#jonsafic

[damdamfino]

Chapter 6 of A Baleful Howl is now up!

JonxSansa Fanfiction

A Baleful Howl (32,055 words) by DamDamfino 

Chapters Posted: 6/32

Fandom: Game of Thrones (TV)

Rating: Mature 

Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark 

Characters: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Brienne of Tarth, Tormund Giantsbane, Davos Seaworth, Petyr Baelish

Additional Tags: Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Eventual Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Might as well have a 50ft fuse slow burn, Implied/Referenced Incest, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Creator Choose Not to Use Archive Warnings / Graphic Depictions of Violence 

Summary: 

Jon and Sansa are all that’s left of the Winterfell from their childhood. After winning their home back from the Boltons, they now have to trust each other and work together to overcome their pasts…and their future.

Sansa can’t sleep alone and Jon no longer dreams. Winter is here, and all they have is each other.

[Picks up right after BotB. Post Season 6 Divergent.]

This was their lot in life; death, tragedy and pain. They were the only ones left. She had been through this. Had been forced to stare upon her father’s head, to hear the cheers at her brother’s and mother’s death, to walk the ghostly halls of her home. She knew this song. She couldn't let Jon succumb to it. ------ She was fragile and he did not know what she needed. He was broken, too - and two broken pieces don't always fit together. She needed better than him.

—

Direct Link to Chapter 6 : Enemies

This Chapter’s Song - [Black - Kari Kimmel] 

A/N: I’m baaaaaack. But I’m also avoiding logging into Tumblr right now to avoid spoiler comments on one of my side blogs. Sorry if I don’t respond to comments here - I’m not looking at my notifications!

I will be updating A Baleful Howl weekly for a few weeks, (either Friday afternoons or Saturday afternoons) so please keep an eye out for updates even if I don’t announce them here on Tumblr. 

[ladysanza]

Jonsa - The Americans Au inspired

Right hand firm, she slowly stands the gun from the side table and points at the door. The clock-lamp says its only midnight but, in her mind, it could have been anytime at all. Between feeds, naps, changings and crying – God, so much crying – she doesn’t have a sense of time anymore, she just knows that she finally managed a quick shower and that she should probably get some sleep now, even though she knows that she won’t.

Not that it matters anymore.

There is someone inside her house.

Please don’t wake up, she begs internally as she slides the bassinet under the bed without taking her eyes from the damn door. She can hear the steps approaching, whoever it is it’s not even trying to be quiet. They must be in the very last flight of stairs now… and coming directly to the room. She puts her back to the wall right next to the entrance and looks at the handle slowly turning…

--------------------------------------------------------

After a day of sneaking around, trying not to get caught as he made sure those recorders were inside the office of the Secretary of Defense himself, the last place Jon expects to be attacked is inside his own home by his own wife. But as soon as he opened the bedroom’s door she had him face on the floor, knee on his neck and a gun to the back of his head.

“What the fuck?? Sansa, it’s me!” he tries to say while getting a tight grip on his hair.

She is breathing hard and not letting go of him.

“Sansa, breathe, it’s me” he asks calmly and then more softly “Let go of my head, love”. That seems to snap her out of it, and she relaxes her hand while slowly sliding her knee of to the side.

He winces and starts to turn on his back. She was not joking around. If he was anyone else, he would have a bullet making home in his skull right now.

“Jon?” she asks, and he can hear the tremble in her voice “No harm done” he says, taking the gun from her and reaching to put above the bed. “Come here” he takes her to lie above him, shushing her as she sobs on his neck.

He shouldn’t be surprised. He knows she is good in combat, has seen it firsthand a few times. But Sansa’s abilities have always fallen more on the realm of disguise, manipulation and perfect to a t strategic planning. She has half of this suburban neighborhood in love with her and if anyone asked, yes, the Snows are as normal as a young couple can be, with just the right amount of American pride and cynicism towards their government. Nothing to see.

“You told me you would be home late; how could I forget that?” she says once she is calmer.

“It’s ok, we are both tired.”

“I almost killed you, Jon! Trust me” and he can hear the desperation in her voice.

“oh, I trust you all right, but you didn’t” he says making her look in at him “you didn’t.’’

“How can you be so calm?” He sighs and the movement makes him aware of a throbbing on several different parts of him. He is going to take at least two Tylenols before going to sleep tonight. “We hardly live normal lives and the matter of fact is, we are tired, you even more so with Lyra all the time insi”- he pauses looking around – “Sansa, where is Lyra?” he asks starting to feel a panic bloom in his chest.

“Oh” she jumps from the floor and goes to the side of the bed “I put her under the bed.”

He goes close to her while she gently pulls the bassinet.

 “I can’t believe she didn’t wake up after all this.”

She really didn’t seem bothered at all, Jon noticed, while looking at his sleeping daughter. Every day he comes home and he is amazed anew when he looks at her. Not too long ago he didn’t even dare entertain the thoughts of having a family of his own. And now they have Lyra. The moonlight coming from the window makes her look like a little angel delivered to them straight from heaven.

“Sometimes when she is sleeping.” Sansa breaks the silence “I get scared that she isn’t breathing. So, I just stay up looking at her. Seeing if her chest is moving.”

He frowns.

He did not know that.

“After finishing this assignment today” he says pulling her to him “I don’t think we are going to be called for another task for some time. You will sleep more; I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Thank you” she says softly.

He kisses her shoulder “We are a team.”

“Perhaps you can start wearing a bell then.”

“Too soon” he says even though he chuckles.

“Jon” she turns in his arms, serious “I am so, so sorry.”

“I know Sans” he kisses her forehead and then her lips for good measure “I know.”

[steelivoryporcelain]

I’ve been working on this a longggg time, think it’s worth continuing?

She finds Jon sitting in front of a Weirwood tree, head in his hands.

“You seem determined to speak with everyone in Winterfell but me,” she says, remaining a few paces from him.

When he doesn’t reply, she pushes further. “I know you cannot forgive me for betraying you, but I would do it again to protect the North.” To protect us, she wants to say.

Jon says nothing and rises from the log, but hesitates before he addresses her. “That’s not it, well, not really.

“Ever since you set foot at Castle Black, you questioned every decision I made – treated me like some green boy incapable of –”

“How could I not when you refused to listen to my advice?”

“This may come as a surprise to you Sansa, but you’re not always right,” he fires back at her. She reels back as though she’s been slapped, but it’s in the way his eyes widen that she knows he didn’t mean to say that aloud.

“Sansa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“No, you did mean it. And you are correct. We needed her armies and her dragons to defeat the Dead. But maybe there was a way to do that without sacrificing everything we fought for?” 

“And what if betraying the North was the only way to save it?” Jon raked his hand through his hair. “Seven hells – you met her, Sansa – you warned me that she wouldn’t settle for anything less than seven kingdoms.” 

And suddenly, Jon is there. Only inches in front of her, having caught her between his body and the tree. She can feel his breath, hot and fast on her cheeks. 

“Well maybe, had you warned me, I could have at least supported you in your fool's errand,” she suggests through a clenched jaw. Jon’s hands collide with the tree behind her and she knows that she should feel trapped, but she is confident he would lower them if she asked.

