#jonsalove

[myrish-lace-love]

The deepest wish of my heart (Jon x Sansa)

Am expanded headcanon about Jon’s habit of sketching through his life, and its impact on his relationship with Sansa.

***

Jon draws. He started when he was young, a useful pastime for a bastard boy who needed to stay out of the way.

He hides his pictures from others - drawing and sketching are girls’ pursuits, after all, and he’s already enough of an outsider. He slips up in the godswood, lingering too long to sketch the leaves. Robb finds him, and doubles over laughing at his “tree art.”

It’s easier at the Wall. The men leave each other alone, and he spends countless nights in his room, shivering from cold. He does his best to keep his hand steady as he brings Ghost, the mess hall, Sam and Pyp and Grenn to life. He bites his lip, sketching Ghost’s fur with light strokes as the direwolf reclines by the fire. He tries fire itself next - his fingers are blackened with charcoal before he captures the movement of the flames on paper.

He doesn’t draw Ygritte until after his time with the wildlings is over. He can’t find paper, or the space to sketch privately.

After she dies, Ygritte is all he draws for a year. How her hair fell in her eyes at night, how she squinted when she slung her arrows over her shoulder for a hunt. He conjures up how beautiful she’d looked as she slept next to him in the tent. He’d never been able to tell her, how happy she’d made him, how lovely she was, how he’d stay awake just to watch her sleeping peacefully.

Now he never would.

He doesn’t touch parchment after he comes back from the dead. He’s too afraid he’s changed, forfeited that respite.

Until Sansa throws herself into his arms, and color comes rushing back into the world again.

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He draws Brienne in her gleaming armor, Tormund laughing with his head thrown back, the Wall itself. He frowns as he scratches, but the rush of satisfaction he feels when he renders the Wall’s shadows and crevices is exhilarating.

And he draws Sansa. Over and over and over again, like an obsession, stronger even than his drive to draw Ygritte.

Before the battle for Winterfell, when other men are drinking or sharing their tents, he takes out his favorite picture of Sansa. She’s wrapped in his cloak and sipping soup by the fire in Castle Black. She’s warm, and safe. This is why I fight, he thinks. This is why we have to win.

***

They prevail, but almost as quickly Jon as’s elected King in the North he must ride out of Winterfell again, in search of weapons and beasts. He completes one painting during his imprisonment on Dragonstone. He scrapes chalk on the rough cave walls, trying to build a myth that would convince Daenerys to join his cause.

He fails.

After he gives up the North, he can’t draw at all. Not the dragons he’s seen, not the Night King, no matter how extraordinary they are.

And he can’t sketch Daenerys.  She’d love it, to see herself on paper, another form of worship. But he’s given her too many false promises already. And as beautiful as she is, she makes him feel smaller, diminished, trapped.

When he and Daenerys return to Winterfell, Sansa’s there to greet them. His heart constricts at the cold, formal bow she gives him, but he knows it’s what he deserves.

His new parentage knocks the wind from his lungs, sets his world spinning. He tries and tries and tries to draw his new parents, even procures paints for the first time. Rhaegar’s silver hair, Lyanna’s crown of blue roses. He’s desperate to make sense of it somehow, but in the end there’s only darkness, emptiness. He crumples up every tear-stained page.

So he picks up charcoal again, because black was always his color. He begins with what he drew as a boy - Winterfell itself. Soon he’s absorbed in the act, pouring Ghost and Bran and Arya onto the parchment. 

It’s still painful. It sinks in that his siblings are actually his cousins, that he’s distant, set apart from them now. Arya gets through to him first. She tells him to bloody get over it. She’ll whack him in the training yard if it will help. And it does.

Bran was lost to him as soon as he returned. He’s the Three-Eyed Raven now, and has no words of comfort for him. Jon sketches him in his wheelchair, eyes rolled back, and a shudder goes through him every time he looks as the portrait.

And Sansa - Jon can’t seem to stop sketching her. He even picks up the paints he threw away in anger in order to evoke her auburn hair, how it shines when she sews next to the fire. He can’t get the knack of it, until he understands the relationship between the light and the soft sheen. Then he blends reds and oranges and yellows to capture the warm glow.  When he’s satisfied, he feels like he’s home again, because Sansa and Winterfell are tied together in his heart. He creates portrait after portrait of her, In the great hall, in her study, when she’s stroking Ghost, a small smile on her lips. He almost shows her that drawing, thinks it could bring her some comfort after Lady’s death. But she might ask to see others, and he can’t risk it.

Because he’s in love with her. He kept his drawings hidden before, but now he keeps them under lock and key, because they reveal the deepest wishes of his heart. The most dangerous picture is the one he works hardest on, because he has to close his eyes and imagine it first. He and Sansa are both in the godswood. He’s sweeping his cloak around her shoulders, wedding her, because she’s finally, finally allowing him to protect her, to try to keep her safe and loved.

He trusts Sansa too much, however, and that trust is his undoing. She asks after a letter in his desk one day and he offers her the key absently, absorbed in battle plans.

He glances her way when there’s a long pause. She’s gripping the sketch. Of the two of them, under the weirwood tree. There’s no mistaking it as a marriage ceremony. Her hands are shaking. She holds it out to him, silently.

He gives up. He tells her the truth, because how could the truth be any more damaging than what she’s seen with her own eyes?

He can’t read her expression. She walks slowly over to the fire and tosses the drawing in the flames. They both watch the edges blacken and curl. Jon’s heart sinks.

Them she beckons him over. They stand side by side, not touching. She whispers that Daenerys can’t find out, ever, it’s too dangerous. But maybe, after this war is over, after they’ve survived Daenerys’s wrath about Jon’s, they could make the picture into a song, bring it into the world alive. She offers her hand, and Jon takes it. He laces his fingers with hers, and his heart is full to bursting. They stay there, staring at the fire, until the embers burn out.

***

After the Great War is over, Jon and Sansa rebuild Winterfell. Jon draws his sons and daughters in his mother’s arms. Their firstborn is a dark-haired, blue-eyed book named Robb, solemn and earnest. He’s followed by twin girls, Arya and Lyanna, boisterous redheads with grey eyes. They torment Ghost, who’s older now. He patiently tolerates being ridden like a great horse around Winterfell’s grounds.

Jon discovers his son in his study one spring morning. Robb’s tongue sticks out between his teeth as he scratches on a piece of parchment. Robb hides the paper behind his back but Jon tickles him, elicits a giggle, and Robb shyly shows him a rumpled drawing of Ghost.

Robb hangs his head. He blurts out that he’s sorry, he should spend more time in the training yard. Jon just goes to his desk, takes out one of his pictures of his direwolf, and sits on the floor with Robb.  He talks to him quietly about both drawings, showing him your father does this too, he understands, he loves you.

That’s how Sansa finds them. Jon’s head is bent with Robb’s and they’re lost to the world, wrapped up in each other. They don’t notice when she gently closes the door behind her, leaving her two favorite boys together to their pastime.

[castaliareed]

thanks for the love @jonxsansafanfiction for the reblogs! This is a sub-tumblr so it’s hard to actually follow people and like from it. But I love everything you do. :-)

[sansa-for-jon]

By Yana Kirsanova

https://art-by-tayreen.tumblr.com https://vk.com/jonsalove

[myrish-lace-love]

One touch from you and I’m home

Summary: Jon Snow has taken Sansa Stark's advice and seduced Daenerys Targaryen to secure her dragons and her army. He struggles to maintain the illusion that he cares for Daenerys, when his heart secretly belongs to Sansa. As a small act of rebellion he refuses to take his hair down when he beds Daenerys. Once Jon returns to Winterfell, he seeks out Sansa to try to apologize for what he's done. When Sansa asks to brush his hair, Jon lets his guard down with his sister in a way he cannot with his lover. 2k.

A//N: @soapieturner and @direwolfpupy, this is the fic I wrote based on your “Sansa brushes Jon’s hair” prompts. It’s angsty, and involves a Jon/Daenerys relationship.

***

The sea was a roiling mass of green and grey beneath the boat’s hull. Jon ignored the waves, shielding his eyes and squinting into the setting sun. The captain had assured him they’d see White Harbor tonight, or tomorrow at the latest. The winds had been favorable during their journey.  He was desperate to see the shore, for more reasons than one.

Daenerys sidled up to him, looping her arm through his.

“Come to bed, Jon. Landfall will be here soon enough.” Her red cloak fluttered in the breeze. She tugged at him, amused but impatient.  “Come on now.”

Jon shoved down his frustration and strolled back to their cabin with her on his arm. He dreaded what came next.

Jon lived each day with the shame that he gave away his kingdom to a foreign queen, to ensure his family’s safety. He thought the most painful sacrifice would be bending the knee. That betrayal had sliced through him like a hot knife. But the constant facade he had to maintain with Daenerys was somehow worse.

Hold up a mirror, Sansa had told him before he set sail for Dragonstone. Men love to see themselves reflected back in a rosy light. If you must, sell her a version of herself that’s finer and grander than who she is. She’s dangerous. Get what you need from her. Secure the dragons and the weapons. Then keep her close.

He’d followed Sansa’s advice, after all his other efforts had failed. He fed Daenerys stories of how special she was, how precious, and she lapped them up like cream. But she wanted more of him, all of him, and was determined to have him yield.

Tonight she combed her hair in the moonlight, in long inviting strokes. She urged him to brush it for her, even sat next to him on the bed. He was sure other men would have fought and died for the privilege. But he couldn’t tell her he wished her silver locks silver were red. He couldn’t tell himself that.

Instead, he murmured that he’d only get it tangled, and beckoned her closer. She came willingly, but turned her attention to his hair. She wouldn’t be dissuaded. Daenerys, he’d learned, was accustomed to getting her way. She reached up and tried to untie the knot that held his hair back.

He grabbed her hand instead, and kissed her wrist.

“No. I can’t. It’s...a warrior tradition from north of the Wall.”

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Daenerys’s violet eyes gleamed. “Tell me more, Jon.” She stroked his cheek.

Jon felt sick, not for the first time. He did not love her, but he did not enjoy lying to her. She’d shared much with him on this journey. He knew how her braids, adorned with bells, represented her victories. She clearly cared for him. She was trying.  

He had to extend the same courtesy to her, to preserve the illusion. There were no easy choices anymore in this war.

“A man keeps his hair bound back from his eyes, so he can see clearly. He can’t let it down in someone else’s presence, not even with his lover, or he loses some of his power.” He smiled at her. Each day, his lies because more fluid, seamless. Daenerys nodded, satisfied, and pulled him down for a kiss.

Such an insignificant act of rebellion. But preserving his hairstyle was a way for him not to be completely exposed in Daenerys’s presence, to still see an echo of Ned Stark’s son when he looked in the mirror. He sorely needed that reminder. There was so little within his control now. Ho could cling to something of himself, even he and Daenerys were naked together under the furs and she rode him.

