#jon and sansa figuring things out

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Little Wolf || Jon Snow ||

A/n: AU where all the Stark are still alive cause I can't handle Robb, Ned or Rickon being dead. Idc it's my fic and I do what I want.

The snowstorm outside his home howled against the stone, but within Jon Snow’s chambers, the world had gone impossibly still.

He sat frozen at your side, his sword calloused hands trembling as they hovered awkwardly, uselessly, not knowing whether to touch you or the impossibly small bundle nestled against your chest.

You, exhausted but glowing, lifted your eyes to him and smiled.

That soft smile he loved oh so much.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice a soft breath against the chaos of his heart. “Would you like to hold him?”

Him.

He had a son.

Jon stared, as if the word was foreign, unreal. A son. His son.

His throat tightened, his chest aching with a pressure he couldn’t put words to. For so long he believed he would never have this , never allowed himself to dream it. He was a Snow, a bastard, a mistake by birth. He was a sword in the dark, a man meant for duty, not softness. Not love.

And yet, there you were — his light, his impossible dream — smiling through your exhaustion, holding out everything he never thought he deserved.

With a slow, reverent motion, Jon slid his arms under the tiny, squirming form. The moment the babe settled against him, so impossibly small and warm, Jon let out a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He forced himself to not cry but a few tears slipped down his cheeks as he let out a shaky breath.

The baby’s tiny fist flailed weakly, brushing against Jon’s chestplate, and instinctively, Jon shifted, cradling him closer. Protectively.

The weight of him — the reality — shattered something inside Jon. All the walls he had built around his heart crumbled.

He lowered his head, resting his forehead gently atop his son’s, closing his eyes.

“I never thought…” he whispered, voice breaking. “I never thought I’d have this.”

You reached out, your fingers curling over Jon’s wrist, grounding him in that moment.

“You deserve it,” you murmured. “You deserve all of it, Jon.”

He shook his head once, as if denying it, but he couldn’t deny the fierce, bone-deep love thundering through him — terrifying in its strength, and yet the surest thing he’d ever known.

He kissed the downy hair atop the baby’s head, closing his eyes.

“My son,” he breathed. “My boy.”

When he looked at you again, there were tears in his grey eyes — but he was smiling. Not the small, reserved smiles you were used to. No, this one was wide, boyish, free.

It was the smile of a man who had been given a future he never dared hope for.

A future that had a name, a face, and now… a son.

Jon sat beside you on the narrow bed, his large form curled protectively around you both, as if daring the world to try and take either of you from him.

And as the storm raged outside the little home, Jon Snow —former Lord Commander, warrior, once a lonely boy at Winterfell — knew with absolute certainty

The raven had been sent days ago, carrying the simple but extraordinary message: He is here. He is healthy. He is ours.

When the doors finally opened to the blinding storm, it was not enemies that poured through — it was family.

Jon stood in the courtyard, the tiny bundle wrapped snug against his chest, protected by his cloak. The snow whipped through the air, but Jon hardly felt it. His heart was hammering for an entirely different reason.

He watched them ride in — his family — strong and real and alive.

Ned dismounted first, his movements still as sure and steady as Jon remembered from childhood. The sword at his hip, the solemn set of his jaw — but when Ned’s eyes landed on Jon, on the small figure cradled against him, something broke in the man’s expression. The sternness melted into something raw, something tender.

Behind him, Arya leapt off her horse with reckless energy, nearly tripping over her boots as she ran through the snow. Sansa followed more gracefully but no less eagerly, her cheeks pink with excitement. Rickon bounded after them, gangly and wild, and Robb — Robb, who had once tussled Jon’s hair and called him brother without hesitation — grinned wide enough to split his face. Bran, bundled up tightly, leaned heavily on Hodor, but his eyes were bright with wonder.

Jon swallowed hard against the lump in his throat as they closed around him.

“Is that—?” Arya gasped, her eyes wide and shining. She reached out a gloved hand but stopped herself, hovering uncertainly.

Jon shifted his cloak carefully aside, revealing his son’s sleepy face.

A collective, awed gasp filled the courtyard.

“Seven hells, Jon,” Robb said, breathless with a smile. “He’s perfect.”

Sansa’s hands pressed to her mouth, tears welling in her blue eyes. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Rickon edged closer, craning his neck. “He’s so small,” he marveled. “Is he supposed to be that small?”

“Babies start small, Rickon,” Bran said with a soft laugh.

Ned stepped forward last, slow, measured — as if approaching a sacred thing. His grey eyes, so like Jon’s, were locked on the baby with something deeper than pride, something almost reverent.

Jon adjusted his hold and, with careful hands, passed his son to Ned.

Ned took the bundle with a gentleness that belied his battle-worn hands. He stared down at the tiny boy for a long moment, his lips pressing tightly together as he fought whatever storm raged in his chest.

“You have given this boy something priceless,” Ned said quietly. “A name. A home. A family.”

He looked up, meeting Jon’s eyes — and Jon felt himself stand a little taller under the weight of his father’s gaze.

“You will be a better father than you ever knew,” Ned said.

Jon’s throat tightened painfully. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words stuck. Instead, he nodded once, fiercely.

The baby let out a soft, sleepy sigh, one tiny fist clenching in the folds of Ned’s cloak.

Ned smiled — truly smiled — and Jon felt the warmth of it like the breaking of dawn through the endless snow.

“You’ll have to teach him to use a sword,” Robb said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. “And ride. And hunt.”

“I’ll teach him to fight better than you, Robb,” Arya cut in with a cheeky grin, her dark hair whipping around her face.

“Perhaps I’ll teach him to read first,” Sansa said primly, though her eyes were shining with laughter.

Rickon puffed up proudly. “I’ll teach him to climb trees.”

Bran laughed. “Only if Jon teaches him how to get down again, too.”

Jon stood there, in the midst of it all — the laughter, the teasing, the love. His son, so small and new, was already cradled by more warmth than Jon had ever dared hope for in his loneliest nights.

You came to Jon’s side then, slipping your hand into his, your eyes full of pride and quiet happiness.

Jon squeezed your fingers gently and with a kiss to your loves cheek you followed the others had gone inside, voices echoing with laughter and warmth through the stone halls of his home.

Only she remained, standing at the edge of the courtyard.

Catelyn Stark.

Jon stiffened the moment he saw her.

The memories were too old and too deep. He remembered the way her eyes, so kind for her trueborn children, had always cooled when they landed on him. A boy she had never asked for. A boy who wore her husband’s blood like a scar.

He had braced himself all his life for her coldness.

Now, as he shifted his son protectively against his chest, that old instinct flared — the need to shield, to defend.

But Catelyn didn’t speak at first.

She simply stood there, the wind teasing her auburn hair free from its careful braids, her hands clenched at her sides as if uncertain what to do with them.

Slowly, Jon turned to face her fully.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

“You named him,” Catelyn said at last, her voice low and unreadable.

Jon nodded. His mouth felt dry. “Yes.”

Her eyes flickered — not to him, but to the child in his arms. Jon saw it then — the tiniest crack in her composure. Not hatred. Not anger.

Hesitation.

Grief.

A longing so raw it startled him.

“May I…?” she began, but the words faltered, as if she herself couldn’t believe she was speaking them.

Jon hesitated — just a heartbeat — before carefully, slowly, lowering the edge of the blanket so she could see.

The babe stirred, his little nose wrinkling at the cold, but he didn’t cry. His tiny hand flailed briefly in the air, seeking warmth.

Catelyn stepped closer, one tentative step at a time.

Her blue eyes softened, and Jon realized with a quiet, gut-wrenching shock that she wasn’t looking at him anymore — she was looking at the baby. Just the baby.

Something shifted in her face. Her lips parted, trembling slightly.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Jon swallowed hard. “He’s… he’s my son.”

She nodded, still staring at the tiny boy as if seeing something precious and fragile and entirely separate from the bitterness that had once lived between them.

“I have hated you for so long,” Catelyn said quietly, and Jon stiffened again — but she shook her head. “It was never your fault. You were just a boy.”

The admission hit harder than a blade.

Jon said nothing. He couldn’t. The words clanged against the iron shield he’d built inside himself, loosening things he had never dared name.

And for the first time in a lifetime of hardship and heartbreak, Jon Snow let himself believe — truly believe — that he was home.

[catofoldstones]

Ok so I hadn’t read the full chapter but it has dontos with his florian and jonquil imagery and then the whole Sandor projecting his cowardice on Sansa, Sansa flowering in the middle of a war and being so terrified that she burns her fucking mattress and then the last line of the chapter is Cersei’s love is poison SKIP TO NEXT CHAPTER WHICH IS JON

HELLO?!!!

LIKE I AM SCREAMING

Jon just had a chapter before Sansa and now he’s back here again, almost as if he’s embracing her, blanketing her from harm.

Sansa having a chapter straight after the Jon’s where he meets Ygritte is something that can be so personal to me

[jellyfishsthings]

WARNINGS: reader is a Velaryon with some Targaryen features but not an OC, this is just some story building there will be other parts. I just finished the books and I am obsessed with GOT wither way I was bored and this is the result so beware ... I think that's it. Also Theon is a pookie in this fic because I said so

PAIRING: fem!reader x Robb Stark (romantically), fem!reader x Jon Snow (platonically), fem!reader x Theon Greyjoy (platonically)

part 2 , part 3, part 4 , navigation

The cold wind still raged on, hitting the walls of Winterfell. Her room was one on the lower floors next to Jon's and Theon's rooms. The sunrays gently fell on her sleeping figure dragging her from her deep slumber. The fireplace was filled with ashes and the chill in her bones was reasonable. It might still be summer on the North, yet the occasional snow always drifted down from the dark grey clouds. A discreet knock pulled her out of her thoughts and Theon's irritated voice filled the room.

"If you are not in the courtyard in two minutes, I am ratting you out"

Like clock work the same words sounded the moment dawn greeted the North. It was a small routine they had formed two namedays ago. She covered herself in Robb's old furs, the ones he secretly gave to her and claimed he lost them. They had kept her warm for over six moon cycles, they had holes in several places and the edges were coming apart but it was her most prized possession. At first it smelled at him and she was always trying to bask in his scent, that was until Theon caught her smelling the neckline while wearing it and she wouldn't hear the end of it until she openly caught him staring longingly at Sansa.

Unfortunately, they were both in the same position, they wanted people they could never have, and only each other knew. They would drink together glasses of wine and they would stumble giggling around the castle. One time he had drunk so much that he composed atrocious poetry about the beauty of his lady Sansa and her copper hair and then about the Northern prince that fell in love with a girl that had mud brown hair adorned with streaks of silver grey and deep violet eyes that appeared dark blue in the right light. She knew that her appearance betrayed her ancestry the Targaryen blood that flowed in her Velaryon veins.

Her family had been brutally murdered, she had heard and read the tales of how her mother gave her life to protect her dark-haired girl and the bloody necklace that hugged her fathers throat. At the tender age of seven moon cycles her whole family had perished and she had been the only survivor. Ned Stark had found her in a bundle of fabrics crying her heart out and once he saw the sword that could have taken her head, he swore to protect her and take her in as his ward. She should have been grateful, she knew as much, he had given her everything, a warm house, plenty food, clothes and a loving family one she wasn't actually a part of and maybe that was the reason she was closer with Theon and Jon, the outsiders. It wasn't like she didn't like the Starks, she loved them to bits and yet she could never be one of them. She would be the squire under their Maesters care with her nose hidden in ancient books and scrolls, lost in maps and various languages and basic training as a healer. But her new passion was sword fighting. As a woman she had only been allowed to practice archery that she was quite good at and always betted with the boys around their performance.

