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butterflies-dragons · 5 years ago

Note

Daenerys's heart is a dragon not like Cersei's heart who was Tommen has belong to someone else, and even Sansa's heart will be herself.

I got this ask in reference to this post that I wrote back in 2017, especially this quote:

Someplace no stag ever found … though a dragon might.

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne III

I don’t really get your message Anon, I didn’t mention Dany’s or Cersei’s heart in my post. So, I will repeat my point for anyone interested:

“Where?” Brienne slapped another silver stag down.

He flicked the coin back at her with his forefinger. “Someplace no stag ever found … though a dragon might.” Silver would not get the truth from him, she sensed. Gold might, or it might not. Steel would be more certain. Brienne touched her dagger, then reached into her purse instead. She found a golden dragon and put in on the barrel. “Where?”

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne III

From this last quote I want to rescue this line: “Someplace no stag ever found… though a dragon might.” These words are talking about stags and dragons, not silver and gold, just the animals that the coins bare on one side. The stag is the sigil of House Baratheon and the dragon is the sigil of House Targaryen. And this makes me think about the Tourney at Ashford Meadow, where the first and the fifth of its final champions belonged to these houses. And according to this theory: “When you look at the names of the champions’ families and the fact they fight for a 13 year old maid, especially with the family Hardyng, we find out that they correspond strongly with Sansa’s suitors in A Song of Ice and Fire.” (*)

So, following the pattern established by the five final champions of the Tourney at Ashford Meadow, I believe that the stag in this line represents Joffrey Baratheon (Sansa’s first betrothed), while the Dragon who might find Sansa is Jon Snow, the Targaryen Champion (Sansa’s actual betrothed). This last idea is going to be developed throughout this post.

(*) I would like to make some precisions: 1) The events of the Tourney at Ashford Meadow developed in ‘The Hedge Knight’ novella. 2) The champions are the final five after the first day of jousting. We don’t know the results after the second day of jousting and the third day was the Trial of Seven. 3) The queen of love and beauty at the beginning of the tourney was the 13 years old daughter of Lord Ashford. The champions weren’t fighting for her, the final five champions after the third day of jousting would decide if they crowned a new QoLaB or not.

(…)

Let’s go back to this line: “Someplace no stag ever found… though a dragon might.” In the text the word ‘someplace’ refers to where Brienne’s supposed “sister” is -the beautiful highborn maid of three-and-ten that has blue eyes and auburn hair-. But in the history of ASOIAF universe, the word ‘someplace’ could also refer to the heart of a Stark girl.

Joffrey and Jon, Jon and Joffrey. I have a theory about them, I called it the ‘JoJo Theory’. Maybe one day I will turn my thoughts on them into words. But for now, let’s talk about these two in relation to Sansa.

Joffrey and Jon are supposed to be the sons of two best friends: Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark respectively. But none of them are really that. And I think they both were living the other’s life. I mean, Joffrey took Jon’s real place in the world, as Jon took Joffrey’s.

Joffrey, who is supposed to be the trueborn son and heir of King Robert Baratheon, is truly a little shit bastard, the illegitimate child of Jaime Lannister. And he is the vicious, despicable type of bastard as well.

On the other hand, Jon who is suppose to be the baseborn son of Ned Stark, is actually the son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and the last Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne. And he is the very opposite of the vicious, despicable Joffrey. Jon is brave and has a noble heart.

Also note that the real fathers of Joffrey and Jon are the men who Cersei and Lyanna choose over Robert; that is to say: Jaime and Rhaegar.

So, reading again this line: “Someplace no stag ever found… though a dragon might.”, we know that in the past that line was true, as Robert Baratheon never found his way to Lyanna Stark’s heart unlike Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. And it could be true again, in the future, as Joffrey (no stag) never really found his way to Sansa’s heart, but Jon (who is also a dragon) might do. Let’s see:

His half sisters escorted the royal princes. Arya was paired with plump young Tommen, whose white-blond hair was longer than hers. Sansa, two years older, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either, to Jon’s vast dismay. Prince Joffrey had his sister’s hair and his mother’s deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey’s pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell’s Great Hall.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Jon was obviously jealous of Joffrey, in the same fashion he was of Robb. Joffrey was ‘trueborn’, a royal prince, the heir of the Iron Throne, with a place of honor at the table just below the dais where the King and Queen were seated, handsome, taller than him despite being younger, and on top of all that, Joffrey got the beautiful radiant girl by his side. Jon just couldn’t believe why, while having all of that, Joffrey and his pouty wormy lips gave Winterfell’s Great Hall a bored and disdainful look.

You don’t believe Jon was jealous of Joffrey? Read this then:

“Then you saw us all. Prince Joffrey and Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella, my brothers Robb and Bran and Rickon, my sisters Arya and Sansa. You saw them walk the center aisle with every eye upon them and take their seats at the table just below the dais where the king and queen were seated.”

“I remember.”

“And did you see where I was seated, Mance?” He leaned forward. “Did you see where they put the bastard?”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon

I know that in this scene, Jon was trying to convince Mance that he really wanted to join the freefolk. He was trying to deceive him and infiltrate into the enemy’s camp. Despite that, the things Jon said to Mance at that moment, rang true. So in the end, Jon did convince Mance and he ended up joining the freefolk, as a covert mission entrusted to him by Qhorin Halfhand.

Still you don’t believe me when I said Jon was jealous of Joffrey? Listen to Sansa herself then:

“What did you think of Prince Joff, sister? He’s very gallant, don’t you think?”

“Jon says he looks like a girl,” Arya said.

Sansa sighed as she stitched. “Poor Jon,” she said. “He gets jealous because he’s a bastard.”

“He’s our brother,” Arya said, much too loudly. Her voice cut through the afternoon quiet of the tower room.

—A Game of Thrones, Arya I

Now tell me that Jon saying ‘Joffrey looks like a girl’ is not proof enough of Jon Snow being obviously jealous of the crown prince.

But Jon Snow who knows nothing, except, maybe, that Joffrey is truly a little shit, has no idea that Joffrey was living his life.

And his sisters cousins, Sansa and Arya, unbeknownst to him, expose this truth to Ned while talking about Joffrey’s hair color (note that Ned always knew who Jon’s real father is):

“Father, I only just now remembered, I can’t go away, I’m to marry Prince Joffrey.” She tried to smile bravely for him. “I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies.”

“Sweet one,” her father said gently, “listen to me. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me.”

“He is!“ Sansa insisted. “I don’t want someone brave and gentle, I want him. We’ll be ever so happy, just like in the songs, you’ll see. I’ll give him a son with golden hair, and one day he’ll be the king of all the realm, the greatest king that ever was, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion.

"Arya made a face. "Not if Joffrey’s his father,” she said. “He’s a liar and a craven and anyhow he’s a stag, not a lion.”

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

"All three are Jaime’s,” he said. It was not a question.

“Thank the gods.”

The seed is strong, Jon Arryn had cried on his deathbed, and so it was. All those bastards, all with hair as black as night. Grand Maester Malleon recorded the last mating between stag and lion, some ninety years ago, when Tya Lannister wed Gowen Baratheon, third son of the reigning lord. Their only issue, an unnamed boy described in Malleon’s tome as a large and lusty lad born with a full head of black hair, died in infancy. Thirty years before that a male Lannister had taken a Baratheon maid to wife. She had given him three daughters and a son, each black-haired. No matter how far back Ned searched in the brittle yellowed pages, always he found the gold yielding before the coal.

“A dozen years,” Ned said. “How is it that you have had no children by the king?”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard XII

I can clearly imagine Ned thinking about how he had to hide Jon Snow, the heir of the Last Dragon, as his bastard; while Joffrey, an actual bastard, was living the life that could have been Jon’s, had Rhaegar prevailed over Robert.

This kind of ‘switched at birth’ case between Jon and Joffrey and the possibility of Jon being Sansa’s fifth Targaryen betrothed, is actually foreshadowed in the Books. Let’s read this passage from Sansa’s first chapter in ACOK:

The morning of King Joffrey’s name day dawned bright and windy, with the long tail of the great comet visible through the high scuttling clouds. Sansa was watching it from her tower window when Ser Arys Oakheart arrived to escort her down to the tourney grounds. “What do you think it means?” she asked him.

“Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey’s Comet.”

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure. “I’ve heard servants calling it the Dragon’s Tail.”

“King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the castle built by his son,” Ser Arys said. “He is the dragon’s heir—and crimson is the color of House Lannister, another sign. This comet is sent to herald Joffrey’s ascent to the throne, I have no doubt. It means that he will triumph over his enemies.

"Is it true? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Her mother was one of Joffrey’s enemies now, her brother Robb another. Her father had died by the king’s command. Must Robb and her lady mother die next? The comet was red, but Joffrey was Baratheon as much as Lannister, and their sigil was a black stag on a golden field. Shouldn’t the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?

— A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

See? From “Glory to your betrothed,” to “King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the castle built by his son” “He is the dragon’s heir” Every word from Arys Oakheart’s mouth evokes Jon, not Joffrey. Joffrey is not a dragon, far less the dragon’s heir; he’s not even a stag.

If Joffrey had truly been the son of Robert Baratheon, he indeed would have had a bit of Targaryen blood, because Robert’s grandmother was the Princess Rhaelle Targaryen, but that’s not the case.

And the red comet could never be ‘Joffrey’s Comet’ as Sansa correctly pointed out when she said: “Shouldn’t the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?” The servants were right; the red comet was related to dragons, just as the person who knows everything in ASOIAF stated emphatically:

Bran asked Septon Chayle about the comet while they were sorting through some scrolls snatched from the library fire. "It is the sword that slays the season,” he replied, and soon after the white raven came from Oldtown bringing word of autumn, so doubtless he was right.

Though Old Nan did not think so, and she’d lived longer than any of them. “Dragons,” she said, lifting her head and sniffing. She was near blind and could not see the comet, yet she claimed she could smell it. “It be dragons, boy,” she insisted. Bran got no princes from Nan, no more than he ever had.

Hodor said only, “Hodor.” That was all he ever said.

—A Clash of Kings - Bran I

Sadly the last part of this passage from Sansa’s first chapter in ACOK, also foreshadowed the Red Wedding. The Lannisters once more would take her family from her; this time Catelyn and Robb.

But let’s stick with the good part, the part where she is called the betrothed of the dragon’s heir, that is not Joffrey, but Jon Snow, her own Dragonknight, her Black Knight of the Wall, her dark haired prince hiding in the north. We can only hope that this time the betrothal will end in a real marriage, because Sansa’s betrothal record isn’t so good thus far:

Joffrey Baratheon (the Psychopath Bastard), the betrothal was broken.

Willas Tyrell (the Cripple), the betrothal was cancelled.

Tyrion Lannister (the Imp), the marriage was not consummated.

Harrold Hardying (the Arse), the betrothal still stands but the bride is Alayne Stone.

Jon Snow (is dead but on the third day he will rise again from the dead).

But against the odds, I believe Sansa will wear a Targaryen Cloak, and under that protection, she will slay her enemies.

***

I wrote this three years ago. I think it needs some adjusting here and there, but the main idea is there and I hope this time is clearer.

Good night.

#anon ask #jonsa

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theusurpersdog · 6 years ago

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So Game of Thrones ended on Sunday, and for now it’s going down as potentially the worst ending of any TV show ever. Some of the backlash has come from the more nonsensical elements, such as Bronn being on the Small Council, anyone in Westeros defending Daenerys (the show literally framed her like Hitler, come the fuck on), Tyrion deciding who was King while in shackles, etc. But the truth is, none of that would’ve mattered if the emotions rang true. And that’s been a problem since the show started; go all the way back to Winter is Coming and you’ll see that the Starks have always been sidelined - both as individuals and as a family - in favor of the Lannisters. George Martin is writing a character piece about the Starks and how they survive, and the show was never going to stick the landing when they fundamentally didn’t understand that.

I’m not the first to point this out, but man did it really bother me this episode. D&D really could’ve phoned in 95% of this story and just shown up to love the Starks and everyone would’ve been at least satisfied, and they just couldn’t do it. So many years of bad writing and idiot plots and plain stupidity hasn’t lost Game of Thrones hardly any fans, because the ones they had were deeply invested in the characters GRRM had created and were willing to overlook just about everything to see those characters have some sort of conclusion. That’s why their entire audience has turned against them now - they didn’t care about the Starks for 8 seasons, and GRRM’s ending required the audience and the writers care deeply for Jon, Sansa, Arya, and Bran.

For all of GRRM’s talk about wanting to break his reader’s hearts, and D&D’s version of his story as this GrimDark nightmare, GRRM’s story has a real, emotional heart to it. People debate whether it was a fantasy story with the false premise of a political period piece, or a political story with a touch of fantasy intrigue - but the truth is, this story is and always has been a character piece centered around the Starks and how they survive and rebuild after family tragedy. In number of povs and chapters, they literally overwhelm the series. Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Catelyn all are in the top povs as well as Ned, who is still competitive despite being in exactly 1 book of the series. Having the Starks as the center of the story, the point in which almost all the action revolves, is what grounds all of Martin’s series even as his povs reach 30+. Martin was being very serious when he said Arya, Sansa, and Bran were the heart of his series. You need them because they make it worth it.

So let’s break down how D&D ripped the heart out of asoiaf’s chest. The biggest problem the show had was something book readers have known for a long time, but didn’t fully realize until Sunday night: The Bran Problem. GRRM has stated multiple times that Bran is his hero, yet the show has never had any interest in his story. They made an entirely random decision not to include flashbacks or dream sequences, which immediately cuts out about half of Bran’s content. But not only did they take away his magical importance, they also stole his political importance. Bran was Robb Stark’s heir, Lord of Winterfell and first in line to be the King in the North. Yet they took Bran’s story away from him and gave the focus to Theon Greyjoy, a character more appealing to the tastes of David Benioff and Dan Weiss. So we never got to see the King of the Six (should be eight but whatever I’m just dying inside) Kingdoms acting in any leadership capacity. And, last but certainly not least, D&D took all emotion from Bran. And no, I don’t mean when he came back from beyond the wall a husk of a person. That was awful, but the damage was done seasons before. If you’ve read the books, you’ll know and love Bran Stark because this is who he is:

He sent sweets to Hodor and Old Nan as well, for no reason but he loved them

Bran was a sweet boy. Everyone loved him

The roots of the trees grow deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought, I'm not dead either

Old stories are like old friends, she used to say. You have to visit them from time to time

He is a sweet boy, quick to laugh, easy to love

Bran has always represented happiness and people coming together in GRRM’s story. Ned wants to bring him to King’s Landing because he’s universally loved and will ease the conflict between Joffrey and Robb, and just the thought of him being alive makes Jon bury his ego and reach out to his Night’s Watch Brothers. He is Meera’s little Prince, someone that Howland Reed’s children are willing to go beyond the wall and die for. He accepts food on the road beyond the Wall, and promises he’ll repay his debt many times over. He’s the boy who looks back into the past and just wants to see his dad again; who reaches out to save Theon, even when Theon took everything from him. He is Eddard Stark’s son, soft and kind and loving, brave when he is afraid, loyal and honorable, and he is a good person. He’s young, but he is fit to be a King one day.

But no, D&D didn’t stop at Bran. Let’s talk about Arya Stark, and the little girl who never was. Was there ever a character more suited to D&D’s tastes than a little murder girl hellbent on revenging her family’s killers? But was there ever a character further from Arya Stark? She is nine years old when Ser Ilyn takes her father’s head, of course she is brash and reckless and childish, wanting to avenge him. But she is all of those things because she is still a kid. Below the surface, she is very scared and very hurt. Unlike the show’s version of Arya, who is upset Joffrey died because she couldn’t do it herself, the Arya of the books has a realization that Joffrey dying means nothing because she’ll never get Robb back. Arya isn’t turning into an assassin because it would be cool, she’s running away as far as she can.

You can watch the season finale of Game of Thrones s4, and be right in concluding that Arya Stark leaves The Hound for dead in a ruthless move of brutality as she goes to pursue her dreams of being an assassin. Now read the end of A Storm of Swords, and you’ll find an Arya who refuses to let Sandor take a piece of her no matter how he abuses her, and goes to Braavos because she is so afraid that no one could love her anymore - and most of all she leaves because with Winterfell sacked and held by the Boltons, she genuinely thinks she has lost her home. Arya doesn’t make a well-adjusted decision to leave Westeros, she’s trying to keep her head above water before she drowns in grief. Disassociating from her pack is the only way she can cope with the unbearable amount of loss she has suffered, especially at such a young age. But GRRM’s version of Arya is fierce, brave, loyal, loving, and above all she loves her family.

Then there is Sansa, the most empathetic character in GRRM’s whole world. The unfailing hope and kindness in which she views the world are her defining character traits; she echoes GRRM’s own worldview, one where you can see the good and the bad in everyone, and choose to forgive - and if not that, still refuse to be cruel in kind. Sansa is the only one who looks at Sandor Clegane, looks at the ruin fire made of his face, and see that his eyes are why he’s so ugly - and then reach out to show him mercy. The girl who was beaten everyday of her time in King’s Landing, and still mourned Joffrey because he was a person and he died and she understood that it was still awful. She wishes knights who literally beat her bloody would fall off their horse, then feels bad and ashamed when they do. Sansa Stark is kind above all.