“What have I done to be so undeserving of your trust?” His forehead is pressed to hers and his eyes are closed tightly. She cannot recall ever having seen him like this, desperate and confused.  

“You really don’t know?” Sansa whispered

“If you truly hate me for what I did, then why haven’t you thrown me out? Why the pardon?”

Hate. Hate? Is that what he believes?

Sansa cradles his face between her hands. “Do you think that I care for you so little, and after everything we went through, that any of this would make a difference?”

[ladysanza]

I would definitely add Flatlands from TeteMinne, I think you would like anon!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42326724/chapters/106287039

Any Jonsa fics in which characterization and physical appearance of Jon is closer to Canon?

Hi,

I am assuming you mean closer to book canon? Honestly I haven't really read that many book jonsa fics. I am more of a show jonsa fan and mostly read modern AUs 😅

Few book fics I have read are post ADWD. Sharing them below -

1. The Wolves of Winter by JustAWhiteQuill

~When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.~ Beneath a wall of ice, a crow died and came back a wolf. Now, he is crowned King in the North and faced with the immense task of preparing his battered kingdom for the Long Night. Atop the lonely mountain, a little bird grew fangs and came back a wolf. Now, she is the Princess of Winterfell and taking care of the only family she thinks she has left. When news reaches them of the other still being alive, a chain of events is set in motion. Winter is coming, and with it, the darkest hour of the night. The time for wolves is here. All the while, the dragons and lions south are battling for a throne covered in fire and blood.

2. I Can't Steal You (Like You Stole Me) by @thewolvescalledmehome

Seeing the only family Sansa Stark had left to her was the only motivation keeping her astride the horse. Jon Snow is at Castle Black. He’ll protect you. It had been so long since she felt safe, felt protected. She yearned for the security of familiar arms and someone who cared for her because she was Sansa and not a Stark. The nerves she may have felt over arriving at Castle Black alone to see the half-brother she had not seen—had barely thought of—in years did not consume her, nor did she allow herself to feel disappointment that it was not Robb or a trueborn brother to save her. Only, upon her arrival, she is told of the mutiny. Then she is asked an impossible question: What would she give to have him back?

Lyric title prompt on Tumblr from the song "You" by The Pretty Reckless.

3. Beasts of Seasons by Simonetta

She had prepared her words and her actions meticulously. She hadn’t prepared to actually see him. Or, Jon and Sansa reunite and things don't go according to plan, forcing Sansa to reevaluate her identity and her loyalties and forcing Jon to come back to himself. Post-ADWD, bookverse fic. Jon and Sansa reunite on campaign to win back Winterfell.

4. The Thawing of Winter by @jade-masquerade

Sansa knew Jon married her—married Alayne—for the Vale, or maybe, because of his past, he saw her as a fellow bastard and meant to raise her up the same as his people did for him, how they chose Lord Eddard’s sole surviving son as King in the North. But when she looked at him, she saw nothing of the sort in his eyes, only a flash of desire, the way a man ought to look at his wife, before he steadied his gaze. If this was truly wrong, she wondered, then why did the gods let it feel so right?

Putting this in tag so others may add in as well.

Thanks for the ask!

[wandering-scavenger]

A Lady of Winterfell Chapter 13 Update

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Regency, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Alternate Universe - Historical, Scandal, Sexual Content, Family, Slow Burn, Sharing a Bed, Marriage of Convenience, Angst with a Happy Ending, mentions of abuse, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, kissing cousins, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Sexism, E for Eventually, Regency Period, regency au, In Denial, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Attempted Rape/Non-Con

read here

sneak peek

“I will not be spoken to as though I am a servant.” she snapped, taking a step towards him to emphasise her own defiance, perhaps even with the not so imperceptible intention of provoking the man.

He chuckled, though the anger had not disappeared from his eyes. Slowly, he approached her, his footsteps so soft that she would not have known he was nearing her if her back had been turned to him. Agile and silent like a wolf prepared to strike its prey. He walked until their faces were only inches apart, his hand reached out to briefly knead her scalp before winding her hair through his fingers in a firm grasp. Gently, he tugged her head back until she looked up to meet his gaze. 

Her heart lurched. This had not been the first time to feel as she did in his presence, but it was the first time that she dared to hope that the distance between them would close completely. She studied his features, from the scar over his brow to his high cheekbones and full lips. She was reminded again of the softness of those lips against her forehead, the memory of it only succeeded in intensifying the unknown feeling that simmered in her. He seemed to be breathing as deeply as she was, his grip on her hair tightening ever so slightly.

“You will do what you are told as my wife.” he whispered, his nose lightly brushed against hers. They were far closer than they had ever been, their breaths ghosting against one another’s lips.

[tacitwhisky]

Castle Black Penitentiary | Ch1

-/ AO3 Link /-

Sansa's a month out of high school when she visits him the first time; a slim girl huddled in the tarnished metal chair on the opposite side of the pane of scratched glass, a peach colored and loose knitted sweater hugged tight around her against the chill of Castle Black Penitentiary’s air.

It’s January 25th and the day after her eighteenth birthday.

That much Jon remembers of his old life, the one before this world of cold concrete and orange jumpsuits. Time was different in the world that was Castle Black, hours and days and months bleeding into each other like paint on a wet canvas, but the date he’d recognized when he read the visitation request.

Sansa L. Stark. January 25th, 10:00 A.M.

Half forgotten images had risen to the surface as Jon stared down at the date: pastel streamers and white birthday cake, Sansa pink cheeked and beaming and radiant in her yellow summer dress, a paper crown perched at a jaunty angle on her head, giggling as her family sang her happy birthday, the slim line of her neck as she leaned forward, the laughing purse of her lips as she blew out the candles.

It had been her thirteenth birthday and the last for which her family had been alive.

The memory of it had risen burning and bitter as bile in his throat as Jon stared down at the visitation request, a nauseous wave that made him want to stuff the form under his mattress and his memories with it, shove them away where he would never have to feel them again.

“Who’s it from?” Grenn had leaned over from the top bunk, bald head catching the light as he frowned at the paper. “You never get visitation requests.”

“No one.” Jon folded the paper and pocketed it, voice hard and bored. “My lawyer.”

Grenn eyed Jon, but shrugged after a moment and turned away. They were cellmates and something like friends, but on the inside everyone knew better than to ask about the outside world. There was no point. Castle Black Penitentiary was a federal supermax prison and most of them would never leave it, would serve out their life sentences within its concrete walls.

On the other side of the glass Sansa leans forward and unhooks the phone from the side of the booth, and on his side of the partition Jon mirrors her. Her face has lengthened since he last saw her, lost it’s baby fat, but her hair is just as red as he remembers, the deep auburn of autumn leaves.

And what does she see?

Jon knows; knows he’s become gaunter and leaner since they were teenagers, his face hard and the scar he'd gotten from a Wildling in his first year cutting his left eyebrow knitted and poorly healed. A maelstrom of prison ink sleeves his right arm. It was an ugly thing, his sleeve, a gaunt wolf and raven pecking blood the only easily recognizable shapes among the dozen lesser tattoos snarling around them, crude and black as though seared into his skin.

