#jonsacentric

[wandering-scavenger]

a lady of winterfell update, chapter fifteen: the masqueraders

I have always considered myself a son first and a military man second, but all that has changed. I am your husband first, and I cannot bear for you to think that you could be anything less than the woman who has consumed my every thought and held sway over my every move long before I knew you did. Your joy is my joy, and your pain is my pain. The home that you have made in my heart belongs to you and you alone, Sansa. Without you, there is only an emptiness within me that I will never be able to fill. You, you are more than I imagined and you are more than I deserve. And whether or not you return these feelings, it will not change the fact that I-I love you.

[hisqueeninthenorth]

I want some really good really long canon Jonsa stories. Post some good ones for me please.

[zoyaalinas]

Genuinely miss the s6-s7 Jonsa era when there were like 100 amvs floating around set to Mumford and Sons / SYML songs and we had drabble events with "Season 8 foreshadowing" as a prompt and we all were coming up with absolute batshit theories...... you just had to be there

[tartheanmaid]

running up that hill by kate bush / game of thrones script 6x09 / sansa stark by plasticlamb / jane eyre by charlotte brontë / couple in an embrace / moments after the wars are over by gingerdsnapped / deep in winter by richard von drasche-wartinberg / this woman’s work by kate bush / flash by frank brunner / wuthering heights by emily brontë

[welldonebeca]

The Things We Do For Love - Masterlist

Summary: There is nothing Theon wouldn’t do to make Sansa happy. Bringing the only other man she had ever loved into their marriage isn't the most absurd thing he would do for her. It starts with just producing an heir, but this time, duty might lose its battle to love. Pairing: Theon x Sansa x Jon Warnings: Threesome. Throuple. Secret relationships. Fluff. Smut. Oral sex. Post-canon. Canon divergence. Hurt with comfort. Breeding Kink. Mutual pining. Established relationship bringing a third member in.

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Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Epilogue 

. . .

Forever Tags: @emoryhemsworth​​​​ @amythyststorm33​​​​ @shaelyn102​​​​ @yknott81​​​​ ​​ @letsdisneythings​​​​ @maximofftrash​​​​ @kgbrenner​​​​ @thefridgeismybestie​​​​ @magpiegirl80​​​​ @mogaruke​​​​ @shadowhunter7​​​​ @shadowhunter7​​​​ @megasimpleplan4ever​​​​ @deemoriartyy​​​ @05spn18​​​​ @malindacath​​​​ @kdcollinsauthor​​​​ @random-fandom-fangirl2112​​​​ @widowsfics​​​​ @frozenhuntress67​​​​ @averyrogers83​​​​ @notyourtypicalrose​​​​ @nerdypinupcrystal​​ @giruvega​​

Game of Thrones tags:​ @izbelross​ @ietss​

[ginger-danica-snapps]

Two versions of a work in progress. Can't decide which one I like better, but they are part of one my recent WIP with time traveling Sansa and Gendry, called Kingmaker's.

[ravendarkwords]

I think about this hug at least once every day

[otp-that-was-promised]

Jonsa Autumn Aesthetic 🍂

Happy Thanksgiving Jonsa fam!! 🦃

[man-in-yell0w]

Jonsa 5 word challenge - wings, knuckles, hiss, silk, treacle 😊

Thank you, @amymel86 , I’ve been wanting to write something like this for a while. Hope you enjoy. 💛✨

(I couldn’t think of a title 😬)

Jonsa 5 Word Challenge One Shot:

“What was it like?” Sansa asked, her voice soft and quiet, yet cutting through the silence nonetheless. She sat next to Jon before the hearth, the windows swung wide open, winter wind sighing in.

“What was what like?”

A faint smile played on her lips when she looked down at the cup in her lap. She’d had more to drink tonight than he knew she could take, making her cheeks flush to a lovely pink. It felt like a lifetime had passed since they’d last seen each other on the docks of King’s Landing. The last time she’d been there she was only a girl, dressed in the finest silks, alone, and afraid. She told him once that she’d never go back there. Not for anything or anyone.

But she did go back.

For him.

Just so, he’d once said he was done fighting; said he’d go away to a place where it was warm. And then she asked him to go to war for her; for her home.

So he did. He found himself bloodying his knuckles again.

For her.

She licked her lips and met his eyes again. Her lids were low from the wine, her expression calm, her brow smoothed out. “Riding a dragon,” she said. “What was it like riding a dragon?”

Jon blinked at her and sat upright in his seat, caught off guard by the question.

