#jonsa prompts | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

reginarubie · 1 year

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For that lovely anon who asked the “Until I found you,” song, Jonsa story:

Here you have the canon one, know I mean to make the next installment of Jon and Sansa do end up together by Sansa POV with this song so you shall have the modern version too!

(I know you had sent me another ask, but I can’t find it for the life of me in my ask box, I have too many unanswered asks, but I did not forget about you!)

I was lost within the darkness until I found her [I found you]

To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. “Sweet lady,” he said, “no victory is half so beautiful as you” — Sansa II, AGOT

He wanted it. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. — Jon XIII, ASOS

Jon said, "Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa." — Jon IV, ADWD

Of sudden, he felt the warmth spreading from his chest to his limbs, up his neck, turning almost into a scorching heat burning him, and darkness inside of him from within.

Someone was chanting, chanting in some kind of ancient, malicious tongue that seemed to curl around his heart like an iron fist and squeeze until there was no longer life inside of him and no breath inside of his breast.

Someone was singing, the voice so far and so soft that Jon wondered if it could be his mother, singing to him from the recess of his mind.

Does she know about me?

The next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother.

In his dreams his mother had always been beautiful, with kind eyes and a soft voice, noble born and she loved him. He wondered if that warmth spreading into his limbs and vanquishing the cold could be her love. Maybe, in death he'd known the embrace of a woman who loved him, that kind of love than could not die, that kind of love one could not deny, the kind of love for which duty and death were nothing but empty words with no power over him.

You know nothing, Jon Snow., Ygritte seemed to accuse him from somewhere in the recess of his mind and Jon could almost feel her probing hands on her, and wished once again Ghost was there, to stand between them.

Ghost, he remembered the blades and the cold.

Traitor.

Half a wildling, half a wolf, the blood of Winterfell. Somewhere deep in his being a wolf howled and it was as if he was suddenly shoved back inside his own body after having floated above it, around it, without anything binding him to the empty vessel he had left behind.

I loved another, echoed in his mind, the warm hand of the Red woman gripping at him, probing at him. The dead need no lovers, Jon Snow. But suddenly her heat was gone from his flesh and Jon felt the burn of the air feeling his lungs again — like the bite of the cold across his flesh — and he shivered as he roused with a sob.

The room was all wrong, he decided as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and the wooden canopy. Everything was wrong.

Davos' kind eyes, fatherly in some way he couldn't quite explain, were the first thing his glance could focus on.

———————————————————————————————————

“You swore an oath!” Edd tried to plead with him. I'm the sword in the darkness, I am the shield that guards the realms of men. He remembered his oath, but he also remembered the darkness and emptiness of death.

“My watch has ended,” he countered, his voice rough and dark and rasping. He doubted he'd ever talk quite right again, or feel quite warm enough from the chilling cold that the bite of death had left behind, claiming some part of him.

“Where will you go?” there was defeat in Edd's voice and Jon almost felt sorry for him. I cannot remain here, not after what happened. Jon knew all of his men by heart if not by name and that those very same men would plunge knives in his back…

“South,” he said on the spurn of a moment “get warm,” he added with a forced smile, that had nothing of the few genuine ones he had found himself dispensing to his men, to his brothers.

He could see in Edd's eyes. What about Winterfell?, Stannis had offered him Winterfell, but Stannis was dead. And Jon was just a bastard, besides, Winterfell belonged to Sansa. It was hers by law and by justice.

I know all about Lady Lannister and her claim, better Sansa and her new name than the bastard who had been killed by his own brothers. Even if she was forever lost, to death or to the coldness, then Winterfell would be lost with her.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

His fingers curled around the hilt of Long Claw. Honor made you leave, honor brought you back. Then the horn was sounded. Visitors.

Who would come?, who would reach the end of the world and not think of turning back and return where the sun shone and away from this land of death and coldness?

Hair as red as liquid copper, tangled into a semblance of a braid, framing a lovely if pale face and sparkling blue eyes, shining with barely concealed tears.

His heart skipped a beat.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

Sansa was shivering, but she was real in his arms. Her cheek was ice cold, but as she nuzzled against his face it seemed to spread warmth into his chilled bones. Her arms were trembling and her back was racked by soft sobs.

You are alive, her breath seemed to say, to chant, you are home. And his heart beat at the beat of one single word. Home.

——————————————————————————————————

You fell, I caught you. I'll never let you go like I did.

She's somehow grown more lovely too. He couldn't tell how that was possible. Sansa had always been, at the edge of his mind, someone far lovelier than any maiden in a song. She had been born to be a princess, though he had hated that they had betrothed her to Joffrey.

Daintily she ate the broth Jon had, had brought to them. Beautiful. That's not the right word either, his mind supplied, the right word sitting at the tip of his tongue.

Radiant.

Sansa had always been radiant, but all the more when she was happy. She had looked radiant as she had walked beside Joffrey inside the great hall of Winterfell, so many years past, as Jon bristled in the corner.

Now, she looked even more radiant.

He couldn't feel cold anymore, he realized. It was as if by returning Sansa had also returned some chunk of his own being back to him.

Home.

“Where will you go?” her tone had been even, but Jon could feel the concealed dread and fear in her.

As if Jon could ever let her go, now that they had found one another again.

“Where will we go,” he corrected her watching her slowly realizing the implication of his words as a soft beam opened, timidly, on her rosebud lips — had her lips always looked so pink? — his eyes unable to tear away from the soft peak of her pink tongue as she spoke, “if I don't watch over you Father's ghost will come back and murder me,” he jested.

That was safe.

He was her brother, and Sansa had suffered enough — she had not said but Jon could see it in the depth of her blue eyes — he wanted to be her safe space, from now on.

He smiled to her.

“Where will we go?” she asked again, then, her voice ever softer, as if Jon was being caressed by a cloud of warmth. She had always had the easy smile of the Tullys — they all did — and yet her smile had always been far more enchanting that Robb's or even Arya's.

“I don't know,” he admitted, looking down to his lap, “can't stay here, not after what happened,” he added, looking back to the hearth.

But I will keep you safe, he wanted to say. He didn’t.

“There's only one place we can go,” Sansa murmured, her eyes never leaving his face, “home,”.

He should've been surprised. He wasn't. Sansa was every inch as stubborn as any other of his siblings. His lord father used to say that he knew better than to fight with a Tully.

Jon knew better than think he'd be able to refuse Sansa anything.

“Should we tell the Boltons to pack up and leave?,” he asked, hoping his voice sounded teasing but conveyed the fact that Jon would never bring her back to the Bolton's clutches.

“We'll take it back,”

And there is was. The Tully's head-strongness. Sansa had been perhaps softer than their siblings, but ever as forthright and singleminded as all of them.

“Winterfell is our home,” she said passionately — and when had she learned to talk like that?, who was he joking...Sansa had always had a way with words, a way to get exactly what she wanted — “it's ours,”

I am not a Stark, he almost said. He had made shield of that knowledge since he left home.

“I see what you are, Snow. Half a wolf and half a wildling, baseborn get of a traitor and a whore. You would deliver a highborn maid to the bed of some stinking savage. Did you sample her yourself first? If you mean to kill me, do it and be damned for a kinslayer. Stark and Karstark are one blood."

"My name is Snow.”

“It's ours,” she had said, and how could Jon deny her?, how could Jon ever deny her “and Bran's, and Rickon's and Arya's. Wherever they are, it belongs to our family, we must fight for it!”

As if Jon had not fought, and fought and fought and lost.

“I want you to help me,” she said stepping closer, as if she had not heard him tell her he had fought and lost and he didn't want to fight anymore “but I'll do it myself if I have to,”

Jon would bid her goodnight, hope the sleep would bring her better counsel, but he knew that look in her eye. He knew it like he knew the summer snows and the walls of Winterfell and the names of every Stark king buried in the crypts.

You do not belong here, boy.

Winterfell is ours.

——————————————————————————————————

“Jon doesn't have the Stark name,” Davos pointed out. He was a good man, Jon granted, and he was sure he was willing to help them in any way, because for some reason he had chosen to follow him after Stannis had died.

I am not a Stark.

Winterfell is ours.

“No,” Sansa agreed and Jon felt it like a punch in his gut “but I do,” she added in the same very breath.