And the show took this character and made her cold. They tried to make her Littlefinger. Surprise! Nobody cares about the emotional well being and happiness of Petyr Baelish for a reason. Thankfully Bryan Cogman was there to run interference between Sansa and D&D, so she wasn’t fully the Ice Queen D&D wanted her to be, but goddamn how do you take Sansa “if I am ever Queen, I’ll make them love me” Stark and make her cold?!

The biggest problem with stripping the Stark kids individually of their emotions, is that they can no longer exist as the family GRRM created them to be. Without Arya, Bran, and Sansa’s emotional arcs, everything becomes meaningless. Who cares that Ramsay Bolton is the one to rebuild Winterfell in the show? Certainly not an audience that hasn’t been told to care.

You’ll notice a trend in the type of chapters that D&D decided not to adapt into Game of Thrones; think of all the chapters that are the emotional heart of GRRM’s story. Not the shocking character deaths, or dragons, or plot twists. The moments of intimacy between GRRM, his character, and you as the reader. The moments so small yet so impactful, the lines you remember not because they pushed the plot forward but because they honestly moved you in a way that you felt hope, longing, love? Those chapters are almost always either from Bran, Sansa, or Arya; and are always about their connection to their family. D&D adapted none of them. Here’s three great examples:

Done with Wooden Teeth

When Arya is a serving girl at Harrenhal during A Clash of Kings, it really sucks. Unlike the show, she is not cup bearer to Tywin Lannister; she is just like everyone else: abused, mistreated, underfed, miserable, and uncared for. She’s already at a pretty low moment in life, then the news breaks that Bran and Rickon were murdered by Theon Greyjoy and Winterfell has been sacked. And Arya doesn’t even have someone to grieve with; the one person she tries to tell, Elmar Frey, tells her nobody cares about a serving girl’s brothers when he’s just lost his Princess (the irony...).

The news that her family is dead almost breaks her:

As Arya crossed the yard to the bathhouse, she spied a raven circling down toward the rookery, and wondered where it had come from and what message it carried. Might be it’s from Robb, come to say it wasn’t true about Bran and Rickon. She chewed on her lip, hoping. If I had wings I could fly back to Winterfell and see for myself. And if it was true, I’d just fly away, fly up past the moon and the shining stars, and see all the things in Old Nan’s stories, dragons and sea monsters and the Titan of Braavos, and maybe I wouldn’t ever fly back

This is Arya giving up. Everything she’s done in this book so far has been to get back to Winterfell, or to Jon at the Wall. Her making the decision to fly away (which she’ll follow through on in A Storm of Swords) is a defeat, the acceptance that she’ll never get her family back.

If the chapter had ended here (it doesn’t), D&D still would’ve gutted it, because no Stark gets to react to Bran and Rickon’s death in the show. Not even a minute of screentime given to the Heir to the North and his brother dying; not a moment where their family can grieve the tremendous loss.

But Arya is a Stark, so before she gives up on her identity, she visits the Godswood:

“Tell me what to do, you gods,” she prayed.

For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely howl of a wolf

The Godswood is very important to the Starks for a couple different reasons. First, only the men of the North worship the Old Gods, and the trees is the connection they have to them. The Old Gods were who Ned went to for guidance, and every single Stark has huge moments of understanding in front of a Godswood (none of which made it into the show...). But, more specific to the Starks as a family, Bran speaks to his family through them and guides them toward home. So even though they don’t understand that Bran is calling to them, the Starks are drawn to the trees for help.

And the trees always answer them. The Starks get a real, physical response when they ask the Godswood for help:

Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father’s voice. “When the snows fall and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he said.

“But there is no pack,” she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. “I’m not even me now, I’m Nan.”

“You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you.”

“The wolf blood.” Arya remembered now. “I’ll be as strong as Robb. I said I would.” She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.

In her lowest moment, Arya re-finds her strength by remembering she is a Stark, a direwolf who belongs to a pack. The Godswood gives her Ned as comfort, as a reminder of who she is and what she should do. There is an incredible emphasis on family here. It would be impossible to adapt this chapter unless the writers and audience fully understood just how committed to each other the Starks are - which is why they didn’t adapt it.

I’m Not Dead Either

When Bran finally leaves the crypts at the end of A Clash of Kings, he’s close to giving up on himself entirely. He spent three days inside Summer, and returning to the body he views as broken (”Bran the Broken” is something he calls himself when he feels upset, not the monikor he’d give himself as King) is really hard for him. And when he finally leaves the crypts, he comes out to a Winterfell that has been destroyed; Ramsay has set the place ablaze and killed everyone. Bran knows Ser Rodrik is dead and Maester Luwin is soon to be as well. He looks around him and sees all this destruction, all he smells is fire or blood. But one thing in Winterfell stands unharmed; Summer takes off running for the Godswood:

The air was sweeter under the trees. A few pines along the edge of the wood had been scorched, but deeper in the damp soil and green wood had defeated the flames. “There is a power in living wood,” said Jojen Reed, almost as if he knew what Bran was thinking, “a power strong as fire.”

After Bran says goodbye to Maester Luwin, and him and Rickon part ways with no idea where either is heading, Bran has one last moment to look on Winterfell and find hope:

Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought, I’m not dead either.

Bran looks back at Winterfell, and because he’s able to see the unharmed Godswood and the Kings of Winter still seated on their thrones, he can understand it’s not dead, just like him. Again, a Stark is drawing strength from their connection to each other, and through a Godswood.

I Am Stronger Within the Walls of Winterfell

This next one, you’re probably thinking “but the show did adapt Sansa’s snow castle chapter”, and I’m here to tell you they didn’t. I could write an entire book on how that scene is the perfect example of how adaptations fail; they *technically* adapted it, with pretty much the same events, but it was completely stripped of its emotional impact and narrative importance. It is the perfect microcosm of why Game of Thrones was a bad adaptation of A Song of Ice and Fire, as well as how D&D consistently missed the emotional beats the Starks were supposed to have.

The show’s version of this chapter somehow centers it around Littlefinger, while simultaneously underselling the fact that Lysa killed Jon Arryn (they sandwiched this episode and scene between Tyrion’s trial and Oberyn’s death, when this chapter ends A Storm of Swords. All of the climaxes in that book, and GRRM saved this one for last). The end product is a rather forgettable scene that most people overlook.

In the book, this chapter is everything. It is the best chapter in asoiaf, and the best writing of anything ever. Period. And it’s a chapter centered around Sansa’s relationship to her home, to Winterfell. Unlike the very small castle of the show, Sansa spends hours building a castle big enough that she can step inside and continue building details. The fact that she can stay outside for hours, while several onlookers get too cold and go back inside, is a reminder that she is a Stark.

And this chapter is centered around a Godswood. The tree never took root, because the Eyrie is too high for weirwoods, but the courtyard Sansa’s in was meant to be a Godswood. And since she doesn’t have a real one, Sansa builds her own inside her snowy Winterfell.

Being up in the mountains is also the first time Sansa’s seen true snow since she said goodbye to Robb in Winterfell, and just the thought of it makes her dream of home and of memories with Bran and Arya. She wakes up having dreamed of home, and thinks she’s sleeping next to her sister until she wakes up enough to realize she’s not in Winterfell.

When Sansa’s alone with no real connection to home, she finds the closest thing to Winterfell (the failed Godswood) and builds her own. She literally gains strength from it:

She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.

Her home and her family give her strength to stand up to her abuser, just as Arya was able to escape the abuse of Harrenhal and Bran escaped the Boltons.

There is way more than these three instances, but these are the best examples of D&D failing to adapt the Starks as a pack, or as individuals with feelings. Of course the ending didn’t feel right emotionally, because we had no explanation for what emotions led our Starks to their destinies.

I’ll probably make a post specifically about this in a couple days or weeks, but I can see GRRM’s ending stuck within D&D’s sloppy rush to the end:

The first time Arya leaves Westeros, she leaves because she thinks all her family is dead or taken, and that Winterfell is gone forever. At the end, she’ll leave because she is sure her family loves her, and that she has a room in Winterfell whenever she wants to visit Good Queen Sansa. Arya is also fast to make friends of all different people, and would start her own pack of rogues as she travels the world.

Sansa won’t be alone because she, like Arya, is good at finding her own pack. (And GRRM has built his world out so extensively, it’s honestly a joke to think we could be in a crowded room and recognize no one). Sansa’s friends are her people. She throws feasts constantly, and like Ned, always has a seat at the High Table for the small folk. She has many ladies in waiting, true friends of hers that help her write songs and stories, and sew dresses. She is a good and kind Queen, and visits the Wall constantly as she helps the Lord Commander resettle the Gift.

King Bran the Wise (or ya know, just not broken) rules from his Weirwood Throne on the Isle of Faces, at the heart of his kingdom. After Daenerys burns King’s Landing, he moves the capital since The Red Keep was a monument to Aegon’s Conquest - a symbol of tyranny King Bran is trying to move forward from. He fills his council with highborn and lowborn alike. He constantly talks to his siblings; Sansa waits for him at the Godswood, and Arya and Jon see him through Ghost and Nymeria.

Just because they’re far in distance, doesn’t mean they aren’t a pack. They all know the others are safe, and that they’ll see see each other soon. GRRM will invest the right amount of time explaining the emotional beats of this ending to make it feel right. He cares so much about the Starks. He wrote them a whole epic fantasy because he saw Bran finding pups in the snow. He loves them more than we do, guys.

The Starks are the Giants!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#game of thrones #Sansa Stark #Arya Stark #bran stark #asoiaf meta #if you're wondering why Jon wasn't included #it's because that boy was a whole mess #needs his own post to explain the unique injustice that was done to him

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growingstronglikeahighgardenrose · 5 years ago

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A Fiery Wish

ASOIAF AU fic: A Fiery Wish

Jeyne Poole runs into the Brotherwood Without Banners on her way to the Boltons. Taking a leap of faith, she begs them for help upon seeing who she had once considered to be the most handsome man she’d ever seen: Beric Dondarrion. She is helped, but there’s a price to kindness. However, it’s one she’s willing to pay.

Beric Dondarrion x Jeyne Poole

For @asoiafrarepairs “A weekend in the Stormlands”

Just like all girls with big dreams, Jeyne Poole had been told to be careful what she wished for.

Yet, having been raised on the same steady diet of fairy tales and courtly lessons as Sansa Stark, even though Jeyne was only a steward’s daughter, she couldn’t help but dream about a romantic future with a dashing lord.

But now, standing in front of a ditchfire some distance removed from a gnarled old Weirwood tree, Jeyne belatedly understood the lesson they had tried to instil upon her.

‘Now comes Jeyne of House Poole, a woman grown and flowered, of noble blood and birth.’

There was no one to give her away. But it was preferable to being given away by one of the guards Lord Baelish had sent with her, their deaths were the best wedding gift she could have hoped for in this bleak new world.

Poor papa, she mourned, I had always expected you to give me away and have a first dance with me on my wedding day. She comforted herself with the knowledge that her mama and papa would not want to witness this moment anyway.

‘Who comes forth to claim this woman?’ the red priest in the faded red robes asked.

‘I do, Lord Beric of House Dondarrion.’ She could see him coming to stand next to her from her peripheral vision. In the dark he was even more of a ghost, his whole body swallowed by the faded and torn black cloak with stars. The stars gleamed ever so slightly in the light of the fire.

Once upon a time, nothing would have delighted her more than to marry him. She’d professed her fiery desire to Sansa.

But that had been in summer, it was autumn now.

x.X.x

Life was like the songs, Jeyne thought.

For a lovely couple of months, she’d been nothing short of happy. True, she was sad to miss Robb’s lovely face and gorgeous curls gleaming a dark red in the sunlight. But then in King’s Landing she’d gotten proper replacement in the form of Beric Dondarrion. Taller and older than Robb, and with hair an even brighter shade of red. In the sunlight, it reminded her of a flaming fire, and her girlish passions were quickly shifted towards the Lord of Blackhaven.

Now there was a real man awakening all kinds of female feelings within her.

‘Oh Jeyne he is handsome for sure, but I heard he is betrothed to Lady Dayne since a couple of years. Is there no unattached squire you would consider, or someone who’s part of an entourage?’ Sansa had asked her with all hesitancy and gentleness becoming of sweet friend. Jeyne had known the true meaning of her words though.

Yes, Beric Dondarrion was betrothed to another, but Sansa meant that Jeyne had set her sights too high. She didn’t mind though, she was young and in an exciting capitol she’d never even dreamed of visiting, she was fine with just dreaming about him.

The pink bubble of childhood had shattered with the prick of a needle, or rather a sword, a sword to Lord Eddard’s neck and another one in her father’s belly.

Life was not like a song, in the songs, the heroes win.

She’d paid dearly for those summer months and her own naivety with the blood of her father and her own dignity as Lord Baelish sent her to a brothel once all northernmen had been slaughtered. She saw things she never had expected to see. And did things she never wanted to do. Her cheeks had been stained with tears as she did them, but she had done them, until she did them well enough that Lord Baelish decided her education was complete. Her education was complete, but she felt dirty.

She didn’t feel like one of the princesses in the songs anymore. They had been good and pure and sweet. She was ruined, wary and weary.

He assigned her two men to return her to Winterfell. Sometimes she played the part of their sister, sometimes one’s wife, and sometimes their child. She didn’t look forward to returning home, news travelled fast on the Kingsroad. She’d heard about Robb and Catelyn activities in the Riverlands, Arya’s disappearance in Kings Landing and the deaths of the youngest Starks. They’d been no more than small boys when she left, she’d cursed Theon when she first heard about it. Sansa had never trusted them since Catelyn had never trusted him, and she in turn had never trusted the youth either.

She’d spent days thinking of ways to kill him, she’d seen enough death to know a couple of ways. She couldn’t even bemoan the loss of her sweetness and innocence, she’d lost it all so rapidly, and instead had come hate, fear and resignation. What home would she return to? There was none, she reasoned. She doubted Lord Baelish was bringing her home for her own sake, she hadn’t a lot of experience or knowledge, but she knew this much. There was only one reason why she’d been taught the things she was in a brothel before being sent to Lord Bolton. Baelish had a plan for her, and it didn’t include growing older until the war was over and her kin found a match for her.

Jeyne liked to believe she was no fool, she didn’t deny reality, but on the other hand there was no use to dwell on it, so oftentimes while on the road, she retreated to the realm of dreams, the only place where her life wasn’t miserable. In those dreams she dreamt of being saved on her way to the North by Lord Beric Dondarrion. She’d heard of his attacks on foraging parties in the woods. While on the road, she’d also heard of his deaths. She’d heard he’d been impaled by the Mountain, smashed with a mace, hanged by Ser Lorch, stabbed in the face by the Mountain and killed by Vargo Hoat. Each couple of weeks brought a new story of his death. She reasoned that the stories of his deaths had to be false, otherwise how could someone else claim to have killed him? On the other hand, reports were known to conflict, perhaps there’d been a battle in the woods somewhere, and everyone wanted to take credit for killing the hero who’d so bravely ended so many foraging parties. It didn’t matter to her, in her daydreams she created happy endings for the both of them.

So, on her trip to an uncertain destiny, expecting nothing but misery, she’d been shocked when their group was halted halfway through the woods by a band of criminals. They had to be criminals, she reasoned, they looked poor and dirty. The second they stopped, weapons were drawn by all. Her party was hopelessly outnumbered.

This was her death, she reasoned, she couldn’t even be very surprised or emotional about it.

That had been until a man slowly walked onto the middle of the road, previously hidden in shadows.

She recognized him immediately, even though he looked nothing like she remembered, time had removed every blemish and imperfection he had ever had from her memory, making the present version of him look all the more jarring.

His hair had grown to his shoulders, and the clothes which had without a doubt once looked magnificent were now worn through and stained with blood and dirt. He still wore his black shield and breastplate, though both carried holes.

How could they have holes of that size when he was standing there? Nothing could have pierced them without injuring him. He must have grown a lot better at fighting, if he managed to be attacked in such ways and walk away alive.

He had never been a broad man by any means, but was now a scarecrow. He must have been hungry often, she thought as he came to a standstill.

‘Have no fear, good people, we shall not harm you, we only seek money for our cause. Surely, you have some to spare. I swear it will go to food for the poor smallfolk, and the orphans we are housing’, he announced good-naturedly.

There was no recognition in his eye. The other was covered by dirty cloth. She remembered a story of how the Mountain had pierced it.

So that had been true, she noted. Upon consideration, did not the hole in his breastplate resemble the damage a lance would have made? He had fought the Mountain, but he’d survived. Jeyne remembered how he’d been unhorsed twice at the Tourney. A man who was unhorsed that easily would be knocked out by the Mountain in a minute.

He must have learned a lot while on the road, she mused. Before he had been but a young untried youth, experience had aged him, but the time had brought him experience and skill if he could now hold himself against the Mountain.

He might not remember me, but surely if he still defends the smallfolk and helps orphans, he will help me as well, she reasoned.

That minute she decided placing her fate in his hands was preferable to continuing her way to Winterfell. Perhaps she risked dying, but there were no guarantees awaiting her at Winterfell either.

‘Lord Beric’, she brought out. ‘I am pleased to see you alive, my lord.’

Confusion clouded his face, and she could feel her guards tensing. She had chosen wrong, but she could not go back now. She had chosen her fate.

