the table, eyes fixed to the map. "Sansa," he sighs, "There must be something you missed. Something that can help us. You know how important this is."

Catelyn, Brynden, Edmure and even Robb's wife Jeyne Westerling stand around the table with them, all eyes keened to the layout of King's Landing spread before them, a stilted silence pervading the room. Outside the chamber, Robb's advisors and the other lords of the North wait patiently to convene the war council.

Sansa crosses her arms defensively at Robb's words, her eyes flashing to him. "Of course, I know how important this is. I'm not a simpleton. But I can't tell you what I don't know! It's not like I was privy to the Lannisters' council meetings," she huffs.

Robb looks up at her with frustration, before he pushes from his lean over the table, a hand wiped over his mouth. "Think, Sansa. Even the smallest detail may help us. Something they may have let slip."

Sansa narrows her eyes at him. "I'm sorry, was I meant to be spying between the bouts of terror and abuse? Apologies, Your Grace, but I never received that missive," she bites out.

Robb sucks a sharp breath between his teeth, his mouth opening on a scathing retort.

Catelyn's hand goes to his arm, stilling him.

The room feels stiff in the aftermath, Edmure and the Blackfish both shifting their weight from one leg to another, watching the scene before them carefully. Jeyne folds her hands in front of her, eyes falling to the floor when she pulls her lip between her teeth.

Sansa doesn't lower her gaze from her brother's.

Jon watches the exchange anxiously, his hands held tight behind his back.

Finally, Sansa tears her gaze away, hot tears pricking her eyes, her fingers tightening over her arms.

"I'm sorry for your suffering, Sansa, believe me, but this is about more than that," Robb begins, voice rough. "This is about Northern independence, and I can't afford to delay that to cushion your hurt. I need information. I need details. And I need you to give them to me."

Sansa's fingers flex over her arms, her eyes still fixed to the table, still brimming with tears. "I know that," she gets out on a croak.

And oh, what it must take from her, to be scolded like this before her family, and to keep her graces, even still.

Jon grips one hand beneath the other at his back, the muscles in his arms bunching.

Everyone stays silent before the King in the North, gauging his ire.

"But that's all I know," Sansa sighs out, her frustration nearly strangling the words in her throat. She blinks back the tears, the remembrance.

Jon can practically feel the thrum of Catelyn's anxiety beside him.

Robb sighs again, a heat behind the exhale. "You were Tyrion's wife, for Seven's sake. You mean to tell me he let nothing slip? No indication of their force's strength, their next move, any weakness of the Keep, nothing?" he bites out.

A growl brews quietly in Jon's chest at the words, at Tyion's mention, at Robb's forcefulness. His knuckles go white beneath his grip.

Sansa glowers at Robb. "He wasn't one for pillow talk," she clips out, the flush of anger coloring her throat.

Jon sees the hurt behind her eyes clearly.

"Robb," Catelyn whispers at his side, an ache lining her voice.

But Robb ignores it, his gaze narrowing on Sansa. "You were a Lannister bride," he hisses, almost accusatory. "You must know more."

"I know who I am," Sansa croaks out, blinking back the tears, her lip trembling, the words too close to apologetic for Jon's liking.

Too head-bowed for a daughter of the North.

(Too yielding for Sansa.)

Jon bares his teeth, the breath raking from him. His eyes are only for Sansa when he tells her, surely, and with everything of himself, "You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

His deep voice heralds a stilted silence in the room, all eyes turning to him upon their utterance. He's painstakingly aware of Catelyn's steady gaze beside him.

Sansa blinks up at him, her mouth parting.

They stare at each other in the quiet of the room.

He wants to go to her then, wants to wrap her in his arms and bury her in his embrace, wants to press her cheek to his chest and breathe against her hair, wants to hold her to his bones, until she knows, indisputably, and without doubt – that she is the blood of Winterfell. That she is the North.

Sansa Stark.

Not Sansa Lannister. Not Sansa the traitor's daughter. Or Sansa the captive.

But Sansa Stark.

Sansa Stark.

This is who she is, who she will always be.

And no one, not even her brother king, can take that from her.

(This is who she is, and who he loves.)

"You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell," he says again, no less certain, no less adamant than the first time.

Robb sighs heavily at the end of the table, his fists bracing to the edge of the wood, his gaze drawn down to the map before them. The fight leaves him slowly, replaced by a weariness that slumps his shoulders in its wake.

Catelyn's hand rises to his shoulder, a measure of comfort in the heated quiet of the room, and Jon is grateful for the release of her intense gaze upon him.

Robb waves his mother's council off, a hand going to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Leave me," he says on a tired exhale, an unspoken surrender to the words.

The group shuffles out wordlessly, Catelyn's hand slipping from her son's shoulder reluctantly.

Jon looks at Sansa one last time before they exit the room.

She meets his gaze almost instantly,

The axis of his body tilts toward hers, the gravity of her almost overwhelming him.

(To hold her to his bones and tell her – )

She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

And he is in love with her.

* * *

"I can't seem to... talk to her anymore," Robb tells him, stilling in his wiping of his blade.

Jon glances at his brother beside him, as they sit along one of the benches in the training yard. He raises a brow his way. "Who?" he asks, sliding the whetstone along his own blade, but even in his feigned ignorance, the answer is blaringly apparent.

Robb returns the oiled cloth in his hand to his sword, face screwing up in concentration. "Sansa," he tells him.

Jon grunts his acknowledgement, eyeing Robb beside him. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully, the words tight in his throat.

"You were a Lannister bride."

Jon's grip over Longclaw tightens, his nostrils flaring at the memory.

Robb huffs his frustration, stilling his motions again. "She's different, somehow. She's not the Sansa I used to know."

Jon scoffs. "Aye. Being held captive for years tends to do that to a person."

Robb straightens as he looks at Jon. "You're not blaming me, are you?"

Jon considers his words, his hand stilling the swiping motion over his sword. He sighs out heavily. "It's not about blame."

Robb stays silent, his mouth a tight line. "You think I should have made the trade for Jaime Lannister."