“When I first saw you on the back of that beast, I...” Sansa shook her head softly as she looked into the fire, as if she could see the memory play out in the flames. “Just one wrong turn, one slip of your hand, and you’d be falling to your death or crushed beneath its wings.”

Had she been afraid for him? Worried for him? He was intrigued by the thought, and found himself wanting to hear more about what she thought.

“Were you worried for me, Sansa?” The words left him before he could stop himself, and Jon remembered he too was well in his cups, and should guard his tongue.

“Worried. Afraid. Jealous.” She shrugged and took a drink after that last word, gulping hard.

Jon raised his eyebrows at her. “Jealous? I can’t really imagine you’d want to be flying on the back of a dragon. They’re ferocious; being on one is like...well, it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve died,” he said, trying his best to make her laugh. “Besides, you’d hate the way they hiss,” he said teasingly. “Awful sound, it is.”

She chuckled. “That’s not quite it,” she said, blushing an even deeper red that captivated Jon in a way he couldn’t understand.

“How do you mean it, then?”

Sansa huffed out a breath and pursed her lips before answering. “It felt like she had so much of you already. And I’d just gotten you—and our home, our family—back. It was just one more string she’d have attached to you that I—we—didn’t.”

Jon wasn’t sure he was understanding. He felt warm from the ale, his head light. Was she...

“You were jealous of Daenerys?”

A name he hadn’t spoken in ages.

Sansa shifted in her seat, obviously uncomfortable by his question. She rolled her eyes and said, “Is that so hard to believe? She walked in here and tried to claim what’s mine. Including you. You were my...”

“Your what?” He was enthralled by the words she let out so freely, and he wanted to know them. All of them.

“You were just mine. That’s all. My brother, my family, my protector. My friend.”

Something inside Jon crumbled in that moment. “Sansa, I...I never stopped being any of those things.”

And looking back on all of it, he realized he never gave her a reason to believe that she wasn’t losing him. He gave up their home and his crown. Two things which to Sansa, meant safety from harm from anyone ever again. Isn’t that what he had promised her? Isn’t that the reason he fought a war against all odds? No, it wasn’t so hard to believe. He felt awful just then, for being another person who let her down after she’d trusted him. After she’d trusted him. What could he say now to repair the hurt he caused in her? The hurt that he didn’t even stop to consider. There were no words he could use to turn back time and do things differently.

He put his cup down and fell to his knees before her, set her cup down and took her hands in his. “Sansa, you have to know...please tell me you know...if I could go back and change it, I would. I’d choose you from the beginning. You and Arya and Bran and Winterfell. Say you believe me, won’t you?”

Sansa looked down at him with wide eyes, brilliant blue like the ocean on a sunny day. She nodded slowly. “I believe you,” she whispered. “I always believed in you, Jon. Before you had a crown or a dragon or the name of a prince.” She took his face in her hands. And not for the first time did Jon find himself drunk and kneeling before a queen by firelight. Only this time was different. This time, he felt a blush creep up his neck from the way Sansa looked at him, felt his heart flutter with the words she spoke. “You made the right choice in the end. We’re all still standing. That’s what’s important.” She leaned down close to him, and Jon froze in place, not sure what to do. He felt her lips on his forehead, her hair brush the side of his face, the scent of her fill his nose, and his breath halted in his chest. She sat back up again, and wore the softest smile on her lips.

Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the way she looked at him and how her hair fell down over her shoulder like the sweetest treacle. Maybe it was the warmth of her hands, or the way she always said the right thing at the right time. Maybe it was because she called him hers, or the way they’d both do anything for each other. Maybe it was all of it all at once that made Jon realize that Sansa Stark was the best woman he’d ever know, the only one he loved enough to kill a tyrant for, and the only woman he’d ever call his queen ever again.

[cantfightfatetoo]

Sansa Stark Appreciation Week 2020

Day 7 || Love interests || Jon Snow

[wandering-scavenger]

title: a lady of winterfell

She bit her lip and exhaled shakily, “If you are so sickened by the prospect of marrying me, we should be able to obtain an annulment easily enough with your father’s connections.”

“I will do no such thing.” he snapped, refusing to look at her.

Sansa had never felt more rejected than she did at that moment. Her past experiences of being humiliated at the hand of Joffrey did not feel as painful as this. Even so, she could not allow him to see the weakness in her, not now.

“I refuse to be left out, Jon.” she said, tilting her chin up to look down at him.

He grimaced. They were silent for longer than she cared to count, but each second that he did not speak chipped away at her resolve and her ability to withhold her tears. Jon did not want her, and she could not blame him. It should not have distressed her as much as it did. She was never his favourite sister, she who treated him as a stranger since she was old enough to understand what a bastard was. A tear slipped down to her face until she tasted the salt of it on her lips.