And that was how Theon found himself at incredibly early hours with a wooden sword in his hand, frowning at drawings of fighting styles freezing his "balls" off. She had bested him at the fine art of combat at practically her fifth lesson in a few hits. She had a strategic mind and she was quick on her feet, the most perfect and most deadly combination that existed.

He pitted the man that would take her as his wife, because most men were incredibly controlling but there was no chance, she wouldn't get things her way. He was proof enough.

She had the three of them wrapped around her little finger from all those years back. She had grown up with them from when she was a babe, but at her seventh nameday her and the Maester left, since she was his squire, she had to follow him, he had taken her under his wing, she had practically been his daughter, the one he never had. At that day and several later they had cried so much that even Lady Stark was regretting her decision, she liked the girl enough, she had the tendency to wreak havoc and get lost in her books a bit too much, neglecting her chores and her lessons at needlepoint half the time, but she made her kids happy and she was too smart and witty for her own good that it was impossible not to have a sweet spot for the orphaned girl. She had been overjoyed when she learned about her return nine namedays afterwards. Her son, her calm and collected Robb was shuffling at his feet, nudging rocks around and toying with the hem of his cloak, the bastard and the Greyjoy ward were portraying similar behaviors and she had to control herself not to laugh at their antics.

Ned had pushed his son forth, claiming that it was around time he greeted their guests, he shot him a glare and his parented watched him as he wiped down his palms at his breeches and headed towards the carriage, his hand shook as he lightly grazed the handle and pulled the door open while staring into place, not ready to accept that his best friend might have changed. He was frozen in his place as a girl wearing a dark blue dress and heeled leather boots stood before him. She tilted her head to the right and only then did he notice her hair.

A knot at the back of her head that was a swirl of chocolate brown and silver white strands that framed her face beautifully. Her violet eyes hid a familiar mischief that he had dearly missed. She nodded at him, before facing his father and dropping into an elegant curtesy. It was as if he was on a trance, unable to tear his eyes from her form. It wasn't until he heard her voice, she was speaking in a language he didn't understand, yet he could recognize the bite on her tone. His father wore an amused smile as he answered her back. He would learn at the evening feast what had caused such reactions, the news almost swept him from his feet, his whole existence reduced to one word. Betrothed. Ever since then it was like they were walking on eggshells around her. All three of them longed for their missing link.

It wasn't until a few days latter when they invited her on a hunt that they could glimpse on what they were. They had found a boar and his in bushes only to lose their horses in the process. They had been walking for hours and all it took was an ill-fated joke from Jon.

"No. I do not love you. Of course I lied to you. Yes, it does make you look fat. No, I have never been in the Riverlands. It is pronounced Eyrie. And all of this pales to utter insignificance if we are to let ourselves be food for the hounds."

They had all been tired and snappy, making comments left and right and picking fun at her the way they used to. They had been waiting quite impatiently for her to snap back and the moment she did, loud laughter echoed in the woods. And just like that everything was back to the way it used to be.

Ever since then life seemed dreamy to Robb, he had his friends and his family all getting along and everything seemed perfect. But reality hit him hard each night knowing that the girl he fostered feelings for was promised to another.

[jackoshadows]

It's funny that the same folks who make up nonsense about 'blood supremacy' and 'eugenics' to hate on the Targaryens are obsessed, like really, really obsessed with Sansa calling herself 'the blood of Winterfell' and use that as the reason for their favorite Jonsa crackship and for why Sansa will rule the North.

Having a certain 'blood' is apparently very important for shipping reasons and for why one feudal queen should rule over the peasants and serfs. But it's also Aryan ideology and 'blood supremacy' if other characters uphold their house in the same way.

It's funny that they bring real world ethics into this fictional fantasy world to argue blood supremacy to hate on certain characters and houses while all the time justifying in world Westerosi child abuse, classism, sexism, bullying and ableism as being right because it's the done thing.

In a fantasy world where certain groups of people do have magical powers based on who they are and their bloodline - Targaryens having prophetic dreams and Starks having warging powers - it's funny they are trying to argue that a girl fighting against slavery is the real evil because of her house and her blood and she has to die in violent and painful ways since in her case eugenics and blood purity applies and ALL TARGARYENS MUST BE EXTERMINATED. Except for Jon Snow who weirdly escapes the evilness despite having Targaryen blood because he has the SUPER GOOD SPECIALEST STARK BLOOD that dilutes the evil Targaryen blood. also he's THE BLOOD OF WINTERFELL!.

Here's the deal:

Arya being the only Stark child to have the Stark look IS IMPORTANT TO HER STORY, plays a part in her narrative and foreshadows her future arc.

[I love how stans get triggered when this is brought up in terms of Arya's character and her importance but use it generously to prop up their shitty crackship. Oh, Sansa imagines one of her kids would look like Arya? This means she has children with Jon ❤️❤️❤️]

The Direwolves are important. They are gifts from the Old Gods. Nymeria being a leader of a huge wolf pack is important.

You know, I don’t like to give things away.“ says Martin, a grin spreading across his face. ”But you don’t hang a giant wolf pack on the wall unless you intend to use it.“ - GRRM

“You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.”   - Bran, AGoT

Magical powers linked to blood are important in the fictional fantasy world of The Song of Ice and Fire. Especially when they are facing an otherworldy magical existential, apocalyptic threat from beyond the Wall. They need dragons, direwolves, prophetic dreams and magical swords to save the entire realm!

Bran, Arya, Rickon and Jon Snow being wargs who are having wolf dreams and communicating with each other through their direwolves is important.

Arya being her father's child in every way that matters IS IMPORTANT TO HER STORY. Her father literally talks to her through weirwoods and gives her strength and courage. She has learned from him on what it takes to administer Winterfell. These are necessary character building subplots for characters to ultimately end up in leading positions.

Arya being her mother's child and proactively taking charge, being a leader and getting things done in terms of surviving in a man's world is ALSO IMPORTANT TO HER STORY.

Arya has a connection to the North through her father - the North is literally rising up in ADwD to save Ned's precious, valiant little girl - and has a connection to the Riverlands and her mother - the brotherhood without banners.

Characters having certain features because they belong to a house is an important and running theme in the books. It's not just house Targaryen. The Lannisters have a certain look - hence why Ned figures out who Joffrey's father is. The Starks have a certain look - this plays into Catelyn's hatred for Jon because he looks more Stark than Robb which is important in terms of being the future heir considering ALL the Starks who have ruled the North thus far have the Stark look. Hell, the Baratheons having a certain look is what leads Ned Stark to crack the secret of Lannister incest - 'The seed is strong'. Applying real world genetics and biology to a fantasy world is idiotic.

Jon Snow looking like a Stark is important in terms of his secret mystery parentage and who his mother is. His special bond with Arya gains significance considering she looks like Lyanna and that is Jon's mother. Lyanna having the Stark look is important. Sansa looking like Catelyn is the major component of her relationship with Petyr Baelish spanning over 5 books.

GRRM is not randomly writing characters looking a certain way for shits and giggles. These are important, narrative and foreshadowing plot points.

[kitnjon]

I will be forever glad I was a Jonsa in 2019. The fics were truly the best thing to come out of season 8.

Do you have a season 8 fic recommendations??

Yeah those fics really helped us after the trauma d&d put us through right? I started reading jonsa fics around the same time to get over S8 ending. I had read a lot of S8 fix it fics back then but didnt have ao3 account so unfortunately I don't have many of them bookmarked :( Sharing a few I can recall reading and was able to find.

they tumble down by thimbleful

He meets her gaze for the shortest moment before turning to look out over the woods, gesturing at it with a gloved hand. “Is this why you brought me here? To talk about memories?” “No. I wanted to talk about marriage.” When Sansa suggests it's time for her and Jon to marry, she means they should make marriage alliances with the other Northern houses. Jon, though, assumes she means they should marry each other. A post s7 story where Jon and Sansa struggle to navigate their new political landscape while suppressing their feelings for one another, Arya does everything in her power to protect her pack, and Bran and Sam try to figure out how to kill the Night King.

2. intentions of gold (with my plans) by @jonsaslove

this is a series of one shots that follow a loose season 8 au. each episode has a fic and it works under the premise that Jon and Sansa orchestrated political!jon back in season 7 and planned to have him manipulate Daenerys into coming north.

3. victory is in my veins (oh ye of so little faith) by Lady_Alice

“Jon,” Sansa says quietly, her hands twisting together in front of her. “Tell me the truth. Do you love her?” He starts, eyes widening. “Love her?” That’s all the confirmation she needs, but Jon rushes onward, stepping closer to her, hands outstretched and voice nervous, reassuring, as if he were a husband swearing to his wife that he loves only her. “Sansa, no, no, gods, after this, I hope I never have to see her again.” // The Season 8 we deserved. (and that the characters deserved) (yeah i'll die mad about s8, sue me)

4. and no net ensnares me by thimbleful

Since Jon left, Sansa has struggled to keep things together and she longs for his return. However, when he does return things only become worse. Jon learns about his parentage and doesn't know how to make sense of anything, how to fix the inevitable mess the reveal will create, or how to protect the people he loves. But at least, after all these years, the pack is finally back together. Then, one day, Sansa disappears. Post season 7 fic.

5. such simple words (such a complicated truth) by thimbleful

"You don’t have the right name to make men rally behind you, you don’t have any armies nor land or a castle or--” “No, but I do.” Sansa drops her necklace and Jon shifts in his seat to get away from the twisting sensation in his stomach. He knows where this is going: his depraved dreams come true under the worst possible circumstances. Jon and Sansa get married and consummate that marriage. That's it. That's the fic.

6. what do you want (that you do not have) by thimbleful

When the Winterfellians learn that Cersei has hired men to kidnap Sansa, they decide that Sansa needs to run away and Jon volunteers to protect her. During their travels the tension builds between them--especially after Jon suffers an injury and they're taken in by an older couple. Because, in hopes of protecting their identities, Jon and Sansa have to pretend to be happily married and in love. Every day. In close quarters. For quite some time. Takes place after the war against the NK is won. Not a kidnapping fic.

7. soldier, go bravely on by @missfaber

King's Landing is ash. The game is revealed. Jon Snow faces the consequences of his choices. Daenerys Targaryen seeks subservience from all. Sansa Stark will not go quietly. Westeros hangs in the balance. + an alternate ending for Game of Thrones. 8.x06 fix-it fic

8. we are buried in broken dreams by @writerbri-archive

Prompt: Sansa and Jon sleeping together before he goes to Dragonstone and when he comes back he finds out she is pregnant. A full on s8 fix-it fic at this point.

9. A Time for Wolves by missgreeneinthlibrary

Winter was coming. Now it's here. Season 8 reimagined with a Jonsa twist.

[sunderwight]

SV Game of Thrones AU where Shen Yuan transmigrates into a character who is basically Joffrey Lannister.

Luo Binghe is a mix of all the Stark kids, but mostly Sansa Stark and Jon Snow. Su Xiyan and Tianlang Jun had a Rhaegar-and-Lyanna thing going on, and Binghe's adopted mother was Su Xiyan's older cousin, who took him in after the fact and had him legitimized because she was the only remaining heir and had no other kids.

