JONSA WEEK 2023

Welcome to snowstone week! We’re hosting our first jonsa week this year in September from the 9th through the 15th! We hope to do this event annually.

[snowstoneweek]

Thank you everyone for participating in this years Jonsa Week, We will hopefully hold Jonsa week next year the same time as this week. We will be accepting submissions until the 25th of this month. This also applies to our AO3 collection.

[wandering-scavenger]

thy love is winged and nameless by wandering_scavenger

chapters: 1/2

rating: M

tags: Fairytale AU, Celtic Folklore Inspired

premise: in which a huntsman saves a fae girl from certain death.

She took a step back when he moved towards her, stopping only when her body was pressed to the wall and he firmly cupped her chin to look upon her face. His grip softened when she flinched. He did not know if he hurt her, but he certainly did not mean to. In the warm yellow candlelight of the cabin, without any chains to bind her and gag to obscure her mouth, he saw that she was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen in his short life. Her eyes were a deep blue, so vivid that he could drown in them if he dared to look into them any longer. Slowly, he moved his free hand to run his fingers through her hair, all doubt within him fading away as he tucked a curl behind her pointed ear.  He recalled Bolton’s words just as he recalled what his mother taught him long ago: the day you tell your name to fair folk is the day you lose your freedom, perhaps forever.

for the @snowstoneweek event ❄️🐺

day 3 (september 11): fairytale 🧚🏻

[thewolvescalledmehome]

And From the Ruins, Chapter 4

Snow Stone Week Day 7: A Time for Wolves @snowstoneweek

Read from the beginning HERE.

Sansa sat across from Jeyne Poole, her conversation with Jon from last night burning in her belly. She needed to tell someone, someone who may understand. If anyone could forgive Sansa for choosing to marry her half-brother in order to save herself from a worse marriage, she knew it would be her childhood friend.

“I have a secret,” Sansa whispered, the way they used to when they were little girls.

The last time Sansa had whispered a secret to Jeyne Poole, she had confessed her love for Waymar Royce, a brother from the Night’s Watch. Sansa supposed this wasn’t so different.

Jeyne looked away from the window she had been staring out, something akin to interest on her face. It made Sansa hesitate telling her that she was going to marry Jon that evening, that Jon was supposed to be talking to Castle Black’s septon at that very moment.

“Is it a good secret?” Jeyne asked. “I don’t have the taste for bad secrets anymore.”

“It…Yes. It’s a good secret.”

“Tell me,” Jeyne said, turning fully from the window now. For the first time, Sansa saw her closest friend without horrors shadowing her.

“I’m to be wed tonight.”

Jeyne’s face clouded only slightly.

“To a black knight? I thought their vows forbid it.”

“Stannis reclaimed Winterfell and needs a Stark to hold it. He wants me married to any lord loyal to his claim to the Iron Throne. I won’t allow anyone else to choose a husband for me. They only want me for Winterfell.”

“You’re going to marry before you return to Winterfell. Stannis won’t be able to use your name,” Jeyne murmured. “It’s bold, but a wise play.”

You’ll say too bold, Sansa thought, and maybe more reckless than wise.

“Who have you chosen?” Jeyne asked. “Are there many lords here?”

“No, no, there’s not many lords. But status is no longer a concern of mine. I’d prefer someone kind and gentle and lowborn than a high lord who’s cruel.”

Jeyne nodded again, her gaze drifting.

“I’m to marry Jon,” Sansa said at last.

“Jon? Jon Snow?” Incredulity was ripe in Jeyne’s question.

“Aye.”

Sansa studied the tunic she was mending. Since arriving at Castle Black, she had taken up the task of repairing and stitching any clothes the men would give her. She found it helped to have something to do with her hands.

When Jeyne was silent longer than Sansa could stand, she finally glanced up. Jeyne was not looking at her with outrage and disgust as she had been expecting, but staring out the window again.

“Jon Snow,” Jeyne repeated. “He was kind when I arrived. His hands were gentle and his voice was soft.”

