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Keep it Quiet, my modern, arranged marriage mob AU is now finished!

Neither Sansa nor Jon has a choice in this arrangement. It's expected of them. Getting married will keep their families safe, their territories secure, but Jon has something more in mind.

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a crisis of the romantic sort

also on ao3 | As the day he meets his soulmate approaches, Jon is having a bit of a freak out over how unkind his words are.

Jon: I’m having an existential crisis.

Sansa: What kind today, love?

Jon: The romantic sort.

Sansa: Ah.

Jon: How does my soulmate hate me already? It’s not fair. And if that’s the case, maybe all this soulmate business isn’t what we’ve been told.

Sansa: A government conspiracy to distract the people from social issues by making us believe in love?

Jon: Yes, exactly.

Sansa: But some of the greatest advocates for change - health care, women’s rights, trans rights, all our rights - are people who’ve met their soulmate.

Jon: Yeah, there’s that. But they never get much done, do they? It’s the same push and pull and five steps back for every step forward. They’re outlawing abortion in some states!

Sansa: I’d say that has more to do with men’s desire to control women than soulmates. Anyway, your words don’t carry the tone. It could be the most affectionate telling off said on this side of the Atlantic.

(Five minutes later)

Sansa: Jon?

Sansa: Jon, are you getting weepy?

Jon: I don’t weep. I consider the purpose of life outdoors for aesthetic purposes, and the wind makes my eyes well up.

Sansa: *hugs* It’ll be alright. Only two more days to go. I’ll meet mine tomorrow, and you’re just the day after. Maybe they’re my soulmate’s sibling… That would be something.

Jon: Something, lol. Can’t wait.

Jon slips his phone into his pocket and wipes at his eyes. He does get a bit weepy about it. Who wouldn’t? He doesn’t let himself get down on himself for his sensitivity over them considering some people even write full books rashing on their soulmates because of their words. He’s sure it’s awkward when they actually fall in love. Maybe at a book tour.

He sighs and gets up. He doesn’t even drive, so he can be sure not to crash into his soulmate’s car. Sansa says that’s silly, and he ought to live his life like he would without trying to be his very best for someone he doesn’t even know. She’s always right, but it doesn’t mean he listens to her as often as he should.

Take their completely platonic relationship. Or… mostly platonic.

Sansa doesn’t believe in waiting on anything. She’s dated, had her heart broken, had sex, all without her soulmate. She even shared a flat with a particularly foul-mouthed man, Harry, who she kicked out after he went in on Jon for being a sensitive twat. His words, not Jon’s. She laments losing the good sex sometimes but says she probably couldn’t get off with someone who talked to someone she loves like that anyway.

Then, a few months later, a leak sprung in Jon’s apartment. As he’d been staying at Sansa’s more often than not, she proposed that he just move in. The second bedroom could remain a workspace and they could have a good cuddle before bed, wouldn’t that be nice?

It’s torture is what it is. Jon wakes up with Sansa’s lavender-scented hair in his face, her legs tangled with his, her head on his chest, and he doesn’t see why they can’t be soulmates instead of whichever nameless ass is going to be mean to him straight off. They touch all the damn time - brushing each other’s hair from their eyes, a hand on the back as they move about the kitchen, a hand on the arm while they tell a story, and then, of course, there’s the outright cuddling during movies and getting ready for bed and when one of them has had a terrible time of it at work.

He’s drawn the line at anything sexual, though. He’s a virgin at 28, and he’s determined to stay that way until he meets his person. He doesn’t want to give his soulmate any reason to say these words to him which is foolish and completely pointless. Once they’re written, they can’t be changed. It’s done. His soulmate is going to call him that, and they’re going to fall in love anyway. Or he’ll end up part of one of those soulmate pairs where there isn’t love at all and it’s just some companionship bullshit. That’s all good and well for the asexuals, but Jon has always imagined copious orgasms, both the giving and receiving. He’s spent too many hours on the couch listening to Sansa go at it with her vibrator to not want to make her his soulmate sound like that someday.

Some asexuals fall in love and others have sex, he remembers reading. Maybe he could negotiate.

Besides, it could be worse, he reasons. If Sansa is right, and she usually is, he’ll have to watch her with some idiot for the rest of his life and not even be able to badmouth them to his own soulmate because it’ll be their sibling. Fuck.

So distracted is he by his miserable thoughts that he doesn’t look left and see the minivan barreling towards him.

It’s all very scary: the blurry look of the sky, people’s gasps of fascination and faint concern, the ambulance lights. He hasn’t stood up. Someone yelled at him not to try. He lifts his hand to his head, and it comes away bloody. So, he’d dying then. But he’s supposed to meet —

When he wakes up, he’s in hospital. The lights are bright and it takes his eyes several blinks to adjust. He’s scared and confused. He looks to the side, and Sansa is there. Her face is splotchy red, her eyes puffy, and she’s shaking her head down at her phone. She looks distraught, and he guesses he really is going to die. His breathing gets heavier, and he closes his eyes again to focus on the 4-7-8 breath count that helps him keep his anxiety at bay.