Sharp, tingling energy like soda frizz runs up and down the tattoos as Sansa’s eyes fall to them, the same prick of pins and needles he feels in the mess hall when a Wilding boy was looking at him or in the yard before a fight. It’s worse somehow though, his chest tight, fingers numb as frostbite.

How many hours did you play and replay what you’d say if you ever saw her again?

A thousand and one it must’ve been, staring up at the cold concrete of his cell, the grey twisting and swirling. But he can’t remember a word of it now, every one of them shriveled and dead.

Coward.

“I didn’t get the form till yesterday.” It's a pointless thing to say, and the voice he says it in is somehow just as hard and bored as the one he answered Grenn with the day before. He leans back in his chair. “The guards like to fuck with them.”

“Yesterday was the earliest I could submit it.” Sansa’s voice is tinny through the phone, but somehow still bone jarringly familiar even after all these years, soft and precise. “Minors aren’t allowed to visit without parental consent.”

Parental consent.

She doesn’t have parents. Not anymore, not after the neighbors had found Mr. and Mrs. Stark on the floor soaking the carpet with their blood, bits of bone and brain matter spattered-

Jon still remembers the moment he’d known, realized, the twisting and horrible recognition of the Stark carpet in the background of the blown up pictures the detectives had slapped down on the steel table before him as he sat clueless and shivering in the interview room of Wintertown PD.

Sansa is looking at him, Jon realizes, waiting for something, eye piercing and blue, and Jon clenches his jaw against them. He’d thought he was stronger than this. Numb to it. Numb after four years on the inside, numb after thousands of hours shivering in the cold of Castle Black’s concrete walls, of shuffling with other inmates as they were herded like cattle in their orange jumpsuits, of the throbbing pain of his first beating from a Wildling a month after he’d been locked inside.

"The clock is broken." Jon jerks his chin at the circle of cracked glass on the wall to their left. Say it, a part of him wishes he could scream, say you know. Say you know I did it . It would hurt, hurt like the drag of a knife ripping off strips of skin, hurt the same as the white hot slash of shiv against bone when his eyebrow was cut open, but at least it would be done. At least he wouldn't have to feel this horrible, twisting thing beneath his breastbone. "It's ten minutes till visitation is over."

“I know. The bus leaves in twenty.”

“You should say it then.” The voice he says it in doesn’t feel his; too flat, too bored . “Whatever it is you came to say, you should say it.”

Sansa stiffens in the chair. “And what did I come to say?”

“You know.” Jon laughs, the sound scraping his throat, cement on cement. He clenches his jaw hard enough to make his teeth ache, swallows a second laugh sharp as bile. It leaves him hollow, somehow tired beyond words. “It’s ok, Sansa. Really. You never got the chance. You were the only one who couldn’t, and you’re the one that deserves to. Out of everyone-”

“Shut up, Jon.”

The words crack through the phone, a punch to the gut that steals the words and breath from Jon. Behind the glass Sansa’s face is tight, angry, hard. “Do you really think that’s why I came?” Tears prick her eyes. “That that’s what I believe? That you did it? That you killed them?”

She jerks her face to the side, glares at the wall and wipes the moisture from her eyes with an angry swipe. “I know you didn’t, so just shut up.”

Jon’s heart thuds against his ribcage like it’ll crack. “How?” He eventually rasps. “You can’t know that, Sansa.”

“I can. I looked at the case files. Petyr forgot to lock his desk once. I read it all: the police report, the deposition in the station before you had your lawyer, the one they said incriminated you and hung their whole case on.”

Jon works his jaw. “But the gun,” he starts, not knowing why, not knowing why he’s arguing what he knows is true. It’s too easy. A hundred times he’d had this conversation that first year: the police at the station with his hands cuffed to the table; the public defendant he'd been assigned in a cold concrete room; the judge in an empty courtroom, jury staring down at him impassively as they read the sentence.

Eventually he’d learned to stop telling it. None of them had believed him. Why would they? He was only some bad seed who’d bounced from foster home to foster home all his life until he’d eventually been taken in out of pity by the Starks when he was thirteen.

“The gun had my fingerprints,” he starts, “the forensics showed-”

“Only because dad showed you and Robb how to use it the week before. They didn’t believe you, but I remember it. Your lawyer wasn’t on your side, Jon. He should never have pled guilty or let you be tried as an adult. You were barely seventeen.”

“I thought-” there’s a great sucking hollow in him that pulls the words from him, a void that won’t let him think, “when you weren’t in the courtroom- when you didn’t answer my letters- didn’t come to the courthouse-”

“That first year-” Sansa swallows, and for the first time since she sat down Jon realizes just how young she is, four years younger than him, barely eighteen, skinny and coltish. “I thought- it wasn’t until I found Petyr’s papers that-”

She swallows again, the movement harsh. “I tried to come after that. But they wouldn’t let me in without parental consent. I got a fake I.D. but they spotted it immediately. And Petyr, fucking Petyr wouldn’t-”

“That’s who they put you with?” A vague, half forgotten memory rises to the surface of Jon’s mind, and he frowns at the glass. “Didn’t he have a case against him by a minor?”

“It was settled out of court.”

“Still, to get custody-”

“Lysa’s my aunt.”

“But he’s in the same house-”

“Jon,” Sansa’s voice is flat, “leave it.”

Jon pauses, studying the tightness of Sansa’s face, the muscle clenched in her jaw. Anger flushes through him. “Fuck him, then.”

A tight smile twists Sansa’s lips. She clears her throat. “I’m going to mail you some paperwork later. It’ll make me your legal advocate. Not a lawyer, because I don’t have a degree, but I’ll still have access to the evidence in your case.”

Jon frowns. “Sansa,” he starts slowly, “what are you doing?”

“If we can find new evidence, we can reopen your case.”

“What for? Their case was airtight. And you’re not a lawyer.”

“Not yet.”

For a long moment all Jon can do is stare at her. When he speaks though his voice is hard. “You can’t be serious. You have your whole life ahead of you. You haven’t thought this through.”

“No, I have.” Sansa leans forward, brushes back a stray lock of hair from her face, eyes fierce. “I’ve done nothing but think about it for four years, Jon. You don’t deserve to be here. I talked to a few lawyers, but Petyr drained most of my trust fund and they’ll never take the case otherwise. I even tried to talk to some of daddy’s old friends, but none of them will help either. So I’ll do it. I’ve already signed up for classes.”

They stay staring at each other silently until the clock on the wall ticks the hour and a door opens behind Jon, a prison guard behind it.

He blows out a hard breath. “I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You’re not.” Sansa shakes her head and stands up from her chair. She pushes it back in place and gives him a steady look, the ghost of the bossy girl he knew as a child in it. “And you can’t stop me.”

[graceverse]

Day 10: First Snow of the Year

He remembers it: standing next to her as the first snow of the year gently settled down on them.

He fondly recalls the way the snow had shyly drifted around her, tiny white flurries dancing, graceful and mesmerizing, before boldly settling on the curve of her cheeks, the tip of her nose, the curl of her eyelashes, the corner of her lips.