“Stannis offered him Winterfell once. Offered to make him Jon Stark and marry him to some Wildling. Jon told Stannis that Winterfell was mine and rejected him.”

Jeyne nodded as if unsurprised that Jon Snow had turned down Winterfell and being legitimized for her.

“What shall you wear? What will he cloak you in?”

It would be Sansa’s second wedding. The gown she had worn to her first had been beautiful and perfect, fit for a high lady in a song, but the man had been the Imp and the wedding forced. This time, she would willingly marry someone of her choice and not give a damn about what her gown looked like.

“This, I suppose. I have little else. Jon has a cloak still, from when he left Winterfell. It’s black, with a white fur trim. It will serve.”

“It won’t. He should cloak you in Stark colors.”

He’s not a Stark, Sansa wanted to amend. If he were, I would have never suggested this.

“They put me in a white cloak with grey fur. It was the one piece of clothing that—” Jeyne stopped abruptly, causing Sansa’s eyes to snap to her friend. Jeyne’s nails were biting into the pillow she held in her lap. Sansa would have been fearful that Jeyne would puncture the fabric, if not for the fact that she had seen to it herself that Jeyne’s nails weren’t long enough to do damage.

“It was the cloak I wore when we fled. Theon thought it would help convince Stannis that I was Arya, if I were wearing the Stark colors. It’s in the chest, there.”

When Sansa didn’t move, Jeyne unclenched her grip on the pillow.

“Should you want it, I mean. Mayhaps Jon would prefer not to put you in Stark colors.”

He would, though, Sansa knew. And she would prefer it as well. Without comment, Sansa rose to fetch the cloak.

“It’s only fitting. After all, your children will be Starks.”

Sansa started at that. She had not thought that far. Her planning had only gone far enough to ensure no one would use her as a pawn again and that there would always be a Stark in Winterfell.

“Jon is a good choice. He’ll be gentle with the bedding.”

Read the rest of the chapter HERE.

[sailorshadzter]

roses from the bastard born king in the north

@snowstoneweek

She doesn’t dare believe that she’s here. 

It’s only been in her dreams that she returns to Winterfell, to her home, and yet… Here she was in the courtyard, sliding down from her gray mare, swallowing against the rising tide of emotions within her. Everything was as she remembers it to be and it fills her with such warmth, such comfort, that she thinks for a moment she might fall to her knees in relief. Prayers she once believed could never be answered, have been, and she finds herself longing to see the godswood, to perhaps say a prayer of thanks to the gods for finally listening to her pleas. 

“Daughter…” The voice prompts her back into the present and she turns to face the man that now stands at her elbow, reminding her that even if she was home, she must pretend it never belonged to her at all. “Are you ready?” Lord Baelish asks with that sick, sinister smile of his and she lets out a long, deep breath with a single nod. “Come then…” He offers her his arm, which she takes, and allows him to steer her away from their horses and up the steps that would lead them inside and out of the cold.

“Welcome to Winterfell, my lord, my lady,” a man she doesn’t know greets at the door, his accent one she cannot place, but with a warmth to his face that brings her some comfort. “The King has been awaiting your arrival,” he continues on, gesturing back towards the double doors that would lead into the great hall, where night after night she had dined with her family as a child. Those days felt like a lifetime ago, in truth, days so far away it was almost as if they had never even happened. “I am Davos Seaworth, Hand to the King.” The older man continues on and now she knows who he is, for Lord Baelish has explained him to her in the days leading up to their journey North. “Come…” He turns and they follow after him, down the short distance to the doors and through them into the hall.

Her heart skips a beat at the sight before her- there, sitting behind the head table, is her family. Well, two of them, at least. Little Rickon sits at Jon’s elbow, his once unruly curls now secured in a fashion similar to the brother he sits before. She’s plunged into a memory then, of little hands tugging on her skirts, of a baby brother she had loved unlike all of the others. A baby brother she loved as if he were her very own. The memory fades and she is careful to keep her face impassive as she and Baelish approach the table, sweeping this King in the North a curtsy she hopes he does not recall from childhood. 