Sansa’s looking at him when he’s done. Her face is mutinous. She’s never looked at him this way before. He’d take a step back if he wasn’t lying down and, therefore, unable to escape.

“You absolute berk.”

He croaks, “You should be nice to me. I’ve been in accident.”

The fury falls off her face, and she stares at him with wide eyes. Her mouth falls open. His own eyes open further in response. She shakes her head with a chuckle. She stands up and pours him a cup of water, plopping the straw in it and bringing it to his mouth.

“I felt it buzz, but I wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t exactly in the right state of mind to meet my life partner with you laid up in hospital.” She runs a hand through his hair.

“What?”

She lifts up her wrist and shows her zeroed out timer. Above it are the words: You should be nice to me. I’ve been in accident. “I should’ve realized.”

He looks down at his own wrist to his own zeroed out timer and the dark words that have haunted him for the past sixteen years. “Why did you have to call me a berk?”

“Because you are one,” she says, remembering her anger. “You died. Twice. They weren’t sure if you’d survive the night and all because you were so worried that your soulmate would be too much of an idiot to realize how fantastic you are.” Her hand clutches his. She is everywhere as she always is.

“This means —“ he clears his throat and tries again. “This means we can have sex.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Her eyes darken, and she looks down at his lips. He thinks she’ll kiss him now and maybe make one of those soft whimpers she does. “Not ’til you’re out of hospital, though.”

He leans back onto his pillows, fingers caressing hers. “So, I must have been unconscious. You saw me, and I woke up today and saw you. Who designs these timers anyway? We ought to file a complaint.”

“We ought to become anti-soulmate advocates. Not really anti, more… Don’t put your life on hold waiting for the one. We’ve been in love with each other for years. The only thing stopping us was the thought that we weren’t endgame. We could’ve had years together.”

“We did, though. Have years. Just without the, ahem, and I must not have become the right one for you until I died. That’s strange, that. Maybe I’ll be different now, more well-adjusted.”

“Doubtful. It wouldn’t make sense regardless. I find your idiosyncrasies endearing.”

“It could happen,” he argues.

And then she does kiss him. It is soft and tender and quick like she’s done it every day for the past ten years. The look in her eyes, though, that’s lingering and holds a promise. She lifts up and presses the call button, her other hand bringing his to her lips.

“Let’s hope not.”

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Come see me at Castle Black.

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If they don’t believe it, why should I?

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If you look outside the walls of your city, you’ll find thousands of Northmen who will explain to you why harming Jon Snow is not in your interest. [x]

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You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts.

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7x07 // 8x05

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What if there’s someone else? Someone better?

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Alright then.

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be serious

an 8x04 scene remix, also on ao3 here.

My father once said that we find our friends on the battlefield, she thinks. And so it is. Now that Daenerys has fought alongside the North, the Knights of the Vale, and the Free Folk, the disdain for her queenship has dimmed for the night. They are cold with her yet they still cheer.

Sansa watches Daenerys toast Arya. She watches her give Gendry a lordship. She knows what is to come. She sees.

She lets herself rest for the night, to be taken in by Jon’s laugh, the loose set of his shoulders as he sits on the table facing her. He is more relaxed than she’s seen him since Castle Black. He has won this battle that she is sure he did not think to survive.

But with Jon turned away from her, smiling at her, what once filled her heart with lightness makes it heavy with dread.

She leaves.

The Golden Company are equal to their forces in number and have not just been to war. It would be wise to wait until the troops are rested. Jon looks at her as if she’s declared she would not send the troops at all. Her eyes stay on him as he assures his queen of the North’s allegiance. She trusts him, yes. Her faith in him is still strong. It is why this stings like betrayal.

Worse when Arya touts that Jon made the right choice in bending the knee. She feels as if she is the only on who remembers that the Wall fell due to this queen’s dragons, due to her need for a true with Cersei. As she is looking down, her eyes meet Bran’s. No, she is not the only one.

Bran is contained, but Sansa has learned to read him well. He will not enter into an argument with them, not when he could visit much more interesting times, but he will not pretend that this queen has been a savior to them.

And then he tells them. Jon is not Ned Stark’s child. He’s a king.

Arya has rushed forward to hug him. She calls him her brother still. It changes nothing in her eyes. Jon would ruffle her hair and make her laugh after Septa Mordane scolded her. He is her brother.

Sansa feels a different rush. A rush of relief and hope. She speaks to squash it. “Your mother had the North in her, and you were raised by Lord Eddard Stark, the same as Theon. You are a Stark, now and always.” She takes his hand. “Who else knows?” She asks.