He remembers it: the smile she gifts him, shy and precious. He knows he returned it with a chuckle of his own and how happy he had been in that moment, when it finally felt as though everything that had been taken away from him had been rightfully returned. A thousand times fold, with the discovery that there was still something that he could believe in and dream of; that he was still capable of wanting and hoping and in the months to come, that he could still feel the warmth of affection and the burning heat of desire. And even though he was certain that his feelings would never be returned – vile and unacceptable as it was – it was still enough to make him want to live, if only long enough to ensure that she will never suffer again, never be hurt and abused by anyone else. 

Jon settles into the familiar comfort of his bed, the scent of he – the scent of them – imbedded into the sheets.

He remembers it: his days spent in misery at Dragonstone, relieving that one moment over and over; praying that this image will be the last he sees when he finally draws in his final, dying breath. From old age, from a sword slicing him open, from the unbearable heat of dragon flames, however his death would end up, he fervently hoped that Sansa surrounded by falling snow will be the memory that will accompany him as his sprit departs the world.

It is only fitting, he thinks part amused part melancholic, because he had never seen something as lovely as snow in her hair.

He has grown old and weary. It is old age then, he realizes as Sam told him that he might not survive to see the first snow of the year but Jon is still King and he still have the same stubborn Stark blood in his veins. Their words are, Winter is Coming and he will wait for it. 

He doesn’t have to call out Sansa’s name. He knows, even though he could no longer see, that she is beside him, quietly holding his hand; she is no longer crying and Jon is glad.

“Are you smiling?” He asks, tenderly reaching out to let his knuckles touch the outline of her jaws. He feels her nodding in answer. “And are the windows open, can you see it? Is it snowing today?”

“Yes, Jon. It’s the first snow of the year.”

He feels his heart painfully clenching inside his chest as the image burns across his mind. He closes his eyes, sighing softly.

And he remembers.

[redbelles]

The letter is short, a bare handful of words that burrow beneath her skin like slivers. She reads them over and over until they are carved into her heart, red as weirwood sap. Red as blood.

Daenerys is dead. The North is free, and yours, as it should be. Take care of our family.

OUR HANDS ARE COLD, THE MOON SETS LOW ↳ a post-s8 fix it fic | by @redbelles

[schnoogles]

pretty

@jonsadungeonsanddrabbles ​ new year event!

Day 5: Memories

Read on Ao3

Sansa wasn’t jealous. She wasn’t.  Besides, there was absolutely no reason for her to be. It probably didn’t even mean anything. He was just being nice… right?

EARLIER

“Your Grace,” Lord Royce said, “I’ve been told you’re already acquainted with my cousin?” When the man stepped aside and revealed a young woman, Sansa couldn’t help the smile from forming.

“Randa!” She walked over and embraced the other woman.

Myranda Royce, not one to hold back, squealed with delight at her old friend. “From the bastard Alayne to the Queen Sansa. Who would’ve thought?”

“Myranda!” 

“Oh, it’s alright Lord Royce,” Sansa reassured the older man. “As you mentioned earlier, Myranda and I have history. She's a friend.” She smiled at the lady. “Oh it’s so good to see you again.”

--

It turns out that Myranda had joined Bronze Yohn on the trip to Winterfell on behest of her father. According to her, Nestor Royce had heavily hinted that there were many Houses up North in need of a Lady of the Keep. So she rolled her eyes, packed her bags, and headed North. 

Now here she is, arm in arm with Sansa, strolling around the training grounds as she gets the rundown of the different lords and knights from the Queen herself. There were a few promising prospects.

“Who’s that one there?” 

Sansa looked to where Myranda was pointing and smiled softly. “Oh, that’s just Jon.”

“Well,” Myranda chuckled, “Whoever this ‘Just Jon’ is, he’s quite handsome.” The lady continued to let her eyes roam up and down Jon. Sansa found she didn’t like that.

“Stop it, Randa,” she gently chided, “Besides, he’s not a Lord of a Keep, I doubt that he’s something you’re looking for in a husband.”

“Just because my father’s looking for a lord to marry me off to, doesn’t mean I am,” she said. And in a conspiratorial voice,  “Besides,  just because I’m not going to marry him, doesn’t mean I can’t bed him.”

Sansa couldn’t say why, but she didn’t like the sound of that. She felt possessive. No. Protective. Yes, that’s it. 

Lucky for Sansa, Myranda mistook her expression and teased. “Gods, Alayne or Sansa, I see you’re still so  virtuous."   The woman’s giggles were loud enough to catch the attention of the men in the training yard. At the sight of the Queen and her Lady friend, most of them began puffing out their chests and made a show of their sparring. Others gave a short bow and resumed their training. Jon did neither. He smiled and walked over.

Sansa noticed Myranda subtly straighten her back and couldn’t help but roll her eyes fondly. Myranda was pretty and she knew it. Sansa was glad to see some things never change.

“Hello Your Grace,” he said with a bow.

“Jon,” Sansa stressed. 

“Hello  Sansa,”  he corrected. He gave a quick glance to Myranda and Sansa remembered her courtesies.

“This is Jon Snow,” she introduced him to Myranda.

Myranda held out a hand and Jon, not sure what Southron customs called for, held it softly and kissed her knuckles. Sansa furrowed her brow.

“Pleased to meet you, Lord Snow,” Myranda said sweetly.

Jon’s response was automatic. “I’m not a Lord.”

“Pleased to meet you then,  Jon.  I’m Myranda of House Royce.” She batted her lashes and gave Jon a smile that he returned with his own, slightly confused, one.

“That’s a pretty name.” 

Myranda giggled at his compliment, but Sansa immediately frowned. She felt nauseous all of a sudden.

“I’m sorry, if you’ll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to,” she said abruptly. They both frowned.

“Are you well, Sansa?” Jon asked.

“Yes, quite. I’ve just remembered I need to do a few things before the meeting with the Lords later.” It was a feeble excuse she knew, but the other two didn’t question it.

“Oh, you should have said something,” Myranda said exasperatedly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pulled you away earlier!”

“No, I wanted to,” she quickly reassured her friend. Myranda’s a bit of a flirt, Sansa knew this. She was just being ridiculous, she shouldn’t feel jealous. “I’m just sorry I have to cut the tour short.”

Myranda hooked her arms around Jon. “That’s alright! Jon can show me around Winterfell, can’t you, Jon?”

“Oh. Um, sure?”

Sansa smiled tightly. “Perfect.”

--

Dinner was an… awkward affair. She hates herself just a little for the way she acted. What kind of Queen feigns illness and leaves early when she has guests? But, like her focus during her meetings, her appetite was gone. All she could think about were the words Jon said earlier that morning. They kept replaying in her head over and over again.

“That’s a pretty name.”

She’s not sure why it bothers her so much, but it does. Sansa was so lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the knock on her door. She also didn’t hear it open.

“Sansa? May I come in?”

Her head snapped up to the sound that shook her out of her daze. “Jon! Oh yes, come in.”

Jon raised a hand to stop her from standing up. After he closed the door, he walked over and joined her in front of the fireplace. 

“Are you sure you’re not unwell?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she replied, smiling softly at his concern.

“Alright,” he said slowly, “Then can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Jon looked down to his lap, as if he was nervous. “Have I done something wrong?”

