#Jon is the older brother - the oak king - who rules for half the year until midsummer

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

Just thinking about Summer being a representation of Bran, the Fisher King. Summer taking several wounds over the course of the story, notably one to the leg just as Bran did. Summer who goes beyond the ice wall to lands of snow (closer to lands of winter) and becomes emaciated…summer getting thinner and being wounded as winter nears/gets stronger. It’s almost like the changing of the seasons. We see that summer journeys to the lands of snow, biding his time before he returns - just as Bran will surely return. The return of Bran meaning the return of the summer. Have to wonder if we’ll see Summer (the direwolf) start to get bigger as spring is ushered in. Winter = death, but Spring = rebirth/growth. And after spring comes summer, when the summer king reigns.

[sailorshadzter]

Can you write a story about how Sansa has Jons baby without him knowing? Dany keeps him in kings landing and he comes backs to winterfell and sees Sansa’s son and knows its his

okay so i loved this & im sorry you sent this AGES AGO. but i finally got to it and i honestly want to do a part 2. so thanks! i hope it was worth the wait. 

send me prompts

The day her son was born, she was woke from a dream of spring.

Laughter had floated along the warm breeze, the sun shining overhead as children played in the godswood. They wrestled in the melting snow, wolves and boys, while the little girls stood on the side lines, cheering the boys on. Somehow, in the back of her mind, she knows those children belong to her. There's a boy with dark curls and Stark colored eyes, he's the oldest of the bunch. Then there's the boy with Tully touched auburn locks, the second born that comes close behind the oldest. The oldest of the girls is small and dark, she's like the grandmother she's named for and the aunt she idolizes. Then there's the other two, a boy and girl with eyes the color of spring violets and silvery hair that catches the sun.

The first wave of labor pain is what startles her awake and she's unable to stop the cry of surprise, of pain, from leaving her lips. Brienne is in the room at once, the door thrown open without any sense of formality- it's been left behind at the sound of her lady's pained cries. At the sight of Sansa sitting up, doubled over in pain, Brienne knows what is happening and she's out the door, shouting for the maid that was making her way down the hall at that very moment. "The queen's time has come!"

Fear grips her but she swallows it down, focusing instead on the prospect of holding her child. She knows he will be her Prince of Winterfell- they will call him the Young White Wolf, a boy named for the uncle he'll never know. A child born of the wolves, the stories will say, born in the first year of his mother's rule. For one single moment, she can only wonder about the other children she has dreamed of... But then another wave of pain takes her over and the door to her room bangs open as maids filter in and suddenly, there is little else for her to think about besides the pain of labor.

Except for him.

She thinks of Jon even as she's bearing down, birthing the child he helped create. Sansa wishes he were here now, she wishes he even knew there was a child at all. She thinks of Jon as she feels the child slip from her body into the hands of the maester, she thinks of him as the babe gives his first angry howl at being thrown so rudely into a bright, new world he doesn't know. She thinks of Jon as they hand her the baby for the first time, where even now at two minutes old, the whole room knows the truth of his birth. He is a Stark born child, even in infancy he is his father's copy. "Robb," Sansa cries softly as she cradles her son to her chest, naming him as she had always intended, though she wonders if Ned would be more appropriate, given his looks. But the room melts at the name and beside her bed, Brienne drops to her knees, swearing to protect the child as she's always protected Sansa.

She thinks of Jon as she peers into her son's perfect little face, wishing with all of her heart that he was there.

If only, if only...

[ x x x ]

"I have news from the North."

It is Tyrion that speaks and Jon looks up from where he sits in his solar, at first annoyed by the interruption but it fades as his words settle on his brain. He's been here, trapped in King's Landing as he once was trapped at Dragonstone, all these months since Daenerys had conquered it with brute strength. On the back of Drogon, she had soared through the skies, belching flames and smoke until there was little left of the capital but rubble. Those who had survived the massacre now lived in fear of the tyrant queen. "News?" Jon questions, absently rubbing the back of his head.

He misses home, he misses Winterfell. He misses her.

Jon thinks back to the last time he saw her, the morning of his departure from Winterfell. She had been so beautiful that day, bathed in the morning sunlight, wrapped in furs. He had longed to kiss her that morning, to remind her of where his heart so truly belonged... But they had been stumbled upon and instead, he had embraced her as any good brother might have embraced his dearly loved sister. When she had slipped from his arms, he felt empty.

"There is a rumor that your sister has given birth to a son."

The goblet of ale Jon had been reaching for suddenly clangs to the floor and Jon curses, dropping to the floor so he might mop up the amber liquid, though it's done more to hide his face than clean the mess. "That is quite the rumor," Jon finally says when he's recovered from his shock enough to control his features. He rises back up, settling himself back into his chair and setting the now empty goblet onto his desk. "My sister remains unmarried."

Tyrion smirks, eyebrow arching as he climbs into the chair that sits before Jon's oak desk. "They say the child is sired by wolves." The imp explains, watching Jon's face for any sign of what he knows must surely be the truth. That the child born to Sansa Stark is Jon's own child, a child born out of wedlock between two presumed half siblings. There were very few who knew the truth of Jon's parentage, after all. "The queen wishes to know if it is only a rumor or not," the peace between the North and the remaining kingdoms is thin and it is only because of Jon's sacrifice of remaining beside Daenerys that the North was given it's independence. Dorne is hot with jealousy and there had been whispers of their itch for their own. The Iron Islands would not be far behind. Daenerys had lost her loyal allies and now only ruled through fear. But, there was only one single dragon to fear, how long would it be before there were none?