Jon straightens as well, setting his blade aside. "Is this really the conversation you want to have right now?"

"Yes."

Jon frowns. "No, you don't."

Robb turns frustrated. "Just because you're my brother doesn't mean you can speak to your king this way," he says brusquely.

Jon swallows back the instant bile. His mouth thins into a tight line. "See? This is exactly why we can't have this kind of conversation." He stands, moving to replace his whetstone along the rack, sheathing Longclaw.

Robb tosses the oiled cloth in his hand down to the bench as he stands as well, his sword still in his other hand. He grabs for Jon's shoulder and pulls him back. "And why is that?"

"Because you don't want honesty," Jon snaps.

Robb stills at the heat in the words, his hand falling from Jon's shoulder.

Jon sighs, wiping a hand over his mouth. "You just want to be reassured." And maybe he gets that.

The realization softens something in Jon. The heat drains from his gaze, his shoulders slumping with it as he watches Robb.

His brother doesn't answer, his eyes drifting down, his face solemn and hurt.

Jon grabs for his shoulders, catching his gaze once more. "Look, Robb, I can't tell you what the right choice is, or what it would have been. I can't tell you what you should have done. And I can't tell you that I would have done differently in your place."

It's not a truth he likes to admit, not after seeing that pale white scar at the nape of Sansa's neck, not after the stories she's told him from across their shared campfires, not after watching her tremble through nightmares and only stilling when his arms were around her.

But it's a truth, nonetheless.

Jon sighs. "I can't tell you whether you made the wrong decision or not. I can only tell you that Sansa hurt for it. She hurt dearly for it. And you're either okay with that or you're not. That's all I've got."

"Are you okay with it?"

The question surprises him, and he draws his hands back from his shoulders in silence. Jon clears his throat, shoulders pulling back. "What do you mean?"

"Are you okay with my decision? With how it's hurt her?" There's an ache behind the words, but also a need.

But Jon cannot fill that need. He knows that now. Knows that clearer than anything.

He grinds his jaw, thinks of that white scar along her back, thinks of the tears he's wiped from her cheeks, thinks of all the times she asked about their brother while they trekked through the wilderness on their way to Riverrun.

"Did Robb send you?"

And how that question has haunted them, ever since its first utterance.

How he hates that he had to be the one to kill that hope in her, how Robb is the one who made him do it.

"Jon?"

Jon clenches his jaw, the words settling along his tongue. "No, I'm not okay with it. I'm not okay with anything that hurts Sansa."

Robb blinks at him, his shoulders slumping.

Jon has to turn away, before he says any more. Before he reveals all his gruesome little insides. "Apologies, Your Grace, but I don't think I can be of any help to you for this one." He turns to leave, his hand settling along the hilt of Longclaw at his hip, a measure of reassurance, steadiness. He looks back at his brother. "Talk to her, Robb," he says softly.

Because he knows she wants that, too. Even if they should hurt for it.

They promised each other, after all.

They promised no more scars.

He only hopes that Robb isn't one already.

* * *

"Your ankle seems to be better," Catelyn muses, dragging the brush down the length of her daughter's hair.

Sansa glances up and catches her mother's gaze through the mirror, offering a smile with her answer. "Yes, much."

"You twisted it in the storm, you said?"

Sansa nods, her mouth pursing with the memory.

(Her and Jon's drenched forms, the refuge of a cave, Ghost's warmth at her back, and Jon – )

Sansa swallows tightly, her gaze falling to the vanity in front of her.

Catelyn continues her gentle brushing, a thoughtful look on her face as she takes in Sansa's curtain of hair.

Sansa doesn't expand any further on the experience, though her hands bunch together in her lap.

"And Jon was wounded when you were fleeing the Lannisters' men, is that right?"

Sansa looks at her mother through the mirror once more, a question furrowing her brow. "Yes," she says cautiously, unsure of where her mother intends to take the conversation.

"And you tended his wound?"

"Of course," she says easily.

Catelyn is silent for many moments, though she never stills her movements. And then she clears her throat softly. "So, he disrobed before you," she clips out.

Sansa stiffens in her seat, her mind reaching back to the cave, to the bare expanse of his chest pressed to hers, and his arms around her naked form, and the weight of his breath in her neck, and the kiss they'd shared the following morning, the way he'd yielded to her, opened to her breathlessly, and how good he tasted – how she'd wanted nothing more than to taste him further in that moment.

Sansa blinks back the memory, attempting a nonchalant shrug and a reassuring smile, trying to catch her mother's eyes in the mirror once more. "I've seen all my brothers shirtless in the yard before, Mother. It's no matter." She hopes she sounds more convincing than she feels.

Catelyn sets the brush aside and takes Sansa's hair in both hands, her elegant fingers threading through the strands, parting them in familiar ways. She purses her lips, eyes still fixed to her daughter's hair. "You were each younger then, and never alone. Now, it is..." She frowns minutely, turning one strand over another in her hands. "It isn't proper."

Sansa barely manages to smother the huff of frustration that tries to escape her. "What was I supposed to do? Leave him wounded?" The idea is painful, and impossible.

After seeing his scar-riddled chest –

She can't ever imagine leaving him wounded again.

Catelyn sighs, her hands stilling their ministrations. She meets Sansa's gaze through the mirror, her features softening somewhat. "No," she tells her, though it seems to take great effort from her. "No, you did the right thing."

Sansa waits for more, but her mother doesn't continue.

Catelyn keeps her gaze a moment longer, and then she turns back to her work, silently braiding Sansa's hair, any further thoughts on their recent intimacy held behind the cage of her teeth.

Something in Sansa thrums at the uncertainty of her mother's silence, at the unspoken wariness of their sudden closeness. "I'm safe with Jon," she says without preamble, the words coming up of their own accord.

Catelyn doesn't react. She simply continues her braiding.

Sansa's brow furrows in determination, her shoulders setting straighter. "If you believe anything, believe that," she says imploringly, proud of the way her voice doesn't shake with the words.

Catelyn's fingers graze her cheek as she pulls the strands from her face, her eyes never meeting hers through the mirror. "I will try," she tells her.