She couldn't be suggesting what Jon was thinking, could she?, had she spent enough time with the Lannister to have taken to some of their queer customs?

“Jon is every bit Ned Stark's child as I am,” Sansa decreed, her voice dispelling his doubts “the North will fight for Ned Stark's son,” she said.

———————————————————————————————————

Would you bed your sister, Jon Snow?

A beacon. Jon could not define Sansa in any other way as she walked down the very same steps Jon had descended to met her halfway when she first had reached Castle Black, a bundle in her arms, clad in a dark blue dress and a his old furlined cloak.

“New dress?” he almost cringed at how hopeful his voice sounded as he looked at her. Sansa smiled, sincerely touched by the fact that he had noticed, as if Jon had not noticed every detail about her. Always.

“Yes,” she said looking down at herself, as she would do when they were children and she wanted to show them her newest design with the pride that only a girl so young could feel “do you like it?”

Jon knew nothing of dresses. Say something, he beseeched his mouth, his mind, anything, make her smile, she's beautiful when she smiles.

“I—I like the wolf bit,” he said, going even as far as make an half-aborted gesture to her chest, where the beautiful design of glass pearls composed a beautiful snarling direwolf.

Anything but that, he wanted to slap himself back to death and let the earth swallow him.

Make her smile, you fool, he berated himself, not make her awkward and uncomfortable.

Sansa's smile was timid, but genuine and the blush on her cheeks was well worth the embarrassment, he decided, looking at how lovely she looked in his cloak and with her cheeks flushed so.

“Good,” she said, giving herself composure and smiling openly and truly at him “because,” she opened the bundle of fabric and presented it to him, “I made this for you,” she stated, her eyes sparkling.

It was a cloak. She had made him a cloak. Jon could scarcely breath.

You may now cloak the bride and take her under your protection.

“I made it like the one Father used to wear,” Sansa stated, clearly in an attempt to fill the silence that had suddenly stretched between them “or as far as I can remember,” she added, downplaying all the effort she had surely taken to remember the design and bringing it back to life.

There was the Stark direwolf branded into the leather of its fastenings.

Jon doesn't have the Stark name.

No, but I do.

He looked up at her, “Thank you, Sansa” he said, hoping it could convey how grateful and proud he was that she would wrap him in Stark blazons and name him a Stark by action.

He didn't care for Edd half disgruntled, half disgusted look or for the sappy smile on his lips, the smile he had no intention to fight; he didn't even care if he look a sappy idiot, or a giddy greenboy, nor for the cold as he shed his old cloak and wrapped himself in the one Sansa had made for him.

For him.

———————————————————————————————————

They had taken back Winterfell.

You think that's obvious?

Oh, I think that is a bit obvious!

If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive. Do you understand me?

I will never let him touch you again, I'll protect you. I promise.

“Jon,” her voice had never been so cold, he turned to look at her “where is he?”

He didn't ask, she didn't say. Jon knew better than to confront her about it, she had been far gentler than he'd be, after all. And she was far more beautiful that she had any business of being, but Jon knew well enough, by now, that that would not stop her from growing much more beautiful still.

“Jon,” her voice was unsure, but soft and it left him wanting. The need cutting much deeper than the hunger he had always felt for Winterfell.

I am having the Lord's chambers prepared, he had told her. He had expected Sansa to take them, no question asked. They both knew who deserved them, by virtue of her birth, and by her actions — the Knights of the Vale had won the battle and they had rode North for her — but, in hindsight, he should've expected her to offer them to him instead.

“I am sorry I didn't tell you about the knights of the Vale, but—”

And in that moment Jon knew he loved her. He loved her with the kind of love that went beyond duty and honor and the bindings those imposed on any man, much more a bastard who had wanted nothing more than prove his worth.

“We need to trust each other,” he told her.

Trust me, he wanted to beg her, I kept you safe, didn't I?, have faith in me.

———————————————————————————————————

“You are my sister, but I am king now,” Jon protested.

He knew she had concerns, but she should not have voiced them before the lords, before the lords she ought to have kept her tongue at bay and then broached the subject in private.

Publicly they were to be an united front.

“So what?,” Sansa demanded walking past him “I can't question your decisions any more?” she asked “Joffrey never let anyone question his decisions, do you think he was a good king?”

Jon stopped in his tracks, suddenly as if slapped. He knew of some of the things she had suffered at Joffrey's hands. Not all, he was sure, but some things she had shared with him.

They had wanted to beat any kind of defiance out of her, they had failed, but Sansa had, had to learn to hold her tongue and lie to survive.

I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey, she told him to have affirmed more often than not, never letting her guard down, my one, true love.

She had learned to keep her opinions close to her heart and guarded and to never speak her mind least she wished to see her head removed.

If Jon thought over it, now, her protesting in open court made him feel both like an idiot and preening with pride. Because, she had felt safe enough to do that, to do what she had learned not to do at the Lannister court. She trusted him enough to speak her mind freely, because she knew he would never turn against her.

“Do you think I am Joffrey?” he spat, and if he sounded more pathetically in search for her validation, Jon didn't care. He needed her to tell him, tell him she trusted him. That she knew he was not Joffrey.

That with him she could protest before all the lords of the Realm and beyond and he'd thank her for her consideration — which he hadn't, but he had been blinded by arrogance and misplaced hurt pride before.

“I think you are as far from Joffrey as anyone I have ever met,” Sansa said, rising to his need and delivering her faith in him.

Jon exhaled. Thank the Gods.

“You're good at this, you know?” she asked, and it seemed she was not done complimenting him either. Part of Jon preened at her consideration, part of him filled with dread, knowing he was latching onto her “At what?,” he asked and her smile in reply was genuine.

“At ruling,”

“No,” he teased, looking out. Hoping she would protest.

She did.

“You are,” she said, “you are,” and Jon looked back at her, “but—”

And that made him smile. So she had faith in him, but less in his abilities. He chuckled.

“What?”

“What did Father used to say?,” he asked her “anything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit”

“He never said that, to me”

And how should I be smarter?, by listening to you?

Would it be so terrible?

Didn't she know he did nothing but listen to her?, could she really not see it?

——————————————————————————————————

Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal.

“You're abandoning your people!,” Sansa accused “you're abandoning your home!”

— you're abandoning me. She didn't say it and yet his treacherous heart skipped a beat as if she had.

And why, why did she have to look that beautiful?, he was sure it was some cruel joke of the Gods. The way for them to remind him he is nothing but a bastard, and bastards are born of lust and betrayal.

I am not a Targaryen, he chanted in his head, I am not a Targaryen. No matter the stirring deep in his soul for Sansa. The truth plain to see and yet hidden in the darkest of his mind and heart.

He was hers.

The North is a part of me, and I will never stop fighting for it. No matter the odds.

“I'm leaving both in good hands,” he assured her, watching as her beautiful eyes sparkled with barely concealed fear for him.

“Whose?!”

“Yours,” he was merely a murmur, but it echoed as if the hall had suddenly grown silent over the relentless chaos it had been before, and Jon wondered if the lords knew. They must've, because he could not tear his eyes off hers, “you are the only Stark in Winterfell,” he told her “until I return, the North is yours”

I am yours.

He nodded to her, and she gave him a so ever minute nod back.

———————————————————————————————————

It had been the hardest thing he had ever done. Falling in the dragon queen' bed. She was beautiful, if with a beauty so raw and dangerous that Jon felt suffocated.

You won't have to worry about the King in the North anymore, he had meant in jest, to cover how uncomfortable her purple gaze was making him feel, I've grown used to him.

She couldn't be as different from Sansa if she tried, and therein lied the crux of it all. Jon could never escape the truth about his unholy love for his sister, but he would never taint her soul with the stain of his sin.

The dragon queen could prove a distraction for however small, and she clearly was taken with him. He hated manipulating her that way, but he had felt like he had no choice.

When he had roused from his dreamless sleep, on her ship, Jon had not been alone. She had been there, perched onto the mattress and looking over him, as a dragon would lay over a hoard in the songs.

Am I your prisoner?, he had asked her, not yet. Her reply still echoed on his mind — she had taken his ships and had stripped him of his weapons, virtually he might have been a guest but he knew he was nothing short than an hostage — he had never been an hostage gambling with his life, the life of the woman he loved — for however unholy that was — and the life of his siblings.