"She's also agreed that it should be you who goes to confirm the rumor," Tyrion's voice draws Jon's attention back and his sharp, Stark colored eyes settle upon the Lannister. The man steeples his fingers together and sighs. "I suppose, what the queen knows or doesn't know... Won't concern her." All he wants is this peace to last; he's riddled with guilt over the last few months, the ringing of the bells still yet haunts his every dream. Tyrion knows the rumor of the Northern queen's pregnancy must be only that- a rumor. True or not, the mother of dragons would not take kindly to hearing the true heir of the Seven Kingdoms had a child with the true heir of the North, who she herself has given a crown to. What a powerful child, what a power for the already disgruntled people to stand behind instead. If one wished to topple a tyrant queen, this would probably be the way. If one wished, that was. Tyrion reaches for the jug of ale and pours himself a goblet, draining it in two quick swallows before pouring himself another.

Jon understands the deeper meaning behind the imp's words. Who better than he understands what Daenerys Targaryen is capable of? He watched her sack an entire city that had surrendered, all because she could. Fine, let it be fear, she had told him that night after the feast. Fear. He had listened to her threats against his people, his family... He knew what she would do if she felt threatened by Sansa and the North. It would take no time at all for the North to look as King's Landing had once looked. Ash would fall from the skies like snow, blanketing Winterfell. "When am I to leave?"  He extends his hand out, goblet tight in his grip, a silent request for ale of his own.

Tyrion raises his gaze to meet his eyes and leans in so they may clink glasses. "Tomorrow."

[ x x x ]

Sansa hears the cry from the guard tower from where she sits in her solar, Robb tucked against her chest as she looks over a letter from Dorne. She knows it's dangerous water she treds, even just opening such letters as the Prince of Dorne wishes to fight for his nation's freedom. There are whispers everywhere of overthrowing the dragon queen and though once Sansa would have involved herself readily but now... She glances down at the baby in her arms and knows she's got a whole lot more to protect these days. Sometimes she fears doing nothing at all leaves her son in more danger.

"Your grace."

It is Lord Royce in her doorway, dipping her a bow. As always, he smiles over the baby she holds, warming her heart at the sight of it. Sansa knows now how truly loved she is by her people, for there was not one who voiced displeasure over her baby born from wedlock. If there were any susipicions on the father, they were not mentioned publicly, and she laughs when she hears how they say her son was born of the wolves. "Yes?" She asks, lowering the letter from Dorne, focusing her blue eyed gaze on the older man.

"There's a rider at the gate, a rider from King's Landing."

Sansa's heart skips a beat but she dares not feel excitement. Jon would not be here, she would never allow that. "See that they are fed and warmed, then bring them here." Lord Royce gives her a nod and then bows before he backs from the room to do as he's been bid. What Lord Royce did not say was that he had caught a glimpse of the man who rode through, a man with unmistakable raven colored curls. But he goes on his way, sending a steward down to take the man to the kitchens, so he might warm himself before the great fires and eat a bit of porridage from that morning's breakfast.

In the minutes before the knock sounds on the door, Sansa cannot help but to fawn over the baby she holds. Robb is a sweet babe, though his angry cries can easily wake the entire castle. Peering into his dark eyes, she sees his father, she sees his grandfather. Little Robb is Jon's child, there is no doubt, his Stark genes undeniable. His gummy smile is frequently seen but his displeasure is just as easily heard, though Sansa loves every moment of it.

Knock, knock.

Hearing the knock, she jumps, chills racing the length of her spine. Somehow, she already knows who stands at her door. She turns and gently sets Robb into his cradle, hard oak wood carved with wolves and the weirwood tree. "Come in," she calls, adjusting her position in her chair as the door swing opens and the man comes through. The breath catches in her throat, stolen from her lungs as Jon sinks to his knees before her desk. She didn't dare believe it could ever be him, but now that he's here... Tears spring to her eyes as she opens her mouth, his name soft upon her lips. "Jon..."

He cannot believe how beautiful she is.

It's been a long eight months since he's last seen her, last held her. Her autumn touched hair is longer than ever, pulled back in a mound of intricate braids, leaving only a few soft curls to frame her features. Those blue eyes... Eyes he would willingly drown in, eyes the color of the open sea, of the summer sky. Her gown is of gray velvet, form fitting to a figure that is softer than he remembers and he only wants to take her into his arms. "My queen," he breathes as he hits his knees, holding Longclaw in the Northern gesture of fealty. For once, those words do not feel empty, they don't feel hollow.

She rises up from the chair she's been sitting in, coming around the desk, gray skirts sweeping across the rushes. "You're here..." She murmurs as she sinks down to his level, one hand cupping his cheek to her palm, his beard prickly against her soft skin. "I don't believe this," she shakes her head, blinking fast, the tears clinging to her lashes as she sucks in a breath. "Why.."

Before she can say another word, Jon is taking her into his arms. There on the floor, he pulls her to him and holds fast. She hears his sharp intake of breath as he buries his face into the crook of her shoulder, as his arms wind around her waist. Sansa breathes him in- he smells of horses and a campfire. "I'm an envoy now," he grins when he finally pulls back and the laugh she lets out sounds like a sob. "I've missed you," he sobers, his fingertips tracing the curve of her cheek as he stares into her eyes.

