#beyondmythought-s

[magnoliasrotting]

Jon Arryn’s bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon … and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden’s cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back … why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright.

Jessica Parker Kennedy as Sansa Stark

[ava-rosier]

for random fic title: From dirty paws and the creatures of snow

first of all, hOw dArE yOu

second of all, imma choose to interpret that as two separate titles because i do what i want.

‘From Dirty Paws’

Gee GOlly, as if I wouldn’t be tempted to write a supernatural modern au for this! Picture it: college au set in, idk, some smaller town in the North. Sansa comes from a werewolf family (supes aren’t out in the open, it’s all hush hush like in Teen Wolf). Jon moved here from the south to go to college (and get away from his father’s batshit family). But alas, poor pouty Jon is wandering through a dark wood at night on his way back to his dorm from a party when he’s attacked and bitten by a rogue werewolf. (If he thought dressing in all black would save him from muggers, he really wasn’t prepared for werewolves and their NiteVision.)

Cue confused Jon tryna deal with changes to his body (seriously he thought he was done with this shit after puberty!) and then there’s Sansa and her family/friends who are basically a version of the Scooby Gang trying to help him deal with his new reality while tracking down the rogue who bit him. ROMANCE! DRAMA! Slightly furry sex. Perfect for the Halloween season.

‘The Creatures of Snow’ (this may not make sense and i’m fucking with the timelines a bit but whatever)

The wolves are alone, but the pack survives. 

The Starks are scattered throughout the seven plus kingdoms, but thanks to the magic seeping back into the world, they are able to communicate with each other inside a dream world only they can reach. But this ability is their salvation. Knowing Bran and Rickon live after the sack of Winterfell stops Robb from making a damning choice, between Arya and Sansa’s influence, Jon knows what it means when he takes Janos Slynt’s head. And, thanks to Bran and Jon, every Stark knows what horrors march upon Westeros from beyond the Wall.

Sansa is smuggled out of King’s Landing, not by the Tyrells or Littlefinger, but by the Sand Snakes on Princess Arianne’s command. Dorne is a strange and beautiful place, yet harshly familiar in certain respects. For all that she is grateful, Sansa tempers her hopes enough to remain quiet and wait for the Martells to reveal their motives for rescuing her. Trust is too precious a commodity these days. She doesn’t tell them she knows Bran and Rickon live still, nor does she tell them what comes for all of Westeros from beyond the Wall. All that changes when a tormented, unmanned, and bedraggled Theon Greyjoy makes his way to the gates of the palace in Sunspear and collapses, begging an audience with Lady Sansa. 

He is full of a chilling tale, one that fills every person in the audience with dread, of strange creatures that overran the Bolton soldiers in Winterfell, slaughtering all that stood in their way. Theon kneels before Sansa, asking not for forgiveness, but comprehension.

Didn’t you listen to your lessons? Sansa asks him softly, her face an icy mask to shield the whirlwind of her emotions. Didn’t you wonder why there are leagues and leagues of pathways beneath the castle? Why we never dared venture too deep into the crypts? 

None of the Starks forgot the old stories, and none of the Starks dismissed them. The North Remembers, after all.

Winterfell wasn’t meant to be a castle, Sansa tells Theon. Bran the Builder meant for it to be a prison. That’s where the name comes from: that’s where Winter fell, where the Great Other, god of the White Walkers was defeated at the end of the Long Night. But what do you do when you can’t kill a god? You imprison him. And where better than deep beneath the earth, where natural hot springs lie?

They are Starks, descended from the blood of the First Men, and they never entirely forgot the old power of blood magic. That is why there must always be the blood of a Stark in Winterfell: to keep their prisoner under lock and key. But Theon drove the last of the Starks out.

The Boltons, Sansa whispers to Theon, they removed the iron longswords from the statues in the crypts, didn’t they?

They unlocked the prison.

If Theon thought comprehension would bring him a measure of peace, he was mistaken.  What is left of the Great Other is a weak, wispy thing. It needs a living, breathing body yet it can only pierce through the veil between life and death. Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, betrayed and murdered by his own men, was resurrected through fire, so it cannot be him. That leaves two viable possibilities: Ser Robert Strong and Euron Greyjoy.

What is dead may never die, they say in the Iron Islands, but rises again harder and stronger.

[myrish-lace-love]

Jon/Sansa: Dancer AU Moodboard

Look at this board of beauty @beyondmythought-s made for my little fic!! Thank you my dear! This is a short ficlet I wrote for the lovely @dialux about Jon and Sansa learning to dance...