But while the words should stir hopefulness within her, Sansa finds there is only a fluttering in her gut, a coil of unease that lingers long into the night, many hours after her mother has left her.

* * *

She's on her way back from the sept one morning when he grabs her arm and tugs her into a shadowed alcove, smothering her surprised yelp with his calloused palm over her mouth. She blinks wide eyes up at Jon, catches his wide grin in the shadows, and the relief that floods her has her sagging against the wall behind her. When he releases her mouth, his name comes out in a scolding, a swap to his shoulder for good measure.

He laughs good-naturedly, and Sansa opens her mouth for a scathing retort about his frightening her this early in the morning but then his hands are slipping under her jaw and tilting her face up to his and then his mouth is opening over hers – long and languid and slow.

Sansa can only sigh into it, eyes fluttering shut.

Jon tilts his head, slanting his mouth over hers in a wet, almost filthy kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth easily. A quiet moan escapes her at the sensation and a rumble answers in his chest, his breaths coming harder as he presses into her, bracing her back against the stone with his hips pinned to hers. She grips at his shoulders, fingers curling in his tunic, her back arching against him, as she sucks on his tongue, her own kiss growing hungry and heated.

He keeps his hands on her face, his grip tightening over her jaw at her eagerness, as though he aches to release his hold of her, to instead slide his hands down the length of her body, his thumbs just barely grazing the sides of her breasts, gliding over her ribs, along her waist, anchoring at her hips, the small of her back, dangerously low as they grip her to him, pressing them intimately together.

The thought is maddening to her, especially when he keeps his hands so frustratingly secure along her face, even as he kisses her wildly.

She thinks of her morning prayers in the sept, and her cheeks grow pinker (if that were even possible in this moment) at the sudden realization that perhaps she should have also asked for forgiveness, because a surge of boldness courses through her right then and she reaches for his hands, drags them down to her collar, just above the tops of her breasts in her open-necked gown, her chest heaving against him as she continues kissing him.

He groans along her tongue, gripping at her shoulders to steady himself, still ever so honorable, his thumbs unconsciously stretching down to brush along the bare skin of her modest cleavage, and he pulls back suddenly, panting, his mouth hovering over hers, his breath warm as it fans her swollen lips.

She's delirious at the sudden loss of him.

"Sansa..." he gets out roughly, voice laden with desire.

She pushes forward to meet his mouth again, and he sighs as he opens to her, meeting her eager tongue with his own, his weight sagging against her in his surrender. He presses her full against the wall now as his hands slide down her sides before wrapping round her back, dragging her hips into his with a low growl vibrating over her tongue in his mouth.

She startles at the press of hardness into her thigh, suddenly highly aware of his desire, even as her own flutters in her gut, spitting like hot coals.

Jon seems to notice, dragging his wet mouth from her own swollen one reluctantly, his chest heaving against hers, his moan painting her lips for half a breath before he drops his head into her shoulder, hugging her tightly against him.

She tries to take example from his self-control, but it's just so hard with him pressed so deliciously against her, with his hot breath in the crook of her neck, and his hands gripping the back of her dress, one bunched fist scandalously low, his arms trembling with his waning willpower.

She mewls at his ear, the soft, embarrassing whine of his name escaping her lips, and she links her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his throat. "Don't stop," she croons into his skin.

He chuckles at her shoulder, his arms tensing a moment, and then relaxing, unwinding from her to brace his palms along the wall behind her instead. Still, he keeps his weight pressed against hers, keeps their bodies a single, melded line. "I must," he gets out raggedly, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. "Or I truly won't stop."

She thrills at the possibility, not fully understanding where that may lead but knowing that she wants it. She wants him.

Desperately and daily – she wants him.

Like a fever beneath her skin.

She wets her lips, eyes peering up into his when she whispers against his mouth, "Then don't."

Jon closes his eyes on a weighted sigh, grinding his jaw in some semblance of control. When he opens his eyes once more, he chuckles at her unchanged expression – earnest and hopeful. He plants a quick kiss along her nose. "Sansa, this is hardly the time or place for us to... explore."

She scrunches her nose in indignation, her arms loosening around his neck. "Well, you started it."

He actually barks a laugh at that, and Sansa beams at the sight of it.

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes roving her face with a grin. "Aye, and you intend to finish it, is that it?"

She peers at him, her smile turning mischievous as she twines her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, her back arching subtly. "Precisely," she answers tartly.

Jon's eyes flick to her mouth, his smile slipping as his hand drifts from her hair back to her jaw, his thumb edging along her bottom lip.

Sansa stills at the motion, her mouth parting slightly at the tender yet heated touch.

Jon watches as he brushes his thumb slowly across her mouth, still pink and ripe and swollen from his kisses. He licks his lips unconsciously. "Careful, girl," he breathes out.

Sansa takes the warning for what it is, her own breath coming heavy in her chest again. She swallows thickly, cocking her head to look at him.

His eyes flick up to meet hers at the motion.

"But it... it feels good," she says cautiously, her nails curling along the back of his neck. "Doesn't it feel good for you?" she gets out on a hoarse whisper.

"It feels more than good," Jon says thickly, clearing his throat as he drops his hand from her mouth, leaning back from her for the first time since their mouths met. He still keeps one hand braced to the wall behind her. "And therein lies the danger."

"I'm safe with you, though," she says instinctually. She doesn't even need to think the words. They're simply there. They simply are.

As plain a truth as she's ever known.

Jon laughs softly at her assertion. "You humble me, Sansa. Truth be told, my control is slipping day by day."

She sucks a short breath between her teeth, silently exhilarated at the admission.

His expression softens as he watches her. "I missed you," he says quietly.

Her heart clenches at the words.

He shakes his head, sighing with it. "I always miss you," he admits, leaning close to press his forehead to hers.

"And I, you," she answers, her hands slipping from his neck to slide down to his chest, bracing there. "I want to see you every day," she says without inhibition, the brightness of the emotion bringing a smile back to her face. She turns her head slightly to press a fervent kiss to his cheek.

He chuckles at her unhindered earnestness. "You mean you didn't tire of me all those long weeks on the road?"