"I've missed you," she whispers, tears falling down her face faster than Jon could wipe them away. "I thought I would truly never see you again." She'll never forget that day, when they had hugged goodbye on the docks of King's Landing, she set to return to the North and her crown, he to remain behind with the dragon queen. "Jon, there's something I must tell you..."

Behind them, as if on cue, Robb lets out a cry.

Jon's eyes widen at the sound and Sansa rises back to her full height, drawing him up with her. "There was a rumor that reached Tyrion," Jon breathes and Sansa shoots him an apologetic smile. "It's... True..?" Sansa doesn't respond but rather takes him by the hand and guides him behind her desk, where the cradle sits just out of sight if one isn't looking for it. Jon knows before she says it, for looking at the baby is like looking into a mirror. The child is certainly his. "Sansa!" He tears his wild gaze from the now smiling baby to look at Sansa, who is staring dreamily down at the infant, her rosy lips curved with a smile.

"I wanted to tell you... That day on the docks..." She says softly, tears once again filling her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers, looking back up to meet his gaze. Jon shakes his head and leans in, pulling her close to kiss. He wraps her in his arms and kisses her deep, a long slow kiss that he hopes makes up for all the ones they've missed. "Would you like to hold him?" She asks when she's pulled back and Jon gives a nod. Sansa reaches into the cradle and the baby begins to smile and coo as his mother lifts him into her arms. A moment later, she extends out her arms and slips the baby into Jon's. "I named him for Robb," she says, reaching out to brush her fingers through Robb's downy black hair, already curling at the ends like Jon's does.

"Robb," Jon breathes, leaning down to gently kiss the baby's forehead, his heart overflowing when Robb takes hold of his index finger and holds on tight. "My son." He tests out the phrase and knows without a doubt he can never part from them again. He can never stay away. Suddenly, a dark thought takes root, a dark but necessary thought that must come true if he ever wants to keep this child safe. If he ever wants to keep Sansa safe.

He will do anything to keep his family safe.

[geekprincess26]

Like Lights on a String

I wrote “Like Snow on Glass” as a one-shot.  Then Jonsa Week, hosted by the amazing ladies over at @jonsa-week, rolled around, and my plot bunnies wouldn’t get out of my head till I wrote a sequel.  I meant to post it in time for Day 4 (“Holidays”), but time moved faster and the fic got longer than I’d intended, so I’m posting it for Free Choice Day instead.

Without further ado, and with my sincerest apologies to those who were expecting the second installment of the series to be as brief as the first.  I had such an expectation myself until I actually wrote the chapter.  Sigh.

Sansa Stark had looked forward to a quiet week at her job during Christmas and New Year’s Day.

So much for that.

Granted, Winterfell University was not holding classes during the holidays, and the undergraduate students were gone.  However, graduate students had rushed through the visual arts department in waves with scheduling questions and requests to have missing lab keys replaced and desperate begging for last-minute supply orders to be placed before the January term began the following week.  Sansa had spent perhaps half an hour at her desk the entire week, and it was already Wednesday afternoon.  Still, she managed to keep what she hoped was a friendly smile on her face as she turned from a belligerent exchange student who had spent the last ten minutes trying to get her to break the school’s key replacement rule and greeted the next student.  Thank the gods this one seemed friendlier, she thought.

“Is there a Sansa Stark working here?” the girl asked before Sansa had gotten a chance to wish her a good afternoon.  Sansa’s eyes widened.  She didn’t recognize the petite brunette, which was a good sign, since she had no desire for contact with anyone from her old life in King’s Landing.

“Um – yes, I’m Sansa Stark,” she said.  “How can I help you?”

The girl’s face lit up, and she looked as though she were trying to refrain herself from jumping up and down with delight.

“You’re Sansa Stark?  Oh, it’s so nice to meet you!  I’m Rhaenys Targaryen – ” she held out her hand, which Sansa shook without thinking – “also known as your biggest fan.”  She gestured to the sleek scarlet-and-black patterned bag hanging off her shoulder, and Sansa recognized it almost at once.  “You are singlehandedly responsible, or so I hear, for the best Christmas present I have ever gotten from my brother.  I loved it so much, I made him tell me where he got it.”  Seeing Sansa’s raised eyebrows, she lowered her hand and smiled sheepishly.  “I hope you don’t mind.  I’m not a stalker, I swear!  I just loved it so much that I had to thank you in person.”

“Oh, you’re Jon Snow’s sister.”  Sansa felt her face redden.  She had ridden the same bus as Jon Snow to Winterfell University every morning for the past nine months, but they had only begun speaking to each other three weeks ago, when he had forgotten his glasses on the bus one morning and Sansa had run past two stops in the frigid northern wind to return them.  That was the day he had noticed the homemade bag hanging over Sansa’s shoulder and asked her to make one like it for his sister’s Christmas present. Sansa had asked Jon to acquaint her with Rhaenys and her tastes, and Jon had been only too happy to oblige.  Rhaenys, Sansa had learned, was actually Jon’s half-sister, although Jon had only mentioned that detail once and hastily moved on to mention that she was three years older than he and an MBA graduate student at Winterfell University.  Jon had described her as driven and extroverted – unlike his half-brother Aegon, who apparently was as outgoing as his sister but far less driven.  

“Oh, of course – I should have mentioned that straight away,” said the other girl apologetically.  “Different last names and all.  But yes, Jon’s my brother, and this is quite possibly the best present I’ve ever gotten from him.  And it’s not just me.  Half a dozen of my friends have said how much they love it and asked where I got it.  Do you have an Etsy shop, by chance?”