***

Jon definitely wasn’t nervous, I mean how could he be, it was only Sansa, Sansa who he’d had a crush on for - well, years, let’s just admit it, ok, and who, through some cruel twist of fate he was going to have to dance with, right out in public on a dance floor alongside people who 1) knew what a beat was and 2) could follow it. 

I blame Robb, Jon thought, as he stretched in front of the mirror – Robb who’d had the audacity to get engaged, and make him the best man, and who’d let Jeyne talk him into a paired dance with the members of the wedding party – Jon wasn’t sure, but he remembered Jeyne hanging over Robb’s shoulder and cooing in his ear something like “It’ll be adorable, sweetheart, and I’m sure they won’t mind.” 

No, I won’t mind, I’ll be bloody terrified, thank you very much, because of course Sansa was his partner, and Sansa was a graceful, ethereal woman who practically danced when she walked, for crying out loud, which was why Jon got to the dance studio early every morning, before Sansa showed up, to squeeze in some practice that might help him avoid squashing all her toes this week. 

He’d gotten better, slowly, which, for Jon, wasn’t saying much – he could occasionally keep up with Sansa, even spin her across the studio a few times, thanks to the help of their very friendly dance instructor, who was always willing to cut in and help Jon practice, and she’d been totally cool about letting Jon come early, as long as she could stand on the sidelines and watch, which was a little weird when he thought about it, actually, but the point was he was a little closer to making Sansa happy, and when Sansa smiled at him after he completed a move without falling over he wanted to get down on his knees and propose and – god, he needed to get his emotions in check because she’d be here any minute now. 

Right on cue she swung through the door, in her leggings and pink tank top, which did not help his concentration, though he most certainly didn’t mind the view, and he had to hide his surprise and the pounding of his heart when she kissed him on the cheek, whispering “it’s so sweet, all the effort you’re putting into this Jon, it really means the world to me,” and that was it, he’d get here before the sun rose now, because more than anything he wanted to make her proud, and show her she meant the world to him, too. 

[dialux]

Jon x Sansa either 17) marriage of convenience or 20) running away together (whichever you prefer!)

Let’s do this marriage of convenience thing, alright, because I live for this trope.

[Aged up Jon and Sansa, set in an universe where, on Jon’s fourteenth birthday, Ned tells him his true parentage and Jon goes to Essos instead of the Wall; upon hearing of Sansa’s predicament in King’s Landing, he returns with an army.]

…

“Did you ever think about this?” Sansa asks.

It’s not an unwarranted question. With a man she didn’t know, Sansa would likely have acted shy or shrank away; with Jon, who’s seen her run away from Old Nan’s baths stark naked, it feels all too much like an act on top of everything else that’s happened between them.

“Think about what?” Jon asks, brows furrowed. He stands on the opposite side of the bed, all dark shadows and grim surety. Even now, though he’s readying himself for bed, there’s a knife on the stand next to him and a sword flat on the floor.

“This.” Sansa gestures, between them, unwilling to put a voice to what she wants to communicate- there’s something profane in that, she feels; something that shouldn’t ever be said aloud. When Jon still doesn’t answer, she says, tightly, “Marriage.”

“Are you asking if I had any lovers?” He says, sounding amused for the first time since he found her in Maegor’s Holdfast, blood on her hands, hands fisted at her sides, rage thrumming in her veins. “Because I didn’t. Too busy being a sellsword.”

“You didn’t have one night off,” Sansa says, voice incredulous. It isn’t a question, not really.

Jon’s brows pull together at her tone. “I didn’t have a desire.”

Sansa sighs instead of answering, frustrated for reasons that still elude her. She reaches up to undo the laces of her gown- Jon refused the bedding ceremony, voice forbidding enough that even Daenerys didn’t comment on it- so Sansa has to remove the clothes by herself. 

The rasp of wool over her hips as the gown falls, leaving her only in her shift, is loud. When she steps out of the puddle and folds it neatly, flat over a chair, the silk’s drag over her skin seems to hiss out: liar. 

She bites back another sigh, but the truth of that statement still sinks into her gut. Sansa knows exactly why she’s angry.

Her father is dead. Arya has disappeared into King’s Landing’s alleys; Sansa isn’t sure if she ought to worry for her sister or be glad Arya isn’t here, with her, imprisoned by the Lannisters. Robb’s fighting a losing war in the Riverlands, Winterfell is burned, and Jon has the gall to return after years in Essos, an army and three dragons at his back as if that excuses anything.

Sansa’s met Daenerys Targaryen. She likes the woman rather a lot- Daenerys is strangely likable, for a woman who threatened to set Sansa’s brother afire. She’s the reason for this marriage at all; she wanted a union between her blood and the Starks.