But someone else had, and she had survived all of her abusers and found her way back home. To him.

The dragons had proved less mighty than Jon had hoped, but still they would've been useful. Daenerys had lost one — which meant that if they survived all of this, she had one less weapon to turn against the North — but she still had two, two who could be valuable assets if nothing, at the very least, to keep under control the numbers of weights that would fight against them.

It was a hard gamble, but one he had to make. No matter the odds.

I'm loyal to my beloved Joffrey, my one, true love.

“What about my queen?” he had seen how elated Daenerys had looked at that, and he had felt sorry for her, for the way he was using her, but he had soldiered on “I would— I would bend the knee, but—”

Everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit. If he never publicly bent the knee, but showed his loyalty in other ways, Daenerys would never demand the proper rites were observed and Sansa could use it, once this war was over, to free the North of her.

Her hand was too little in his, and its hold was almost suffocating in his lungs. It did not surprise him when, later that week, after they had departed by ship for the North, she summoned him to her cabin.

He had known what she wanted from him, and he had given it to her.

There was no one single thing he would not do, to keep the North and Sansa safe.

——————————————————————————————————

It was good to be back home.

You're a man now, he had told Bran feeling his heart burst at the sight for his little brother. Almost, Jon had looked at Sansa, he had done nothing but look at her since breaking through the gates of Winterfell, and her aloof demeanor had softened as a genuine smile had graced her pink lips.

Gods, had he missed her.

It was the most natural, easiest thing he ever do, fall back into her open arms, feeling her curl around him and his whole being unfolding and collapsing into her.

Gods he loved her.

“Trust me,” he wanted to tell her, he hoped she would hear it anyway in her bones, as his blood sang for her.

“— I made sure we survived winter,” Sansa stated “but I did not account to feed two armies and two dragons,” she pointed out and Jon almost flinched.

Daenerys had indeed reached Winterfell without provisions and even her men had been clothed rightly for the cold only once they had reached White Harbor.

She had taken the gold from the Battle of the Golden Road, but she had burned the grain, instead of taking a whole year of harvest to feed her people come winter.

Leave it to Sansa to point that out. His clever girl.

“— what do dragons eat, anyway?”

Gods, had he missed her snarky comments. Though they could without her antagonizing the dragon queen with an ill temper and two dragons to her disposal.

Daenerys' reply had been as cold and chilling as when she had told him he was not yet her prisoner “Whatever they want,” she said, her cold, purple eyes fixing dangerously on his sister.

Sansa didn't give a single inch, facing her rival head-on, her Tully blue eyes shining with defiance.

Jon needed to put a stop to it. To diverge Daenerys' attention from Sansa, he knew his sister could wear down what little control Daenerys had on her own temper just by pointing out the clear mistakes in her policy and making of her the laughing stock of the lords of the Realm.

“I don't need her to be my friend,” Daenerys stated coldly, her eyes never wavering. She was giving him a warning. Jon had no doubt she felt as she was showing him consideration by issuing such a warning before acting whereas elsewise Sansa would've already been dealt with “but if she can't respect me—”

He did his best to school his expression and keep a close reign to his fury. He had beaten to a pulp the last person who had dared threaten Sansa, and had almost strangled the last man who had showed his misplaced lust for his sister.

Thankfully he was saved when her attention was caught by the news her dothraki guard reported about the dragons.

He hadn't known. Had he known he could ride one, he would've done with all of this farse, taken the dragon and left Daenerys to her miserable war for the Iron throne.

But he hadn't known.

Still, this meant that, if Daenerys ever asked more than the North could concede, and she turned her fury North, Jon could defend the North.

“He said he would stand behind Jon Snow,” she pointed out at his fury against lord Glover “the King in the North”

Didn't she understand he was doing all of this for them?, for her?

“I told you we needed allies!” he beseeched her, watching her dance like a dark flame and enticing him with her dance.

“I wasn't aware you were abandoning your crown!” she accused, because therein lay the problem.

“— I brought two armies home, two dragons!”

“and a Targaryen queen!” she accused turning around to face him again, and all of her beauty hit him again, like a wave against his lungs.

I will drown in those eyes, Jon sighed “She'll be a good queen,” he needed her to believe it “she's not her father,”

“No,” Sansa agreed, her voice lower than a whisper, a breath against his lips, making him almost lean in “she's much prettier,”

Jon smiled up at her and wondered if she could see his smile was poorly-manufactured. If she could see how hard this was for him.

“Did you bend the knee because she'll be a good queen, or because you love her?”

Apparently no. He felt himself flinch “Don't you have any faith in me at all?,” he asked, and Sansa deflated at that, the scale-looking fabric of her dress shining in the candle-lit chamber.

“You know I do,” no buts, this time. It was an absolute statement. She trusted him.

———————————————————————————————————

He leaned to the side and felt his stomach churn, as his lungs burned.

I'm talking about the Seven bloody Kingdoms!

He looked to the statue of Lyanna Stark, his mother, and suddenly another wave of nausea hit him.

He had slept with his aunt, he had slept with his aunt and he didn't eve love her.

He loved his— apparently he was a Targaryen, after all, because the love he bore Sansa whilst believing her his sister came back to haunt him tenfold — she's not his sister.

Not his sister.

She's his.

———————————————————————————————————

“Tell them—” he asked of Bran. His cousin looked taken aback for a moment in that distant, aloof way of his.

The battle had been terrible, the war council even worse.

You are the queen, what you command we will obey. He hated how smugly Daenerys had looked at Sansa.

The Seven Kingdoms will know peace, under their rightful queen.

Then, he told them. He half expected Arya to throw a fit, but her schooled expression betrayed nothing. Sansa, instead, was more of an open book.

I am not a Stark.

“Jon,” she was the first to speak, Jon looked at her, halfway hoping she would point out he was not her brother and look relieved by it, and halfway hoping she'd not press the issue “I am so sorry,”

He had not expected that.

And suddenly she was in his arms, and Jon felt her warmth engulfing him and filling him.

“I am so sorry,” she chanted into his ear “you're still a Stark, you're still ours,”

Jon hid his face against her red hair and the fur of her cloak — his cloak, he realized, the one he had given her at Castle Black — “and I stil love you,”

His heart skipped a beat at that. It had sounded so unnecessary and yet it had filled Jon with acceptance.

———————————————————————————————————

“Don't go there,” Sansa whispered, in the darkness of the hour of the wolf, “I don’t want you to go there,” she added.

Jon smiled softly at her, “Sansa,” he murmured “You know I must go,”

“Men in our family don’t do well in the South,” she protested and Jon pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I am not a Stark,” he reminded her gently. Sansa huffed out.

“You are to me,” she proclaimed “Jon, she won’t stand for it,” she told him “you’re the strongest threat to her rule,” she pointed out “just like Ramsay would have never risked Rickon living, I beg of you, see reason”

“She loves me,” he said, that Sansa didn’t appreciate.

“Well then,” she stated coldly, disentangling from his hold, “I suppose you want to go with her South,” she said briskly.

It made Jon chuckle “Don’t be jealous, now,” he teased her, because now his whole heart rejoiced at her blatant jealousy.

“You really think that low of me?,” Sansa protested “that I mean to keep you caged here because I am jealous?” she demanded “by all means, go with her,” she said “I am only concerned for your welfare”

“I know, sweet one,” he murmured softly “but I will not have her stay in Winterfell any longer,”

The glass gardens looked beautiful and Jon was sure there was supposed to be a batch of winter roses somewhere, but he also knew that Sansa had devoted all land she could to parley and potatoes and rice.

She huffed “I still don’t like you going South, they will fight over your every limb until they rip you apart, and I will be forced to avenge you,” she said.

Jon chuckled, their shoulders brushing as both sat on the stony bench “My avenging wolf,” he teased her, “I promised you I would protect you, let me”

Sansa had stayed silent at that “You’ll return,” she stated with a surety that had him almost smile. Almost.

“I will,”

They both knew only his bones would return North if he set foot beyond the Neck. But it was a sacrifice Jon was willing to make, if it meant Sansa got to live safe and protected. Yet Sansa let him embrace and Jon fell into her.

__________________________________________________________________________

“— they don’t get to choose” Daenerys stated, with a coldness that was eery. A beautiful, dark conqueror, clad in her victory and without mercy.

