#jonsa timeline

[missgallavjch]

found this on twitter, try not to say j word challenge

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Jonsa - "Nodology", Part 1

It's best to read this story after first reading "No More Scars", since this is a sequel. While it's not necessary to do so, it helps paint a picture of Jon and Sansa's current relationship, and there are some references to scenes from that fic that might be lost on new readers. "No More Scars" was about the organic progression of Jon and Sansa's relationship on the road to Riverrun after he rescues her from King's Landing, and this is the story of that singularly-focused narrative now entering into the larger world of family and politics and societal expectations. Long story short, shit gonna get messy from here on in, folks.

Like in "No More Scars", there's been some speeding up/condensing of the timeline, and aging up of all characters. For those that are new, Jon died up at the Wall and then went South to rescue Sansa. Expect lots of creative license being taken, lol.

Nodology

Chapter One: There's a Poem in there Somewhere

"The knot fastens ever tighter." - Jon and Sansa. After rescuing her from King's Landing and bringing her to Riverrun, the two try to navigate a love they never intended to start, especially with so many watching eyes.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2

* * *

All things come to an end, Sansa realizes.

This is what she thinks when she makes her way through the gates of her mother's family home.

(This must be how it ends – their journey.)

It's not home, but it's as near to it as Sansa expects to be for a long while. Riverrun's gates open before them, and Sansa sees her family, standing at the bottom of the stairs leading into the main hall at the end of the courtyard. The breath stalls in her chest. She's hardly aware of the halt her horse makes when she settles before them, Jon leading the horse on foot, keeping the proper decorum between them. And she's hardly aware of the offer of his hand for her to hold onto when she dismounts, rather than the familiar way his palms used to fit around her waist to help her down. They left intimacy back on the hill, after all. And part of Sansa's heart hurts for it, but in this moment, she hasn't a mind for it.

"Oh, Sansa," her mother cries, and then she is folded into her arms.

Everything comes undone in Sansa's chest. Her breath rakes from her, her eyes wetting instantly, and when she reaches trembling hands up to the back of her mother's dress, she fears she may crumble against her form.

"My dear Sansa," Catelyn cries into her hair, a hand stroking the back of her head, the other wrapped tight around her shoulders.

The sob catches in Sansa's throat. "Mother," she croaks out, voice breaking. And then the tears truly do come.

They hold each other there in the open courtyard. Robb watches them with a trembling lip, his throat flexing. He opens his mouth, perhaps to say her name, to say something, but nothing comes. He clamps it shut, the quiver in his chin barely discernible, his eyes never leaving her form.

And then there is Jon, still holding the reins of the horse she'd rode in on. Still watching, always, from a distance. She meets his eyes over her mother's shoulder.

He offers her a tender smile, just the slightest quirk of his lip, his own eyes wetting at the sight of their reunion.

She mouths a silent 'thank you' to him, her tears hot along her lids, and then she buries her face in her mother's shoulder.

Her knees buckle, but Catelyn holds her.

She is home, home, home.

(Because home is not a place.)

Sansa doesn't bother to smother her cries this time.

* * *

Catelyn frets over her the first several hours, and dinner that night is awkward for her at the beginning, the anxiety still bundled in her chest, the fear still wound tight throughout her gut.

The last time she sat at a dinner table, Cersei sat across from her, wine goblet in hand, sneer in place.

Her appetite is slow in returning.

Catelyn brushes a stand of hair behind her daughter's ear with affection. Sansa smiles tenderly at her, seated beside her, before refocusing on her plate.

Jon sits across from her. Ghost lies at her feet beneath the table.

More than her appetite may be slow to return. But he is here.

And she is safe.

And there is time in the world for everything else.

* * *

Jon had expected to be the one to break the terrible news of Arya no longer being in King's Landing, but before he can, Catelyn is already assuring Sansa of their search for Arya, her hands cupping her cheeks, her eyes fervent on hers.

"She's been seen in the Riverlands, and I've sent trusted people in search of her. Your uncle is helping," she says with a nod to her brother Edmure.

Tears bead in Sansa's eyes.

The air tangles in Jon's lungs – equal mix dread and relief.

She's been spotted, at least. She's alive, at least. But beyond that...

He meets Sansa's eyes across the room and finds the same tangle of emotion reflected in her gaze.

In this world, and in this war, they have no guarantee of anything, after all.

* * *

There's a knock on her chamber door. She calls for the visitor to enter and stops her perusal of the many dresses her mother has laid across her bed for her.

Robb enters, eyes meeting hers briefly before glancing to the floor, and he closes the door behind him. He meets her gaze again in silence.

Sansa stills in her surprise, before her manners return to her. She curtsies. "Your Grace."

"Sansa, please – " he starts, hand out-reaching, before stopping. He clears his throat. "You can forget the formalities," he tells her, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Sansa watches him quietly, aching to reach for him, to bury her face in his chest and cry in his arms and call him 'brother' once more, but she's unsure whether he wants that as well. Whether she is still 'sister' to him.

"You've returned to us. Safe and sound," he says in relief.

The anger flares hot and unbidden within her. She purses her lips, turning back to her bed. "Yes, though your definition of 'sound' is questionable at best," she snaps.

He steps toward her. "Sansa..."

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. This is her king, as well as her brother. She turns back to him. "I'm sorry. That was... unworthy of me."

He hesitates a moment, and then he reaches for her, wraps his arms around her frame, sighs into her hair. "You've no idea how worried I was."

"No, I've no idea," she breathes quietly into his shoulder, stiffening in his embrace.

Robb doesn't seem to notice. He pulls back from their hug, his hands resting along her arms. "I want you to meet my new wife. You'll get on well, I just know it."

Sansa heaves an exhausted sigh. "Of course."

Robb peers at her. "Are you tired? You must be tired. Of course, you're tired. I should let you rest." His hands fall from her shoulders. He moves to turn, and then stops, glancing back at her. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. "I'm glad you're back, Sansa. Truly."

Maybe he means it. Maybe he means all of it.

But Sansa cannot think of that right now. She only nods silently, offering a perfunctory smile. "So am I," she says placatingly.

Robb smiles at her, before leaving her chambers.

She drops down to sit along the edge of the bed, her eyes glancing over the dresses laid out across her furs.

It rises in her – sudden and poisonous.

She grabs a dress, slings it across the room with a shriek.

Sansa stands staring at the offending garment, her chest heaving with her ire, and then she grabs for another, throwing it just the same. Another. And another. Her shouts of rage crumble into grievous cries, her arms finally giving out as she stumbles back along the bed, sliding down the side of it to drop to the stone below. She buries her face in her hands, her breaths coming quick, her eyes stinging with unshed tears, her frustration panted into her palms.

She pulls her knees up to her chest.

She is home, home, home.

(And it shouldn't feel like this.)

* * *

Jon finds her in the stables, brushing out the mane of her horse. He glances around the stalls, making certain of their seclusion, before he steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her stomach and pulling back against his chest.

Sansa startles in his embrace, before she realizes it's him, the brush in her hand still held mid-air, her other going to Jon's own hand around her waist. "Jon," she whispers with caution, glancing around the corner for any witnesses to his sudden affection.

But Jon only sighs into her hair, clutching her more firmly. He buries his nose along her shoulder. "Just give me a minute."

Sansa worries her lip, stiffening in his hold, even as his warmth floods her. "Jon, we have to be careful," she hisses, eyes still flicking around the corner of the stall.

"Just a minute, please, Sansa," he rumbles into her neck, his eyes fluttering closed at her scent, her nearness, the steady weight of her braced to his chest.

The ardency of his request seems to move her, and her shoulders lose their tension, her own sigh stealing past her lips as she leans back against him, quietly surrendering.

He's back there, suddenly, back to being on the run like they were only weeks ago, when there was nothing but her and him and a horse and a road. Nothing to stop him holding her like this, and no one to interrupt. Nothing to risk, and no shame to be found.

He breathes her in, his fingers clutching at her, and it's too short – this time that he can hold her. It's too short and too fleeting and too edged with danger.

(He knew this going into it. He knew this when she reached for his hand atop the hill and told him: "This isn't as far as we go." But knowing doesn't make it any easier.

He knew he was still her brother.

He knew this was still wrong.

But knowing and wanting have never gone hand in hand for him.)

He takes a last lingering inhale at her neck, his nose still pressed to her hair, his hands slipping from her waist reluctantly, before he moves to turn her gently in his hold, facing her.

She looks up at him with a tenderness that rakes through his chest.

He closes his eyes and sighs heavily when she braces a hand to his cheek, her thumb brushing over his coarse beard.

"What is it?" she asks him softly, peering up at him when he settles his hands on her hips.

"I just miss you," he manages, his eyes fluttering open to rove across her face.

She smiles up at him, before leaning forward to plant a kiss along his cheek. "And I miss you. Always. Even when you're right across the table from me."

Jon sighs out his aggravation, his thumbs brushing unconscious circles over her hips. "I feel like we haven't spoken in days."

Sansa looks down, her hands going to brace along his arms. "We haven't, really," she says forlornly.

He doesn't let her linger long on it though, directing her to the bench across the horse's stall. They settle next to each other, their hands held between them. "How have you been?" he asks her.

She gives a slight shake of her head. "I'm worried for mother. There's been no further news of Arya."

Jon grunts his acknowledgement, his eyes drifting down to their joined hands, his thumb gliding over her knuckles in comfort. "There will be. I promise."

She smiles up at him. "When you say it, I believe you."

"Good."

She squeezes his hands. "I'm surprised you didn't offer to join Uncle Edmure's men in their search for her."

He considers it a moment, his eyes still following the trail of his thumb over the back of her hand. "I thought about it," he says softly.

She cocks her head at him. "But...?"

He looks up at her then. "But Robb is planning his next attack soon and I need to be with him."

She frowns at his words. "Will you be leaving then?"

At her slight pout, the hint of a smile tugs at his lips, and he reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her jaw. "Not immediately."

"I don't want you to go," she says firmly, leaning toward him with a plea in her eyes.

Jon sighs at the urgency in her words, the smile slipping from his face. "Sansa, I have to."

"No, you don't. Robb has enough of the Northern lords behind him. You don't have to risk yourself as well."

"And you're okay with letting our brother go to war without me? Without his family?"

Sansa's mouth thins into a tight line, her throat flexing imperceptibly. Her eyes flick away from his, focusing on the tie of his tunic instead. "No," she croaks out, finally.

But Jon knows where the hesitation comes from.

"Did Robb send you?"

The years apart have made them different people. But he still remembers how Sansa used to hang off Robb's arm at feasts, and how eagerly she played her harp for him, and how she dragged him into her games of pretend when they were children. He remembers her proud smile when Robb first donned the cloak she'd sewn for him, and the way she refused to cry in his presence, and the intensity with which she held him as they said their goodbyes outside the gates of Winterfell, before her ill-fated trip to King's Landing.

Robb was Sansa's favorite brother. Always had been.

And maybe that fact never really hurt before because he'd been his as well, and maybe it doesn't really hurt now because being Sansa's favorite brother isn't even what he wants – now, when what he wants is so decidedly far from brotherly, it isn't even in the same vicinity.

And still:

"Did Robb send you?"

Maybe it hurts now because they've both since learned the answer, even when neither will say it.

"Of course, I want him safe," she says, her voice quaking, her eyes still fixed to his chest. She sighs, her shoulders slumping with it, her gaze falling to her lap. "But I can't lose you both. I wouldn't make it, Jon, not after... not after everything."

Jon releases her hands to cup her face, the gentle brush of his thumb arcing over her cheek. "Hey, look at me."

She does, and the trust he finds in her gaze nearly rends him clean in two.

"Sansa, we have a chance, don't you see? With the Riverlands and the Vale lending their support, and Theon off securing the Greyjoys' alliance – we can end this war."

Sansa's brows dip in concern. "But when Robb married Jeyne..."

Jon shakes his head, a rough sound brewing in his throat. "I know. I know the Freys aren't happy, but we're still in talks. And nothing's been decided. And with Robb as our king, I know – I know we can finally – " He stops, the words clogging up his throat as he takes in her face. "The North can be free. You can be free. And I promise – I promise you, Sansa – neither Robb or I will ever let you be captive again, do you understand me?"

Sansa reaches up to hold his wrists, pressing her cheek into the palm of his calloused hand.

He just wants her to believe him.

Because he means it. He means it more than anything in this world.

Sansa is free when the North is free. And for that...

For that, he would give anything.

"Tell me you believe me," he begs of her, his face inching closer to hers.

The slight sheen of tears blankets her eyes as she blinks up at him. But she nods mutely, and it is answer enough.

He presses forward and kisses her. Just the once. Swift and sure and promising.

She sucks a shallow breath between her lips, her forehead bracing to his when he pulls back. Her hands never unlink from around his wrists.

Sansa is free when the North is free.

(And he needs no further reason to fight.)