At first, everyone had thought she would marry Robb- until Sansa realized why they were so set on such a match: if Robb married Daenerys, he wouldn’t be able to rule the North, thus bringing the North back into the fold. Daenerys had kept that particular reason far from Jon’s ears, and Sansa had taken full advantage.

It hadn’t been easy, perhaps, to convince Jon of the need for their marriage, but Sansa’s spent years in the south, under Cersei’s thumb, unwillingly married and used. The only difference between this marriage and her previous one to Tyrion is that here, she sold herself off instead off letting Tywin Lannister do it.

All of this might have been forgivable, but Jon- he acts as if he’s come back for her. The boy Sansa’d once known had never been able to lie. This man is not the boy who’d laughed with Arya in the godswood. This man is a man who rides a dragon, a man who leads an army, a man stupid enough to look Sansa in the eye and tell her that she’s the reason he returned to Westeros.

As if I could’ve believed that. As if I was foolish enough to believe that.

“What are you doing?”

Sansa turns, eyebrows already half-lifted, mocking, the mask painted over her heartbreak. “Getting ready.”

“For what?”

“You cannot possibly not know,” she tells him flatly.

His brows pull together further, and then Jon stills, realization flooding his eyes; face shifting into a look that makes her uneasy. There’s pity there, she’s sure; grief and anger, too, but the pity is what makes rage flare in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” Jon says, quiet.

Sansa just barely stops herself from baring her teeth. This whole marriage is unwanted. “You have to bed me. If anyone has cause to doubt it, you know what will happen.”

“She won’t annul it.” Jon sighs, as if exasperated. “Dany’s not going to annul our marriage simply because I don’t bed you tonight, Sansa. She’s not a monster.”

“Tonight, tomorrow, the day after,” Sansa says, voice low- because if it gets louder she’ll start to scream, and that isn’t going to help anyone, “it matters little. And you might be blind to your cousin’s faults, but she’s burned people before, and she’s threatened to do the same to my brother, so you’ll excuse me for trying to avert such an occurrence.” She undoes the laces with one last, decisive tug, rage propelling her that last step; then she seats herself, naked, back stiff against the headboard, and waits for Jon to say something.

Jon- who’s gaping at her, eyes wide and disbelieving, as if she’s actually hurt him.

“You think-” he sputters. “You think she’ll hurt Robb?”

I know it. If Robb doesn’t marry her, if he’s as obstinate as he was before- she’ll do it.

Sansa knows her loyalties lie with the Northern independence. Robb might have forgotten her, but she hasn’t forgotten him. Married to Tyrion, beaten by Joffrey- she’s never allowed herself to forget. Sansa has Stark engraved deep into her blood and bone. She’s been a quiet girl for long enough: wolves are protective of their own, after all, and it’s time she lived up to that.

Her silence is enough of an answer.

Jon exhales, and then shifts, fully facing her, knees pressing onto the coverlet. “Dany’s a good woman,” he says, softly.

“I agree,” Sansa replies.

“Then why-”

“I also think she’s a Targaryen,” she continues, chin tipping up. Jon’s eyes flick down to her breasts before he looks back at her, firmly, the tips of his ears turning red. Sansa ignores him. “I think that I know where my loyalties lie.”

She’s eighteen, alright- in the end, she’s eighteen, and she’s angry, so angry, angry down to her toes and fingers and sometimes even further. Lady died just because she was there, and Sansa has scars down her back that will never fade because she was there, and Robb should have come to save her but he’s chosen to fight in the Riverlands for some reason, and all Sansa has is this lying, lying, lying husband, and she was sure she could make it but-

It’s just-

It’s just been a long four years.

“Is that what this is about?” Jon is asking, laughing just a little. “Sansa-”

If I am to die, then I will die a Stark. I will die like Father. I’ve done my best.

“Seven years,” she says, quietly, no tears, just rage like a rolling storm cloud. Jon pauses, shoulders tightening. “Seven years, and you return, and you expect me to act like nothing’s happened?”

“Sansa-”

“Bran and Rickon are dead.” Jon flinches at the flat delivery, but Sansa doesn’t let him recover. She has no desire to let that happen, not here, not now. “Father’s head was chopped off four years ago. Arya’s been missing for four years. My brothers have been dead for three years. Robb’s been a king for three years. And I have sat here, and I have prayed for someone to come save me, and it’s you.”

“So you would’ve preferred to stay under Cersei Lannister?” He asks incredulously. “To be- to be-”

“Beaten,” Sansa says. “You can say it.”