‘Who speaks?’ asked a low voice before a man joined Lord Beric. He was skinnier than she remembered, and now had a thick grey beard, but he too wore some clothes she remembered.

‘Ser Thoros’, she greeted.

‘I remember your face,’ he admitted, a shine coming into his eyes, ‘but I cannot recall where I met you’, the red priest answered honestly.

‘My name is Jeyne Poole, I was in Kings Landing together with Lord Stark and his daughters.’

‘And finally on your way home. Kings Landing has turned traitorous, no doubt you will be glad to go home. Although, your entourage looks rather small, were the Northerners not with more?’

The men accompanying her could not hide the absence of Northern banners, and the lack of people could not be explained either. She knew he had already concluded something was up.

‘Actually, Ser, this is all that’s left of us. It is only me, the others, including my father, were killed. Luckily Lord Baelish was so kind as to send me back home with some of his fine men. Since I am their prisoner I cannot decide about giving you money, but perhaps if you ask them, they would not mind giving you some.’

The situation turned quickly. She could feel the press of a blade against her throat. The men closest to the carriage froze.

‘Let us go, or we will kill her’, her guard threatened.

They wouldn’t, she knew, because if they did not deliver her to the Boltons, Lord Baelish would see to it that they were adequately punished.

From between the trees, an arrow rushed past, and she could feel the impact through the blade and arms around her, before the grip of the guard slackened. He dropped dead. The other didn’t even have time to draw his sword before he was pulled from the cart by a tall burly man with a yellow cloak. The sickening wet crunch of an axe followed mere seconds after.

‘Thank you, my Lord, you are too kind, you can have as much of the money as you want’, she quickly said.

‘We help those in need, and we do not take kindly to pawns being played by the ruthless schemers of King’s Landing. However, my lady, this now leaves you without protectors while the roads to the North are treasonous’, the once handsome lord said.

‘There’s nothing for me in the North. I only wish to be safe. I cannot expect you to help me, but I would be forever in your debt if someone could bring me to a house loyal to the Starks. I will manage from there onwards, and I will sent money to you if I can.’

‘We are flattered by your kindness, my lady. If you don’t mind, we could take you to the Crossroads Inn to discuss your options.’

Having little choice, Jeyne nodded, and after the arms and clothes of her guards were distributed amongst what she was now introduced to as the Brotherhood without Banners, she followed them hither and was surprised to see it was the Bellringer Inn where she’d stayed on her way to King’s Landing. Just like they’d told, the inn was the home to many orphans who were being looked after by the innkeeper and his family.

Jeyne and Willow Heddle had grown a lot since she last saw them, and were now quite protective of the children. Despite her future being uncertain, she felt at ease for the first time in months during the two hours she spent there talking to the girls and playing with the small children. But then Thoros and Beric had come to her with an unexpected offer.

‘Here is the thing, my lady, you could do us a great service. Though admittedly it is a lot we ask of you. But we see ourselves forced to ask’, Thoros had announced. What followed was the most incredible conversation of Jeyne’s life.

They explained what they had been doing ever since Lord Stark had sent them on that mission about a year ago. They told her how they had been so preoccupied with their task, they had not thought about the future until recently. It had been decided that if possible, Lord Dondarrion had to marry quickly, to no matter which fertile lady of noble birth would be willing, since he was the only male Dondarrion. He had been promised years ago, but he could not go home to marry, and his present lifestyle did not guarantee he would live long enough to father children and continue his line.

Jeyne understood where the conversation was going, and reasoned that by taking his cloak, she would get the protection of his name, and would have a home in Blackhaven.

He was no longer the young dashing knight she’d dreamt of. Time had not been kind to him, but his hair was still red, his eye still blue, his nose straight, his manner dignified and courtly, she could do so much worse.

But as soon as she agreed, strong spirits were called for, and she was instructed to take two glasses with them before the conversation continued. But no spirits could have prepared her for the story that followed, as the red priest explained how children were by no means a certainty, even though that was the whole intention of the marriage.

And that’s when the last devasting blow came: Lord Beric had been mortally wounded five times, but had been revived by a magical kiss of the red priest each time. They did not know how the magic worked, they only knew he kept on coming back, though each time he seemed to lose a bit more of himself.

No wonder he did not recognize me, Jeyne thought, if he cannot even remember his betrothed or his home. She would marry to the corpse of the man who had filled her dreams. She took the third offered drink, and the fourth, before she concluded that it mattered not. Although no one, not even he himself knew how much of a man he still was, he was still more of a man than most.

They were married in a small local sept, and wedding certificates were signed by Jeyne, Lord Beric, the local septon, Ser Thoros and Edric Dayne who served as witnesses. The certificates were decorated with a wax seal Lord Beric had stamped his signet ring onto. Copies were sent to Winterfell, King’s Landing and Blackhaven, and another copy was kept in the sept. All would know the wedding had Dinner place.

Supper was had in the inn, before the party went out into the woods, where they knew there to be a Weirwood tree to honour Jeyne’s gods. While honouring her religion, the couple would partake in the wedding ceremony of the God of Light, as he had saved Lord Beric many times, it was deemed as necessary, lest they anger him.

x.X.x

‘Lord Beric,’ asked Thoros, ‘will you share your fire with Jeyne, and warm her when the night is dark and full of terrors?’

Jeyne looked to him for a second. In the dark, from the side she was standing on, he still looked normal. He had bathed, and his hair looked soft and glowing. The gauntness of his face was shielded by his beard. The expression in his eye was gentle.

‘I swear it’, he promised with a comforting smile aimed at Jeyne. ‘I swear by the red god’s flames, I shall warm her all her days.’

She bit her lip. She doubted the statement. If he carried on like he had before, he would die again soon. How many deaths would it take him to forget her? After how many deaths would there be nothing to bring back?

‘Lady Jeyne, do you swear to share your fire with Beric, and warm him when the night is dark and full of terrors?’

‘Until his blood is boiling’, she promised, her hands nervously clutching her old cloak. She wondered whether she would have to work hard on making his blood boil to prepare him for their union.

Thoros nodded.

‘Very well. Then come to me and be as one.’

Lord Beric took her hand.

‘Are you ready, my lady?’

He turned to her fully, the scarred side of his face now in plain view, all unevenness highlighted by the unflattering light of the flames. She tried to smile, and strengthened her hold on his hand.

There were fates worse than this.

Side by side they leapt over the ditch.

‘Two went into the flames, one emerges. What fire joins, none may put asunder.’

She took his cloak as the brotherhood cheered. She wondered if their cheers were honest, or if they merely encouraged the awkward newlyweds out of tradition.

They returned from the woods, and were given one of the cosiest and warmest rooms on the third level of the inn. A decanter filled with white wine awaited her as she prepared for bed. She downed a couple of glassed as she recalled her experiences in the brothel. They would serve her well. Her hands searched through the clothes Lord Baelish had sent with her. She didn’t know whose whore he had intended her to play, but the translucent shifts he’d given her would serve the purpose no matter whose wife she had become.

x.X.x

The marcherlord looked awkward as he entered their room. A piece of fabric had been tied around his eye and the pinpricks the mace had left on his head were covered by his hair. She didn’t even see the scar anymore.

‘Welcome, my lord.’

His eyes travelled to her as she sat upon the bed, hands stroking the soft sheets. They weren’t as soft as the ones in King’s Landing, but they were softer than the other ones she’d had on the road.

‘I haven’t slept in a bed for a long while’, he admitted. It sounded sad. She wondered if he could even remember it.

‘Well, I am afraid to inform you that I shall not sleep on the floor to accommodate your habits’, she decided with a smile before standing up to take his hand. It felt warm enough, and this heartened her.

‘Come and try for yourself, my lord. I believe myself to be familiar enough with beds to confidently give this one my seal of approval. It is quite soft, and does not appear to be plagued with fleas.’

He smiled at that, and allowed her to drag him to the bed.

‘I shall trust your judgement, my lady.’

‘Do you… Wish to…’ She didn’t know how to continue, and was struck with fear again.

‘I do not recall whether I’ve done this before.’

‘Perhaps… We could talk first?’ she offered. ‘So we are strangers no more.’

He agreed, and took off his boots before they laid down on the bed together, she sharing stories about what happened after Lord Stark’s death, and he sharing stories about his present life. After some time, she decided it was time to try and push them towards a union.

‘You know, I was quite attracted to you before’, she admitted with no little amount of blushing.

‘Were you?’ he asked in amazement.

She nodded, taking his hands. They were normal hands. She could see a faint scar running over his left, but they were warm and otherwise unmarred.

‘When I first saw you at the Tourney of the Hand, I believed myself to be quite in love with you already.’

‘I was betrothed back then.’

‘As you were hours ago, yet we married.’

He smiled sadly at that.

‘Your betrothal did not make you any less dashing. I heard many ladies whispering about you’, she continued. No man, not even one like him, could be anything but amused by such a notion, and Lord Beric appeared to be impressed that he once held such sway, as he recalled but little.

‘I sound like quite a heartbreaker.’

‘Oh you were,’ she admitted with a smile, ‘and you were quite cocky too. I once heard someone say that when a guard asked you whether you would participate in the tourney, you announced you had come to win it.’

‘Ah, as arrogant as I was handsome once’, he smirked.

She lifted his hands to her chest. Her heart was beating wildly. She shut down her thoughts when they started wondering about the state of his.

‘Oh quite. But you do not strike me as particularly arrogant now’, she complimented.

His eyes wandered to where his hands pressed against her breast. She could feel the air growing charged.

‘Perhaps one of the few, if not the only, upside to what I’ve been through. I’ve not bothered to look in a mirror lately,’ he confessed before pulling back his hands, ‘but I think I am still as handsome as I am arrogant. Am I not, my lady?’

‘Jeyne’, she breathed as she pushed herself up to her knees.

‘I know that Joffrey was as beautiful as he was arrogant, and he ordered to have all Northerners killed. I know Ser Loras is handsome but his courtesy is cold and his arrogance is great. Beauty is a great deal less important than character. And if the price of beauty is arrogance, I could live with a little less beauty. Even so, as you said yourself, you do not know what you look like. Perhaps I could tell you, Beric?’ she offered as she pulled him upright.

She would rather sleep with him while he had his clothes on. She didn’t want to see whatever his clothes hid from her after months of fighting and dying. Yet she knew she must disrobe him. And she must seduce him while undressing him, without looking horrified lest she ruin the mood.

You wanted to marry him, now you have him, you’ve even dreamt of this exact moment, she told herself, just pretend he is like you imagined him.

At the sound of his name, he came alive and sat upright. He was as hungry for knowledge about his previous life as he was scared of it. She knew she had to tread carefully.

‘When I first saw you at the Tourney of the hand, your hair was red like fire, with strokes of orange where the sun had lightened it’, she explained as she let her finger slip through his hair to hold a strand in front of his face. ‘it’s still the exact same colour. It was just a bit muted because you hadn’t washed it in so long’, she smiled.

‘Your frame was quite slim, as it is now’, she explained as she undid the belt from which a dagger hung.

‘You’re just a bit slimmer since you’ve lost weight travelling without resting or eating properly. Just like Ser Thoros.’

She unbuttoned his jerkin and pushed it over his shoulders.

‘You didn’t have a beard yet, it’s new, but it suits you. It’s quite befitting of a rugged man saving fair maidens in the woods. Like Ser Robin in the tales of yore’, she encouraged while stroking his beard. She pushed forward and hesitantly brushed her lips against his.

He was unresponsive for a couple of seconds, before he mimicked the movement of her lips. It felt weird and mechanical, but she wouldn’t allow that to stop her.

She moved her hands to his hair, pulling him towards her before she slung a leg over his to straddle him.

‘You’ve got your injuries, but I doubt many men will come out of these wars unscathed.’ She pressed her lips against his throat, rocking her hips slowly.

‘Out on the roads, I dreamt that a courteous knight would come to my rescue.’

‘I doubt I’m much like the knights in those tales.’

‘Are you not? You saved me from an uncertain fate, and you are constantly putting your life on the line for the smallfolk. You rescue children orphaned by war. You are still chivalrous, and you will not even ask for an annulment if we do not accomplish what we set out to do. While everyone out there is fighting for some grand lord, you are defending those who cannot defend themselves, and punishing those who deserve to be punished. They should make a song or two about you’, she complimented him. She meant it too.

‘I’ll let you in on a secret. I dreamt you would come to my rescue.’

His smile faltered as her hands hesitated to lift his tunic.

‘I don’t know how much of a man I still am, Jeyne.’

‘And I don’t know how much of a lady I still am, Lord Baelish stole a large chunk of my innocence. The war stole our lives, but if we lose our hopes, dreams and ourselves, the war will have won. I won’t let the war take who I am on the inside, and I won’t let it steal my dreams, not when it has already taken so much’, she proclaimed full of conviction.

She took his face between her hands, taking in every detail of his face, and committing it to her memory, pushing away all perfect memories. This would have to be her dream. This was the Lord Beric she’d gotten. The old Lord Beric would never have been hers. Her dreams had been broken, she had been broken, it was only fair she allowed him to be a bit broken too.

‘Let us pretend, within the walls of this chamber, our dreams were granted to us, and we both got our happy ending. You can be a man with me, I will always see you as one. I don’t know your betrothed, and I know I am not much, but I promise I shall try and be a good wife to you.’

‘My lady Jeyne… Jeyne, you are not little. You are one of the most beautiful young ladies I have seen that I can remember. You are brave, honest, sweet and true. I know any man would be glad to have you.’

She did not have to pretend so much when she kissed him then. She pressed her body against his, and let her hands roam over his clothes.

She tried to mimic what she’d seen other women do to men, rocking their bodies against them and getting them roused by the touch of their hands.

Lord Beric finally stopped fighting, and put away his conflicted emotions regarding himself. He tried to answer her touches as well as she could, and she in turn responded to his actions as encouragingly as possible.

She didn’t know when it happened, only that by the time it did, she had grown near desperate, but she finally felt a twitch in his lap. She wasted no time pulling him down and under the covers with her.

She pulled at his final clothing pieces, and shoved her hand down to encourage what had started to grow.

Please, she begged, please work.

She did not know, even if they managed to complete the act, if they could get pregnant. But she tried not to dwell on it. Instead, her imagination tried to envision a small child with blazing red hair and piercing blue eyes. She clung to it, and noted with satisfaction they were close to perhaps finding out if that was a viable dream.

She guided him on top of her then, and gave him an encouraging smile.

He was warm against her, his arms solid. She took all the comfort from it she could. She hadn’t been held in a long time. And no one had been kind to her in a long time either.

Just one child, that’s all I ask for, a son. She prayed to the old gods that her wish was heard.

She tried to put all her feelings into her thrusts, all her wishes for children, her wishes for a loving marriage, her fiery wishes for him.

He’d been brought back to life by fire, and was then given to her, her burning desire answered.

She gasped for breath when she felt his hand travel south.

‘I… I remember’, he rasped. ‘Shouldn’t I?’

A lady shouldn’t answer, yet she did and begged him to continue. She’d never before found her own release, but now felt her belly burning, and she could even feel her own heartbeat down there.

A strangled moan escaped her lips before she could silence it. A wave of heat flowed through her, reaching every fingertip. She could feel her heartbeat throbbing everywhere now, as waves of pleasure wracked through her body.

The candles were dying one by one, and the light was burning low. The only thing she could see was the gleam of copper in his hair, the only thing she could hear the sound of his breathing, and the only thing she could feel was his body. There was no world outside, and for a while, her dream was real and tangible as she placed her hands on his back.

A sharp intake of breath awakened her, and her eyes zoomed in on his face before she felt it, the pulsing sensation between her legs.

It had happened. She’d tried to believe it would happen, but she was surprised all the same.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, keeping him inside of her.

‘See, we can be normal’, she whispered as unshed tears burned her eyes.

She could feel his lips against his cheek and felt some wetness there, the tears had already escaped.

‘I wish I would forever remember this.’

‘You can,’ she said passionately, ‘you lose memories when you die. You can still fight for the cause while practicing more care… And by staying away from men ten times your size and strength. Please, think of me. Think of me often, and return to me as much as you can, as long as you can.’

‘I’ll try’, he agreed.

x.X.x

They decided they would not wait to see whether their effort had paid off, and upon Jeyne waking up in the middle of the night and finding her husband awake, they started again, and once more in the morning.

He was slow to rise, as if his body had to remember it was in fact human and belonging to a man, but they managed to rouse his member three times, and successfully reached his climax twice before they left their chamber.

Thoros decided it was a goal well worth a few days, and so Lord Beric remained near the inn for two weeks, with him helping to rebuild houses for the smallfolk and Jeyne trying to teach the children to read and write during the day, and going to their chamber together at night. He was still awkward and stiff, though never anything but gallant. One day the red priest took her apart to enquire after her marriage, when she assured him she was perfectly satisfied, and hopeful, he confided in her that not too long ago, Beric Dondarrion had admitted to being resurrected so many times that he could not even remember his favourite food or the man who knighted him and being weary of it all. Jeyne had seen that weariness many times by then, as if he was still surprised to find himself alive each day, but she saw him smiling more often towards the end of their second week of marriage.

Perhaps he’d been so focussed on living for a goal, he’d forgotten to live for himself, Jeyne thought.