"I could never tire of you, Jon," she says sweetly, the truth of it slipping easily from her. She leans back to look at him. "In fact, it's quite the opposite actually. I find myself needier and needier for you as the days go by. Especially when I'm without you."

Jon quiets at her words, his gaze falling to her mouth again. He stares at her lips for a long moment, a slow, steadying breath easing out of his chest as he works his jaw, an ardent look crossing his features. "I should go," he says finally, voice rough when it leaves him. He clears his throat, glancing back up to meet her eyes. "Before I do something I shouldn't." He leans away to glance back out the empty corridor. "And before your mother starts to worry at your absence," he adds on.

Sansa pats his chest affectionately, grabbing his attention once more. "Will you meet me in the gardens this afternoon? I've something to give you."

Jon answers with a brilliant smile. "Alright, then." He leans in and plants a brief, sweet kiss along her lips. He pulls away from her reluctantly, his hand reaching for hers in farewell as he moves into the hall.

Their fingers thread together, before slipping apart, their yearning already building back up in the space between them.

Sansa watches him go, fingers pressed to her lips, heart full.

* * *

She presses the kerchief into his hands, and he stares down at it, at the elegantly stitched white wolf decorating the edge of the material. He blinks dumbly at the gift in his hands.

Sansa beams at him, her hands clasped gracefully before her. "A lord should always carry a favor from his lady, should he not?" she says brightly.

Jon looks up at her, the words stalling in his throat.

Her lashes flutter as pink tinges her cheeks. "I am your lady, am I not?" she asks hesitantly.

Jon releases a short chuckle at her question, before glancing around the secluded corner of the gardens where they stand, and then snaking a hand behind her neck and pulling her toward him, meeting her mouth with his in a fervent kiss, a sigh breaking from him when her hands slide up his chest to anchor at his shoulders. They smile against each other's mouths when they break the kiss.

He pulls from her, his fingers flexing in her hair, his breath fanning her lips. "I can only endeavor to be a worthy lord, my lady."

She presses her nose to his cheek, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Just tell me I'm yours," she sighs impatiently.

Jon chuckles again, a hand going to the back of her head, his other anchored at the small of her back, her favor bunched in his fist. He pulls back just enough to catch her eyes again. "Sansa – "

But she kisses him then, cuts off his words. Her mouth is insistent on his. She pulls back, breathless, her eyes shifting between his. "Tell me, please," she whispers in the space between their lips.

There's something needful to the words, to the way she presses into his chest, the way her fingers dig along his shoulders.

His gaze darkens on hers, his sigh painting her lips. He curls his fingers into the soft silk of her favor, his fist pressing low on her back. "You are," he tells her, voice dragging from his chest. His gaze drops to her mouth, his tongue wetting his lips. "You are mine," he gets out roughly, angling his mouth to press over hers.

Her hands glide along his shoulders to the back of his neck, nails sinking into his hair as she smiles against his lips. "As you are mine," she breathes with certainty, just before he takes her mouth with his.

The kiss is sweet and decadent and indulgent, their mouths moving against each other's slowly, deliberately, tasting each other without demand. His hand tangles in her hair, holding her to him, his tongue swiping into her mouth with a low groan as he presses into her.

Her back hits the bowled edge of the fountain behind her, and her steps stumble, but he's got her securely in his hold, his mouth breaking from hers at the slight jostle. He meets her eyes, and they stare at each other with mischievous grins, the panted heat of their breaths mingling in the air between them. And then he dips his head to her throat, his nose brushing the edge of her jaw, his lips planting a soft, reverent kiss along her skin.

Sansa sighs prettily at his ministrations, her nails catching along the nape of his neck.

The feel of her is nearly dizzying.

"Sansa!" someone calls upon entering the gardens.

Jon tears himself away from her instantly, attempting to steady his pants, a hand smoothing through his hair, his chest heaving at the sudden retreat.

"Sansa!" the voice calls again, getting closer.

Sansa licks her lips, coming back to herself, her trembling hands smoothing over her skirts as she rights herself beside the fountain.

Jon is a respectful distance away from her when he turns to their intruder, a brow raising upon seeing Edmure Tully's entrance into their corner of the gardens.

The Lord of the Riverlands makes his way to Sansa without a look at Jon, his hands grabbing hers. "Oh, Sansa," he sighs out brokenly.

Sansa blinks at him, her breath stalled in her throat. "What is it, Uncle?"

Edmure glances at Jon finally, only briefly, before meeting his niece's gaze once more. "It's your brothers, Bran and Rickon. At Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy, he – he..." Edmure turns almost green at the words, a grimace passing over his features.

Jon stills at Edmure's distress, his body settling into a single, taut focus.

Edmure swallows thickly, his hands tightening over Sansa's. His face hardens, his shoulders going stiff. "You need to go to your mother," he says simply, the words low and full of warning.

Sansa stares at her uncle, a line of concern creasing her brow. She looks to Jon, her mouth tipping open.

But he has no answers for her.

"Go to your mother," Edmure says again, more sure this time, a darkness crossing over his gaze, as he tugs her along after him.

Jon watches her go, his own feet rooted to the ground.

Something sinks deep in his gut – like a stone he will never be able to dig out again.

* * *

Her mother is inconsolable. Her grief is a wailing thing at night, and a quiet haunt by daylight. Sansa watches her from across the breakfast table the following day, watches the way she drags her fork disinterestedly around her plate. Robb reaches for their mother's hand, squeezing it gently.

"You must eat, Mother," he says softly.

Catelyn looks up at him a moment, and then pats his hand atop hers. "I think I'd like to rest," she says hollowly before rising from the table.

Sansa barely manages to choke back her own sob as she watches her mother leave the room. She turns to look at Robb, but his hand is over his face, a heavy sigh leaving him. Edmure and the Blackfish are equally quiet, exchanging worried glances with each other. And then she looks at Jon.

He's already watching her, but he turns his gaze away swiftly when she meets his eyes. He rubs a hand over his mouth, exhaling roughly as he drops his fork atop his plate and leans back in his chair.