***

Daenerys insisted on taking the Lord’s Chambers when her retinue arrived. Before Jon could change her mind she barged through the door, startling Sansa. Sansa recovered quickly, smoothing out her skirts, and gracefully yielded the room. Jon shot Sansa a desperate look, I did what you asked, Sansa, but I didn’t expect this.

Sansa only murmured to Jon that perhaps he would like to look in on Bran, and see if the fever had broken. Jon took his leave of Daenerys, telling her to settle in. He heard Daenerys ordering tapestries hung on the walls as he and Sansa stepped into the corridor.

The hallway was bustling. Servants, lords and ladies attended to Winterfell’s business. Some shot Jon and Sansa pointed looks. Jon’s decision to yield Winterfell had met with fierce resistance. He'd quickly gleaned that Sansa’s firm and vocal support had stemmed the tide.

“The Maester tends to Bran in here, Jon.” Sansa swung open the door.

Bran’s room was bright, the curtains flung open to let in the afternoon light. Jon’s heart ached to see his brother confined to bed, just as he’d been when Jon left for the Wall.

He knelt by Bran’s side. Bran’s forehead was hot. Sansa handed him a basin of water and a strip of linen. Jon wrung out the cloth and placed it on his brother’s brow.

“His fever’s lessened, but it may be a few more days before he wakes.” Sansa fidgeted. “He had something he very much wanted to tell you, Jon, before he fell ill, but I don’t know what it was.”

“It’s all right, Sansa. What matters now is that he gets better. I’m sorry about today, about your rooms.”

Sansa’s face was composed. “They’re her rooms now. Both of yours. Don’t worry, Jon. I’d relocated most of my things already. I should have anticipated you could arrive as soon as today. I’ll leave you and Bran together. Perhaps...when you have a moment, today or tomorrow, you might come see me?”  For a moment Jon let himself believe he saw a flash of hope in Sansa’s eyes.

He lingered by Bran’s side until nightfall. Finally he stood, and kissed Bran’s brow.

“Come back to us Bran. I have adventures to tell you, and I want to hear yours too.” They’d both changed, irrevocably, but Bran was still his little brother, and safe at Winterfell, thank the gods.

He paused in the hallway, unwilling or unable to return to the Daenerys. He suspected he knew where Sansa had taken up residence. I’ll check on her. See if she’s well, if she needs anything. Jon sighed. Any excuse, as long as he could see her again tonight.

***

Jon’s chest ached as he climbed the wide staircase on the western side of the castle. Sansa had returned to her old chambers, the ones she’d had as a girl.  They weren’t right for the Lady of Winterfell. He’d thought so since they won their home back, and insisted she take the Lord’s Chambers.

But now he’d displaced her. And it tore him apart, even though she’d encouraged the plan. He was dangerously close to tears when she answered the door.

She took one look at his face and quickly drew him inside. She’d already made the rooms hers again. There was a vase of dried flowers perched on her bedside table, and her sewing was rolled away neatly and stowed in a trunk near the fire.

“What’s wrong, Jon?” A faint line creased her forehead. She rubbed the side of her neck absently. Jon remembered that movement from when they were children. She was tired, and trying not to show it.

He opened his mouth to explain, to apologize. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you deserve better, I missed you so much. But no words came.

Sansa’s cheeks were rosy in the firelight. Finally she broke the silence. She reached out, skimming his hair hesitantly.

“I just – there are knots – would you – could you take it down?”  

His fingers flew to the string of their own accord before she finished speaking.  He couldn’t deny her this. He couldn’t deny her anything. The soft gasp Sansa made when his hair fell in his eyes made him shiver. She carefully, carefully swept his curls from his brow, without touching his skin. The air was thick between them, and her blue eyes were dark.  

They were inches apart and he wanted, gods, he wanted her, ached for her, but he didn't move.

Sansa cleared her throat. “Could I help you with them, Jon?”

Jon took her hand. She led him over to the fire, and bade him sit at her feet. Jon settled quickly in front of her, before either of them could change their minds. The flagstones were cold, but the fire popped and crackled.

When he leaned against her leg and felt the heat of her skin through the fabric, it took all his willpower not to turn his head and rub his cheek against the wool of her skirt. He thanked the gods he was facing away from her, or she’d likely see how utterly she wrecked him. How much he loved her, in a wrong and twisted way.

Sansa worked through the tangles with her fingers, scratching his scalp gently. She began to pull the brush through his hair. Each rhythmic stroke swept away the pain of the journey. Jon slowly relaxed.

“She's been neglecting her duties,” Sansa said lightly, with only a hint of bite.

“Who?” Jon had almost fallen asleep, lulled by her warmth and her touch.

“Your lover,” Sansa said. “She should tend to your hair better. Keep it trimmed, work out the knots.”

“She doesn't have the chance,” he murmured. He was dreamy, sluggish, drugged by the motion of the brush through his hair.

Sansa's hands faltered. “Why not?”

Jon flushed. “I don't let it down when we...”

When I take her to bed.

Even Sansa couldn’t prevent the awkward pause that follows.

“...Never? Not once?”

“It's … so I don't lose myself, when … I need something to hold onto, to get through it. It’s...part of the North, Sansa. It’s a piece of the North that I keep to myself. That I don’t share with her.”

Sansa hummed, and started to brush again. “Yet you let it down easily for me.”

He glanced up at her then. “You are the North, Sansa. You are the North to me.” She smiled at him. Her blue eyes were soft and sweet. He’d been desperate for landfall for many reasons, but this was the true one, the deepest one, being able to gaze into Sansa’s eyes again.

It unfurled in his chest that this was how it was supposed to feel, with someone you loved. Safe and protected and free at the same time. He guarded himself around Daenerys, as if she was a caged animal waiting to strike.

Dangerous, to give these feelings free reign. He swallowed, and looked down at the flagstones.

“I’m almost done, Jon. Just let me bind it back for you.”

He readied himself to stand when she pulled the string tight. Then he felt the slightest pressure as Sansa rested a hand on his shoulder.

Sansa pressed a kiss to the top of his hair, feather light. Jon’s breath hitched. That small touch felt more intimate than all the nights he’d spent in Daenerys’s bed. He stilled, enchanted, at Sansa's feet.

I love you. I want to stay here, with you, lean my head on your knee and keep you close.

Sansa’s hand started to tremble.  He took a deep breath and covered Sansa’s hand with his own. She laced her fingers with his. They were on the cusp, halfway there and halfway back. More than siblings, less than lovers. It would only be a matter of seconds to tip his head up and kiss her.

But one kiss from her lips would awaken a fire inside him that would never stop burning, and that was why he could not start.

Also, whispered a voice, much farther away than it should be, you share your bed with another woman, a queen, a stranger.  

He gathered his composure and took his leave, thanking Sansa at the door.

“Goodnight Jon. You – if you want – I could –“ Sansa was so rarely at a loss for words.  Jon realized this interlude might be a balm for her too, a respite.

“Might I come by tomorrow, Sansa?” His voice was gentle, low, and full of hope.

Sansa gave him a small smile. “Yes, Jon, you may.” He was relieved he could still bring her happiness.

And so, for a brief time until Bran’s fever broke, the King in the North gave his nights and his white lies to Daenerys, and his heart to his sister Sansa.

[myrish-lace-love]

Targaryen prince Jon promised to his Aunt if they win Westeros falls head over heels for the flame haired queen of the north who refuses to bend a knee.

Lady Sansa’s lords and ladies stood behind her, arrayed like an army, and Jon suspected that was no accident. His horse stamped in Winterfell’s courtyard, exhausted by the cold. His aunt had warned him of the snow and ice he’d encounter in this rebellious Northern kingdom.

Ice, but fire too, Jon thought, as Lady Sansa’s red hair shone like flame in the morning light. Her blue eyes burned into him. She had not said a word, since he called upon her and her people to submit to his aunt, the rightful ruler of the seven kingdoms. Called upon them to kneel.

Lady Sansa lifted her chin. “Your aunt, Daenerys Targaryen, brings us this demand?”

“She does, Lady Sansa. Submit, and be spared her wrath. Dragonfire is a painful punishment for treason.” Jon winced inwardly. Daenerys was his queen and future wife, but her high-handed rhetoric did not roll easily off his tongue.

Lady Sansa inclined her head, the barest nod, acknowledging his threat. Her red hair rippled in the breeze like a banner.

“Very well. Here is her answer. You may tell your queen the North will not submit.” Her voice rang out, clear as a bell, and Jon saw lords and ladies alike stand up straighter.

“Tell her the North remembers, and winter is here. She may fly her dragons to meet us where we stand. Fire has ever been her weapon, but ice will be her downfall.”

She stared Jon down.

“We will not kneel.”

The lords behind her drew their swords and took up the cry of “Winterfell” and “for the North!”

Sansa’s eyes locked on to his. She would be a better queen than my aunt could ever hope to be, he thought. Her people love her, follow her freely. She does not need thee dragons at her back to inspire loyalty and devotion.

Jon fought the sudden, wild impulse to dismount and lay his sword at her feet. He was dangerously close to losing his heart to this Northern woman who was a queen in all but name.

He nodded, and could not keep a smile from his lips. Lady Sansa did not return the smile, but her eyes softened, and Jon was lost for certain, hopelessly in love with his enemy, who dared to defy dragons and tyranny both.

[myrish-lace-love]

(Dedicated to @amymel86, who made this beautiful moodboard, and @tiny-little-bird who helped inspire the story!)

Jon and Sansa visit the same spot in Winterfell every day. Sansa goes there at dawn, Jon at dusk. They each have visions of their future wedding, thanks to a special grey and silver stone that the old gods gave to Jon.

After the Great War is over, and Jon's parentage is revealed, Jon confesses his love, and Jon and Sansa wed under the weirwood tree. Sansa has the stone that brought them together set into a necklace, and unknowingly creates a new tradition in the North.

***

Sansa stood on the ramparts, the cloak of her hood turned up against the cold, as the sun crested over the forest. Shafts of light pierced through the treetops, painting the world a delicate gold.

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She came to this place each morning, to watch the sunrise. She'd stepped quickly over the light dusting of snow on the ground. The servants kept this area well-swept, perhaps because of her early morning visits.

Sansa sighed. She’d hoped her time alone would stay secret, but secrets traveled like lightning through a castle starved for news and gossip. Still, she could steal a moment for herself and breathe in the dawn air. She cleared her mind before the work of rebuilding Winterfell began again. Checking grain stores, meeting with masons rebuilding the outer walls, haggling with merchants over the cost of scarce meat.

At least none of the servants or the lords or ladies knew why she stopped here, right here, each time.

Our spot, it's our spot. Where Jon had kissed her forehead, gently, with concern and something more in his eyes.