From where he sits, Jon watches as the pair enters and approaches him there at the table. Lord Baelish is an ugly man, he notes, with dark, wild eyes that gives him the impression that he is up to something more than he lets on. But the young woman at his side…? Jon is awestruck by her beauty, with dark hair so long it sweeps across her lower back as she moves, her blue eyes looking up at him from beneath her lashes as she sinks into a curtsy far better than even the most noble of women he’s met. “Your grace,” Lord Baelish speaks, drawing Jon’s attention back to him, though he could easily stare at the young woman for far longer. “Thank you for receiving us, we are grateful for your hospitality.” He continues on with a smile that speaks the same as his gaze; Jon will remember well not to trust this man. It was strange enough, he supposes, that of all people Lord Baelish would wish to meet him- he had pegged him as a Lannister man, after all. “To have a Stark back in Winterfell is a welcome sight indeed.” His eyes glance at the little boy seated to his side, noticing that the child is staring not at him, but at the girl beside him. Baelish had counted on the boy being too young to remember his sister, but perhaps he had been foolish to think so. “This is my daughter, Alayne,” he pushes onward, gesturing towards her, urging her forward another step or so. “We are eager to pledge ourselves to you, my king.” There is that sickly smile once more, sending chills down his spine. 

Jon’s gaze shifts back to the young woman, wondering why now he’s struck by the notion he knows her from somewhere. It’s like a long lost memory, something he’s forgotten, coming back in pieces to him. The way her lips curve when she offers a smile… The soft sound of her voice when she finally speaks… Your grace… It has never sounded sweeter. “It is a pleasure to meet you both,” Jon says, turning back to Baelish. “I was surprised to receive your letter as I thought you were in King’s Landing,” he speaks plainly, without hesitation. “But, if you are here to support the North, then I welcome you to Winterfell.” 

“I was in King’s Landing for a time, but considering the circumstances there…” They both know what he speaks of- the death of Joffrey and the crowning of his kid brother, a boy who would be little more than a puppet king for the Lannisters. “I decided it best for me to return home to my daughter and the Vale. My ward, Robin Arryn you know is but a boy himself, I must see to his bringing up.” 

“Aye, I recall hearing of his mother’s sudden death,” Jon points out and Baelish looks down, as if overcome with grief at the mention of Lysa Arryn. “She was my siblings' aunt, so we mourned her well here in Winterfell.” Beside her father, Alayne stirs, as if struck by what he’s just said, but quickly as it comes her face becomes solemn once more and Jon must wonder if he’s only just imagined it. “You must be tired from your journey North, let me have you shown to your chambers.” Jon goes on, to which Baelish gives a nod and another bow, ever the courtier. 

When they have gone, Jon turns to his little brother at his side, a boy of just eleven now, with eyes that remind him of Sansa and hair that reminds him of Robb. “What is it, Rickon?” Jon asks, noting his brother’s silence and frowning lips. He thinks that perhaps even this child has seen through Lord Baelish’s charms and has an unsettling feeling in him that he doesn’t quite understand. 

“It’s just…” Rickon begins, but trails off with a shake of his head. Only when Jon encourages him further does the boy speak. “I thought I might know her, Lady Alayne I mean.” Jon blinks, startled by these words, for had he not thought the very same thing? “I cannot place her, but she is familiar to me, like a long lost dream I once had.” The boy turns those blue eyes upon him and Jon pats his head, offering him no solution, for those thoughts were one and the same with his own. 

But, Jon knows one thing was for certain- he wanted to speak with her alone. 

[ x x x ]

As the sun rises above the horizon, casting daylight across the snowy landscape, she’s already in the godswood. 