“Sam, Queen Daenerys, and the four of us.” His voice is gruff with emotion though his eyes are dry. She has never seen him cry, not even when Rickon ——

“Daenerys?” She asks incredulously. Arya stares up at her. “You’ve just made us swear to keep this secret from the world. Yet, you’ve told the woman who could have you executed for having a higher claim to the throne than she does?”

He huffs a laugh. “I’m still alive.”

But a muscle throbs in his jaw, and he looks down quickly after. His eyes are always shifty when he’s saying how good his queen will be.

The four of them talk but none of the tension fades. There is a chasm between them that has nothing to do with Jon’s true parentage. Jon is leaving with a queen that they trust even less now with their family. Bran regales them with a story of Lyanna and Father when they were young, how she would ride through the training yard while he practiced. Arya smiles. Jon is eager for more information. Sansa cannot help but think both of them are dead now because of Southerners. She thinks of Lyanna on her birthing bed, knowing that her father and brother died, trying to rescue her, that it may not have been just the birth that killed her.

Arya says she is cold and will take Bran inside with her. It’s a lie. Arya’s furs are enough to keep her warm, but Sansa appreciates the gesture. Jon looks ready to leave himself but Sansa takes his hand again and sits him down on the stone beside her. They wait until Arya and Bran are out of sight.

He is braced for an argument. They do tend to fight their way through every problem in front of them, each coming at the same goal from opposing sides. She doesn’t want another argument. She doesn’t know when she will see him again. He is headed off to fight one war war and seems unaware of the precariousness of his position in another.

“I wish you hadn’t told her,” she says. “I don’t know what is between you now. Regardless, she is your family, too. I know what family means to you. I only wish you had not told her.”

He sighs. He stands and turns his back to her. “It’s done now. She knows. As long as I don’t press my claim, it will be alright.”

“And is that what you want to do?”

“All I want is to keep the North and our family safe. This is the way to do that. You don’t have to like her, but she’ll be a good queen.”

“So you’ve said.” She closes her eyes at the bitterness in her voice. She exhales sharply and continues in a cooler tone, “What you haven’t told me is why you believe in her. You said we needed a powerful ally, her armies, and her dragons, but you’ve never said why we need someone who would consider burning an entire city of innocents to reach one enemy.”

“She is our queen! Whether you like it or not, you need to respect it! What is it you need to hear to do that? That you were right? That I never should have gone to there in the first place? We did need the dragonglass. We did need her armies. There are always prices to pay. You taught me that.”

“That’s what you think this is about? My pride?” She stands, watching his face with narrowed eyes. Her intake of breath is sharp and burns her throat with cold. “It may have escaped your notice, with you busy pleasing your precious queen, but the only reason the North hasn’t turned against us is because the war with the dead was looming. Now that it is done, we are in more danger than ever before.”

“Has someone ——”

“You never have been good at this side of things, have you? Be serious. Do you think someone announced their plans to murder Robb and my mother before they did it? Lady Mormont might have voiced her discontent to your face. The others won’t, Jon. The others will wait until we need them and refuse to come to our aid or worse. And now, now you are taking an injured, weary army that feels betrayed by you to fight for a queen they despise. Can you truly not see the danger in that?”

He takes a step forward. She brushes aside the hand he reaches toward her. Her breaths are heavy and mingle with his. He looks away with a sigh.

“They may not love me, but they love you, Sansa. You’ve kept them safe and made sure they have shelter. They wanted to name you queen. They won’t make a move that would bring harm you.”

She shakes her head. “You are taking their sons and fathers to what may well be a slaughter. We are all unrecognizable in love. It makes us do things we never imagined we’d do.” She swallows, the stiffness of her spine relaxing a touch. “You don’t see. You never have. I'm angry with you, so very angry. I would be content to let you make any error you see fit to if I wasn’t sure it would cost you your life. But I can’t stop you. You’ll do what you think is best.”

“Sansa,” he pleads.

“As will I.”

“I need you to trust me in this. It may not look like it, but I’m protecting you, us.”

Her eyes take in his furrowed brow, the cut on his cheek, the tremble of his lips.

She trusts him. She believes in him. He is wrong. Pretending that everything is well will not make it so. The last time he looked so uncertain, she had assuaged him. She cannot do that now. Instead, she leans forward and kisses his forehead to take the sting from her words, a hand at his neck, fingers curled into his hair. His breath is shaky beneath her. She drops her forehead to his and says, “Try trusting in me for a change.”

She moves back, and his eyes drop to her slight smile before rising to hers. Her fingernails graze his scalp as they untangle themselves from his strands.

She steps to the side and away from him. He does not follow her out of the godswood. She knows that he will not. We are all unrecognizable in love, and she does. She loves this foolish, stubborn man. She will do what she must to protect him now even from himself.

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She won’t.

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It’s not what I want. It’s what honor demands.

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She would never be caught unprepared again, she swore to herself. (x)

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Name one hero who was happy.

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What else is love? It’s a wise form of madness.

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We’d all be dead already. Without the dragon queen, the wall would still be standing. - @occupyvenus​