One hand wraps around her ribs, feeling the cool, flat scar under it. It’s one of the few that can be seen from the front.

“Aye.” Jon shakes his head. “You would’ve preferred that, Sansa?”

“With them, I knew that they wished to kill me. With you, I’m not quite as sure of it- but you can’t dismiss the possibility.” She smiles, bitter. “And I’ve heard that burning to death is more painful than beheading.”

“Damn it,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper before it gets steadily louder, until he’s shouting: “Damn it, Sansa! I wouldn’t let them! And Dany wouldn’t burn you! I don’t know where you’ve gotten your ideas from, but-”

“Queen Daenerys Targaryen,” Sansa bites out.

He pauses. “What?”

“That’s who I got it from.”

“What?”

“She told me that if Robb refused to marry her, she would burn him alive.” Sansa bares her teeth. “Not one of her advisors, not one of her servants, not in a letter. She looked me in the eye and said it. Now, tell me-” she leans forwards, eyes fierce on Jon’s, blue on grey, cold and stark and Stark, at the end, “-do you think I ought to take that threat seriously?”

Jon stares at her for a moment longer, and then he rolls off of the bed, buckling the sword around his waist and sliding the numerous weaponry back into the sheaths around his body. Sansa doesn’t move an inch, not until he heads for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To talk,” he says, not turning his head. “Daenerys-”

There’s a flash of pleasure somewhere deep inside of her, selfish and mean, to hear him call his cousin by her full name. But Sansa’s still too savvy, too careful; Jon might trust in Daenerys’ regard, but Sansa cannot.

“Come back,” she says, sighing, irritated.

Jon doesn’t turn around, but he does stop moving. Sansa sighs, again, and gets out of the bed; pulls the robe thrown over one of the chairs around her shoulders and walks over to him.

“Jon,” she says. “Come back.”

“If she told you that,” he begins, frustrated.

“She did. And the only thing you can do about it is come back to bed. Nothing you say will change it.”

His jaw clenches. Sansa breathes in, short, shallow, soundless, and reaches out, the very tips of her fingers rubbing against his wrist.

It’s the first touch she’s initiated in four years. The feel of Jon’s skin against her own is startling; she feels warmth flush through her at the softness of his skin. Her breath catches in her lungs for just a moment, but the gasp is loud in her ears.

“Sansa,” he says. “Sansa.”

What do you want from me? She wonders; but Sansa knows, knows it like she knows a sword to the back, knows it like she knows her father is dead and her brother’s chosen a kingdom over her life. I have so little left.

“I swore I wouldn’t hurt you,” Jon whispers, eyes caught on the curve of her fingers along his wrist. She can feel the beat of his heart. “Sansa, I swore to protect you. I have to-”

She reaches up, those same fingers that touched Jon’s wrist, and presses them to his lips. Sansa’d just wanted him to shut up, but she realizes, too late, the position she’s standing in: two fingers pressed against his lips, so close to him that she can feel the heat radiating from his bones.

It reminds her of how it felt, the night that he burst into her rooms. Sansa had blood staining her hands, staining her hair and gown and heart, too. She’d looked at a black-curled shadow and let her knife fall. Through her tears, she’d seen a man enter, tall, broad-shouldered, and she’d thought, Father.

Jon had picked her up, taken her to another room, called for a bath and for a maester to see to her wounds- had she not had her jaw clenched tight, terrified of trembling apart, Sansa might have been able to tell them that none of the wounds were her own.

But she hadn’t.

He’d knelt next to her, head bowed over her hand, and he’d sworn to keep her safe. He’d run his hands over her hair. He’d cried, too, when he saw the pale lines marring her back.

“I came back for you,” he’d whispered, and Sansa had believed him, entirely, without reservation.

She fell asleep, after that; when she woke the next morning, he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Sansa had dressed, braided her hair, walked out into this new, Targaryen-castle; she’d tried to search for him. When she finally found him, he was speaking to Daenerys.

That true, honest affection, laden in his voice and his laughter- Sansa had last seen him like that with Arya.

It was then that she realized that he hadn’t returned for her.

No; Jon had returned to Westeros for his cousin, who wished to claim the Iron Throne. Jon had returned, perhaps, in part, for the family he’d left behind; but mostly it was for the sake of this pale-haired queen.

Sansa could forgive many, many things.

She couldn’t forgive this lie.

But now, looking up at him, she wonders if she hasn’t been the slightest bit cruel to him, as well. Sansa’s the first Stark he’s seen in years, and she’s avoided him for weeks. She’s refused to talk to him about her father or Arya, levelled glares when he pushed- she’s been cold, and reticent, and the quiet resentment has built up on both their sides.