None of them look at each other.

Bran and Rickon are there in the room with them, their names hanging unsaid in the stilted air, their deaths stinging like smoke in the eyes.

Their memories raw like a blister.

Sansa closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath. The tears are instant.

Robb glances to her at the first sob that hits air.

She presses a hand to her mouth, eyes flickering open to stare at the half-eaten food on her plate. She doesn't quite manage to smother it. "I'm sorry," she croaks out before it overtakes her, and she pushes her seat back, running for the door, the tears nearly blinding her.

She doesn't look back. She simply runs.

She runs and runs and runs. Through the corridors and past the courtyard, out the gates and across the bridge. Along the riverbank, she runs. She runs and runs and runs, crying all the while, until her legs finally give out and she stumbles to her knees, her hands going out to catch herself, palms squishing in mud, and her mother will scold her for ruining her dress, she knows, but then – but then she's laughing at the thought. A delirious, ragged laugh that breaks on a hiccup, her sob catching along its end, and she inhales sharply, holds it tight to her chest, gasps and shakes and laughs once more, and then – and then she's crying again. Crying so hard it makes her head spin.

Her fingers dig into the mud, her knees aching from when she'd fallen. And she is terribly and uncontrollably – anguished.

Anguished beyond words.

(Her little brothers).

Sansa wails, a hand going to grip at her chest, her heart rending beneath.

(Her little brothers.)

She cries until she can't anymore, until the exhaustion overtakes her.

She sleeps for hours by the riverbank, until she blearily recognizes Robb's arms scooping her up and carrying her back into the keep. She keeps her head pressed to his shoulder.

He never minds the mud.

* * *

Sansa spends the following days with her mother – making sure she eats and bathes and makes the appearances that she needs to. Catelyn humors her attentions without any fuss, something that only makes Sansa more worried for her. But Catelyn doesn't miss any meetings of the lords, doesn't disregard her position on Robb's council, and her detached, cold objectivity on current matters is somehow both admirable and terrifying to Sansa.

Is this what she herself has to look forward to? As a lord or king's wife?

Button up your grief, keep a tight lip, only cry your piece when you've made sure that chamber door is shut.

Sansa wonders if it's ever really worth it in the end.

She hasn't seen Jon in days, and it makes her gut curl in anxiety. Of course, she's seen him, but at a glance, only. Across the breakfast table and three seats down at the meetings of the lords and passing him as he trains in the yard, her arm linked with her mother's.

But she hasn't seen him. Hasn't touched his face or felt his kiss or even traded words past a cursory greeting. She's nearly nauseous at the loss of him.

It's how she finds herself before his chambers one night, when all propriety would have her in bed already, but instead, she tries the latch to his door and breathes a sigh of relief when it opens easily. She closes it behind her quickly, the lock clicking into place.

Jon glances up from his bed where he sits with his arms resting over his knees. "Sansa," he hisses, glancing at the closed door behind her and then back to her. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know," she says, "I know but I – I can't just..." The words seem to die along her tongue. She doesn't really know what she came here to say.

(Except maybe that she's sorry. Sorry that he's lost his brothers, too, and couldn't even be there to help them. Because he was too busy helping her.)

Jon works his jaw silently, staring at her, his eyes already wet.

(They all cry their piece when that chamber door is shut, she realizes.)

"Jon," she says softly, moving from the door.

He rises from his seat, wiping a hand over his eyes, clearing his throat. "You should go," he says, voice rough. He takes her gently by the arm.

"No," she counters, planting her feet.

Jon looks at her, his hand still wrapped around her forearm. He sighs, eyes drifting down. "Please, Sansa, I don't want you to get into trouble."

"Is that why you want me gone?"

He doesn't answer her.

She swallows thickly, cupping her hands around his cheeks to lift his face to hers. "Or is it because you blame me?"

He rears back at her words, brows furrowing sharply down. "What?"

She licks her lips, the words catching along her throat, but she pushes them to air, her voice cracking beneath the weight of them. "Are you mad at me because I kept you from them? Because rescuing me meant you couldn't be there for them?"

Jon releases her arm, his mouth dipping open. "Sansa, no, that's not – I've never – " He stops, clears his throat, notices the tears starting to form along her eyes. He sighs heavily, the grief shaking from him, like snow coming off the boughs, and then he's wrapping his arms around her, dragging her into his embrace, pressed to his chest. He winds a hand into her hair and presses his mouth to her ear. "Oh, Sansa, no, no, I've never thought that."

"Are you sure?" she chokes out, grasping at him, desperate, the sorrow clogging up her throat. "Because I have," she admits, closing her eyes on a sob.

Jon presses a kiss to her temple, his hand bracing along the nape of her neck, his other wrapped around her back. "Gods, no, Sansa, it isn't your fault." He presses another kiss at her ear, along her cheek, at the corner of her mouth, pulling from her just enough to meet her gaze, his hands going to brush the hair from her face, his palms cradling her cheeks as he makes her meet his eyes. "Sansa, this isn't your fault."

She exhales raggedly, her hands bunching in the material of his tunic. "But I'm here and they're not. They're not, Jon, they're – they're dead, oh gods, they're dead, Jon. Bran and Rickon. They're – they're gone, and I'm never going to hear their laughs again or – or brush their hair or clean their cheeks or – gods, or hold them, Jon. I'm never going to hold them again and it should have been me! It should have been me you left. You shouldn't have come for me, Jon, you should have saved them! And then everything would be okay. And mother would be okay. And Robb would be okay. And everything would be fine if you'd just never come at all, if you'd just left me, Jon, if you'd just – "

She doesn't get to finish, because then his mouth is on hers, and it isn't like any kiss he's ever given her before. This kiss is punishing. It's forceful and blunt, all teeth and snarl, his hand grabbing her chin almost painfully, keeping her mouth pressed to his, pushing her back, and she hits the door with a thud, a surprised grunt leaving her. He presses his whole weight against her, trapping her there against the door as he kisses her, slants his mouth over hers and takes and takes and takes, his other hand moving from her face to her hip, dragging her up against him, and he's never been this forward with her before, never been this passionate and she finds herself nearly paralyzed in his hold, her mind jarring into stillness, her hands fisting along his sleeves, her heart thudding painfully in her chest and she's full of it, full of him, and this, and everything, and – and –

He breaks from her, panting, his hand still firmly holding her chin, keeping her gaze fixed to his when her eyes flutter open, her breath raking from her in shallow gasps.