Jon’s kiss was not Sansa’s first. She’d endured several, each one a hateful memory.

The kiss she’d had to bestow upon Widow’s Wail, as Joffrey sneered down at her. The cold metal had stung her lips. She’d suffered the humiliation, holding to her courtesies, grasping at the hope that Robb would defeat them all and save her. But that song had died along with Robb.

The kiss Littlefinger had forced on her in the Eyrie. He’d grabbed her face and told her to call him Petyr, as if that small intimacy absolved him of the liberty he took when he shoved his tongue into her mouth. Her castle of snow, Winterfell rebuilt, had seemed soiled and ugly afterwards. She’d smashed her hard work with her boot once Littlefinger left. She never wanted to think of Winterfell in that loathsome man’s shadow again.

And Ramsay...Sansa shuddered. Ramsay was dead, dead by her hand, and she would not summon him up again.

But Jon...she carried Jon’s kiss with her, a sweet moment no one else could touch.  He’d asked her, mutely, before he leaned in, and for the first time in her life Sansa had the chance to say yes .

He’d tipped her forehead and his lips were soft, softer than she could have imagined. He held on with his gloved hands and she’d had the wild, improbable wish that he’d taken them off. She’d wanted to feel Jon’s hands in her hair, as he caressed the side of her head.

She’d ached with loss immediately when he pulled away. He’d looked at her, in a way she didn't recognize. Except...except she thoughts perhaps she did, deep down.

He was everything that father had promised, brave and gentle and strong. And her half-brother. The gods were cruel, malevolent, to give her what she dreamed of and hold it just out of reach.

It's the name Stark that keeps us apart. Divides us. A chasm neither of us can cross.

She was trapped, because the family that bound them together forced them apart.

So she was doomed to spend the next year curtsying to suitor after suitor, politely declining, until political reality caught up with her and she’d be obligated to agree. She’d enter a carriage as another man’s wife, and ride away from Winterfell and Jon.  Because the one man who made her feel safe, the one she trusted, could never be hers.

She wiped away her tears. There was a little magic in her life still. She reached down to a crevice in the rampart’s rock wall. When her fingers found the soft fur, she managed a small small.

She took the stone from its red fur pouch, and held it up to the morning light. It was dark grey, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, veined with wide streaks of silver. Stark colors. The stone was exquisite as a jewel, rich and gorgeous in her hands.  

She’d experienced desolation and death, torture and pain. But now, as the new day began, she brought the stone to her lips and kissed it. The surface was warm, despite the bitter cold. She closed her eyes and Jon was kissing her again, except this time it was a kiss pressed to her mouth after they’d said their vows, after he’d swept his cloak around her shoulders, under the weirwood tree.

She saw the image so clearly that she had to blink rapidly when she opened her eyes. She slipped the stone into the hiding place as the sun rose higher in the sky. Sometimes Sansa let herself imagine the pouch was a gift, meant just for her. On a few occasions, when the previous day had been particularly bleak, she allowed herself to dream it was a gift from Jon. A girl’s dream, a girl’s foolish song.

The courtyard began to stir, and Sansa left.

Jon

Ghost had already trotted off to hunt when Jon stood on the the castle’s ramparts. The setting sun bathed the sky and the snow in red hues. This was the moment when the grey storm clouds overhead transformed, became something else entirely, red and orange and a soft deep yellow.

He snuck out here when the work of the castle was done. When the day’s weapons training and endless council meetings and petitions were behind him.

Our spot, it’s our spot.  Where he'd reached out for the first time to touch Sansa, after her slight nod. Her skin had been soft, softer than he’d imagined in his shameful dreams. She’d flushed and looked at him from underneath her eyelashes. He’d stroked her hair, lost. He'd been lost since she jumped into his arms at Castle Black, to be honest. Lost and found at the same time, but he couldn’t tell her. He never had the words, and the words were too dangerous anyway.

He’d prayed in the godswood after they’d taken Winterfell back, after his feelings for Sansa grew stronger rather than fainter. He’d knelt by the deep pool of dark, still water and pleaded with the old gods to stop this madness, to rid him of his desires. Please, she deserves better, bring her a lord who’ll care for her, cherish her.

He’d heard no answer, only the faint rustling of leaves. Then ripples had formed on the water’s surface. Jon had watched in wonder as the ripples grew stronger, until a swell of water had deposited a rock at his feet.

The water had fallen still again as soon as Jon touched the stone. It was round, smooth, shot through with veins of silver. Jon had never seen a stone like it, neither here at Winterfell nor at the Wall. He’d taken it with him. He’d tried to treat it as a reminder of his father, perhaps a talisman for protection given to him by the old gods.

But he’d found, as he carried it with him, that the stone only made him yearn for Sansa more. He'd kiss her all over again when he brushed the stone with his fingertips, only this kiss was under the leaves of the godswood, soft and sweet, Sansa radiant in her white wedding gown. She's mine, mine to protect, mine to love, mine to care for.

He would ask for her hand in a world where they weren't brother and sister. He could preserve the Stark name for her, give her Winterfell. There was so much longing in his heart, for love and marriage and a keep of his own. He’d buried it, dismayed that Uncle Benjen had been right, and served the Night's Watch.

He’d dreamed for years of a beautiful high-born lady, but her features had been vague, undefined. Now, no matter how he tried to fight it, he thought of Sansa, with her silken auburn hair and sharp tongue. She kept her intelligence closely guarded, as if men would hurt her for it, because they had.

Jon had heard men joke about giving their wives free reign for an evening at a dance, as if their wives were on leashes. The jests made him queasy. All he wanted was for his wife, his lady to be his partner and equal.

Sansa was more than his equal, he was certain, but if they wed - they'd rebuild Winterfell together, side by side, and Jon would be able to see her smile at night in their chambers, a smile that was just for him. He'd kill any man who tried to harm her.  He knew he shouldn’t be overcome by feelings fierce enough to tighten his chest, but he was hopelessly, helplessly in love with her.

Tossing the stone back into the godswood's waters seemed like a violation of that sacred space. So he’d fashioned a crude fur pouch and hidden it in a crevice near the spot where he’d kissed Sansa for the first and last time. Perhaps it was a Stark stone, meant for her family. Perhaps it would help Sansa, show her who her husband would be.

He’d secretly wished Sansa would find it and keep it, but the pouch was still there each time he visited.

He could still hope she’d discover it someday. He kissed the stone’s warm surface and slipped it back into the pouch. The first few stars were shining as he walked back to his chambers in the gathering dark.

***

Later, after the end of the Great War, after the truth of Jon’s parentage was revealed, Sansa proposed a marriage of political expedience to Jon. She refused to look at him until he went down on one knee and took her hand.

“Sansa, I can’t. I’m sorry, but I have to tell you no.”

Sansa’s blue eyes flashed with anger. “I know I’m not what you might have wished for, Jon, but these are times we have to put our dreams aside. Our union would unite the North and South.”

Jon swallowed. He held her gaze.

“I can’t, because I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Sansa’s eyes widened.

“I’ve been in love with you ever since you came back to me. I fought it for so long, but if I were to marry you, I couldn’t hide it from you.” He cast about for the right words. “I wanted you to know, Sansa, so you’d have the chance to change your mi-”

Sansa yanked him to his feet, harder than he would have thought possible, and kissed him. She threw her arms around his neck and he pulled her closer, overjoyed, kissing her deeply. When she tucked her head into the crook of his neck afterwards, he brushed his lips over her hair. He murmured my love and sweet girl, endearments he’d struggled to keep to himself.

Sansa traced his cheek with her finger. “Can I tell you something foolish, Jon?”

Jon smiled at her. His heart was full to bursting with happiness. “Of course, love. Though I doubt it’s as foolish as you believe.”

Sansa hummed. “A stone told me to marry you. A stone, up on the ramparts where you kissed me.” She flushed. “I’d visit that spot each morning, and there was a stone tucked into-”

“A pouch,” Jon said slowly, “a fur pouch.”

Sansa drew back. “How did you know?”

Jon ticked her hair behind her ear. “Because I left it there, Sansa. I found it in the godswood and...and it made me think of you, of marrying you. I knew that was wrong, but I hoped you’d find it, that it might be some solace for you. It seemed….it seemed like it belonged to the Starks, to Winterfell.”

Sansa nodded. “I think it does belong to us. To both of us.” She lifted her chin. “I’ll have it set into my wedding necklace.”

“Sansa it’s only a stone, I’ll find you something finer, a real jewel-”

Sansa fixed him with a stare, the same stare she used to crush disputes in the great hall. Jon laughed, and held up his hands,. “As you wish, my lady,”

Sansa smirked. “Very wise, my lord.”

Preparations for the celebration set the castle buzzing. Singers traveled many miles to be part of the feast’s festivities. Sansa brought the stone to the town’s jeweler as the first set of alterations were completed on her gown. When the jeweler cut into the stone it sparkled with silver, along with a streak of garnet that matched Sansa’s hair.

Sansa brought the necklace to Jon the day before their wedding. “Look, Jon, do you see the red? It’s your Targaryen heritage too. It’s both of us together.”

Jon rested his forehead on hers. He’d expected Sansa never to speak of that side of his family again. He’d taken the Stark name, and he would have let House Targaryen fade away entirely. But she’d found a way to weave that part of him into their marriage, into the life they shared.

***

The common folk spun tales of their wedding day, how Lady Sansa’s shining red hair was unbound, spilling down her shoulders, a perfect match for the weirwood leaves. How the gem at her throat gleamed as Lord Stark wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. It was said the jewel had no equal in the seven kingdoms.

The jeweler who’d cut Lady Sansa’s stone parried a thousand questions, but finally confided in a few friends about the source of Lady Sansa’s gem.

Soon young men and women in the North would pray, silently, in the godswood, for a sign of a marriage for love. If the odds were right, and the gods were good, the dark pool of the godswood would offer up a stone, warm and smooth, with a story hidden inside, waiting to be told.

[myrish-lace-love]

Hanging out with her baby brother Rickon the night before Halloween was usually a blast. Sansa loved coming up with games for them to play, and she learned a lot about Legos. Like a lot. Also vampires.

But tonight, she wanted to tease Jon about the costume she planned on showing him in private on Halloween after the trick or treaters dried up. Once Rickon was snoring peacefully, she dialed Jon's number.

Jon had been jumpy about taking calls from the Stark house - Robb had only recently agreed to stop threatening Jon for dating Sansa. Sansa loved Robb but the protectiveness that was sweet when she'd been, oh, ten was irritating now that she was twenty and had her own apartment, as she repeatedly and loudly reminded her big brother.

Thankfully Jon picked up. "Hey baby," Sansa purred into the phone. "Guess how I'm gonna greet you at the door on Halloween?"

"A vampire! She's gonna be a vampire! She's got a cape and everything and she promised!" Rickon tackled her legs.