“Please,” she says, and that finally breaks his resolve.

They return to the bed, sitting on one side instead of lying down- Sansa keeps one hand on his wrist, afraid that if she let’s go he’ll flee. The candlelight casts his face in shadows, but it paints the arc of his cheek a liquid gold. She exhales, a little shakily.

“You’ve been angry,” Jon says lowly, when Sansa keeps silent. “Ever since I came here. And I don’t know why.”

“Yes,” says Sansa. “You do.”

He pauses, and then something erupts out of his throat, vibrating from deep inside his chest. It might have been a laugh had it not been so bitter.

“It isn’t me you’re angry at.”

“Jon,” she sighs.

“Or, it is.” He looks at her, then away, just as fast. “But not because I came here. For something else.” Jon’s jaw works, and Sansa bows her head, lets the hand not gripping his wrist to cross her ribs, to rest two fingers over the silk covering the scar-smooth hollow there.

“You lied,” she whispers.

“When?”

“That night. The first night.” Sansa feels the sting of nails against her scar, muffled through silk, the small pain grounding her. “You told me you came back for me.”

“I did,” he says.

“You came back for Daenerys’ throne,” Sansa says wearily. “You came back riding on a dragon she hatched, with an army that belongs to her. You came back for her, and you’ve spent every day since you walked into King’s Landing lying to me about why you did it.”

Jon shifts, so he’s seated more fully on the bed and is facing Sansa head-on. His voice is soft, or at least softer, when he says, “If I came back by myself, do you think I would’ve been able to save you?”

“You could’ve gone to Robb.”

“I could have,” he agrees. “But, Sansa- Robb has an army. He’s fighting, aye, that’s true enough; but he has an army, and he has your mother, and he has the support of the North.” His eyes are large and grey and painfully earnest. Sansa can’t unsee it now: the boy she’d once known, the boy she’d once called brother. “You had none of it.”

He reaches forwards, placing his free hand over the hand holding his wrist.

Sansa tries to swallow past the lump in her throat.

“If I wished to save you, I needed an army. And…” he falters, before pushing on. “-and, you know, Dany didn’t want to return so quickly. She wanted to wait, to let the Lannisters weaken themselves further.”

“You persuaded her,” Sansa says, voice scraping high and thin.

Jon’s eyes darken. “The rumors of King Joffrey- of how he treated you- I couldn’t believe them, not at first. And then I came here, and I realized how much worse it was.”

“It wasn’t so bad after I married Tyrion,” Sansa says.

The corollary: it had, once, been worse.

“You were catatonic,” Jon says roughly. “That night. The first night. Nobody would tell me where you were, and by the time I found you, you were screaming. Crying. You didn’t know who I was, Sansa.”

She doesn’t remember this. She remembers the way Cersei’s eyes had flashed, the ache when one of the gold-plated guards dragged her out by her hair, the give of his throat under a knife she took from his own waist- but she cannot remember screaming.

Which might be the entire point.

“I should’ve come earlier,” he finishes, thumb sweeping over her knuckles, sending warmth through her chest.

“I thought you lied,” Sansa confesses softly.

Jon looks back at her, and there’s none of the anger she might have expected, that likely would have been there in any other man’s face. Then he moves closer, hand leaving hers- she has a moment to feel disappointed at it, but only a heartbeat, because then he threads his fingers through her hair and brings himself even closer, gently guiding her to his shoulder.

He’s warm, and he’s solid, and there’s something very, very tender in the way his hand curves over the back of her neck.

And, in the end, Sansa has spent four years all alone.

She lets out a shuddering, gasping sort of a sob, the first truly harsh one that she’s allowed of herself in years, and brings her other arm over his shoulder, digging into it. Sansa can feel his heartbeat, strong under her ear, and though it’s a strange thing, it’s that- that steady, unfaltering drumbeat- that breaks her.

The tears are messy, undignified. Sansa might have felt ashamed, but that feeling’s dissolved for some reason, along with her rage and fear.

Perhaps it’s because Jon’s known her for so long.

Jon doesn’t stop her; he keeps one hand under hers, lets her keep it pinned to the bed. He threads the other through her hair, and hauls her even closer to him, until she can feel the weave of his shirt, rough against the skin bared by the gaping neckline of the robe she’d thrown on so hastily before.

“I should’ve been here, sweetling,” he says, voice low and rasping in her ear.