“What? No, why would you think that?”

“I dunno, you’ve just been acting strange today,” he said. “Distant.”

When he looked back up to her, Sansa’s heart ached at the sad expression on his face. And she suddenly felt guilty. Fine, maybe she  was  jealous. But that didn’t mean she had to make Jon feel bad for it.

“Oh no, I’m sorry Jon. I’ve just been thinking," she hesitated before continuing, "You know it’s okay for you to find happiness with someone, right?”

“Uh, yeah?” Jon looked confused, and Sansa realized she’d have to bury her feelings and be straightforward with him.

“We all deserve to be happy and have someone to love, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

Sansa’s stomach lurched at the relief and hopeful sound in his voice. Maybe he  was being more than nice.

“Good,” she said softly, “Because I think you and Myranda-”

“Myranda?” Jon leaned back in confusion. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“Well, I- I just…” It was Sansa’s turn to be confused. In a small voice, she said, “You said her name was pretty.”

Jon’s eyes softened and he chuckled. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

He leaned back and stared at the fireplace. They sat in silence for a moment. When he turned back to her, he gave her the softest smile that made her heart race just a bit.

“You know what one of my favourite memories is?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I had asked you once, what kind of flowers a girl likes.”

Sansa faintly remembers that. They were children.

“And instead of just telling me, you started bombarding me with questions about the girl,” he laughed at the memory, “And when you demanded for a name, I told you I hadn’t asked for it. You lectured me and said I should know a girl’s name before I give her flowers.” Jon stopped laughing, but he continued to look at her with such gentle eyes. “And you told me that anytime a lady tells me her name, I have to tell her that it’s pretty.”

Her breath caught. Sansa almost forgot about that. That memory was like a lifetime ago. “Well, you should, ladies like that. And I did say that, didn’t I?” she said, her voice barely louder than the crackling fire. Jon didn’t miss the relieved look on her face.

“Yeah, you did.” Jon stood up and smiled at her. “Well, I came here to make sure you’re okay, and that we’re okay. It’s late now though, I should let you rest.” He leaned over and pressed his lips to Sansa's forehead. Before he closed the door behind him though, he turned back to her.

“Sansa?”

She looked up from the fireplace. “Yes?”

He gave her a soft smile. “You have a very pretty name.”

[azulaahai]

Jon Snow’s 5 Infallible Steps to a Successful Marriage ⚔ a very silly and borderline crackfic fluff fest based on a fun prompt by @amymel86 (thanks so much ♥♥) ⚔ also available on ao3

STEP #1: LOVE YOUR WIFE. While this step might seem complicated due to your complex family history and the stressful governance of your wife’s ancestral home, you will find it surprisingly easy, and complete it in no time at all.

***

By mutual agreement, Jon and Sansa do not share the lord’s bedchamber.

Through a painstakingly awkward conversation weeks before their wedding, it was revealed that neither of them were inclined to share her parent’s old chambers. And so, as quietly as was possible (which is to say not very quietly at all; a court is an echo chamber),  the king and queen in the North arranged for a new set of chambers in a different wing, and it is there we find them now: Sansa in bed, thick auburn braid draped over her shoulders and a scroll in hand, Jon, weary after a long day, removing his clothes by the fireplace.

It was odd, at first, sharing a bed, though Sansa insisted upon it; she said a united front would be absolutely integral to their rule. Jon hadn’t argued, partly because he believed her to be right, partly because he did not at all mind her there beside him in the darkness, leveled breathing and a sense of calm around her.

He glances at her now as he holds on to a chair to remove his shoes. She is reading Arya’s letter; Sansa usually saves those to read before bed. She bites her lip, now, laughing at something her sister has written. Jon watches her, his half-removed shoe forgotten, as she strokes a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

He might ask, of course, what Arya wrote; she usually addresses the letters to the two of them at once. But watching Sansa, still smiling, skim the letter like a child unwrapping a gift, he elects to leave her undisturbed.

***

STEP #2: PUT HER NEEDS FIRST.

***

They do not lay together, of course.

Not as man and wife.

Not with their history.

He would never do her the dishonor of even suggesting it.

If an heir is ever to be had (and it is, of course, as Sansa reminds him more and more often) Sansa will select herself the father, taking a lover of her choice.

It was at his insistence that they agreed upon this solution, only a fortnight ago, after dead end discussions and mutually uncomfortable conversations.

They will not have children, of course, and now, after nearly two years of spring has passed since their wedding, the court is becoming restless.

Jon trusts Sansa, then, to do as she thinks best; to choose a father to their heir, when she thinks the time has come.

And he does - actually, breathtakingly.

Trust her.

It’s everyone else he seems to have trouble relying on.

***

STEP #3: TELL YOUR BELOVED WIFE: ”TAKE A  LOVER, BELOVED WIFE! I’m not at ALL a person prone to jealousy, angst and feelings of inferiority, so this should work out great, hun! See you at home!”

***

The arrangement has had unfortunate side effects.

In theory, Jon knows that his wife would not take a lover without telling him, out of both political and personal courtesy. In theory, he knows that she is unlikely to select a close friend or nobleman, to ensure no conflicts of interest in the future. In theory, he knows that she would inform, perhaps even consult him, before making a decision.

But in the flesh, it’s harder to remember.

The men of the court have become walking, talking score boards to him: he sees their advantages as potential lovers and fathers rather than their faces. When Sansa nods thoughtfully and sincerely thanks a young lord for his counsel, Jon thinks; young. Handsome. Eager to prove himself. Northerner; his children would have Northern blood. 

When Sansa laughs at a comment made by a wildling leader at the feast table, Jon thinks; discrete. Makes her laugh. Could have diplomatic advantages. Even in situations he knows to be utterly benign, like when she spends an hour or two with Maester Sam in the library, he can’t quite stop a secluded corner of his mind from going: from a great house. Gentle. Trustworthy; would never say a word.

The thoughts leave a sour taste in his mouth.

It’s not that she would be bedding another, in itself (it isn’t! He tells himself. It isn’t) or indeed that he does not trust her judgement in this matter, as he trusts her in every other matter. It’s an odd mixture of concern and fear and something else, something he dare not name, something stubborn and aching and raging and -

And we are back in their chambers, a fortnight since they first agreed upon the arrangement. In the bed, Sansa has finished reading Arya’s letter, offering Jon, who has just sat down beside her, to do the same. He declines with a soft, almost whispered ”tomorrow”, and crawls beneath the furs. Out of the corner of his eye, he can sense her gaze upon him.

Sansa does this, at times. Watches him intently, deep in thought, long moments of her eyes attached to him when she thinks he cannot tell. Often it means there is a matter she wishes to speak to him about, but there’s no use in rushing her. From experience, he knows that were he to ask her now, she would smile and shake her head and claim that it is nothing. When she is ready, she will bring it up herself.

So many little truths he has come to know of her.

He turns, then, to blow out the candle, when she places a hesitant hand on his arm.

The touch is so sudden and uncommon that Jon freezes, the feeling of her fingers through his nightshirt all he can sense, all he can think -

”Jon.” Her voice somehow both soft and hoarse. ”I think there’s something we should discuss.”