After two weeks, whatever fairy-tale Jeyne had been living in had ended, and goodbyes were in order. She didn’t allow herself to cry, but she presented him with a bouquet of forget-me-nots and an embroidered eye-patch with his coat of arms on it, ‘lest you forget’, she’d smiled. He’d given her a last kiss then, and departed. He made her no promises, and she did not get her hopes up on seeing him again. His lifestyle did not allow him to promise his own survival, and nobody knew how great the red magician’s fire magic was.

She kept herself useful and occupied, so useful she did not even notice the flurry in the courtyard when a couple of men of the brotherhood arrived until Young Jeyne called her. She quickly rushed downstairs with her to receive the news that her husband had bumped into a scrawny young kid and the hound. They would have taken them to a certain cave somewhere in the woods, but Lord Beric had decided to see his wife again, and wondered whether she could verify the identity of the kid. The men had travelled in advance to make sure there were no Lannister men currently residing in the inn before Lord Beric arrived with the Hound and the kid. Satisfied with the negative answer, they left again, and arrived not long after.

The man was the hound, undeniably, and she was shocked to see the “kid” Jack-Be-Lucky had been talking about. Her hair was short and shielded the round youthfulness of her face and the tell-tale grey eyes of House Stark, but one who grew up with her could easily see the girl was Arya Stark. She promptly forgot all the cruelness and hard feelings that had grown naturally between young girls with clashing characters having to live together, and cried out her name, running towards her and throwing her arms around her tiny figure.

She reeked and was so filthy she would need at least two baths before her skin became visible through the layers of caked dirt, but Jeyne’s joy could not and would not be reigned in. Arya, long believed missing, was alive and well.

‘Jeyne?’ Arya peeped, eyes warily taking in the older girl. She nodded with a smile.

‘That settles it then, your claims have been true Clegane’, Lord Beric decided as he dismounted his horse.

‘Told you’, the hound rasped. The look he threw her and Arya made her shiver, but she didn’t budge.

‘I take it you would both like a good meal’, Lord Beric offered.

‘Perhaps a bath first’, Jeyne supplied.

Both new guests sputtered, but begrudgingly agreed in the end.

She noticed Ser Thoros kept his eyes firmly fixed upon her that evening, and right as she was about to go to her rooms, he called for her.

‘Can you do your duty tonight?’ he asked gently.

Her cheeks burned red as she asked why she wouldn’t be able to.

‘Only that it would be natural for you to bleed perhaps, if you haven’t already.’

Jeyne froze and counted. And counted again. She’d had her flow a week before meeting the brotherhood without banners. She should have had them already. Should have had them weeks ago. She battled against the smile fighting its way to her face.

‘I still have to carry it to term, ser. Let us not celebrate. Many pregnancies are lost the first few moons. And I may yet lose my life before the nineth moon rises.’

‘Yet it is a good sign we even got this far, my lady. Perhaps you should tell your lord husband tonight.’

She did, and even though his face lost all symmetry as the wounded side tried to smile along with the good side, she could not but bring herself to feel joy at seeing him. A part of his face still made her fear, but she put those foolish fears aside. She made him swear to return to her, when he told her he would be going to the Twins.

‘No foolishness. No danger, no stupid sacrificing of your own life, understood? I rather want you to run than be slain. Your life is useful. If you run away you can help hundreds of others still, and be there for me.’

Months passed, and the fourth moon after her marriage, she could finally show him the signs of their successful union when he returned to the inn. Their reunion was not joyful though, as he brought the news of Lady Starks and King Robb’s deaths. They told her how they’d fished Lady Stark out of the river, and how Lord Beric had pleaded with Thoros to give her the kiss of life. But the man had refused, saying it had been too long. Beric had been mad with rage then, but gave the Lady the funeral the Tully’s had always given their own.

That had been the night she finally felt bold enough to lift his tunic, though she wished she hadn’t, because she could never have her ignorance back. Three deaths had been visible, although the second was always shielded by his hair and the bruises around his neck had been ignorable. But a lost eye was an average wound, and his thinness she could very well deal with, but the large ugly purple stitches where he’d been impaled by a lance and struck by a blade did look too awful to survive. It had been the starkest evidence that he should not have been alive.

She’d had nightmares that evening, wondering what effect his deaths and magical revivals would have and how it would affect their child.

‘I just… I always try to tell myself that all will be well, if I pray enough… but I can’t. I worry. I worry so much. I worry for you, for me, our child, my family, the world. I don’t know what powers there are in this world, all I know is that I do not underestimate the powers of the lord of light, but I fear. And I can’t help but fear. I dare not make plans, I dare not look at the future. But it’s so hard to live in an eternal present, when there’s a future within you’, she hiccupped as her hands cradled her belly.

‘I cannot promise you anything, nor shall I comfort you when I know all comforting words will be lies. But I promised to be there for you when the night is dark and full of terrors. I’ve seen those terrors, and I understand your fears. But let us pray, let us pray, that there is a merciful god out there’, he told her, cradling her belly with his own hands.

‘Please be safe. I want you to be safe.’

‘I want that too. I want to be in the future this little one is preparing for’, he admitted softly.

The lands became more quiet once the Starks were dead and Edmure Tully had been handed over to the Lannisters. The war seemed to move to the Crownlands. Although the Riverlands were still scorched and ruined, with bandits lurking everywhere, it was preferable to how it used to be. It also meant that her husband, who had died every two to three months before meeting her, had not died in the nine months he’d been with her.

But winter was coming, and a week after the first snow had fallen, she was placed on a boat.

‘I’ve never sailed before’, she admitted to her lord husband, who had been quietly watching her as she saw the shore growing smaller.

‘I can’t remember sailing either’, he admitted.

‘You’ll finally be home again.’

‘An image to attach to the name’, he nodded. ‘Blackhaven.’

‘You will like it, my lord’, Edric Dayne said.

‘It is a beautiful castle.’

‘As long as it proves to be a safe one’, he answered morosely.

Edric Dayne nodded.

‘You could keep it safe?’ Jeyne suggested softly, her gloved hand connecting with the cold one of her husband. He did not mind the cold. Did not even notice it.

‘You know I cannot. I have a duty. To the realm.’

‘No one else appears to have a duty to it’, Jeyne answered bitterly.

Life was not like a song, there were no real heroes, and justice did not win.

She had given up on her girlish fantasies, she now only wished to keep the few small dreams she had alive.

They were not much. She only wished to survive with Lord Beric, and deliver their child safely.

A dream of spring. A season in which all suffering and hardships became a thing of the past.

‘All the more reason for me to return. It is not that I do not care for you, my love. But we are but three, and they are many. It is selfish to only care for the three of us, if I can keep you two safe and take care of hundreds of others at the same time as well.’

He pressed a soft kiss on her cheek, and offered her as much love as he could during their trip.

Kisses, touches, she treasured them all. And wrote everything down in a diary she had started on the day the boat had left the harbour.

She wrote down everything he said and everything he did. All the ways he was damaged, and all the ways he was not. She tried sketching him, not that she was very good.

She knew that he risked dying. She knew the odds of him surviving were almost non-existent, they had been since before they married.

Wedged between the Red Mountains stood a castle with black basalt walls. Around the castle ran a moat. She could not see the bottom of it. It was a black abyss. But as bottomless as the moat appeared to be, so limited was the castle. There were two rows of protective walls, in which the staff of the castle lived, unperturbed by the war.

In the middle stood a small castle, nowhere near as grand or beautiful as the castle of King’s Landing. It also didn’t feel as ancient or look as architecturally stunning as Winterfell. But it was cosy, its rooms warm, even despite the winter cold. The castle had been built to keep all elements out, not only the heat, and all rooms had great hearths.

It felt like a home, she reasoned.

When Beric first entered the room that had once been his, Jeyne had wept in his stead. The sheets were unchanged, only covered up by a white blanket to ward off the dust. On the desk in his solar lay the letters he had left behind, having intended only to stay for the Tourney of the Hand all those years ago.

His clothes were large on him now, but the fresh set of clothes his size and befitting of his station were more than welcome. And the sheets, where they had lain on top of eachother, still held the perfume he’d last worn years ago, he’d recognized it, despite not even knowing he had once worn it.

In the room where he had once dined with his parents hung a portrait of him, and on another a mirror, the starkest reminder of who he had once been, and who he was now.

He had not been born amongst the ashes of the battlefield, he had been borne there, amidst solid stone, and had been raised by good parents.

It did not feel like a home to him, but it did to her. He was reminded of what he had forgotten, she saw what the castle had once been and could be again; a home to a noble family.

On the fifth day, once he had ensured all residents and the surrounding folk he lived, was married and had only received some scars, he left.

Life was like a song, Jeyne reasoned.

The fair maiden was rescued.

Evil lost.

The good side won.

And heroes died bravely while defending those who couldn’t protect themselves.

That’s where the stories ended.

Right after the good part.

Jeyne had the good part. Then came the rest of her life.

Twins with bright red hair.

No coffin to burry her husband, all the dead had been buried.

And the Spring she had wished for, in which her children could grow up safe.

#asoiafrare #asoiafrarepairs #jeyne poole #beric dondarrion

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wolfqueen-is-here · 6 years ago

Text

Kisses Remembered, Kisses Forgotten (Jonsa Secret Santa 2018)

Dearest @moonchildslife, I am so sorry for my delay, Christmas was crazier than I expected, and I didn’t finish my gift on time. But it is here now, and I hope you don’t find it too terrible ;). I wish you a wonderful year with Jonsa becoming canon in April and our fandom wishes coming true. Be happy, be healthy, be yourself! <3

Many thanks to @jonsasecretsanta2018 who made all of this happen, you truly are amazing!

A/N Don’t be alarmed by a brief mention of the Hound. I promise you, it has nothing to do with SanSan in any way except mentioning The Un-Kiss. Book!canon, but mostly show!canon, can be interpreted both as a filler and an AU. 2300 words

Kisses Remembered, Kisses Forgotten

Every now and then Sansa remembers, even though she has tried so hard to leave the past behind. The Hound was rough and scary, but the kiss that he took left a lingering taste on her lips—it was as soft as snow, almost familiar, she’s caught herself missing the shy affection that came with the kiss, a wary touch so vulnerable it felt almost childish. She remembers the kiss that he took. The only thing she doesn’t remember is him taking it.

Every night feels longer and darker than the former ones. It isn’t until she jumps from Winterfell walls that she remembers how to feel warm again, but the road north is as cold as ice and covered in snow. “His lips felt warm”, she thinks as she runs towards her freedom. “The kiss that he took, it felt warm.”

There are times when she is almost certain that she gave it willingly.

—

“You look cold,” Jon says after staring at her in silence for a good half an hour. It would annoy her beyond reason, were it anyone else, anyone less trustworthy, anyone less… Jon, but coming from him it’s almost flattering. No one has ever cared for her so since she’d lost Father. Not once until this very moment has she felt safe since then.

“I’m okay,” she smiles. His unblinking eyes refuse to leave hers even for a second as if she’d vanish otherwise. Sansa leans towards him and strokes the inside of his palm with her thumb. It’s the most innocent of caresses, but it makes Jon stiffen and finally lower his head. She misses the stare instantly. “I’m okay, Jon.”

She tastes his name on her tongue. It feels rough—when was the last time she used it? —but sweeter than all the cake she’s ever had. She wants to swallow it, possess it, make it hers. “Jon,” she muses. “Jon. My Jon.”

If it’s something more primal than sisterly affection, she doesn’t recognise it in time. It may occur to her later, but it will be too late.

—

The first night that she spends at Castle Black is a sleepless one. The shadows are long when she paces aimlessly around the room, too exhausted to fall asleep, too cold to lie still. Knocking at the door alerts her at first—she’s not used to feeling safe yet—she whispers: “Who’s there?” so quietly as if she were hoping nobody would answer.

“It’s me,” Jon says.

She lets him in.

“Do you have everything that you need?” he asks, looking at her with a strange longing.

Had it been more fitting, she’d say: “I have you,” but in their current situation she’d stumble over the words for certain. Instead, she just invites him to stay—just sit next to her and not talk until the sun rises and the shadows go back under her bed. They repeat it every night after that, it seems to comfort both of them.

—

Jon’s eyes follow Sansa as he tries to find something—anything—that would remind him of a little girl she used to be. Her skirts dance when she rocks her hips, walking around Castle Black like she’d lived here all her life. He wants to avert his gaze but finds it impossible. She’s grown so tall, so slender—so beautiful.

“She’s your sister,” he thinks angrily, hiding his face in his hands. “You are not allowed to look at her like that.”

There were times, many lives ago, when they were only children. Sansa’s hair was more orange than auburn, Jon’s face—smooth, not a trace of beard or scars on it. They both called lord Eddard Stark their father. They both walked around holding Robb’s hand. They both watched Bran fall asleep while they were singing lullabies. Both, yes, but not—together.

When he tries to think about their lives before everything happened, before he went north and she went south, he keeps coming back to that one particular memory. And he’s not allowed to remember it. Not ever.

“She’s your sister,” he thinks, but as her lips move while she’s telling him another story, he watches. The redness of them almost provocative, they look like she’s been biting them for the past few hours. It’s a mesmerising set of colours: her lips with a raspberry tint, screaming to be tasted, licked, devoured; her eyes, deep blue almost exactly like the ones that used to follow him with disdain when he was nothing more than a bastard boy, but there’s no disdain in Sansa’s eyes, only hope. Her fair complexion contrasts with the dark streaks of her auburn hair, almost brown in the dimly lit room. Jon quashes the need to cup Sansa’s cheek and stroke it with his fingers, to check if her soft, unwavering beauty isn’t only a product of his hallucinations. He wouldn’t dare.

—

Sansa enters the dining room when there’s barely anyone left. A few wildlings share a horn of ale, laughing. There’s also Edd sitting in the furthest, darkest corner, and he looks really down—Edd always looks down, that’s an inherent part of his personality, “The defining part”, Tormund insists, but Sansa doesn’t care, because Edd, albeit rather shy, is kind and caring, and that’s more than she could expect from a stranger. The wildlings terrify her still, she doesn’t know their customs, they’re far too loud and bold for her taste, so she chooses to cross the room and take a sit in front of Edd.

They don’t talk, there’s no need for it. Sansa eats her soup, wondering whether Jon has already eaten, and Edd just keeps staring at the ceiling. Weirdly, his silent presence comforts Sansa more than any words could.

When everybody leaves, Sansa reaches for Edd’s half-empty horn and moves her hand up and down its uneven surface. It’s become apparent these past few days that sleep refuses to come easily for her at Castle Black, and when she finally drifts off after hours of rolling over from side to side, her dreams are filled with memories—but are they real? Are they hers?

She doesn’t think about the Hound that often. He’s been a big part of her life when she was a prisoner in King’s Landing, but her fascination with his tragic story faded and went by long ago. She cannot remember his face anymore, only the scars, she doesn’t even know if she’d be glad to see him again. The memories of him and the torments from the Lannisters became too inseparable in her mind, and that’s why she doesn’t want to think of him or imagine their meeting.

Not now. Not ever.

Then why is her brain so set on bringing back the memory of the kiss? She can feel a sweet breath on her chin every morning when she wakes up from her blurry dreams—why is it sweet? Wasn’t the Hound monumentally drunk that night?—she can taste it, again and again. Her first kiss, that one thing she knows for sure. She’d gotten a few pecks from Joffrey, yes, they should probably count as first, but somehow it doesn’t feel right.

She closes her eyes and clasps her hands around the horn.

“I thought you weren’t fond of our ale,” Jon says, suddenly very close—how did he get so close without Sansa hearing his steps? Did she black out again?

“I heard it helps to forget.”

“It does,” his voice sounds worried, “for a while. It doesn’t make your past go away.”

Sansa raises her head and their eyes lock immediately as if they’re a couple of lovers always on a mission to find each other.

“For a while,” she repeats. “Sounds better than never.”

The ale tastes much worse than she remembered it—it’s bitter and stale, and reeks of old, damp barrels—but her lips don’t leave the edge of the horn until it’s empty. Jon’s eyes move to her throat as she swallows and stay there even after she’s finished.

At first, she doesn’t think anything’s changed—the same emptiness fills her, the same desperation—but minutes pass as they sit opposite one another in silence, and her head finally starts to feel both lighter and heavier, her thoughts stir inside her brain, but never fully form. It’s a bliss. It’s a curse.

She sits in the middle of a meadow, it’s late summer. The winds got chilly but she’s got a blanket around her arms. She’s knitted it herself. She’s content. She’s happy. She’s Queen Naerys Targaryen.

“Are you alright? That’s quite a lot of ale you just inhaled,” Jon murmurs, gently touching her arm. Sansa looks up and smiles at him.

“I’ll be fine,” she answers. “I’ll be fine, Jon. You can go to sleep, you look tired.”

He laughs hoarsely and it makes Sansa’s belly tighten.

“Not until I see you safely tucked under your furs.”

He approaches her with his back straight and a sword at his side. Where did he get that sword, she thinks briefly but continues to look at his beaming face.

“I’ve come to rescue you, my Queen.”

“You can’t, my love,” she says, remembering to dress her face in the deepest, most regal shade of sadness. “We’re bound to our fate forever. You’ve made your vows, as I have made mine.”

He kneels before her. He’s brave, he’s gentle, he’s strong. He’s Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.