“If we marry, we will remain so.”

[aureliacamargo]

[lunaathorne]

mimi's endless list of otps (1/?): jon snow and sansa stark (a song of ice and fire)

when you're old enough, i'll make a you a match with someone who's worthy of you. someone brave, and gentle, and strong.

[zoyaalinas]

rosa suburbia

written for @jonsadrabbles

day 1: prompt ~ linger

summary: sansa's world is glossy pink. jon wishes she'd let him nurse his heartbreak in peace. he also wishes she'd let him stay.

“Can I work here for a bit? Robb’s so bloody loud I can’t hear myself.”

A listless shrug. “Sure.”

“Thanks. I’ll be quiet.”

She nods, and says it again, sure, her rs clipped off like dead lobelias to make space for drags. Sometimes he wonders what Sansa dreams about when she’s perched this way- looking out a window with the secrecy of a sniper at a periscope, cigarette dangling from the left corner of her mouth. It’s how Jon finds her every morning on his way downstairs, seeking six o’clock supplies (hard-to-ration things: dental floss, Xeroxes, coffee, mental peace). A ritual viewing to keep balance: Sansa Stark in her too-pink bedroom wearing too-pink lingerie staring at too-pink sunsets, although on retrospection, sunsets here are never quite as brilliant as his idea of them.

Most things aren’t.

Outside, it’s summer. In the canon of atmospheric literature, there is something artificial about the way summer is described. Sunshine and great bursts of leaves. Air that smells of crushed fern. Summer in the foothills isn’t half as proprietary; it arrives in silence and gets into crevices like beach glass and thoughtless exchanges made in the heat of a single moment. The air, in fact, hadn’t smelt like crushed fern when Val had slammed the door upon his face in a hot blaze of tears and told him he had developed a pathological affinity for self-centeredness. It had smelt like the wine they’d drunk before.

That was two months back. Jon Snow lost two months to an error of judgement, though some of it was probably the wine too.

Anyway. Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien.

Thump, thump, thump. Insane acoustics. When Jon is sad, he drinks a lot and rhapsodizes on the lines of Richard Siken. When Robb is sad, he plays Post Malone. From the looks of it, Jon’s roommate must be fucking devastated today, but one can only endure Rockstar so many times before one feels a burgeoning need to pop in half a Percocet and seek refuge in the room of a greater, more tranquil being for the first time in forty days.

Thump.

Or, maybe he’s beating shit up? The Stark kids are a weird lot, Jon has come to realise from his time playing hanger-on: they keep to themselves and operate strictly on an eat-or-be-eaten policy, running on cool crisp cocktails of narcotics and self-hatred. Combinations vary: Arya punches jocks; Bran plays Ted Bundy podcasts during morning yoga sessions. Etcetera.

“What are you writing?”

Nothing to be exact, not since he got distracted from self-pity an odd minute back. More of guilt than anything else, Jon shuts his laptop. “Nada.”

 “You working on that novel?”

“Trying.”

“Feel you.” She taps on a fissure in the cool granite of the sill. “When Harry dumped me, I locked myself into a room and watched Elizabeth Taylor movies for 72 hours. Naked.”

“Sounds terrific.”

“The binging or the nudity?”

“Both. Invite me next time.”

“Alrighty!” this in a sing-song lilt, like playing Harley Quinn. “Bring your best Arbor Red and we’ll watch Gone with the Wind.”

“Don’t forget the other half of the pact.”

Sansa pulls a silly face, and he thinks, Percocet-hazed, funny girl. Conversations should’ve been initiated before, but she wasn’t, well, Val. Embarrassing.

“Here, have a whole drag. Cleanses your mind.” She proffers the cig at him, rolling-paper stained by a very bright, very bubblegum-pink lipgloss. Jon manages to complicatedly maneuver accepting the cigarette without making contact with Sansa’s fingers, a feat he’d thought impossible for any human in hypothetical pick-me-ups.

Not that he minds. Not that he’s-

“Close the laptop darling, if the angst doesn’t come in fifteen minutes it sure wouldn’t materialize in twenty.”

Not used to being told off by anyone in a camisole, Jon does, indeed, close his laptop.  It’s a very becoming camisole, objectively. In fact all of Sansa’s room has the strange congruity of an organized film set, there’s clutter, but it’s organic, prettily messy, an 80’s pinup-girl-dorm with the mandatory young Leo poster behind the door. The one in the floral shirt.

