just some random jonsa moments :)))
She watches as his arm draws back, his fist connecting, again, and again, and again.
The sight of it sends chills down her spine; she wants him to stop, yet she never wants to see it end. And yet, as if he’s attuned to her presence, as if he knows her every movement, her every thought, he’s looking up, fist half cocked, gray eyes wild. In that moment, Jon is someone she doesn’t know, a man changed by war, by battle, by all that had transpired. “Sansa…” Her name is soft upon his lips and she takes a step closer.
He cannot explain it, but he knows she’s there before he ever looks up.
But when he does, his eyes catch sight of hers and he knows… He knows this is not his fight to finish. And though he’d rather finish what he had set out to do, Jon lowers his fist, pulling away from Ramsay who gurgles a laugh as he spits blood. “Take him in chains,” Jon commands to the nearest men, both in Bolton livery, who to his surprise move to his request at once. “Take him to the kennels where he belongs.” Sansa stands next to him now, both watching as the men come forward, locking their one time master up at the ankle and wrist, dragging him away.
Suddenly she gives a little gasp, drawing him away and Jon follows her line of sight towards the open gates. “Rickon…” She murmurs softly, speaking for the first time, her hand reaching for his as they watch their littlest brother come through Winterfell’s gates for the last time. The men who carry him inside stop before them and Jon watches as Sansa’s other hand outstretches, shaking fingers brushing a stray curl from his perfectly white face. In that moment, Jon is transported back to the time when Rickon was nothing more than a toddler clinging to Sansa’s skirts, she was more like a mother than a sister to the boy back then.
And now that boy is dead.
“Take my brother to the crypt,” Jon says quietly as Sansa draws her hand away, though her other one remains tightly wrapped around his, her knees weak beneath the folds of her old gray gown. Despite the dozens of pairs of eyes watching, he leans in towards her, his mouth to the shell of her ear. “Let’s go, Sansa,” he speaks softer now, gentler than ever before, giving her hand a tender squeeze when she nods. They both then turn to face the double doors of Winterfell, the ones that would lead them inside for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.
They were home, it was true, but at what cost?
That night the door to his room creaks open as he lays awake in his bed.
For hours now, he’s lain awake, thinking of what it had cost to get this far- to get Winterfell back. He wouldn’t change a thing, he realizes, despite the grief he feels in the loss of Rickon. It hadn’t taken many hours for him to realize that there wasn’t a single thing he would not do for Sansa- he would go to war again for her, if he must- he would risk his own body, his own life, if it meant keeping her safe and to see her smile as she once had. He would do anything… Anything at all.
So when his door opens and he hears her footsteps tiptoeing across the floorboards, he already knows what he will do. Before she can say a word, he’s lifting the furs up that he lays beneath, silent as she wiggles into the space beside him. “I’m sorry I woke you, I know you need your rest…” she whispers into the darkness and Jon chuckles, reaching out a hand to trace the outline of her cheek. He can smell the wine on her breath, can see the tear tracks on her skin, can feel the pain that oozes from her.
In a single moment, his heart is breaking all over again.
“You didn’t,” he assures her softly and she lets out a long breath, realizing only then how safe, how calm she feels now in his presence. In her own rooms, ones unfamiliar to her, she’d paced relentlessly, unable to calm herself despite the spiced wine she had consumed. “You could not sleep?” She shakes her head and despite every ounce of self control she has, the tears begin to flow once again. “Tell me…”
“I only… I just worry… Is Rickon cold?” Her lower lip quivers as she thinks of her baby brother, tucked beneath a sheet in the cold, dark crypts, his only light a flickering torch on the wall. They would bury him in the morning alongside their father and Lady, but until then, he rested alone down there. A quiet sob escapes her and Jon pulls her in close, wrapping her in his arms as she buries her face into the crook of his shoulder, stroking her long red hair as she begins to cry in a way he’s never heard her cry before.
They lay there for what could have been several minutes or even several years before she finally falls quiet, her erratic breathing slowing, telling him she’s cried herself into a sleep she so certainly needed. He does not yet untangle himself from her, but rather, he breathes in her sweet scent, pressing a long kiss to the crown of her head. Only then does he allow himself to close his own eyes and while still holding her close to his chest, does he drift off to sleep.