* * *

"That's all I know," Sansa says, glancing down at the map of King's Landing Robb has spread out over the table.

Jon watches the tick in Robb's jaw at her words, his hands braced along the edge of the table, eyes fixed to the map. "Sansa," he sighs, "There must be something you missed. Something that can help us. You know how important this is."

Catelyn, Brynden, Edmure and even Robb's wife Jeyne Westerling stand around the table with them, all eyes keened to the layout of King's Landing spread before them, a stilted silence pervading the room. Outside the chamber, Robb's advisors and the other lords of the North wait patiently to convene the war council.

Sansa crosses her arms defensively at Robb's words, her eyes flashing to him. "Of course, I know how important this is. I'm not a simpleton. But I can't tell you what I don't know! It's not like I was privy to the Lannisters' council meetings," she huffs.

Robb looks up at her with frustration, before he pushes from his lean over the table, a hand wiped over his mouth. "Think, Sansa. Even the smallest detail may help us. Something they may have let slip."

Sansa narrows her eyes at him. "I'm sorry, was I meant to be spying between the bouts of terror and abuse? Apologies, Your Grace, but I never received that missive," she bites out.

Robb sucks a sharp breath between his teeth, his mouth opening on a scathing retort.

Catelyn's hand goes to his arm, stilling him.

The room feels stiff in the aftermath, Edmure and the Blackfish both shifting their weight from one leg to another, watching the scene before them carefully. Jeyne folds her hands in front of her, eyes falling to the floor when she pulls her lip between her teeth.

Sansa doesn't lower her gaze from her brother's.

Jon watches the exchange anxiously, his hands held tight behind his back.

Finally, Sansa tears her gaze away, hot tears pricking her eyes, her fingers tightening over her arms.

"I'm sorry for your suffering, Sansa, believe me, but this is about more than that," Robb begins, voice rough. "This is about Northern independence, and I can't afford to delay that to cushion your hurt. I need information. I need details. And I need you to give them to me."

Sansa's fingers flex over her arms, her eyes still fixed to the table, still brimming with tears. "I know that," she gets out on a croak.

And oh, what it must take from her, to be scolded like this before her family, and to keep her graces, even still.

Jon grips one hand beneath the other at his back, the muscles in his arms bunching.

Everyone stays silent before the King in the North, gauging his ire.

"But that's all I know," Sansa sighs out, her frustration nearly strangling the words in her throat. She blinks back the tears, the remembrance.

Jon can practically feel the thrum of Catelyn's anxiety beside him.

Robb sighs again, a heat behind the exhale. "You were Tyrion's wife, for Seven's sake. You mean to tell me he let nothing slip? No indication of their force's strength, their next move, any weakness of the Keep, nothing?" he bites out.

A growl brews quietly in Jon's chest at the words, at Tyion's mention, at Robb's forcefulness. His knuckles go white beneath his grip.

Sansa glowers at Robb. "He wasn't one for pillow talk," she clips out, the flush of anger coloring her throat.

Jon sees the hurt behind her eyes clearly.

"Robb," Catelyn whispers at his side, an ache lining her voice.

But Robb ignores it, his gaze narrowing on Sansa. "You were a Lannister bride," he hisses, almost accusatory. "You must know more."

"I know who I am," Sansa croaks out, blinking back the tears, her lip trembling, the words too close to apologetic for Jon's liking.

Too head-bowed for a daughter of the North.

(Too yielding for Sansa.)

Jon bares his teeth, the breath raking from him. His eyes are only for Sansa when he tells her, surely, and with everything of himself, "You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

His deep voice heralds a stilted silence in the room, all eyes turning to him upon their utterance. He's painstakingly aware of Catelyn's steady gaze beside him.

Sansa blinks up at him, her mouth parting.

They stare at each other in the quiet of the room.

He wants to go to her then, wants to wrap her in his arms and bury her in his embrace, wants to press her cheek to his chest and breathe against her hair, wants to hold her to his bones, until she knows, indisputably, and without doubt – that she is the blood of Winterfell. That she is the North.

Sansa Stark.

Not Sansa Lannister. Not Sansa the traitor's daughter. Or Sansa the captive.

But Sansa Stark.

Sansa Stark.

This is who she is, who she will always be.

And no one, not even her brother king, can take that from her.

(This is who she is, and who he loves.)

"You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell," he says again, no less certain, no less adamant than the first time.

Robb sighs heavily at the end of the table, his fists bracing to the edge of the wood, his gaze drawn down to the map before them. The fight leaves him slowly, replaced by a weariness that slumps his shoulders in its wake.

Catelyn's hand rises to his shoulder, a measure of comfort in the heated quiet of the room, and Jon is grateful for the release of her intense gaze upon him.

Robb waves his mother's council off, a hand going to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Leave me," he says on a tired exhale, an unspoken surrender to the words.

The group shuffles out wordlessly, Catelyn's hand slipping from her son's shoulder reluctantly.

Jon looks at Sansa one last time before they exit the room.

She meets his gaze almost instantly,

The axis of his body tilts toward hers, the gravity of her almost overwhelming him.

(To hold her to his bones and tell her – )

She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

And he is in love with her.

* * *

"I can't seem to... talk to her anymore," Robb tells him, stilling in his wiping of his blade.

Jon glances at his brother beside him, as they sit along one of the benches in the training yard. He raises a brow his way. "Who?" he asks, sliding the whetstone along his own blade, but even in his feigned ignorance, the answer is blaringly apparent.

Robb returns the oiled cloth in his hand to his sword, face screwing up in concentration. "Sansa," he tells him.

Jon grunts his acknowledgement, eyeing Robb beside him. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully, the words tight in his throat.

"You were a Lannister bride."

Jon's grip over Longclaw tightens, his nostrils flaring at the memory.

Robb huffs his frustration, stilling his motions again. "She's different, somehow. She's not the Sansa I used to know."

Jon scoffs. "Aye. Being held captive for years tends to do that to a person."

Robb straightens as he looks at Jon. "You're not blaming me, are you?"

Jon considers his words, his hand stilling the swiping motion over his sword. He sighs out heavily. "It's not about blame."

Robb stays silent, his mouth a tight line. "You think I should have made the trade for Jaime Lannister."

Jon straightens as well, setting his blade aside. "Is this really the conversation you want to have right now?"

"Yes."

Jon frowns. "No, you don't."

Robb turns frustrated. "Just because you're my brother doesn't mean you can speak to your king this way," he says brusquely.

Jon swallows back the instant bile. His mouth thins into a tight line. "See? This is exactly why we can't have this kind of conversation." He stands, moving to replace his whetstone along the rack, sheathing Longclaw.

Robb tosses the oiled cloth in his hand down to the bench as he stands as well, his sword still in his other hand. He grabs for Jon's shoulder and pulls him back. "And why is that?"

"Because you don't want honesty," Jon snaps.

Robb stills at the heat in the words, his hand falling from Jon's shoulder.

Jon sighs, wiping a hand over his mouth. "You just want to be reassured." And maybe he gets that.

The realization softens something in Jon. The heat drains from his gaze, his shoulders slumping with it as he watches Robb.

His brother doesn't answer, his eyes drifting down, his face solemn and hurt.

Jon grabs for his shoulders, catching his gaze once more. "Look, Robb, I can't tell you what the right choice is, or what it would have been. I can't tell you what you should have done. And I can't tell you that I would have done differently in your place."

It's not a truth he likes to admit, not after seeing that pale white scar at the nape of Sansa's neck, not after the stories she's told him from across their shared campfires, not after watching her tremble through nightmares and only stilling when his arms were around her.

But it's a truth, nonetheless.

Jon sighs. "I can't tell you whether you made the wrong decision or not. I can only tell you that Sansa hurt for it. She hurt dearly for it. And you're either okay with that or you're not. That's all I've got."

"Are you okay with it?"

The question surprises him, and he draws his hands back from his shoulders in silence. Jon clears his throat, shoulders pulling back. "What do you mean?"

"Are you okay with my decision? With how it's hurt her?" There's an ache behind the words, but also a need.

But Jon cannot fill that need. He knows that now. Knows that clearer than anything.

He grinds his jaw, thinks of that white scar along her back, thinks of the tears he's wiped from her cheeks, thinks of all the times she asked about their brother while they trekked through the wilderness on their way to Riverrun.

"Did Robb send you?"

And how that question has haunted them, ever since its first utterance.

How he hates that he had to be the one to kill that hope in her, how Robb is the one who made him do it.

"Jon?"

Jon clenches his jaw, the words settling along his tongue. "No, I'm not okay with it. I'm not okay with anything that hurts Sansa."

Robb blinks at him, his shoulders slumping.

Jon has to turn away, before he says any more. Before he reveals all his gruesome little insides. "Apologies, Your Grace, but I don't think I can be of any help to you for this one." He turns to leave, his hand settling along the hilt of Longclaw at his hip, a measure of reassurance, steadiness. He looks back at his brother. "Talk to her, Robb," he says softly.

Because he knows she wants that, too. Even if they should hurt for it.

They promised each other, after all.

They promised no more scars.

He only hopes that Robb isn't one already.

* * *

"Your ankle seems to be better," Catelyn muses, dragging the brush down the length of her daughter's hair.

Sansa glances up and catches her mother's gaze through the mirror, offering a smile with her answer. "Yes, much."

"You twisted it in the storm, you said?"

Sansa nods, her mouth pursing with the memory.

(Her and Jon's drenched forms, the refuge of a cave, Ghost's warmth at her back, and Jon – )

Sansa swallows tightly, her gaze falling to the vanity in front of her.

Catelyn continues her gentle brushing, a thoughtful look on her face as she takes in Sansa's curtain of hair.

Sansa doesn't expand any further on the experience, though her hands bunch together in her lap.

"And Jon was wounded when you were fleeing the Lannisters' men, is that right?"

Sansa looks at her mother through the mirror once more, a question furrowing her brow. "Yes," she says cautiously, unsure of where her mother intends to take the conversation.

"And you tended his wound?"

"Of course," she says easily.

Catelyn is silent for many moments, though she never stills her movements. And then she clears her throat softly. "So, he disrobed before you," she clips out.

Sansa stiffens in her seat, her mind reaching back to the cave, to the bare expanse of his chest pressed to hers, and his arms around her naked form, and the weight of his breath in her neck, and the kiss they'd shared the following morning, the way he'd yielded to her, opened to her breathlessly, and how good he tasted – how she'd wanted nothing more than to taste him further in that moment.

Sansa blinks back the memory, attempting a nonchalant shrug and a reassuring smile, trying to catch her mother's eyes in the mirror once more. "I've seen all my brothers shirtless in the yard before, Mother. It's no matter." She hopes she sounds more convincing than she feels.

Catelyn sets the brush aside and takes Sansa's hair in both hands, her elegant fingers threading through the strands, parting them in familiar ways. She purses her lips, eyes still fixed to her daughter's hair. "You were each younger then, and never alone. Now, it is..." She frowns minutely, turning one strand over another in her hands. "It isn't proper."

Sansa barely manages to smother the huff of frustration that tries to escape her. "What was I supposed to do? Leave him wounded?" The idea is painful, and impossible.

After seeing his scar-riddled chest –

She can't ever imagine leaving him wounded again.

Catelyn sighs, her hands stilling their ministrations. She meets Sansa's gaze through the mirror, her features softening somewhat. "No," she tells her, though it seems to take great effort from her. "No, you did the right thing."

Sansa waits for more, but her mother doesn't continue.

Catelyn keeps her gaze a moment longer, and then she turns back to her work, silently braiding Sansa's hair, any further thoughts on their recent intimacy held behind the cage of her teeth.

Something in Sansa thrums at the uncertainty of her mother's silence, at the unspoken wariness of their sudden closeness. "I'm safe with Jon," she says without preamble, the words coming up of their own accord.

Catelyn doesn't react. She simply continues her braiding.

Sansa's brow furrows in determination, her shoulders setting straighter. "If you believe anything, believe that," she says imploringly, proud of the way her voice doesn't shake with the words.

Catelyn's fingers graze her cheek as she pulls the strands from her face, her eyes never meeting hers through the mirror. "I will try," she tells her.

But while the words should stir hopefulness within her, Sansa finds there is only a fluttering in her gut, a coil of unease that lingers long into the night, many hours after her mother has left her.

* * *

She's on her way back from the sept one morning when he grabs her arm and tugs her into a shadowed alcove, smothering her surprised yelp with his calloused palm over her mouth. She blinks wide eyes up at Jon, catches his wide grin in the shadows, and the relief that floods her has her sagging against the wall behind her. When he releases her mouth, his name comes out in a scolding, a swap to his shoulder for good measure.

He laughs good-naturedly, and Sansa opens her mouth for a scathing retort about his frightening her this early in the morning but then his hands are slipping under her jaw and tilting her face up to his and then his mouth is opening over hers – long and languid and slow.