She’s everyone’s queen now.

Try telling Sansa.

Why do you think Sansa told me the truth about you?, she doesn’t want Dany to be queen.

She doesn’t get to choose.

No, but you do!

“—be with me,” and he had done it. After all what was a curse more upon his name, but that of kinslayer?

“You are my queen,” he stated as he leaned close, his free hand curling around the hilt of his dagger.

I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey, my one, true love.

“Now,” he promised as their lips touched “and always” and then, he plunged his knife in her heart.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“I wish there had been another way,” the tears in her eyes almost broke his heart, i the same way knowing she had done what she believed right to defend him, even if it had broken him instead.

“The North is free thanks to you,” he said knowing it true, but not less tragic because of it.

“But they lost their king,” she said and he could see she was indeed heartbroken over it.

I was lost within the darkness until I found her,

I found you

“Ned Stark’s daughter will speak for them,” he stated, knowing it deep in the marrow of his bones. All this time, he had been waiting for her.

Even after Ygritte, when he had thought duty had won over any kind of love. He had known.

Sometimes duty must be the death of love.

He had known he had loved again, perhaps, down in the darkest pit of his heart he had always known he had loved her. He hadn’t realized it but it had not been Lyanna Stark’s voice to bring him back.

It had been the memory of Sansa singing to herself as she brushed Lady’s coat.

“She’s the best they could ask for,”

She embraced him then, and Jon would’ve rather died than let her go, and almost didn’t let go of her.

But the Gods were just and no kinslayer could’ve hold something so good in his arms.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Tormund watched him, side-eyeing him for all his worth.

So who it is that you have to convince?, this dragon queen or the one who fucks her brother?

“What?” he demanded.

“You love her,” it was not a question, it was a statement. Jon’ eyes fell naturally on Sansa. She had come to Castle Black when her summon had been ignored.

He had needed time.

“Aye,” he didn’t hide it, not from Tormund, not from anyone else. He had told himself, he would never fall in love after Ygritte, but it had been a lie.

The dead need no lovers, Lord Snow.

No, Jon had thought and even though he had not known it consciously yet, he had not been waiting for Ygritte to raise again and haunt him if he ever betrayed her.

No. He had known he could never give himself to anyone but her. He would never fall in love again, unless it was her, until he could’ve had her.

The lady in the silk dress, to whom he could bring flowers. The lady he had wanted Ygritte to try and be. She had always been Sansa. And he always been waiting for her.

He had always known he would only fall into her, and he had not yet stopped falling. He doubted he ever would.

Suddenly Sansa was before him, her cheeks were flushed and her lips parted, her hand proffered toward him “Would you not dance with me?”

She had, had some to drink, but Jon had never seen her so giddy before.

He had accepted her hand before he could think better of it and had let her guide him —who was he joking to say he was the one guiding her?, she had always taken the lead in their relationship — and he had twirled her around as the wildling raised songs of the First Men around them, drumming their fingers on their instruments or clapping their hands.

He had been lost all his life, stumbling in the darkness. And then she had come like a dark flame, pulling him in and loving him, letting him love.

HOLD YA — I WILL NEVER LET YOU GO AGAIN,

She looked ever so beautiful and lovely and Jon really wanted to kiss her, steal her breath away and never let go.

He looked at her softly “What are you doing here?” he asked, as he spun her around and twirled her, her beautiful gown dancing like rays of liquid silver and snow around her.

“Don’t you know?” she asked, and in her eyes Jon could see her true question. Do you really not know?

“The Lords will never accept it,” Jon told her softly “I am a kinslayer”

“You are a hero,” she countered, “besides, the lords would simply be grateful I have stopped ditching their efforts to have me married and give them an heir,” she teased him.

The mead she had drunk though, must’ve caught up with her because she stumbled her next step, falling into his chest — or perhaps, by the mirth in her eyes — she had done it on purpose.

“I’ve caught you,” he said stupidly.

Sansa smiled “So you did,” she smiled “I want it to be you,” she told him boldly “I do not want to force you”

Jon almost swore. She was born to make his will crumble, but really, hadn’t Jon always known?

How could he ever deny her anything?

“I know you loved Ygritte,” she said “and the dragon queen… but I thought—”

Jon silenced her by pressing a kiss against her lips, chasing the beautiful flames dancing on her skin and painting her face in a golden halo, her hair brimming like liquid copper

“Everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit,” he reminded her, “I found you,” he said “I’ve loved you,” he added “if you’ll want me,” he told her “If you’ll let me, I’ll love you more still, I’ll hold you more—” his voice broke off “why do you think I killed her?, she would’ve turned against you. And I could not let her” he told her “It had always been you, if you’ll want me”

This time she was the one pressing the kiss atop his lips “I want you”

Jon nodded “Then I’ll be yours,” he said “and you’ll be mine”

Sansa’ beam was something to be seen “Until the end of our days?”

heaven when i held you again,

how could we ever be friends?

i would rather die than let you go.

“Until the end of our days” he said.

#jonsa #Jonsa story #ask the hag #anon asks #jonxsansa #Jonsa fan #the hag’s prompts #Jonsa prompts #sansaxjon #Jonsa fam

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viking-hel · 1 year

Text

For the Jonsa Halloween 2022.

Beast. Potion. Magic. 🎃

Jon couldn’t stop watching the way the fire danced with Sansa’s hair. Her glorious mane became the flames given true form, magicked into dancing as some hopeful lad of House Cerwyn tried his best.

He lazed back into his seat, a cup of ale held idly in his hands, a potion of false courage the Cerwyn lad mayhap guzzled too much of. He must have now felt it as Sansa gracefully twirled through his clumsy steps, a kind smile on her face.

Jon loved seeing her smile. She’d had so little to smile about before now. Here she was, Queen in the North, more regal and beautiful than any lady before, and he was a mere pauper worshipping at her feet.

Magic infused the air. Jon tasted it, sweet and heady, as he kept watch of Sansa as she twisted and turned with the cheerful lutes and drums. They had no worries now; no dragonqueens or lionqueens, and no rat faced bastards to chase down and hurt young women—

Jon’s fist clenched thinking of that snake. It had been so satisfying to bloody him, to hear the sound of bone striking bone. It was only Sansa’s sweet face that tempered that beast inside him, that would do anything for her.

He came back different, Jon knew. Perhaps a part of Ghost he took with him, some man left behind in the wolf. Whatever this was, it bubbled just under the surface. That beast inside that always sought to protect her - even when she believed he couldn’t - but now she was safe inside the walls of their ancient home and they had each other.

That. That was the true magic. That they were together after so long and so much, the world was right now in a way it had never been, even before they left.

Sansa picked out a mug of ale, held it up to her lips, and tipped her head to him in askance as her eyes took on a hint of mischief. Jon smiled back and gestured her forward. He’d shared her enough, the protective beast wanted his wife beside him. Carefully, Sansa wended her way to him, speaking briefly with those who wished her well as she moved. Tall and fire-touched, she was. Again, he was a worshipper merely wanting to bask in her presence.

‘Husband,’ she said, sitting beside him. ‘Are you well?’

‘Far better now you’re here, my love.’

She reached across the table and plucked up a grape. ‘Is something to your liking?’

He couldn’t keep his eyes from her slender throat as she moved. ‘There is.’ He gulped more of his courage potion, but found none left. ‘I always do when admiring my wife.’

Giggling, Sansa handed him her mug of ale, untouched. They sat back, Jon kept his hand around hers as the court made merry.

Yes, their life was some kind of magic. Jon would never question it.

#jonsa halloween #Jonsa Halloween 2022 #ficlet #Jonsa #jonsa prompts

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esther-dot · 2 years

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kiss for @jonsaprompts

Wind swirls around her, the beginning of a storm or the beat of dragon wings, she can’t say. It pulls her hair from its careful braids, drags long strands of copper across his scarred cheek.

Death has been a constant since her father lost his life, her ever present fear, but it is not the encampment of men intent on bloodshed, nor the beasts summoned from history that stir terror into her heart.

No, it is the look in his eyes, the murmured words of farewell, the soft, then urgent, press of his lips.