***

STEP #4: STUPIDLY FEEL STUPID AS YOU REALIZE YOU HAVE BEHAVED VERY, VERY STUPIDLY.

***

”Is this about the … our … what we said of the … heir?” he asks as he cannot stop himself from asking, his tongue and his brain are completely separate entities  (the warmth of her hand through the fabric) -

”Yes”, she says and she sounds oddly calm, at least in contrast to his racing heart. ”Or, not so much the heir, I must confess, but rather the conceiving of said heir.”

”Oh.” Oh.

”You see … It’s been bothering me since our … last discussion …” Her tone now more hesitant. If one did not know her as he did, one might not detect the slight tremble to her voice.

It’s been bothering me too, he does not say.

”… I just … I’m more aware than anyone of the need for an heir. But what we discussed … me, taking a lover …” Odd, to hear that word out of her mouth. Her mouth seems to agree as she presses her lips together. Nevertheless, she continues.

”… securing an heir for the North, that’s a political matter. But taking a lover and conceiving a child … is a personal one. And after much consideration, I don’t think I could commit to it.” She looks away, her eyes firmly on the fireplace across the room, the gentle light setting her hair aglow.

Of course, he wants to say, I understand, damn them all to the seven hells, do as you wish, I -

”There’s only one man on which I’d entrust such a task, Jon.”

Her voice is clear now, strong, but still she refuses to look at him.

His body stiffens, ready to take a lethal hit.

”I don’t want to take a lover, Jon. I think we should conceive an heir ourselves.”

And then she looks up and meets his eyes.

***

STEP #5: SEE STEP 1.

[hilarychuff]

His brother wanted to free him from his vows, Maege says. Throughout his war, the Young Wolf had taken his share of prisoners in the field, and he had thought to send the greatest share of them to the Watch in Jon’s place. One hundred men for him. But that dream had died with his brother at the Red Wedding.

Once, he had wanted nothing more than to fight by Robb’s side. Knowing that his brother wanted the same steals the breath away from him. Why, Jon finally croaks. He finds that it is difficult to talk around a lump that has sprung up in his throat, but Maege pays it no mind, telling him plainly enough that he’s Robb’s heir.

The words leave him winded, staggering back a step as he struggles to make sense of them. My sister, is all he manages. What of Sansa? She is trueborn, he tries weakly. I am only a bastard. 

i carry it in mine, chapter 9, jon v

[steelivoryporcelain]

fic writer interview

thank you so much for tagging me @esther-dot , it’s truly an honor!

name/nickname: steelivoryporcelain

fandoms: Game of Thrones

two shots?: Jonsa Season 8 Song-fics (the goal is to make this more than a two-shot, and I have some stuff drafted, but I do have the PERFECT song for “The Bells” 8x05 episode! Any guesses as to what it is?)

most popular multi-chapter fic: Chapter 1 Excerpt - I have not technically published this yet, but the one I am working on by default will be the most popular one since it will be the only one lol

actual worst part of writing: getting in the head space for it and not procrastinating while I’m trying to write

how do you choose your titles: it’s cliche, but I do the song thing where you take two lines of lyrics and put the second line in parentheses. And yes, I plan on doing it for my non-song-fics too

do you outline?: yes, yes I do. I don’t follow it strictly though. Like this weekend, I finished writing an 800+ word scene that was not in the outline and purely to contextualize Sansa’s loneliness. 

ideas that you probably won’t get to, but wouldn’t it be nice: I think I posted on here about it a longggg time ago, but I had started a Jonsa one-shot based off of the “The Cooler,” the episode from New Girl where Nick and Jess have their first kiss. I started it, but doubt I will ever finish it.

callouts @ me: stop procrastinating and write!

best writing traits: When I first started writing over a decade ago, my strength was descriptive narrative and my weakness was dialogue. Now it’s flipped and, especially with Jonsa writing, I think my best writing trait is my ability for dialogue.

spicy tangential position: I don’t think is particularly spicy amongst Jonsa fans, but I think book!Jon and first-few-GoT-seasons!Jon would have no issue killing D@ny by the end of the show, and he definitely wouldn’t be grieving it afterward. However, he would be feeling guilty and remorseful for enabling a mass murder, not heeding the advice of his siblings/cousins, and for thousands of people being burned alive. I think is part canon/part headcanon, given their family history, the Starks take issue with people being burned alive. 

If you’re up for it, would love to read your interviews: @kingsansa​ @fromtheboundlesssea​ @vivilove-jonsa​��@amymel86

[semperlitluv]

My darling @charmtion is writing yet another lovely tale! This one has taken my heart with its swirling weave of past and present, grief and celebration, love and loss (intentional and not.) Go read it on AO3.

Charm, sending you all the love and light and healing. xoxo.

[jonsatrashcan]

I've been watching doc after doc after doc on European monarchies. And there are a ton of cases of power vaccumes appearing due the death of a leader. Causing the common people and nobles to fear for turbulent times ahead. Causing so much in fear. that some of those nobles suggest alliances through marriages that would ensure heirs. Thus securing many years of stability for everyone.

So obviously, I now have a fic request:

This all would take place after the long night. and really focus on the geopolitics of the current fragile state westeros is in. Also, jons parentage has been revealed. This only adds to the fragility of loyalties in the north. and the need to take certain actions to strengthen claims.

Jon and sansa are awakened in the middle of the night. In a commotion they are dragged from their beds by high lords and septens. Lead by nothing but torch lights to the great hall. On the way, they are informed that danerys targaryan is dead. That her dothraki and unsullied are have been taken over by a man from dorn claiming to be the son of rhaegar, aegon. There is speculation on who exactly is responsible for the dragon queens death. Maybe it was the lanisters, or assasins from essos, or "aegon" himself. But the country has been ravaged for months by the monsters and invading hoards. The rumors of the carnage in the south has terrified the northerners. They barely survived the long night. And the unpredictably of the war with the lanisters doesn't help ease their worries. And now. It is said "aegon" is now flying north. To tell them to kneel or burn.

Ok so back to the great hall: so the north is split on deciding what leader to follow. Some want to bend the knee. Some support sansa being the heir. Some follow jon. Its a shouting match. When there is no time to argue.

Only later, while the 4 starks are together do bran and arya together, make the suggestion ofa stark/targ marriage. Considering bran can see the past and arya is keen to see everything for what it is.( Again, i'm thirsty for the politics of this suggestion not the romance exactly. I feel it would be a great service to the characters of bran and arya for them to be so observant and savy.) Jon and sansa share some googly eyed looks. But ultimately denounce the idea. (Gatta have a little angst.)

After their family meeting they head back to the great hall. Its only gotten worse. Wildlings, knights of the vale, the glovers. all screaming at eachother.....When suddenly winterfel is attacked. jon and sansa are rushed through the crypts by their protectors Brianne and davos. out the secret tunnels that lead away from the castle. They ride away in the dark watching winterfel burn, again, from a distance. Once they head south they meet other noble families and common folk who are miserable. Jon and sansa start to see its their duty to rule over the war torn kingdoms. If they don't step up to lead. Then who will?

Please somebody write this. And finish it. I didn't even get to the actual wedding. But their marriage alliance makes so much sense when you look back on actual history of monarchies/war.