Sansa can only sigh into it, eyes fluttering shut.

Jon tilts his head, slanting his mouth over hers in a wet, almost filthy kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth easily. A quiet moan escapes her at the sensation and a rumble answers in his chest, his breaths coming harder as he presses into her, bracing her back against the stone with his hips pinned to hers. She grips at his shoulders, fingers curling in his tunic, her back arching against him, as she sucks on his tongue, her own kiss growing hungry and heated.

He keeps his hands on her face, his grip tightening over her jaw at her eagerness, as though he aches to release his hold of her, to instead slide his hands down the length of her body, his thumbs just barely grazing the sides of her breasts, gliding over her ribs, along her waist, anchoring at her hips, the small of her back, dangerously low as they grip her to him, pressing them intimately together.

The thought is maddening to her, especially when he keeps his hands so frustratingly secure along her face, even as he kisses her wildly.

She thinks of her morning prayers in the sept, and her cheeks grow pinker (if that were even possible in this moment) at the sudden realization that perhaps she should have also asked for forgiveness, because a surge of boldness courses through her right then and she reaches for his hands, drags them down to her collar, just above the tops of her breasts in her open-necked gown, her chest heaving against him as she continues kissing him.

He groans along her tongue, gripping at her shoulders to steady himself, still ever so honorable, his thumbs unconsciously stretching down to brush along the bare skin of her modest cleavage, and he pulls back suddenly, panting, his mouth hovering over hers, his breath warm as it fans her swollen lips.

She's delirious at the sudden loss of him.

"Sansa..." he gets out roughly, voice laden with desire.

She pushes forward to meet his mouth again, and he sighs as he opens to her, meeting her eager tongue with his own, his weight sagging against her in his surrender. He presses her full against the wall now as his hands slide down her sides before wrapping round her back, dragging her hips into his with a low growl vibrating over her tongue in his mouth.

She startles at the press of hardness into her thigh, suddenly highly aware of his desire, even as her own flutters in her gut, spitting like hot coals.

Jon seems to notice, dragging his wet mouth from her own swollen one reluctantly, his chest heaving against hers, his moan painting her lips for half a breath before he drops his head into her shoulder, hugging her tightly against him.

She tries to take example from his self-control, but it's just so hard with him pressed so deliciously against her, with his hot breath in the crook of her neck, and his hands gripping the back of her dress, one bunched fist scandalously low, his arms trembling with his waning willpower.

She mewls at his ear, the soft, embarrassing whine of his name escaping her lips, and she links her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his throat. "Don't stop," she croons into his skin.

He chuckles at her shoulder, his arms tensing a moment, and then relaxing, unwinding from her to brace his palms along the wall behind her instead. Still, he keeps his weight pressed against hers, keeps their bodies a single, melded line. "I must," he gets out raggedly, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. "Or I truly won't stop."

She thrills at the possibility, not fully understanding where that may lead but knowing that she wants it. She wants him.

Desperately and daily – she wants him.

Like a fever beneath her skin.

She wets her lips, eyes peering up into his when she whispers against his mouth, "Then don't."

Jon closes his eyes on a weighted sigh, grinding his jaw in some semblance of control. When he opens his eyes once more, he chuckles at her unchanged expression – earnest and hopeful. He plants a quick kiss along her nose. "Sansa, this is hardly the time or place for us to... explore."

She scrunches her nose in indignation, her arms loosening around his neck. "Well, you started it."

He actually barks a laugh at that, and Sansa beams at the sight of it.

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes roving her face with a grin. "Aye, and you intend to finish it, is that it?"

She peers at him, her smile turning mischievous as she twines her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, her back arching subtly. "Precisely," she answers tartly.

Jon's eyes flick to her mouth, his smile slipping as his hand drifts from her hair back to her jaw, his thumb edging along her bottom lip.

Sansa stills at the motion, her mouth parting slightly at the tender yet heated touch.

Jon watches as he brushes his thumb slowly across her mouth, still pink and ripe and swollen from his kisses. He licks his lips unconsciously. "Careful, girl," he breathes out.

Sansa takes the warning for what it is, her own breath coming heavy in her chest again. She swallows thickly, cocking her head to look at him.

His eyes flick up to meet hers at the motion.

"But it... it feels good," she says cautiously, her nails curling along the back of his neck. "Doesn't it feel good for you?" she gets out on a hoarse whisper.

"It feels more than good," Jon says thickly, clearing his throat as he drops his hand from her mouth, leaning back from her for the first time since their mouths met. He still keeps one hand braced to the wall behind her. "And therein lies the danger."

"I'm safe with you, though," she says instinctually. She doesn't even need to think the words. They're simply there. They simply are.

As plain a truth as she's ever known.

Jon laughs softly at her assertion. "You humble me, Sansa. Truth be told, my control is slipping day by day."

She sucks a short breath between her teeth, silently exhilarated at the admission.

His expression softens as he watches her. "I missed you," he says quietly.

Her heart clenches at the words.

He shakes his head, sighing with it. "I always miss you," he admits, leaning close to press his forehead to hers.

"And I, you," she answers, her hands slipping from his neck to slide down to his chest, bracing there. "I want to see you every day," she says without inhibition, the brightness of the emotion bringing a smile back to her face. She turns her head slightly to press a fervent kiss to his cheek.

He chuckles at her unhindered earnestness. "You mean you didn't tire of me all those long weeks on the road?"

"I could never tire of you, Jon," she says sweetly, the truth of it slipping easily from her. She leans back to look at him. "In fact, it's quite the opposite actually. I find myself needier and needier for you as the days go by. Especially when I'm without you."

Jon quiets at her words, his gaze falling to her mouth again. He stares at her lips for a long moment, a slow, steadying breath easing out of his chest as he works his jaw, an ardent look crossing his features. "I should go," he says finally, voice rough when it leaves him. He clears his throat, glancing back up to meet her eyes. "Before I do something I shouldn't." He leans away to glance back out the empty corridor. "And before your mother starts to worry at your absence," he adds on.

Sansa pats his chest affectionately, grabbing his attention once more. "Will you meet me in the gardens this afternoon? I've something to give you."

Jon answers with a brilliant smile. "Alright, then." He leans in and plants a brief, sweet kiss along her lips. He pulls away from her reluctantly, his hand reaching for hers in farewell as he moves into the hall.

Their fingers thread together, before slipping apart, their yearning already building back up in the space between them.

Sansa watches him go, fingers pressed to her lips, heart full.

* * *

She presses the kerchief into his hands, and he stares down at it, at the elegantly stitched white wolf decorating the edge of the material. He blinks dumbly at the gift in his hands.

Sansa beams at him, her hands clasped gracefully before her. "A lord should always carry a favor from his lady, should he not?" she says brightly.

Jon looks up at her, the words stalling in his throat.

Her lashes flutter as pink tinges her cheeks. "I am your lady, am I not?" she asks hesitantly.

Jon releases a short chuckle at her question, before glancing around the secluded corner of the gardens where they stand, and then snaking a hand behind her neck and pulling her toward him, meeting her mouth with his in a fervent kiss, a sigh breaking from him when her hands slide up his chest to anchor at his shoulders. They smile against each other's mouths when they break the kiss.

He pulls from her, his fingers flexing in her hair, his breath fanning her lips. "I can only endeavor to be a worthy lord, my lady."

She presses her nose to his cheek, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Just tell me I'm yours," she sighs impatiently.

Jon chuckles again, a hand going to the back of her head, his other anchored at the small of her back, her favor bunched in his fist. He pulls back just enough to catch her eyes again. "Sansa – "

But she kisses him then, cuts off his words. Her mouth is insistent on his. She pulls back, breathless, her eyes shifting between his. "Tell me, please," she whispers in the space between their lips.

There's something needful to the words, to the way she presses into his chest, the way her fingers dig along his shoulders.

His gaze darkens on hers, his sigh painting her lips. He curls his fingers into the soft silk of her favor, his fist pressing low on her back. "You are," he tells her, voice dragging from his chest. His gaze drops to her mouth, his tongue wetting his lips. "You are mine," he gets out roughly, angling his mouth to press over hers.

Her hands glide along his shoulders to the back of his neck, nails sinking into his hair as she smiles against his lips. "As you are mine," she breathes with certainty, just before he takes her mouth with his.

The kiss is sweet and decadent and indulgent, their mouths moving against each other's slowly, deliberately, tasting each other without demand. His hand tangles in her hair, holding her to him, his tongue swiping into her mouth with a low groan as he presses into her.

Her back hits the bowled edge of the fountain behind her, and her steps stumble, but he's got her securely in his hold, his mouth breaking from hers at the slight jostle. He meets her eyes, and they stare at each other with mischievous grins, the panted heat of their breaths mingling in the air between them. And then he dips his head to her throat, his nose brushing the edge of her jaw, his lips planting a soft, reverent kiss along her skin.

Sansa sighs prettily at his ministrations, her nails catching along the nape of his neck.

The feel of her is nearly dizzying.

"Sansa!" someone calls upon entering the gardens.

Jon tears himself away from her instantly, attempting to steady his pants, a hand smoothing through his hair, his chest heaving at the sudden retreat.

"Sansa!" the voice calls again, getting closer.

Sansa licks her lips, coming back to herself, her trembling hands smoothing over her skirts as she rights herself beside the fountain.

Jon is a respectful distance away from her when he turns to their intruder, a brow raising upon seeing Edmure Tully's entrance into their corner of the gardens.

The Lord of the Riverlands makes his way to Sansa without a look at Jon, his hands grabbing hers. "Oh, Sansa," he sighs out brokenly.

Sansa blinks at him, her breath stalled in her throat. "What is it, Uncle?"

Edmure glances at Jon finally, only briefly, before meeting his niece's gaze once more. "It's your brothers, Bran and Rickon. At Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy, he – he..." Edmure turns almost green at the words, a grimace passing over his features.

Jon stills at Edmure's distress, his body settling into a single, taut focus.

Edmure swallows thickly, his hands tightening over Sansa's. His face hardens, his shoulders going stiff. "You need to go to your mother," he says simply, the words low and full of warning.

Sansa stares at her uncle, a line of concern creasing her brow. She looks to Jon, her mouth tipping open.

But he has no answers for her.

"Go to your mother," Edmure says again, more sure this time, a darkness crossing over his gaze, as he tugs her along after him.

Jon watches her go, his own feet rooted to the ground.

Something sinks deep in his gut – like a stone he will never be able to dig out again.

* * *

Her mother is inconsolable. Her grief is a wailing thing at night, and a quiet haunt by daylight. Sansa watches her from across the breakfast table the following day, watches the way she drags her fork disinterestedly around her plate. Robb reaches for their mother's hand, squeezing it gently.

"You must eat, Mother," he says softly.

Catelyn looks up at him a moment, and then pats his hand atop hers. "I think I'd like to rest," she says hollowly before rising from the table.

Sansa barely manages to choke back her own sob as she watches her mother leave the room. She turns to look at Robb, but his hand is over his face, a heavy sigh leaving him. Edmure and the Blackfish are equally quiet, exchanging worried glances with each other. And then she looks at Jon.

He's already watching her, but he turns his gaze away swiftly when she meets his eyes. He rubs a hand over his mouth, exhaling roughly as he drops his fork atop his plate and leans back in his chair.

None of them look at each other.

Bran and Rickon are there in the room with them, their names hanging unsaid in the stilted air, their deaths stinging like smoke in the eyes.

Their memories raw like a blister.

Sansa closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath. The tears are instant.

Robb glances to her at the first sob that hits air.

She presses a hand to her mouth, eyes flickering open to stare at the half-eaten food on her plate. She doesn't quite manage to smother it. "I'm sorry," she croaks out before it overtakes her, and she pushes her seat back, running for the door, the tears nearly blinding her.

She doesn't look back. She simply runs.

She runs and runs and runs. Through the corridors and past the courtyard, out the gates and across the bridge. Along the riverbank, she runs. She runs and runs and runs, crying all the while, until her legs finally give out and she stumbles to her knees, her hands going out to catch herself, palms squishing in mud, and her mother will scold her for ruining her dress, she knows, but then – but then she's laughing at the thought. A delirious, ragged laugh that breaks on a hiccup, her sob catching along its end, and she inhales sharply, holds it tight to her chest, gasps and shakes and laughs once more, and then – and then she's crying again. Crying so hard it makes her head spin.

Her fingers dig into the mud, her knees aching from when she'd fallen. And she is terribly and uncontrollably – anguished.

Anguished beyond words.

(Her little brothers).

Sansa wails, a hand going to grip at her chest, her heart rending beneath.

(Her little brothers.)

She cries until she can't anymore, until the exhaustion overtakes her.

She sleeps for hours by the riverbank, until she blearily recognizes Robb's arms scooping her up and carrying her back into the keep. She keeps her head pressed to his shoulder.