#jonsa #jonsa prompts #we're pretending this isn't a week late ok?#😂#jonsa fic #dot fic

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greenhikingboots · 2 years

Text

That’s a Pretty Name

@jonsaprompts Here’s what I came up with for the word “feast.” Very little mention of a feast, actually, but I still like it. Liked it so much I gave it a title and put it on AO3, in fact. It’s pre-canon and attempts to explain the story behind that canon line, “‘That’s pretty.’ He remembered Sansa telling him...’“ And for funsies! I want to dedicate this one to @snowsandstones because I too like to headcanon that Ned kinda sorta secretly wanted his daughter and her cousin to be safe and happy together -- and married. (Ridiculous? Who cares?!) Ned isn’t featured in this little ficlet, but it’s easy to imagine him at the nearby table of adults, noticing some Jonsa potential. There must be music playing, Jon decides, for a meal to count as a feast. Previously, he thought the distinction had something to do with the number of guests involved or whether or not he was allowed to sit with his family. But tonight he realizes he’d been wrong, for their Karstark guests are small in number and he’s been allowed to dine with them — and yet the music of feasts plays. It plays, and all the children dance. There are eight of them in total, three boys and five girls. At first, Arya insists on dancing the boys’ part to even out their numbers. But Sansa, never not concerned with what is fair and proper, declares the girls will take turns dancing with each other. All of them except Lady Alys, of course, the youngest of their honored Karstark guests. And so, for the initial round of dances, the pairs are Robb and Alys, Jon and Arya, Theon and Jeyne, and Sansa and Beth. With so few adults watching them from the nearby tables, the children make less effort than they should to remember their correct steps. Instead, they are clumsy and carefree, and for once Jon actually enjoys dancing. That is, until the song ends and their pairings are shuffled around. This time, Jon dances with Lady Alys herself. She’s perfectly pleasant, but she’s also a stranger to him. And he knows her father didn’t bring her all the way to Winterfell to meet Ned Stark’s bastard. He brought her here to charm the future lord of the castle, the next Warden of the North. Knowing so is enough to rattle Jon’s nerves, to make it impossible to enjoy the dance. When it’s over and the pairings shuffle again, he’s glad to take Sansa’s hand in his. She’s the most difficult of his siblings — his half-siblings, as she likes to point out — but at least she’s not a stranger. And at least she isn’t desperately wishing she were dancing with Robb instead. “Why would you not smile at her?” Sansa quietly asks as they begin their steps. “Who? The Karstark girl?” Jon returns. “Who else?” Jon doesn’t appreciate Sansa’s tone. “Why should I bother?” he grumbles, even though he knows doing so will earn him a firmer lecture. He spins Sansa around, to the edge of their crowd, further from possible eavesdroppers. “Aly’s father wishes to betroth her to Robb, a trueborn Stark,” he continues. “She only took a turn with me as a courtesy.” Sansa frowns. “And you can’t be bothered to repay her courtesy with one of your own?” she asks. “By smiling at her, you mean?” Jon means to make her feel foolish. Why should smiling be such a big deal? “Smiling is the least you can do,” Sansa returns. “A compliment would be nice as well.” Jon makes a small noise, a grunt of indifference. If Sansa were a bastard like him, she’d understand such efforts were pointless. Since she’s not, she never will, and explaining it to her is pointless too. “What was that?” she asks regarding his grunt, determined to continue prodding him. “I’d like to say I’ll do better next time,” Jon drawls, “but that would be a lie. I wouldn’t even know what compliment to give.” “You can think of nothing? Nothing at all?” “Gods, Sansa, you’re relentless. I’m not complaining about dancing. Why can’t that be enough?” “Perhaps you could say something kind about a lady’s appearance when you meet her.” Jon glances doubtfully across the group of dancers. His eyes flicker over Alys for a moment before returning to Sansa. “Not that I am so handsome I should judge,” he says, “but I’d hate to tell a lady she looks nice when she doesn’t.” Sansa’s eyes flicker over Alys as well. “I think she’ll be lovely when she’s older,” she says, her voice ringing with confidence. Despite himself, Jon smirks. “That’s hardly a compliment, though, is it? ‘You’re no looker now, girl, but maybe one day when you’re older —’” Sansa swats Jon’s shoulder. “Oh, stop that,” she says. “Now you’re just being petulant and you know it.” “Petulant? Has Septa Mordane been teaching you new words? I don’t think I’ve heard you use that one before.” “It means —” “I know what it means,” Jon says, quite intentionally cutting Sansa off. He's been described as petulant before. More than a few times. Sansa falls silent after being interrupted and so Jon does too. For a few moments, he finds himself wondering when they last had a conversation quite as long as this one. Sansa can go ages without saying more than a few words to him, but when she gets it in her head that he needs a lecture, he receives her undivided attention until she’s through. “If you can’t compliment a lady's appearance when you meet her,” Sansa begins again, “then perhaps you can compliment her name.” Jon lifts an eyebrow. “Honestly, it shouldn’t be so difficult to convince yourself to like a name," Sansa says. “Most names are rather boring,” Jon replies. “And most have been used too many times before.” “Including yours?” she teases. “Aye, including mine.” “Perhaps if we practice?” Sansa asks, refusing to accept Jon’s continued objections. “Here, I’ll lead,” she adds. “Oh, what a pleasure to meet you, Jon Snow. My name’s Sansa Stark. I’m Lord Stark’s eldest daughter.” Jon snorts. He can’t help himself. When he says nothing in reply, though, Sansa stops dancing and holds out a delicate hand. To keep from drawing attention from the other dancers, for Jon knows she will hold her position as long as it takes, he quickly kisses her knuckles the way he’s been taught. He pulls her back into their dance. “Sansa, did you say? That’s a pretty name. I like it very much.”

#jonsa prompts #jonsa ficlet #pre-canon jonsa #for the word feast #really like this one #so much fun to write #aren't they the cutest?

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haraways · 2 years

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SnowWolf

For @jonsaprompts Snow

This was originally a part of a much bigger story in which Sansa and Rickon are turned over to the Boltons earlier in the timeline, and the Boltons act as their wardens. Sansa runs away to the only place in the world she thinks they will not find her; beyond the wall.

There Jon was going to save her after she and Rickon have a run-in with a shadow cat; Ghost interfered and made that decision for Jon. It kinda’ of goes from there. In this, Jon was a Stark, and his mother ran away as well but died as well, so Jon does not know his heritage, but he knows his mother's name and that she was a lady. He was not raised by Mance. They find out much later, after they basically get married, who he is.

But that story will never be written by me, so here is the short bastardization of it. I'm so so sorry for grammar and spelling and shit; I'm so so tired.

SnowWolf

It was with great effort Jon hulled the deer onto the stretcher of branches. Without another hunter, he would be late getting back to the village, and his mother would have a fit, but she would be grateful for the week's worth of stew meat. It was worth the extra few hours away.

Lifting the end of the stretcher, Jon began his uphill walk home.

Across the moor and over a frozen river that Jon had never seen run, Jon walked on until night began to fall and snow began to swirl in anticipation of a storm. Jon felt foolish for not knowing the storm was upon him, and now the deer would freeze before a knife could even carve into it. The storm was likely to hit around sunset, only two short hours away. There was a small but dense forest between him and the village, and he could take shelter there on the edge before arriving in the morning. No Freefolk would wander into a storm unless they no longer wished to be a burden. Mind made up, Jon made haste, snow crunching under his feet.

The forest was dense, and Jon saw many branches littering the ground, perfect for a quick shelter. First, he found a thick tree with thick branches he could pass a rope over the haul up the deer, making it harder for animals to eat, not that Jon had seen any predators besides his own wolf lately. Likely fleeing as the Freefolk were, south? To the sea? It was difficult to say. After the hunters came back, the plan was the move South still until they came upon the Bridge of Skulls and Westwatch-by-the-Bridge. It was their best chance to cross the wall and away from the dead wraths.

Task done, Jon brought his hands to his mouth and let out a long, low howl. Even if he got no response, Ghost would come to him before night fell completely. Jon set out to find the lee of a thick tree. He picked up large branches on his search, trying to find those that were good enough for a shelter.

Through the quiet of the wood, Jon heard the tell tail sound of a beast lopping through snow headed his way. He was not worried. The beast leapt at him from behind some bramble, nearly causing him to drop his bundle of branches. With a yelp, Jon moved out of the way.