It is surreal to be beneath the canopy of weirwood trees once more and she feels the sting of tears in her eyes as she sinks down beneath the heart tree. How often had she found her father in this very place, his dark eyes closed, his lips pursed in thought? She and her siblings had played among these trees, had run and laughed and spun with excitement as only children could do. After all her time in King’s Landing, she had quite forgotten what it felt like to feel at home and the rush of this emotion has her wiping tears from her cheeks before long. 

If only the rest of her family could be here… If only the family that was there could know who she really was. That thought alone was enough to diminish the warm feeling in her chest and she sighs, wishing with all of her heart that things could be different. To embrace Rickon… Jon… It would give meaning back into her life. Even if it were just once… It would be enough to get her through the rest of her life without them. 

Across the way, Jon watches her, having come down for his usual moment of silence before the day begins. Like her, he thinks of Ned Stark when he’s here, he thinks of a past he misses dearly, of family he’s lost to death and time. His breath escapes in a cloud of white- it was exceptionally cold this morning, but she seems to be right at home there in the snow, her wool skirts gathered around her where she sits, nothing but a simple cloak draped over her shoulders. He decides he cannot stand there staring any longer, so he approaches, the snow crunching beneath his boots signaling to her his arrival. She looks up and for a moment, he thinks she means to jump up, but he shakes his head. “Stay as you are,” he says with a grin, gesturing towards the open place beside her. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but if I may…” She blushes crimson but gives a single nod, scooting over just a bit, giving them an appropriate space between them as he sits down beside her. “How are you enjoying your time in Winterfell so far, my lady?” Jon asks, shifting so he can face her, only to find she’s already looking his way. “You seem unbothered by the cold.” 

A laugh escapes her before she can stop it and when she speaks, she’s still smiling. “It is true, I don’t mind the cold at all,” she replies, folding her hands in her lap as she tilts her head, dark hair tumbling over her shoulder. “It does snow in the Vale, though it isn’t nearly as cold.” She knows she shouldn’t be here, talking with Jon like this, but now that he was there before her, she couldn’t walk away. “It is beautiful here, your grace,” she goes on, thinking of what Alayne would truly say in this moment. “I am eager to see more, my father told me of the famed blue roses your gardens grow. I would like to see them.” 

Jon chuckles, knowing well of the roses of which she speaks, winter roses that only grew in the coldest freezes. In truth, the gardens were full of them even now, at the very start of the cold season. “See them you shall do then, my lady,” he says and she’s smiling again, a smile that reminds him of the glow of the moon. 

“You know, you needn’t call me lady, your grace,” the word is like a knife to her heart, thinking of her beloved wolf, dead all these years now. “I am but bastard born.” 

“Aye and so am I,” he replies with a shrug, as if it means little to him. “Yet you and all the others still call me king.” Her blue eyes widen with surprise and then her features soften, her lips parting as if she means to say something more. But from somewhere in the distance, they both hear the morning call finally ring out. 

“I should go,” she says, suddenly jumping to her feet, as if she’s been spooked by the sound.

 Jon follows after, catching her by the hand before she can turn to go. “Alayne,” he calls her by just her given name, surprising her once more, as he draws her hand to his lips for the softest of kisses, as if she were the queen and he the subject. As her hand slips away, the warmth of his lips remains, even long after they’ve parted ways.

[ x x x ]

When supper comes and she steps into the great hall with Baelish at her side, she’s greeted by the dozens of lords and ladies that have come to dine with their King in the North. She’s once more reminded of childhood, of days when her parents would host dinners for the lords, for even the King himself; nights of laughter and warmth, of ale and good food, of music and perhaps even dancing. 

At the head table Jon sits once more, wearing black as he always had done, curls slicked back with a coronet of black resting on his brow. Beside him, Rickon is handsome in blue wool, his hair style once again matching his elder brother’s. She smiles at the sight of it, wondering if Robb was still alive, would Rickon wear his curls loose as he had once done? “Your grace,” Baelish greets the king and his brother as they come to stand before the table. “It is as if Ned Stark sits before me once again.” Most Northerners did not trust this man, Jon has come to find out, and certainly his father would have been among them. 