Sansa tries to stand up all too quickly, her head spins violently and she has to hold on to the table to avoid falling. She can barely feel her legs and her arms—how strong was that ale?—but the burning hotness of Jon’s hand on her lower back, oh, that she feels.

“Careful,” he says, pulling her closer and throwing her arm around his neck. “You’re still much too weak to start drinking so heavily. Don’t let go, alright? I’m going to walk you to your chambers now.”

And he proceeds to do just that.

When Sansa lies in bed feeling truly sleepy for the first time since she’s reached Castle Black on her dying horse, she suddenly remembers everything.

His face is just inches away. He’s wearing his hair pulled tightly in the back like a true adult, but he’s been playing with swords all day and a few strands have escaped the knot, hanging loosely around his face. She feels the urge to curl one of them around her finger but before she decides to make a move, he leans in and kisses her on the lips.

It surprises her—the lightness of it as much as the act itself. “It’s not wrong as long as I’m Queen Naerys and he’s Prince Aemon,” she tells herself as she involuntarily moves closer and exhales into his warm mouth. His fingers wander up and down her sleeve, curious but never inappropriate. The kiss doesn’t last long, a few heartbeats maybe, but before it’s finished, she can hear him whisper: “Sansa.”

And instantly he’s Jon again, and she’s Sansa. And they’ve done something unforgivable.

—

Jon’s almost asleep when he hears banging at his door. He jumps out of bed and rushes to open it only to find a breathless Sansa on the other side. Her eyes are wide, and she looks absolutely terrified. If she’s still a bit in her cups, it doesn’t show.

“What happened?” he asks.

She’s shivering. He wants to put his hand on her arm but she jumps away.

“You kissed me,” she hisses, her tone accusatory.

Jon blinks. Not that he hasn’t thought of it, because of course he has. He won’t admit it to anyone but though he tried extremely hard to see his long-lost sister in the beauty that has brought him back to life, he failed miserably. The truth is—she was never a sister to him, not even before they parted ways.

“I assure you,” he answers quietly, “I did not. I didn’t even enter your chambers, I asked lady Brienne to help.”

“Not tonight,” Sansa sighs and Jon realises she’s standing before him barefoot, dressed only in some old sleeping gown, but somehow she’s never looked more queenly with her demanding expression and fiery glare. “When we were children. A few months before we left Winterfell. We played… we played, and you…”

And he kissed her.

He kissed her and he never regretted it once until she came to him, crying, and ordered him to forget it ever happened. He didn’t want to, it was too precious a memory, but he obliged. For Sansa.

“I thought we weren’t speaking of it,” he whispers carefully.

She was really shook when she came to him that day, he never wanted to see Sansa cry, and to be the reason for her despair—it was too much for him to bear.

“We aren’t. I just… I forgot.”

“You forgot?” he asks, feeling hurt. It was his only kiss before Ygritte and he wasn’t even allowed to savour that memory. How could she have forgotten?

“I’m sorry,” she says. “What we did… it was wrong. I didn’t… I couldn’t… I think I repressed it. I made myself believe it happened with someone else.” She lowers her head and he’s afraid to spook her by asking who that person was, but he’s certain it will haunt him forever. Was it Joffrey? Gods, he hopes it wasn’t him. Jon couldn’t bear it. Sansa makes a strangled noise at the back of her throat. “But I remember now.”

He doesn’t know what more to say, but Sansa doesn’t seem to expect any kind of explanation. It happened. It shouldn’t have, but it did. And it changed things between them.

Sansa finally dares to look at him. Her lips are parted, ready as they were in that meadow years ago. He doesn’t take advantage of her vulnerability. When they win back Winterfell, when the war is over—she will come to him of her own volition.

And he will have that second kiss, gods be damned.

#jonsa secret santa #jonsa fanfiction #jonsasecretsanta2018 #jonsa #jon x sansa #got #a gift for moonchildslife #secret santa #gift

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lj-todd · 6 years ago

Note

Challenge: walder frey sr./jon snow

(**eye twitches** You love challenging me, don’t you? Alright, this pairing threw me, part of the reason it took me so long to actually write something for it, but here it is. A/B/O dynamics and angst abound.)Jon sat, silent as a shadow, before the fire of his bedchamber, his hand resting over the swell of his abdomen, lost in the grief and darkness of his own mind. Almost a year of marriage, almost a year of trying to build a real relationship with an Alpha old enough to be his grandfather, had been met with failure. He had been trying so hard to connect with Walder, to build something more than a contractual marriage with the Alpha, that he had missed all the signs.And now his family had lost even more. His brother and Lady Catelyn were dead. Butchered in the very place Jon was expected to live. Expected to raise the child he was carrying. And he’d been locked away in his room during their murders. Kept from trying to save them. Kept from dying alongside them when he failed to save them. If not for the child he carried he would have tried to avenge them by killing his Alpha.“Jon?”

He looked up, finding Roslin, Walder’s daughter, standing next to his chair, looking at him with concern. Roslin was one of the few comforts he had in this wretched place.“I’m fine,” he said quietly, looking at the dwindling fire, the words hollow, repeated so often now that they held no true meaning. “I’m fine, Roslin.”She frowned, knowing him too well to believe that, and she took his hand in hers.“Father sent me,” she said softly, no doubt not wanting to do this, wanting to leave Jon to his seclusion but, like Jon, having no choice. “He’s holding a feast. All my brothers and nephews are here and he…he wants to celebrate.”Jon twitched and let out an angry sound.“He wants to celebrate the butchering of my brother and his mother.” He glared at the fireplace. “He wants to celebrate the slaughter of his wife and unborn child.” He closed his eyes, hands trembling. “And he wants me to sit there and smile and pretend to celebrate with him.”Roslin bit her lip, shaking slightly, before letting out a soft sound.“I’ll tell him you don’t feel well,” she tried to offer. “I’ll tell him the baby…”“No.” Jon stood, though not as quickly as he wished he could, his current condition making that too difficult. “No. If he wants me to be there I will be.”“Jon…”“And who knows, I might save my child the pain of knowing his father.”“Jon.” Roslin sounded frightened but Jon leaned in quick, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.He shook his head, pecking her cheek softly, before making his way from the room and, slowly, carefully, to the great hall. The feast was already underway and Walder barely acknowledged him as he took his seat at the high table, too interested in laughing with his sons and grandsons. All the Frey men, it seemed, were present and Jon felt sick at the sight, wishing they would all just drop dead.Jon sat there, silent, ignored, and when Walder stood, drawing the attention of his sons and grandsons, the young Northern Omega thought about stabbing him in the groin but refrained. He would not risk bringing harm to his unborn baby. As much as he wanted revenge for his brother he could not risk anything happening to his baby.Walder began a disgusting speech, seemingly uncaring that his Omega, his husband, brother of the man he’d helped murder in his own home, was seated next to him, praising his family for their actions. The men all drank of the rich wine Walder had provided and Jon was surprised when he reached for his glass only for Walder to snarl at him about not wasting good wine on a damn Omega. It made Jon bristle but he bit his tongue as the man pressed on.“I’m proud of you lot,” Walder said, smiling, the men still drinking and laughing. “You helped me slaughter the Starks at the Red Wedding.”Jon clenched his hands tightly as the men cheered and Walder nodded approvingly.“Yes, yes, brave men the lot of you. Butchered a woman pregnant with her baby. Cut the throat of a mother of five. Slaughtered your guests after inviting them into your home.“Silence dropped over the crowd and Jon glared up at Walder but something, something in the man’s expression wasn’t right. It didn’t fit wit the bile he had been spewing. Jon saw the rage, a rage that mirrored his own strangely enough, and a cruel smile spread across his husband’s face.“But you didn’t slaughter all the Starks,” Walder mused as his sons and grandsons watched him, confused and uncomfortable. “No, no, no.” Walder reached out to Jon then, meeting his gaze, fingertips scratching at the corner of his jaw in a familiar gesture. But not one Walder had ever used before. Jon frowned in confusion. “That was your mistake.” Walder looked at his family again. “You should have ripped them all out, root and stem. Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe.“ Suddenly the men began to cough, to choke, blood staining their lips as they fell, clutching their throats.Jon was suddenly on his feet, staring wide eyed at Walder, fear clawing at him, but Walder merely smiled, meeting his gaze and reaching up, peeling his face away to reveal the most unexpected thing.Arya.Arya, through some sort of magic, had just impersonated Walder Frey and, in one swift move, had just brought about the end of the male line of House Frey. She had avenged their family.“Arya,” he whispered her name and the young Alpha smiled.“Tell them,” she said, hugging him, letting him clutch her close. “When they ask what happened here today, tell them that the North remembers. Tell them that winter came for House Frey.”Jon smiled against her hair, realizing that, by killing every Frey man she had left his baby to inherit the Twins. She had given him a front row seat to the vengeance for their family and she had gifted him a keep and control of it.She did not remain in the Twins long after that, leaving before dawn, heading for Winterfell, which Sansa had managed to take back from Ramsay Bolton with the aid of loyal knights of the Vale. Jon wanted to go with her, to be home, to be with his sisters, but he knew he could not leave the Twins to fall to the hands of the Lannisters or one of their allies.It was not difficult to find men willing to pledge to him as Lords of the Twins, many men of the Riverlands had loved Robb, had been outraged by the murder of the King in the North and his family, and saw Jon as a hostage of the Freys who had helped to destroy them. And they were not the only ones. Men from the Neck, sent by Lord Howland Reed, and men sent from the North by Sansa, newly crowned Queen in the North, joined them.Jon, wanting no further association with Walder, with those who had tried to destroy his family, cast aside the Frey name, stylizing himself as Lord Jon Stark of the Twins and, to further cement his control he pledged loyalty not only to his sister as Queen in the North but to Edmure Tully, rightful Lord of Riverrun and his son-by-law through the man’s marriage to his stepdaughter, Roslin.He knew there would still be challenges ahead, the Lannisters would not be content to simply let him rule the Twins, not when he had declared for Queen Sansa, but he would be ready for them. He was a Stark, he may not have been born with the name but, as his father had once said, he had Stark blood and winter had come.

#mischief11things #game of thrones #asoiaf #jon snow #walder frey #jon x walder #au #alternate universe #alpha/beta/omega au #ficlet #drabble

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sheikah · 7 years ago

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Hello I don’t if you have been asked before but is there any evidence in the books to actually back up Jonsa? There’s plenty of foreshadowing for Jonerys but any about Jonsa? Or does it all come from the show.

Well, it’s subjective, and that’s the problem. There are things in the books that some J0nsa fans point to as proof of J0nsa that I don’t personally interpret as proof of J0nsa, but in the interest of answering this anyway, I’ll lay them out below.

When Jon is young he enjoys learning about and even pretending to be the Targaryens. His particular favorite seems to be Daeron The Young Dragon, who conquered Dorne at only fourteen.

But in ASOS Jon XIII he recalls playing with Robb and pretending to be Aemon the Dragonknight: “They were not little boys when they fought, but knights and mighty heroes. “I’m Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,” Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back, “Well, I’m Florian the Fool.“

J0nsa fans say this foreshadows J0nsa because Sansa later thinks about her relationship with Joffrey in a romanticized light, as if she is Naerys and he is Aemon.

We can see this in AGOT Sansa III: “I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian.”

But do you notice anything else? She also thinks of Florian and Jonquil, and in the passage from Jon’s POV that they often refer to, Robb is Florian. By this logic, it would also be foreshadowing Sansa/Robb. So I don’t really agree with this book evidence.To me the mentions of these historic/legendary couples are more a characterization choice and a coincidence. A coincidence because it is coincidental that Jon once pretended to be Aemon during play, and a characterization tool because it shows Sansa’s youthful naivety and that she, like many teenaged girls, romanticizes things and wants everything to be like the Westerosi equivalent of a rom com–”like the songs.” And I say that because later, it is Margaery using this analogy and Sansa, having grown up some and suffered, warning Margaery that she is wrong and that Joffrey is cruel.

In Sansa’s POV II in ASOS, Margaery says this to reassure her after Sansa warns her of Joffrey’s true nature: “I shall have the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms protecting me night and day, as Prince Aemon protected Naerys.”

But Sansa doubts this and worries for Margaery. So while Sansa was once young, innocent, and fanciful, she is more grounded in realism and ready to question analogies to the songs when real life doesn’t work that way in her experience.

Another commonly referenced book quote for J0nsa fans comes from Sansa’s Alayne II POV in AFFC: “She had not thought of Jon in ages. He was only her half brother, but still … with Robb and Bran and Rickon dead, Jon Snow was the only brother that remained to her. I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again. But of course that could never be. Alayne Stone had no brothers, baseborn or otherwise.”

Again, I don’t see this as romantic or even foreshadowing of anything other than the fact that they eventually will meet again. I do expect them to meet again in book!canon. I do expect it to be “sweet.” But here she reflects on him as the last of her family, not as someone she is in love with or pining for. She feels low, a “bastard,” and that reminds her of Jon–this new similarity of class status as a “Stone.” It isn’t connected to feelings of fondness, but loneliness.

In that same chapter, Alayne II in AFFC Sansa also has this thought about the sound of the wind: “[T]he wind was howling fiercely. It sounds like a wolf, thought Sansa. A ghostwolf, big as mountains.”

Again, I don’t see this as a connection to Jon. This chapter has featured Sansa reflecting on how alone she is and how little of her family she has left. Remember that although Jon’s wolf is called Ghost, Sansa had a wolf, too. And Lady, being deceased, could easily be a “ghost,” a part of Sansa’s past, a loss that still haunts her.

Another frequently mentioned quote is in ADWD Jon XIII: “He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself.”

Here we can see that Jon did think of Sansa. But I do not feel this is a romantic or longing thought. He is thinking about his siblings back in Winterfell when they were younger. Right after this he goes on to think of Arya as well.

I’ve also seen people point to the passage from Jon I in AGOT when he is sizing up the Baratheon family at Winterfell for the first time. He describes Sansa as “radiant”–”Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey’s pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell’s Great Hall.”

To me he is simply stating the obvious–everyone who gets the chance to calls or thinks of Sansa as a beautiful girl in ASOIAF. This isn’t unique to Jon -- not that conventional beauty has ever been important to him anyway? Remember that he’s always held a soft spot for Arya, who is constantly contrasted with Sansa’s beauty. Remember that he fell in love with Ygritte, who he loved for her spirit, not her looks. She is described with crooked teeth and gangly legs. So again, I think Jon was just thinking on something quite normal–Sansa looked nice, and looked happy, “radiant” even, in contrast to Joffrey’s sulking.

Lastly, in AGOT Sansa III, after her outburst about loving Joffrey, Ned says this: “When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me.”

J0nsa fans say that Jon is the brave, gentle, strong man being foreshadowed here, especially since he is a secret Targaryen royal with a name like Aemon’s. But again, I just don’t see this. There are many brave, gentle, strong people, and Jon was not named Aemon after all.

Anyway, I hope this answers your question. All in all, I can see where J0nsa fans are coming from with some of these. The problem for me is that instead of calmly laying these out as possibilities, or as the reason why many of them believed post season 6 that J0nsa would be canon, they aggressively insist that these somewhat reaching passages are ironclad, irrefutable proof–that J0nsa is canon, undercover Jon is a thing, and anyone who disagrees is a delusional person who expects a Disney ending. But as you say, there is far more book foreshadowing + parallels for Jonerys, not to mention the fact that Jonerys have followed those and become canon in the show with only 6 episodes left to go and several arcs to close and tidy up.

GRRM’s work is very rich and we could find “evidence” for almost any crack theory if we mine his words deeply enough.

#jonerysxo #answered

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revansnow · 7 years ago

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Undercover Jon

So yesterday I promised a meta on undercover Jon, and why it’s true. Many people believe Jon is going undercover and is actually in love with his sister, but they’re all wrong. Jon is in love with SAM. Here’s why Jon is in love with Sam and undercover Jon is real.

1. When Jon first meets Sam, he recognizes his weaknesses and goes out of his way to protect Sam from Rast, Thorne, and everyone else. He even sneaks into Rasts’ chambers and threatens to kill him. Now we all know that when Jon Snow is protective of someone, he wants to fuck and marry them. Side note, Jon wants to fuck and marry a lot of people such as Robb (who he tried to break his vows for), Bran (who he asked about repeatedly and jumped for joy like a weirdo for), Arya (who he died for), and Rickon (who he jeopardized a battle for. Jon truly embraces his Targaryen heritage by wanting to marry multiple people, including his siblings, I guess.

2. Jon and Sam bond during their guard duty. The next day while cleaning, Jon shares his true feelings and a personal moment with same when he tells him the story about Jon not wanting to father a bastard, because it’s not a good life for a child. Though Jon is feeling sad, Sam is able to cheer him up and make him laugh. Another side note, Sam has made Jon smile/laugh more than any person not named Arya Stark.

3. Sam cares about Jon so much, he swore a vow with him, it was basically a marriage. It’s also Sam who becomes brave and goes after Jon when Jon is trying to desert, and brings Jon back.

4. In season two when Sam wants to help Gilly and introduces her to Jon, Jon says no because he is clearly jealous of Gilly and thinks she can take Sam away from him. I mean look at his face. (Gif credit to @kitsn0w I believe)

5. Jon and Sam are separated when Jon is taken prisoner and they constantly think about each other. Jon doesn’t want ti have sex with Ygritte because he doesn’t want to break his vows or be unfaithful to Sam. When Jon makes it back to castle black, Sam is the first person to rush out to go help Jon.