Sansa stumbled and dropped the phone. She disentangled herself while Jon laughed on the other end of the line.

Sansa bent down. "Rickon, go to bed. Straight to bed, you already have a glass of water, no, those puppy eyes won't work on me, we'll play Legos tomorrow morning."

Sansa sighed. So much for sultry romance. "You there Jon? Wait, are you still laughing?"

Jon caught his breath. "Sorry, sorry."

Sansa crossed her arms. "Hmmph. Maybe I won't do anything special."

"Hey, vampires are cool. Just wear that. You don't need to do anything special on my account, Sansa."

Sansa smirked. "So I should ditch the Black Widow costume, huh?"

She swore she heard Jon gulp. "I take it all back, vampires, who needs them, they're overdone antway, I love special things, please please please keep the costume."

Sansa twirled the cord around her finger. "You'll just have to wait and see."

[myrish-lace-love]

We’re in a bit of a mess

Summary: Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are strangers who somehow wake up snuggled together after a party. Neither of them can remember a thing. Awkwardness ensues, until Theon shows up and acts like an ass. Jon sets him straight, and Sansa works up the courage to ask for Jon’s number.

A/N: Based on a tumblr prompt from @amymel86 of a similar description. This got deeper into consent issues than I planned, but then again, I’m kind of obsessed with that stuff, so here we are :)

***

Jon”s warm - that delicious sort of warm he gets when he’s wrapped in his winter blanket. His head’s aching, but that’s normal after one of Theon’s Parties That Start Well Before Everyone Gets Trashed. He opens one bleary eye, expecting to see the grey walls of his bedroom.

His whole world suddenly shifts and skews sideways. Because he’s not in his bedroom, he’s sitting on Theon’s overstuffed blue futon. And it’s not a blanket draped around him, it’s a woman. She’s snug against his chest and his arm’s draped over her shoulder. Her hair tickles his nose.

His mouth tastes like that god-awful punch Theon served, but the woman’s hair smells clean, like citrus, and he almost sniffs it before he stops. He tries to disentangle himself but she only murmurs and snuggles closer, which sets his pulse racing.

They fit together like puzzle pieces - her head’s tucked under his chin and her hand’s resting on his thigh. There’s a corner of his mind that wants to relish how glorious she feels pressed against him, how right. But he swats the impulse away, and assesses the situation.

She’s gorgeous, all long legs and silken red hair. She has a smattering of freckles on her nose and her eyelashes are long enough to brush her cheeks. She’s curled up tight enough that her breath ghosts over his neck.

They’re both fully clothed, and she seems peaceful in his arms.

He has no clue who she is.

He doesn’t know what’s going on here, but Theon’s probably behind it. And if he can’t remember her - and it’s pretty hard to believe he wouldn’t, she’s stunning, even in the dim basement light - she might not remember who he is, and he definitely doesn’t want to be the perv at the party.

But every time he tries to carefully extricate himself, she keeps cuddling up to him, like he’s her favorite stuffed toy, until he doesn’t have anywhere to put his hands that wouldn’t be blatantly inappropriate.

If he’s going to retain any semblance of being a gentleman, he needs to wake her up.

So he gently shakes her. She stiffens, then jerks. Sudden they’re whirling like two alarmed monkeys as they break apart.

“Sorry-”

“No really I-”

“My fault-”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I never do this,” they finish in unison, as they each shoot to opposite sides of the futon.

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She’s clutching a couch cushion to her chest. Her blue eyes are wide.

She’s nervous. Say something. “I’m sorry, I tried to - I’m sure it’s really uncomfortable to wake up with someone you don’t know…”

“I’m Sansa,” she says softly, though she keeps her grip on the pillow.

“I’m Jon. I promise I tried to scoot out but-“

“I held onto you, didn’t I.” Sansa sighs. “I do that, my last boyfriend hated it.”

Jon’s poleaxed at the thought of a boyfriend who wouldn’t count himself lucky to have Sansa wrapped around him at night.

“You were very…warm,” she says, and blushes. It’s the prettiest sight Jon’s seen all year. It’s been a rough year, admittedly, but it would be one of the prettiest sights in any year.

Then she blinks rapidly and presses her wrist to her temple. She probably has the same blinding headache he does.

“Would you like some aspirin?” She nods gratefully. Jon braces himself. Hopefully he won’t fall over when he stands up.

“You two dating yet?” Theon’s standing in front of him with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. “C’mon, you’re available, she’s hot…” Theon wets his lips as he glances at Sansa. “You both passed out, figured I’d do you a favor and stack her on top of you.”

Sansa shrinks into the couch. She looks back and forth between Jon and Theon. Jon’s stomach sinks.

She’s stuck in a room with two guys she doesn’t know.

He hopes to God a friend brought Sansa to the party. Because Jon wouldn’t hurt Sansa, and neither would Theon. But there’s no reason Sansa should believe that, especially given Theon’s shenanigans.

Jon glares at Theon, then turns back to Sansa. “Did you come with someone?”

“My friend Marg. Here, let me see where she is.”

Jon almost sags with relief when Sansa finds her phone next to the futon and starts texting with Marg. At least there’s one person in this house she feels safe with.

“She’s on her way down in a minute,” Sansa says.

“Okay. That’s – that’s great. Theon and I are going to search for some aspirin.”

Jon grabs Theon’s shoulder, harder than he needs to probably, and yanks him towards the bathroom.

“You’d better have a goddammed explanation, Greyjoy,” he hisses. Theon’s giving him his best who, me? expression when Jon slams the flimsy door shut. He corners in the tiny space, shoving him against the basin sink.

“What the fuck, man? You can’t just do that to people! Did you see her? She’s scared, she doesn’t know me!”

“Hey, you’re a decent bloke,” Theon protests.

“And how’s she supposed to know that? Huh? How could she? Am I wearing decent bloke flannel?”

Theon smirks. “No need to shout, mate. Besides…” He pokes Jon’s shirt. “They are nice reds and greens, Snow.”

“Don’t ever do that again. Ever. Again. Got it?”

“Fine, fine, stop shoving, I won’t, I promise.” Theon digs out the aspirin and fills a cup with water. When they step back into the basement, a brunette who must be Marg is sitting next to Sansa, chatting with her. Theon takes the opportunity to scurry up the stairs.

Marg pats Sansa on the shoulder and murmurs that she’ll pull the car around to the front door. “I don’t want you walking far when you’re in this state, dear. And it’s freezing outside.”

She points at Jon. “Are you comfortable here with him?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He hands Sansa the aspirin and water.

They make a few minutes of halting conversation while Marg gets the car.

He confesses he shouldn’t really be here tonight. He’s taking a chemistry exam tomorrow.

She confides she shouldn’t have come either. She had only planned to stop by after dance class with Marg for a few drinks. She’s got a dress rehearsal tomorrow.

Jon rubs the back of his neck. “Guess we’re both in a bit of a mess.”

The corner of Sansa’s mouth quirks up. “Seems like it. Hey, by the way, I…heard you, with Theon. Thanks. For being that way. Most guys wouldn’t give it a second thought. It was sweet. It was sweet of you to be so protective.”

Jon’s not sure what to say. He figures it’s basic human decency to get riled up about two unconscious people getting thrown together.

Sansa sets down her water and takes a deep breath. “So, um, would you like to get coffee with me? When we’ve both slept it off I mean?“ She glances at her clothes, twists her hands together. “I promise I clean up well.”

She’s in black yoga pants and a stretchy purple top. She’s perfect. Jon’s heart might stop if he sees her in a dress.

He clears his throat. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. Besides.” She reaches over tentatively and fingers the hem of his shirt. “Decent bloke flannel.”

She breaks into a small smile. Jon knows he’s well and truly in it now, because he’d happily drown in her blue eyes. He smiles back.

His head’s pounding, but his heart’s pounding harder as he gives her his number.

He doesn’t ask for hers. She’s had enough of him thrust on her for one night. He walks her up the stairs and gives her an awkward wave as she pulls on her coat and white knit hat.  She waves too. He stands in the doorway, until Marg’s taillights are gone.

***

Theon’s staring at his linoleum kitchen floor the next morning, trying to decide whether it’s worth it to rummage around for an ice pack in the freezer. He rubs his shoulder.  Christ, Jon’s strong when he’s fired up.

Then Marg finally calls.

"Where the hell were you? You were supposed to ring last night!”

“Cheer up Theon, it worked.” Margaery sounds downright chipper over the phone.  Then again, his improv class partner always sounds chipper.

“Is your friend all right?”

“She’s fine. Sleeping it off.”

“Probably bloody well hates me,” he grumbles.

“You were perfect,” she gushes. “Sansa filled me in. Just the right amount of skeeviness.”

Theon rolls his eyes. “Thanks for that. Look,  I’ve had my shady moments, but even I wouldnt toss two drunk strangers on top of each other and call it a night.” He opens the freezer door.

“But they weren’t strangers because we knew them. I know Sansa’s a sweet girl who’s had bad luck, and you know Jon’s a stand-up guy who wouldn’t take advantage.”

“Remind me why we didn’t just set them up on, oh, you know, a date?”

“How many dates has Jon cancelled at the last minute the past year?”

Theon sighs. “A dozen. At least. Every one I’ve set him up on.” He sinks heavily into a chair and drapes the ice pack on his tender muscles.

“And Sansa won’t even consider dating. Took all my cajoling to persuade her to show up tonight. Nevermind the pep talk I had to give her so she’d ask for Jon’s number. Now Sansa knows that Jon is the kind of guy who’d get furious and defend her honor when she’s in a bad spot.”

Theon grits his teeth. “That we put her in. Mostly me.”

“Exactly!” Marg trills.

Again, positively chipper.

Theon runs a hand over his face. “I’m not sure why I thought this was a good idea.”

Marg huffs. “Jon was never going to get over Ygritte, and Sansa was never going to get over Joffrey. Okay, maybe we crossed a line or two, but they can thank us at their wedding.”

***

It’s not quite a thank you, but Jon and Sansa do laugh when Marg works the story into her maid of honor speech (she glosses over the elaborate setup, much to Theon’s relief). They even ham it up once Marg is finished, by leaning on each other, pretending to fall blissfully asleep in each other’s arms. Theon claps along with the rest of the crowd. He’s definitely not tearing up. Just has something manly in his eye.

Okay, fine, maybe it’s thanks enough.

[myrish-lace-love]

I was a fool to trust you (Jonsa)

Summary; Jon Snow returns to Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen, after naming her Queen in the North. Sansa is furious at how easily Jon gave up the kingdom they’d both worked so hard to win back.With help from Jaime Lannister, her sworn shield, Sansa sows seeds of jealousy, and tears into Jon, before revealing his true parentage to him. Her revenge is almost enough to heal the hole in her heart.