I know I pretty much just wrote this story. But this is the best I can do descrption wise. There are some TALANTED ass people in this fandom that could do this justice.

[wandering-scavenger]

A Lady of Winterfell Chapter 12 Update

Fandom: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Robb Stark/Jeyne Westerling, Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Regency, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Alternate Universe - Historical, Scandal, Sexual Content, Family, Slow Burn, Sharing a Bed, Marriage of Convenience, Angst with a Happy Ending, mentions of abuse, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, kissing cousins, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Sexism, E for Eventually, Regency Period, regency au, In Denial, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Attempted Rape/Non-Con

Read here

Sneek Peak

Jon did not hear how the rest of their conversation went, suddenly realising that neither Sansa nor Mr. Baelish had returned to the drawing room. He excused himself quickly and exited to search for Sansa, overcome with worry that something might have happened to her. They made sure to lock both their quarters and the study in case Mr. Baelish might think to search through their things, but Sansa did not think the man stupid enough to make such an attempt. Jon could only wish that she was wrong.

He was walking down the hall of the east wing when he heard hushed voices speaking, their tone seemingly calm despite the feeling of secrecy that emanated in the air. Jon peered from behind the wall to discover that it was Mr. Baelish speaking to Sansa as she stood by the staircase. She appeared at ease enough, though he knew that she was relatively skilled at masking her true emotions when she was afraid.

“How is your mother? I understand that she returned home today, but she did not join us for your brother’s service and for supper.” asked Mr. Baelish. With his back to Jon, there was not telling what his face looked like, but Jon had good reason to believe that the man did not look as concerned as he should have.

“She is simply unwell. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Baelish.” Sansa replied, her lips unsmiling.

“You need not hide anything from me, Sansa. I am well aware of your mother’s condition. Your Aunt Lysa has informed me of it. I only ask out of deep concern for you.” he told her.

Jon heart raced with anger upon hearing the familiar manner in which Baelish addressed Sansa. It meant nothing coming from the mouths of her actual uncles, but the sound of her name on the man’s tongue felt like a deliberate breach on her person that the older man had no right to. With clenched fists, Jon did his best to restrain himself from interrupting a conversation that he knew Sansa would attempt to make the most of first.

[tacitwhisky]

Summer of ‘73 | Ch1

/ AO3 Link /

In the summer of 1973 Jon and Sansa cross the country in his battered El Camino.

“The AC doesn’t work,” Jon warns Sansa as they catch the highway, wind whipping her red hair to life. “We’ll have to keep the windows down.”

Sansa combs back her hair with her fingers, California hills flitting across her sunglasses as she gazes out the window. “It’s fine.”

It is the only thing either of them say for the next hundred miles.

---

They stop at a motel with a flickering neon light that informs them they’re at the Next Day Inn, and that it’s $20 a night for cable-tv, phone, and pool. Gravel crunches beneath the El Camino’s tires as Jon pulls into a parking spot near the front office. He swings his door open and steps out, pauses, then turns and leans back into the car, even in evening the California summer sun hot on the nape of his neck.

“You can stay here if you want,” he tells Sansa. “I’ll get us a room.”

Sansa shakes her head and steps out of her side of the car. “I’ll find a payphone.”

Jon eyes her, but only nods and turns to the front office. It isn’t your business, he tells himself: even though that’s exactly what he’d made it the moment he’d pulled out of the driveway of the Stark lake house with Sansa in the passenger’s seat, nothing packed and not a word to anyone.

---

“Don’t flake this year,” Robb had groaned over the phone when he called Jon months before. “Sansa’s finally dumped that Joffrey kid, so it’ll be like it was when we were kids again.”

It wouldn’t of course, and Sansa was exactly why, though Jon would never have told Robb that. The last time he’d gone to the Stark lakehouse she’d brought Margaery with her, and Robb hadn’t been able to stop gawping the whole time. Margaery was tall, statuesque, elegant curves flaunted in the pink bikini she’d sun in, sunglasses perched in her brown hair, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips.

But as gorgeous as Margaery was, it was Sansa who Jon’s eyes had kept drifting too. It wasn’t just how long legged and slim she’d looked in her daisy dukes and light blue halter top as she stretched out on the dock to sun with Margaery. Jon had wished it was. It would be easier to explain. But he’s always known Sansa was pretty, and that that prettiness would bloom into beauty with the onset of puberty.

But knowing and seeing were two different things. All that summer he’d been unable to stop his eyes from drifting to Sansa, and every minute of that summer he’d hated it.

But after two years of turning Robb down, Jon knew he couldn’t a third time, and so he’d packed the few things he’d needed in his El Camino, and started his trip cross country to the opposite coast.

---

Sansa is leaning against the El Camino when Jon returns from the front office, shades planted in her hair, face tilted back and eyes closed. No doubt she’s taken the chance to stretch her legs after hours in the car, and for a long moment Jon is tempted to let her be. To let her simply stand and soak in the sun. He doesn’t want to do this. Not after a day of driving and the beating sun, not after all that Sansa has already gone through today. But there’s no one else.

Her eyes blink open as his feet crunch the gravel.

“Were they there?” He asks.

“Yeah.”

“What did they say?”

She shrugs, gaze beginning to drift away.

“Sansa.” Jon tilts his face forward, catching her gaze before it can slip away entirely. “What did they say?”

“What do you think?” Sansa’s lips thin, narrow and tart. “What would your mom say if it was you? Your dad?”

He wouldn’t care. But Jon refuses to let the words touch him. “Do they know you’re ok, at least?”

“No,” Sansa snaps, “they don’t, Jon. They don’t think I’m ever going to be ok. But they’re not going to call the police either. You don’t need to worry about them coming after us, alright?”

A retort is already on Jon’s tongue, all the exhaustion and frayed nerves of the day tart on the tip of it, but then she juts her chin out and glares at him; a silent dare for him to say more in just the same way she does when arguing with Arya. And Jon is suddenly very aware of how much younger she is than him: three years younger and just out of highschool; of how though he’s always thought her the prim and perfect one of the Stark siblings there’d been a fault line lurking within; that despite how perfect he’s always thought her life today that fault line has ripped a gaping hole in her life that can never be closed.

Jon bites the inside of his cheek and crosses to the car. Sansa refuses to look at him as he leans against it beside her, a scowl on her face as she gazes sightlessly at the road, cars flickering across her sunglasses.

“The guy said there’s a diner a few minutes walk from here,” he tells Sansa. “We can get food there.”

Sansa clenches her jaw, a delicate muscle standing out. “I don’t have any money, Jon.”

He shakes his head and pushes off the car. “I’ll cover it.”

---

By the time they return from the diner the sun is down, all that’s left of the day long cool shadows. Neither of them packed, so there’s nothing to haul from car to room. Instead they simply slip in their room, the air inside musty and flat after a day trapped inside.

Jon crosses to the window and the wood rimmed and yellowed plastic AC unit perched there. He twists the nob and holds his palm over the ensuing stream of humid air that sputters from the vent. “You can take the shower first.”

Sansa doesn’t answer. A moment later the bathroom door clicks closed.

