The Jonsa Valentine 2023 event will take place on 13th & 14th February this year. Please find the list of event prompts below:
đ Day 1 - 13 Feb : Letters - Flowers - Promise
đ Day 2 - 14 Feb : Kiss -Â Confession - Free Choice
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This fic has me in a chokehold... Honestly reread this wonderful story about 3x already đ. It has enemies to lovers, AND arranged marriage. Cannot praise it enough, please check it out!
I would've loved to add proper candle lighting but I didn't like how that turned outđ..i really hope this won't get taken down. idk how t*mblr works these days
'Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. âLife is not a song, sweetling,â he'd told her. âYou may learn that one day to your sorrow.â In life, the monsters win.' -Sansa VI, (A Game of Thrones)
âIf the boy thinks that he can frighten me, he is mistaken,â they heard Lord Janos said. âHe would not dare to hang me. Janos Slynt has friends, important friends, youâll see âŚâ The wind whipped away the rest of his words.
This is wrong, Jon thought. âStop.â
Emmett turned back, frowning. âMy lord?â
âI will not hang him,â said Jon. âBring him here.â
âOh, Seven save us,â he heard Bowen Marsh cry out. The smile that Lord Janos Slynt smiled then had all the sweetness of rancid butter. Until Jon said, âEdd, fetch me a block,â and unsheathed Longclaw.
By the time a suitable chopping block was found, Lord Janos had retreated into the winch cage, but Iron Emmett went in after him and dragged him out. âNo,â Slynt cried, as Emmett half-shoved and halfpulled him across the yard. âUnhand me ⌠you cannot ⌠when Tywin Lannister hears of this, you will all rueââ
Emmett kicked his legs out from under him. Dolorous Edd planted a foot on his back to keep him on his knees as Emmett shoved the block beneath his head. âThis will go easier if you stay still,â Jon Snow promised him. âMove to avoid the cut, and you will still die, but your dying will be uglier. Stretch out your neck, my lord.â The pale morning sunlight ran up and down his blade as Jon clasped the hilt of the bastard sword with both hands and raised it high. âIf you have any last words, now is the time to speak them,â he said, expecting one last curse.
Janos Slynt twisted his neck around to stare up at him. âPlease, my lord. Mercy. Iâll ⌠Iâll go, I will, I âŚâ
No, thought Jon. You closed that door. Longclaw descended.' -Jon II, (A Dance With Dragons)
(...) Jon knew their end was near. It will be good to feel warm again, if only for a little while, he told himself while he hacked bare branches from the trunk of a dead tree. Ghost sat on his haunches watching, silent as ever. Will he howl for me when I'm dead, as Bran's wolf howled when he fell? Jon wondered. Jon VIII - ACOK
Sansa backed away from the window, retreating toward the safety of her bed. I'll go to sleep, she told herself, and when I wake it will be a new day, and the sky will be blue again. The fighting will be done and someone will tell me whether I'm to live or die. "Lady," she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead. Sansa VII - ACOK
ASOIAF Theories in Pictures: When news of Jon Snowâs death reaches the Vale, Sansa believes herself to be the last Stark. With Robert Arrynâs help Sansa comes out of hiding, rallies support from the Knights of the Vale, and begins to march North.
âJon Snow was the only brother that remained to her. I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet to see him once again. But of course that could never be.â
i debated wether or not i should reply to this but im actually very upset so i will. first of all, yes im aware theyâre not dead, but this gifset is about the tv show and since the show ended what we got was this: theyâre going their separate ways and thereâs no indication theyâll be together romantically. and yes, iâm all for fanfiction and fan theories on what might happen but the show canon was that they didnât end up together so excuse me for being sad about it and trying to make a post to express my feelings about a ship thatâs been in my life since 2016 and left me heartbroken. secondly, while i understand the point youâre trying to make i really do wish you hadnât replied to this post if you disliked it so much because what am i supposed to do with your opinion other then be annoyed about it? like maybe you should try not being rude and learn to ignore posts you donât agree with instead of reblogging them just to add your two cents of hatred on something that probably took someone hours to make. honestly itâs the fact that i just saw a heartbreaking romance quote and thought of a ship that means so much to me and yet you were so bothered by it you had to reblog and add that little snarky reply. i hope it made you feel better about yourself.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter Eighteen - WinterthornÂ
âJon and I donât plan on fighting Daenerys Targaryenâs war⌠at least not until itâs too late for both her and your sister.â Sansa informed him, her stomach sunk at his defeated smirk.
âYou think you and your brother are the only ones who thought of this strategy?â
Can I request another prompt? Jon/Sansa in the 1920s? He's the second son of a duke, who's returned shell-shocked from the trenches; she's an Oxbridge graduate and writer. They meet, because he and her brother were fellow officers in the same regiment and there are some questions about the circumstances in which her brother died.
I feel like every time I get a prompt, I have to preface it with - I know very little about this subject and/or genre! But once again, post-WWI Britain is not my forte. Nor is WWI at all.
Also, I don't know if this fits your prompt 100% cause a lot of the details didn't quite make it in, but this is what I thought of. Sorry if it's not what you were hoping for!
As with all my prompts, I wrote this in one go, so ignore any grammar or spelling mistakes!
