#i've got like thirteen really important exams coming up in feb

[dialux]

trope it all up

So @eolaseadrom​ told me that I couldn’t do a blind date fic in canon verse, and I live to be spiteful. Also, the @jonxsansafanfiction​ valentine’s challenge is upon us, and there was really no better time for writing a fic than this one. So, without further ado:

My best attempt at working in four different prompts from the prompt challenge- each chapter encompasses one prompt.

chapter one: sansa is insulted, arya is nosy, jon’s angry, and bran’s just in this for the laughs.

i. blind date/set up

Summer had come, perhaps, and with it life; but at least in the winter, Sansa hadn’t had many marriage proposals. The Lords were more invested in taking care of their own keeps when their people were freezing to death in the streets; even the Vale soldiers had left the North once it became clear how cold the land would get, and Petyr had gone with them. But once Jon and- everyone else- had defeated the Walkers, and once the sun had risen and stayed like that, the men flooded into Winterfell by the thousands, all hoping to wed Sansa.

Sansa or Arya, in point of fact. Arya had right near skinned the first man and had been in the process of gelding the second when Jon stopped her- and after that, Gendry had been there to quietly threaten them into terrified silence. 

Mostly, the suitors came for Sansa.

And Sansa was exhausted of it. Twice wed, thrice betrothed, with nothing to show for it but scars running down her back and a quiet fear; Sansa would be content to spend the rest of her life living inside Winterfell, without the tension or anger or frustration that came with having a husband.

Which, perhaps, hadn’t been as easy a decision to make as it could’ve been. Sansa’d always wanted children, her own keep to run; but she’d learned her lessons with Ramsay, and with Joffrey. She might have been a little bit more snappish than usual about the whole thing, but certainly nowhere near the level everyone seemed to consider it.

And Arya, of course, had never had much patience for leaving things be as was healthy.

“Listen,” said Arya. “You’re moping.”

“I am not,” said Sansa, impatient. They’d been going back and forth for nearly an hour, and she was tired of it. “You’re mistaking me for Jon.”

“Lot of people tell you that you look like him then?” Arya asked, utterly dry. 

“I don’t mope,” she insisted. “I-”

“-flounce, mayhaps. And go all red in the face, and tear up all the sewing, and stuff lemoncakes in your face-”

“How dare you!” 

Sansa felt herself flush, hand clawing over the cloth she held- then she realized what she was doing, and straightened stiffly, wounded dignity dripping from her pores.

“I am the heir to Winterfell,” said Sansa. “And I will not suffer your idiotic- worries- when there’s no need to it!”

“You’re giving up a dream that’s been a part of you for years! Anyone with a head would treat that as painful, Sansa, and the only other person I know who’s as absolutely determined to be miserable is Jon!”

“Miserable!” Sansa shrieked.

Arya’s eyes narrowed, and then she turned and walked away. Sansa huffed, and, as soon as she was certain that Arya wasn’t returning, turned away and hurled the embroidery she’d been working on across the room. The wooden circlet made a satisfying thunk against the far wall.

...

Jon tugged at his jerkin uncomfortably.

It was Arya’s idea; before that, he’d been thinking on going into the Wolfswood for a few weeks with Ghost by his side. But he’d done the disappearing act before and hadn’t felt one bit better. With the Others defeated, the world was getting warmer; and Jon was feeling more and more unnecessary.

Or perhaps just aimless. 

Same difference.

Arya and Bran did their best to involve him, but it was a losing battle. Jon had never had much interest in politics- and now, with no eldritch undead army to worry over, he couldn’t be arsed to care. The only person to truly make him feel anything was Sansa, and that was more frothing fury than anything else.

But according to Arya, she knew of the perfect way for him to pass the night- she’d spent so long trying to convince him that Jon had finally given in. They were on their horses, heading towards the Wolfswood, when she said, “It’s a woman.”

“What’s a woman?” Jon asked absently.

“The person you’re going to meet.”

“I- what?” Jon levelled a deadly look at Arya, who only shrugged, unfazed.

“You’ve been acting ridiculous over the past week,” said Arya unrepentantly. “I’m just trying to make you feel better. And don’t worry- she’s not going to think anything bad of you. I also didn’t have to pay her to come, so that’s something.” She waggled her eyebrows. “It’s almost like people don’t actively avoid you, you know, if you’re a little nice to them.”

“Arya!"

“I mean it.” She nodded as they turned a corner in the path. “Just follow the sound of the water- we’re close enough. I’m heading back now. Don’t want to ruin the surprise, yes?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he didn’t say anything as she rode back the way they’d come.

The clearing Arya had pointed out was obvious, when he got to it. There was even a cloth spread over the grass, a basket of food set neatly on top; the sun streamed down brilliantly. It was, altogether, more planning than he’d ever seen his sister do, up to and including her vengeance on the wildling who’d tried to steal her- something she’d forced Jon to swear never to tell Sansa.

There was one thing missing, however, and Jon felt his brows pull together- where was the woman Arya had expounded upon at such length? He strode over to the basket, and there- right on top- was a card of folded, obnoxious yellow.

He flipped it open, and nearly choked on his anger at the first, and only, line.

...

Sansa entered the clearing carefully.

Bran had agreed with Arya, an earnest, innocent look about his face- and Sansa would pinch his ears until they bled when she got back to Winterfell, see if she wouldn’t- and so Sansa had gone to this meeting, shoulders high about her ears, fingers bunching the fabric of her skirts nervously.