Jon wanders to the bed. The sheets are cheap, the pillows musty, and it is far, far too narrow. All the money they have is the handful of bills tucked in his wallet, and too many of those had to get them the luxury of any room at all, much less a room with a double bed.

Truthfully the possibility of getting a bigger room never occurred to him. Something about being on the road again had flicked on his childhood survival instincts when he and his mother had spent humid nights with the windows of their car rolled down, curled together even though their skin stuck to the cheap and cracked pleather in the humidity.

Jon shucks off his shoes and turns on the wood paneled TV just for something to fill the room. A newscaster rolls out the evening news as Jon sits on the bed, but he barely notices it next to the patter of the shower a wall away.

He tilts his head back, stares at the yellowed ceiling, and hopes he hasn’t made a mistake.

---

It had happened late in the afternoon, the long shadows of the pines cool on his shoulders after the sun of the lake’s edge as he trudged back to the Stark house for another round of cokes, Arya’s whoop as she took another turn jumping off the tire swing faint behind him. The summer really had been just like when they were kids, even if the dock seemed smaller and when Arya forced Jon to take a turn on the tire swing to prove he wasn’t chicken he barely fit any longer. 

The only real difference was Sansa. She hadn’t brought Margaery with her this year, and seemed short tempered for it, snapping at Arya at the slightest provocation. Jon she’d barely spared a look for when he first arrived; an indifferent glance from behind some paperback she had her nose in, a swift inspection to see if anything had made her brother’s friend more interesting. Nothing had it seemed, and she’d turned back to her book, his existence already forgotten in lieu of the muscled man dipping a woman bursting from a corset into a swoon on the front of her paperback.

Not that Jon cared.

Most days she stayed in the house reading her book, though she never seemed to make progress in it judging from the glacial advance of her bookmark. She’s just afraid she’ll run into Joffrey, Arya had sniffed about it. Their lakehouse is only a couple away, though God knows she should stop sulking about breaking up. She’s better off without him.

That morning Robb had been able to drag her to the lake’s edge, dressed in the same light blue bikini top and daisy duke’s she had with Margaery. It was just as distracting as before, just as mesmerizing, and Jon had been thankful when she went back to the house early so he didn’t have to keep making a conscious effort to avoid looking at her.

Jon ducked his head to wipe the sweat from his forehead on the back of his arm as he reached the Stark porch, wooden floorboards still hot from the afternoon sun under his bare feet. With any luck he wouldn’t run into her. The kitchen overlooked the porch, and he wouldn’t need to go any further into the house to grab the cokes he’d come for.

But when he raised his head from wiping it on his arm he saw Sansa framed in the kitchen window.

---

Though Sansa has every right to take all the time in the world, after just a few minutes the shower shuts off and she slips from the bathroom dressed in the same clothes she went in; the only real difference the slick sheen off her red hair.

“We can stop by the store tomorrow.” Jon tells her as he rises from the bed, all to aware of the sweat wrinkled feel of fabric on his own skin. “Pick up clothes.”

Sansa seats herself on the edge of the bed and tilts her head to one side. She combs her fingers through the wet drape of her hair. “I told you,” she says quietly. “I don’t have any money.”

She’d never needed any. None of the Stark siblings had; the Starks came from old, respected money, and anything they’d wanted was theirs. For Sansa that had meant clothes and earrings and tennis lessons at the local club. Not spoiled exactly; but something like it, Jon had always secretly of Sansa. She fit the mold too perfectly not to be: pretty rich girl, prim and perfect and straight-A student, apple of her parents’ eye.

Everything she wasn’t now.

“It’s a long way to Wall-U.” Jon shrugs. “We’ll have to get some eventually.”

Sansa doesn’t object, and Jon leaves to take his shower.

The inside of the bathroom is cramped, the linoleum floor yellowed, but the water when he turns the knob of the shower is gloriously hot. Jon sheds his clothes and steps inside, lets the water’s heat soak into his shoulders and neck, leech some of the day’s tension from them.

As much as he would like to simply stand there in the steam and heat forever, Jon forces himself to reach for the soap. He lathers and rinses himself, and though it’s almost painful, turns the water off. His clothes feel all the more wrinkled and sweat stained after the shower, and he pulls them on reluctantly.

Sansa is on the bed as he slips out of the bathroom: curled under the covers, hands pillowed beneath her cheek. Jon closes the bathroom door behind him quietly, and pads to the lamp by the bed. Sansa doesn’t shift as he clicks it off, room black but for the thin stripes of neon pink and blue from the motel sign outside cutting between the slats of the curtain.

The couch is too short for his tall frame, but it’s an easy decision to take it. If Sansa was awake it would feel irritatingly posturing, a mawkish display of chivalry, but in the dark he simply slips off his shirt and lies back on the couch, heels over the edge of one side and head just barely fitting on the other. Not comfortable, but doable.

“Jon.”

Jon blinks open an eye. Though she hasn’t moved and her eyes are still closed, Sansa must be more awake than he thought. “You don’t have to sleep over there.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” Irritation slips into Sansa’s voice. “Get on the bed, Jon.”

For a moment Jon thinks about arguing further, but it’s been a long day, and the temptation of a real mattress is too much. Silently, he rises from the couch, pulls on his shirt, and lies down on the opposite side of the bed from Sansa; the mattress is narrow though, and even right on the edge they’re close enough that he can feel the wisp of her breath. In the dark only the faint lines of her jaw and nose and chin are left, a sketch lovely and vulnerable.

Jon closes his eyes, 

“We can go back.” He says into the dark. “I can drive you back tomorrow, if you want.”

“And if I don’t?” Sansa’s voice is soft.  She swallows and picks at a stray thread on the sheet between them, the back of her slim fingers only an inch or two away from brushing his chest.  “What if I don’t ever want to go back?”

You will. But the words catch in Jon’s throat. It was one thing for him to accept what she was: he was the child of a single mother who had hopped from home to home, been to college and had his perspective of the world forcibly widened by Val and Alys, but the Starks…

Ned and Catelyn were good parents. Caring. Loving. But they were also, at their core, old money. They were respected in the community, and had expectations of their children. To marry well. To have good careers. As much as they might love Arya, her flower child tendencies were a constant source of tension brewing beneath the surface. And Arya had always been that way, the problem child who jumped in puddles and came home at night with tangled hair. Sansa…

Sansa had been their golden child.

“They’ll accept it,” Jon says softly. “Your folks. It just... it takes time.”

“And if they don’t?” Sansa’s voice wavers. Her fingers still on the sheet. “I know… I know you don’t have to do this. I know we’re not friends. That you’ve never even really liked me. Not like Arya or Robb, or even Bran and Rickon. But don’t… don’t take me back.”

He shouldn’t: not after what she’s been through today, not when he doesn’t have the right, but still Jon reaches up and covers her hand with his, squeezes it. “I won’t.”

---

In the kitchen Sansa stands framed by the window.

For a moment Jon thinks she’s in pain; half bent over the kitchen counter, arms stretched out to brace her, bottom lip caught between her teeth. But not pain, Jon realizes as Sansa’s mouth opens in a silent pant, fingers clenching white on the counter as she shudders.

And that’s when Jon sees Cersei behind her.