In the original story, King Shen Qingqiu (Jiu) develops a suspicion about Luo Binghe's heritage and, being just as paranoid about Heavenly Demons as Robert Baratheon was about Targaryens, invites the Luo family to come to court. Ostensibly so that Binghe can be playmates with the king's son and heir (Shen Yuan). Binghe's mom is horribly worried that they've been found out, but has not choice but to accept the invitation.

Of course, OG Prince Shen Yuan was a rotten little sadist who made it his life's mission to torment Luo Binghe, was eventually revealed to be the bastard spawn of Queen Qiu Haitang and her own brother, executed Binghe's mom for alleged treason, is party to the slaughter of the noble Liu family, and is eventually gruesomely assassinated at his own wedding feast.

Shen Yuan himself doesn't want to torment Binghe, or slaughter anyone, start any wars, or of course be gruesomely assassinated at his own wedding feast. He would much rather live his cushy life as a crown prince, figure out how to administrate a kingdom properly and also implement some better waste management practices to reduce the awful city stench (like, Shen Yuan was never terribly interested in plumbing in his first life but he is absolutely invested in the subject now.)

The problem is that the System absolutely demands that there be a war and certain other plot points in order to propel Luo Binghe into some sort of narrative destiny. Shen Yuan's not sure why because the last time he checked, the book series was stalled with Luo Binghe seemingly dead, and the television series had basically rendered everything he'd done pointless by the end, but regardless the System won't just let him peacefully evade all the drama and spare Luo Binghe all the suffering.

Boo.

Plus there's the concerning matter of the Northern Demon King awakening and mustering armies to conquer the south (and getting derailed by the beleaguered quartermaster of the Nightswatch, who keeps wondering when the fuck the actual protagonist is going to show up to handle the increasingly concerning plot points, because Binghe should have been exiled by now...?), Zhuzhi Lang resurrecting his uncle (as a dragon?!) across the Narrow Sea, and the Qiu family plotting the murder of the king and a coup to seize power...

(Also featuring: Yue Qingyuan as the parts of Jaime Lannister's character not currently owned by Qiu Jianluo, the Huan Hua Palace Master as a Littlefinger proxy, Meng Mo as Bloodraven, and many more!)

[dude-the-best-names-are-taken]

For the hope of it all

Pairing: Robb Stark x reader

Warnings: mention of death, nothing major just a sad little number that had been rotting in my docs for a long time now.

A/N: Just assume that robb was a bit older than canon, cause damn we forget how young he was (but richard didn't look that young). This happens after an assassin attacked bran and catelyn figures that the lannisters might be behind this. Reader is a lady of a noble house and catelyns ward. Hope you enjoy this because I LOVE TO WRITE ABOUT YEARNING YEAH. muah, muah.

~~~

You were on your knees in the godswood, praying just as you had always seen Ned Stark do when you were a child. You had been thinking about your childhood a lot these past few weeks, since Bran fell from the tower, since the attempt on his life, since the fire in the library, since all hell broke loose. You thought of the day your father sent you off to Winterfell as Catelyn’s ward. Your mother had passed away giving birth to your sibling, and your father, struck with grief, thought it might be best to send you away.

You thought of playing with Sansa, braiding her hair and talking all night. You thought of the foolish games you invented with Jon and Theon. You thought of Robb.

Robb had suffered the most in this storm that had begun when the king and queen brought their royal presence to Winterfell. His boyish grin was now a relic of the past. You would lie awake at night, thinking of the naive dreams you once had of marrying him. Even then, that dream had been out of reach. But now, with the looming fear of war, both your childhood and your future had been washed away.

Now that Ned was in King's Landing, you often found yourself in the godswood, seeking peace just as he once did.

"Since when did you start praying in the godswood?" A familiar voice pulled you from your thoughts. You turned to see Robb standing a few steps away.

"I do not know where else to go," you said as you rose to your feet.

"Mother leaves for King’s Landing tomorrow. She wishes to warn Father of the plot by the Lannisters," he said, looking more like a lord than ever before.

"I know. She told me." You had spoken to Catelyn about it last night. She had also asked you to return to your father and seek his aid.

"We both thought it would be best if I return home. My father may not have a large army, but he would be willing to help in every way."

Robb hated that life as you both knew it was slipping away, but he never wanted you to leave Winterfell. This was your home as much as his. You were meant to stay by his side. He had always wanted it that way. Do not leave. Please. I need you now more than ever.

"That is wise. We need all the help we can get," he said, stepping closer. He looked around the godswood, perhaps trying to hide his tears. He was just a boy forced into his father’s shoes. "I miss him, you know," he said, his voice carrying a vulnerability you had never heard before.

"Lord Stark trusts you more than anyone." You reached for his hand. "When he left, he knew the North was in safe hands."

"I am trying to do what is right…"

"I know, Robb."

"Then why is it so hard?" His voice cracked. "I do not want you to go. I keep telling myself you would be safer there, but what about me? You have always been a part of my life. Am I supposed to just let you go?"

Tears welled in your eyes. You had always imagined this moment, him finally confessing his feelings, but you never thought it would hurt this much.

"I will come back, I swear." You wanted to laugh at yourself. Perhaps your naivety was not completely lost, only disguised as hope. You gently squeezed Robb’s hand. "I will never understand how your hands are always so warm."

His lips curled into a half smile, and he let out a voiceless laugh. Your heart nearly leaped out of your chest when he brought your cold hand to his lips.

"Lord Stark will return. I will return. Things will be as they were before," you said.

You gently wiped away his tears, your hand caressing his cheek. You had so much to say, but words could never do justice to what you felt in that moment.

"If things were different, I would have said it, you know," he murmured.

"I know."

"If things were different, I would have married you."

You closed your eyes for a moment. All that you wanted was so close, yet so far. You wanted to scream at the gods, at fate.

Robb knew it was now or never. If he did not say the words, he might never get another chance. He wanted his father and his family to be safe, and he knew that love is the death of duty.

He would miss your laugh, your smile, and your frown. He would miss how you never failed to make him smile, how you knew his deepest insecurities. He never thought there would be a day in his life when he would not hear you curse the northern cold.

We stand here together for the last time, perhaps, and I pray it is not that way. But a part of me knows this is how it will be. You will be in your father’s castle, and I will be off to war. I do not know when I will see you again, but I live for that moment.

We stand here saying goodbyes instead of vows. I pray the gods keep you safe. I pray for your safe journey and return. I wish you to know that not a day will pass when I will not think of you. My love for you is deeper than anyone understands. I love you as the songs tell, my dearest.

Robb was too choked up to say the words he wanted to. Instead, he kissed you, so gently and with such passion, hoping you would understand all that he had never found the courage to say.

You pulled away first to catch your breath, your forehead still pressed against his.

"Swear on the old gods and the new that you will come back to me," he whispered.

"I swear."

~~~

[novaursa]

Legacy (friends at heart)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Be aware of unspecified time-jump.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the others

- Next part: what burns

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

Jon Snow sat at the head of the table, his grey eyes scanning the faces of his siblings. Sansa, regal yet weary, sat to his right, her hands clasped in her lap as she gazed pensively into the fire. Arya, ever restless, leaned back in her chair, idly twirling the point of a knife against the table’s surface. Bran, seated at the far end, looked calm but distant, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room, as if seeing things none of them could.

The weight of their discussion pressed heavily on all of them.

“How did they get through the Wall?” Arya asked, her tone filled with disbelief. “The Wall has stood for thousands of years. It was supposed to be impenetrable.”

Jon exhaled, his jaw tightening as he looked toward Bran. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Bran, sitting unnervingly still, finally spoke. His voice was soft but carried an unsettling certainty. “The Wall was not built to last forever. The magic that held it is ancient and fragile. Something… someone… broke it.”

Sansa frowned, her brows furrowing. “If the Wall has fallen, then we’re truly out of time. Winter is here in full force, and now the dead march freely.”

There was a heavy pause, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room.

“I wish Mother and Father were here,” Sansa said softly, her voice breaking the silence. “I wish they could see us together like this. They would have known what to do.”

Jon’s expression softened at her words, his dark eyes filled with unspoken emotion. “They would have,” he agreed quietly. “And so would she.”

Arya glanced at Jon, catching the shift in his tone. “Y/N,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity. “How is she? You’re the one who saw her last.”

Jon hesitated for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “She’s... the same as she always was,” he said finally. “Strong. Fierce. But…” His voice trailed off as he looked into the fire, his expression clouded. “There was something heavier about her. It’s been years since she’s been here, and I think she carries that weight with her.”

Arya’s gaze softened as she set the knife down, her fingers brushing against the table’s edge. “The last time I saw her was at High Heart,” she said, a faint smile playing at her lips. “She arrived on the back of a dragon.”

Sansa glanced toward Arya, her own expression softening. “I last saw her at Joffrey’s wedding,” she murmured, her voice heavy with memory. “She tried to keep me close, but there was nothing she could do. It wasn’t safe.”

Jon looked between them, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “She never stopped trying to protect us.”

Arya’s voice was quieter now, her gaze fixed on Jon. “Do you think she’s happy? With her new family?”

Jon nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “She has two sons now. Damon and Maelor. She loves them fiercely.”

At the mention of Damon and Maelor, Sansa’s expression warmed. “She always wanted a family of her own. She deserves that.”

There was a pause before Arya leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Do you think she ever misses us?”

Jon’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered the question. “She does,” he said finally. “I know she does.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of their shared history hanging in the air. Bran, who had been quiet for most of the conversation, finally spoke, his voice calm but certain.

“You’ll see her again, Jon,” Bran said, his gaze fixed on his brother. “One more time.”

Jon turned toward Bran, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

Bran’s gaze seemed to pierce through him. “You’ll see her again before the end.”

The cryptic nature of Bran’s words left the room feeling colder, the fire’s warmth doing little to chase away the chill that had settled over them. Jon held Bran’s gaze for a long moment before finally looking away, his thoughts his own.

Sansa sighed softly, her voice breaking the tension. “We should rest. There’s much to do tomorrow.”

Jon nodded, his jaw tightening as he rose from his seat. “You’re right. But this isn’t over. We’ll figure this out.”

As the others began to leave the hall, Jon lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. The memory of the woman who had raised him, the woman who had been his mother in every way that mattered, weighed heavily on his heart. No matter what came next, he knew Bran’s words would linger with him.

“One more time,” he murmured to himself, the flames casting shadows across his face.

The night was blacker than pitch, with no moonlight to pierce the endless winter darkness. A brittle wind swept through the craggy terrain surrounding Casterly Rock, howling through the narrow passes and scattering dry snow across the frozen ground. Beric Dondarrion dismounted his weary horse, his breath visible in the icy air as he surveyed their makeshift camp.

“Here,” he said gruffly, his one remaining eye scanning the area. “It’ll do for tonight.”

The others in his small company, five in total, nodded silently, their movements stiff from days of hard travel through the frostbitten landscape. Thoros of Myr dismounted as well, his red robes standing out starkly against the snow. He adjusted the sword strapped to his waist, his usually jovial demeanor replaced by a grim focus.

“The cold gets into your bones,” Thoros muttered, rubbing his hands together before pulling a flask of firewine from his belt. “A drink might keep us warm, eh?”

Beric shot him a look. “Save it. We’ll need your wits about you if anything finds us out here.”