A/N; This is my attempt at breaking through writer’s block. I’ve been furious at Jon post-Season 7, and that will definitely come across. I hope you enjoy it! (2k+)

***

Sansa clenched her fists. She couldn’t stay quiet forever – she’d been the one to invite Jaime into her solar, after all.

She’d snapped after Jon had smiled at a jest from Daenerys at dinner. The smile had been half-hearted, but it galled her all the same.

She was done with this farce. Jon had offered up the North as if it was a jewel Daenerys could wear around her neck, and now he fawned over her. He was oblivious to the lives he’d put at risk. 

She’d abruptly asked Jaime to escort her to her chambers, pretending to have a headache.

Now Jaime stood near the fireplace. She’d poured them both wine, her hands shaking only a little, and retreated to her desk. Jaime never asked to sit in her presence. He’d stand there all night, no doubt growing uncomfortable in his armor, unless Sansa instructed him otherwise.

Finally, Jaime put his glass down carefully on the mantle. “I didn’t expect to find a lady like my sister here at Winterfell.”

Sansa kept her face neutral. “I’m nothing like Cersei.”

Jaime tilted his head. “That’s not entirely true. Before you spit venom at me – something Cersei would have done too, by the way - consider what I have to say. You’re a queen.”

“I’m the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Yes, those are the words that come out of your lords’ mouths, but you’re smarter than that, Lady Sansa. You see how they defer to you, even as Daenerys Targaryen deliberately flies her dragons thrice daily overhead, just to try to snatch back a scrap of the respect you already have. They’d follow you, they already do, and you’re smart enough to know it and not show it. Though I’m not sure how much longer Daenerys can control herself. You have everything she wants.”

“She has Jon,” Sansa spat. She moved quickly to compose herself. “I only mean…”

“I know what you mean,” Jaime said with more gentleness than she’d thought possible. “He’s by her side, he gave her a kingdom that wasn’t his to give, and he beds her.”

Sansa inhaled slowly, through her nose. She was loathe to admit how the thought of Jon and his queen together enraged her. ‘It’s not my concern who he beds.”

“It is, since his heirs would threaten your claim to Winterfell. I’ve heard the same gossip you have, that Daenerys can’t conceive. But nothing’s certain in this world.”

Jaime lifted his golden hand. Firelight danced along its polished surface.

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The Smiling Knight, fallen from greatness. Sansa thought. She still hadn’t forgiven Jaime, for what he’d done to Bran. She remembered her shock the day Bran told her the truth.

But Bran had forgiven Jaime, stating flatly that Bran Stark was dead, and the dead needed no apologies. Sansa had cried herself to sleep that night. She’d found it in her heart to be civil to Jaime after that, though.

And Jaime had been kind to her, each time she’d departed from a room soon after Jon had entered it. He’d escorted her, as her sworn shield should, and asked no questions.

Tonight, it seemed, wine had loosened his tongue. Perhaps he’d noticed the bitter twist of Sansa’s mouth just before she turned to him and asked to leave the great hall.

Jaime sighed. “My lady, try as Daenerys might, she can’t hold onto Jon’s heart. He doesn’t love her. He might be infatuated with her. But he loves you.”

Sansa scoffed. “Thank you for your wise counsel, Ser Jaime. Imagine a brother loving his sister.” Inwardly, she was trembling.

Jaime only smirked. “Pure and noble, a brother’s love, isn’t it? I’m living proof it’s not.”

Sansa’s heart beat faster. “We are not Lannisters.”

“No. You let shame stand in your way. I think Jon threw himself into that woman’s arms because he was running from feelings he has for you. Feelings Cersei and I embraced from the day we were born.” Jaime hesitated.  “Forgive me, but I believe you share those feelings too.”

Terror gripped her. She’d been so careful, not to tip her hand. To keep her tainted, repulsive feelings to herself.

She lashed out. “Here in the North we don’t tolerate incest. Here in the North, Ser Jaime, your children would be abominations.”

Jaime remained calm. “That’s not a no, Lady Sansa.”

She rose, ready to dismiss him. 

Jaime held out his good hand.

“Please, my lady,it’s written all over both of you. You hide it better – you hide everything better – so I think perhaps only Tyrion and I suspect. But Jon – Jon’s a love-struck boy each time he tries to catch your eye.“

“He can be whatever he likes. I have no time for him. I have less affection for him.”

Jaime inclined his head. “You hate him for what he did. That’s understandable. He should have told you. He should have fought for you. He could have died on that outrageously foolish wight hunt, died without telling you how he felt.”

Sansa took a sip of wine to steady her nerves. The sour taste lingered on her tongue. She wanted to shock Jaime, to take control of the conversation, and most importantly, to deny how deeply she cared for Jon.

“Perhaps that would have been for the best.”

Jaime only chuckled. “That’s the difference between you and Cersei, my lady. She took what she wanted, regardless of the consequences. You’re smarter. Sadder, but smarter. You shut him out, and it hurts you.”

How could she let Jon in again, when he’d broken the trust she placed in him? She’d worked until candles burned down to stubs, stocking the granaries with food, nurturing a fragile peace between the Wildlings and the Northerners.

She’d done it diligently, eager for Jon to see how she’d repaid the faith he’d had in her, when he gave her the North. Winterfell had flourished in his absence.

Now all she felt was danger, in the home they had won back together. But she couldn’t prove Jaime right. She cleared her throat, and changed the subject.

“Daenerys’s presence threatens the North. I do not think she can be set aside as easily as you claim, Ser Jaime. She’s inside these walls, she governs this kingdom in name, and names mean something.” Sansa twirled the stem of her wine glass. “She’s taken my home from me.”

Jaime shrugged. Sansa could barely hear the rasp of his armor from across the room. “So take it back. You could wrest control from Daenerys, even with those great beasts at her disposal.”

Sansa shook her head. The risks were too large, the outcome uncertain. She thought, not for the first time, that Jaime’s headstrong nature might lead to his downfall.

Jaime took a step towards Sansa, then stopped. “Then go to Jon, at least, to secure your happiness. I’m almost certain you could manage it with one glance. He’d be at your door begging for forgiveness.” Jaime scanned her face. “But you’ve denied him that chance.”

“And I will continue to do so.”

Jaime gave her a small bow. His blond hair fell across his forehead.

“As you wish, my lady.” He truly was handsome, Sansa mused. Handsome enough that lords pulled their wives closer when he walked by…

Sansa paled as an idea snuck into her head. She couldn’t ask it of Jaime, surely, she couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.

Then she thought of Jon, laughing as Daenerys spoke, strolling with her through the halls of the Starks’ ancestral home. Fury coursed through her veins. Jon had betrayed her when he let Daenerys Targaryen ride into her new Northern kingdom, and he compounded that betrayal every day.

Sansa took a deep breath. Let her engage in one petty act. Even though she and Jon were family.  Even though she had once believed in him.

Let him pay for what he’d done.

Sansa lifted her chin. “I do not like you, Ser Jaime. But I respect the vow you’ve sworn to me, and I am grateful for it.”

Oddly, this speech – which to her seemed scarcely enough to thank Jaime, and likely to irritate him – made him blush.

“Thank you Lady Sansa,” he said with all the formality of the first moment he’d walked past Daenerys Targaryen to lay his sword at her feet.

“I have a favor to ask you.”

“Please.” He gestured for her to continue. “Tell me how you plan to make Jon jealous.”

Jaime was quick, she had to concede that. “Understand I hold no affection for you.”

“I do,” he said, more solemnly than she expected. “I am under no illusions there, my lady. But I do not need your affection in order to serve you.”

“I want…I want to make Jon regret the choices that he’s made.”

Jaime’s gaze could almost be soft. “It will be lovely to see you smile.”

***

Sansa found Sam and Bran waiting outside her door the next morning. They’d come to her for counsel, burdened with a great secret. She listened, stunned, as they recounted the story of Jon’s parents. She assured them she’d bring Jon to them when the time was right.

She summoned Jon that evening. She’d asked Jaime to stand near her, near enough that she could reach out and touch his armor. As Jon closed the door to her solar, Jaime bent down to whisper in her ear. Sansa made sure she laughed sweetly.

She looked up to see Jon scowling. A fine start.

Jon strode up to her desk. “Sansa, please, if we might speak alone-“

“Anything you have to say you can say before my sworn shield, Jon. There are no secrets between us.”

Jon’s jaw twitched. He saw what his darkest insecurities made him see, even when Sansa and Jaime were perfectly chaste.

“Please, Jon, sit.”

Jon took the chair opposite Sansa’s desk. She felt more secure with the large table between them. It was littered with the letters she’d been writing to stitch the North back together, after Jon’s disastrous scroll.

She stacked the papers and tucked them into a drawer. “Letters I’ve been writing to make sure the lords stay in line since your…announcement.”

Jon smiled warmly. “I knew you’d take excellent care of our home, Sansa.” He leaned back in his chair, seeming confident all was right between them.

Sansa almost slapped him.

“The North is no longer your home,“ she hissed. "You’ve made your home between the legs of the queen you brought to our door. You swore to your subjects before you left that the North was a part of you. That you’d never stop fighting for it. Then you gave it up like a shiny bauble to a child. Perhaps before you bedded her. Perhaps after.”

Jon had grace enough to look abashed.

“Were you coerced, Jon? Threatened? Was there no other way?”

Lie, a small part of her heart pleaded. Lie, and save us.

The one quality Jon had retained was honesty. “No,” he said wearily. “No, Daenerys had already offered to help.”

Sansa fell silent. Cold as stone. She closed herself off from the pain she saw etched into the lines on Jon’s face.

Jon kept trying. “She was distraught. Her dragon had been killed. She thinks of them as her children,” he confided, as if Daenerys hadn’t made that perfectly clear, as if Sansa needed the simplest facts explained to her.

Sansa remained at her desk. She would not go to him. She would not comfort him. She would not – would not – be moved by the tears that threatened to spill down Jon’s cheeks.

“It was a moment of weakness,” Jon said. He put his head in his hands.

Weakness.

Sansa had learned, painfully, over the years, as men wounded her body and tried to manipulate her mind, that weakness was a word men used to avoid saying appetite.

Petyr’s appetite for Sansa as a replacement for her dead mother. Ramsay’s insatiable appetite for cruelty.

Jon’s appetite for a silver-haired, self-proclaimed queen who’d held him captive.

When men indulged their hunger, Sansa bore the brunt of the damage. Petyr’s poisonous whispers. Ramsay’s brutal beatings. But Jon – Jon’s indulgence shattered the faith she’d slowly, cautiously begun to place in him.

She could never have dreamed that Jon would return to her so diminished, so…predictable.

I’ll protect you, I promise.

Until the day a beautiful woman came along and changed Jon into a man she didn’t know.

She’d been a fool to trust him, a fool to hold him apart from other men, as if he might truly keep her safe, as if she might find an equal partner to help her rebuild Winterfell.