She's never seen him look so angry, his eyes dark and unblinking on hers. It makes her whimper quietly in his hold, squirming beneath him.

"Jon," she pants out breathlessly.

"I need you to understand something," he tells her, hot breath fanning her lips.

Her wide eyes flick between his, her chest heaving against him.

His fingers flex over her chin as he tilts his head to look at her, his gaze roving her face. He swallows tightly, wetting his lips. "If I had the chance, I'd do it again."

Sansa blinks at him, mouth tipping open. "What...?"

He meets her eyes once more, steady and dark and sure. "Even knowing what we know, if I had the chance to do it over again, I'd still come for you."

Her chest tightens inexplicably, her eyes watering without her bidding. "Jon," she moans out, voice threatening to break with her tears.

He surges forward and kisses her again, just as forcefully, just as possessively. He releases her slowly, his mouth still hovering over hers, his breath still painting her lips. "Every time – a thousand times – I would come for you. Do you understand?"

She nods mutely, because he has silenced any words she could speak, anyway. She's overcome, suddenly, so she wraps her arms around him and meets his mouth with hers once more, pulling him back against her, and he follows easily, pressing her into the door behind her, his hands roving her form greedily.

It's a desperate, needful grasping for each other – full of loneliness and guilt. But also full of longing, acceptance.

His hands meet the soft flesh of her body for the first time, braced against her trembling stomach when they dip beneath the hem of her night shirt, and the touch burns beyond anything she's ever felt before.

His hands meet her, and she burns.

She thinks there's a poem in there somewhere, or a song maybe, a tale like the ones she used to love.

But right now, in this moment, it's only Jon.

It's only Jon, and it's only her, and it's only them.

It's the way he kisses her like he'll never get the chance again.

It's the way he cradles her face in his hands – like she is something precious and worthy and needed.

It's the way she knows, without doubt, and without regret:

Every time – a thousand times – she'd wait for him.

[jonsa-halloween]

Thank you for hosting the jonsa event! 🎃

We truly enjoyed hosting it. So many beautiful entries. Jonsa fandom is so creative!

In case anyone did not yet get the chance to participate, do note we are still accepting late entries 😊

[agentrouka-blog]

What are your favorites jonsa fanfics? I'm not asking bc I want a rec or something, I'm just curious about what kind of dynamic and plot you usually like when reading fic about them

This is my AO3 bookmark list, so those would be the ones I definitely enjoy rereading on occasion.

I like bookverse romances, AUs of every flavor, some few show-verse explorations that deviate from the latter two seasons sufficiently. Intricate plot is nice, short snippets are nice, hilariously low-stakes modern AUs are nice. I strongly prefer a happy or generally positive resolution. I also strongly prefer to avoid my squicks, which broadly center around unequal dynamics or general bleakness.

Sansa is my blorbo, so if a story allows her strengths to shine, I'm happy. She's dutiful but also pleasure-seeking, traumatized but also hopeful, romantic but also analytical. Stories that don't deprive her of her confidence, sensuality, intelligence, creativity and dignity are fantastic. It's sometimes easy to tell when an author is privileging one part of the pairing over the other, in terms of which character is afforded meaningful relationships, independent experiences, alternative options, sexual autonomy, and my preference is usually for when that's not so noticable. Give me two people meeting on an even playing field and getting together because of how well they fit each other's desires. I don't mind angst but I don't need it at all.

Ultimately, it's what I read for easy escapism, and that's going to inform what I stick in my little bookmark list.

[esther-dot]

I sent the show!Jonsa ask! Yeah, I was toying with it because one of the sticking points for me is figuring out why the show did or didn't do Jonsa and why that may or may not happen in the books. That to me is really some of the most damning stuff, and I can't point to Dany's arc in the show or Stannis' etc. (many of the examples you use) as argumentation for what makes sense in the books but have yet to have happened without, too, including Jonsa.

Anon asks are limited by length (and I would not want to waste your time with adding caveat after caveat lol) but I do also have complicated feelings about D&D; on the one hand I think there were serious problems on set and I have a lot of capital F feminist problems with them, but that doesn't belie all the creative work they put into the show (I do think there are Choices they made about how to portray romance without the source material at hand, and even before that honestly, but I already wrote that ask lol).

You're definitely right about the heaping of romantic parallels; one or two of those relationships alone could be written off, but the Sam/Gilly one is very weird, and Kit's acting choices are... very weird lol. Re: Sansa's jealousy, I had read that more as Dark Sansa foreshadowing as opposed to Jonsa jealousy, so I don't know???? When it comes to show!Jonsa I mostly only like the S6 dynamic anyway, so that might be down to some of my bias.

Basically I'm trying to entertain alternative ideas that might explain things as opposed to genuinely arguing for show!Jonsa being an accident, and I was thinking about this as well because it is an issue I've encountered with shipping/romance/fandom in general before. The male-gazey tropey dynamic ends up feeling off, but by virtue of the romance goggles of the author not being applied to another dynamic, it ends up feeling more mutual and less objectified and more interesting lol. A good example off the top of my head, given you've just watched the MCU films, is that I shipped Steve/Natasha (yes...) because the dynamic in Winter Soldier was above and beyond any other M/F pairing in the films. Naturally everybody goes on about ~platonic soulmates~ but I love good guys with sad/evil/redeemed ladies so I can't help it. Not saying it's at all canon though, I think they absolutely stumbled into that one.

I'm glad your nephew enjoyed the MCU films! I remember when I rewatched Endgame with my best friend, her dad came in and we had to keep explaining who the 'blue one and the green one' were. It made the film much better.