6. During the Battle for Castle Black, Jon is the first person Sam turns to for help Jon wants to keep Sam safe, and instead of making him go to the front lines, he sends Sam to go get Ghost.

7. But at the Same time “A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair, and waiting for some knight to come rescue her.”

8. After the first day of the battle is done, Jon wants to go try to kill Mance because they have no chance of winning otherwise, knowing he’ll die. Sam shows concern and tries to keep him from doing so.

9. Sam is the one who suggests Jon be the next Lord Commander because he believes in him and loves him.

10. When Jon decides to go to Hardhome, Sam is worried about him. He gives Jon a parting gift to keep him safe. LOOK AT HIS FACE WHEN JON LEAVES.

11. Jon comes back from Hardhome and finds out that Sam wants to leave to Oldtown to become a Maester. Jon originally says no, but then he finds out Sam had sex with Gilly. Jon is so heartbroken that he decides to let Sam leave, he can’t stand to see the two of them every day knowing what happened. Look at the sexual tension in their goodbye, even Gilly Notices.

12. Jon misses Sam so much he went out and got himself killed.

13. Jon realizes he fucked up and wants his Samwell back, he’s now ready to fight for him. He then brings himself back to life. When Edd asks him where he’s going to go, Jon says “south”, guess who else is south? That’s right. Samwell Tarly.

14. Now here is where this ties into season 7. Sam contacts Jon and tells him that there’s a mountain of dragonglass. Jon remembered that Sam loves dragonglass, so he instantly decided to go to Dragonstone to get the dragonglass so he can give it to Sam as a gift and win him back. The only reason Jon is pretending to be in love with Daenerys (that evil psycho who saves and cares about people, she’s literally the worst) is so he can have unlimited access to dragonglass, which he can keep giving to Sam.

15. Fun fact, many people believe Jon said “yeah” during boatsex, I’ve actually uncovered hidden clues and Jon doesn’t say “yeah”, he says “Sam”.

16. Sam is tired of Gilly and goes to Winterfell to reunite with is soulmate, Jon.

So there you have it. Jon is in love with Sam and he went undercover with the ultimate goal of winning Sam back, his one true love. Sam is still in love with Jon as well. It’s clearly evident when he talks to Bran. Now all they need is a kiss on the forehead and they’re basically married.

#jon snow #jonwell #saegon #undercover jon #samwell tarly

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nyangibun · 8 years ago

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Day 2: Remember

For @jonxsansafanfiction Day 2 - Comic Book/Graphic Novel Couples

Summary: It takes him seventy years to realise he’s in love with her and she’s no longer the girl he once knew. They’re both different now, fighting on different sides, him as Captain America and her as the ruthless Winter Soldier, but Jon refuses to believe this isn’t his Sansa and he’ll do whatever it takes to reach her.

It has been seventy years since he crash landed in the Arctic, seventy years since he’s seen a familiar face, and although the technological advancements of the twenty-first century are something to marvel over, Jon doesn’t feel particularly that impressed by it. New York is harsher than he remembers, colder in a way that the war never brought out; people are always rushing from one place to another, shoving and yelling at each other without a modicum of respect. His New York wasn’t perfect, Jon knows this, and he remembers the injustices and the cruelty that lurked at every corner, but he misses the community. He misses his mum, though she died years before he ever even enlisted in the war, but most of all, he misses the Starks. Great big overprotective Robb, tough little Arya, kind and smart Bran and young baby Rickon.

But of course… her. Oh, he misses her like a bird longs for flight. In a way, the comparison is apt. She was his freedom, her smile his salvation and her eyes his home.

They hadn’t always been as close as they were. Sansa was different to the Starks. She longed for a life on the stage, to be front and centre, dancing and twirling batons to help lift the spirits of the troops overseas. It was her way of giving back, she always said. Jon never liked the idea, only so much as he didn’t like the idea of Sansa ever being anywhere near the line of duty, but once that girl sets her mind to something, she always does it.

It was a source of contention between them for much of their childhood. At first, Jon couldn’t understand why she would want to be a dancer. He was a stubborn ass though, so this wasn’t news; he simply couldn’t see how a dancing troupe could affect the war positively in any way. She should’ve been more like Arya, raring to fight alongside the men and doing her damndest to do so. That was true bravery in his eyes. But then that all changed.

Jon was walking home from the recruitment centre, rejected again for the umpteenth time for being medically unfit, when he came across a group of known bullies ragging on some poor kid only an inch shorter than Jon himself. The rage was abrupt, curling and roiling inside of him, and he had his hands in fists before he even stepped off the pavement. But a second later, Jon realised he didn’t have to. A sweet voiced called out, sharp and soft but no less demanding.

“Why don’t you boys pick on someone your own size, huh?” Sansa stepped up to the three large brutes. Jon felt his hackles rise, a deep, surprising need to protect her surging forward.

But she was smiling and it seemed to soften the blow as the three boys merely appraised her, taking in the curve of her hips, emphasised by the cinched waist of her dress. “This is America, dollface. We gotta show we’re tough. Letting these tweeds walk around while the rest are fighting ain’t good. You understand.”

Sansa’s smile tightened. “What I understand is you aren’t out there fighting either, so I suggest you go on get yourself enlisted before the girls around here find out you’re all cowards.”

“Hey, who said we haven’t! We were just –”

“I’m not saying anything,” Sansa interrupted with a pretty arch of her brow. She walked up to the one clearly in charge and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Big boys like you will surely do us all proud, right?”

Within seconds, Sansa had all three boys eating out of the palm of her hands before they all went scurrying away to prove their worth somewhere else. Almost as soon as they were gone, she hurried to kneel beside the younger boy and propped a hand behind his head.

“Hey, hey,” she murmured. “Are you alright there? Gosh, I’m so sorry about them. They’re mean ones. If my brother was home, he would’ve…” Sansa stopped abruptly and inhaled sharply, whilst shaking her head. “You remind me of someone, you know? Real tough guy too.”

The boy, barely a year or two older than Bran, sniffled and shook his head. “I’m not tough, miss.”

After getting the boy to sit up, Sansa inclined her head and smiled, genuinely now. “What? Looked like you were being mighty tough from where I was.” She gave a soft chuckle. “It’s easy to answer life with violence. It’s harder to weather its beatings.”

The boy looked doubtful as he wiped at his bloodied nose, the sleeve of his shirt coming away crimson and wet.

“Trust me,” Sansa said, helping him stand. “That someone I know? He’s real brave, just like you. Gets into more fights than you’d believe but he keeps going, you know? Keeps on getting up, putting up his fists like he knows what to do with ‘em. Real dumbass too, but… brave.”

That was him… Wasn’t it?

Jon couldn’t understand it. Never in his years of knowing the Starks had Sansa ever really spoken to him and yet she… admired him? It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. And with a clouded mind and a conflicted heart, Jon walked away that day, trying to reconcile this image of snobby Sansa Stark with the one he had just witnessed.

He started being nicer to her, saying little things, complimenting her, and she started reciprocating with teasing jabs at this or that. When Robb came home on leave, as the three eldest of the group, they went to the Carnival together – well, Jon, Sansa, Robb and his new girl, Margaery. It was there that Jon really became friends with her. It was hard not to form a bond after being ditched by her brother for the rest of the night and even harder for him not to grow attached to the eldest Stark daughter. Sansa was more than what people saw, more than just a pretty face and a soft voice with bright-eyed dreams; she was tough, smart and observant. She understood people in a way Jon never could.

Looking back on it now, Jon thinks he misses that part of Sansa the most.

Actually, that’s a lie. He misses every part of her, every inch of her soul, and if he has to burn the world to ash just to hear her laugh one more time, Jon thinks he might just do it.

It’s why he hesitates. There in Washington amidst the rubble and chaos of HYDRA soldiers firing at his people, Jon stops and he stares, and god, he thinks his heart has stopped beating completely, because standing in front of him is Sansa. Her hair is still as bright as copper; her eyes as blue as the summer sky; but now she is dressed in black with a metal arm and she’s glaring at him like she has no idea who he is.

“Sansa?”

Her brows furrow and she lets out a deep growl. “Who the hell is Sansa?”

It doesn’t make sense. He saw her die. He saw her fall. When HYDRA attacked their base, Jon’s first thought wasn’t to his brothers of the Howling Commandos, it was to the dancing troupe still there. He had grabbed Sansa and took her with him, determined that no matter what happens, she’ll live. She has to. She’s too important to this world to die. And yet he had failed her. He watches her every night falling to her death in his dreams, watches as her face contorts with fear, anger and loathing before the light blinks out from her eyes. He failed her and… now, she’s here? How? Why?

It’s a question that haunts him day in and day out. It’s what fuels him to dismantle HYDRA and take down the helicarriers. And it is what stops him from laying one hand on her. He won’t touch her; he won’t hurt her. If she wants to kill him, she very well can. He more than deserves it.

“I’m not going to fight you, Sansa,” he says through a mouthful of blood as her fists continue to ram into his face. It’s hard to fathom this is the same girl that cried for a week straight when her dog got run over by a car or the same girl that stayed by Bran’s side for months on end when his accident left him paralysed from the waist down. The gentle, compassionate Sansa of his past is not the same as the one before him, but she’s still his Sansa somewhere in there and he would never hurt her.

“Stop calling me that!” she yells but he sees the warring emotions in her eyes and her fists still. “I’m not… I don’t know who that is!”

“Yes, you do!” He grabs her fists gently and pulls her closer. Sansa falls onto his chest, her legs still straddling his hip. “Look at me, you know me. We grew up together. In Brooklyn? Remember?”

“No!” she spits out as she tries to pull her fists away but it’s half-hearted. He knows because she’s punched him into a car only days before, so she definitely has the strength.

“You do, you do and that’s why you don’t want to hurt me,” Jon continues on, pushing harder than he ought to. “You’re Sansa Stark. You have three brothers, Robb, Bran and Rickon. And a sister named Arya. You once owned a dog you named Lady. You used to put bow ties around her ears.”

Her eyes glaze over. She’s looking through him like she’s seeing something there, a memory perhaps, and it fills him with hope. She’s remembering. She has to be…

“Jon!” crackles a voice from some overhead PA system. “You gotta get that chip in place!”

Immediately, Sansa’s eyes return to their previous icy glare and she yanks her hands away from his forcefully. “NO!” she screams at him as she brings her hand back to punch again, but Jon is too quick, he curses himself as he throws her off him. He doesn’t want to hurt her and he’ll never lay a hand on her, but he has to get the chip in or millions will die.

Jon snorts humourlessly to himself as he races up the helicarrier to insert the chip. The greater good – it’s what he’s always operated towards and it’s what got Sansa killed.

But Jon doesn’t have time to reflect on much after that, the helicarrier explodes and he’s flung from the wreckage into the river below. He doesn’t remember much of what happens next but he wakes up on the muddy bank, and for the second time that day, he feels hope. There’s only one person who could’ve reached him that quickly and pulled him to shore. She remembers him.

When the world goes on the hunt for the Winter Soldier after the bomb killed dozens of diplomats at the Vienna International Centre, Jon realises he has to get there first. If they catch Sansa, they’ll kill her and he knows it isn’t her. He’s been tracking her since the Triskelion, or at least trying to, and he knows that at least for that day, Sansa had been nowhere near Vienna. Last he heard, she was in Romania, and so he gets on a jet and heads there with Tormund in tow and Val’s voice in his ear saying this is a bad idea. But he doesn’t care. He’s just had to bury Ygritte, a woman he loved, and he’s not about to do the same with Sansa.

The fight that ensues is familiar, reminiscent of the one down in Washington, yet he’s fighting with her instead of against her and it feels… right. Jon’s never been in any situation where Sansa ever had to fight anyone back in their past, aside from that one time she slapped Margaery in the face for not showing up to Robb’s funeral, but it still feels like this is where he belongs. Too bad the combined superhuman strength and speed of both Captain America and the Winter Soldier isn’t enough to thwart the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre operatives (and some man named Grey Worm in a cat outfit). It does allow Jon time to try to speak some sense into his friends, plead with Daenerys and Val and the rest of them that Sansa isn’t bad, and that the real Sansa is still in there somewhere. It’s to no use though. Daenerys is adamant that Sansa is a threat, and though she commiserates with Jon, the fact is the world needs a scapegoat for Vienna and the Sokovia Accords still need to happen.

It’s a relief to him when Sansa manages to get loose. Tormund and Jon easily grab her and take her from the building, hiding her away in a basement like some shameful prisoner of war, but he hopes she knows that’s not what she is. He just wants her back; he needs her back.

“Give us a minute,” Jon says quietly to Tormund.

The redheaded man looks incredulously back. “What? You do realise your girlfriend just tore through dozens of highly trained operatives and the Black Widow and… that Cat person, right?”

“His name is Grey Worm,” Jon sighs. “And she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Jon.”

“Tormund, please. One minute,” he pleads now. He’s not above grovelling at this point, but he has to try again to get through to her.

“Fine. You’ve got one minute,” the other man huffs before leaving the room.

Sansa looks up at the click of the door, her eyes a little glassy and unfocused. Jon quickly strides across the room to kneel before her, probably too close for Tormund’s sanity of mind, but he doesn’t care. “Hey, are you okay?”

She snorts and lifts her wrists where the handcuffs jingle against the metal barrier. “Do I look okay?”

Jon smiles. “I’m sorry. You can understand why we had to… you know.” She shrugs and looks away from him. “Sansa, do you remember me?”

For a long second, she doesn’t answer and Jon starts to worry that Tormund will burst on through before she gets a chance to reply, but then finally, she says, “I remember… voices, images. That’s it.”

“But you remember my voice? My image?”

Sansa’s brows furrow forward. “Yes, but… you were smaller. Not you like this.” She jerks her head towards him.

“I was smaller,” Jon laughs, relieved and elated. “Before the experiment.”

At the word, Sansa tenses and she begins to breathe heavily. Jon immediately goes to cup her face in his hands, forgetting for a moment that this isn’t the Sansa of his past and this isn’t some anxiety attack he can soothe like he used to do for her, but this Sansa does soften at his touch and suddenly, his heart is racing as he realises something.

“Do you trust me not to hurt you?”

Sansa catches his eye and frowns. “I don’t know. I want to say yes, but… I don’t know.”

“I’ll never hurt you, Sansa,” he whispers, his thumb gently grazing over her cheekbone. “As long as I can help it.” She sighs, but nods. “So I’m going to tell you something and I’m going to do something and I’m going to need you to promise not to punch me for it.”

“I…” She sighs again. “I promise.”

Inhaling deeply, Jon braces himself because he should’ve realised this sooner, seventy years ago in fact, but if this isn’t a second chance sent from the gods themselves then he really is a delusional idiot. “Sansa,” he starts softly. “A long, long time ago, we used to be friends. Best friends, actually. We told each other everything; we were always there for one another. And maybe that’s why I never realised it but I do now.”

“Realise what?” Sansa asks, her eyes full of curiosity and it reminds him so much of the girl he used to know that his heart clenches at the sight.

“That I love you,” Jon confesses. “Not as a friend. I love you. Gods, if our world wasn’t so topsy turvy, I’d say I want to marry, grow old with you, have kids with you, but I don’t think that’s in our future.” He shakes his head. “All I do know is I love you and I’ve loved you for over seventy years.”

With those last words, Jon leans forward, bridging the gap between their lips, and pressing firmly against her. He doesn’t do much more than that; he doesn’t want to overwhelm her; but when he pulls away, he hears her sharp inhale of breath and he hopes that that’s a good sign.

Sansa’s eyes flutter before they open fully to stare at him. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks so beautiful despite the ragged clothes hanging off her body and the matted hair sticking to her forehead. “I don’t remember,” she says.

“I know.”

“Didn’t you expect me to remember?” Sansa asks, confused. He shakes his head and her confusion grows. “Then… why?”

“Because if we die tomorrow, I just need you to know,” Jon answers. “I don’t want to wait another seventy years to tell you again, Sans.”

She nods, staying painfully quiet. Tormund’s heavy footsteps echo in the corridor outside and they have only a few seconds left alone. Jon was resigned to this torturous fate when Sansa jerks forward and kisses him soundly on the lips. She’s more insistent now, more demanding and Jon isn’t ashamed to admit he lets a low groan make its way from deep in his throat.

“I want to remember,” she whispers, just as Tormund bursts into the room.

“Alright, lovebirds!” he booms. “Time to go kick ass and take names!”

Jon doesn’t know about that, but he knows in that moment that he would burn the world to ashes if it meant saving her.

#jonsa #jon x sansa #actuallyjonsa #jon snow #sansa stark #jonsaff #jonxsansaff #jonxsansaremix2017 #jonsa fanfiction #jonsa fanfic #my fics #game of thrones #jonsa remix #jon as captain america #sansa as the winter soldier #lmao #jonsa fic

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empiregalaxy · 8 years ago

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Why Sansa would make a great Queen In The North

A huge misconception is that the supporters of 'QITN' Sansa Stark only support her due to reasons such as 'inheritance', etc. I personally think it is much more deeper and complex than that. So here I list some reasons why I'm pro-queen Sansa.