However, Jon smiles for the compliment, but merely nods in response. “Before you take your seats,” Jon holds up a hand and the man in Stark colors that stands at the back door, one which she knows leads to another corridor, pushes it open so someone can come through. “For you, my lady,” he says as a maid comes forward, holding in her hand a wreath of beautiful blue roses. He rises up to his feet, taking the roses into his own hands, leaning over the table so he can crown her head with them himself. She’s blushing crimson as her hands come up to gingerly touch the silky soft petals, the weight of the crown she now wears somehow comforting. Jon offers her a smile and she remembers herself, sweeping him a curtsy before she allows Baelish to lead her towards the table where they would sit. 

And that night, even when she returned to her rooms, she would still have that crown of blue roses perched upon her head.

[sailorshadzter]

dreams of home

@snowstoneweek

He’s dreaming of Winterfell. 

With its tall peaks against a gray sky backdrop, he dreams of it as he always remembers- tall and imposing, but home. Home. He wishes anything could ever feel like that again… But he turns back and it’s become Castle Black, anything but home. A foreign place, even after all this time, a place he knows like the back of his hand, a place that gives him nothing at all.

When he wakes, he must wipe his eyes dry, the familiar pang of homesickness sharp in his chest. It’s been many months since he last dreamed of the home that once was his- but, Winterfell was not just home… It was family. It was all he once had and all that he’s lost. The father that has died, beheaded by the Lannister’s. It was the brother, dead at war for the North, losing both his crown and his head. It was the little sister, lost to the world, presumed dead, never to come back again. It was the little brothers, burned alive in the courtyard of the very place he dreamed of, a reminder of the cruelty of the world in which they lived. And of course… The other sister… The one lost to him in another way entirely, untouchable, the one who lived in that very place he dreamed of. 

Jon can only hope that Sansa is well there in Winterfell and that the rumors he’s heard are not true. The rumors of King’s Landing and the rumors of Ramsay Bolton… The truth was, he’s not sure which ones are worse. He thinks of that sister with her vivid red hair and big, blue eyes… He thinks of her with all of their wolves in her lap as pups, beloved by each of them, laughing as she snuggles his Ghost close to her chest. 

Crossing the room, he looks out the window and into the swirling storm that rages just outside, wondering if somewhere, Sansa was looking out into the very same storm.

[ x x x ]

The dream is the same as it always is.

She’s running down the halls, barefoot and her hair flowing, laughter that is her own echoing around her. There’s no explaining it, but she knows love, she knows happiness when she runs through these halls. This is the place she wishes to stay. But, her feet carry her onward even though inside, she’s screaming to stop… She’s screaming to stay. When she steps out the doors into the sunshine, it quickly fades, leaving nothing but winter gray in its wake. She turns back to the home she knows, the home she loves, to watch it crumble to dust before her very eyes, taking with it the family she can only know in memory now. 

When she wakes, she must wipe her eyes dry, stomach churning at the sight of her husband still snoring in the bed at her side. It has been a long time since she dreamed that dream, one which reminds her of a time she will never get back. Tugging her robe closer around her, she crosses the room, simply so she might stand at the window and look out. The wind screams fiercely outside, as she wishes she could do inside. Palm to cold glass, she shivers, wishing with all of her might that she could be anywhere else, for Winterfell no longer felt like home to her. 

She thinks of the bruises, black and blue, hiding beneath the layers of wool she wears, given to her there in this very room. She thinks of the parents who had never even raised a voice to her, that once slept in this very  room, watching from wherever they were now as their daughter was used and abused in their own room, in her own home. A shiver races down the length of her spine, but it certainly was not from the cold. 