As soon as she saw Jon, however, she felt all her tension fade in favor if irritation.

“Jon? What are you doing here?”

He turned around. In his hands was a paper painted a yellow bright enough to make anyone’s eyes bleed. His mouth was pursed into a thin line, and his eyes were bright with enough anger to shine purple.

“Read,” he said, and thrust the paper at her.

Sansa arched an eyebrow at his tone but took it nonetheless, smoothing it out. 

“May the two unhappiest people in Westeros enjoy each other’s company.” She looked up at him incredulously. “Is this your idea of a romantic card?”

“I didn’t want this,” Jon told her brusquely. “Not a bit. I didn’t even know that it was you!”

“Neither did I,” said Sansa.

Jon breathed out slowly and turned around, hands waving frenetically through the air. “If you’re here,” he snapped into the air, clearly not addressing Sansa, “then I suggest you leave Winterfell right now, Arya.”

Sansa ignored him, heading towards the blanket. The basket on top was filled with actual food- she unwrapped a loaf of bread, and tore off a chunk, leaning back to allow the sunlight to spill over her face.

“-told me that you didn’t bribe her-”

There was a bottle of wine at the bottom. Sansa uncapped it and took a long sip.

“-keeping her in the dark’s the same thing, you absolutely moronic child-”

It was fruity, she thought. Nowhere near as sour as the Night’s Watch seemed to enjoy.

“-and I will-” his ranting broke off as he turned and saw her. “What’re you doing?”

“Relaxing,” said Sansa, lifting the bottle of wine. She smiled lazily. “I think I’ve earned it, don’t you?”

“What?”

Sansa sighed. “We’ll get back to Winterfell soon enough,” she told him. “I’ll give Arya enough chores that she can’t so much as think about anything else for a couple weeks. But nothing’s going to happen with me getting mad right now, do you see? So- just relax. We can yell at Arya in a few hours.” Jon flushed, and she waved a hand sloppily, almost spilling the wine. “Or not, continue yelling if that’s really your heart’s desire.”

She leaned back once more, eyes dropping shut. A few minutes later, Sansa heard the thump of Jon seating himself beside her. She smiled, and, eyes still closed, extended the bottle of wine. Jon took it immediately.

...

They napped, for a time, exchanging the bottle of wine; then, they split the food between them. Sansa wasn’t quite sure what had happened- but they weren’t snapping at each other.

It had been a long, hard road here. They’d taken back Winterfell, but that had been only the beginning. Petyr had done his best to sow discord between Sansa and Jon, and while Sansa had done her best to support Jon, Jon himself hadn’t been so easygoing about it. The day he threatened to throw Petyr out of Winterfell, Sansa had defended him; Jon had gotten incandescently angry.

A week later, he’d left for the south; when he returned months later, Arya and Bran were back, and the armies of the dead were coming. Sansa, however, hadn’t been able to find it in herself to be anything more than polite to him.

But they were here, now, years later: and if it had been a hard road to walk, if they were both more than a little damaged for it, they at least understood each other.

“And did you see Daenerys’ face?” Sansa asked, laughter bubbling up between in the spaces between her words, making her gasp, light-headed. “When her dragons refused to set foot in Winterfell? She made us meet her in Castle Cerwyn!”

“Only reason I didn’t start shouting right then was ‘cause I was imagining Clay Cerwyn’s answer,” replied Jon. 

Sansa snorted. “He kept silent when the Boltons skinned his own father- he didn’t so much as wait for the dragons to cast a shadow on his keep before fleeing.” Her lips twisted. “His poor wife had a time of managing the entire household. And Arya wasn’t of much help, let me tell you.”

“Why? Too threatening?”

“She refused to go anywhere without Nymeria,” said Sansa, eyes dark with humor.

Jon looked at her questioningly, and she sighed.

“Nymeria was in her- season. She tried to mate with the hounds.” She grinned. “I made it a point to complain every morning about how dogs were howling all night long. Arya couldn’t look me in the eye for hours, I tell you- and she hasn’t insisted on bringing Nymeria to a diplomatic meeting ever since.”

Jon threw his head back and laughed, loud, booming, as she’d never seen before- she could count on her fingers the time’s he’d looked so carefree.

Sansa leaned forwards, threading her fingers through his. Jon looked at her, startled, and she let her smile soften into something truer.

“When we go back,” she murmured, “what do you say we play a game on them?”

...

They returned to Winterfell, and their linked hands got so many raised brows that Sansa was hard-pressed to keep from giggling. Jon, in a vain attempt to stop his own amusement from showing, had adopted such a stormy look on his face that it made her even more amused- to which he turned grimmer. It was a vicious cycle.

“You took longer than expected,” said Arya, as they approached the keep. Her smug smile only made Sansa grin wider.

Jon pulled away, leaves crunching under his feet as he turned, slowly, to meet Arya’s. 

“I’m going to kill you,” he said, perfectly pleasantly. Arya’s face went a little stiffer. “Or at least, you’re going to wish you were dead, by the time I’m finished with you.”

She chanced a pleading look at Sansa.

“No, don’t look at me,” said Sansa, smiling placidly at her sister, the frosting from her lunch still smeared stickily across her fingers. “I’m just going to sit here and, oh, I don’t know, stuff my face with lemoncakes.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed, and she turned, meeting Jon’s gimlet gaze with a defiant one of her own. Sansa smiled and settled in for a good show.