Anyway, thank you so much for entertaining my ask, and as always, being such a good sport. 🥰💝

(continuation of this convo)

You have no idea how much I sympathize with the caveat issue. I write answers and then delete entire paragraphs because I have such a tendency to try to clarify everything that it makes things less clear because I bury the point, but then I regret it when the vague blogs start. We all have limited time though, and every answer can't be thousands of rambling words! Sometimes I've literally just said "insert caveat" lmao!

I do also have complicated feelings about D&D; on the one hand I think there were serious problems on set and I have a lot of capital F feminist problems with them

I read this article about Emilia's experience on set for GoT (I have not been able to relocate it, but I did actually read an article with her quotes--it wasn't just a tumblr post), and I felt that she was taken advantage of when it came to the nudity/sex scenes. I actually think she meant for some of the stories to be amusing, but I felt sick reading it. She didn't say it was D&D, but apparently when she wanted to do less nudity going forward, she was told her fans expected it and it became a fight trying to move away from it, and....I just worry about the power dynamics with all these young actresses and what they're told they "need" to do. The fact that even if they ultimately agree to certain things, it still may be a result of coercion or they aren't actually being taken care of/feel safe when doing it...it left a very bad taste in my mouth regarding the behind the scenes stuff. And obviously, we all noticed the changes they made to the story, what they did to Sansa...plenty of things we can take exception to purely on what made it to our screens.

Basically I'm trying to entertain alternative ideas that might explain things as opposed to genuinely arguing for show!Jonsa being an accident

I enjoy doing that too! Groupthink is boring! I don't expect everyone to think the same way/come to the same conclusion, and I've changed my mind on a few things which only happens if we're willing to entertain different ideas instead of shutting people down. I mean, I'm not easily persuaded to a different way of thinking, but I try to be open to it. With the condition that someone interprets Sansa in a way I can live with which excludes most of the fandom/their theories tbh.

I basically work myself to one position and then back to where I started when it comes to show Jonsa. If it was an accident, I don't love it any less, if it wasn't, I'm curious what the hell happened. I didn't get what I wanted there, so it really doesn't matter to me what people conclude. I genuinely thought it was amusing when Kit acted surprised when he was asked about Jonsa because it was his face that was saying "not normal sibling feelings here." Silly man. 😂 And, D&D fucked up enough I don't like to take them too seriously, so I can't say, "this doesn't make sense therefore it was an accident" because, uh, a lot of their choices ultimately made no sense.

it is an issue I've encountered with shipping/romance/fandom in general before. The male-gazey tropey dynamic ends up feeling off, but by virtue of the romance goggles of the author not being applied to another dynamic, it ends up feeling more mutual and less objectified and more interesting lol.

I certainly agree about the general male v female view of romance. I found that a problem when I said that they didn't write a romance for Jonerys, and the guy I was talking to was like, "they had sex tho???" There was just...a massive gap between what we were looking for when talking about the characters/relationships. Although, he did know what I meant when I said "well, they filmed Jon and Sansa like a ruling couple." He immediately understood that. And, considering what they did to the sandsnakes (I'm not saying the line), I do understand the argument that if they meant for there to be a romance, they would have done it in such a way that we would have objected.

I think part of the reason I believed Jonsa was intentional was because I don't ship non canon pairings. My brain isn't one to think, "oh but what about those two" as I wasn't even involved in fandom before, and I generally just took what a story was and reacted to it, rather than re-configuring it. Obvy, having been in the fandom for so long now, that's changed somewhat, but for me, s7 was a total puzzlement, and Jonsa / some variation of poljon was the only way it connected to everything we had established before. In a bizarre twist, we didn't get the story that would make it coherent, but we still got the endpoint: Jon betraying Dany for Sansa. It's still weird to me, all these years later. Now I'm mainly bemused rather than angry though.

[crimsoncold]

A list of Fanart by @crimsoncold

Organized by Fandom, includes links to posted art work (in white) and a list of ongoing series (in green), in progress works (in blue), and soon to be posted pieces (in red)

(All artwork will be tagged and made searchable with #Crimson Cold)

A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones

Jon Snow x Sansa Stark (Jonsa):

Family Portrait in the godswood of Winterfell

Jonsa Beyond the Wall (A Wildling AU)

A Shared Dream of Family (day time version)

A Shared Dream of Family (night time version)

Weirwood Wedding (TO BE POSTED)

Regency AU (WORK IN PROGRESS)

Jonsa Modern Hockey AU

ASOIAF/GOT Second Generation: (ONGOING)

Robb Stark, Jon Snow, Sansa Stark,

Arya Stark, Bran Stark, Rickon Stark,

House Stark

Willas Tyrell, Garlan Tyrell, Loras Tyrell

Margaery Tyrell, House Tyrell

Arianne Martell, Myrcella Baratheon

ASOIAF First Generation: (ONGOING)

Brandon Stark, Eddard Stark,

Lyanna Stark, Benjen Stark,

House Stark

Arthur Dayne, Ashara Dayne,

Elia Martell

Miscellaneous:

Alayne Stone

Harry Potter

Harry Potter x Hermione Granger (Harmony):

Family Picnic (TO BE POSTED)

Dancing in the common room (IN PROGRESS)

Sirius Black x Hermione Granger:

Family Outing to Diagon Alley (TO BE POSTED)

Attack on Titan/ Shingeki no Kyojin

Erwin Smith x Levi Ackerman (EruRi):

Expedition beyond Wall Rose

The Witcher/Wiedźmin

Geralt of Rivia portrait (WORK IN PROGRESS)

Fae Jaskier | Dandelion (WORK IN PROGRESS)

Star Wars

Padmé Amidala x Obi-Wan Kenobi (Obidala):

Clone Wars AU (WORK IN PROGRESS)

Tatooine AU (TO BE POSTED)

Miscellaneous:

Queen Amidala (TO BE POSTED)

Check below for a bit about me as an artist and what my posting is going to look like...

Sudden Inspiration and a backlog of art...

For several years I was without the energy or drive to engage in the hobbies I loved so much growing up.

In 2020 (facing a sudden surplus of both free time and solitude) I started to encourage myself to take time for things that had no other purpose than making myself happy. Slowly I once again started to create art that was for my own enjoyment and done at my own pace.