He never minds the mud.

* * *

Sansa spends the following days with her mother – making sure she eats and bathes and makes the appearances that she needs to. Catelyn humors her attentions without any fuss, something that only makes Sansa more worried for her. But Catelyn doesn't miss any meetings of the lords, doesn't disregard her position on Robb's council, and her detached, cold objectivity on current matters is somehow both admirable and terrifying to Sansa.

Is this what she herself has to look forward to? As a lord or king's wife?

Button up your grief, keep a tight lip, only cry your piece when you've made sure that chamber door is shut.

Sansa wonders if it's ever really worth it in the end.

She hasn't seen Jon in days, and it makes her gut curl in anxiety. Of course, she's seen him, but at a glance, only. Across the breakfast table and three seats down at the meetings of the lords and passing him as he trains in the yard, her arm linked with her mother's.

But she hasn't seen him. Hasn't touched his face or felt his kiss or even traded words past a cursory greeting. She's nearly nauseous at the loss of him.

It's how she finds herself before his chambers one night, when all propriety would have her in bed already, but instead, she tries the latch to his door and breathes a sigh of relief when it opens easily. She closes it behind her quickly, the lock clicking into place.

Jon glances up from his bed where he sits with his arms resting over his knees. "Sansa," he hisses, glancing at the closed door behind her and then back to her. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know," she says, "I know but I – I can't just..." The words seem to die along her tongue. She doesn't really know what she came here to say.

(Except maybe that she's sorry. Sorry that he's lost his brothers, too, and couldn't even be there to help them. Because he was too busy helping her.)

Jon works his jaw silently, staring at her, his eyes already wet.

(They all cry their piece when that chamber door is shut, she realizes.)

"Jon," she says softly, moving from the door.

He rises from his seat, wiping a hand over his eyes, clearing his throat. "You should go," he says, voice rough. He takes her gently by the arm.

"No," she counters, planting her feet.

Jon looks at her, his hand still wrapped around her forearm. He sighs, eyes drifting down. "Please, Sansa, I don't want you to get into trouble."

"Is that why you want me gone?"

He doesn't answer her.

She swallows thickly, cupping her hands around his cheeks to lift his face to hers. "Or is it because you blame me?"

He rears back at her words, brows furrowing sharply down. "What?"

She licks her lips, the words catching along her throat, but she pushes them to air, her voice cracking beneath the weight of them. "Are you mad at me because I kept you from them? Because rescuing me meant you couldn't be there for them?"

Jon releases her arm, his mouth dipping open. "Sansa, no, that's not – I've never – " He stops, clears his throat, notices the tears starting to form along her eyes. He sighs heavily, the grief shaking from him, like snow coming off the boughs, and then he's wrapping his arms around her, dragging her into his embrace, pressed to his chest. He winds a hand into her hair and presses his mouth to her ear. "Oh, Sansa, no, no, I've never thought that."

"Are you sure?" she chokes out, grasping at him, desperate, the sorrow clogging up her throat. "Because I have," she admits, closing her eyes on a sob.

Jon presses a kiss to her temple, his hand bracing along the nape of her neck, his other wrapped around her back. "Gods, no, Sansa, it isn't your fault." He presses another kiss at her ear, along her cheek, at the corner of her mouth, pulling from her just enough to meet her gaze, his hands going to brush the hair from her face, his palms cradling her cheeks as he makes her meet his eyes. "Sansa, this isn't your fault."

She exhales raggedly, her hands bunching in the material of his tunic. "But I'm here and they're not. They're not, Jon, they're – they're dead, oh gods, they're dead, Jon. Bran and Rickon. They're – they're gone, and I'm never going to hear their laughs again or – or brush their hair or clean their cheeks or – gods, or hold them, Jon. I'm never going to hold them again and it should have been me! It should have been me you left. You shouldn't have come for me, Jon, you should have saved them! And then everything would be okay. And mother would be okay. And Robb would be okay. And everything would be fine if you'd just never come at all, if you'd just left me, Jon, if you'd just – "

She doesn't get to finish, because then his mouth is on hers, and it isn't like any kiss he's ever given her before. This kiss is punishing. It's forceful and blunt, all teeth and snarl, his hand grabbing her chin almost painfully, keeping her mouth pressed to his, pushing her back, and she hits the door with a thud, a surprised grunt leaving her. He presses his whole weight against her, trapping her there against the door as he kisses her, slants his mouth over hers and takes and takes and takes, his other hand moving from her face to her hip, dragging her up against him, and he's never been this forward with her before, never been this passionate and she finds herself nearly paralyzed in his hold, her mind jarring into stillness, her hands fisting along his sleeves, her heart thudding painfully in her chest and she's full of it, full of him, and this, and everything, and – and –

He breaks from her, panting, his hand still firmly holding her chin, keeping her gaze fixed to his when her eyes flutter open, her breath raking from her in shallow gasps.

She's never seen him look so angry, his eyes dark and unblinking on hers. It makes her whimper quietly in his hold, squirming beneath him.

"Jon," she pants out breathlessly.

"I need you to understand something," he tells her, hot breath fanning her lips.

Her wide eyes flick between his, her chest heaving against him.

His fingers flex over her chin as he tilts his head to look at her, his gaze roving her face. He swallows tightly, wetting his lips. "If I had the chance, I'd do it again."

Sansa blinks at him, mouth tipping open. "What...?"

He meets her eyes once more, steady and dark and sure. "Even knowing what we know, if I had the chance to do it over again, I'd still come for you."

Her chest tightens inexplicably, her eyes watering without her bidding. "Jon," she moans out, voice threatening to break with her tears.

He surges forward and kisses her again, just as forcefully, just as possessively. He releases her slowly, his mouth still hovering over hers, his breath still painting her lips. "Every time – a thousand times – I would come for you. Do you understand?"

She nods mutely, because he has silenced any words she could speak, anyway. She's overcome, suddenly, so she wraps her arms around him and meets his mouth with hers once more, pulling him back against her, and he follows easily, pressing her into the door behind her, his hands roving her form greedily.

It's a desperate, needful grasping for each other – full of loneliness and guilt. But also full of longing, acceptance.

His hands meet the soft flesh of her body for the first time, braced against her trembling stomach when they dip beneath the hem of her night shirt, and the touch burns beyond anything she's ever felt before.

His hands meet her, and she burns.

She thinks there's a poem in there somewhere, or a song maybe, a tale like the ones she used to love.

But right now, in this moment, it's only Jon.

It's only Jon, and it's only her, and it's only them.

It's the way he kisses her like he'll never get the chance again.

It's the way he cradles her face in his hands – like she is something precious and worthy and needed.

It's the way she knows, without doubt, and without regret:

Every time – a thousand times – she'd wait for him.

[esther-dot]

The debate about the appropriateness of Jonsa overshadows the political/feudal argument. Unless you can make a convincing case Sansa is going to run away and become a peasant with Sandor (didn't GRRM literally mock that...), or that she can singlehandedly Elizabeth the first it, then you need to be thinking about marriage. Marriage is just as important as war in GRRM's books, if not moreso, and it's a symbolic struggle at that.

Of course Stumpy has searched for Sansa's husband and applied this thinking, but it's one that's otherwise severely lacking. GRRM would go there. We know he'd go there, cousins or not. The question is, why?

Stumpy's Find Sansa's Husband is one of my favs!

No worries! Each of us has a fandom pet peeve we need to rant about. And you're right about Martin's criticism of the "running off with a stable boy trope," in fact, it sounds like the idea really annoys him (his quote below the cut)

And then there are some things that are just don’t square with history. In some sense I’m trying to respond to that. [For example] the arranged marriage, which you see constantly in the historical fiction and television show, almost always when there’s an arranged marriage, the girl doesn’t want it and rejects it and she runs off with the stable boy instead. This never fucking happened. It just didn’t. There were thousands, tens of thousand, perhaps hundreds of thousands of arranged marriages in the nobility through the thousand years of Middle Ages and people went through with them. That’s how you did it. It wasn’t questioned. Yeah, occasionally you would want someone else, but you wouldn’t run off with the stable boy. And that’s another of my pet peeves about fantasies. The bad authors adopt the class structures of the Middle Ages; where you had the royalty and then you had the nobility and you had the merchant class and then you have the peasants and so forth. But they don’t’ seem to realize what it actually meant. They have scenes where the spunky peasant girl tells off the pretty prince. The pretty prince would have raped the spunky peasant girl. He would have put her in the stocks and then had garbage thrown at her. You know. I mean, the class structures in places like this had teeth. They had consequences. And people were brought up from their childhood to know their place and to know that duties of their class and the privileges of their class. It was always a source of friction when someone got outside of that thing. And I tried to reflect that.

I think the issue is, S*nsans and people who shipped Sansa with LF were some of the first to write real meta on her (from what I've heard), so certain fans/perceptions got pretty firmly established, and then a new generation of Sansa fan came along who rejected the Sansa x adult man/molester ships, but it was pretty easy for them to assume that due to Sansa's age, Martin would leave her marriage to the future.

Also, a lot of people don't expect Sansa to be QitN, so the succession issue isn't putting pressure on the marriage timeline, and if you're someone who thinks Bran will actually be king over all Westeros or Rickon will be KitN etc etc, you can imagine Sansa's endgame is safety in Winterfell, not a romance or marriage.

Personally, I think Sansa's interactions with Cersei and LF indicate that she wants to be the right kind of queen (in defiance of Cersei's advice) and is being equipped with tools to achieve her own ends / play the game, for the right reasons, to good ends, but being handed tools nonetheless. She is so unfocused on her birthright and power, it seemed like she was meant to be contrasted with Cersei and Dany. The natural endpoint of that imo would be her becoming queen. And, if she is queen, I've argued that based on other queen's experiences, we must see her married as being a queen is a whole new set of risks, not a happy ending in and of itself.

Of course, some have speculated that the endgame will be indicated, not actually chronicled on the page, as in, Jon and Sansa fall in love, but Jon does get sent to the wall or goes into exile for a callback of what Sansa imagined she could do to save Ned, and we end kinda knowing, eventually they'll get back together, but the actual happy ending isn't on the page. Or the alternative scenario is that Jon is named KitN because of Robb's Will and marries Sansa to resolve all the chaos after parentage reveal. That's where your thoughts on the political aspect of marriage comes in because that would be very tidy. Actually, whoever is recognized by the Northern Lords, whether it’s my preference of Sansa or Jon, the heir issue was a big deal for Robb, so marriage / heirs will certainly come up and impact the plot.

As for Jonsa itself and it being icky to some, I've said before, I think Martin must have something he wants to do with incest beyond showcasing how toxic it is. As in, that is not a way to challenge the reader, by saying something we all know, and his whole shtick is to write complexity into every relationship, every hero, even many villains, so I don't for a minute believe that's he's introduced this topic without planning to ask the audience to think a little more deeply on it. To force us to look at it from a different angle. The way he does that is to give us heroes who are tempted and make us squirm until we get parentage reveal.

[sailorshadzter]

some soft jonsa.

set before jon leaves for dragonstone, as you all know thats one of my fave timelines hehe

When the knock comes to his door, he’s halfway into bed, wearing nothing but his breeches and a rumpled white shirt. He thinks, for only a moment, that he might ignore such a sound this late into the night, he’s weary after all, not to mention there is a long day of traveling ahead of him, but, he sighs and rises back up anyways. Thinking it will be but a servant with a message, he opens the door, quite surprised when he finds it to be Sansa standing there. 

She knows she’s come too late, that she should have come hours ago, if not at all. But, she can’t let him go, even if she knows he must go. She hates to be left alone here in their home, the one he’d fought to get back, the one they’d risked everything for. She hates to be without him, in truth, n0thing more and nothing less. “Sansa,” he speaks her name in a way that sends chills down her spine and she smiles apologetically, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, silent. “Come in,” he says next, stepping back to allow her entry, his rooms as warm and inviting as they always have been. “Are you alright?” He asks as the door swings closed behind her, his Stark colored eyes full of concern, his mouth twisting in a frown. It takes all of his self control not to reach for her then.

“I am…” She speaks slowly, softly, something like a lie. Jon regards her quietly and she knows he knows she doesn’t mean what she says. “I just…” The words are there on the tip of her tongue, yet she cannot bring herself to speak so freely to him. Not in this way. 

“Sansa…” His tenor vocals speak her name once more and she turns her eyes back to him, willing herself to find the courage to tell him the truth that she’s carried within her heart all this time. “Tell me…” He encourages softly, finally reaching his hand out to gently brush away a stray lock of her hair, falling unbound around her shoulders. She’s come to him this way before, yet never at all, with this new look upon her face. “Please, Sansa… Tell me what bothers you.” 