Thoros smirked faintly, his weathered face lined with exhaustion. “What could be worse than what we’ve already seen?”

“Plenty,” Beric replied darkly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

One of the other men, a young scout with a face partially obscured by a scarf, began gathering sticks from the sparse brush nearby. “Should we light a fire?” he asked hesitantly, his voice muffled.

Thoros glanced at Beric, who frowned but nodded. “A small one. We’ll need it if we’re to keep from freezing.”

As the scout worked to kindle a flame, Beric crouched low, examining the map he had spread out on a rock. The flickering light of the fire illuminated his face, highlighting the scarred flesh and the tired determination in his lone eye.

“How much farther?” asked Lem Lemoncloak, his gruff voice cutting through the quiet as he tightened his cloak around himself.

“Half a day’s ride, maybe less,” Beric replied, tracing his finger across the map. “Casterly Rock isn’t far, but the roads are treacherous.”

Thoros crouched beside him, taking a swig from his flask before offering it to Beric, who shook his head. “Do you think they’ll even let us through the gates?” Thoros asked, his tone skeptical. “Lannisters aren’t exactly known for welcoming the likes of us.”

“They’ll let us through,” Beric said firmly. “Lady Y/N will see to it.”

Lem scoffed, leaning against a tree. “And you’re so sure she’ll even remember us? It’s been years since High Heart. She’s a Lannister now more than a Targaryen—married still to the man who all but destroyed her family.”

Beric’s gaze hardened. “She hasn’t forgotten what she saw. None of us have.”

There was a moment of silence, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. The memory of the visions Y/N had witnessed at High Heart—the endless night, the armies of the dead, the dragons circling above—was seared into their minds. They had followed her then, believing she was key to what was coming. Now, they sought her out again, hoping to lend their swords to the fight they knew was inevitable.

The fire crackled softly as Thoros leaned back, staring into the flames. “That dragon is with her,” he mused. “And not just any dragon—a dragon clad in Lannister armor, if the rumors are true. Do you think she’s changed?”

Beric’s expression was unreadable as he replied, “She’s changed because the world has changed. But she hasn’t forgotten who she is.”

“And what about her husband?” Lem asked, spitting into the snow. “Tywin Lannister doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to entertain a band of outlaws.”

“He doesn’t have to entertain us,” Beric said evenly. “We’re not going for him.”

The wind picked up again, sending a chill through the camp. The men huddled closer to the fire, their faces shadowed and tired. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the flames and the distant howl of the wind.

“You think she’ll even let us fight?” Thoros asked quietly, his voice almost lost to the wind. “She has a dragon. What could we possibly offer?”

Beric turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the faint outline of Casterly Rock loomed in the distance. His voice was steady as he replied, “Faith. Resolve. A sword is only as strong as the hand that wields it. She’ll need us—just as much as we need her.”

Thoros nodded, though his expression remained thoughtful. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

As the fire burned low and the men settled in for the night, the darkness pressed in around them, bringing with it an unsettling quiet. Beric sat with his back against a tree, his sword resting across his knees, as he stared out into the shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a low, guttural sound echoed—a reminder that the night was far from safe.

He didn’t wake the others. Whatever was out there, it wasn’t coming for them yet. But the unease lingered, a constant reminder of the world they now lived in.

The night passed slowly, the fire burning down to embers as the men kept watch in turns. Morning was little more than a pale night light barely breaking through the heavy clouds, but it was enough to get them moving again.

As they mounted their horses and set out toward Casterly Rock, the wind carried with it the faintest scent of smoke—an omen, Beric thought grimly, of the battles yet to come.

The warm glow of the hearth cast flickering shadows across the grand dining hall of Casterly Rock, making the dark stone walls seem almost alive. The long oak table was set with an array of dishes—roasted meats, fresh bread, and steaming bowls of hearty stew, a rare luxury in the enduring winter. The room was quiet save for the gentle clatter of cutlery and the occasional laugh from your children.

Damon sat to Tywin’s left, his small hands gripping a spoon as he eagerly dug into his stew. Maelor was seated to your right, his little legs swinging beneath the table as he munched on a piece of bread. You sat across from Tywin, your gaze shifting between your sons and your husband, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

“Slow down, Damon,” you said gently, watching as your eldest son wolfed down his food. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Damon paused, looking up sheepishly with a smear of stew on his chin. “I’m just hungry, Mother.”

Tywin, seated at the head of the table, raised an eyebrow, his tone stern but not unkind. “Your mother is right. Eat properly, Damon. A future lord must have composure, even at the table.”

Damon straightened in his chair, nodding solemnly as he picked up his spoon with a bit more care. “Yes, Father.”

You hid your amusement behind your goblet of wine, exchanging a knowing glance with Tywin. Despite his strict demeanor, there was a warmth in Tywin’s eyes as he observed his family.

Maelor, meanwhile, was busy tearing his bread into small pieces and dipping them into his stew. “Mother,” he piped up, his voice bright, “when can I ride Viserion?”

You chuckled softly, leaning over to brush a strand of Maelor’s hair from his face. “When you’re older, my sweet. Dragons are not toys.”

Damon, ever curious, chimed in. “But Father rode Viserion, didn’t he? You told me.”

Tywin glanced at you, the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips. “I didn’t ride her. I simply climbed on her back to avoid being eaten by those creatures in the dark.”

Damon’s eyes widened. “That sounds brave.”

Tywin’s gaze softened ever so slightly. “It was necessary, not brave.”

You reached for your goblet again, your eyes glimmering with fondness as you looked at Tywin. “Your father is underselling himself,” you teased lightly. “He’s braver than he admits.”

Tywin gave you a look that was both exasperated and amused, and for a moment, the weight of winter and responsibility seemed to lift from the room.

The conversation turned to lighter topics—Maelor’s eagerness to ride horses, Damon’s growing interest in history, and stories of your youth. Laughter filled the hall, warming the cold air like a fleeting glimpse of summer.

But the warmth was interrupted when the heavy doors to the hall creaked open. A pair of Lannister guards entered, their expressions grim as they approached the table.

“My lord, my lady,” one of the guards said, bowing deeply. “Apologies for the intrusion, but a group of men has arrived at the gates. They claim they’ve come to offer their services to Lady Y/N.”

Your brows furrowed, and you exchanged a glance with Tywin, whose expression darkened slightly. He set his goblet down with deliberate care. “Who are these men?”

“They didn’t give names,” the guard replied. “Only that they’ve traveled far and wish to speak with Lady Y/N directly.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, your mind racing. “How many are there?”

“Five or six, my lady. They seem... weathered. Warriors, perhaps.”

Tywin’s gaze turned to you, his tone firm. “We’ll see them together. I’ll not have strangers wandering into my home without scrutiny.”

You nodded, your expression thoughtful. “Of course.”

Before rising, you turned to your sons, your voice softening. “Damon, Maelor, stay here with the servants. Finish your dinner.”

Damon’s brows knit together in concern. “Are you going to see those men, Mother? Are they dangerous?”

You smiled reassuringly, leaning over to press a kiss to Damon’s forehead. “No, my darling. Stay here with your brother. We’ll be back shortly.”

Tywin stood, his presence commanding as he adjusted his cloak. You rose beside him, brushing your fingers over Maelor’s hair as you passed. “Eat your stew,” you told him gently. “We won’t be long.”

As the guards led you out of the hall, the laughter and warmth of the meal seemed to fade, replaced by the chill of winter seeping through the castle walls. Your mind buzzed with questions as you made your way toward the gates. Whoever these men were, they had chosen a perilous time to make their journey.

And as always, Tywin’s keen gaze missed nothing. “You have an idea of who they might be,” he said quietly, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You glanced at him, your expression unreadable. “Perhaps,” you murmured. “But we’ll know soon enough.”

You stepped into the cold night air, the stars barely visible through the dense clouds, as you prepared to meet the unexpected visitors.

The chill of winter clung to the courtyard of Casterly Rock, the snow crunching beneath boots as Tywin and you stepped into the open space. Torches lit the area, casting low light on a group of riders standing with their horses near the gate. The wind carried the faint scent of frost and the sea, the air biting against exposed skin.

Your gaze immediately locked onto the group of men, their weathered faces illuminated by the torchlight. There was something familiar about them—the way they stood, the way their eyes scanned the courtyard with quiet vigilance.

And then your breath hitched as recognition struck. Beric Dondarrion stood at the forefront, his one-eyed gaze fixed on you, his battered armor bearing the marks of countless battles. Beside him, Thoros of Myr held the reins of his horse, his red priest’s robes looking as worn as the man himself. Others stood behind them, cloaked figures with hardened expressions and the quiet confidence of those who had seen too much of war.

“Beric,” you breathed, stepping forward before you could think better of it.

Beric inclined his head, his voice gravelly but warm. “Lady Y/N.” He glanced at Tywin, then back at you, a faint smile playing on his lips. “It’s been some time.”

Tywin’s gaze darted to you, and his tone was cool as he spoke. “You know these men?”

You nodded, your voice steady despite the flood of memories. “Yes. These are the men I rode with in the Riverlands. When I was… missing, all those years ago.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable, though you caught the faintest flicker of something—irritation, perhaps jealousy—in his eyes. “You never mentioned any men,” he muttered, his tone low but unmistakably pointed.

You glanced at him, your brow arching slightly. “There wasn’t much time to recount every detail, Tywin,” you said evenly. “But yes, I owe my life to them. They sheltered me after wounds from riding Viserion started to get worse.”

Beric stepped closer, his gaze flicking between you and Tywin. “We came to offer our aid, my lady. The Long Night is here, and we remember what you told us at the High Heart. What we saw.” He glanced at Thoros, who nodded solemnly. “We believe it’s time to fulfill that promise.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though his eyes betrayed his calculating mind. “And what promise would that be?”

Thoros of Myr spoke this time, his voice deep and steady. “To stand against the darkness, Lord Lannister. To fight for the living.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. “A noble sentiment, but not one I take at face value. You come uninvited to my gates in the dead of winter, claiming allegiance to my wife. What exactly are you offering, and what do you expect in return?”

You placed a gentle hand on Tywin’s arm, your voice softening as you spoke. “They’re here to help, Tywin. They’re not our enemies.”

His gaze flicked to your hand, then back to Beric, his jaw tightening slightly. “Help,” he repeated, the word laced with skepticism. “And how do a handful of men plan to help against creatures we’ve barely managed to hold at bay?”

Beric’s one good eye met Tywin’s unwaveringly. “We’ve faced them before, my lord. And we’ve lived to tell the tale. You may find we’re more useful than you think.”

There was a tense silence as Tywin considered Beric’s words, his mind weighing every possibility. Finally, he inclined his head, though his tone remained cold. “We’ll discuss this further inside. For now, you and your men will be fed and given quarters. I trust you’ll behave accordingly.”

Beric nodded. “We’ll not give you reason to regret it.”

Tywin turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he began walking back toward the castle. You lingered for a moment, your gaze meeting Beric’s. “Thank you,” you said quietly. “For coming.”

Beric offered a faint smile. “It’s the least we could do, my lady.”

You gave a small nod before following Tywin, who was already a few paces ahead. His silence was heavy as you walked, and you could feel the unease radiating from him.

When you reached the castle’s inner halls, Tywin finally spoke, his tone clipped. “I don’t trust them.”

You sighed, glancing at him. “I understand. But they’ve earned my trust, Tywin. They’re good men.”