He wakes long after the morning call, only to find she still sleeps beside him.
A fire burns in the hearth, surprising him; only later would he learn it was Sansa’s ever faithful shield Brienne who had lit it. For a few more precious moments does he lay there beside her, until something tells him he must get up, so he slides out from beneath the furs, his wounded body aching as he tugs on the clean shirt old Agatha had brought to his rooms the night before, one of Robb’s he knows, one left behind when they’d left home so long ago. He stands before the hearth, warming himself, until he hears the unmistakable sounds of her waking behind him, so he turns around just as she’s sitting up in his bed, blue eyes tired. “Good morning,” he greets with a small smile, coming close enough so he might sit upon the edge of the bed beside her. “I must meet with the lords, stay abed,” he continues, reaching for her hand to give it a gentle squeeze. “I will send Brienne to you.” Though she opens her mouth to protest, Jon shakes his head, leaning in to touch his forehead to hers. “Let me take care of you, Sansa,” he murmurs, his words sending chills down her spine. Only then, when he’s pulled back, does she give a single nod of her head, the truth being that she longed to be cared for in the way Jon seemed to want to.
He gets up then, finishing dressing, swinging the furs she made for him around his shoulders a moment before he steps out the door. To his surprise, Brienne of Tarth stands just outside, like the true knight she was. “My lord,” she greets in her deep voice, bowing low as if he were a King instead of a man.
“Your lady requires you,” Jon replies and Brienne nods, slipping past him and disappearing through the door before he can say another word. Knowing she was in good hands, Jon makes his way down to the main floor, knowing that today was the beginning of a new life for all of them.
That night, his door creaks open again.
This time when Sansa climbs inside his bed, he’s half asleep, though he reaches for her all the same. “Ramsay is dead.” She whispers.
“Dead?” He says, eyes widening, incredulous.
“Dead.” She parrots back, her blue eyes wild.
He had known it was her fight to finish, but somehow, he had not expected things to end this way- he had thought she might ask him to finish things, perhaps allow him to languish in the kennels until starvation or sickness had taken him. But… This…? “Do you think I should not have…?” She asks next, sitting up, when his silence has unnerved her.
“No, Sansa,” he says with a shake of his head, sitting up beside her. “I left him to you, didn’t I?” He asks and her eyes widen, their gaze softening, her rosy lips trembling with a smile. “I just never wanted you to bloody your hands, if you didn’t have to.” He’d have done anything she asked of him, never would she have to lift a finger if she didn’t wish to. She turns away then, staring down at her hands in the darkness, as if her palms might give her the answer she was looking for. “But I know this was your fight to finish.” She turns back to face him then, nodding slowly, her heart skipping a beat within her chest.
Somehow, Jon understands her in ways no one else ever has- perhaps in ways no one else ever would. “Can I stay?” She asks, tears blurring her vision and Jon smiles, drawing her back down onto the pillow.
“You can stay as long as you like.”
The day he’s proclaimed King in the North, she comes to his rooms before he’s ever ready to slip into bed.
“Your grace,” she giggles, red hair unbound, her robe thrown over her shoulders as she sinks into a curtsy.
“You never have to do that,” he admonishes as she rises up, blue eyes sly in their gaze.
“It’s only proper,” she retorts, taking the goblet of wine he pours for her; it really says something, she supposes, how he keeps wine for her in his rooms alongside his ale, knowing it was her preferred drink. She takes to the chair that has become hers in the weeks since their retaking of Winterfell, nearest to the fire so she can feel the heat of the flames even on the coldest of nights. “You have much to learn about how a King holds his court.”
It is Jon’s turn to laugh, sinking into the chair beside hers, ale in his cup. “That is why I plan to keep you,” he quips, taking a long sip from his drink. “I may be King in the North, but you are still the Lady of Winterfell.” She sobers then, blue eyes widening behind the goblet that’s poised at her lips. “I cannot do this without you, Sansa,” he continues, thinking of how he knows he will need her at every moment. It was true, he could lead a battle, could step onto the frontlines without a backwards glance, but he knew nothing else of being king. “I need you.”
Those words resonate within her brain as she drains her goblet, lost for words; no one has ever said such a thing to her before. No one has ever needed her, no one has ever seen her beyond a foolish girl with the name Stark. “I will not fail you,” she finally says, holding out her goblet for this so-called King to pour her another glass.