“I am afraid for you,” she’s reaching for him then, hands taking hold of the front of his shirt, drawing him in close to where she stands. “I am afraid you will go and never return.” There, she’s said it now, and to her surprise the ground has not opened up and swallowed her whole. “I know you must go, but I do not want you to,” she whispers, tilting her head back so her blue eyes can stare into his Stark gray. “I am afraid that you will go and leave me alone.” 

He softens at her words, the rush of his feelings leaving his every limb tingling. “I will come back to you,” he swears, one hand sliding into place against the curve of her cheek. She closes her eyes, against the tears, and he leans in so he might press his forehead against hers. ���I promise you, Sansa. I will never leave you alone.” Her eyes open and his thumb swipes away the tears that fall, still so close that he can feel the curve of her lips when she smiles. “Have I let you down yet?” He asks next and she chokes, shaking her head- no, no he hasn’t. 

“I dream of dragonfire, of war,” she whispers, not quite ready to accept it so easily anyways.  

“Nothing could keep me from coming back to you,” he says back, pulling back simply so he might gaze into her blue eyes. Jon knows it is wrong, these feelings he has, but at this moment, nothing has ever felt more right. “Not dragonfire, not lions, not even the undead.” He would come back to her, simply because she was what he fought for, what he sought to protect. She was his reason to live and his reason to keep on fighting, even when giving up seemed like the easiest of answers. “I will come back, Sansa, and we'll be together again.” No matter the cost, he would stand at her side once more. 

She’s sinking into him then and he’s wrapping his arms around her, her warmth seeping into his bones like the fire from the hearth. “You swear it?” She’s so close now, Jon can feel the twitch of her lips as she tries not to smile. He nods. “I’d like something to remember you by…” She says next and Jon sucks in a breath as he twists his arms around her, drawing her in. Everything he’d been taught told him not to do this, but everything his heart felt told him he’d should have done this ages ago. And so, he kisses her, willing every unspoken thing into it, hoping she understands, hoping she feels everything he’s trying to say to her.

And she does.

The moment his lips touch hers, she’s kissing him back, her hands threading themselves into his unruly curls. It’s a feeling she’s longed for all of these months, in truth, wishing for his soft touch and warm kiss when she’s beneath the covers of her bed late at night. “Jon,” she gasps when they break apart, holding one another at arm’s length, both smiling, both laughing, as if this was a moment they’d both been waiting for. And really, when they both thought about it, they had been waiting for it. They had been hoping for it.

His hands draw her in, closer and closer until he’s sinking onto the edge of his bed, the furs pushed aside from when he’d risen up just a short while ago. She’s standing between his knees now, her robe long since discarded, the thin white material of her nightgown giving him but a glimpse into what he might have. He reaches out, to undo the ribbons at her throat, allowing the nightgown to slip further down, past her shoulders, revealing to him the expanse of her throat and collarbone. He’s never seen this much of her. But there beneath his gaze he sees the faded white scars of a knife, the torture of a life she’s long since let go of. Leaning in, Jon presses his lips against a scar, wondering if she remembers each moment as he recalls his own. “I…” He cannot speak those words, the ones he’s held close all this time, the ones that would change everything.

“Say it,” she says as she steps from the gown, leaving her naked before him.

Jon catches his breath, one hand on her hip, the other at her breast. “I love you,” he says, the words he’s held onto all this time. The ones he’s wished to say time and time again, the ones he’s had to keep to himself. But her smile lights her up from within, perhaps giving her the courage she’s needed all along, the words she will carry with her as she’ll carry this very moment. “I love you, Sansa,” he says again, the way he speaks her name sending chills down her spine. She’s sinking into his arms now, legs hooked around his hips as he draws her down and in, her weight soft and warm against him. Face to face, she’s smiling still, radiant in the dying firelight, more beautiful than he thinks he’s ever seen her. 

“I love you,” she whispers back and that’s enough, that will always be enough.

[agentrouka-blog]

What's your favorite ASOIAF theory?

Apart from jonsa? And Arya finding peace in her reunion with Lady Stoneheart? Um. You can't make me choose..?

Let me think.

Probably Bran playing magical cat and mouse in the timeline, trying not to get caught gently manipulating events so they lign up the right way to resolve the threat of the Others. That's my own theory, so I maybe shouldn't count it. But I love it so. My clever little baby. <3

I also have a soft spot for Timett son of Timett being the son of that missing daughter of Alys Waynwood and Elys Arryn (Gulltown branch), ahead in the line of succession of Harry the so-called Heir. I know I didn't come up with that, but it would be such a GRRM thing to do. Not that I think it will matter, it's more of an easter egg.

Or did you mean Hilarious Brain Twangs from the lower layers of the iceberg? :D

Honestly, I really don't know.

What are yours? :)

[wulfhalls]

you know we're back when they're writing acticles about daemon being a malewife. sorry i just love when journalists are incest shipping on main remember that cosmopolitan article from 2022 that was like having an incest kink is fine also let me tell you how daemyra is the hottest things to have happend on our television screens in a while and how incest shipping is totally fine you guys!! somebody got paid money to write that. maybe we are living in the good timeline.

the good timeline would have canon jonsa

[aemondsa]

As a fully paid up member of the Jonsa community I have to say I'm enjoying the Aemond/Sansa content being created.

It's the only other Sansa ship that's gotten my attention and that's it's a crackship is what makes me like it even more!

The Jonsa to Aemondsa pipeline is real. 😆💗

I did my time in the Jonsa slammer—I’ve been an inmate since the dawn ages when it used to be a rarepair and had 5 authors to its name; till the sunset where we copium-ed our way through the fallout of season 8 with Jim Frost and geography memes.

But almost two years ago, I broke out of my Jon Snow shackles and left the short man for Aemond. I have never been happier. Canon has no hold on me any longer. I am free to frolic in field of my own delusions, holding my friends’ hands cause they are right there with me, having fun without being beholden to such trivialities as ‘timeline’ and ‘what do you think will happen in AWOW?’

Life, when enjoying a crackship:

[quarmasworld]

First time writing a fic

Hello jonsa fam, this is my first time writing a jonsa fic (well, any kind of fic actually :D)

I wrote it without thinking of any particular couple but rereading it, I think it's perfect for them <3

I guess it could be interpreted either as wolfish!Jon meeting Sansa after the resurrection somewhere at Castle Black, or wolfish!Jon and Sansa right after having reconquered Winterfell together, when it's still in ruins. It's not that important, but i just wanted to give you a sort of timeline :D

Enjoy and let me know what you think!

P.s. it's written in jon's pov 😌

Her eyes were like black ink, almost translucent, looking at me as if I could be her salvation. Or her ruin. Like she wouldn’t have minded either way.

Her copper hair was a waterfall, bright and alive with every breeze coming through the window, every breath she took.

She turned to me and she was asking a silent question. “Will you set me free?”

And I wanted so bad to answer.

As the world turned dark and shadows were all around us, I gave her my hand, as an invitation, as a deal, as a curse.

She took it, and smiled at me, faintly, like she was whispering a prayer she could barely remember.

I grabbed her hand and she melted on me, around me, inside me. I’d never seen a beauty like hers, so quiet, so scary.

She looked me all over once, twice, then her mouth was on mine, harder than I thought she could be, kissing me like she was grasping for air, for a way out.

“I’ve been waiting for you” she seemed to be saying, while her pale hands explored my hair, my neck, my shoulders. She gasped as my own hands gripped her waist then her curls, tugging her head back so my mouth could taste the length of her neck. Salty, like she had been bathing in the ocean, or like all the tears I had been holding back had covered her like a gown.

Her defty fingers were working on my shirt as mine were uncovering her back, caressing it like velvet. She started kissing my chest, healing all my wounds and scars with her sweet lips, and i was torn between asking her to live there, just above my heart, or leave me and my demons alone forever.

She moved away from me for just one second, and I realised I could never survive that second option. She looked at me, catching her breath, her lips swollen and her hair a mess, and I thought she was like a vision in a dream I never wanted to wake up from.

She grabbed her sleeves and pulled, letting her gown slip from her shoulders and puddling on the dirty ground.

All around us were debris, broken glass and rust and dust, all melancholic, decadent beauty. But looking at her - her curves and plains and smooth skin - made the place look like a fine palace, carved from marble and perfect and infinite.

She reached for me again and threw herself at me, and she was everywhere: in my hair, in my heart, under my breeches, creeping up my soul.

The vision she was froze me to my feet, and I felt like I was soaring up up up, away from my body as she stared at me, keeping me there, tethered to her, while her hands moved down down down and she was tugging at the laces of my pants. They fell to the ground with a quiet noise that woke me up from the dream, plunging me back into reality as I gripped her wrist and stopped her movements.

“I’ll set you free” I wanted to scream, to shout into the night sky and to the moon, as I hoistered her up and gently set her down into the makeshift hay bed in the corner.

“I’ll set you free every day of my life, if you let me” I whispered into her skin as I moved down her body. Letting her soar high high high, reaching a place she’d never gone to before.

[cellsshapedlikestars]

HONESTLY? thank you so much for only writing book jonsa 💘💘 besides the fact that it's not easy to find those fics i'm not really a fan of show!jonsa (sorry jonsa fam, i guess season 6 jonsa is kinda nice but it's still a no to me). so you're really a blessing soul to me! by the way i really love your fics and the last one you posted??? INSANEEEEEE

I'm glad you like my fics, anon!

I always feel a bit bad talking about how much I don't like show canon stuff here, when I know there's people on my timeline who are pretty dedicated to it, so I'm going to put it below a cut. I'm warning you now not to read it if you're gonna get offended by the fact that I might have a different opinion than you.

(**I guess I should say here that if you love show canon and show jonsa, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. It's just not my preference.)

Show!jonsa doesn't do it for me either as much. They had chemistry for sure, and I LOVE some scenes (them eating by the fire together!) but the characters D&D turned them into in the later seasons don't do it for me.

Let's see how many followers I lose after saying this: I'm not a big fan of "being violently assaulted turned me into the Ice Queen, Cersei 2.0 I am today" Sansa and the "so honorable I'm basically Ned 2.0 but now with added passivity" Jon. Like what did he do in the latter seasons? Scream in the general direction of a zombie dragon?

My biggest gripe with show Sansa is that there was all this leadup to her being quietly powerful & good at reading people & good at politics, and then Dany comes along and she openly, actively antagonizes her?? A woman with dragons who keeps threatening to burn down your home??

Don't get me wrong, they still remained two of my favorite characters in the show and the ones I was rooting for the most, but they aren't the book versions I fell in love with.

I honestly didn't even actively ship them while the show was airing, besides a casual, 'huh, that doesn't seem like a sibling relationship' and 'well it would make political sense for them to...' and 'wow they seem like the only two characters who even vaguely like each other'. I will say, the only time Sansa was soft in the latter seasons was with Jon, which was nice.

In general, I don't talk about my GOT opinions on here because I don't enjoy discourse with internet strangers (my IRL friends, however, hear ALL of it), and I've even seen some people in the Sansa fandom jump on other Sansa fans who have a dissenting opinion (not recently, though, but I saw it happen more than once when I first joined the fandom on tumblr. I remember seeing some posts about 'fake sansa fans' just because they didn't adore her characterization in the show, or preferred her book characterization. maybe I just haven't seen it recently because of all the discourse tags I have blocked lol).

But honestly, the asoiaf fandom as a whole has made it pretty toxic to have opinions at all, which is why I keep them to myself, or below cuts (I will make this post unrebloggable).

[sherlokiness]

So I went and googled the Inn at the Crossroads theory you were talking about and I could see it.👀 the biggest reason that convinced me was the parallel of Cat kidnapping Tyrion. Jaime wounded Ned while Brandon with his wolf blood asked the crown prince to come out and die. They got the reports and acted brashly which resulted in war between the families. Brandon probably didn't know that Rhaegar was protecting Lyanna from Aerys men which were also looking for the Knight of the Laughing tree that Aerys paranoia simply would not let go of.

This is the first time I've heard of Jonsa having two weddings and I very much welcome the idea. There are parallels between Jon with Jahaerys also Sansa with Alysanne so why not their weddings too?

Hi, anon. Thanks for the ask!

Yes, I think the timeline makes sense. Brandon was looking for Rhaegar in the Red Keep. He probably just heard the reports that his sister was involved in an altercation with the King's men only to end up with Rhaegar's. It looked like a kidnapping at first because Lyanna of course wouldn't be willing to go with Aerys' men. There was no time for an explanation for why she chose to go with Rhaegar in the end. Brandon doesn't know about the Knight of the Laughing Tree and why going with Rhaegar is safer. Then the war happened.