1. She's kind I have written in depth about Sansa's kindness. Her saving Dontos, telling Sandor that his brother was 'no true knight', praying for Margaery, helping Sweetrobin cross the bridge, helping the Stokeworths during the Battle Of Blackwater and even helped Lancel, who is a Lannister. I don't know about everyone else, but I would want the rulers to be kind. Although being kind doesn't necessarily guarantee a good ruler, it certainly is a start. Hence why Sansa's kindness is my first point.

Another reason why I love Sansa’s kindness- is that she is kind when other characters fail to be. In A Game Of Thrones, there is this moment:

They all laughed then, Joffrey on his throne, and the lords standing attendance, Janos Slynt and Queen Cersei and Sandor Clegane and even the other men of the Kingsguard, the five who had been his brothers until a moment ago. Surely that must have hurt the most, Sansa thought. Her heart went out to the gallant old man as he stood shamed and red-faced, too angry to speak. Finally he drew his sword.

Sansa’s kindness is not only just goodness, but strength.

2. She's perceptive & (politcally minded!) There are two amazing essays on this which say it much, much better than I possibly could. Sharing them because they are superb.

The first one is by @turtle-paced and can be found here. The other is by @goodqueenaly and can be found here. Well worth a read.

Sansa is a smart person, and that is a huge thing when it comes to monarchs. I'd like to talk about George R.R Martin's comments about Aragorn, who we all know as a key character in Tolkein's Lord Of The Rings

Ruling is hard. This was maybe my answer to Tolkien, whom, as much as I admire him, I do quibble with. Lord of the Rings had a very medieval philosophy: that if the king was a good man, the land would prosper. We look at real history and it’s not that simple. Tolkien can say that Aragorn became king and reigned for a hundred years, and he was wise and good. But Tolkien doesn’t ask the question: What was Aragorn’s tax policy? Did he maintain a standing army? What did he do in times of flood and famine? And what about all these orcs? By the end of the war, Sauron is gone but all of the orcs aren’t gone – they’re in the mountains. Did Aragorn pursue a policy of systematic genocide and kill them? Even the little baby orcs, in their little orc cradles?

As much as I love Tolkein's world, GRRM's insistence on having leaders who are precise in their methods, are good people AND good rulers is absolutely important. What does this have to do with Sansa? Well, I've made it clear I've found her wise and good. I also think she is well equipped to handle hardships the North would face, because of the following traits:

ability to show mercy (for instance, in A Clash Of Kings she shows mercy to Lancel Lannister). Forget the show rubbish of her wanting blood and punishment, Sansa does show mercy in the course of the series

atttentive to detail. She's good with banners, people's houses, statuses, etc- so she would be able to assess how an action would impact on others. I don't think Sansa is oblivious at all. She's grown alot.

willingness to learn. Not only is she engaged in what other people have to say (Sansa rarely interrupts others). Military may not have a huge role in her arc, but it could be. She could learn battle strategies and tactics. Not saying she would necessarily be on Stannis-level, but I truly believe Sansa would not shy away from learning about battles and war.

It's those three traits that are integral to Sansa's personality that she'd make a great, perceptive ruler. And she’s also has a BS detecter: once Cersei shows her true colours, Sansa figures out how she works

She heard the door open as her maids brought the hot water for her bath. They were both new to her service; Tyrion said the women who'd tended to her previously had all been Cersei's spies, just as Sansa had always suspected.

3. There are parallels with some of the strongest leaders in the series

Good Queen Alysanne Targaryen is probably my favourite parallel for Sansa. Alysanne showed generosity, kindness, good will and tactical skills. She is looked on throughout the series with love- after all, she's the 'good queen.'

Sansa also has incredible respect for her father, Eddard and her brother Robb.

I must be brave, like Robb, she told herself, as she took her lord husband stiffly by the arm.

Yes, I do admire Robb and consider a comparison between Sansa / Robb a high compliment. Robb Stark was a military prodigy, someone who whilst flawed acted with integrity and greatness. He inspired his people. The fact Sansa wants to be like Robb, she doesn't want to be like Cersei or Littlefinger does go a long way.

4. To quote show! Varys.....

The Seven Kingdoms need someone stronger than Tommen, but gentler than Stannis. A monarch who can intimidate the high lords and inspire the people. A ruler loved by millions with a powerful army and the right family name.

I think Varys is being unfair on Tommen (he is young), and Stannis (a very complex character who can't be reduced to not being gentle)- but these words really do fit Sansa.

Strong? I don’t think I even have to explain Sansa’s strength. She’s gone through absolute hell. She also shows ability to challenge characters- even the terrifying likes of Joffrey

"It does not please me," Joffrey said. "Mother says I'm still to marry you, so you'll stay here, and you'll obey." "I don't want to marry you," Sansa wailed. "You chopped off my father's head!" "He was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only that I'd be merciful, and I was. If he hadn't been your father, I would have had him torn or flayed, but I gave him a clean death." Sansa stared at him, seeing him for the first time. He was wearing a padded crimson doublet patterned with lions and a cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar that framed his face. She wondered how she could ever have thought him handsome. His lips were as soft and red as the worms you found after a rain, and his eyes were vain and cruel. "I hate you," she whispered.

Intimidate the high lords?

"Ah, and what a castle it is. Cavernous halls and ruined towers, ghosts and draughts, ruinous to heat, impossible to garrison . . . and there's that small matter of a curse."

"Curses are only in songs and stories."

That seemed to amuse him. "Has someone made a song about Gregor Clegane dying of a poisoned spear thrust? Or about the sellsword before him, whose limbs Ser Gregor removed a joint at a time? That one took the castle from Ser Amory Lorch, who received it from Lord Tywin. A bear killed one, your dwarf the other. Lady Whent's died as well, I hear. Lothstons, Strongs, Harroways, Strongs . . . Harrenhal has withered every hand to touch it."

"Then give it to Lord Frey."

She's also gentle- see what I wrote about kindness in the first section.

Inspiring the people and being loved by millions?

“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.

Right family name? We learn in A Dance With Dragons, that people are willing to wage war for the Stark name. Sansa takes strong pride in being a Stark.

“She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.”

Powerful army? Of course, this is where I think the marriage between Harry The Heir and "Alayne" will come in. Remember, Houses such as Royce of Runestone (Yohn wanted an alliance with Robb). Sansa could potentially make use of the Vale / North alliance.

Here's more about the power the Vale wields. We get mention from Robb in A Storm Of Swords about their power:

"The knights of the Vale could make all the difference in this war," said Robb.

George R.R Martin is also quoted from "The Citadel" as saying (as a response to a fan):

Quick question - We have seen all of the seven kingdoms in action in one way or another except Dorne and the Vale. I am trying to get an understanding of the various strengths of the different realms. When Robb calls the Northern Banners he gathers a host of about 18 thousand men. How do Dorne and the Vale compare to this (I don't expect numbers, just general feeling)

I'd say these three kingdoms were roughly equal in the force they could assemble... but the north is much bigger, so it takes longer for an army to gather. And life is harsher there as well, so lords and smallfolk both need to think carefully before beating those plowshares into swords.

The image of a 'perfect ruler' that Varys paints does apply to Sansa. I disagree with the show on many, many things yet a ruler does need to be strong, does need an army yet have gentleness and love.

6. Concluding Thoughts

To me, Sansa being Queen used to be about continuing Ned and Robb's legacy and her being the oldest true born sibling. But now, it's more than that. To me, saying Sansa should be Queen is wanting the best for the North. My attachment to 'QITN' does not just stem from my love for Sansa, but taking into account the political atmosphere of the North, and the need for rulers who are both strong, perceptive and kind.

It also makes alot of narrative sense for Sansa to be Queen. She starts off the series with notions of what being a Queen means, only for them to be shattered by seeing the ugly realities of the likes of Cersei. For her to become Queen, would give her much needed agency.

Wanting Sansa to be Queen is not an attack on any other character like Bran, Arya, Rickon & Jon. Otherwise, it's simply ludicrous and unfair on Sansa. Fandom really needs to stop that toxic way of thinking.

Sansa would be a fantastic queen, and I’m willing to stick by that statement.

#asoiaf meta #sansa stark

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406ink-blog · 8 years ago

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Time Stands Still Ch. 3: Unyielding (Also on Ao3)

Sansa had to admit, when she had received Jon’s raven scroll informing her that he was traveling to Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen, that he had bent the knee to the Dragon Queen without consulting her, she had seen red. When she came to his signature and saw he’d signed it “Jon Snow, Warden of the North,” she’d crushed it in her palm. Then to top it all off, the ferret-like Lord Baelish had suggested Jon wanted to marry Daenerys. She’d spent the rest of the day sequestered in her chambers in a black mood, ripping the head off anyone who dared disturb her. Only after talking it over with Arya had she come to see Jon was just being Jon. As to the idea Jon was going to marry Daenerys Targaryen as some sort of ambitious military alliance, Arya had said, That's not Jon. You can take the man out of the north, but you can’t take the north out of the man.

As the Lady of Winterfell, it fell to Sansa to make the necessary preparations for the arrival of Daenerys and her retinue. The room recently 'vacated' by Lord Baelish would be prepared for Daenerys, and Sansa made a mental note to have it thoroughly cleaned and the best linens put on the bed. Jon had sent another scroll before sailing for White Harbor detailing their company so that Sansa could formulate an idea of how she would house and feed them all. Along with Tyrion Lannister, The Hound, and Lord Varys - who she knew of course – Jon named off Daenerys’ other advisors Missandei and Grey Worm, Jon’s own man Ser Davos, Gendry Waters, and Lady Brienne and her squire Podrick Payne. Sansa’s biggest concern was what she would do with 60,000 Dothraki and their mounts, the 200 Second Sons, 8,000 Unsullied and 2 dragons.

While sitting by the fire one night after dinner Sansa informed Arya and Bran of all those that would be arriving with Jon and Daenerys. The look of recognition and hot blush on Arya’s normally stoic face when Sansa said the name “Gendry Waters” did not go unnoticed. Sansa asked Arya if she knew him. Arya told Sansa and Bran how she was traveling to the Wall dressed as a boy with Yoren, when Gendry had joined their party. Arya still had not revealed where she had gone or what she had done after escaping King's Landing - other than the fact The Hound had played a part in her survival and she'd trained to be a "Faceless Man." When Sansa had pressed, Arya had merely said, “It’s a long story.” She had been tempted to ask Bran for the details, but thought better of it. Arya would come around on her own, she was sure. And if not, once this Gendry showed up at Winterfell, Sansa was sure the whole story would come out.

The day Jon and Daenerys arrived was a sight to behold. It was the screeching of the dragons that came first, drawing everyone outside to the ramparts and the yard. As Drogon and Rhaegal circled overhead, the retinue poured through the castle gates, a sea of mounted riders flanked by black banners emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen, mingled with the dire wolf of stark on a field of white. The bulk of the Dothraki, Second Sons and Unsullied stayed without to make camp, while Jon and Daenerys led a column of 200 riders that included their closest advisors, their captains, and sworn swords.

Sansa’s eyes were drawn to the head of the column, where Jon rode beside a woman with hair as pale as winter snow. “That’s her,” Arya exclaimed, the most excited Sansa had seen her since she’d bested Lady Brienne at swordplay. “That’s the Dragon Queen! And there! There are her dragons,” Arya pointed, smiling, to the great beasts circling overhead before racing down the stairs to the yard to where Jon was dismounting. Sansa smiled; Arya acted so serious these days it was easy to forget she was really still a child. She recalled how Arya used to wheedle stories out of Old Nan, begging her for tales of the warrior queen Nymeria, and Aegon’s sisters Visenya and Rhaenys and their dragons. Well now they a real-live Targaryen and her dragons in Winterfell.

Sansa remembered the day so long ago when another king – Robert Baratheon had rode through those same gates. They had all lined up in their finery – mother, father, Robb, Arya, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Theon Greyjoy, and even Jon – to welcome their visitors to Winterfell. She had been a mere child then, her head full of romantic ballads and ideals. She had been enamored of the Queen and her twin brother Jamie, who had looked like a golden god in his shining armor and white cloak, his green eyes flashing. Most of all, she had been enamored of Joffrey, so tall and regal in the saddle, his golden hair shining in the sun. Her sweet prince. How stupid she had been, how naïve. She had thought all men were like her father – brave, noble, honorable, strong and true. In truth, Lord Eddard Stark had been 1 man in 10,000, she thought, and we may never see his like again.

She supposed she had better go down to the yard where the party was dismounting. As she descended the stairs, she saw her brother Jon helping the woman with the moon-pale hair down from the saddle. She was smiling down at him, and he was smiling back at her. Jon smiled so rarely, Sansa wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Perhaps Littlefinger had called it correctly, and there was something between the White Wolf and the Dragon Queen. She watched as Jon turned at the sound of his name being called, and saw Arya for the first time since leaving for the Wall nearly 8 years ago. The smile he gave Arya far surpassed the last one, and Sansa decided she liked this happier, less brooding version of Jon. Though Arya was no longer a wisp of a girl, she leapt into Jon’s arms and he caught her, hugging her tightly.

Setting Arya back on her feet, Jon swiped at his eyes and hugged Arya again, then turned to introduce her to Daenerys. Sansa watched the face of the Dragon Queen as she looked between Jon and Arya. Her expression held a curious mix of emotions, her smile bittersweet and her eyes far away. Sansa was just about to cross the yard when a familiar voice called out, “Lady Sansa, I’m so glad to see you again. You look well.” Sansa looked down to see the scarred face of Tyrion Lannister, a pleasant smile on his lips. “Lord Tyrion,” she smiled back at him, “thank you and welcome back to Winterfell. It has been a long time.”

“Yes,” he said, “it seems like a lifetime ago doesn’t it? Much has happened – to us both. Your brother has told me some of what you had to endure. I am truly sorry, my lady. But I see you here before me, as beautiful as ever, still standing. They did not break you, though it was not for lack of trying.”

“No, they did not break me. Not Joffrey, not Cersei, not the Boltons, or Littlefinger. But they taught me many lessons for which I am grateful. Winter has finally come, and their lessons serve me well. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives." Tyrion, for once, did not know what to say and silence hung between them like a a mummer who'd forgotten their line. After a moment, she said, "If you’ll excuse me, Lord Tyrion.” With that she moved off, black skirts and fur lined cape trailing behind her in the snow, leaving Tyrion to ponder what she had said and the coldness that clung to his one-time bride like a veil made of ice.

The yard was utter chaos now – dogs barking, horses and riders milling about, churning the freshly fallen snow into mud. Sansa picked her way carefully until she reached where Arya, her brother and the queen stood talking. Arya was buzzing about them both like an annoying mosquito, asking incessant questions about dragons, completely forgetting she was in the presence of a queen. Daenerys did not seem to be bothered by this, so Sansa decided to ignore it for the moment “Jon! Welcome home,” she greeted her brother, embracing him warmly. Jon smiled and hugged her back firmly.

“Gods, I’ve missed your face,” he said. “And your wise counsel. I could’ve really used your advice down south. But we’ll talk about that later. Sansa, this is Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. She’s come, along with her armies, to help us defeat the Night King and the dead.”

Sansa turned to the queen, her ice blue eyes shrewdly assessing the woman who stood before her, the last living Targaryen. She was easily the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen, and just like the legends she had deep amethyst eyes. Her silvery hair was confined in intricate braids and fell down her back to her waist. She was clad in a white fur overcoat that hugged her shapely body and made her look like an angel, even amongst the drab grey walls and mud of the castle yard.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said as she curtsied. “Welcome to Winterfell. You have come a long way and must surely be tired from your journey. If you please, I’ve had a chamber prepared and a hot bath drawn for you.”

Daenerys looked to Jon, who smiled and gave her a smile reassuring nod. “I’ll see to the horses and the men, Your Grace,” he said. “I’ll find Missandei and send her to you.”

“Thank you Lady Sansa. I find that I am a bit tired and a hot bath sounds lovely.” She turned to Arya and said, “Lady Arya, I will see you a bit later? Once I’ve had a chance to rest, I’ll take you to meet my dragons.” To Jon, she said simply, “My lord,” but her eyes said something more, a fact that Sansa did not miss.

Sansa gestured to her lady’s maid and gave her instructions to take the queen to her chamber, and to draw her a hot bath at once. “This is my lady’s maid Jeyne, Your Grace. She will take you to your room and see to your bath. Please let her know if there is ought you need and she will see to it.” With that, Daenerys followed Jeyne into the castle. Jon had gone off, presumably to see to the horses and the men that had rode in with him. “Arya,” Sansa said, realizing someone very important was missing, “where is Bran?”

Arya replied that he was probably in the godswood. Sansa nodded; Bran had been spending hours upon hours there lately, trying to hone his skills and learn all that he could about the Night King. The last several days, Bran had said a number of times that he needed to speak with Jon urgently upon his arrival, that he had something important to tell him. Well, it would just have to wait a bit longer, Sansa thought, her eyes scanning over the crowd which was beginning to disburse.

The majority of the free riders had filtered back out the gates to where the camps were being setup. About 30 people remained in the inner keep, several were leading groups of horses to the stables. Among them she saw Lady Brienne and her squire, Podrick. Arya had joined them, and the three were engaged in rapt conversation. She had given instructions to the stewards on where to house the advisors Jon and Daenerys had brought with them; she saw Varys, Tyrion and Ser Jorah Mormont being led into the keep.