Sansa shudders at the endearment, curling even closer, plastering herself against him, and he continues to talk: soft words, kind words, gentle words. She feels content, and, for the first time since she realized the danger’s of the world, for the first time since her father died, safe.

By the time the tears fade, she’s loose and pliant in his arms. Jon shifts her over so she’s fully on the bed and pinches out the candles surrounding them, leaving the room in darkness. Sansa hears the clatter of things falling over; after a moment, the bed shakes with his return, and he slides his hand over hers, lacing their fingers together.

“Sleep,” he says, and they do: innocently, for all that it’s their first night as husband and wife.

…

PICK A SHIP AND A NUMBER AND I’LL WRITE YOU A FIC!

[thelegendofclarke]

@beyondmythought-s​: 

The guy who posted the video has confirmed she was saying mother fuckers. I've only seen low quality videos, but I assume since he was there & is telling people that he would know.

Ooohhh can you link me pretty please?? I didn’t see anything like that when I was looking. I really, really hope that’s what happened!

[thedarkestgreys]

11 & 26

11. Do you listen to music when you write?Yes I do! So I’m a super nerd (if you’re following me you should know this) but I listen to a LOT of show tunes and film scores while writing. Sometimes I throw on indie/alternative Pandora stations, depending on what type of feel I’m going for, but chances are if you’ve read something of mine I was listening to a score composed by Hans Zimmer or something from the Lin Manuel Miranda library.26. Story you’re most proud of.That would be Stages. It was my first foray into Jon x Sansa and it meant so much to me that it was well regarded by people in the ship, considering that I had been lurking for a short amount of time when I decided to write it. It’s probably the EASIEST fic I’ve ever written too in a way. It just flowed very naturally to me when I was writing it and I hope to get over my current writers block and can get to work on its companion piece again! 

[nyangibun]

Jonsa prompt: Sansa goes missing after she and Jon have an argument about what to do with his parentage

Heee okay!

I just hope this is up to scratch? I’m not sure of the ending but… here you go nevertheless! Thanks for another prompt! <3

Sansa had very specific smiles set for very specific moments. It was one of the first things Jon had learned about her upon their reunion. It was something new, something he had not encountered before in the woman. 

When they had been younger, mere wee things, green around the ears with dreams of knights and dreams of brothers in black respectively, she had one smile. It was bright and delighted in a way that was so wholly splitting it was infectious. Her laughter in the same breath was a tinkling sound, soft and melodious in the great halls of Winterfell. Jon would look towards the fiery-haired daughter of Catelyn Stark and feel envious of her easy joy; her delight in fanciful things; and the love that was so clearly vivid in her opulent gowns of her mother. All of which Jon never had. Joy was often marred with the all too familiar sense of loss and fanciful things were not afforded to the bastard son of Eddard Stark. 

But the worst of all, in that time he now considered too short and too fleeting, at Winterfell, the absence of a mother’s love had bereft him of the kind of smile that graced Sansa’s lips.

Now, time had stolen much of that easy joy and left her with an arsenal of smiles she kept at hand. Cutting smiles, impassive smiles; smiles devoid of feeling, only carefully maneuvered chess pieces in a never-ending game. Jon could not feel remorse in how she’d had to learn these smiles because for they had kept her alive long enough to return to him. She could smile a thousand smiles all of its meanings different from one another and no less sincere and he would still be glad for their ability to armour her from the realities of their world. 

But Sansa kept a special smile hidden. It was a minuscule twitch of her lips, so fleeting one could miss it, but no song or poem could aptly capture the warmth in that smile. No amount of prose on golden sunshines or warming hearths could truly do justice to the kind of smile Sansa saved for him. It was more than just beautiful; it was relief. It was the soft curve of hope, tinged pink by the promise of tomorrow. Jon could lose himself in the lines of her lips and still find new nuances to take his breath away. 

That was not the smile he had received though. This one, Jon suspected with wearying frustration, was also specifically set for him. The elegant purse and tilt was a resounding echo of Ygritte’s words, ‘you know nothing, Jon Snow,’ and after all these years, Jon did know nothing. 

Somehow the reunion with Bran, the reveal of his true parentage, had unburdened something greater and more despairing than Jon could understand. Surprise had flooded Sansa’s face, widening the blues of her eyes, the little ‘oh’ her lips made, but then surprise rescinded into happiness and then anguish. Jon could make as much sense of her emotions as he did of numbers and politics. When he asked her of it, she denied him her emotions. When he voiced his desire to step down as King of the North, she had said in that clipped, measured way of hers that he would do no such thing. And when Jon had pointed out the betrayal of the people were his true parentage ever to come to light, Sansa had suggested he tell them himself before anyone could beat him there, that Petyr Baelish still sought control of Winterfell, of her. Without missing a beat, Jon had reasserted his promise to protect her but that he could not in good conscience sit on the throne as a Targaryen. He would step down for Bran or Sansa; he would return to Castle Black once Winterfell was fully restored and safe.  