Her mind drifts to the siblings long lost to her… Arya, her only sister, the sun to her moon, the very same coin only different sides… If only they could have learned to understand one another. She thinks of Robb, dead too soon, a king perhaps too great for this mortal world. Instead, he would be King in the North in another place, their ancestors cheering his name with swords held high. And of course there were those little brothers she once thought dead, burned to death in Winterfell’s courtyard, but Theon… Theon told her the truth that those boys were not her brothers but rather, poor farmer boys from the village. Her heart cannot be happy about this, however, for still yet, those boys… Bran and Rickon, who once was so small they clung to her skirts, were gone. They were as good as dead. 

And then comes the thought of the one brother she has left, the one she never bothered to get to know, the one she knows is still here in the North, part of the Night’s Watch. Jon… His name comes to her mind often these days, especially now as she walks the halls they once lived in. She can’t help but to wonder if he ever thinks of her, awful as she was to him when they had been children, she was his sister, she was his family. She wonders if he thinks of her, as she thinks of him. 

A sigh escapes her and she leans in, forehead to the window, staring out into the raging storm outside, wondering if Jon too watched this storm from somewhere North.

[estherruth-jonsatrash]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Ghost | Jon Snow’s Direwolf/Lady | Sansa Stark’s Direwolf Characters: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Ghost | Jon Snow’s Direwolf, Lady | Sansa Stark’s Direwolf, Howland Reed, Meera Reed, Jojen Reed, Ned Stark, Arya Stark, Bran Stark, Catelyn Tully Stark

An entry for @snowstoneweek jonsaweek2023 day 7: A Time For Wolves

The girl seems bonded to Lady but she is just as affectionate with Jon’s wolf, the feel of her fingers brushing softly and indulgently through his fur, her little giggles at the contented growls Jon’s wolf and his sister Lady make.

After a little while, Sansa sings to them in a voice as pretty as she is. It is strange to think he’s never felt more content than in this moment.

But it is only a dream.

Isn’t it? — Jon Snow, Howland Reed’s bastard son, has only ever lived in the Neck. But he starts to question who he is when he begins dreaming of a direwolf at Winterfell, and the girl who cares for him.

[natividadmoon]

queria participar en el Jonsa Week, pero apenas tengo el boceto del dia uno

[transdimensional-void]

"And in a few days I will be there, love Whatever here that's left of me Is yours just as it was"

"A Time for Wolves" - Post-S8 Jonsa AU

"Game of Thrones" Season 8/"A Time For Us" by Andy Williams/"Poldark" Season 2/"As It Was" - Hozier

[sibyldisobedience]

The Whyte Wolfe and the Grey

The full ballad from chapter 6 of Ladywolfe, now up on Ao3!

In the style of ‘The Bailiff’s Daughter from Islington’ or ‘ True Love Requited’

There was a maid, fair and well beloved,

Of a Northern house ancient and noble.

She loved her kinsman, a baseborn youth,

Who lived in old Winterfell.

She was betrothed, and could not let

On him her heart bestow,

And he went away to the Night’s Watch,

Because he loved her so.

On our maid in the South, o’er the years,

Many misfortunes did fall.

All was lost to her; mother, father, and brothers,

Leaving only her love at the Wall.

She traded her silks for a mean attire,

And straight to the Wall she did go.

A dying horse carried her North,

Towards her true love, the crow.

She rode for miles through the sleet and snow

And prayed ‘neath a great Heart Tree,

‘If he be dead, take me as well,

If not, bring my true love to me.’

She laid herself down ‘neath the weeping tree,

Fell asleep with a heartbroken sigh,

But lo’ as she roused in the moon’s cold light,

Did her true love come riding by.

’Twas not the youth, but a great white wolf,

Ferocious as a winter’s storm.

He laid himself down ‘fore the weary maid,

And offered to keep his love warm.

Their hearts beat as one, in the silent night,

Their fears and sorrows held at bay.

Come morn he awoke, a man restored,

And the maid was a she-wolf of grey.

The ghost wolf stalks his foes in the night,

At sunrise the young Lord strikes his prey.

His lady’s fair face only sees the moon’s light,

The she-wolf hunts at his side by the day.