Jon shifted uncomfortably. “I could take back her title as queen, Sansa, if you’d only-“

Sansa employed all her training and restraint to keep from screaming. “You named a Targaryen woman with two full-grown dragons Queen in the North. You’ve long since forfeited the power to take her title back. You can’t undo what you’ve done.”

I hope bedding her at night is worth what you’ve lost.

Jon protested. “Sansa I didn’t – you know I wouldn’t–“

“I know you slept with a dangerous woman in the middle of a war without marrying her. I know you risked bringing a bastard into the world to satisfy your lust.”

Jon’s cheeks were red. “As my father did, you mean. You seek to shame me.”

Sansa turned her head. “Ser Jaime, leave us please.”

Jaime bowed and left.

Sansa shouldn’t thrill at the thought of revenge. She shouldn’t smile before she delivered the killing blow. But she couldn’t keep her lips from curving.

“No. Not your father, Jon. Do you remember when I told you that you were a Stark to me?”

Jon eyes were rimmed with red. “if you had any idea, what that meant to me–“

Sansa held up her hand. Stop. "I was wrong. You’re not a Stark.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. He recovered his voice after a moment. “Sansa, how could you–“

“Your father was not Ned Stark. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen.” Sansa didn’t mention Lyanna, not yet. She wanted Jon to feel the full weight of having his name – his false name – stripped away from him, as he’d stripped the North from her. Let him feel crushed and adrift as she had, the day she unrolled his scroll.

“Your name is Aegon Targaryen, and Daenerys, your queen, is your aunt.’

Jon blanched.

“Sansa, I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. I’ll take you to Bran, and to Sam. Bran can tell you of the wedding of your real parents, and Sam can show you the marriage records memorializing their union. You should know the truth of your Targaryen heritage, after all.”

Jon was white as a sheet. His chest was heaving.

Sansa swallowed past the lump in her throat. She would show him no mercy, despite the memory that came to her unbidden, of when she’d assured Brienne of Jon’s worthiness.

Jon is Jon. He’s my brother, he’ll keep me safe. I trust him.

Except Jon was Aegon, Aegon Targaryen. And Aegon was a stranger.

She swept out of her chair and opened the door.

“Please, follow me.“

[myrish-lace-love]

I’ll find you across the sea

This is the third in a series of ficlets about Jon and Sansa staying in touch during Season 7 after Jon leaves Winterfell. I’m planning to write one of these after each episode. Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. 

***

I’ve been a fool.

Jon could taste the salt of the ocean as he stood on the cliff. The wind threatened to push him over the edge, but he didn’t move.

Not that moving would do any good. Daenerys Targaryen had taken his boat, and his weapons. He was stuck on this damp rock with an impossible task – convince the self-proclaimed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms that White Walkers were real.

He clearly wasn’t the man for the job, though.

Perhaps he might have kept trying. But Daenerys’s endless litany of all the reasons she had faith in herself – not her people – had infuriated him, and he’d stayed silent. Sansa would have been disappointed.

He felt a gust of air from above, and heard a dragon screech overhead. He resisted the urge to duck. The great flap of leathery wings almost knocked him down. He watched the green and gold scaled beast fly far over the sea.

He wished he could follow.

He took a deep breath. His connection with Ghost a few days ago had scared him, for the first time. He’d told the direwolf to keep Sansa safe before he left.

He’d let his mind wander on the trip to Dragonstone, once he was safely away from Winterfell. He’d listened to the steady beat of the horses’ hooves and daydreamed about Sansa. He’d been wrapped up in how much he wanted to kiss her when Ghost’s mind touched his.

And faintly, very faintly, Sansa’s mind as well. He’d broken the link fast. Did she know?

Gods, I hope not.

He didn’t want to burden her with his unnatural desires. She deserved one man in her life who she could count on. He’d do anything to prevent her from knowing what went on in the dark recesses of his thoughts.

But now, he needed her help. He closed his eyes and reached for Ghost. He felt heat and contentment, and saw flames flickering in a familiar hearth. Ghost was curled up in Sansa’s chambers. His heart swelled with longing. To be back with Sansa, at Winterfell…

He shook his head. Get up, boy. Find her.

Ghost padded over to the bed. Jon could see the white furs and the hem of Sansa’s dressing gown. He wanted to sit next to her, to pull her close, to brush her lips with his in the privacy of that room…

He swallowed. Don’t think about her that way, don’t!

Soon the soft touch of Sansa’s mind was with his. She was tentative, but he could feel her happiness and relief and finding him alive and well. He closed his eyes.

Sansa, I’m here, on Dragonstone. I’m trapped. She took our boats and weapons. I should have listened to you. I’m so sorry.

He felt her withdraw for a moment. Why is she holding you hostage? Anger and…fear, this time. She was afraid for him. He hated himself for causing her pain.

She doesn’t believe me, about the Night King. We can mine the dragonglass. I’m trying to find a way back Sansa, I swear.

Another long pause. Bran’s here. He came back yesterday. I wish you could talk to him. I wish….I wish you were with us, Jon. He felt a burst of longing from Sansa that threatened to bring him to his knees. He had to bow his head to get himself under control.

I do too, Sansa. So much. He hoped she could only sense brotherly affection from him.

Sansa didn’t speak again for a long stretch. Then finally, he felt her again. Resolute. Determined. Convince her, Jon. Tell her about Hardhome. Ask Davos for help. He’s better at talking than you are.

Jon couldn’t keep a smile off his face, hundreds of miles away. He is.

Please Jon. We need you here. I…I need you here. He felt the deep ache in her heart.

He gave in, and let her feel the same ache in his.

I will. I promise.  

[myrish-lace-love]

Jon/Sansa, 21?

“You have no right to say that to me!”

Stay, she’d begged, and he’d snapped at her. High up on Winterfell’s walls, where he’d taken her to break the news that he was leaving.

He’d shouted at her. She’d recoiled, hiding behind her red hair.  All his frustration, pent-up anger and shame had come pouring out in that one sentence.

How she got under his skin. How he wanted to push her away, so she couldn’t challenge him, or the fragile hold he had on the North and his men.

How he wanted to pull her close and kiss her, fiercely, desperately, giving in to the searing heat that burned inside him each time she touched him. How he ached to know if she felt it too.

Her blue eyes had been soft, so soft when she asked. Just as they were yesterday, when she’d implored him to listen to her.

No woman had ever looked at him that way before. Her gaze wasn’t like Ygritte’s grating smirk or Catelyn Stark’s haughty anger. He’d drowned entirely in her eyes, speechless.

He’d spoken now. He’d roared in anger. His breath clouded the air in front of him.

Sansa bent her head. He could sense her gathering her strength, pulling away from him even though she hadn’t moved.

The wind blew by them on the ramparts, where he’d kissed her forehead, trying to seal them together. Where, today, they were tearing themselves apart.

When she looked up again he saw someone cold, and regal. Someone ready to be done with him. 

Her eyes were like ice. Her voice was clipped and low, nothing like her passionate plea a moment ago.

“You’re right. Forgive me, Your Grace.” 

His heart cracked at the title. He wanted to be Jon to her, just Jon, only Jon.

But hadn’t he reminded her he was King now, like a boy playing with his toys?

She clasped her hands in front of her. “It’s not proper for me to ask you for protection. I wish you well on your journey.” She was staring him down. He shrank under her glare.

Then she curtsied, perfectly, perfunctory, as she would have done for anyone of higher rank. You are nothing but a nameless lord to me. He felt lower than if she’d screamed and cried and tried to keep him.

Her show of respect was worse than her voicing ringing out in dissent in the Great Hall. Because she’d put whatever they’d had behind her.  

And what could they have been, as brother and sister?

She was in her tower, and she held the lock and key.

He tried. He reached for her. “Sansa, please, wait, I didn’t-”

She stayed where she was, implacable. He hadn’t known how far away she could go. How fast she could leave him, without taking a step.

And then it came crashing down on him. Of course she could. Of course. This control, this strategic retreat, was how she’d survived King’s Landing. How she’d outlasted Ramsay Bolton. How she’d dealt with Littlefinger without being soiled by him. Her strength was made of iron, of steel, and he needed it. He needed her. By his side.

“Good night, Your Grace,” she said, composed, remote. All of the sweetness that had been between them - and there had been sweetness, entwined with tension and bickering but there, warm and shining - was gone. Wiped out.

She swept away, her gray cloak trailing behind her, every inch a queen. He craved her. He yearned for her. He missed her. The relentless snow filled the imprints of her boots as he watched.

He whispered his own plea to the cold night air.

“I love you. I’m in love with you. Help me, Sansa, please. I’m so sorry. I can’t do this alone.”

But it was far, far too late. She’d vanished, and she wasn’t coming back.

[myrish-lace-love]

Her Favor

This is the first in a series of ficlets I’m writing while Jon and Sansa are separated during season 7. I’m planning to write a ficlet after each episode. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here. 

***

Jon knew, as soon as he had both scrolls in his hands, one from Daenerys and one from Sam, that there was no other way. He had to travel to Dragonstone himself. The dragonglass was too important, too vital to the war effort. Even if his men, and his sister, didn't know it. 

Sansa. Jon closed his eyes for a moment. He'd given himself only a few minutes to pack, and his horse was waiting for him. He could see Littlefinger's face in front of him in the crypts. Littlefinger had tried and failed to pry Jon's fingers free. Jon had fought with himself not to kill the man. He'd barely won.

And why? Because Littlefinger had made him realize something he'd tried to keep hidden from himself. 

He loved her. Not just as a brother loved a sister. Jon's stomach turned. Best for him, and for her, that he leave quickly. He couldn't handle the emotions roiling inside him. 

She'll be safe here with the Northern lords and Brienne to protect her. She'll be safe from her bastard brother and his twisted feelings.

Jon shoved another pair of gloves in his bag. It would be good to be riding again. Away from the kingship, away from the council meetings, away from the sight of her red hair. It was craven of him, but he still felt a twinge of relief at the thought. 

"Jon?"

Sansa's light knock made his stomach drop. He'd hoped to avoid her, to mount his horse and wave, from a distance. No risk of her knowing what had happened in the crypts. But she was here, now, and he had to let her in.

"Come in, Sansa."

She looked shy as she drew closer. Her blue eyes were soft. He feared that softness, because it made him weak. Made him want to stay by her side. He gave her a half-smile. 

Sansa didn't smile back. "Were you not even going to say goodbye?"

What could he say to that? "I..."

She saved both of them, as she often did when he was at a loss for words. "Well I'm glad you haven't left yet." She drew two pieces of cloth from her pocket. "I've been working on these. I wanted to give them to you when you left. I only thought you'd stay longer."

Jon heard the pain in her voice. He swallowed. 

She held out the two squares of fabric. Each was embroidered with a finely worked direwolf.