Content warnings for: war, death, injury, ptsd and just sadness in general. sorry!
read it on ao3:
ephemera chapter 17
Jon sits at the pub table and waits, one hand clenched around the gin he ordered, but hasn't found the courage to drink yet, the other tapping a rhythm on the table. When he notices he's doing it, he stops, flattens his hand on the smooth, slightly sticky wood tabletop.
He shouldn't have agreed to this, he knows. No good will come of it, but when he had received a letter from her asking to meet...
When she walks in, he knows before he even sees her. He knows because every head turns to look at her. She's that kind of girl. The kind that people notice. The kind that people notice even more in a place like this, but this is where she had asked to meet.
She's as lovely as he remembers, it sets his heart going. Sets his teeth on edge. The last time he had seen her, she'd been in his arms, bright smile on her face as she danced with him all night. He still remembers the way she laughed at how annoyed Robb was about it all, still remembers the way Robb had slung a drunken arm around his shoulders and said, âdon't go getting any ideas, Snow.â
Sansa had laughed at that, the sound light and musical and perfect.
He used to think about that laugh, back in the trenches. Used to close his eyes and try to remember her face. Her eyes, her smile, her hair. The way she smelled, the way she felt in his arms. The way she hummed along with the music when it was slow, her head resting on his shoulder. Her laugh.
But that was before.
Before he cracked his skull open against the hard-packed earth. Before he lost two fingers on his left hand. Before shrapnel nearly tore him apart.
Before Robb died.
When she sits, she isn't smiling. Her face is pale and her eyes look tired and rimmed with red, as if she'd cried before coming here. Still lovely, though. Still just as beautiful as she was that night. That one, perfect night.
He's tapping on the tabletop again, and he stills his hand, flattens it out. Father says it's annoying, and it draws attention to the fact that he only has eight fingers now. He lets his injured hand slide beneath the tabletop. He doesn't want her to see.
âThank you for meeting me,â she says, and there's none of the warmth that her voice held that night.
âOf course,â he says, every muscle in his body tensed. âOf course.â
âI was hoping,â she starts, then pauses. Swallows hard and blinks rapidly, against tears he guesses haven't quite left her. âI was hoping I could ask you some questions. About Robb.â
Ice slides through his veins, though he knew this was why she asked him to meet. Of course this was why. She didn't send him a letter to follow through on her promise. Find me when it's over, she had whispered in his ear that night, her friends giggling off to the side as they waited for her, as Robb moaned and whined about it. Find me when it's over and I promise I'll let you take me dancing again. A kiss pressed to his clean-shaven cheek.
But that was before.
He brings his good hand up to rub at his new beard, the one he should shave because father says he looks like a degenerate with it. But these days, he finds it hard to care about much, his appearance even less. Now he wishes he'd shaved.
âAbout how he died,â she goes on when he says nothing. âThey didn't tell us anything. But you were with him.â
âI wasn't,â Jon says, and his voice sounds too rough. He clears his throat, lifts his glass to take a sip.
âBut you were in the same regiment,â she argues, brows furrowing together, voice pitching up in distress.
âWe got separated on the field,â he tries, the words coming out hoarse, his throat tightening up as he remembers. The wide open field, trampled and ruined. The gunshots and the cannons and the screams. âIt was-â his voice gives out completely and he has to close his eyes because he cannot look at her bright blue eyes. They remind him of Robb. But of course, closing his eyes is worse. In the darkness, he can see it all so clearly. The bodies and the blood. The blast that knocked him back. The blast that should have killed him.
Embarrassment curls in his stomach, sours it, makes him wish he'd never come here. It takes what feels like forever before he can open his eyes again, before the phantom smell of death and gunpowder leaves his nose, before he can uncurl his fists. Before he can breathe again.
âI don't know how it happened,â he finally says, gritting his teeth and forcing the words out. âRobb went ahead of me.â
Of course he did â that was Robb. Running headlong into danger, invincible, until he wasn't.
âWhy?â she asks, her voice wavering. âWhy didn't you-â
That sourness in his stomach turns and rolls. He might vomit up the one sip of gin he took.
âYou're right,â he says, hands shaking. âIt should have been me.â
It should have. Robb is the first born, set to take on his father's title. Robb had a girl back home â a real one, not just a promise of dancing. A girl with a baby in her belly, waiting for her husband to return. Jon had stood by Robb's side at their quick wedding. Jon's just a second son â a no one, with no one at home praying for his safe return.
Sansa's eyes go wide and glassy as she says, âthat's not what I meant-â
âIt's fine,â he says, pushing back his chair and standing up. âI don't have any answers for you, Sansa. You should go home, you don't belong in a place like this.â
âJon-â
She follows him out of the pub and onto the street, and he waves down a cab for her.
When he turns back to look at her, though, he realizes he used the wrong hand. Her eyes are still wide and glued to his left hand. The empty space where two fingers should be.
âJon, I didn't mean it that way,â she whispers. The cab pulls to the curb and he opens the door for her.
âYes, you did,â he tells her. âBut it's alright, I don't blame you for it. It should have been me.â
Her puts her in the cab and ignores her sniffles and the painful way she looks at him, and he shuts the door on the life he could have had. The life he dreamed of, those nights he spent in the trenches. The girl he met once, the girl he'd fallen in love with over a drink and a dance.
But that life isn't for him anymore.
Because Robb is dead, and it should have been him.
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