“Ghost!" Jon scolded before dropping his burden and embracing his friend. The great wolf had a red tint to his fur around his jaws. A hunt well spent it seemed. It had been two nights since Ghost had run off on his own, as wild things tend to do, and Jon had missed him.

The wolf bumped his head into Jons's stomach a few times before letting out a low-pitched whine. The noise startled Jon, as Ghost was aptly named, so little noise he makes even as a still-growing pup. Jon looked around them, feeling a stillness overtake the air.

“What is it?” he muttered to Ghost. Ghost did not answer him with another whine. Instead, he took up Jons's coat sleeve in his mouth and pulled. Jons's brow furrowed as he followed his wolf further into the thickest part of the quiet wood. This was…strange. Ghost did not act like this normally, and it put Jon on edge. Following Ghost, Jon pulled a long knife that sat on his lower back. He had not bothered to bring anything else.

Jon tried to stay quiet, but Ghost had no problem making noise to disturb that calm wood. They rounded a fallen tree when Jon spotted the reason for Ghost's behaviour. A bundle of fabric and fur was slumped against a tree, snow slowly piling up on it. A person, a possibly dead person. They would have to be burned lest they rise up for the army of the dead. It was little wonder Ghost brought him here, the smart wolf that he is. The fabrics and fur of the person were once rich looking but now bore the marks of the wild. Kneeler clothing Freefolk would not be caught dead in.

Ghost let a low whine at the person, butting his head against their shoulder gently. The person slowly raised their hand up from beneath the cloak to meet with Ghost’s broad neck. The hand was small and un-marred by toil and work, except the index finger and thumb.

Ghost sat down as the lady (because only kneeler ladies had hands like that) unbound herself from her cloak. The fabric shifted away and spread, and Jon could see the most brilliantly red hair spill from the hood, done in a loose braid. It reflected a glowed in the dying gry light. As she moved the fabric some more, the fabric exposed a small child sitting on her lap, curled as tightly as possible. The child was clenching at her chest as small ones do, not wanting to open his eyes to the cold world. He turned his face from the cold and let out a whine that could rival Ghosts.

The young woman had not noticed Jon yet, occupied as she was muttering to the wolf that towered over her. She showed no fear of Ghost as most would. Her other hand came up and clung to the back of the small boy.

“Rickon, my love,” She shook the boy slightly, “the SnowWolf has found us.” She muttered to him. Her voice was lower than Jon would have thought but non the less sweet. Her words were thickly accented, as most kneelers are, but she was a Northern Kneeler all the same. The little boy finally looked to the wolf at their side and gave an excited little giggle as Ghost's nose pressed into his ear.

“Did you bring us rabbit again?” the woman asked the wolf. Ghost betrayed Jons's presents by turning his head, the woman's head following. Her brilliant blue eyes winded, and she let out a gasp, clutching the child to her. She stood up clumsily, nearly tripping in her haste.

Jon dropped his knife in the snow and raised his hands. He did not want to startle the pretty woman, nor did he want to hurt her. He’d never seen a Kneeler this side of the wall that didn’t look like a Crow, let alone a lady. She stood with her back to the tree and took a step behind Ghost.

“Ghost, to me.” Ghost obeyed and trotted over to Jon, looking as though he’d done Jon a great service in finding the woman and child.

“He’s yours?” The little boy asked. Not looking at all sacred of the wild man.

“Rickon!” the pretty woman hissed.

“As much as a wolf can be to a person,” Jon answered honestly, Ghost liked to wander, sometime days at a time, but he was always with Jon when Jon needed him most. Ghost had been gone a total of three days this time. It was obvious that Ghost had been seeing this pretty woman and her child. Jon stepped forward.

“Please don’t hurt us,” the women pleased, knowing there was no way to outrun Jon. Her eyes kept shifting around, looking for an escape. She was making herself small, bending her knees and hunching her shoulders. The boy reacted to the woman’s words and frowned fiercely up at Jon. The woman's eyes stopped shifting and widened as Jon raised his hand up to her face.

She squeezed her eyes shut as though expecting a blow and flinched almost violently away as Jon’s hand rested gently on her cheek.

“I’m going to steal you,” he told the woman. She gasped at him, too surprised to be scared any longer. Jon knew he’d be stealing himself a Kneeler wife one day, and that kneeler wife would be useful once they crossed the wall and ran south. He was not expecting to find one so quickly and easily. But Jon noticed she clung the child closer to herself, and she did not seem to have any visible weapons. Jon frowned at this. It wouldn’t be a fair stealing if she weren’t armed.

“Once you get a knife on yah.” he stroked her cheek with his thumb one last time before reaching to the hand that was not holding up her child. He squeezed the hand before pulling her gently towards the bundle of sticks he had dropped.

The woman was still gasping at him as he picked up his fallen knife and replaced his hand in hers with it.

“Now, it's fair.” The woman looked down at the knife and back up at him, and she looked as though she did not believe him like he would snatch the knife away. He would do no such thing, but he knew that she would not believe him if he said he would not hurt them. He would simply have to show her. She was alone on this side of the wall, and he was surprised she had survived this long while also keeping her son alive.

“You,” She stared, voice lower now, not high with as much fear. “You can do as you wish with me.” She uttered before lifting her head and standing tall. Her eyes were vicious and fierce; predator eyes, the eyes of a wolf. She held up the knife to him, hand trembling.

“But you will not hurt him.” the boy was staring at his mother's face, eyes wide in awe. He raised his arms up and warped them around her neck in a tight hug, hiding his face away from Jon.

Jon let a little looped-sided smile spread across his face. Lady, this kneeler maybe, but her spirit was as fury as her hair.

Jon turned back to the woman, and she tried to take a step back, but Jon caught her wrist. He pulled her closer, drawing the tip to his neck. He could feel the blade dig in, but what was a little blood compared to gaining the trust of a fair lady?

“If I hurt you, or if anyone tries to hurt you or your son, you dig this knife right through their neck, right here, they will no longer be hurting you.” He squeezed her wrist one last time before letting go.

He turned around and began to walk back to where he wanted to make camp.

The women followed.

#jonsa #fanfiction #jonsa prompts #jonsaprompts #oneshot

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jonsafanfiction · 2 years

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just discovered your page and it’s so helpful! can i ask, do you promote fanfics and/or do you track a hashtag?

I'm glad it's helpful! I don't get a whole lot of time to sign in and work on it, so sometimes I don't get messages until a few days later but I would definitely promote fanfics here.

I also have a page on here where you can submit fic prompts. The idea is that the prompts would go on our "open prompts" list, and then writers can take unfilled prompts from the list and fill them! I'd promote/link those for everyone as well. At the moment, we only have one unfilled submitted prompt on there though.

#jonsa #jon snow x sansa stark #sansa x jon #sansa stark x jon snow #jon x sansa #actuallyjonsa #jonsa fic #jonsa fanfiction #actually jonsa #jonsa prompts

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artcake · 8 months

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Hello if request are still open what about a Jonsa wedding art piece or anything Jonsa I just think the one you made was so cute I'm melting

Jonsa my beloved

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sailorshadzter · 27 days

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Fic prompt: Jon and Sansa as parent-figures to King Rickon

OHHH ANON!!! thank you for this one!!! it was such a cute prompt & fun to write!!

i hope you like it!

send me prompts

“But I’m not yet tired!”

The stubborn vocals belong to an equally stubborn young man, staring up at her from where he stands just out of her reach, his clear blue eyes defiant in their gaze. A sigh escapes her, but she cannot help but to smile all the same. “Come, at least let me get you ready for bed,” she encourages the boy eager to grow into a man, reminding her quite a lot of someone they’ve long since lost. “Then you may decide if you are tired.” The boy groans, but finally relents, nodding his head as he pushes past her to sink into the empty chair she’s standing beside.

This is not their usual night time routine- he is a boy of the age where it is certainly not seemly to be cared for by a woman and he’s a crowned King no less, making him even less eager these days to be mothered by his sister. But, sometimes, even Rickon will admit he enjoys it when she hovers over him; he can barely remember their mother now, so when he thinks of her, in truth he thinks just of her, of Sansa. She knows that soon these moments will vanish entirely, so she will enjoy them as much as she can, while she still has them.