Suddenly Sansa met a set of familiar grey-brown eyes; it was Sandor Clegane -The Hound. Sansa froze. She had known he was coming with Jon, but she wasn’t truly prepared for the effect seeing him again would have on her. Her mind flashed back to the night of the siege on King’s Landing, when she had fled to the safety of her room and bolted the door only to find him there in her darkened room. He was drunk, in her bed, and covered with blood. At first, Sansa had been utterly terrified, so frightened she couldn’t even recall a single song when he’d told her to sing for him. But she had looked into those brown eyes and seen a sadness there, seen a vulnerability, though she wasn’t convinced wouldn’t hurt her. He’d offered to take her home to Winterfell, but she had stayed instead to take her chances with King Stannis. In hindsight, she wished she’d taken her chances with The Hound. They had all used her, the players in the great game – Queen Cersei, Lord Tywin, Prince Joffrey, Lord Baelish, the Boltons. She thought of the scroll she’d sent to her brother Robb, naming her father a traitor, the one Arya had found and threatened her with. He was right, she thought sadly, she had been like a frightened little bird, singing the songs they taught her. And she had learned all too well that life was not a song, had learned it to her sorrow.

Sandor saw Sansa too, saw her eyes lock right on his. She’d grown up; his little bird was a woman grown now, even more beautiful than he remembered. He’d gone to her room the night of the siege, drunk and disillusioned, thinking her safely ensconced with the Queen in Maegor’s Holdfast. He’d never met any lady so innocent or pure as Sansa, not in all his miserable life. All he’d wanted that night was to feel close to her, to smell her sweet scent, to pretend in his final moments before Stannis’ forces stormed the castle and gutted them all that she didn’t look at him in sheer terror. In the end, he’d terrified her anyway. She wouldn’t leave with him, deciding instead to take her chances with Stannis. He’d taken one last look at her, committing every detail to memory before he’d walked out the door – her deep auburn hair, flax-blue eyes, skin the color of seashells. Sandor conjured her image to keep him company many lonely nights on the road, wondering whatever had become of her.

Though he did not realize it, his feet moved of their own accord, and suddenly he was standing there before her. Sandor spoke first. “Hello little bird,” he said.

“Ser Sandor,” she said, wary, “I was surprised to hear you had joined with my brother.”

“I’m no knight little bird, remember? Just the Hound, just a fucking dog. I’m only here because I have work to do, that’s all. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he’ll look you straight in the face. You needn’t worry.”

She’d remember him saying that bit about hounds to her before, years ago when he had told of the story of his sigil. “You say you are no knight, but you are not just a fucking dog; I’ve known men who were Sers, but no true knights, men who were worse than dogs. I’ve fed men worse than you to dogs. I’ve made men worse than you disappear. Their bones, their words, their houses, their names, all memory of them – gone.” She took a deep breath.

“Thank you for what you did for Arya, and for Jon beyond the Wall. The North remembers, and we owe you a great debt.”

He was surprised to hear her curse, to hear her speak coldly of feeding men to dogs and wiping all trace of them from this world. He wondered what had happened to her that she no longer showed any trace of the girl he had known. That girl is dead, he thought to himself, I can see it in her eyes. A bitter smile twisted across his lips at that realization. “You owe me nothing, little bird. I’d best see to my horse,” he rasped, and with a nod, he took himself and his horse off to the stables. He turned back a moment, looking at her rigid form over his shoulder – she stood tall and proud, as beautiful and perfect as a porcelain doll in the fading light, clad all in black, no trace of fear or emotion on her face or in her eyes. He knew in that instant if anyone hurt her ever again, even so much as thought about harming a hair on her head, he would fucking gut them for it without a second thought.

Later in her chamber as Sansa changed for dinner, she decided she would speak to Jon about knighting Sandor Clegane. Mayhap in this world, such things no longer mattered, but he deserved it regardless. He had saved her, more than once, though she had been too stupid and frightened of him at the time to realize it. He had kept Arya alive and out of the hands of their enemies, even fighting Lady Brienne to the death (well, near-death as it turned out). And he had put his life on the line to go beyond the Wall with Jon to procure a wight to prove that the army of the dead was real. If that was not worthy of knighthood, Sansa did not know what was.

She was looking forward to seeing everyone gathered in the great hall, and to having what remained of her family back under the roof of Winterfell. It had been so long since they had all been together. She was dismayed when a guard appeared at her door with a note from Samwell Tarly written on Bran’s behalf, summoning her to the crypts at once. Apparently he had some important news that couldn’t wait.

When Sansa arrived at the crypts, Jon and Daenerys were already there. They stood before the statue of her Aunt Lyanna talking. Sansa thought they were oddly intimate with one another, they seemed to share a closeness that was more than one would expect from a mere military alliance. As Sansa approached, they abruptly stopped talking, looking for all the world like two children caught at some conspiracy. Sansa stopped behind them, and said, “Our Aunt Lyanna. Have you told her the story Jon?”

Jon turned, scowling, “The wars of the past do not matter, Sansa. I saw no point in dredging it up.”

Sansa disregarded her brother, looking forward at the statue as she spoke, “Lyanna was pledged to Robert Baratheon; your brother Rhaegar kidnapped her and raped her. He paid for his treachery on the Trident, but not before tens of thousands died because of his actions.”

Daenerys regarded the statue of Lyanna thoughtfully, then turned to face Sansa. Even in the darkness of the crypts, her violet eyes smoldered, and her voice was smooth and cold as ice. “I never knew my brother Rhaegar; sadly he died when I was but a babe. Ser Barristan Selmy was kingsguard to my father. He told me that he knew my brother well. He painted a picture of Rhaegar as a man much loved by the common people, a man who did not enjoy the suffering of others or killing . My brother Viserys also used to tell me stories. He was only 6 when we fled Westeros, but he could still recall some memories of our brother. I suppose he rather idolized Rhaegar, so perhaps he embellished his tales, but I do not think Ser Barristan played me false. One tale that he told quite often was of the Battle of the Trident, where Ser Barristan himself nearly died, and Rhaegar valiantly battling the Usurper in the bloody waters – fighting and dying for the woman he loved.”

“Elia Martell,” Jon interjected, referring to Rhaegar’s queen.

A sad smile flashed across Daenerys’ face, gone so fast Sansa wasn’t sure it was ever there at all. She continued, “As I have heard the story told, Rhaegar died with a name upon his lips but it was not Elia. It was a whisper on his dying breath - ‘Lyanna’.”

Jon’s obsidian eyes widened at this and he could not seem to find his voice. Sansa, stunned to silence, turned suddenly pale. But before anything further could be said, they realized the rest of the group arrived, including Bran, who had been carried down in his wheel chair by Ser Jorah and Ser Davos. In truth, Daenerys’ revelation was merely the first to be dropped on them that night and it would not be the last.

When Bran told them all that Jon was not the son of Lord Eddard Stark, but in fact, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, Sansa felt for the all the world like she was outside of her body watching it all unfold as though she herself were one of the stone statues - one of the unseeing Kings of Winter. She heard her own voice saying Jon was still a Stark, still the ruler they had all chosen. Then she heard Jon say he was still a bastard, but that he would fight – and die – for the North. When Bran refuted that, his voice flat and unfeeling, saying Jon was trueborn and the heir to Iron Throne, that was when seven hells had broken loose with everyone talking at once. That had snapped Sansa out of it, that and Jon commanding them all to leave – except for her, Daenerys, the Dragon Queen.

While everyone else had fled the crypt and gone up to the great hall to dine, Jon and Daenerys had remained below for some time. They had finally emerged to join the feast, which had been given to honor their alliance and the return of the remaining Starks to Winterfell, Sansa’s keen eye did not miss the bruised lips of the Dragon Queen, or the way Jon looked at her across the table – like Daenerys was on the menu. The fact that everyone was openly talking about them, and questioning who had the truer claim to rule the Seven Kingdoms had no effect whatsoever. Neither did the fact everyone stopped talking the instant Jon and Daenerys walked in and sat down. It was as though they had eyes and ears only for one another. Sansa had never seen Jon act like this before, and while he was still dark, brooding and serious, it was clear Daenerys had invaded his system and his defenses were beginning to crumble.

Later, alone in her chamber, Sansa sat before the looking glass brushing her hair. My skin has turned to porcelain, she thought as she looked at her reflection in the candlelight, to ivory, to steel. She resolved in the coming days to find out more about the Queen. Knowledge is power, came another unbidden thought, a cold shiver running down her spine as she recalled one of the many lessons Cersei Lannister had taught her. She would seek out those who had come from Essos with Daenerys and hear what they had to say about their queen. She would uncover whatever was going on between her and Jon. Jon had faced his own trials in life, but he had not been through what Sansa had been through, had not survived what she had survived. She had become hard and unyielding, as sharp and unforgiving as Valyrian steel. There was no such thing as love, no such thing as trust. She had once loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head. Sansa would never make that mistake again, and she would not let Jon make it either. If she could spare him that lesson, she would.

#jonerys fanfic #sansa stark #sandor clegane #tyrion lannister #reunion #got fanfiction

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acourtofhopeanddreams · 6 years ago

Text

A student's life for me

Written for @jonsaexchange: "Creator's Choice"

Dear @nessataleweaver, I hope that this little college AU romcom styled fic makes you smile and warms your heart!

Jon's student's life is more boring than boring, but it's all about to change when the beautiful red haired girl that all of a sudden appears in the small town in the little of nowhere happens to be his dormmate's sister.

“Enjoy your meal, Mister Lannister.” Jon nodded and forced himself to keep smiling while Tywin threw the door in his face, just like every night. Luckily not all his customers acted like this and even more luckily he had delivered all meals for today and could finally return to his dorm, to the warmth and his astronomy homework.

When he had started his studies a few years ago student’s life had all seemed very exciting. He had heard stories about the wild parties, the illegal drinking and the making friends for life. He had most of all heard that most people found their true love while being in college.

None of it had happened. Even among students astronomy was considered boring, which meant that his classmates didn’t even wanna be found anywhere near a wild party and none of them would ever cross the line of illegal drinking. And that meant that the other students had simply stopped inviting them.

Even Robb Stark, his dorm mate, had stopped mentioning the parties as soon as he had discovered that Jon was not exactly the most interesting conversationalist to introduce to his football friends when they were drunk. Or actually, Jon was the most interesting conversationalist, which was exactly the problem.

If he had known that the real student life looked like this, he might have considered finding a normal job right away. That normal job couldn’t possibly be worse that delivering meals to elder people who had too much money and no one who cared about them anymore.

He pulled his hat over his dark black curls and needed three attempts to get his gloves on. His student loan was barely enough to cover his rent and food, so he didn’t have money for a motorbike or a car. Which meant that he was still stuck with his cargo bike, both in summer and winter.

It really was not as exciting as he had once imagined it to be.

But Jon didn’t know that his entire life was about to be changed.

Just before Jon stepped on his bike to ride back to campus, a big yellow bus stopped at the bus sign. Normally the bus, that once a day brought people from this small middle of nowhere to the nearest big city and once a day made the trip backwards, arrived here empty, but today a girl carrying two suitcases stepped out.

She wore a white hat over her strawberry blond, or was it even red, hair. The hat barely covered her ears, but maybe the hat was not supposed to be functional. The dark black coat keeping her body warm at least looked far more expensive than anything Jon could ever pay for. Not to mention her bright red boots reaching her knee caps with a logo on it that in itself was already worth more than Jon had ever earned in his life.

But it was her smile that really made him lose his grip on his bike. Just when his jaw dropped, the cargo bike slipped from his hand, fell in the snow, bruised his ankles and tipped him over. It all happened within a few seconds, but it didn’t really happen in silence.

The pretty red haired girl looked up and with her suitcases in her gloved hands she rushed towards him, kneeling down next to him as soon as she’d reached him. “Is everything alright?”

Jon laid flat on his back in the ice cold snow with bruised ankles, but he still nodded. “Yeah, yeah…” He sat up and pushed his glasses a little further on his nose. “I'm fine.”

The girl furrowed her eyebrows, but she didn’t say anything and just watched him. “Do we know each other? For some reason I have the feeling we’ve already met, but I have no idea where and when.”

Jon shrugged and he stood up before he reached out his hand to help the girl stand up too. “I'm pretty sure I would’ve remembered it if we’ve met.” He didn’t let go of her hand, but instead shook it a little awkwardly. “Jon, Jon Snow.”

“O!” Her eyes widened and a smile spread across her angelic face while she pulled her hand back. “That’s it! You must be THE Jon!”

“The Jon?” Jon swallowed. All of a sudden he was not sure anymore if this girl knowing him was a good or a bad thing. Did he have a reputation? Were there rumors going around he knew nothing about?

The pretty girl rolled her eyes. “Are you now telling me that my brother forced me to listen to all his stories about you, but never mentioned me in a conversation with you?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and cocked her head. In a weird way it was cute and attractive at once. “I’m Sansa, Sansa Stark. I’m here to spend the holidays with my brother Robb. And, if I’m not mistaken you’re his dorm mate Jon.”

Jon wasn’t sure if this was the right moment to let out a sigh of relief or not. At least there was no weird story going around that was most likely not true, but he was not sure what Robb had told his sister about him.

And where that normally wouldn’t have mattered, it now seemed to be one of the most important things in the world.

“Only good things, I hope?” Jon swallowed and he scratched the back of his neck.

He and Robb were great friends and he couldn’t have wished for a better dorm mate, but he did know that Robb sometimes thought he was boring or too intelligent for his own good.

Sansa licked her dry lips. “You know how Robb wears his heart on his tongue, but over all he pictured you as a very brave and intelligent young man.” She grinned. “One who doesn’t drink because he’s not yet twenty-one. One who doesn’t smoke because it increases the risks to catch countless of life threatening diseases. And one who has a job that actually benefits people in our society who barely get attention.”

Jon left out a chuckle, partly because the whole fact that she seemed to know exactly who he was while he had no idea who she was made him feel uncomfortable, partly because strictly everything she knew about him was somehow correct. “I sound kinda boring.”

“O no!” Sansa raised her voice and shook her head. “That's absolutely not how I’ve always interpreted it!” She placed a hand on his shoulder and it felt surprisingly comforting to have her touch him. “It’s actually refreshing. There are already more than enough men in this world who think the key to masculinity is drinking too much and talking as many girls as possible into their beds.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “If this speech ends with but you’re different, it sounds like it walked straight out of a Jane Austen book.”

Sansa’s smile brightened and Jon felt his heart skip a few beats in his chest. “Robb never told me you are into literature too.” She cocked her head. “You're getting more and more interesting with every word you speak, Jon Snow.”

For a moment Jon didn’t know what to say. He felt a shiver, one of the good and pleasant kind, rolling down his spine and his entire skin tingled. If this really had been some kind of Jane Austen book, he would’ve known the right thing to say. But he wasn’t in a Jane Austen book and nothing even remotely good crossed his mind.

Instead he eventually decided to change the subject entirely. “So, you’re here to spend the Christmas days with Robb?”

Sansa nodded. “And with you, it seems. I actually thought you would go home to your family, like most students do, but I’m sure Robb won’t mind me inviting you to our dinner too.”

Jon bent his head and all of a sudden he saw his cargo bike still lying in the snow. He had almost forgotten about it. Quickly he bent down to grab his bike and once it stood up again he made sure to hold it firmly this time. “Yeah, if Robb doesn’t mind, I’d love to come over.”

“You're coming over then. I don’t even care if he minds. No one should be alone with Christmas and especially not intelligent and charming young men like you.” She winked and a pleasant warmth spread through his entire body.

Even if he had not worn a scarf, hat and gloves right now, he would have stopped noticing the cold. Who could be bothered by snow and wind and ice, when a beautiful girl like Sansa Stark delivered one compliment after the other? Who could be bothered by winter, when a pretty lady like Sansa Stark was there to warm your heart?

“So…” He cleared his throat and coughed. “How are you gonna get to campus?”

In summer time it was a nice walk from the city centre to the campus, but with all the snow and cold right now it would be a long and nasty one. Especially on those high heeled boots Sansa was wearing.

“I was planning on calling Robb to come and pick me up, but…” Sansa looked at the bike and raised her eyebrows. “If you have better ideas, I’m all ears.”

“I could…” Jon looked at his bike, at the pretty girl and back at his bike. “You can put your suitcases in the cargo and jump on the back?”

It was not as comfortable and warm as a car, but it would save her some waiting time. And it would mean she would be very very close to him and forced to hold onto him very tightly.

“That sounds like an excellent idea!” Sansa pecked his cheek, but before she could see how his cheeks colored a bright pink she already reached for her suitcases and threw them in the cargo. “I'm glad we’ve met, Jon Snow.” She waited until he swung one leg over his bike and stabilized it even more. “And I can’t wait to get to know you even better. It’s going to be a wonderful Christmas time, I already feel it.”

Jon smiled and he took a deep breath when she jumped on the back of his bike and wrapped her arms firmly around his waist. “I hope you mean it’s gonna be a great life.” He murmured, but the wind did carry his words to the girl on the back of his bike anyway.

And Jon maybe couldn’t see it. But she smiled. She smiled brightly and let her head rest to his back while she already envisioned their wedding day.

#jonsaexchange #jonsa #jon snow #Sansa Stark #game of thrones #got #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #sansa stark fanfiction #jon snow fanfiction

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