His gaze flicked to you, his expression unreadable. “Good men or not, they’re an unknown variable. And I don’t like surprises.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “I wouldn’t have survived without them. They helped me when I was lost, when I was vulnerable. That has to mean something.”

Tywin’s eyes softened slightly, though his jaw remained set. “I don’t doubt their past actions, but their presence here complicates things. We’ll see if they’re as honorable as you believe.”

You gave him a faint smile, your hand lingering on his arm. “Thank you for allowing them to stay.”

His gaze held yours for a moment before he nodded curtly. “Don’t thank me yet. This isn’t a courtesy—it’s a test.”

You couldn’t help but smile despite his tone, knowing that beneath his guarded exterior, Tywin’s decision to allow Beric and his men to stay was, in its own way, a gesture of trust in you.

The soft glow of the torches lit the chamber where Tywin Lannister sat at the head of a long table. The room was quieter now, with the bustling noise of Beric’s men settling into their quarters fading into the background. The air was warm, unusually so for the middle of the relentless winter. Across from Tywin sat Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr, their rugged appearances stark against the polished surroundings of Casterly Rock.

Tywin’s gaze was sharp, his presence as commanding as ever, as he leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands on the table. “Your men have been given food and shelter, but I expect discipline. My castle does not tolerate disruptions.”

Beric inclined his head, his expression neutral but respectful. “You have my word, Lord Lannister. My men understand where they are and the gravity of the times.”

Thoros took a swig from a flask he’d kept at his side, his eyes scanning the room. “You’ve got a strange warmth here, my lord,” he remarked, his deep voice tinged with curiosity. “Unusual for such a winter.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, but his tone carried a measured edge. “It’s not unusual when you understand the cause. There are two dragons sleeping beneath this castle, warming the Rock with their presence.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Tywin’s statement hanging in the air. Thoros set his flask down, his brow furrowing. “Two?” he repeated, his tone quieter now, almost reverent.

Beric leaned back slightly, his one good eye studying Tywin closely. “So it’s true, then. Not one, but two dragons sleep beneath your home.”

Tywin met Beric’s gaze, his voice steady. “You’ve heard correctly. The larger of the two is Viserion, my wife’s dragon. The smaller one hatched inside Dragonmont years ago from one of Viserion’s eggs.”

Beric’s lips pressed into a thin line as he exchanged a glance with Thoros. “And the second dragon—has it bonded with anyone?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Not yet. It’s young, temperamental, and untested. But it remains here, under my control.”

Thoros chuckled softly, though there was no humor in his voice. “Control is a fragile thing, especially when it comes to dragons. They answer to no one unless they choose.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. “You misunderstand. I don’t need to command it. Its presence alone is enough to deter threats. Dragons are weapons, and I wield them as I would any other.”

Beric leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Weapons they may be, but they’re also fire made flesh. They’re alive, with wills of their own. Do you believe you can truly keep them beneath the Rock forever?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his expression remained impassive. “The dragons are not your concern, Dondarrion. They serve my purposes, nothing more.”

The anxity in the room grew thick as Beric studied Tywin carefully, his gaze unwavering. “I don’t mean to question your methods, my lord. But the fire beneath your castle is a reminder of what’s at stake. If the Long Night has taught us anything, it’s that we cannot take such power for granted.”

Tywin leaned back slightly, his cold green eyes never leaving Beric’s face. “I don’t take anything for granted. That’s why I’m still here, holding this castle, while others crumble.”

Thoros chuckled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “And yet, it’s the dragons that make this place a haven in the dark. The warmth, the life—it’s not entirely your doing, Lord Lannister.”

Tywin’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps not. But I know how to use the tools at my disposal. That’s the difference between survival and ruin.”

The room grew quiet again, the crackle of the torches the only sound as Beric considered Tywin’s words. Finally, he nodded slowly. “You’ve prepared well, Lord Lannister. But preparation only takes us so far. When the true storm comes, we’ll see if even dragons are enough.”

Tywin’s expression hardened, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Dragons are enough, as long as they’re wielded wisely. And here, they are.”

Thoros picked up his flask again, tipping it toward Tywin in a mock toast. “Then let’s hope your wisdom holds, my lord. The Long Night is not kind to those who falter.”

Beric rose from his seat, inclining his head toward Tywin. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Lannister. We’ll do what we can to aid you in the days ahead.”

Tywin stood as well, his gaze cool and assessing. “See that you do. You’ve been given a chance to prove your worth. Don’t waste it.”

As Beric and Thoros left the chamber, the weight of their words lingered in the air. Tywin remained standing, his mind already working through the implications of their conversation. The warmth of the dragons beneath the Rock was a source of power, but it was also a reminder of the unpredictable forces at play in the world—a world growing darker with each passing day.

The cold, dark void of the endless winter stretched across Damon’s dreamscape like a suffocating shroud. Snow blanketed the ground, heavy and unyielding, as he wandered through an unfamiliar forest. The towering trees loomed above him, their skeletal branches twisting into grotesque shapes against the starless sky. The air was heavy, thick with an unnatural stillness that pressed against his small frame.

Damon's breath came in shallow gasps, his feet sinking into the snow with each hesitant step. His heart pounded in his chest, the only sound in the oppressive silence. Somewhere in the distance, faint whispers danced on the icy wind. They were unintelligible but sinister, wrapping around him like tendrils of shadow.

“Mother?” Damon called out, his voice trembling. “Father?”

No answer came, only the rising chill that gnawed at his skin. The whispers grew louder, now resembling mocking laughter. Fear rooted him in place as a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness. At first, it was unrecognizable—a towering form cloaked in swirling blackness. Then the shadows receded slightly, revealing Tywin’s face, his piercing green eyes devoid of life, staring at Damon with an unseeing gaze. Blood trickled down from a gaping wound in his chest, staining the pristine snow at his feet.

“Father!” Damon screamed, his small hands reaching out, but Tywin's figure crumbled into ash before his eyes, the wind scattering it into nothingness.

“No, no, no!” Damon’s cries echoed in the void, but they were swallowed by the darkness. He spun around, searching for something, anything, to ground him. His mother’s voice—soft, soothing—called his name from somewhere far away.

“Damon...”

The sound filled him with fleeting hope, and he ran toward it, the snow beneath his feet now feeling like ice-cold quicksand. Each step grew heavier, the effort immense, but he pushed forward. The voice grew louder, clearer, until he saw her. Y/N, his mother, stood a few paces away, her silver hair gleaming even in the bleakness of his dream. Relief washed over him.

“Mother!” he cried, rushing toward her.

But as he approached, her form shifted. Her warm, comforting expression twisted into one of pain and terror. She reached out to him, blood dripping from her fingers, before her body collapsed to the ground. A shadow passed over her crumpled figure, and Damon’s eyes snapped upward to see a monstrous spider, its grotesque legs spanning the entire forest. Its countless, soulless eyes glimmered like dark stars as it descended upon her, its fangs dripping with venom.

“No!” Damon screamed, his voice breaking. He tried to run to her, but the ground beneath him gave way, and he plummeted into a pit of darkness. His mother’s scream echoed in his ears, merging with the guttural growls of unseen creatures.

He fell endlessly, surrounded by whispers, laughter, and the sound of snapping jaws. Just when he thought the darkness would consume him entirely, a thunderous roar shook the void.

Viserion.

The she-dragon’s roar shattered the oppressive silence and chased away the darkness, her powerful cry like a beacon of light in the nightmare. The shadows recoiled, retreating into the void as Damon felt himself pulled upward, the chill replaced by warmth and the suffocating stillness lifting.

With a start, Damon’s eyes snapped open, his small body drenched in cold sweat. His chest heaved as he sat up in his bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through the frosted window, and the familiar warmth of the castle walls slowly brought him back to reality.

Another roar echoed in the distance, fainter this time but unmistakable. Viserion’s presence seemed to reassure him, her cry a reminder that she was near, guarding them.

Damon’s wide, frightened eyes darted around the room, settling on Maelor, who was fast asleep in the bed beside him, his small form rising and falling peacefully under the blankets. Damon swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He clutched his knees to his chest, trembling as the vivid images of his dream lingered in his mind.

“Mother... Father...” he whispered, his voice shaking.

He couldn’t shake the sight of their lifeless forms or the monstrous spider that had loomed over them. The fear gnawed at him, but deep inside, a spark of resolve flickered. He couldn’t let those nightmares become reality.

Outside, the faint cry of the dragons echoed once more, a comforting sound that kept the darkness at bay.

[satinofatetown]

what each of the stark kids used to play with as children:

jon&robb: hardcore lego children, they always payed together lego ninjago and would never let out an episode. they watched it together every evening on toggo. they also loved lego starwars but because catelyn forbade them watching it they listened to the audios of it on cd and read every starwars book in they’re city library

sansa: she had lots of different play tings, barbie, lego friends, dolls, schleich, polly pocket and silvainian family but her favourite thing was playmobiel, she had the big house and all the sets for inside. she and jeanie would watch together family vogel on youtoube (shout out to the germans) and tried to play the storylines out with sansas sets. and also they hated family houser

arya: when she was younger sansa would force her to play dolls, but after time arya tried to play with jon and robb. they didnt let her play with them because she would destroy theyre “battle strategy” from the stormtroopers, so her hyper fixation became dinos! she would have every dino figure you could think of and she would tell you about every single one of them, she had dino tshirts and a dino rainsuit like this:

bran: was an outdoor kid, but after he “fell” he started playing minecraft and since then is extremly fascinated by it.

rickon: nerf. but then bren was in the coma no one had time for him and his nerf guns so he got an ipad to play a little bit roblox but since then no one has seen him without it. catelyn is deeply ashamed that she made an ipad kid.

theon: played with his brothers water bording, he was the victim. once asked his father to play dolls with him and asha, he hit him

[hilarychuff]

A Crown Made of Candies and Crusts

a princess diaries au drabble

inspired by this au graphic; find the first in the series here, the second in the series here, the third in the series here, the fourth in the series here, or read all five chapters on ao3 here

Sansa ignores the doorbell when it rings.

Arya and Robb and her parents have already left for the ball, and with Rickon and Bran staying at friends’ houses for the night, she just wants to be left alone to wallow. Whoever it is, she doesn’t need to answer — and when she peeks at the security cameras through an app on her phone and sees Jon, well, she’s more determined to hide in her room than ever.

She does watch him, though. Watch the little version of him on her phone screen shift his weight from foot to foot for at least another few minutes, adjusting something in his arms that’s cropped just out of frame as he rings the bell again. When he still doesn’t get an answer, when no noise comes from inside the house, his shoulders slump, and then he’s bending down to leave the package on their door mat. It’s only once he’s gone, pulling the hood on his coat up over his head and turning back towards the street, that she can see what he’s left behind.

It would be gross, she tells herself, to leave a pizza just sitting on the porch for hours. Especially with the rain coming down like this, no matter that the porch is covered where Bran’s room extends over it. The least Sansa can do is throw it away.

Only, when she finally opens the front door and edges out into the cold San Francisco air, the cardboard box is hot in her hands. It smells good too, her stomach rumbling as the scent of bread and tomatoes and garlic washes over her, and maybe she is kind of hungry so she’ll just… She’ll just check what kind of pizza it is, maybe have one small slice…

And then she sees the M&Ms.

Sorry, they spell out, green and red and blue and yellow and orange and brown.