She spoke quickly as she held one out to him. "It's not a favor, exactly, that wouldn't be right, I'm not your....well I meant for them to be matching direwolves. And for you to take one with you when you rode into battle. I'd keep one, here, so we could...we could be two wolves who remembered each other."

Jon managed to speak past the lump in his throat. "Sansa, I won't forget you. I couldn't. You're my sister."

Say it enough times, and maybe the word would conjure up some barrier he could hold fast between them. Beat back the wave of longing at the thought of taking her favor with him. 

She looked down. "Would you bring it with you, Jon?" 

He took the linen square from her and their fingers touched. She flushed, and took a step back. "I'd meant to finish the fur, highlight it with silver, but there wasn't enough time."

The grey direwolf was perfect, in his eyes. "It's beautiful, Sansa." He wasn't sure where to put the square. He didn't know how to handle something so fine and beautiful. Neither the woman before him, nor the gift she'd given him.

She saw his distress. "Just...maybe pack it away with your things?"

He placed it carefully on top of his gloves. When he turned to her again the anguish written on her face was too much, and he took her in his arms.

Foolish. Foolhardy. But he pulled her in for a tight embrace. He was holding onto her for too long. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. He could feel her warmth and smell the scent of lavender in her hair. 

Gods, I have to leave now. I have to. 

"Come back to me Jon. Swear it. Please." Sansa's voice was high and tight. He couldn't deny her, not like this, not when his heart was pounding in his chest.  

"I will, Sansa. I swear it. I'll keep..." He almost said your favor but stopped himself. "I'll keep my direwolf close, always." He drew back. Sansa's eyes were swimming with tears. He tried to smile again. "Will you keep yours?"

"Yes, Jon. Always." The fierce way she said it caught like a hook in his heart. "And I'll see you again. Soon. I'll hold the North for you."

"No one could do it better." 

She gave him a quick nod and then fled from his rooms. He closed his eyes for another long moment, then finished packing. 

***

On the journey to Dragonstone, he ran his fingers over the delicate ridges of the stitching while he rode. Out of her sight, he let himself think of it as her favor, her gift. From the woman who held his heart in her hands, back at Winterfell.  

[myrish-lace-love]

Kill the Boy (Jonsa Ficlet, spoilers for GOT S7 Episode 5)

Summary:  Jon communicates with Sansa through Ghost while they are separated. Jon realizes, with Sansa’s help, that he needs to kill the boy and let the man be born to get off Dragonstone and back to the people he loves. (Tagging a few people who might be interested @sophmounty @hyojung12 @hopepeaceandblackgirlmagic @bisansastarks)

The next installment in my Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder series of fix-it fics. You can read them all on AO3 here. 

Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here. Part 4 is here. Part 5 is here.

***

Jon’s fingers trembled as he held the scroll Varys delivered. The man had bowed and shuffled out of the room without a word.

Sansa had been brave enough to write to him, even when he couldn’t write to her.

He stared at the direwolf impressed into the wax. On an impulse, his kissed the seal. He closed his eyes and imagined her in the Lord’s Chambers, scratching with a quill, her long hair unbound before she retired for the night. He could even see a few clouds outside her window, and Ghost curled up at her feet.

He wished he could be in those chambers with her. Hold her. Stroke her hair, pull her close, whisper that everything would be all right…

Jon? His feelings had been running strong, strong enough that he’d let his guard down. Sansa was with him, thanks to Ghost’s mind.

Sansa. He started to tell her he had the scroll, he hadn’t read it yet. A wave of sadness blindsided him.

Ghost was looking up at her. Her skin was blotchy from crying. His heart constricted with need, with the desire to calm her. To be there, gods damn it, by her side.

Sansa, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Tell me, please.

He could see Sansa wiping tears from her eyes Jon, I’m fine, don’t worry, I…she started crying again.

Jon held his head in his hands. He’d steal one of the dragons if he had to. He’d steal Theon’s boat. He sent her tenderness, and devotion.

I’ll come for you soon, Sansa, I swear it. What’s wrong?

Sansa composed herself. He could still feel the storm churning inside her. He marveled again at her ability to keep up this front, in spite of the adversity she faced.

He sensed she needed a moment. He waited. He’d wait all night. He saw the rise and fall of Sansa’s chest. She worried at the edges of her gray dressing gown.

There’s good news, Jon, did you receive the scroll?

I did. I haven’t opened it.

Arya’s here. Bran’s here.

Jon sat back, stunned. All of them, all his living siblings, at Winterfell. Arya, quick and bold. Did she still have Needle? Bran, sweet and shy - he hadn’t kept his promise, about taking him on an adventure to the Wall. He could see them, all together, if he could only leave this island behind. Warmth bloomed in his chest.

I’m glad you’re happy, Jon, I am too.

I am, it’s incredible, better than I could have hoped, but…Is there anything else, Sansa? He asked gently, sent the question like a feather-light kiss in her mind. She was so distraught, he didn’t want to push her.

Read more below or continue on AO3

He felt her weariness then, her loneliness.

Arya…the Northern lords tried to give me the kingdom this morning. They’re restless. I told them you were their King, Jon and we needed to trust you.

He had tears in his own eyes now, at the faith she placed in him, at the fierceness of her loyalty. Bitter disappointment coursed through his veins. He knew staying on this island would cause her trouble, and yet here he was, trapped.

Daenerys had given him fine chambers, with bold carvings of stone dragons, high up in the castle.

A gilded cage was still a cage.

He slipped, lost control of himself. You should be queen, Sansa, you should, I wish I could give you the title. I…thank you for still believing in me. But I’m not sure I deserve to be King.

He felt a flash of anger, intense enough to make him shake his head. 

I don’t want to be Queen, Jon, do you understand? I don’t! I only want us all together, here at Winterfell!

He took a deep breath. I know that Sansa, I only meant…I hate that you have to clean up the mess I left. I knew you’d handle the North beautifully.

Sansa withdrew. Jon’s stomach twisted. He put another log on the fire, and stirred the embers. What had gone amiss? He only had himself to blame, whatever it was. He’d been away far too long.

Sansa’s next answer was slightly more measured, but he still felt her turmoil.

Arya…Arya thinks I want Winterfell for myself. That I’m in the Lord’s Chamber because I like nice things.That I think I’m better than other people. But all I want is for you to come home. I’d sleep in the street if it meant having you back, Jon.

Jon ran a hand over his face. Arya…perhaps Arya would be wary of Sansa at first. Sansa and Arya hadn’t been close, as children.

But if Arya thought he doubted Sansa, he wanted to put that fear to bed. Sansa deserved better.

Can you…can you find Arya for me? Let her touch Ghost? I’ll talk to her. I’ll tell her.

He felt Sansa’s conflict - hope, relief, a current of dread. The castle’s retired for the night, Jon, I’m not sure I could.

Sansa, please. Let me help you. Let me solve this problem for you, at least.

He watched Sansa close her eyes, and saw some of the tension leave her shoulders. He felt a glimmer of her happiness.  All right, Jon. I’ll see if she’s still awake. I’ll bring Ghost.

The connection snapped, and there was nothing to do but wait. He paced for a few moments, then sighed. He looked at the silver tray on his table. The seared fish wasn’t going to get any fresher.

Daenerys had invited him to dine tonight, and he’d refused. He’d wanted to avoid making awkward, stilted conversation with a woman who kept him prisoner and demanded he bend the knee. But he knew that sooner or later, he’d have to sup with her. He could enjoy this meal alone, at least.

He was wiping his fingers clean when Sansa came back to him.

Arya’s here, Jon.

His heart started to pound. He saw black leather boots on the floor and sensed a new presence as Arya reached for Ghost.

Jon!  Arya was overjoyed…and angry. Jon, come back! Come back home, Sansa’s ruining it, she’d ruining everything, she wants to be Queen, I hate her for it-

Jon dropped the napkin. He was overcome with a swarm of emotions. Relief that what he felt for Arya was the pure, familial bond of brother and sister. Nothing unnatural, nothing twisted. He loved her dearly. He wanted to run to her in Winterfell’s courtyard and pick her up and spin her around, just to hear her laugh. Her presence in his mind after so many years healed a place in his heart he hadn’t known was broken. But…

There was a fury in her now, a darkness, that was foreign to him. She’d changed, somehow, in her travels. He started by conveying how much he cared about her.

Arya, I’m so glad you’re home. I love you.

Her darkness receded, and he felt a hint of the girl she’d been. I love you too, Jon, I…I still have Needle. Beat Brienne to a draw today.

He smiled at the pride radiating from her.

I can’t wait to see that. I’ve got a sword now too, Longclaw, we’ll fight together. But Arya, we need to talk about Sansa.

A flash of rage again. She’s trying to take your place Jon-

Jon pushed back.

She’s not. She’s not, Arya. I gave her the North. I gave her the Lord’s Chambers. She turned me down, I had to offer twice. She’s holding the North for me, because I asked her to, and because I trust her. We…we all need to trust each other, Arya, and I trust Sansa to rule for me while I’m gone.

He furrowed his brow. This was a delicate business, conveying how deep his trust in Sansa ran, while leaving out his other feelings. He poured all the faith he had in Sansa through Ghosts’ connection, willing Arya to believe him.

Ghost’s head was turned in Arya’s direction, and he saw her chew her lip. When she reached back out, her anger was tempered. I - I believe you, Jon. I do. I’m sorry. I just…I wanted to see you, when I came back. I missed you so much.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. I missed you too, Arya. I’ll be home soon.

He watched Arya give Sansa a hug, and rejoiced at the soft swell of affection he could sense between the sisters. Sansa’s brow was smoother once Arya left. Sansa stroked Ghost.

She was lovely, and alone, and he yearned to be near her.

Have you figured out a way to leave, Jon?

I will. Theon’s here, I’ll steal his boat if I have to. He tried to make it seem like a jest.

Sansa was stern. Tell me you didn’t hurt him. You swore you wouldn’t, Jon.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. I didn’t, Sansa. He’d come close. Very close.

And you don’t have to steal his boat. You can take his boat. Any boat. You’re a king, Jon, and if you’re going to come home to me you have to start believing it. You have to start acting like one.  

He felt her love, and affection, and desire, pouring into him. Strengthening his resolve. Stirring his blood.

She was right.

He could be a king, for her sake.

It was time.

Time to kill the boy, and let the man be born.

[myrish-lace-love]

Jonsa cuddling headcanons?

Bless this ask!!!

Jon’s touch-starved. He grew up raised by a distant aunt who didn’t love him (shhhhh it’s my headcanon) so he’s surprised at how free Sansa is with physical affection. But he loves it. And he’s secretly amazed, for the first two years, that when he pulls her in for a hug she melts in his arms.