A huge inspiration became the various fandoms I was a part of and by 2021 the ideas I had for various fanart pieces soon became nearly overwhelming- after a multi year drought I was finally excited to make art again!

It would however take me a while to find the courage to share my work anywhere - like many artists I sometimes struggled to see the worth in my own work and soon the absolute plague of AI generated images and AI content scraping was making me dread the idea of sharing anything publically. But with positive encouragement from friends (and holding to the firm belief that any art work/song/story/or creative piece made with the passionate effort of an inspired individual will hold vastly more worth and outdo any AI generated thing in terms of quality, impact, and longevity) I finally decided to just enjoy fully engaging in fandom and posting my fanart for anyone to enjoy.

So right now I have a 2-3 year backlog of fanart I've been working on but never posted anywhere so I'm making a master list up above that will have links to each individual piece organized according to Fandom, Concept/Series, and Pairing.

Also included in the list are completed but not yet posted pieces and in progress pieces that I will post at a later date (hopefully this will encourage me to complete and to post my 50+ backlog of art pieces steadily over time while I focus on making new fanart).

- Crimson Cold

[cappymightwrite]

Back on my shit, still working on My Maid of Stone 😅 I think initially I was thinking it'd be about 2000 words, but it's feeling like it could be closer to between 3000-4000... so, yes, taking a while, but hopefully it'll be pretty juicy when it finally arrives. Anyways, a taster:

The voice of the raven had now stopped, its echo with it. The creaking rasp of its wings sounded then, close to her window, as it began to circle, looking down, drawn it would seem towards the only moving creature that shared its portion of the morning. It circled once more, the blackest of black birds, darkened still further by the snow massed beneath it. Whatever it was that the raven had spotted, it was indistinguishable from that stark whiteness. Some silent stalker, shifter of the morning. The click of old bones and low groan of a waking body caused Alayne to at last turn away from her silent vigil; neck a little stiff from standing in one attitude for so long, her long chestnut hair unbound.

^ This is from near the beginning of chapter one 🗻🌨️🐺

(header courtesy of @jonsa-creatives)

Also, current song inspo I've been writing a lot to:

[jonsaslove]

I’m caving to @orangeflavoryawp and giving everyone some insight to my Robb lives au, that once again is still in VERY early planning stages.

So here’s a few general thoughts:

-I have thought about Robb surviving, one way or another, for ages and it is something that has sat in my “fic ideas” document since I started writing Jonsa. With all my Jonsa WIPs being completed for the first time in ages, it’s been something I’ve been mulling over recently.

-I think I mentioned this before but Robb’s survival would create an ungodly amount of logistical nightmares for Westeros and when I start plotting out ideas I’m always left with HOW and WHY some things would play out.

-Now as for why I want to pursue this, I think Robb’s death is a key factor for a lot of what happens later in GOT and it affects all the remaining Starks profoundly, so of course that makes it a juicy idea to explore, which is what I’m kind of looking for at the moment. Something to challenge me creatively! Robb is an interesting character to me and I’d like to explore him more, I feel like his memory features heavily in a lot of my fics but how about changing that dynamic up? Also the indulgence of reunions that never happened…of course.

-Then, you know I’m not going to write something without Jonsa…obviously. That’s where things get even more dicey, no spoilers of course, but I do have some thoughts on how Jonsa will play out pretty well, and I’m willing to say it would be in a way that I’ve never actually written Jonsa before, so that’s interesting! Jonsa is not my concern though lol, it’s more of the politics I am still playing around with.

-Also, if Robb lives, well that opens up other…issues. All I’ll say is that I intend for the Tyrell family to be pretty heavily involved in this AU. 👀

-Lastly, and I feel that I’ve done well giving some insights to this without giving away ideas or main plot points so far, but I’ll say outright, my intention would 100% be that if Robb lives, Cat is not dying either, and I ADORE Cat, but you know that there will be…conflict, ahem, Jonsa.

Anyway, I know a lot of you have been expressing interest in the Robb Lives AU as I’ve been calling it so I hope this maybe gives you some insights, if you have any comments or questions or honestly advice on how you think Robb surviving might change things in Westeros just let me know. I’ve never really posted a lot about my fic writing process before so this was fun to write out! No promise on when this will actually get published but I’m itching to write Jonsa again so hopefully sooner rather than later!

[jonsa-creatives]

Hi Amy, thank you for posting my question even if the blog is still on hiatus. Someone following the blog answered and they provided the name of the fic that I was looking for.

Any chance of knowing when/if the blog might return?

It is really useful and I would need help in finding other fics :)

Thank you again for posting my question. Have a nice day!

Hi @darkfriday1408

No problem ☺️ I knew someone would know!

It doesn't look like jonsa-creatives will be up and running any time soon, I'm afraid. I think both Elle and I are a bit too busy for it right now.

Whenever I occasionally log in, I will try to reblog any jonsa events to boost visibility. And in that vein, if anyone has a post you'd like jonsa-creatives or any of my other jonsa side-blogs (I've got a few event based ones) to reblog, just send me (@amymel86) a link via DM. I sometimes go a week or so without logging in, so I may not answer straight away. But no, we're not 'up and running' and answering asks/reblogging fandom content (I only published your ask because it was bugging me as to what that fic was called and I wanted to find out too! 😅)

That being said - I'm sure if you've still got fics you're searching for, just popping your own post in the jonsa tag will yield good results since jonsas have been, and always will be a helpful bunch 😁 Unless someone knows of a current fandom blog who regularly answers these kinds of asks?

Thanks

Amy ❤️

[aegor-bamfsteel]

What are some of your favourite Jonsa metas?

I can’t play favorites, anon. There’s been a few waves of Jonsas and I don’t want to highlight one at the expense of the others. Each one has a lot of thought and creativity put into it. The ship is so iconic there’s a blog dedicated to just the meta (and you don’t have to be affiliated with any university to submit) as well as a main tag.

I’ll open it up to anyone reading this: what are some of your favorite jonsa metas you’d recommend anon? I’ll edit in any suggestions in this post.