Someday they’ll return to old Winterfell,

And cast out the Lions and Flayed Men,

Hang the False Lord and his Bastard dog,

When Winter comes once again.

Till such a time, they wonder the North,

Forever caught ‘twixt night and day.

Bound by true love, the oldest magic there is,

The Whyte Wolfe and the Grey.

William Ladd Taylor, Couple Embracing (c.1904)

Read the Rest here:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[sibyldisobedience]

Reblogging for @snowstoneweek. Day 7: A time for wolves.

[thewolvescalledmehome]

Break the Magic that the Devil Made, Chapter 3

Snow Stone Week Day 6: Free Day - Where Will We Go? @snowstoneweek

Read from the beginning HERE.

When it had been the false lord suggesting that Sansa spend the night in the manor, she had been filled with fear. It’s improper, she had said, even though she only stepped foot on the path in the hopes of being his bride. Jon’s curse had mentioned nothing of brides, only a maid showing kindness, and yet she was far more comfortable agreeing to sleep within the walls. It’s only because it’s so late, she told herself, though she wasn’t sure if that was wholly the truth.

There was at least a small part of her that wanted to make sure that Jon was taken care of. He had been living as a wolf for most of his life and didn’t seem too steady on his feet. Her spending the night in the manor seemed more prudent than anything.

“I’m sorry I’m unable to offer you better accommodations,” Jon said. “The rotten, false lord had poison in his blood. I’m loathe to touch anything he may have.”

“Poison…from the food? Did…Did the cook try to kill him?”

Jon was shaking his head before Sansa had finished her thought.

“There’s not another soul in the manor. He was the only one, aside from you. I think…that the poison was meant for you.”

There was something halting in how Jon spoke that sentence. It was different than how he had earlier, when he had been physically unable to force the words out. Now Sansa thought it sounded as though he was choosing them with care, excluding certain details.

“For me…? But he ate the food. He did keep trying to encourage me to eat, but he ate too.”

Jon shrugged.

“Mayhaps he built an immunity, or had a remedy at the ready. Or mayhaps, the poison came from him, his blood, and he put it into the food.”

“If he didn’t want me to break the curse…what did he want with me?” Sansa asked slowly.

She had been so focused on Jon’s transformation, on the truth of the curse, that she had yet to stop and consider how her evening had started under such false pretenses. Was the rotten lord truly going to poison her? To what end?

Read the rest of the chapter HERE.

[sailorshadzter]

a fairytale all our own

@snowstoneweek

When Jon finally takes to the stairs that will take him up to his chamber, he’s beyond exhausted. 

It has been a long, trying day of meetings and arguing. There was a land dispute between two of the Lords and it had come to blows the day before between them, leaving one with one less ear than he’d started the fight with. Jon sighs, thankful that the day was over and thankful that they had finally come to a resolution, even if it had taken all day. 

As he approaches the door to his room, he pauses before he reaches for the knob for from inside he hears a softly speaking voice. Quietly as he can, so he can’t disturb the occupants, he pushes open the door a crack simply so he might peek inside. And there in the grand bed, with three children snuggled around her, Sansa sits propped up against the pillows, a book open in her hands. “And then…” She’s reading, her voice lyrical as she tells the story from the pages, the story one he remembers her reading often when she was a small girl. “The princess gasped as the prince rode through on his beautiful white stallion, sword in hand, all so he could save her from the evil king!” At her left elbow, even Robb listens carefully, though he had only just a few days before declared himself far too old for such nonsense, despite being but six years old. Then there’s little Lyanna, tucked between her mother and Ned, while her big, Stark colored eyes blinking sleepily as she surely tries to stay awake to hear the ending. And then, Ned is at her other elbow, reading ahead over his sister’s head, for he’s giggling at something there on the page his mother has yet to even read aloud. 