I've been on the fence about jonsa secret wedding bc of all the discussions about RL wedding and Jon's legitimacy. I just know that Jon and Sansa would be involved in secret weddings too but it can't work if people would refuse to acknowledge it. Jace and Sara wedding was only in Mushroom's tale too. No! Jonsa should stabilize the realm so a public wedding is the only one that will do. Then I recently encountered about Jaehaerys I and Alysanne having 2 weddings. This couple is famously in love. *light bulb moment* Why can't Jonsa have two weddings? GRRM already laid out a precedent. The 2nd one might also be when Jon and Sansa consummate the marriage cause Sansa is a little older.👀👀

A Daenerys dying because of such union also works as a parallel when you think about it? Past Daenerys died from the Shivers while Current Dany will die from being cold and alone. Daenerys dying will be the price they will have to pay for having such a wedding.Its not all sunshine and rainbows especially if Jon ends up kinslaying. Jon got a "white-hot knife" of pain in his leg from Ygritte's arrow while the other mention of that phrase was in the first book involving Timett One Eye using it to put out his own eye. So white hot knife, Jon, one eye, and betrayal. Sounds like a recipe for Jonsa. We also have to remember that Jon's betrayal was because he chose the one whose eyes he said he will "fall and drown" in. He would have been fucked if it weren't for Deus Ex Machina Summer- Bran's wolf. Isn't that the case for Jonsa? They'll be fucked if not for Bran. Be it for the RLJ reveal or giving Sansa's hand in marriage. Another reason I'm convinced of the connection between white hot knife and Jon is because of the White Knife in the series.

Someone called King Jon Stark built the Wolf's Den.

Pups, anon!!! Pups!!!! King Jon Stark having pups!

[patrocles]

do you think jonsa is more likely than jonerys?

i mean i dont really know?

jon is definitely going to have some sort of profound relationship with both dany and sansa at different points in the series (this doesnt necessarily constitute as romantic, but Important) (with dany bc the great war link up, with sansa bc stark restoration inevitability)

so i guess it really just depends on your definition and dynamic preference? i personally dont think the existence of one negates or outweighs the other. the whole weird triangle sansa/dany beef over jon was an absolutely stupid show invention and it can stay in the show canon. i def think they can have an interesting dynamic in their own right but not over jon, lets be so fr

i mean also, sansa is still very much like 14 so i’m not super sure how much yall want to happen in the current timeline.

[greenhikingboots]

A few words on House Kettleblack and "News from W.H."

The new outline buzz has me revisiting TWOW speculation. Mostly I want to think and write about the Mad Mouse and the Vale plot. But while I was attempting that, I caught myself writing a long-winded tangent about House Kettleblack. Let me post it here and get it out of the way.

Regarding “News from W.H.” some Jonsa fam friends discussed Oswell Kettleblack here. A reminder if you need it, Oswell, along with Lothor Brune has known Sansa’s true identity all along. They were on the ship, the Merling King, when Sansa and Littlefinger fled King’s Landing after Joffrey’s death. Also worth noting, as I’ll circle back to it in a bit, is that Kettleblack’s sons have infiltrated Cersei’s sellswords thanks to Bronn and Tyrion’s scheming, but none of them are aware of the Kettleblacks’ connections to Littlefinger.

Sherlockiness gave us this canon line from TWOW: “When she had left Petyr Baelish that morning he had been breaking his fast with old Oswell who had arrived last night from Gulltown on a lathered horse.”

And Agentrouka gave us this: I suppose now we know what had Oswell travel with haste. White Harbor news — and Littlefinger had it first, so whatever it is, it won't catch him off-guard. Maybe he'll try to twist the ‘Arya’ wedding news in his favor, that would fit with the timeline better than news of Jon or Rickon, and it would match the choice to insert a childhood memory of Jeyne and Arya into the same chapter.

I’m here to offer more options to consider. Here goes.

Let’s take a look at another canon line. Littlefinger to Sansa in AFFC, meaning prior to the line Sherlockiness brought up from TWOW: “I thought it best that we have a few more swords about us [Shadrich, Byron, and Morgarth]. The times grow ever more interesting, my sweet, and when the times are interesting you can never have too many swords. The Merling King's returned to Gulltown, and old Oswell had some tales to tell.”

Wait. Hang on a second. Did you catch that? It’s not like Sansa’s last AFFC chapter and her TWOW chapter take place a day apart. Time had to pass to dream up and plan for the tournament, for the participants to begin to arrive, for Littlefinger to send for lemons from Dorne for that massive cake, etc. etc.

So what are we to make of this? Maybe Oswell had not yet made it to the Gates of the Moon but somehow got word to Littlefinger that he was on his way… with tales to tell. Or — and I think this option makes better sense — Oswell’s been traveling back and forth between Gulltown and the Gates of the Moon for a few months, bringing news to Littlefinger bit by bit.

Which doesn’t help me solve any puzzles, really. But it’s important to me, Jonsa fam, that we aren’t operating on false assumptions. Along that same vein, maybe we should double check if we really think the news Oswell is bringing Littlefinger and the news GRRM mentions in his outline as coming from White Harbor — the likely catalyst for Sansa resolving to be herself — are one in the same.

So what’s the news from Gulltown?

What about progress on an attempt to get a marriage annulled? As we know, annulments are a thing in Westeros. Though neither the bride nor groom needs to be present, one of them must request the annulment. I think it’s possible Littlfinger may have forged something to make it look like Sansa requested it. Maybe Oswell is involved in those logistics.

(I’ve also read speculation that Littlefinger has ties to Tysha and Tysha and Tyrion’s marriage was never actually annulled — Tywin lied about it. Therefore, even without the consummation issue, Sansa and Tyrion’s marriage was never legitimate. The theory goes that Tysha will ask for an annulment from Tyrion and the process of her coming forward will consequently annul Sansa and Tyrion’s marriage. It’s so many steps removed it seems implausible. I get that. But Littlefinger does talk about Tysha and Tyrion in a Sansa chapter and it kinda makes you go, “Hmmmm why include this here?” I guess what I’m saying is that I’m far from in love with this theory, but if it happens — okay, cool, whatever. I’m mentioning it now mostly in case someone wants to dig into it themselves.)

Or! I think this next part is more likely, though it and annulment stuff could be intertwined as they both require news from King’s Landing. Remember that earlier tidbit about Oswell’s sons infiltrating Cersei’s sellswords? Well, how Cersei’s faring as queen regent — that seems like something that would need multiple updates over the course of a few months, right? And the part from TWOW chapter, the part about the leathered horse — seems plausible, maybe even likely that Oswell hurried from Gulltown to the Gates of the Moon this time because his sons have been imprisoned with Cersei. (If you’re like me and started skipping a lot of POVs in the later books, catch up on the details here: House Kettleblack link)

(Bonus: In the recently revealed outline, one of the Cersei notes says ‘Osmund’ betrays her. And I find the quotes around his name interesting especially because his AWOIAF pages says he’s twice mistakenly called Oswald. Not sure if that’s hinting at something bigger to come or just a nod to the Kettleblacks being shady. Also according to AWOIAF, the brothers are all illiterate. I want to dig into canon and see if there are hints of that being a ruse as it would otherwise seem likely they’re sending information to their father who is sharing it with Littlefinger).

So all that to say, I think we need to consider the option Oswell’s news and the news from Winterfell are separate ideas.

That’s it for the House Kettleblack tangent. Posts still to come about the Mad Mouse and maybe about what the news from White Harbor could be.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - "No More Scars", Part 1

Jon gets Sansa out of King's Landing and they make their way to Riverrun, to reunite with family. A little speeding/condensing of the timeline, so Jon has died up at Castle Black and been revived already. He comes for Sansa after this. Everyone's aged up, as is my usual.

No More Scars

Chapter One: Quelling the Pain

“This is as far as we go.”  Jon and Sansa  - After rescuing her from King’s Landing, they have a long, winding road to Riverrun before them.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 fin

* * *

The first time Jon sees her in years, she is both half the girl he used to know and yet not wholly the woman he’d expected of her.    

“Did Robb send you?” Sansa asks, her brows furrowing over her wide, hopeful eyes.  

He isn’t sure whether the truth is welcomed or not, so he only reaches out his hand toward her.  “I’m here to get you out,” he tells her.  And it’s the safest truth, at least.  

She seems to think so as well, because then she’s tucking her hand into his, her mouth a tight line, her other hand clenching her robe closed over her chest, before he’s whisking her through the castle in the dead of night.  

She glances back behind her at the gilded cage of King’s Landing just the once, just enough to swallow back the bile.  

(He knows, because he sees her throat bobbing with it when he places his hands along her waist and hoists her up along the horse.  He takes his seat behind her and then they’re off.)  

She’s silent for the whole first half-day that they ride.  And then he veers off the road, takes them along a haggard horse-path heading northwest.  They don’t stop for many hours.  

When they finally drop from the horse for rest, she barely acknowledges him when he hands her a clean, simple dress.  She tucks behind the trees for cover and changes in silence.  Jon tends the fire in her absence.  When she returns, he has their bedrolls already set.  

He wonders if she will remark on the closeness of them.  

(He’s duty-bound to protect her, after all.  And he can’t do it from a distance.)  

She does not ask of Robb again, though he waits expectantly for it.  

Instead, Sansa only drops down quietly along her spread blanket, not even taking the offered bread he hands her.  And then she’s sleeping – quiet and still and deep.  

He watches her curl in on herself in her sleep, as he stokes the fire half-heartedly, before dousing it, and turning in himself.  

The next day is much of the same.  Hours and hours of riding.  Hours and hours of quiet.  

He thinks she understands now – the answer to her question.  

“Did Robb send you?”  

He accepts that he may have broken her.  

(Because to accept that they left her to be broken is far, far worse.)     * * *

“We’ll keep off the Gold Road,” Jon says, taking the pack from their horse, and dropping it in the dirt at their feet.  He then tugs the horse toward a nearby tree, looping a tied rope around one branch to tether it, before unbridling the animal.  

Sansa watches in a rather dumbfounded state.  

Jon glances back to her, slowing in his motions.  “Until we’re further north and closer to Riverrun, we can’t risk the main roads.  You’re a wanted fugitive by the crown now.”  

Sansa only nods, her lips pressed tightly together.  She glances around at the small clearing he’s stopped them in.  

Jon crouches at the pack by her feet, pulling out two thin bedrolls, and then stopping to glance up at her.  He works his jaw, eyes downcast.  “I can’t promise you comfort, Sansa,” he says, hands gripping the unfurled bedroll in his hands.  

She glances to him, hands limp at her sides.  

“But I promise to get you home,” he finishes, looking up at her.  

She watches him for many moments, her breath tight in her chest.  And then she glances out to the woods around them, peers into the trees, tries to decipher the darkness slowly creeping into the canopies.  

Jon sighs beneath her, continuing his task of preparing them for bed, no more words to follow.  

Sansa closes her eyes.  Thinks of her mother.  Hears Rickon’s laugh at her ear.  

A soft, watery gasp leaves her – barely there.  Her lungs tighten at the memory.  

She opens her eyes.  The forest is still there.  The sun still sinks beneath the tree line.  

But Jon is here, spreading out his bedroll to lie beside hers, his hand smoothing over the wool.  

She wants to cry suddenly.  

“Sansa, look, we just have to – "  

She drops to a squat in a single, sinking motion, arms wrapping tight around her legs, her head buried in her knees.  A staggering breath shudders from her.  

“Sansa,” she hears at her side.  

“I just want – ” she says, and then stops, the breath hitching in her throat.  

She just wants –   

A sob breaks from her lips, splashing against her knees.  She digs her head in deeper, another sob catching at the edge of her teeth.  

“Sansa,” he says again, and she feels the pressure of his knees settling beside her in the ground.  

She pulls her head up to watch him.  “I just want to go home,” she croaks out, the words bitter and lonesome along her tongue, her face crumbling instantly.    

Jon reaches for her hesitantly, before stopping, his hand hovering in the air.  

She only looks at him, the tears hot along her lids.  Her mouth tips open, but there are no more words.  At least, none as important.  “I just...”  

Jon’s eyes shift between hers frantically, worried and wanting and always unsure.  

“I want to go home.  Nothing more,” she cries out brokenly, before she buries her face back into her knees, the world a sudden rush around her – the years and faces and fears of her recent captivity an instant barrage, an unrelenting assault.  

Cersei’s sneering face.  Joffrey’s threats.  The bruise of a guantleted fist.  The harsh tear of her dress.  The Hound’s taunting.  Tyrion’s barely constrained touches.  The mocking court.  And the loneliness, the loneliness, gods the loneliness.  

Her breath catches, harsh and dry in her throat, her mouth parting on the sound, but the tears are familiar, constant, ever-present.  The wail she bites off at her knees peters out into a pained moan and then –   

Then his hands are around her shoulders, pulling her toward him.  His chest is warm and firm and broad.  His hands –   

His hands never let her go.  

She turns into his shoulder with a ragged cry, her fingers clutching his tunic, her breath stalled in her chest, and her cries, her cries, her cries –   

Muffled in his trembling embrace.  

It’s an awkward fumble of limbs, the way she falls against him, her knees giving out, her arms reaching for him like he’s the last gasp of air her lungs will ever know.  

