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hilarychuff · 10 hours ago

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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.”

#jonsa #jon snow #sansa stark #jonsa fic #jonsa au #asoiaf princess diaries au #my writing #asoiaf #asoiaf fic

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