Jon laughs and does as she bids.
On the night before he’s to leave for Dragonstone, he sits at his table, quill to paper, unable to find the words to write.
He thought he might write a thoughtful, wonderfully worded letter to Sansa, one he might leave beneath her pillow to find after he’d left, but now that the moment has arrived he cannot find the words to say. How did he put ink the way she made him feel?
But, before he can put the quill to ink, his door opens.
It’s her, of course, it’s always her; she comes fully dressed, agitated, two or three goblets of wine giving her the courage to be where she is now. “You’re leaving me,” she snaps, angry, all sharp edges.
He swings around to face the storm that she is, quill abandoned, words forgotten. “Sansa, I’d never…” He says, but the boat would come tomorrow all the same.
“You’re leaving me.” She says again, sharper now, tears on her lashes.
Without thinking, Jon is on his feet, closing the gap between them so he can take her into his arms. She does not fight against him, rather, she sinks into him, crying quietly as she buries her face into his shoulder. “I will return before you know it,” he assures her softly, one hand stroking the long length of her red hair, the other tucked tightly against her waist. “I must go and you know it,” he continues a moment later and she draws back, blue eyes teary, but she nods, for of course she does, even if it hurts. “But I will return and I will bring back with me the support we need to face the dead.” All he wants to do is protect her, to keep her safe, even if that means he must rally to his side a Targaryen queen.
“They say she is beautiful,” Sansa says before she can stop herself.
Jon chuckles at her expense, putting his hands onto her shoulders so he can hold her at arms length. “Do you think even a beautiful woman could make me forget about you?” He asks, enjoying the way her cheeks flush, the way her eyes widen, the way her mouth opens helplessly as she tries to find the words to say. “I love you, Sansa,” he goes on, uncaring of what those words would mean if anyone else heard him say them. He does not care that what they shared should have been forbidden, should never be- he loves her and he loves her more than he ever thought to be possible. “I thought I made that clear?”
Her heart, already beating fast, seems to have tripled in speed within her chest. “I-I…” For once, she’s left speechless. But there’s no need for her to speak on, for the next moment, Jon is leaning in, capturing her mouth with his. For several long moments, the world around her ceases to spin, and all she can think about is how nothing has ever felt so right. When he draws back, it’s so he might tip his forehead to hers, his mouth still so close she can feel the curve of his smile against her own lips. “I love you, too,” she finally finds her voice, speaking the words she’s felt for weeks, for months.
“Keep Winterfell safe in my stead and when I return, we will defeat the dead and be happy, I swear it.” Jon speaks seriously now, knowing that when the Night King was gone, they could find a future for themselves that was full of happiness and peace. Somehow, someway, they would find what they both had always sought, no matter what others might say.
She nods and Jon pulls her into his arms for yet another embrace, committing to memory the way it felt to hold her, knowing it would be the last time he could do so until he returned.
The night he returns with the Targaryen queen and her dragons, he finds himself laying awake in his bed, thankful to stare at the familiar ceiling above.
His door opens and he finds himself grinning, propping himself up onto his elbow to watch as she tiptoes across the room, like a ghost in her ivory nightgown. “I thought you might come sooner than this,” he says and she laughs, climbing into his bed as she’s done dozens of times before.
“I was quite occupied ensuring our guests were settled,” she reminds him, having spent the last several weeks planning for the dragon queen and her large entourage. “I have missed you, Jon,” she sobers, blue eyes finding his gray ones in the darkness. Jon reaches out, tenderly cupping her cheek into his palm, his gentle touch sending waves of warmth through her entire being.
“And I missed you,” he speaks softly, recalling the misery he had felt in the depths of his being all the time he’d been away from her. “More than you know.” He had not known it was possible to miss someone the way he’d missed her all that time, the pain physical, the pain sharper than any sword wound he’d ever received. “I am glad to be home.”
“You will not leave me again?” She asks next, thinking she surely could not stand to be away from him again.
Jon laughs and shakes his head, drawing her down to the pillows, simply so he might stare at her beautiful face. “Never again,” he promises, a man of his word, he thinks even the gods themselves could not force him from her side again.
They would defeat the Night King in the days to come and then, they would begin their life anew.
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