And yet always, constantly, steadily in her ear, there is this:  

“I’ve got you.”  

His voice is warm at her temple, his lips pressed to her hairline.  She squeezes her eyes shut at the exhalation.  

“I’ve got you,” he breathes into her.  

The clutch of her fingers along his shoulders leaves marks for years to come.  

* * *

He’s packing up his bedding on the fourth day of their journey when she says it.  

He turns to her, finds her standing there with her woolen blanket folded over her arms, her eyes on his boots.  

“What?” he asks her, needing her to repeat it, afraid he’s heard wrong.  

She looks up at him, handing him her bedding to fold back into their pack.  “Thank you,” she says, even and smooth, only the trembling of her jaw giving away any hint of her uncertainty.  

Jon stays staring at her.  

She glances up at him, and then away, pulling the blanket back to her chest.  “Thank you,” she tells him, “For coming for me.”  

Jon remembers suddenly what her songs sounded like, and how she used to scowl so disapprovingly at Arya, and how she howled at him when he spilled his tea along her skirts once, and the direwolf handkerchief she’d knitted for Bran while he slept, and her curtsies and her sighs and her laughs and her pouts and her – and her –   

Half-brother, she’d called him.  

As though to spare him the pain of ‘bastard’.  

And yet, never enough to be just...  

(Brother.)  

Jon swallows thickly.  “Of course I’d come for you,” he says roughly.

She meets his eyes then, the blanket still tight to her chest.  

He opens his mouth, finds nothing there.  

Because of course he’d come for her.  She’s his sister.  She’s Sansa Stark.  

And she deserves to be fought for.  

She seems to crumple in on herself.  

Jon steps toward her.  

“I didn’t...” she starts, stops, swallows it down.  She licks her lips before trying again.  “I didn’t want to give myself false hope.”  

His brows furrow in confusion.  

She seems to notice, face pinching in consternation, and he knows now – what she looks like when she’s trying to word something as palatably as possible.  

It makes him feel dirty.  

(Because he knows now, that this was the norm, the standard practice for her – to be palatable.)  

“I just mean – "  

“You’re welcome,” he says, reaching for the bedding held tight to her chest.  

She eases her hold on it slowly.  

He pulls it gently from her grasp, his hand lingering near hers, the edge of their fingers brushing.  “You’re welcome,” he says again, the faint hint of a smirk tugging at his smile.  

She blinks at him, her shoulders bunching tight once more.  “Jon...”  

He squats down to continue packing their belongings away.  “You don’t really need to thank me, anyway.  I told you – of course I’d come for you.”  He feels her staring down at him for long seconds as he works, before she crouches down beside him to help.  

He pretends not to hear the quiet sniffling she tries to hide.   * * *

She always falls asleep first, her exhaustion unsurprising when they ride for hours each day. Sleeplessness is his companion now, anyway – has been since he first awoke with the red woman’s magic.  

He watches Sansa’s back in the dark, whittling the hours away before dawn.  

Sometimes he sleeps. Sometimes he doesn’t.  

But he never dreams. It’s just an endless darkness that takes him.  

Until Sansa’s hand at his shoulder rouses him, or the faint light of dawn peeking through the trees.  

He rises, like he did that first cold evening after death.  

And the journey continues.   * * *

“How did you leave the Watch? I thought those vows were for life,” Sansa asks softly, curling her knees under her, poking at the fire before their mats with a stick.  

Jon sits on the ground beside her, arms hanging over his bent knees. He glances to her at her question.  

Sansa pokes at the fire again, eyes fixed to it, before noticing his silence. She turns to him. “Aren’t they?” Her mouth purses in confusion.  

Jon nods, his throat bobbing. “Aye, they are,” he gets out roughly.  

Sansa lowers the stick in her hand. “So...?”  

“So, I gave my life for the Watch,” he snaps in answer.  

Her shoulders tense at his tone, her knuckles going white along the stick in her hold. She faces the fire once more. “I’m sorry, if I touched a tender subject,” she says diplomatically.  

He recognizes this side of her now. The side that braces for a raised hand. And he hates that he has stirred this in her.  

Jon sighs heavily, wiping a hand down his face, and then he reaches into the grass beside him, pulling out a fistful of blades. He starts to pluck at them and toss them one by one into the fire. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he grumbles out.  

Sansa remains quiet, resuming her cautious exploration of the fire.  

Jon throws another blade into the flames, a huff leaving him. “I’ll tell you someday, I promise. Just... not tonight.”  

“Alright,” she says gently, eyes still on the fire.  

Jon looks at her from the corner of his eye. “My men betrayed me,” he gets out finally.  

The burned end of the stick in Sansa’s grasp settles into the dirt as she drops her hand to her lap.  “They betrayed you? Why?” she asks, looking over at him.  Her brows furrow in question.  

Jon heaves a breath. “Because sometimes you just can’t change hate,” he says simply.  

And maybe it is that simple. Maybe it always has been. Maybe he’s just been too blind to see it.  

He isn’t strong enough to change a man’s hate. Or his fear.  

Maybe his real mistake was never understanding that.  

“You didn’t deserve that,” she says suddenly, a fierceness underlining her voice.  

Again, so simple.  

And yet, it makes him turn his head, makes him meet her gaze.  

She reaches out a hand and squeezes his fist reassuringly, before settling her hand back in her lap.  

She hasn’t a clue what their betrayal truly did to him. She hasn’t seen the scars. She hasn’t witnessed his cold body on a slab. And yet – simply – to hear those words –   

You didn’t deserve that .  

It makes the air catch in his throat.  

“Thank you, Sansa.”  

She smiles – hesitant and barely-there. But she smiles.  

A direwolf’s howl breaks the silence over them, coming from over the hills. Sansa starts, twisting back to look through the trees behind them, finding nothing in the darkness. “Is that...?”  

“Ghost,” Jon reassures her, tossing another blade of grass into the fire. “He’s keeping watch from a distance while we’re still this close to the main road. He’ll join us further north.”  

Sansa stays turned in her seat, gaze fixed to the darkness at their backs, her eyes slowly watering.  

The realization comes to him then, suddenly and sadly. He swallows tightly before he asks her, “What happened to Lady?”  

Because he knows. He knows. Only death could have separated them.  

Sansa purses her lips, her jaw tightening, and then she’s shuffling back to her previous position, tucking her legs underneath her with a downcast gaze. “Father killed her,” she clips out, a hand going to wipe the wetness from her eyes, as though it had never been.  

Jon’s shoulders slump at the revelation. He feels her loss keenly, like a piece of him has been torn away. He thinks of Ghost. Thinks of the terrible rending his death would cause in him, the ache, the tear, the missing of something that used to be of him. And then he thinks of their father.  

Jon clenches his hands into fists atop his knees. “Father... killed her?” he chokes out.  

Sansa nods. “As punishment for Nymeria attacking Joffrey, when Nymeria couldn’t be found.”  

“Oh,” he says, the breath shuddering from him. He wants to reach to her.  Doesn’t know how.  

Sansa tosses the stick into the fire. “I resented him so much for it, you know? I was so... so angry. And hurt. And I never felt safe again after that. And I couldn’t forgive him for it. And then I never got the chance to, anyway.”  

Jon stares at her, swallowing heavily.  

She sighs, hands winding nervously in her lap. “Because then he was dead. And I was forced to look at his head up on that pike, and I... I couldn’t...” She stops, her voice catching. She sniffs back the break, tries again. “I couldn’t forgive myself for missing the chance to tell him before he died – ” She sucks a sharp breath between her teeth, turning to face Jon, her eyes wide and salt-sheened. “That I forgave him, and that I loved him, and that I wasn’t angry with him anymore, that I – I just wanted him to come back, to take us from there. But I’ll never get that chance again. Because he’s gone, just like Lady, killed for a crime he never committed. He’s just... gone,” she exhales on a spent breath, pulling her lip between her teeth. And then she laughs, short and dark, a hand going to her eyes. “It’s so – so stupid,” she mutters.  

Jon turns fully to her, his knees folding beside him when he leans over and grabs for her wrist, gently tugging her hand from her face. “It’s not,” he tells her. “It’s not stupid.”  

She heaves a steadying breath, eyes still fixed on her lap, but they’re dry now at least.  

Jon rubs his thumb along the arch of her wrist. “And you didn’t deserve that,” he says meaningfully.  

Sansa looks up at him, brows pinched together when he repeats her words back at her. And then she laughs again, wipes at her nose with her free hand, straightens her shoulders. “Quite the pair we make, huh?”   

Her voice and face are still pained though, he sees this.  

But her wrist is warm beneath his touch, and she isn’t pulling from him.  

“Quite,” he agrees, the lilt of a smile gracing his face, his thumb etching over her pulse point again.  

She nods, licking her lips. “I’m glad it was you, Jon, who came for me.” She turns her hand over beneath his grasp and meets his palm with hers. Her fingers tighten over his. “I’m glad you’re here.”  

“So am I,” he says, the words instant along his tongue.  

And he means it, he finds. He means it with all of him.   * * *

Sansa hates rabbit meat, she discovers,  

Jon laughs at her when she makes a face at the skinned animal he turns over the fire.  

“It’s so chewy,” she bemoans later, grudgingly taking a bite of the thigh meat Jon offers her, hunger winning out over pickiness.  

“You need to eat,” he says firmly, though the hint of a smirk still rests at the corners of his mouth.  

She pouts at him.  

He only laughs harder.   * * *

He catches sight of the scar along the nape of her neck sometime in the next afternoon.  It takes him a while, his eyes usually trained ahead.  But then she sighs, a hand going to rub at her eyes.  She’s tired, he notices, and he looks at her for the first time that day, seated in front of him in the saddle.  Her hair is brushed over her shoulder, thin wisps of it escaping the partially pinned style.  There’s the slightest red tint over the tops of her ears and the back of her neck, a mark of the sun’s constant watch over their journey.  Her shoulders are slumped forward – thin and brittle.  The fabric of her dress is dulled and wrinkled over the expanse of her back.  And all this he expects until –   

The faint, white line etching out from beneath the collar of her dress, arching over the space where neck meets shoulder.  

He almost stops their horse at the sight.  

Instead, he simply stares, the steady rocking motion of the horse only increasing his focus.  Unbidden, his hand rises up to touch it, fingers dragging down the edge of her dress’ collar to bare the scar more fully to him.  

Something sharpens in his gut at the revelation it gives him.  The scar does not end.  It only stretches longer, harsher – unseen beneath the rest of her dress.  If he follows the path, he knows it will curve over her shoulder blade, down, and down – perhaps fading out along the backs of her ribs, or perhaps continuing on, to the curve of her waist, tapering off past her hip.  

His other hand tightens along the reins.  

Jon suddenly realizes she has stiffened in her seat, her shoulders bunching up.  Her breath has stilled.  

Jon eases the horse to a halt, the words dead along his tongue.  He stares at the haggard white strip of flesh at the base of her neck, his fingers still curled along the dress collar, tugged only partially down, his thumb arching tenderly over her scar.  

They stay like this for many moments, his eyes slowly watering, a heat behind them that seems finer than rage – more honed.  A slow, bitter wrath builds inside him.  

Sansa turns her head just slightly, not enough to catch his eyes, but enough for him to see the stiff purse of her lips.  

He lets out a heavy breath.  “What did they do to you?” he croaks out, surprising even himself with how the words manage to find air.  

She doesn’t answer at first, tongue flicking out to wet her lips.  She draws a slow, steady breath in – the first he’s felt from her since they’d stopped.  Her lids flutter closed.  “They did enough,” she tells him.  

He sucks a sharp breath between his teeth, his thumb pressing firmer along the nape of her neck.  

That fine-honed wrath – it narrows.  Becomes a pinprick focus.  

“Sansa,” he gets out raggedly, his hand releasing her collar, dragging over her neck instead, anchoring there at the edge of her shoulder.  He shakes with it – this righteous horror.  

And then she slips a hand over his, her fine-boned fingers delicate along his calloused ones.  

He blinks at the back of her head, the salt sting of tears lingering just at the corners of his eyes.  

She dips her head toward their joined hands along her shoulder, her lips a whisper away from his touch, her breath warming his knuckles.  “But they cannot anymore,” she tells him.  And then she glances further back, meets his eyes finally.  “Because of you.”  

Jon’s chest heaves, his hand in the reins settling closer now, just along her stomach.  

Her hand slips from over his, her shoulders unbunching as she faces forward once more.  There’s an ease to her frame now, a subtle freedom.  

As though she feels safe in his arms, pressed up against his chest.  

As though she knows:  

No other scars will follow.  

(And she’d be right – because this, he promises.)  

Jon clicks at the horse to continue, his heels pressing in short and quick.  They start moving again instantly.  

He keeps his eyes on the sliver of white flesh at her nape, and his hand pressed firm along her stomach, reins tangled in his fist.  