Jon can’t help but stay there a moment longer, listening in on his family, something so precious to him, something so dear, that he can’t even put it to words. But he knows the story is coming to a close, so as Sansa reads the final page, he pushes open the door and slips inside, quietly as he can so as to not disturb them. But of course, Sansa’s eyes are upon him at once, knowing her she knew he was there all along. “Papa!” Lyanna’s sleepy vocals bring a smile to his face as he sinks into the available space at the foot of the bed.

“Father!” His boys cry in unison, scrambling over their mother’s legs to reach for him, and Jon finds himself laughing as they climb him like a tree. “Tell us about the fight Lord Royhe had!” Robb exclaims, having heard snippets of the conversation brought to Sansa and Jon early that morning.

“Your father is tired and it is well past your bedtime,” Sansa cuts in and both boys sigh dramatically, though they’re slipping off the bed without much hassle. Sansa follows after them, Lyanna in her arms, though the small girl leans over so she might kiss her father, earning one back in response and a little tug on one of her dark braids. Sansa’s eyes say it all as she casts a quick glance his way before she’s shuffling the boys from the room, only after they’ve both called out a good night to their father. 

When the room is quiet and empty, Jon kicks off his boots and strips off his doublet, before climbing into the space Sansa and their children once occupied. He glances left and sees there on her side of the bed, the book she’d been reading from, so he reaches for it, unable to help but to run his hand across the well worn cover. Once glossy letters have gone matte with age and there’s a small tear at the bottom corner. Jon imagines Sansa as she had once been, a small girl tucked into the bed Lyanna now sleeps in, reading this very same book, dreaming of a prince she would hope to meet and love with all of her heart. He chuckles, recalling how he and Robb would laugh over such a dream, but even they had once sat up in bed listening to Catelyn reading to them from a book of tales, though it had been of the Dragonknight and his many fights for the realm. 

The door opens again and in comes his wife, a smile on her lips. “Do they sleep?” He asks as she sinks down beside him, her body offering warmth and comfort as she shifts a little closer. 

“They do,” she says with a laugh, thinking of Lyanna’s quiet snores before they had even reached her room. The boys had climbed into their beds without trouble, certainly asleep before their door had even swung closed behind her. She looks down at the book in his hands and chuckles, reaching for it, her hand running across the cover just as his had done a few minutes ago. “It feels like a lifetime ago when mother and father gave me this book,” she had been Robb’s age, a gift for her nameday that year, one of the only things she still has from those days so very long ago. To think that book she once read as she drifted off to sleep each night, she now reads to her own children… It was unlike any feeling she’d ever felt before. The fairytale life she had once wished for, hoped for, was certainly hers now, even if it had taken time to become hers. Once she had dreamed of a golden prince, but in truth, she had found no happiness at all in that prince. Rather, it had only been misery. Slow as it was, time brought her to who she was meant to be with, that gentle, brave knight who her father had promised to her. “I love you,” she murmurs as she leans her head in, placing it against his shoulder, her hand sliding over his atop the furs. 

“I love you,” he whispers back, his chest tightening, the warmth he feels threatening to overflow. 

This was their fairytale.

[patritxi]

Jonsa edit inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's poem Annabel Lee

A late entry for the @snowstoneweek event

Day Six: Free Day

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we- Of many far wiser than we-

[....] And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

[esther-dot]

Angela Carter

A Time For Wolves for @snowstoneweek

[sweetaprilbutterfly]

Jonsa Week 2023: Day 7 - A Time For Wolves

The Queen and King of the North

[alicent-targaryen]

JONSA WEEK 2023 ▸ Free Day (NURSE!SANSA x SOLDIER!JON, WWII!AU)

[esther-dot]

“What are you really doing in the woods, Jon? What don’t you want me to see?”

Jon is a woodsman AU for @minitafan

[patritxi]

- "The wolves will come again,” said Jojen solemnly.

- “And how would you be knowing, boy?”

- “I dreamed it.”

George R.R. Martin, A Storm of Swords

For the @snowstoneweek event

Day Seven: A Time For Wolves