Her first step is to unfasten the leather binding which his unruly red hair is tied back with- he’s taken to wearing his hair just as Jon does, secured at the base of his neck in a small bun. She smiles at the sight of it, as she always does, reaching for the comb sitting there on the tabletop. “You had quite the day,” she observes as she gently tugs the comb through his hair, careful of the knot she finds after the second stroke. “But you are coming into your own as King.” He looks over his shoulder up at her, blue eyes meeting blue, and he’s blushing at her compliment. Just like that, he’s a small boy once more, rather than this boy of thirteen she doesn’t always seem to know. “I am proud of you.” His cheeks, already red, deepen in color, and he turns away, hands twisting in his lap as she pulls the comb through his hair one final time. “There.” She steps back and sets the comb aside, crossing the room to pull his nightshirt out of its place in the wardrobe, laying it neatly across the tightly made bed.

By the time she’s turned around, Rickon is standing there behind her, close enough now she can reach out and touch him, if she so desired. Seeing him there, tall and thin, makes her heart ache for the family they’ve both lost. If only their parents could see him now, if only Robb could see him now… They would be as proud of Rickon as she and Jon were. Rickon is the one to move next, closing the gap between them in the form of an embrace, one which is surprisingly strong for one so small. Sansa closes her eyes, wrapping the boy in her arms, wondering how this was the same babe she once cradled to her chest. “I love you, Sansa,” he says, his voice cracking over the syllables of her name before he buries his face in the crook of her shoulder.

They stand there in such a way for a long moment, before she finally steps back from him, holding him out at arm’s length. “Good night, Rickon,” she says softly, leaning in so she can press a kiss to the top of his head. She slips away then, pausing for only one moment more, so she can hear his soft voice speak one last time.

“Good night, sister.”

[ x x x ]

“Good! Just like that!”

Those words are followed by one last clash of the two wooden swords, before a panting, grinning, sword swinging boy falls to the dirt to catch his breath. “You are better with each passing day,” the same voice continues and the young boy tilts his head back to look up into the face of the man that speaks to him. “Get up now, Sansa will have my head if she sees you in the dirt like this,” he says next, offering him a hand, which he takes readily, allowing the older man to help him up and back onto his feet as they both laugh.

In the three years since his crowning, they have spent many afternoons in this way, for what sort of King would he be if he could not swing a sword? And who better to teach him than Jon, after all? Though, on the rare occasion Jon cannot spar with him, his sister’s sworn shield has, and Rickon must admit she might be the next best to his older brother. And though Sansa says he has no reason to learn the art of the sword, for they lived in peace now, Rickon knows he must be prepared- just in case the day ever does come where he must protect his home and his people.

And the truth was, Jon thinks the very same way.

It was true, they did live in a time of peace now, but there was no telling when danger would arise once more. And Rickon, like every King in the North before him, had to be ready to fight alongside his men on the battlefield. He just hopes it will never again come to such a thing. Though he does enjoy the hours he spends with the boy, who is full of natural talent at swinging a sword, his stance often reminds him of Robb, who once upon a time was a boy eager to prove his worth to the world. “I am proud of you, you know,” he says as they make their way up the stairs, back into the castle. Rickon shoots him a sidelong glance, a look on his face that reminds him not just of Robb, but of their long dead father. “You will be a warrior king this world will not soon forget.” Rickon’s face breaks out into a wide grin as Jon slings an arm around his shoulders, tugging him just a little bit closer.

As they make their way inside, they both see her standing at the end of the hall, like she’s been there waiting for them. Sansa turns their way as they enter and her face blooms with a smile, raising her hand in a wave, blue eyes bright in their gaze. Rickon slips away first, making his way towards his sister, who immediately begins to fuss over the calluses on his palms and the dirt on his clothes, sighing when he assures her this was all part of being a king. “Go on then, your grace,” she gives him a playful push towards the great hall, where inside supper was waiting to begin. “I hope he’s not dirty because you knocked him into the dirt,” she says as he falls into his usual place at her side.

Jon laughs, shaking his head. “He did that himself,” he swears, leaning in so he can brush a feathery soft kiss to her lips. “Come, our growing boy king will have devoured all of the meal if we don’t get in there,” she rolls her eyes but takes his arm all the same, allowing him to guide her into the hall, thankful that after all this time, they have a moment such as this one.

They were together and that was what mattered the most.

#jonsa #actuallyjonsa #jon x sansa #anon asks #writing prompts #anon request #my writing #i wrote this

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jonsaprompts · 2 years

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Jonsa Prompt 10/4/22

#jonsa prompts #jonsa ficlets #jonsa #jon x sansa #the second word is...#wolf

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reginarubie · 2 years

Text

Wolf, kiss

For the prompt Wolf, and since I was there why not for the prompt Kiss? by @jonsaprompts, a bit late but better late than ever!

Also, perhaps a bit longer than it should be, but what can I say...I was inspired. And it is a bit dark and healing all together Jonsa, so be advised, if that is not what you were searching for. It's post s8.

Wolf kiss, You cried wolf and I came running. Am I the wolf or the savior?

[QUESTION: Is she the wolf? Is her smile hiding fangs? Is her song an howl?

ANSWER: Come closer, if you dare. Hunter, or prey or wolf, whatever you are, wouldn't you want to find out?]

Jon observes her. The Queen in the North. Sansa Stark. Ned Stark's daughter. Catelyn Stark's daughter.

He had promised himself, never again.

When they had said farewell he had promised himself. Never again. And he had known it had been a lie.

He had known all along. From the moment Sansa had rode through the gates of Castle Black, shivering and trembling from the cold, but giving all of her warmth. His soft, elegant, sensible, soft-spoken sister.

It had taken less than a day for Jon to understand that her smile hid sharp teeth and her clear tongue wielded even sharper words. Words pretty enough, powerful enough to make his will crumble to dust.

And her tears...Gods, Jon would've let the entire world freeze, burn or crumble to dust, just to never see her tears again.

Her softness if rightly wielded, and Jon does not believe there is one thing of herself that Sansa doesn't wield right, doesn't carry right, can be as lethal as any blade; he has found.

And that day, on the docks in Kings Landing, Jon had known with stark clarity. Sansa was an enemy better not be trifled with. Jon had deluded himself that his sister had remained the same, perhaps hardened by what had happened to her, but that had not irrevocably changed her nature.

She's not the same girl you grew up with, words spoken what felt like an age ago, bittersweet and acrid, putrid even, not after what she's seen, not after what they've done to her.

And yet, Sansa shines. It hurts. It hurts so much because the price for her to shine was his honor. No, he thinks darkly. It was his soul. He had no honor, or the stirring he felt deep in his insides and lower still would not be caused by her.

Still. He watches her, unable to look away. Every man, a few women too, they are all completely smitten with her. They hang from her lips as if from therein shall spill the nectar of truth, the nectar of life. Jon feels no pity for them. Jon feels no remorse for the way it's going to claw at them later, when they're going to do something against their own morals for her.

You had no morals to begin with, the darkness whispers into his ear as her supple smile renders everyone in her near vicinity speechless.

No. Jon doesn't pity them, just like he didn't pity the way Edd had tried every way to get Sansa's validation when she had staid at Castle Black that time. He doesn't even pity himself.

He's gone beyond that. He's seen the ugly truth behind the thinly veiled lie. He knows her softness true, her smile as pliant as it looks is forged in steel. Her steel.

She's not a willowy princess in a tower, held hostage and at the mercy of a dragon.

No. Jon knows better now. She's the wolf relentlessly stalking the woods, hunting for her pack. Howling for the Gods, the moon, the sky to answer her prayers.

She's terrible, in her beauty. In the way her beauty can be crueler than the world's darkest pit. Because of that beauty wars come be fought and won, because of that beauty empire crumbled to the dust.

He feels it still, the pungent smell of burned and rotten flesh and bones. The ashes falling from the sky as snow, filling his nostrils and his lungs, puncturing and fracturing his own will.

He had been powerless. Powerless against such a cruelty, such a terrible, wicked sense of power. He had been even more powerless against the pureness that Sansa exuded. The truth nagging at him, clawing in him deeply.

Oh, they could say he had loved his dragon queen all that they liked. He alone would know the truth.

He alone would carry that burden. Of how he had cloaked himself in deceit and mercilessly maneuvered, all to make sure they were safe. That she was safe.