That was when she smiled that smile at him. She had said, ‘I will not be joining you for supper. Good night, your grace.’ and left without another word. She was angry, that much he was sure of, but to what end, he didn’t know. Bran had offered very little insight into his sister and so Jon left the boy for his chambers. If she would not come to supper, he would not either. 

Hours passed and the wind howled outside like a pack of direwolves relinquished to some unspeakable agony. He could not find sleep, not when Sansa was still furious with him, so he pushed the furs from his body and went in search of her. When her maids informed him she had not been seen since earlier that evening, Jon began to panic. Winter was here; didn’t she know that? Was she so furious she would risk its unforgiving cold to escape him? But even as he exited the castle, he knew where she was. He had found her there on many occasions but never in the dead of night when the air was so frigid it could rip the air out of the lungs of any man. 

The Heart Tree rose from a sea of white, its face more haunting now in the darkness. Its mouth opened in a silent, frozen cry for the lost Starks. Jon rubbed his hands in futility – warmth would not come to him in this winter – but it was not the cold that had stripped his lungs of air. It was the empty Godswood. The fresh layer of snow undisturbed even by a small critter. Sansa wasn’t here, hadn’t ever been here today, which meant she was still out there somewhere. 

Jon turned around and raced to the stables, disturbing a young stable boy in his haste. He grabbed the boy’s shoulders with urgency that would surely leave bruises in the morn. “Have you seen Lady Sansa, boy?” His teeth chattered, from fear or the cold Jon didn’t know and didn’t have time to sympathise. He shook the boy once more. “Have you!” 

“N-No, your grace. But her steed is missing.” 

That stupid, stupid girl. Jon ground his teeth and released the boy. He raced towards his own horse and pulled himself up, foregoing a bridle and harness. “Alert the guards. Have every available man searching the castle and the woods beyond. Lady Sansa is missing.” 

Jon steered his horse from the stables and signaled for the guard to pull open the main gates before he could reach it. The wind bit into his face like a braided whip against his skin. The temperature was nowhere near as cold as north of the wall but it would be enough to freeze a man or woman ill-prepared for this weather. But Sansa was smart. Surely, she would be okay. She had to be okay. There was no other option. Jon could not withstand a reality in which she would not be okay; he could not fail her as he had failed so many others. The world needed her smiles, all of them, every scathing one, every polite one, every quietly repulsed one; they needed her more than they would ever need Jon, because for all of Jon’s experience as Lord Commander, he was not equipped to be a king here in this world. He could not play politics the way Sansa could. He could not do any of this without her. 

The horse raced against the heavy flurry of snow. Jon could not see much beyond the white but his heart still beat and there was still blood warm in his veins. He would not cease his search. He would scour these lands until he found her, and when he found her, he would wrap her tight and promise never to argue with her again. Jon couldn’t even remember what they had argued about – something about his parentage. It all seemed so foolish now. If Sansa wanted him to stay on the throne then he would, the other houses be damned. 

But as he thought that, there was a distant voice in his head telling him that that was not what had bothered her, that for all she had argued with him on the matter, something else had angered her. Only what? Sansa was the most perplexing woman he had ever met. 

A flash of fire caught his eye. No ordinary flame could withstand the kind of snow falling from the sky. It must’ve been a trick of the light, a reflection of – Sansa. Jon raced towards the hilltop, the red billowing like flames growing closer and closer until he could see Sansa wrapped up in her fur cloak, lying on her side as the snow fell around her. Jon didn’t hesitate to dismount and cradle her into his body. When there was no immediate response, he carried her gently to the horse and swung up after her.  

The journey back to Winterfell was thankfully swift. Torches and lanterns flickered from all the rooms of the castle as the people searched for Sansa. Jon rode through the gates. “Call for the maester! Bring him to my chambers!” He halted the horse in front of the steps, dropped down and pulled Sansa back into his arms. She was cold, so cold her lips were blue in this light, and her body fell limply against him. Jon’s heart raged against his chest. Every tremulous pulse reminded him of Sansa’s weakening beat. 