Sansa bursts into tears.

Before she knows it, she’s running upstairs to wipe her eyes and fix her makeup and start getting ready fast. She has to go. She has to go to the ball. She’s been so mean and so unfair and she knows that she was wrong, because if she really lets herself think about it, Jon has been going through a lot. What he’s had on his plate, she can’t even imagine, and instead of being there for him — even if it’s not going to work out for them as a them —

She should still be there. She should still be there to support him.

She should tell him that she’s sorry too, that she was the one who left him alone with it all when he tried to reach out to her to talk.

It’s only once she emerges from a cloud of hair spray and setting mist and perfume that she realizes she has nothing to wear.

This is a ball. A royal ball. A serious, internationally-recognized, Valyrian royal ball.

Her knees go wiggly underneath her even as she stumbles over to her closet.

Her normal dresses won’t work. None of them will be formal enough for the occasion. Of course, any of them would surely be more appropriate than whatever Arya picked out to wear, but, well, Arya is Arya. She seems to have a knack for breaking the rules that Sansa can’t quite figure out, and with her luck, any sort of fashion faux pas will be forever immortalized on the front of a newspaper and taken as some sort of international insult from an American guest.

There is one thing, though. One gown she never got to wear.

Floor-length and soft blue satin, it was probably too over the top for a homecoming dance, but when she’d first tried it on, she’d felt beautiful. Ethereal. With its full skirt and draped sleeves, she’d felt like something out of a period piece romance.

This will make him love me, she’d thought as she twirled back and forth in front of the fitting room mirror. When he sees me in this, he’ll have to love me for real.

It won’t look exactly the same now. Even though she’d had it tailored to fit like a glove, she’s grown an inch or two taller since then, and it’ll be tight in the chest — but potential culturally-insensitive cleavage aside, maybe Jon will like that?

With trembling fingers, Sansa unzips the garment bag hanging in the back of her closet, and inside the muslin cover, the dress is still perfect, pristine. Her heart starts to flutter at the sight of it, and then she’s slipping it off the hanger with reverence, hugging it to her chest.

She’s going. She’s really going to the ball.

–

Only, when she gets there, Jon still hasn’t arrived.

It’s strange, because of course he’d left before her. She’d watched him go on the camera. But now that she thinks about it, she’s not sure she remembers what he’d had on under his raincoat.

Had it been a suit? A tuxedo? One of those dark thermal Henleys that always makes her mouth water? She can’t quite conjure an exact picture of him in her mind, but she’s sure that even if he’d needed to go home and change first, he still should’ve beaten her here.

Of course, Sansa’s not the only one looking for him.

By the time she finds Robb and Arya (her sister wearing combat boots, a knee-length shapeless spaghetti strap dress, and a men’s blazer on top of it, which does look nice on her if certainly out of place), they’ve both already fielded texts from Lyanna. Apparently, Jon’s mother was wondering if either of them knew where he was. And despite the plentiful waiters circulating silver trays full of champagne and hors d’oeuvres among the buzzing, chatty crowds, there’s an impatient hum starting to build. At the fringes of the room, important, official looking people are scanning the entrances with sharp-eyes as they whisper into their ear-pieces, taking turns as they fast walk from one position to another.

As far as Sansa can gather, Jon is just sort of… missing.

But it’s probably some kind of mistake, right? One of his aunt’s people must’ve found him by now. She’s a queen, after all. She must have a whole retinue of people attending to her every need, and given how clear she’s made it that she needs Jon to be her heir, there’s no way they’re not on the case.

The ceremony is just running a little behind, Sansa tells herself. That’s all. Surely, any moment now, the speakers will be crackling to life with something other than the classical orchestra, and then Jon and his aunt will be stepping out on stage.

There’s no reason to worry yet. No reason to get worked up. Everything’s going to be fine.

–

Another thirty minutes later, Sansa is officially starting to worry.

She’s trying to stay calm, though. She’s trying to keep Jon’s mom calm too, reassuring Lyanna that Jon must be on his way.

Sansa had come to find her just to see if there was any news, any word, and the spike of Lyanna’s anxiety had been so much sharper than her own that Sansa had switched immediately into comfort mode.

They’re talking by the front entrance, Lyanna’s fingers squeezed tight around hers, when Jon finally steps through the door.

Sansa’s jaw drops when she sees him.

He’s wet. Dripping, really, tiny rivulets racing down the same raincoat she’d seen him in earlier. His new bodyguard Tormund is behind him, clapping him on the back, knocking him forward and fully into the room.

There’s a sudden flurry of movement as people rush closer, his mother first among them as she coos over him and brushes back his damp hair.

Jon steps past all of them, his eyes only on her.

“Wow,” he breathes. “You’re here.”

“Jon?” she asks, unsure, uneasy with all those eyes turning their way. “Are you OK?”

He must have a hundred places to rush off to, a thousand people still looking for him, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t take his eyes off her.

“You look so beautiful.”

A fierce blush rises up in her cheeks.

Before she can say anything else or figure out some way to respond, one of his aunt’s people, Jorah something, emerges from the crush of security and staff to clamp a hand down on his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he instructs flatly, tone brokering no room for negotiation. “The queen has a tux waiting for you. Do not embarrass her any further.”

“Don’t leave, OK?” Jon calls back at her over his shoulder, even as the surge of officials starts to sweep him away. “I have to do something first, but I really want to talk to you after.”

All Sansa can do is nod, and then there’s a hand squeezing her shoulder, too.

“I should probably go check on him,” Lyanna says, and that gets another mute nod from Sansa.

Suddenly untethered, she finds herself drifting, and when she gets her bearings again she’s back at the table where she’d found the other Stark kids earlier.

“D’you find him?” Robb asks as he sidles up towards her, his words coming out muffled around a mouthful of kebab.

Sansa blinks, takes a sharp breath, then nods.

“He’s here,” she confirms. “They took him to change because he was all wet. I think he was out in the rain?”

Robb frowns.

“Huh,” he says. “Maybe he had car trouble.”

A lightning bolt of guilt zaps Sansa’s stomach.

Had it been car trouble? Was there something wrong with the mustang? Would Jon have caught it if he’d been able to complete the job himself? Was all of this Sansa’s fault because she made Uncle Benjen rush to finish the rest of the work?

Gods, she’s made a mess of this whole thing.

Her spiral is short-lived, though, because it’s not long before a woman is stepping out on stage to gather everyone’s attention, announcing that their guest of honor would like to say a few words. A moment later, it’s Jon’s turn to step into the spotlight.

As promised, he’s wearing a tuxedo. His hair is still wet, but combed back now, and with the bowtie and cumberbund and dress shoes, it almost looks like it’s been purposefully styled that way, slicked down.

For a second, he looks stiff, uncomfortable, his eyes squinting in the bright lights illuminating the stage and flashing from press cameras at the front of the room. And then something in his face changes, and when he does step up to the mic, he looks steady.

“Hello,” he starts, his gaze scanning the ballroom. He won’t be able to see her from this far away, probably, but he doesn’t seem to be searching for anyone in particular so much as actually greeting the people who make up the crowd. “First, I’d like to thank everyone here for coming tonight. I especially appreciate how many people traveled great distances to attend the Annual Valyrian Ball this year. I know San Francisco isn’t exactly the usual choice of location, and I’m grateful that so much effort was put in to accommodate me in this unique situation. My aunt in particular, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, couldn’t have more whole-heartedly embraced me as her heir.”

There’s applause at the front of the room, a cue picked up by the rest of the crowd, and Jon waits until it dies down before he continues.

“There’s a lot I have left to learn about Valyria and what being Valyrian means, and I’m excited to do all of that. To better get to know my aunt and my father and their ancestral homeland, and hopefully also the rest of my family too,” he says, “including my half-sister Rhaenys and my half-brother Aegon if they’d be willing to meet with me. But at this time, I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to accept the position of heir to the throne.”

A low murmur starts up, building in volume, but Sansa feels almost the opposite, like she couldn’t make a sound now even if she wanted to. Jon simply raises his voice so he can be heard over the hum of the ballroom.

“I know many are concerned about stability for the throne, but I think it is clear that my aunt has several living blood relatives capable of succeeding her one day, and it’s to no one’s benefit to rush to make a decision of this magnitude. It is an honor to be included in conversations such as this and to have an opportunity to serve the people of Valyria and hopefully help make our global world a better place. I look forward to doing that in whatever capacity my whole family determines is best as I continue to grow and discover what it means to be a Targaryen. Thank you again for your time.”

“Whoa,” Robb says beside her, echoing her same thought as Jon steps back from the podium.

It only takes a second, a second of near silence as everyone in the room processes that — what he really just said, what he really just did — and then what had been a hum explodes into a roar.

The crowd is suddenly alive with movement, and Sansa lets herself get caught in it, swept up by the tide as people crash forward and she slowly ebbs back. Washed away to a corner of the room, she looks up to find herself next to a set of double doors that open to the cool night air. It’s stopped raining outside, but everything is still glittering and wet, like grass in morning dew. Unable to resist, she steps out, and just beyond the patio she can see what must be a garden, something that might be a hedge maze towering tall over a row of camellia bushes, their petals almost periwinkle in the shadow of the night. She drifts down the stairs towards the grass, and alone in the quiet, she can hear a fountain bubbling somewhere out of sight.

“I thought you might like the gardens,” Jon says, stepping up beside her. “I was kind of hoping I might get the chance to show you them.”

Sansa’s not sure how long she’s been out here — when she looks down at her arms, she can see goose bumps starting to form — but somehow Jon’s appearance doesn’t startle her. Instead, it feels almost like she was waiting for him, like he knew just where to find her, and she blushes a little when they finally lock eyes.

He’s so handsome in the tuxedo, his hair drying more unruly than it had been on stage. With the way he’s looking at her, she can’t help but think about what he’d said when he first saw her inside. Wow, he’d breathed, something like awe in his voice. You look so beautiful.

She feels that way with his gaze on her now.

“You can show me them,” she tells him, soft, almost shy, and when he holds out his hand for her, she takes it.

Fingers laced together, Jon guides her down a twinkling path, and it’s not long before they’re tucked away around the first bend of the maze, a wall of green separating them from the rest of the world.

“I’m sorry I got pulled away so quickly earlier,” Jon says. “I was really glad to see that you came and I wanted to talk to you longer, but I don’t think my aunt appreciated that I was running late.”

Sansa hardly dares to ask. At the same time, she can’t help herself. She has to.

“What happened?”

Jon lets out some fraction of a laugh.

“Wouldn’t you know it, just as I was really gearing up to run away from all of my problems, I ran out of gas instead.”

“Oh no,” Sansa says, another swell of guilt rising up inside her. She’d always imagined what it might be like the day Jon finally finished working on the car, how she’d make sure the tank was full and the hood shiny with wax so that if he wanted to take her out for its first ride, everything would be perfect and ready. But then she’d just wanted the car gone, out of her sight, hadn’t wanted Jon to have any reason to be there, any obligations left at the garage. She’d made Uncle Benjen rush, and Jon had suffered for it. “Oh no, Jon, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault —”

His thumb strokes soothingly across her knuckles. He shakes his head, smiling a little, and somehow her stomach actually settles.

“It’s not your fault,” he promises. “I was the one who supposedly fixed the gas gauge as one of my first projects. I think, uh — I think I must’ve just gotten distracted by the cute girl working the front desk.”