Sansa, still trying to keep up with the rapid flow of words coming from the other girl’s mouth, shook her head.

“No,” she replied.  “I – well, I haven’t made any of them for years – not for anyone except myself, anyway.  I’m only glad you like the one I made you; I’m quite out of practice.”

“Oh.”  The disappointment in Rhaenys’s tone was obvious.  “I see.  Well, I’d never send them to bother you or anything, but if you ever decide you’d like to do it again, please do let me know – oh, wait!  I’ll see you at my aunt’s New Year’s party, right?”

Sansa could only stare in reply.  “I’m sorry,” she finally said.  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Rhaenys’s hazel eyes went wide as saucers.  “She didn’t even tell you?” she asked, clearly incredulous.  “Or even Jon– and after the way he was talking about you, I’d thought for sure – oh, that clueless – urgh.”  She sighed, and Sansa, who after all had grown up with three brothers herself, smiled faintly.  Then she wondered what on earth Jon had said about her, and she felt the flush return to her cheeks.  She’d mentioned little about her own family, and nothing at all about her life in King’s Landing, which meant she was leaving out all the parts anyone would find noteworthy.  They’d mainly talked about sci-fi novels and obscure pieces of classical music and Trivial Pursuit and Jon’s fellow graduate students in Winterfell University’s computer engineering department – all right, they had talked a good deal, although Jon usually had seemed content to listen more often than not.  And Jon could be forgiven for not inviting her to Daenerys Targaryen’s party when she had answered in the affirmative after he’d asked her if she had holiday plans.  He could not be expected to know that those plans consisted solely of reading, Netflix, and lemon bars because she hadn’t seen or spoken to her family in years.

“So if they haven’t asked you, then I definitely will,” Rhaenys was saying.  “It technically starts at six o’clock on Friday, but really, you can show up any time – and, of course, leave any time; every year we have people who stay the night.”

Just as she opened her mouth to continue, Sansa heard the clang of the office’s back door.  Rhaenys turned on her heels just in time to see Daenerys Targaryen striding through it, tapping briskly on the surface of her phone as she did so.  Sansa straightened her back out of instinct.

“Aunt Daenerys,” Rhaenys demanded without losing an ounce of sweetness from her tone, “why on earth haven’t you invited Sansa Stark to our party?  She made Jon’s present for me!”

The older woman dropped her phone into her black leather purse.  When she turned to regard Sansa, she actually smiled.  Sansa could count on two hands the number of times Daenerys Targaryen had smiled at any of the office assistants.

“So you’re the girl my nephew’s been talking about,” she said, and if Sansa had not known better, she would have thought the older woman impressed.  “Of course you should come.  The rest of the family would love to meet you.”

The only appropriate response was a smile, so Sansa summoned one at once.  “Thank you, Ms. Targaryen,” she said, thanking her lucky stars that King’s Landing had taught her how to keep the nerves out of her voice in any and every possible social situation.  “Of course I’d love to come.”

-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-

That was how Sansa found herself perched two days later on the doorstep of a house that rivaled any of the mansions she’d seen in King’s landing.  She had to take two deep breaths before she rang the doorbell.  Fortunately, she only had to wait for the space of one more before the door swung open to reveal a young man of about her own age with platinum blonde hair and a platinum white grin.

“A Happy New Year to you, lovely lady,” he said and gestured grandly back toward the inside of the house.  “Please, come in.”

“Thank you.”  Sansa gave him a grateful smile and followed him through the door into a hallway that looked as though it had emerged straight out of a historical fantasy novel.  The stone floors gleamed in the light emitted by a plethora of wall sconces shaped like dragons’ heads.  The walls between them were studded with tapestries depicting various coats-of-arms, mostly depicting dragons and bears.  Two sets of carved oak doors faced each other at the far end of the hallway.  The only thoroughly modern element was an abundance of miniature white lights looped gracefully across the tables and over the doors.

“May I take your coat?” the young man was saying, and Sansa turned sharply back to face him.

“And any other burden I can relieve you of,” the man went on, flashing Sansa another grin.

Sansa smiled back wanly.  “Where would you me to set the food?” she asked, holding out the pans of mini-quiches she had baked that afternoon.  “It’s a bit hotter than I’d thought and I brought a trivet, but I’d hate to set it down in the wrong place and ruin anything.”

That clearly surprised Aegon, who took a moment before gesturing toward an open doorway behind him.  “The kitchen, I believe, my fair lady,” he said, “although just there should do while I get your coat.”  He indicated an ancient-looking wooden table whose legs were carved like bears’ claws and whose top was covered with a rough woven runner matching one of the wall tapestries.  Sansa bit her lip as she set the dish down gingerly and prayed that the trivet did its job.

“The lady is a gourmet cook as well,” said the blond-haired man as he reached to take the sleeve of Sansa’s coat.  Sansa was quicker and pulled the garment off herself.  That startled the man, but he quickly resumed smiling when Sansa handed the coat to him.  “What a tragedy it is that I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance before,” he added.  He winked again, and Sansa noticed just what a bright shade of blue his eyes were – almost violet, she thought.  He had to be wearing contact lenses of some sort.

“My name is Aegon Targaryen,” her host continued.  “And what might yours be, gorgeous girl?”

Sansa cursed the heat flooding her cheeks, but before she could respond, someone trotted rapidly through the open doorway behind Aegon.