Sansa's laugh breaks him from his reverie and he looks at her once again, seeing her. She is sitting with the men, his men. Ghost, his direwolf, is draped all around her, his massive body curled around her lithe form, his head — almost twice as big as hers — nestled against her shoulder, on par with hers. Woman and wolf moving as one, one and the same.

Jon works at his jaw, his teeth grit together. She exudes light. She's equal part darkness and light.

She has come to him. A dark part of himself reminds him, she has been the one swallowing her pride and coming to him. He nurses his ale, observing her darkly, as she makes a chuckling mess of his men. Men who are supposed to be made of sterner stuff.

Men who sworn to never take wife or sire children.

There is some pungent, wicked sense of satisfaction in that, she caved in first. She came to him. Not the other way around.

He feels a surge of possessiveness when one of the new recruits, a young man who has not yet sworn the oath, rests his hand in the crook of Sansa's elbow as he makes her laugh. Her eyes brimming with mirth.

Can you forgive me?, her voice swirls around him. And yet Jon cannot recall why he was mad at her to begin with, not whilst the boy — he doesn't even recall who he is, though he knows all of his men by heart if not by name — the boy's hand is still against Sansa's skin...nor that he can touch beneath the fabric, but still...

... he remembers how tingling Sansa's touch can be, how encompassing.

And then, next he blinks, Sansa is before him. Jon studies her, he tells her nothing. He has told her nothing since he has welcomed her, somewhat formally and apersonally inside of Castle Black.

Sansa never breaks eye-contact as she takes his cup of ale from his hand, Jon would like to resist, but he does not, not when her fingers trace along the skin of his, before she raises it to toast to the men of the Nights Watch and to the men and women they lost in the Great War.

Jon sneaks out from the side as she's distracted. Returning to the darkness which welcomes him. Still he cannot tear his gaze from her, from the way her face fell and a grimace settled into her jaw and a frown between her red eyebrows, her light eyelashes fluttering close and for a moment she looks as if close to tears.

He knows what she's come to ask. Only a fool would not know.

He wants to say no. He will say no. His place is here, at Castle Black.

“I wish to dance!” Sansa declares at one point. They have no menestrels at the Wall, but Pyp starts to sing a tune anyway and soon enough the others are clapping along to the tune and smashing their fists to the table to drum along it.

Jon grits his teeth and sees red as Sansa dances with those brave enough to ask a dance from the queen in the North.

He knows what she hopes to achieve.

He won't yield.

[He has already yielded]

“I won't do it,” he tells her. He doesn't turn around. He looks away, his sight settled to the far north.

We should never have left that cave.

Still, he doesn't wish he was back there, not for all the sweetness on his tongue. Not even as her presence hurt him so, and heals him all along.

Sansa is silent for a long moment, then she steps next to him.

He has not slept tonight, he cannot do this. Not now, but Sansa knows to choose her battle well, and to fight them when the odds are in her favor.

The sun is just peeking from beyond the land, tinting the ice and snow in all kind of pink, lilac and frost blue. As lovely as the shades of blue in her eyes.

He sets his jaw.

Sansa says nothing still, but he feels the rustling of the fabric of her gown. She sighs “It looks like an enchantment,” she breathes out and Jon shudders.

He's done for.

Sansa turns around and Jon stiffens, she walks a step closer to him, and slowly, ever so slowly — so slow it seems like an eternity — rises her hands to cup his cheeks and Jon closes his eyes, letting out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

Her vicinity is a balm for his wounded soul, a healing brand for his broken pride.

She turns gently his head and Jon's body twists, as a flower twists to follow the sun, to face her.

“Come back to Winterfell with me,” she pleads and Jon feels his own heart skip a beat, undead thing that it is, Sansa still manages to make it feel alive.

“I cannot,” his voice sounds little and unsure even to his ears, a lie “I cannot,” he tells her again a bit more sternly. There is silence from her, and that spooks him to open his eyes “My place is here,” he tells her.

Sansa cocks her head to the side, like a wolf would do “Your place is in Winterfell,” Sansa tells him “by my side”

The whimper he lets out is inhuman at that “I am a brother of the Nights Watch, Sansa...I—”

Her grip on his face turns soft, and Jon misses it immediately “Tell me,” Sansa begs of him “tell me you want to stay here, really want to, and I will go” she promises him.

Jon opens his eyes again, looks into hers. Her pools of night sky and ocean, eyes he'd gladly drown in.

“You chose my fate, Sansa” he tells her, perhaps cruelly “When you decided to tell the truth about my—”

“I had chosen a crown on your head,” Sansa interjects and Jon feels speechless, her voice is devoid of bite, but still as soft as it is wields the power to spark the flame in him “I chose your life, over my honor. She would've killed you, you know this”

“No I don't,” Jon bites back, claws back “neither do you”

Sansa does not let his bite scare her, “Perhaps I don't,” she snaps “but I wasn't willing to take the risk, not with you” she says “everything pointed to her snapping, as she did, I couldn't be sure that her flame would be directed to you, but I wasn't willing to risk you, even if that meant loosing you”

“It was not your choice to make!”

“So you are entitled to come and go as you please, give away my birthright, Bran's birthright, and Arya's. You are entitled to choose for me, aren't you?!” she whispers to him, and her whisper is louder than the entire world warring against itself.

Strident.

“I was protecting you!” Jon accuses “everything I did since I fucking died, was To. Protect. You!” he punctuates every word with a shake of her shoulders “You're so smart how could you not see it?!”

“How can you be so thick not to think I was protecting you right back?!” Sansa's voice holds more steel than Long Claw in that moment as she doesn't even raise her voice to match his.

Two wolves snarling at each other and Jon feels speechless.

“I have as much right to protect you as you have to protect me!” Sansa tells him “I did all I did to protect you and the North” she says “our family. Our people. Our kingdom” her smile is all teeth “and you can spit that back in my face all you want, but it doesn't change the truth of it”

“You weren't going to protect yourself, so I stepped in!”

Jon feels breathless. Sansa is panting as well.

And he loves her. And he wants her.

Sansa lets go of him and walks a couple of steps to the side, she turns to observe the world from the Wall, he feels her shiver. He doesn't know why she's shivering, until he feels the sobs.

It wasn't a choice to begin in, in the end. He thinks.

He chose her. Every time. Every day. Since returning from death he has chosen her. Even before.

She's wolf. And so is he.

He moves to her, gently unclasps the cloak from his shoulders and sweeps it across hers, making sure it keeps her safe and warm. His hands lingering at her waist.

A kiss is such a simple thing.

And yet the moment Jon's lips press against her temple he feels the world freeze and tilt on its axis, to come alive again, one day.

Sansa turns to look at him, her hands grasped around the seam of his cloak around her shoulders “I want you by my side,” she tells him “I think there is where you belong, at my side as I belong at yours. But I won't force you” she tells him.

Her softspokeness will be his end. Jon knows this.

“The Queen in the North would want a traitor back in her midst?” he mostly jests.

Sansa takes his hand then “You're not a traitor.”

“She would take another Targaryen in her court? After everything”

Sansa grimaces “You aren't a Targaryen,” she says, and this time there is bite in her voice, there is steel. Naked and powerful “Not to me”

Jon wants to kiss her then.

“To everyone else, though...”

“Then I would make of you a Stark” she tells him, her voice sure and even “Marry me,” she tells him “beneath the Godswood fronds, before the Heart Tree and our Gods.” she says “or let me legitimize you as a Stark. You choose.” she offers.

Her grip is warm “If you want to stay then stay. But if you want to be with me as much as I—”

A kiss is a simple thing, he thinks.

And still a kiss can enclose the entire of the world in a breath. It's tongue and lips and fangs and teeth, it's theirs.

So, when Sansa leaves Castle Black she does it with a husband at her side, a husband she chose and who chose her. A wolf stalking at her side, the mate to her own wolf.

He never knew who he was. A wolf or a dragon, a crow or a wildling. A traitor or a man capable of anything to uphold his duty.

He knows now. She's a wolf and he is hers. All the rest doesn't matter. They are just words.

Only her kisses and her claws hold any sense.

And when the trumpets of Winterfell sound, they sound because the wolves have returned.

#jonsa prompts #wolf #kiss #jonsa #jon x sansa #dark jonsa #healing jonsa #kind of

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