Her grip tightens on his hand, nervous, and he gives her a squeeze back.

“Anyway, it sort of seemed like a sign from the universe,” he adds, slowly leading them towards the center of the maze. “I don’t exactly think I’m the right person to be the heir to the Targaryen throne — the media is definitely right that the position should belong to Rhaenys now that Rhaegar has confirmed Dorne’s accusations back in the day were spot fucking on — but that doesn’t mean I can just ignore my responsibilities either.”

Sansa nods along, because it feels like the right thing to do. The easy thing to do when she’s not exactly sure what she’s meant to say. Still, she wants to say something.

“Um, I got your pizza.”

Jon glances over at her, drawing a little closer.

“Yeah? I’m really sorry I missed the last one, Sansa. I would never want to leave you waiting anywhere, or make you think that I forgot you or that I don’t want to spend time with you, because that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I wish I could give you a good reason that it happened, and I’m really frustrated with myself that I let it.”

She nods again, but as they keep walking, she finds herself moving closer to him, too.

“What did happen, though?”

Jon sighs, head hanging a little before he picks it back up so he can look at her.

“Honestly? I think I just really couldn’t believe that you were interested in me. It made more sense to think that it was some weird fluke and that you must’ve changed your mind and come to your senses afterwards, but I shouldn’t have assumed anything. If I wasn’t sure, I should’ve called you to check.”

Sansa surges another step closer, reaching for him with her other hand so she can wind her body around his arm.

“I should’ve checked on you, too. It seems like you were going through a lot, and I didn’t mean to just… disappear. Everyone was just being so fake all of a sudden, and I didn’t want you to think that I was acting any differently around you because you’re a prince, but then I ended up acting differently around you anyway.”

Jon lets out another little laugh, but his grip readjusts in hers, tucking her in close to his side.

“Well, I think I’m probably not a prince anymore. I mean, I’ve only known Daenerys for about two months now, but I’m pretty sure she’s going to burn me off the Targaryen family tree for what I said back in there. With the way one of her advisers shooed me out of her sight backstage, I think I’m probably lucky she didn’t throw a lit candle at my head. But maybe it’s for the best to not have the American teenager who hasn’t lived under a monarchy for even a single day taking over the rule of a European country he’s never actually set foot in.”

They’re at the center now, and as they step out into the little clearing, Sansa finally sees the fountain she could hear from all the way out in the garden. It’s glowing, lit from the inside, and strings of fairy lights criss-cross overhead. The idea that Jon had wanted to show her this — that maybe it had been part of his plan for the date that she’d turned down, and that they’ve still found their way here — Suddenly, she needs him to know how she feels.

He looks down at her questioningly as she unwinds herself from his arm, but he doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t go far. She keeps his hand held tight in both of hers as she steps fully in front of him, and then she’s facing him head on as her fingers squeeze his nervously. She has to get this out, though. She needs him to hear it from her.

“I don’t know much about Valyria,” she says, the words coming out in a rush, “but you’ve always been a prince to me, Jon Snow.”

Her breath goes shallow as he looks at her, eyes searching, and then he reaches to touch her cheek so softly that she can’t help herself. She throws herself at him, arms wrapped around his neck, and then her mouth finds its way to his.

His lips are soft, warm, and she presses her body against him, eyes closed, one foot off the ground. One of his hands curls to cup her cheek, the other settling hesitantly at her waist, and she tugs him closer with a small, needy sound that has his fingers bunching up in the fabric of her dress. He gets the message though, holding her steady, tilting her head back, and then he’s stepping closer to take control of the kiss as she hangs pliantly from his neck.

When he finally breaks away, they’re both panting a little, breathing hard as Jon drops his forehead to hers. And then he lets out another laugh as he pulls her back close, his cheek pressed to hers like they’re dancing.

“Sansa,” he says, his voice a low rumble right next to her ear, “did you just pop your foot?”

Her face burns. He must be able to feel it, her skin warm against his.

“In old movies sometimes, when there’s a really romantic kiss…” she starts, embarrassed, not sure exactly how to explain. “It just, um. It just felt right.”

He lets out another low chuckle that sends shivers down her spine, and then his mouth traces its way back across her cheek.

“Yeah,” Jon says, kissing her again in a way that makes her melt, staying close after so his lips brush hers with every word. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

[mixedcontents]

Thinking about Jaime Tyrion and Cersei and the prophecy given to Cersei which I'm still on the fence about believing or not tbh I think it's more a self fulfilling one on Cersei's part and I think she could avert it but to do that she'd have to be different. Regardless thinking about how much people get on Cersei's case for her paranoia about Tyrion but rarely about Tyrion's for Cersei. Like Cersei is understandable she doesn't want to believe it will be Jaime and maybe can't even fathom that it could be him regardless Tyrion is an easy place for her to put the prophecy especially after the death of Joffery (Cersei believing it was Tyrion/Sansa) and the death of Tywin (known for certain and-in cerseis mind further- proof he's willing to be a kinslayer and her and her children's doom) but on the other hand from book one Tyrion puts a lot of paranoia on Cersei but he's also more willing to change his beliefs and keep looking into things up to a certain point like he suspects her of Bran especially of the hired knife sent to kill Bran (later he figures out it part of the truth that it was Joffery not Cersei) he believes Cersei killed me had someone kill Jon Arryn (we know it was in fact Lysa probably Littlefinger manipulating her to do so) he believes that Cersei had Mandon Moore try and kill him during the Battle of the Blackwater only to be saved by Pod but it was a near thing and disfigured him (the facial scar and his nose) I don't believe he has suspected different yet (personally I think it was Joffery possibly at the advice of LF in some way but idk I know it's a popular theory it was Joffery) then he believed it was Cersei who had Alayaya scourged and thrown from the castle but realizes while talking to Tywin that he did it not Cersei bc Cersei told him what Tyrion said about anything that happened to her he would do to Tommen I think on some level Tyrion and Cersei are a lot more alike than they know or would admit and Tywin is a blind spot for them too they're both desperate for his love and respect which they will never get and they both aliken themselves to Tywin a lot as well and Jaime is definitely a blind spot for them both because they love him even after Tyrion finds out the truth about his first wife he still loves him and i hope that at some point he'll forgive Jaime and realize it was Tywin who was the problem and Jaime like him didn't really have a lot of choice in saying no to Tywin and after what happened of course Jaime was terrified to tell his brother the truth (and he never dreamed their father would do what he did to them and it was the septon that initially told Tywin if I remember right Jaime just filled in some blanks in the story I think to try and soften his father towards Tyrion and his wife but idk) but Tyrion and Cersei are so much more alike in a lot of ways and then they have a lot of paranoia towards one another often missing the real problem or danger

Also I still think Tyrion was manipulated by Tywin in regards to Shae the whole time I think she was working for Tywin by choice or not and I think Tywin expressly forbid Tyrion about taking her to court so he would so he could know what Tyrion was up to and that's why Shae ends up in his bed so soon after the trial and I think she was trying to warn him before Tyrion murders her I also think she was poisoning Tywin and that's why he was 'rotting on his beir' despite the care taken to make sure that doesn't happen and why he was on the chamber pot where Tyrion finds and kills him

[lizzie-queenofmeigas]

After reading posts about how Rhaegar and Lyanna hate stems from Dany and Arya hate, I wonder if that's why some Jonsas want Jon to hate his biological parents and only see Ned as a parental figure. Because Arya/Lyanna and Dany/Rhaegar are considered positive parallels and would make the so-called "Ned/Cat 2.0" less meaningful and special to Jon if he loved the parents that resembled his hot aunt and favorite sister.

I also wonder if that's why Sansa stans are so insistent that Arya is ugly and get mad when you point out that the Targaryens, not the Tully's, are the ones that are famed for their beauty. (Also, by extension why some Elia stans love to insist that Elia was prettier than Lyanna but make racism accusations when it's said not everyone saw Elia as the ultimate beauty.) I also wonder if that's why some NedCat shippers don't like hearing Ned might've loved Ashara (but they're perfectly fine with Cat originally finding Brandon hotter than Ned).

I mean, the most that Sansa has going on for her is beauty. She's not overly kind, nor rebellious nor intelligent, and that's not a bad thing, each character has their own thing and not every character has to be the best at something, but she's not really protagonist material, if you know what I mean, she's too passive (Sansa to me is kinda like a camera with feelings).

Her beauty It's like her ultimate attribute to her stans and they get mad when you point out any other female character is beautiful (especially Arya because apparently there can only be one pretty Stark sister). They reduce her to that.

Their favourite has to be the prettiest and most special and that translates to their ships too.

The thing about characters like Sansa, Elia and Helaena is that they're pretty much blank pages (Sansa isn't really, but they ignore her canon personality so much that for them she is) and they can do what they want with them. But their headcanons and inventions are not canon and that pisses them off.

This is a mess, sorry, my head isn't working well lately.

[lord-armitage]

ASOIAF Characters Ranked of How Likely They Are to Survive A Horror Movie

Robb Stark - 4/10

The likeable, grounded voice of reason comes up with the best strategies but delays things by ignoring Grey Wind's instincts. Will die either as a heroic sacrifice during the climax or at the end of the second act to ramp up the stakes.

Cat Stark - 0/10

Dead before the story began. She's the reason why the Starks decided to have a fresh start in a new town living in that creepy old mansion. Maybe her possessed ghost will enter the story, but she's already gone.

Ned Stark - 1/10

"No, children, this house is definitely not haunted. What you are hearing at the end is just the floorboards settling. There's no such thing are ghosts or monsters. Maybe we should take your direwolves to the vets as they keep barking at nothing during the night?"

Sansa Stark - 5/10

Could go either way with Sansa. She'll either be the girl who dies first if the scriptwriter is a misogynist, or the final girl if not. Either way, she's getting absolutely drenched in blood.

Ayra Stark - 10/10

Of course Ayra surives. There isn't even a question that Ayra Stark won't survive a horror movie.

Daenerys Targaryen - 10/10

Dany is literally the final girl in her own story, so she's the final girl here now. There has literally never been a character created with more final girl energy than Dany.

Tyrion Lannister - 2/10

Gets way too confident in his intellectual ability to defeat the monster. Will have a moment where he thinks he's defeated it by chanting something out of an old book, but doesn't spot check to make sure it's really gone and ends up getting killed.

Jon Snow - 9/10

The quiet one who knew exactly what was happening right from the start because he trusts Ghost's instincts. While everyone else is arguing about the monster being real, he's getting weapons. Fully aware of what genre he's in.

Theon Greyjoy - 0/10

Theon was born to be the drunk frat bro who dies first in a horror movie by doing something insanely stupid, like opening the door for the zombies or thinking that he can fight the monster himself. He would also be a character to purposefully hide his infection/bite/whatever, thus dicking over the other characters.

Asha Greyjoy - 8/10

She knows that she's in a horror film and takes it all in her stride. Most likely character to quip. If she doesn't survive, then she'll be killed in the big climatic action scene at the end, weakening the monster enough so that the last person standing now has a chance to defeat them.

Stannis Baratheon - 0/10

Authority figure who angrily refuses to acknowledge the strange goings on in this town and refuses to do anything about it as "ghosts aren't real." Is one of the first ones to die.

Loras Tyrell - 10/10*

*Loras survives by sheer technicality. Ten years ago he would have been killed for sure but now the writers are worried about being cancelled for using the bury your gays trope, so instead of killing him they write him out of the story so it doesn't technically count.