“Aegon!”  A few more steps, and Sansa could see that the owner of the sharp, girlish voice was none other than Rhaenys Targaryen.  “Stop hitting on the guests, and for gods’ sake go help Uncle Jorah with the roast – as if I haven’t asked you a dozen times already.”

Aegon waved her off with one hand.  “Jon’s already got it,” he replied, and Rhaenys narrowed her eyes at him.  Aegon paid her no mind.

“I have yet to finish introductions with this lovely lady,” he continued, “which you so grievously interrupted.”  He turned back to Sansa, whose eyes had gone wider than usual.  Aegon did not seem to notice.

“I must ask you to forgive my sister, my lady,” he said.  “She can be a bit rude sometimes.”  As Rhaenys rolled her eyes, he added, “For instance, she did not give me the chance to ask for your name properly.”  He held out a hand, and Sansa took it out of instinct.

“I’m Sansa Stark,” she said.  “It’s nice to meet you.”

Aegon raised both eyebrows.  “The Sansa Stark?” he asked, winking at Rhaenys.  “The talented lady we’ve heard so much about?”

Rhaenys, seeing Sansa’s eyes widen, rolled her own emphatically at her brother before setting a warm hand on Sansa’s arm.

“Don’t mind his exaggerations,” she reassured Sansa.  “Jon didn’t share your life story or anything like it – just that you’re a talented seamstress and very intelligent.  And you look lovely, by the way.”  She beamed at Sansa as warmly as she had back at the office in the visual arts department.

Sansa blushed again.  Even if being told that a man of Jon’s obvious intellect had complimented her own, her green wool dress with a black lace yoke, which she had thought would be fancy but not overbearing, seemed hopelessly overdone next to Rhaenys’s black skinny jeans and off-the-shoulder scarlet sweater.

“Well, I’m a bit overdressed, really,” she said.  “I should have thought to ask, and – oh, the food!”  She dashed over to the table where Aegon had placed the quiches, but he beat her to it.

“Allow me, Lady Sansa,” he said, and seized the dish before Sansa could finish warning him that the handles were hot.

“Son of a bitch!”  Aegon dropped the dish at once and dashed through the doorway, and Sansa clapped a hand over her mouth.  Rhaenys waved away her apology before Sansa could voice it.

“Maybe he’ll finally learn not to grab hot things at the tender age of – what? – twenty-five,” she said.  “Here, though, let me help you with that – assuming you have hot mitts for it?  And really, you didn’t have to bring anything.  But you’re so lovely for thinking of it – here, let me show you to the kitchen.”  She led Sansa toward the doorway.  “And I apologize on behalf of my idiot brother.  He’s harmless, really; it’s just that he thinks he’s the gods’ gift to women.”  She rolled her eyes.  “And they only know how that knucklehead could possibly be related to Jon.”

She led the way to the kitchen, chattering, and when they got there Aegon was still running cold water over his hands.

“Sorry about that, Lady Sansa,” he said.  “I am not always so clumsy, I promise.”

Rhaenys grinned at Sansa.  “Don’t worry.  He is.”  She reached into a nearby cabinet and withdrew a partitioned glass tray.  “I think they should fit on this one.”

Five minutes later, Aegon and Rhaenys led Sansa into an enormous room lit by a black iron chandelier and filled with dozens of people chattering away with such enthusiasm that Sansa could not hear herself think.  Most of them were swarming around the biggest table she had ever seen, which given her stint in King’s landing was saying something.  It was loaded down with platters of fruit and bowls of bread and trays of finely cut meat and cheese.  They were clearly caterer’s work and made Sansa’s homemade quiches look dusty and forlorn.  At the center sat a brilliant silver platter bearing a mountain of steaming meat carved into thick slabs and arranged in the shape of a giant bear.

“Well, at least someone in this house can get a job done,” said Rhaenys gaily as Aegon rolled his eyes.  “Oh!  Uncle Jorah!  Here, come meet Sansa Stark.”

She led Sansa to a very weathered but very handsome man arrayed in jeans and a red plaid flannel shirt.  Rhaenys introduced him as Jorah Mormont, Daenerys’s husband.  He gave her a firm handshake and a warm greeting, and Sansa liked him at once.  Still, she straightened her posture at once when Daenerys Targaryen strode over to wish her a Happy New Year.  Like her niece, Daenerys was clad in jeans and a sweater, and holding a bottle of craft beer to boot.  Sansa almost pinched herself to ensure that a doppelganger had not stolen her no-nonsense, Casual Friday-eschewing boss.  Daenerys, however, greeted Sansa gaily and bade her make herself at home before heading off to greet somebody else.  

“Mmm.”  Sansa turned to see Rhaenys chewing on something and moaning with joy.  She was holding part of one of Sansa’s quiches in her hand.

“This is divine, Sansa,” she gushed when she had finished chewing.  “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about leftovers – oh, there’s Alysanne Swann!  Pardon me, Sansa  I have to return a book I borrowed from her.”  She laid an apologetic hand on the younger girl’s arm, then turned to Aegon, who had just plunked an entire mini quiche into his mouth.  “Behave yourself, Aegon.”

She swept off to greet a girl who had just arrived.  Sansa stood next to Aegon and waited for him to finish his quiche.

“Delightful, my lady,” he gushed, “and completely worth the slight burn.”  He swept one hand grandly toward the double doors at the other end of the room.  “May I interest you in a tour of my aunt’s fine home?”