Reaching his chambers, Jon quickly placed her atop his furs. He needed to get her out of her wet clothes but even in his urgency, he still had a sense of propriety and he could not take advantage of Sansa while she was unconscious. Jon ran from his chambers and called for her maids. He waited for what felt like hours outside his own room but was probably only a few minutes. Once the maids had finished changing her, the maester arrived and Jon found himself helpless to do much else. He stood in the corner of the room, staring, watching, praying with increasing desperation for her recovery. 

It was then in this state of frozen despair that Jon realised what he had not before, why Sansa had been truly angry with him, but maybe he had always known and only denied himself it for fear of what it would mean. Jon could see now how Sansa must have seen the news of his true parentage. While he had been wallowing in his own anguish, an age-old fear of never belonging, never being a true Stark, Jon had forgotten to see what being a Targaryen could truly mean. It could mean Sansa. It could mean acceptance of feelings he knew now they both felt as strongly as they felt the searing pain of winter. But his denial of it, of his throne, of Winterfell and his true father, was a denial of her. Oh, if only he could turn back the time so that he may sweep her into his arms as soon as the words left Bran’s lips and show her how he would – and could – never deny her. 

“Your grace…” Jon blinked, startled by the sound, and rushed to the old maester’s side. The man inclined his head in respect. “She is weak and I fear the cold has reached her lungs but I have sent for a brew that should help. If she is kept warm, I believe she will make a full recovery.” 

Jon exhaled in relief. He listened carefully to the maester’s instructions and refused the help of the servants in caring for her. She would not return to her own chambers. No, she would stay right here. Where she belonged, he quietly realised once Jon was calm enough to take in the sight of Sansa in his bed. 

The fire the servants had kindled crackled and hissed behind him. Jon slipped into the bed and angled Sansa so she was resting against his chest, lying in between his legs. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and offered his warmth for as long as she needed it. 

Jon could not tell when he had fallen asleep but he was being pulled awake when a soft hand cupped his cheek. He opened his eyes in an instant to see a weakened Sansa staring back at him. “Jon…” Her voice cracked and she coughed, turning her face away from him. 

He reached up to grip her wrist with one hand and tilt her chin to look at him with the other. “You should rest.” 

“I…” Sansa coughed once more into the sleeve of her dress. “I am rested. Jon, I must tell you something.”

“Then I must tell you something also.” 

There’s a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead and her skin was still as pale as the snow itself but Sansa was alive and that was all that mattered. He could face anything, even her, simply knowing that. 

“Let me say my piece first,” Sansa insisted and so Jon nodded in agreement. She inhaled deeply and shifted so she was settled more comfortably against him, her hands now resting lightly on his chest. “I’m sorry I ran away. There is no excuse for my reckless behaviour. I only wished to distance myself from…” 

“From me. It’s okay,” Jon assured her by tracing an invisible line across her cheek.

“It’s not, Jon,” Sansa shook her head. “You were being logical where I was being emotional. A Targaryen, whether he had grown up as Ned Stark’s bastard son or not, would still divide the houses. It is better now if you step down before someone can learn of your true parentage and let Bran become Lord of Winterfell.” She coughed again but she was not finished and she was stubborn enough to force her lungs to speak until her mind was heard. “But I was just so angry you would think of stepping down, to think yourself less worthy because of a name. I was mad that you would leave me here.” 

“Can I speak now?” Jon asked her and she nodded, her brows now creased in worry. He wished to soothe her but he had to say what he needed before he lost his nerve. “Sometimes I can feel it. Where they stabbed me. Sometimes I can feel the edge of the knives driving into my chest as if they were trying to cut out my heart.” Sansa shuddered and Jon raised his arms to pull her closer into his chest. “It’s a feeling unimaginable. Like dying again and again.” He chuckled softly, mirthlessly. “But today, nearly losing you, I realised that you have captured my heart and to be without you, to be without it, is a feeling worse than death.” 

Taking a leap he feared he might not recover from, Jon pressed his lips firmly against hers. He allowed himself to consumed by her touch, to relinquish his hold on whatever part of his brain that had denied himself from her for so long. 

Sansa’s fingers gripped the collar of his tunic and she pressed her body more insistently against him. When they eventually pulled back, both breathing as hard as if they had been racing through the snow, Jon discovered a new smile. There in the soft curves of her lips was a joy he had not seen since before they left Winterfell but it was also shy and curious. Jon kissed her again, more wanting than the last, and delighted in the flush in her cheeks. It was then Jon decided he would spend the rest of his life discovering every way he could make her smile for him. 

[leannedirewolflover]

What's your favorite band? 💫

It would have to be either Marina and the Diamonds, Imagine Dragons, or The Band Perry. Then again, my day is made 1000% if I hear The Beatles or Queen, sooo..