Jon looks at her again. Funny girl, yes, but also quite lovely, objectively, with that shock of red hair falling all over her face and big blue eyes with liquid flourishes at the creases that probably have a cosmetological name Jon doesn’t know. He watches her reapply her lipgloss in the dresser mirror. That particular pink would look atrocious anywhere else but somehow it looks just correct on her mouth. Glossology- proclaims the tube in bright gaudy silver letters. Shade 245: Rosa Suburbia. Christ above.

His phone buzzes. Val, says the ID, with the two blue hearts she’d added the day they’d swapped contacts. Jon hesitates, delaying the imminent. Lingering. Just another five seconds.

Mirror Sansa looks at him and flashes a dazzling smile. He smiles back only to realise she’s checking her makeup. Bit of an idiot move, classic Jon.

Another buzz.

“You better get that, Johnny,” Sansa chimes in her Harley Quinn voice.

Summer is untyped sentences waiting to be born, a room plastered by Vogue cutouts, a bed strewn with nail polish bottles, lacy underthings and empty boxes of dessert crumbs. Summer is ugly pink lipgloss and ridiculously lovely blue eyes and the epiphany that Gone with the Wind is that movie you’ve been planning to watch your whole life but simply never got around to.

“It’s probably dad, checking in. I’ll call him later. Listen, you want to go out on the terrace or something? It’s too smoky in here.”

“Shit, you just asked me on a date to my own rooftop?”

“Wait, what?”

She laughs.

The glow on Jon’s phone screen informs he has three missed calls. They can wait.

Being with Sansa is good. Being with Sansa works a bit like holding a red hot iron tong to an open flesh-wound. It’s overwhelming, and sometimes the bite in her words is hostile, but it heals. It cleans. If it were upto him, he would be cauterized by Sansa Stark every time the Percocet didn’t dissolve.

Outside, the summer too, lingers.

Inside, the room is thick with nicotine and Rosa Suburbia.

(follow the notes to read this on ao3)

[hisqueeninthenorth]

Chapter preview from Pretty Wings

Read the fic here —> on Ao3

He walked on and was taken unawares by a bony hand gripping and spinning him around. His eyes met milky sightless ones. “Nan,” he gasped questioning if he was actually seeing this or if his mind was addled. The old woman didn’t answer, instead she ran her hands over his face, mapping them with her hands, the same way Maester Aemon did to him all those years ago.

“I am Nan, and I am not. Do you know who you are, why you are? Do you know anything Jon Snow?” She chuckled then, and the blood cooled in his veins at the similarity of her words. Another woman long ago said something like that to him. You know nothing Jon Snow. Did he really know nothing? “I have seen many a year in this castle, in that wood, before the castle was a castle and the Weirwood grew as big. I was here when your ancestors still gave offerings to the Heart Tree, I was here when the foundations were laid. I was here. I was here when the Long Night descended upon us, and I was here then when the Others were banished to the Lands of Always Winter. I was here for it all boy.”

He shook his head to clear it. None of what she said made sense, although she hadn’t aged much since he last saw her so many years ago, he couldn’t make sense of her words. “I don’t have time for this, I need to fetch a maester, is there one here,” he asked impatiently, attempting to sidestep the woman and be about his way.

She gripped him again, stilling his movements. “Aye there is, and he’s already seeing to what needs to be seen to, he is where he should be, as you are where you should be. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this? How many lovers I’ve outlived, how many children I’ve birthed, how many of my children’s children children I’ve seen go into the dirt? It’s been so many, I’ve lost count of the people I’ve loved and lost. The Gods kept promising, ‘soon your suffering will be over. Your sacrifice has not been in vain, and I’d wait another thousand years.”

As she spoke she slowly transformed before him. Her hair slowly changed from white and brittle, to shiny, dark brown curls. Her paper thin skin seemed to plump and her wrinkles filled out. She stood taller as her hunched back straightened. A beauty stood before him. But he knew not to let appearances lull him into complacency. He knew what magic did to those who wielded it, and he knew there was a price. Instead he asked “Is this your real form, or are you really a crone?”

Instead of the dry shaky tone of voice she started with, a soft bell like tone met his ears. “I am everything and nothing, I am of The Old Gods, I am a witch of Winter, a Sorceress of Ice. And I will tell you, you will need both Ice and Fire to conquer these demons that threaten the living. You will need both fire and ice to conquer the demons that live within you. The ice was always strong in you, but you have fire in your blood. It takes blood to wake the dragon.”

[flibbertigiblet]

In which GRRM decides to write a bodice-ripper.

——

A Week of Jonsa @incorrectjonsansa Day 2: one trope to rule them all - FORBIDDEN LOVE