The weight of her against his chest is almost enough to quiet his wrath.  

But not quite.   * * *

“Is there a lake nearby? A river?” Sansa asks, eyes roving the land before them as they ride.  

“There’s a small river along our route but...” His voice trails off.  

Sansa glances back at him to find him looking north.   

He frowns. “Not for many miles, I think.” He looks down at her. “Why?”  

Sansa turns forward again, shifting in the saddle. She considers her words a moment, before answering. “I’d... like a bath,” she says finally, lip caught between her teeth.  

Jon chuckles behind her, his breath warm at the nape of her neck.  

She narrows her eyes. “And you could use one, too,” she quips.  

He coughs unexpectedly, the laugh petering out in his throat.  

She smiles to herself, unseen.  

They find water shortly before the sun sets, and Sansa climbs down from the horse eagerly, heading to the edge of the lake. She hesitates only momentarily, before the grime and dirt of the last several days overwhelms her, and after glancing back to make sure Jon has set camp far enough away from shore, she removes her travel dress and makes her way into the water.  

When she’s back at camp, as refreshed as she expects to be, clothed in the robe she fled King’s Landing in while her dress dries from washing along the tree branches, she catches the faint outline of Jon washing in the lake by twilight. It’s barely an outline of him, the high moon not yet full, and the lingering trail of the sun’s rays diminishing over the horizon rather quickly, but it’s enough.  

He’s become a man in the time she’s spent away from him. She realizes she should have known that by the beard that sometimes brushes her shoulder when they ride, and the rough, calloused hands that hold the reins at her waist, and the broad expanse of his shoulders that hold her weight when exhaustion overcomes her and she reluctantly leans back against him.  

But seeing him now, etched in twilight, far enough away to nearly be a mirage, she understands that the man who came for her is not the brother she said goodbye to all those years ago.  

He gave his life for the Watch, he’d said, and she still doesn’t know what that means, but she thinks she’s closer to the truth now, when she watches the curved line of his back peeking out from the water, when he turns, just slightly, and she can see the dark line of wounds or scars or... something along his chest.  

She’s closer to the truth when later that night, as they lay beside each other before the fire, and she glances over to him, he glances back without her ever needing to speak his name.   * * *

“How much longer?” she asks, shifting in the saddle, her thighs beginning to cramp.  

Jon grunts behind her in annoyance. “We’re almost there.”  

“That’s not an answer.”  

“You wouldn’t like the answer anyway,” he quips back.  

Sansa huffs, throwing a look over her shoulder at him.  

Jon rolls his eyes. “It’s almost a month from King’s Landing to Riverrun, and that’s just taking the main roads – which we’re not,” he explains.  

“I know,” she sighs.  

“Because we can’t risk you being spotted.”  

“I know.”  

Jon pulls the horse to a halt, peering at her over her shoulder. “It’s going to take longer if we keep stopping like this.”  

“I know, Jon,” she snaps turning in her seat before him as much as she can, her nose nearly bumping his. She stills at the sudden closeness.  

Jon pulls back just a touch, just enough to keep his gaze on hers.  

Her cheeks are pink, her mouth pursed tight.  

Jon licks his lips. “Are you tired?” he asks finally, his voice rough.  

Sansa’s eyes shift between his, her mouth opening and then closing. She turns away from him, facing forward once again. “I can weather it,” she manages, hands curling over the saddle horn.  

Jon stays staring at the back of her head. He sighs out. “If you’re tired...”  

“I’ll be fine,” she clips out.  

Jon frowns behind her.  

“I’ll not complain further,” she assures him, shoulders tight. A faint pink blush etches over the tops of her ears.  

Jon waits another moment to be certain of her, before urging the horse back into motion.  

She doesn’t speak for the remainder of the ride.   * * *

He notices something’s wrong when she becomes unusually quiet along the road the next day. He doesn’t comment on it, but keeps a steady eye on her. Her shoulders start slumping. There’s sweat along the back of her neck. Her hands grip the saddle horn tightly.  

“Sansa,” he says, never stopping their trot.  

“Hmm?” she answers, never looking back at him.  

“Are you alright?”  

She straightens somewhat. “I’m fine.”  

He watches her for many moments from his seat behind her, before stopping them without a word.  

She sighs, glancing back at him. “I’m fine,” she repeats, a censure to her words.  

But she’s not. And he knows this.  

Jon slips from the saddle, boots landing along the ground in a puff of dirt. “Come here,” he urges her, motioning her to get down from the saddle.  

She frowns down at him. “Honestly, Jon, I’m – ”  

“You’re not fine,” he clips out, hands going for her waist. “Come.”  

She reaches for his shoulders reluctantly, an admonishing glare sent his way. “Jon, it’s just – ”  

“You’re clammy,” he says, dragging her from the saddle, steadying her against his chest. “And weak. You’re not well.” He motions toward the fallen log beside their horse. “Come, sit. We’ll rest for a time.”  

Sansa grudgingly walks toward the log, a hand at her stomach, as Jon goes to tie the horse off along a nearby tree. When he turns back to her, he catches sight of the small patch of blood along the seat of her dress. He stills instantly.  

“Sansa,” he gets out on a croak.  

She settles along the log, arm wrapped around her middle, her shoulders hunched over. She looks up at him, a brow arched in question.  

He raises a finger to point dazedly. “You’re... bleeding.”  

Sansa gives him a perplexed look for a moment, before understanding passes over her features, and she nods quietly, eyes slipping closed as she wraps both arms around her stomach now. “My moon blood,” she says in explanation, a grimace accompanying it.  

Jon stays rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do to help.  

“Will you build a fire?” she asks then, glancing up at him. “Heat helps.”  

He moves into action immediately, starting the fire, and gathering blankets, settling them into their nightly routine well before they should have otherwise been doing so.  

The sun is still low over the trees when Sansa curls into a ball along the blankets, facing the fire, her eyes squeezed shut.  

Jon sits just behind her, setting the waterskin beside her, within reach. He leans back with a sigh, eyes roving her body. The words clog in his throat. “So, you’re...”  

Sansa opens her eyes, hands curling in the blanket wrapped around her. She looks over her shoulder at him. “I’m what?” she urges him.  

Jon wipes a hand over his mouth, suddenly regretting that he’s even begun this line of thinking, but it sits in his gut anyway, waiting for air. “You’re not with child, then,” he finishes finally, unable to meet her eyes.  

Sansa works her jaw, eyes shifting back to the fire. “My marriage to Tyrion was never consummated,” she tells him, the words clipped.  

He can’t smother the sigh of relief that escapes him at her words.  

She tugs the blanket closer.  

Jon reaches a hand to her shoulder. “I didn’t mean... I only meant to ask if...” His hand curls back, away from her shoulder.  

“You only meant to ask if I was still a threat to the North – if I carried a Lannister babe in my belly.”  

Jon sucks a sharp breath through his teeth. “Sansa, no, I – ”  

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” she bites out. “There may have been some... unwanted touches,” she manages through clenched teeth, her voice wavering, “But nothing more than that. I’m still a maiden, don’t worry. And not a threat to our family.”  

Jon shakes in his sudden wrath, unseen behind her. He rakes a hand through his hair, his chest heaving. “I’ll kill him,” he snarls lowly.  

Sansa stiffens at the sound, unable to look back at him.  

“I’ll kill him for even touching you,” he says vehemently.  

Sansa finally turns to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Jon.”  

Her voice seems to bring him back, seems to dull the haze that’s overcome him. He hushes her, a hand at her shoulder, turning her back to the fire, a brittle silence settling between them. They stay like this for many moments before she turns again, voice catching in her throat, “Jon – ”   

But then he’s settling into the space at her back, winding an arm around her waist, bracing her back against his chest.  

Sansa swallows tightly, eyes blinking furiously against the firelight. “What are you...?” she gets out shakily.  

“You said heat helps,” he answers into her shoulder, burrowing closer.

He doesn’t question this need. Doesn’t question this instinct to quell her pain. He only holds her. Firm and unrelenting.  

He holds her.  

And she lets him.  

[esther-dot]

Hey, do you believe the Snow sequel will actually happen at this point? There doesn’t seem to be much progress happening. Is there an actual release date? Love your blog ❤️

Thank you so much! 💗

Yes, I think it will. No release date yet, as far as I know, but HBO seems invested in building out their ASOIAF-verse. Martin talked in one of his blog posts about how long it takes to get a show into production, years and years, and they weren’t ready to announce SNOW. Someone let the cat out of the bag and everyone went nuts until GRRM confirmed it in a blog post last June.

Yes, it was Kit Harrington who brought the idea to us. I cannot tell you the names of the writers/ showrunners, since that has not been cleared for release yet… but Kit brought them in too, his own team, and they are terrific.

Various rumors are floating around about my involvement, or lack of same. I am involved, just as I am with THE HEDGE KNIGHT and THE SEA SNAKE and TEN THOUSAND SHIPS, and all the animated shows. Kit’s team have visited me here in Santa Fe and worked with me and my own team of brilliant, talented writer/ consultants to hammer out the show. (link)

So, I think maybe our timeline expectations were skewed by learning about it before we were meant to? Last Fall Kit was saying he couldn’t talk about it, but by December when he gave an interview at a convention he talked about GoT/where Jon was emotionally, and the way he was talking seemed pretty comfortable and confident about where we will find Jon and what was in store for him. No details about the show’s plot, he just seemed to have fairly specific thoughts about Jon’s traumas, formative life, current circumstances, his future. To me that indicated things were chugging along.

I imagine all the chaos at the company may have some impact on things, the writers strike too, there’s also HBO’s decision to order full first seasons for some of these shows, not just pilots, so we may still have a ways to go before ever seeing it, but apparently, it’s been discussed since shortly after GoT ended, spearheaded by Kit. I can’t imagine HBO letting the opportunity of a sequel, essentially, with one of the stars from the og series slip through their fingers.

Also, I just saw this article this morning:

(link)

which amused me because this has been what Jonsas have been saying since we heard the rumor. Honestly, this reads just like some of our posts! But according to @sherlokiness ‘s rude anon, we can’t imagine what the sequel will be about because we hate Jon, not because a lot of us love stories and are acutely aware of the difficulties plaguing this concept. 🙃

[reginarubie]

Ma'am....excuse me Ma'am. I'm just gonna say thankyou for breaking my heart with the epilogue 😭

Okay I have so many questions!!!

1. Will Jon come back in time as well?

2. Are we going to see what will happen in the future now as they've won the long night?

3.Alright apart from aemondsa im really interested about how the Starks will continue/go about as Sansa is dead in that timeline or is she🧐?

4.Does Jon have romantic feelings for Sansa or was only protective about her as a brother?

Ughhh as a jonsa first and foremost my heart is really going through emotions I can't describe 😭

But nevertheless thankyou for blessing the Sansa fandom with your beautiful,innovative,mind blowing creations Queen 👑

Thankyou thankyou thankyou and looking forward to new updates 🥰

Ciao @beautifuldelusionfun ❤️

As the Jonsa Hag, I have to say this epilogue broke my heart as well.

I’ll try to reply as throughoutly as I can without spoilerin’ too much:

We’ll see more of the Starklings, yes, especially in the third instalment of the trilogy ( I cannot spoil Jon’s part to play also because it’s a pivotal point of part III)

I’m afraid we won’t see much of that future, as with Sansa remaining in the past, the future changed — maybe irrevocably — and thus the world they were in before started to fade as Jon himself felt the world around them fading. Which will make the future uncertain for anyone who reads the story.

Kinds of link up to question 2) and I can’t say much more to avoid spoilering the whole plot of the story.

Does he? This question will be answered in the coming instalments, still… I am mainly a Jonsa writer am I not?

Thank you so much, I am happy you enjoy my creations for the fandom, and really I could not have done it without you readers unfailing support and love, for which I am immensely grateful!

Don’t ya worry, I’ll keep posting Firesteel content even in the days I am not updating the sequel, and I will be soon back on my Jonsa agenda, though now I wanna focus on the BrandonxAvaelya AU in hope to add a sequel (you guessed it, it’s going to have Jonsa).

Thank you for your love and support! It means more that I can say!

As always sending all my love ~G.

[agentrouka-blog]

You're on fire with these anon asks, Agent Rouka. What's your favourite Project Stumpy Reread Chapter, and why do Jonsas have the best usernames?

Thank you!

Anytime she puts her analytical mittens on and starts Listing Proof of commonly misinterpreted canon events. But the one I recommend the most often is AGOT Sansa IV for the exact timeline of Ned's mistakes arrest. That and any Victarion chapter. "Ignore my boyfriend's racism/sexism/incest vibes/murder/zombification/murder/general bigotry/preordained fratricide/homophobia/murder, please! He means well! He really is that stupid, though. <3"

Good taste, I suspect. I mean, they all have being a jonsa in common for that reason, too.