Sansa, who knew no one else in the room, saw no real alternative, and anyway, the house’s sheer age and beautiful architecture did intrigue her.  She had barely had time to nod before Aegon offered her his arm, which she took with some hesitation.  The last time she had decorated the arm of a man had been the night she had broken up with Joffrey after he’d given her one too many bruises at his mother’s spring charity gala.

This time, however, only Sansa’s ears received a bruising.  Aegon swept through room after room, showing her hunting trophies and cases full of war medals and portraits of men and women with the same platinum blond hair and striking violet eyes he shared with his aunt.  He introduced them as his dignified ancestors and gushed over the longevity of the family name.  He could not, however, remember the names of any save the few men who had had distinguished military careers or won medals in the Olympic Games, nor could he tell her exactly where the family name had originated.  He knew more about his own achievements at golf and skiing and all the best hills at the local snowboarding course where he worked; and when Sansa could get a word in edgewise to ask a question about any of the other portraits, or which Targaryen lady it was who had obtained the dragon statues about which Aegon spent five minutes boasting, he would usually shrug, apologize for not being able to answer the lady’s question, and move onto another room (“It was Jaeherys’s wife, is all I remember, my lady.  I’m sorry.”).

At last, Aegon led Sansa down a flight of stairs and into a room covered with the most modern-looking carpet Sansa had seen so far.  It had two pool tables, several dart boards, three pinball machines, a minibar, and yet more tables bursting with food and drinks.  Aegon made a beeline for one of the pool tables, where several people about their age had congregated.

“Fancy joining us for a game, my lady?” he asked when he had finished introducing her to his friends.  

“I haven’t played since I was in elementary school,” she demurred, but Aegon waved away her protest at once.

“It’s easily re-learned, my lady,” he said before she could mention that she was hungry and would prefer to visit the snack table.  So she forced a smile and took the pool cue Aegon offered her.

At first, Sansa played as badly as she had worried she would.  Aegon seized the opportunity to show her various ways to position her cue for better results.  Much as his chatter had begun to annoy her, she found better success with one of the maneuvers he showed her, and actually managed to sink a ball into one of the table’s corner holes on her next turn.  Aegon applauded loudly.

“Beautifully done, my lady!” he exclaimed.  Two of the other girls rolled their eyes.  Sansa, who had begun to feel like imitating them since Aegon had begun his tour, smiled back at him instead.

“Now,” Aegon said, “I’d suggest trying the seven there.”  He gestured toward a red ball nestled near the closest side of the table.  “If you tap the cue ball just like this – ” he positioned his cue to demonstrate – “it should go right in.”

Sansa turned to imitate his position, but before she could move her cue, she felt a sudden movement behind her.  Before she could whirl to avoid whoever was behind her out of instinct, she felt Aegon’s hands encircle her from behind to join her own on her pool cue.

“You want to hold it more like this,” he said smoothly.  Sansa barely heard him over her startled gasps.  He was not touching anything other than her arms, but that was far more than enough for Sansa, who had not had such close contact with another person since the night Joffrey had nearly broken her ribs, the night his mother had grabbed her arm and hissed at her that she might act more grateful for having the arm of Joffrey Baratheon, which any number of girls would kill to enjoy.

So Sansa squirmed out of Aegon’s grasp as quickly as she could.  She could feel the blood draining from her face but mustered a quiet, “Thanks, I’ve got it,” just the same.

“Well, here, I meant more like this,” Aegon began, gesturing toward the table with one hand and reaching to her with the other.  Sansa had half a mind to make a break for the snack tables when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“I believe she said she’s got it, Egg,” it said, and Sansa turned to see the welcome sight of Jon Snow standing at the corner of the table, owl-eyed glasses and all.  She did not remembering his eyebrows being so bushy, but that may have had something to do with the way he was frowning at his brother.  Aegon raised both arms in mock surrender.

“I apologize, Lady Sansa,” he said.  Sansa nodded and turned gratefully to Jon.

“You all right, Sansa?” he asked, and she nodded again.

“I’m almost done here,” she said, and this time her smile was not forced.  Jon nodded again.

“You’re welcome to join me in the other game room when you’re finished, if you like,” he said.  “Of course, we have plenty more food in there, if you’d like something to eat or drink.”

“There’s another game room?”  Sansa blurted, and Jon grinned as he nodded back.

“For the nerd games,” Aegon put in from behind her, and grinned at Jon, who rolled his eyes.

“He means board games,” he said to Sansa.  “But if you’d rather go back upstairs, feel free.  I know Aunt Dany’s got a wine and cheese table, and there are always boatloads of people playing card games.”

Sansa shook her head.  “Well, you know how I am about board games,” she said, and Jon grinned at her.

“You’re welcome to join us,” he replied, and the look on his face reminded Sansa of Rickon asking his mother if he could have a friend over after school.

“I will,” she said, “once I’m done.”

Five minutes later, Sansa made a beeline for the tables, where she piled a paper plate with fruit and cheese and chocolate-covered pretzels before heading into the second game room.  Jon beamed when he saw her and beckoned her toward the table at which he and several other people were crowded, which, like the other tables in the room, looked exactly like an appropriated restaurant booth.  Within short order, she had been introduced to Sam Tarly and Gilly North, Jon’s two best friends in his graduate program, as well as their friends Pyp, Grenn, Alys, and Val.