[jackoshadows]

The most amazing thing about Jonsa shippers is how confidently they just assert that all their fanon, fanfiction and headcanons actually happened in the books and at a certain point everyone else pointing out how this is untrue just give up. There's no arguing against ignorance.

Following up on this post, the same person then goes on with more fanfiction against two redditors trying to engage with them on actual book canon lol.

One thing I have noticed is that when you get into a discussion with Jonsa/Sansa stans, 90% of the time, instead of actually engaging with you, they will link to a relentlessly long essay full of nonsense to support their argument. That's because they have not actually read the books - everything they write is regurgitated from these idiotic metas and so they just link to it thinking that it will convince us or change our minds.

They know they can't argue against walls of book text that disproves the outright fallacious nonsense they put forth as canon and immediately go " Well, I don't have the time, there are other expert, smart Jonsas who have analyzed all this and say that Jonsa is a thing in the books so I trust them. The end.' Mind closed. And that's the problem with debating with Jonsa shippers - you will never change their minds because they are not open to changing their minds!

Like there are folks in there telling them that Alys looks like Arya and that's why Melisandre mistakes one for the other. But no, here have this big essay with maps and such filled to the brim with pure nonsense on why Sansa is the 'girl in grey'....

EVERYTHING in that reply is the same old tired nonsense again and again and again:

Sansa was hiding in the Vale as Petyr’s bastard and modeled her identity as Alayne basically after Jon.

NO SHE DIDN'T. It's right there in the text after Myranda Royce brings Jon up and Sansa says that she hadn't thought of Jon in ages. All the while Sansa is thinking of her family and where she can flee to - she even thinks of Tyrion as an option, but never Jon. She is playing a pretend bastard and never once thinks of Jon. This idea that she modeled Alayne after Jon is contradicted by the text but they think repeating it enough times will make it canon or something.

They’re both honorable and compassionate people. They’re both arguably spoiled.

Sansa is 'honorable and compassionate'? Sansa? Compassionate?

Poor Mycah must have missed out on that. It's not Arya that's risking everything to save a butcher's boy who is honorable and compassionate. It's not Bran standing up for Hodor against the Frey boys who is compassionate and honorable. Oh no, that's Sansa!

And sorry but there is no comparison here to Jon and Sansa being spoiled. None. Jon had a chip on his shoulder from being a bastard. Donal Noye sets him straight, he learns, acknowledges his privilege and APOLOGIZES.

I am still waiting on Sansa to atleast reflect in her thoughts about how she treated Arya - but no, Sansa is still blaming Arya for Lady! Her father had to lose his head before Sansa even figures out that these cartoonishly evil characters were actually evil while betraying her family to become queen. No introspection, no growth, none.

The absolute worst part of this ship is all these trash parallels between the two characters when they couldn't be any more different to each other.

He (Jon) thinks of her as he’s dying.

WTF!! NO, JON DOES NOT THINK OF SANSA AS HE'S DYING!

As for Jon’s tastes, Jon is also a sheltered teenage boy who had never had a romantic relationship with anyone before meeting Ygritte.

Jon's tastes don't matter because he was a sheltered boy! You just wait he will totally change once he meets Sansa!

especially because there is no chance in Hell that with Jon’s station and lowly birth he could even marry a lady of good standing to begin with.

Totally! He only dislikes ladies like Catelyn and Sansa because he could never hope to marry a 'lady of good standing' and not because of the emotional abuse and bigotry.

And yet — when Jon dreams, he doesn’t dream of these warrior women. He dreams of having a traditional wife who will give him sons and rule Winterfell with him.

WTF! HOW IS VAL A TRADITIONAL WIFE?! Did I miss something? Does he dream of starting a family with someone else?

There’s also other things too; like Jon conflating red headed characters with Ygritte (right after he thinks of Sansa singing and brushing out Lady’s coat, he thinks of Ygritte’s words, he thinks Melisandre is Ygritte at first, his favorite part about Ygritte was her pretty red hair), or him calling Sansa radiant and immediately despising Joffery.

He compares Ygitte and Melisandre because Mel has red hair and is called the red priestess for a reason!! At no point does he conflate Sansa with Ygritte or Melisandre. Sansa has auburn hair like Robb and Bran and Rickon.

And I already made a post about this, but you know nothing Jon Snow is either about Arya or about Bran, Rickon and Sansa. So no, it's not specifically about Sansa - more Jonsa fanfiction.

And so, so tired of this Jon is jealous of Joffrey over Sansa nonsense when Jon as a typical male teenager is annoyed that Joffrey is taller than him and Robb despite them being older and because Jon has more house loyalty than Sansa he dislikes Joffrey for his derisive attitude towards Winterfell.

Especially annoying that as the redditor replying to them points out that ALL the Stark kids start out as naive dreamers! Arya and Bran are ten times more honorable and compassionate than Sansa! Arya had to pretend to be shit as well, for longer than Jon and Sansa! Arya almost loses herself - only Needle is preventing that! Bran has to stop and prevent himself from warging Hodor and retaining his humanity. Arya, Bran, Rickon ALL WANT TO RETURN TO WINTERFELL! And yes once they get older, these kids will also want to name their future children after their ancestors!! What's so unique about any of this shit to Jon and Sansa?!

But these shippers will basically downplay all these themes for the rest of the Starks and then innocently ask 'why does Jonsa get so much hate?' 🥺👉 👈

You’re entitled to your opinions. But I didn’t come here to debate

I didn't come here to debate while writing a whole fanfiction essay about Jonsa! There will be no more comments from them.

[esther-dot]

Sansa's Sworn Shield 3k by @kittykatknits

“You could play come into my castle with her, she likes that game,” Rickon offered helpfully. Jon desperately wants an evening alone with his wife. Unfortunately, Rickon is determined to protect his dear sister from Jon's less than honorable intentions. Challenged to yet another duel, and running out of champions, Jon decides to find another way to solve his problems so he can finally come into Sansa's castle.

The pursuit of non-bath time happiness 3k by @captainbee89

After Jon refuses Gendry's ask for Arya's hand, citing the fact Sansa was not yet betrothed, Rickon observes and, with the help of Shaggydog, Ghost and Arya, comes up with a plan to have Jon realise he should court Sansa himself. And if it were to result in Jon being less strict about bath times, that was totally coincidental!

Goodbye Means Going Away (And Going Away Means Forgetting) 2k by @vixleonard

Memory is unreliable. No one understands this better than Rickon Stark.

corresponding manip by @norrlands-nonsense

what this palace wants is release 26k WIP by @bravegentlestrong

When Sansa and Jon show up at Bear Island, Rickon is already there holding court as King in the North and planning a war with Lyanna Mormont. They look exactly like the parents who he lost. Once Jon and Sansa take over the whole ruling-the-kingdom thing, Lyanna and Rickon use their political capital to parent trap Jon and Sansa.

No Smooth Road 4k by @maybetwice

Jon and Sansa are in love. It ought to be as simple as that.

His King's Command ficlet by @vivilove-jonsa

“Sansa wants a babe. You should give her one.” Jon had been cleaning Longclaw but glances up at his king, his ten-years-old cousin, who is staring at him expectantly with his arms crossed.

Rickon's Refuge 1k by @vivilove-jonsa

On those nights, Rickon feels like a child of eight, not a man grown. On those nights, he seeks out Sansa, a tolerable replacement for the mother he lost, the one he barely remembers now, though that is not in his conscious thoughts.  She lets him lie in her bed.  She will stroke his hair softly and sing.  He's never told her but he likes that.  It makes him feel safe and loved and like he still has a mother who isn't a faded memory.   “Rickon? What are you doing in here?” He scowls at the deep voice even though he loves him. “What are you doing in here?!” he asks sharply in reply to Jon’s question, the petulance plain in his tone.

Marry Me In Some Old-Fashioned Way 2k by @blackholeofprocrastination

A misunderstanding with Rickon leads Jon to reconsider his future at Winterfell and his feelings towards its red-haired mistress.

PRE CANON - WESTERN - FAIRYTALE - REGENCY - LITTLE WOMEN - HOLIDAY - SEASON SIX - ANNE OF GREEN GABLES - THE GIRL IN GREY - FREE CITIES - FAIRYTALE PART II - POLITICAL MARRIAGE - SALTY TEENS - POST CANON - JON X ALAYNE - EDWARDIAN - VICTORIAN - OUTSIDER POV - FIGURE SKATING - JEALOUS JON

[15-lizards]

In the spirit of the Olympics: ASOIAF characters and their Olympic sports

Jamie Cersei obviously a tennis doubles team thanks @melrosing for ur big brained art. Tywin is their coach and has been abusing training them since they were like seven. Consistent natty champs but haven’t scored a Wimbledon title yet and have yet to get gold at the Olympics (they have one bronze one silver). Mostly because Cersei breaks her racket every time things start going wrong. Also because Jamie is so full to the brim with shame and need for daddy’s recognition that he starts breaking down almost immediately once the point gap starts to widen

Brienne is a long distance swimmer she’s the Katie Ledecky of Westeros no one can touch her do you see her wingspan??? Usually finishes 5-15 seconds before everyone else sometimes other ppl aren’t even in the frame. Has multiple gold medals at this point and has been to the Olympics twice before she even turned 20. Lesbians go crazy over her online

Arya does some type of shooting and she’s like those tiny little teenagers that show up and blow all of their grownup competition out of the water. Steady hand and crazy aim. OR she does fencing and has a super unique style that gets the internet really into it for a couple of weeks. OR judo in the lightweight class. She’s so talented 🙂‍↕️ she’s definitely medaled at her first games when she’s like 14

Sansa is very obviously a figure skater like!!!! Of course she is!!! She is obsessed with her lines and artistry and takes ballet classes in order to improve her fluidity. She’s a young star in women’s singles, mostly for how graceful and fluid she is when she moves, and for her very gentle/pretty/romantic choice of costumes, music, and choreography. But she really wants to do pair skating mostly because she wants to have a romantic story to tell at their wedding (yes Joffrey is the potential partner)

Dany plays field hockey and she is sooooo cute and fun and peppy off the field and is so charming during all the interviews and always gives the girls a great inspirational speech and is just a very good leaderly figure in general. And then the game starts and you see a 5’2 platinum blonde sprinting towards u with blood and malice in her eyes and a big stick in her hands. She wants gold and by god does she get gold. Occasionally body checks ppl but she’s just too small for rugby.

Robb is a young rugby star he’s so handsome and muscular and all of his interviews go viral everyone’s obsessed with his training videos that the team TikTok posts. Soooo good too he’s on the Olympic team at 18 and he’s just sprinting down that field and dominating the game. But he’s so oblivious to it all the love when ppl ask if he’s dating anyone he’s like why would I do that I have to bulk up and focus on my game 🤨 and then runs off to meal prep with Theon (who does not meal prep but is obsessed with him)

Jon is an ice hockey guy to me. So dark and brooding while he’s sitting on the bench and he’s all locked in when it’s time to start playing he’s just so serious ab it he lives for The Game. But every time his buddies score a goal he goes absolutely batshit crazy and just loses all composure. And when they win he starts ugly sobbing. There’s a viral photo of him after winning his first gold just standing on the podium with snot and tears running down his face while the rest of the team is like 😁😁😆😄 him and Robb train together but Jon has absolutely no media training every interview is a disaster