Jon’s a little obsessed with Sansa’s hair. I’m so into this headcanon I wrote a 3k fic about it. He loves to take it down when they’re alone. He loves to run his hands through her hair when he kisses her. But he especially loves it when she curls up like a cat on his lap and lets him smooth his hand over her hair till she falls asleep.

Sansa’s a people person and a hard worker, but she does get overwhelmed. Since Jon’s not always the best talker, they have a system where Sansa sends him a cup of tea emoji when she’s stressed. When she comes home Jon doesn’t have tea ready but he just opens his arms and she walks into them. She’s surrounded by his warmth and scent and it’s better than anything else at relaxing her.

Sansa and Jon aren’t big on pda in public, but they hold hands all the time. When they’re walking down the street, at restaurants, in the audience at their kids’ dance recitals. When their son Robb (sorry @alittlestardustcaught) is five, he asks why Daddy always holds Mommy’s hand even when they’re not crossing the street. Jon just looks over at Sansa and smiles and says “because she’s always holding onto my heart.” Little Robb is completely confused.

But much later, when he falls in love for the first time, he understands what his Dad meant.

[myrish-lace-love]

Just Breathe - Jonsa ficlet

Summary: Jon and Sansa share a Stark family trait - panic attacks. They play out in different ways at different times in their lives. The attacks help them connect with each other in the godswood the night before their arranged marriage.

Trigger Warnings: Panic Attack descriptions

A/N: For @zip00198704 - thank you for the reminder to take time to breathe!

***

Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

It would happen to Sansa, sometimes, at King’s Landing, after a day of being told she was a traitor and had traitor’s blood. After all her songs were sung and she was left in her room with nothing but the ugly, cold truth - her father was in a cell and she was a prisoner of war. Trapped in a tower like a bird without wings.

She’d try to put a pretty story together in her head. To go somewhere far away. But the tale would burst into fragments, into shards, the words refusing to string together in a row. She’d be left frustrated, crying, and lost.

I don’t even believe myself when I talk. Why should they? Why should the they believe a stupid girl with treason in her bones?

She would sit on her bed, her head in her hands. And try to breathe, and try to breathe and try to breathe.

*** It would happen to Jon sometimes, after meetings of the Night’s Watch.

Read more below or continue on AO3

When he’d recently assumed command, and his authority was constantly challenged and questioned. He’d speak plainly and firmly as the Lord Commander, over and over again. Then he’d see grey spots at the the corner of his eyes, and he’d have to excuse himself.

He’d close the door to his room and lean against it, feeling like he’d escaped in the nick of time.

I’m a bastard son with no right to lead. They think I betrayed them beyond the Wall. Why should they listen? Why should they follow a traitorous crow whose heart might still belong to the wildlings?

Jon would sit on his bed with his head in his hands, and try to breathe, and try to breathe, and try to breathe.

*** Years later, Sansa and Jon held council meetings together after reclaiming Winterfell.

One day Sansa put her hand over her mouth to hide a gasp. Jon thought he recognized the motion. Sansa saw him looking. “It’s fine Jon it’s just-”

He broke in. “Need some air?” Something about the look that passed between them made her feel like he understood. Suddenly,  she could get air a little further into her lungs.

She gave him a quick smile and they found a moment to slip away to the godswood. They each leaned back against the smooth bark.

“It happens when I doubt myself,” she said after a while.

“That’s when it happens to me too,” he said. “Family trait maybe?”

She took his hand and tilted her head up to look at the red leaves overhead.

“This would work for me sometimes in the godswood at King’s Landing.”

“Looking at the leaves?” Jon’s face was upturned, and he seemed confused.  

“Just don’t - don’t actually look at them, Jon. Look at how the breeze moves them.”

She saw the shapes the leaves made against the sky, scattered back and forth by the wind.

“I used to worry I wouldn’t be able to tell the truth,” she said. “Or maybe that I didn’t know what the truth was anymore. There were times I couldn’t string words together. But the trees don’t judge.”

“They make their own song even if we can’t hear it,” Jon said.  “I took my vows under trees like these.”

And left me in the godswood at King’s Landing, Sansa thought.

“I should have come for you,” Jon whispered, as if she’d spoken aloud. His voice cracked.

Sansa was still watching the leaves dance.

Past, past, past, they murmured.  

“It’s gone, it’s over, it’s done, Jon. We’re back, in this godswood. Back home.”

They stood there hand-in-hand and they didn’t know it, but their breathing fell into the same rhythm.

***

Three years later, after the death of the dragon queen, after the war, Jon came back to her. He wasn’t her brother anymore. He was her cousin, half-foreign, and soon to be her husband.

On the night before their wedding, she sat on her bed, and tried to breathe, and tried to breathe, and tried to breathe. Finally she gave up and slipped out to the godswood.

Jon was already there, leaning back against the tree. He was staring up at the leaves.

The full moon lent the woods and pond a dreamlike quality, as if they could pretend to be other people.

She came to stand beside him. “I’m here because I needed some air,” she said. “I’m marrying tomorrow.”

Jon didn’t turn his head as she settled in next to him and looked up.

“Has he - has he done anything, to frighten you, the man you’re to marry?” Jon’s voice was small.

“I frighten myself,” she said, as the leaves whistled above them. “I haven’t - it hasn’t gone well with me, with men. How about you?”

“I’m marrying tomorrow too. She’s beautiful and she’s too far above me and I hope the one thing I can do for her is give her home back to her.” She half-saw, half-felt Jon close his eyes. “None of the rest of it matters.”

“It’ll be your home too,” she said.

“Maybe.”

Sansa reached for his hand, like she had so many years ago. “She sounds lonely. Like it’s been a long war for her. Like-” A lump rose in her throat as she looked up at the leaves. “Like she wants a chance at peace.”

Sansa took a deeper breath, and got air most of the way into her chest. “She’ll not want to share her bed at first.”

“She won’t have to,” Jon said in a rush. “Not ever, if she doesn’t want.”

Ever is a long, long time, the leaves murmured.

“Do you think her husband would try after a while? With her?”

She brushed her fingertips with his.

After a moment, Jon laced his fingers with hers. They were warm, even through his gloves.

“Aye. If - if that’s what she wanted.”

They stood there hand-in-hand and they didn’t know it, but their breathing fell into the same rhythm, on the winter night.

[myrish-lace-love]

for @lathwell55 and her first sentence prompt! A tiny bit of fluff...

Jonsa High School AU - School Dance

***

“I'm sorry... I'll stop soon, I promise...”

Sansa had never seen anyone fail so spectacularly at flirting. Clearly, Jon needed her help.  Jeyne Westerling was looking at Jon like he was a slightly unpleasant meal. 

She couldn’t get to him in time, though. Jeyne had left by the time Sansa met Jon at the water fountain. 

Sansa nudged Jon with her backpack. They had a few minutes before third period started. They’d be paired up for Spanish class. In fact, they shared all the same classes in the afternoon. “Spill.”

Jon leaned back against the lockers. “Sam put me up to it.” He closed his eyes. 

Jon had filled out in the past year, Sansa thought. His dark hair was loose around his shoulders. Her brother’s best friend was becoming a bit of a looker. 

Even if he couldn’t charm his way out of a paper bag. 

“Jon, do you want to go to this dance? Do you even like her?”

Read more below or continue on AO3

Jon scuffed the floor with his boot. “No, not really.” He gave her a small, sad glance. “Not much of a dancer. Sure that’s a shock to you.” 

Sansa didn’t bother to shrug. Jon had a long and storied history of falls and stumbles in the Stark household. One Thanksgiving he’d face-planted while holding a tray of mashed potatoes. The floor had smelled like gravy for a week. 

“C’mon. Walk me to my locker?”

“You’re just asking because you want me to carry your books,” he mumbled, though he was already following her.

“They’re heavy,” she said airily. “Besides, you said you didn’t mind. Right?” 

“I don’t,” he murmured. Sansa thought she could hear a smile in his voice. “So, when is Joffrey picking you up next Saturday? Is he getting a limo?”

Sansa winced. Jon didn’t mean anything by it. She knew he was teasing. Still. It hurt. 

“Sansa. What’s wrong?”

Sansa spun her lock. She really didn’t want to talk about it.  She thought of the blue dress in the back of her closet. The one she'd almost shredded after Joffrey broke up with her. The night she had planned with Margaery, who was a freshman in college and way past high school dances. 

“Well, I’m not getting my money back, I can tell you that, Jon.” The slam of the metal door wasn’t that loud. Really, it wasn’t. Only seven or eight people turned to look. 

“...What?” Jon seemed thoroughly confused. 

She’d come this far. Might as well finish the story. She hadn’t confided this part to anyone. 

Sansa sighed. “We were splitting the cost of the dance. The tickets, the tux rental. We’re not going now. So I’m out $100.”

Jon blinked. “Wait, you mean he asked you to pay to go to your own prom?”

Sansa stacked her books for third, fourth and fifth periods into Jon’s arms. “He would have had to pay otherwise. It's not really fair, after all, for the guy to pay for everything.”  She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. It was a double standard.

Deep down, though, she had been disappointed. Sad. 

Not a rational reaction, and definitely not from this century.

Also, it was not lost on her that she was asking Jon to carry her books. Maybe Joffrey had been right. She was a spoiled princess. 

"Wanker," Jon muttered under his breath 

“Jon!” She’d never heard Jon swear. 

“Sorry, just...well, how did you feel about it?”

Sansa bit her lip. “I mean, he had a point of course, I...” 

This was Jon, who’d seen her in braces and kept her secret when she’d snuck out to get her ears pierced. He’d even picked her up when she’d chickened out once the mall employee got out that large and terrifying ear piercing gun. 

She could confess how unhappy she was. He had his head bent near hers, and she caught a whiff of the cologne he’d starting wearing a few months ago. She felt like it was just the two of them despite the throngs of students in the corridor.

“I wanted to be a princess for a night, Jon. To get swept off my feet. To dress up and wear a corsage made of roses and not think about anything except being on the arm of the guy who was taking me to the dance.”

Joffrey Baratheon was not that guy.  Jon shifted her books to his other arm. "It's not wrong to want that, I don't think. Not that you asked," he added hastily.  “But I mean...maybe a guy wants to be a prince, you know? Take a beautiful lady out. Treat her like a princess. Make her forget the rest of the world for a minute. Know he was the one who made her smile."

Sansa wasn’t quite sure what to say.

Jon cleared his throat. ”Anyway. Off to class?”

“...Sounds good.” Sansa was thoughtful. You might not be so bad at flirting after all, Jon Snow.

Jon, who carried her books and looked out for her and maybe, just maybe was a prince in disguise. 

Too bad he was shy, and she’d just been burned. They didn’t mention the dance at all for the rest of the day. 

At this rate, they'd both be stuck at home watching TV and eating ice cream. Probably for the best. Sansa didn't want to ruin a good friendship.

Though she did find herself daydreaming about Jon in a tux...