“Do you like board games, Sansa?” asked Gilly, the young woman sitting next to Sam, when Sansa returned to the table, and Sansa nodded at once before settling herself carefully onto the end of the table, next to the other girl.  

“I’m not very good at them, but I do like them,” she said.  She had grown up on far too many long afternoons full of laughter and Monopoly and Chinese checkers with her siblings to care that Joffrey and Cersei and their lot had scorned such childish pursuits.

Gilly’s face lit up.  “Perfect!  Now we just have to keep Jon from staring at the ‘Risk’ box all night.”  She grinned at Sansa’s puzzled look.  “Jon’s been officially banned from playing it at any of Daenerys’s parties.  Last New Year’s, he kept us up till almost sunrise because he ‘didn’t want to waste a perfectly good game.’”  She lowered her voice into a scratchy rendition of Jon’s over the last several words, and Jon looked affronted.

“It was a perfectly good game – ” he began.  Everyone else at the table groaned in unison.

“You’re still not playing it, mate,” said Pyp, another of Jon’s fellow graduate students, clapping his friend on the shoulder.  “Now I vote for ‘Pictionary,’ just to watch Grenn here try to draw a stick figure to save his life.”

Grenn playfully elbowed him in the ribs.  “Rather like trying to watch you beat anyone at ‘Monopoly,’ Pyppy,” he shot back.  Jon burst into laughter.  It started off so high-pitched that Sansa almost thought Gilly was the one emitting the noise, although it quickly deepened.  Joffrey would have derided Jon for laughing like a girl.  Mother would have said, Sansa thought with a stab of longing, that Jon laughed with character.

The group settled in to play first ‘Settlers of Catan,’ and after that a couple of games Sansa did not know.  The others were only too happy to teach her, especially Jon.  He listened carefully to Sansa’s questions and answered either by demonstrating the maneuver in question or by asking Sam or Gilly or whomever he considered the resident expert on the game to answer for him.  A couple of times, when he saw her hesitate, he or Sam would remind her that she could ask again if she needed to do so.  Their undergraduate students, Sansa mused, were lucky to have them.  Gilly apparently thought so too, at least about Sam.  The longer the night wore on, the more times she asked the shyer Sam for his opinion on this maneuver or that news science experiment, and any time she got up to refill her snack plate, she always took his with her.  Sam, for his part, took on what Sansa’s grandmother would have called an “addled” look

Eventually the group got around to Trivial Pursuit.  The others refused to let Jon and Sam team up; Pyp explained that they must have found a way to cheat when they did because the other team almost always lost.

They had just begun the first round when Aegon swept into the room and over to the table.

“What?  I’m not above a nerd game or two,” he announced into a circle of blank stares.  Before anyone could blink, he slid onto the end of one of the bench seats.  That pushed him up against Sansa, who flinched and huddled to her left against Val.

“Gods, Egg, cut it out,” growled Jon, and Aegon shifted over at once.  

“Sorry, my lady,” he said, smoothing back his hair with one pale hand.  He had the grace to sound sheepish, but Jon continued to glare at him, and this time Gilly, Alys, and Val followed suit.

“Grab a chair and sit at the end if you’re so set on playing, anyway,” Jon told his brother, and Aegon complied.  “And you’re on Sam’s team, with Gilly and Pyp and Grenn.”

Not having to deal with having Aegon on her team relieved Sansa.  It also meant that her team won handily, since Aegon proved as hopeless at Trivial Pursuit as he was adept at pool.

They were cleaning up the board over Aegon’s protests about a rematch when Rhaenys burst into the room to announce that it was almost midnight.

“Oh, come on, the ball drop happens only once a year,” she said, her voice sweeter than the cotton candy Sansa had seen piled on one of the tables earlier, when Sam and a few of the others began grousing.  Apparently, the only real requirement of Daenerys Targaryen’s New Year’s parties was that everyone gather in the room with the iron chandelier to watch King’s Landing’s famous 60-second ball drop on one of the room’s four big-screen TVs.  

“Besides, the maesters are calling it the Year of the Wolf,” Rhaenys wheedled.  “Can’t we all show a bit of Northern pride?  You know, make all the lightweights in the South hear all the way from Wintertown how much noise just a few Northerners can make?  You know you want to.”

She turned her sweetest smile to Grenn, whose scowl vanished almost at once, and then to Pyp, who followed suit and stood up.  Jon rose and spread his hands in surrender.

“All right, all right,” he said.  “But you have to promise it’ll only take a minute, Rhae.”

Both Rhaenys and Sansa groaned at his pun.  Rhaenys reached over to muss her brother’s curls and kiss his cheek.

“Love you too, little brother,” she crooned, and turned to loop one arm through Val’s and another through Alys’s as she marched them out of the room.  Jon raised one eyebrow at Sansa as Gilly helped a red-faced Sam out of his chair and followed suit, with Aegon trailing reluctantly behind them once he saw Sansa rooted to the ground at Jon’s side.

“See?  Told you she couldn’t possibly be an extrovert,” Jon said with such a straight face that Sansa could not hold back a giggle.  Nor could she hold back the shiver that swept over her now that she was not surrounded by warm bodies.

“Oh, here.”  Jon whipped off his flannel shirt, which to Sansa’s amusement was covering a worn Star Trek T-shirt, and offered it to her.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” she protested, but Jon shook his head.

“I was getting warm anyway,” he said.  “Besides, I can steal one of Egg’s if I’m that desperate.  I’m sorry about him, by the way.”  He fixed her with the same concerned look she had seen the day they had first spoken, when she’d yelled at him to get his attention so she could return the glasses he had left on the bus and she had flinched out of long-standing instinct.  “He wouldn’t really hurt a flea, or else I’d have tried getting Aunt Dany to kick him out, not to mention reporting him.  He just lets being the world’s biggest flirt go to his head.  He overstepped, and he’ll hear it from me.  Trust me.”  His eyebrows had knitted together ferociously again, and Sansa stopped tugging the sleeves of his shirt up her arm for a moment.  A hundred different words perched on her tongue, but the only one that found its way was, “Thanks.”

Jon’s scowl vanished in a heartbeat, and he reached back to rub his neck.

“So – if you want to go upstairs,” he said.  “It’s – I mean, pretty much all we do is watch the ball drop and head back down here.”

When they reached the chandelier room, Daenerys and Jorah were standing in the middle, surrounded by their guests.

“Gods, I hope they don’t get as embarrassing this year,” Rhaenys was moaning to Val when Jon and Sansa approached them.  Seeing Sansa’s questioning look, she added, “They make rather a big deal out of the whole ‘kiss at midnight’ tradition.  Really, it’s more like ‘make out at midnight’ with them.  Oh, don’t worry,” she added when she saw Sansa’s eyes grow wide.  “Nobody expects anybody in here to do that.  Most of the couples do, but none of them are nearly as bad as my blood relations.”  She sighed dramatically and perched herself on the arm of a nearby couch.

Just then, Aegon swept up to them and sat down just as dramatically next to his sister.

“Alas, I still cannot find a partner,” he groaned, casting a sad stare at Sansa and Val, who stuck out her tongue.  Rhaenys slapped him lightly on the side of the head.

“Good,” Jon growled at exactly the same time.  He gestured toward the bar in the corner of the room.  “I’d rather drinks anyway.”

“The usual for me,” chorused four or five voices around them, and Jon grinned and turned to Sansa.

“Would you like anything from the bar, Sansa?” he asked.  “See, we nerds think toasting at midnight is a way better tradition than kissing.”  

“I agree with the nerds,” said Sansa, and followed him to the bar.  Jon rattled off a list of drinks, and they made their way back to the couch with their hands full.  No sooner had the last drink been handed out than the countdown began.  Sansa closed her eyes.  Back when she’d been a little girl, she had made a habit of choosing one wish for herself to make for the upcoming year as the ball dropped.  Usually, it had taken the form of good grades or a trip to King’s Landing.  After she got older and moved to King’s Landing, she’d wished first for a scholarship she’d later narrowly missed out on, then for her career to take off.  Last year, she’d repeated, Just let me get out of this place and away from Joffrey, for the entire 60 seconds of the ball drop.  She smiled widely when she realized that was her first New Year’s wish that had ever come true.  

“Ten!”  Sansa opened her eyes to the roar of the crowd around her.  They had reached “Five!” by the time Gilly pushed past a startled Aegon to grip Sam’s hand.  Just as the ball hit the bottom of the pole, she leaped to her tiptoes to kiss him full on the mouth.  For a moment Sam went stiff as a board, and Jon and Alys and even Rhaenys froze in shock.  Then Sam dropped his drink on the floor, threw both arms around her, and kissed her back enthusiastically.

Pyp and Grenn whooped loudly.  Sam went beet red but kept kissing Gilly anyway.  Jon shook his head and held his glass out to Sansa, who touched her own against it.

“Happy New Year,” said Jon, and grinned at the remnants of Sam’s spilled drink.  “Thank the gods it’s plastic.”

Sansa smiled.  “Cheers,” she said.  No sooner had she taken a sip than a loud bang sounded from somewhere just outside the house.  Sansa squealed and jumped so hard that she caught the heel of her shoe in the ornate floor rug beneath it and tripped straight into a startled Jon, spilling her drink all over his shirt and glasses.

“Oh, gods, I’m sorry!” she gasped at the same time a shower of green sparks splintered into the night sky outside the window.  Apparently Daenerys Targaryen’s neighbors were fond of fireworks displays.

“Don’t worry about it.”  Jon removed his splattered glasses and carefully set them on an end table.  “You OK?  Sorry – the Manderlys do this every year.”  He gestured toward the window and checked the old-fashioned watch on his left wrist.  “12:01 exactly.  I keep forgetting I’m used to it.  They always manage to scare a few people.”

Sansa shook her head.  “Just startled here,” she replied, “not scared.”  She stared at the twin royal blue bursts painting the sky.  She’d seen bigger fireworks displays all the time in King’s Landing, but only through the smog and the mist from the sea.  The colors were crisper and more vivid and far more enchanting here, against the clear Northern sky.  “Besides, these are worth a scare.”

She barely heard Jon’s murmur of assent over the gasps and cheers of the guests.  It sounded like a pleasant hum.  When Sansa turned back toward him, he was staring out the window and clearly unaware that his hand still rested lightly against her upper back from when he had caught her as she tripped.  It felt warm and pleasant, like a cup of hot cocoa in her hands, and Sansa did not step away.

Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon would have laughed themselves silly, she thought, over the sight of her clad in a flannel shirt over her party dress and holding onto a plastic drink cup proffered by a rough-hewn Northerner in an old Star Trek T-shirt.  But at this distance, she could laugh herself silly back at them, for now that she had left them behind, she did not even need a ball-drop wish to get her new year off to a happy start indeed.