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reginarubie · 1 year ago

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For that lovely anon who asked the “Until I found you,” song, Jonsa story:

Here you have the canon one, know I mean to make the next installment of Jon and Sansa do end up together by Sansa POV with this song so you shall have the modern version too!

(I know you had sent me another ask, but I can’t find it for the life of me in my ask box, I have too many unanswered asks, but I did not forget about you!)

I was lost within the darkness until I found her [I found you]

To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. “Sweet lady,” he said, “no victory is half so beautiful as you” — Sansa II, AGOT

He wanted it. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. — Jon XIII, ASOS

Jon said, "Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa." — Jon IV, ADWD

Of sudden, he felt the warmth spreading from his chest to his limbs, up his neck, turning almost into a scorching heat burning him, and darkness inside of him from within.

Someone was chanting, chanting in some kind of ancient, malicious tongue that seemed to curl around his heart like an iron fist and squeeze until there was no longer life inside of him and no breath inside of his breast.

Someone was singing, the voice so far and so soft that Jon wondered if it could be his mother, singing to him from the recess of his mind.

Does she know about me?

The next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother.

In his dreams his mother had always been beautiful, with kind eyes and a soft voice, noble born and she loved him. He wondered if that warmth spreading into his limbs and vanquishing the cold could be her love. Maybe, in death he'd known the embrace of a woman who loved him, that kind of love than could not die, that kind of love one could not deny, the kind of love for which duty and death were nothing but empty words with no power over him.

You know nothing, Jon Snow., Ygritte seemed to accuse him from somewhere in the recess of his mind and Jon could almost feel her probing hands on her, and wished once again Ghost was there, to stand between them.

Ghost, he remembered the blades and the cold.

Traitor.

Half a wildling, half a wolf, the blood of Winterfell. Somewhere deep in his being a wolf howled and it was as if he was suddenly shoved back inside his own body after having floated above it, around it, without anything binding him to the empty vessel he had left behind.

I loved another, echoed in his mind, the warm hand of the Red woman gripping at him, probing at him. The dead need no lovers, Jon Snow. But suddenly her heat was gone from his flesh and Jon felt the burn of the air feeling his lungs again — like the bite of the cold across his flesh — and he shivered as he roused with a sob.

The room was all wrong, he decided as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and the wooden canopy. Everything was wrong.

Davos' kind eyes, fatherly in some way he couldn't quite explain, were the first thing his glance could focus on.

———————————————————————————————————

“You swore an oath!” Edd tried to plead with him. I'm the sword in the darkness, I am the shield that guards the realms of men. He remembered his oath, but he also remembered the darkness and emptiness of death.

“My watch has ended,” he countered, his voice rough and dark and rasping. He doubted he'd ever talk quite right again, or feel quite warm enough from the chilling cold that the bite of death had left behind, claiming some part of him.

“Where will you go?” there was defeat in Edd's voice and Jon almost felt sorry for him. I cannot remain here, not after what happened. Jon knew all of his men by heart if not by name and that those very same men would plunge knives in his back…

“South,” he said on the spurn of a moment “get warm,” he added with a forced smile, that had nothing of the few genuine ones he had found himself dispensing to his men, to his brothers.

He could see in Edd's eyes. What about Winterfell?, Stannis had offered him Winterfell, but Stannis was dead. And Jon was just a bastard, besides, Winterfell belonged to Sansa. It was hers by law and by justice.

I know all about Lady Lannister and her claim, better Sansa and her new name than the bastard who had been killed by his own brothers. Even if she was forever lost, to death or to the coldness, then Winterfell would be lost with her.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

His fingers curled around the hilt of Long Claw. Honor made you leave, honor brought you back. Then the horn was sounded. Visitors.

Who would come?, who would reach the end of the world and not think of turning back and return where the sun shone and away from this land of death and coldness?

Hair as red as liquid copper, tangled into a semblance of a braid, framing a lovely if pale face and sparkling blue eyes, shining with barely concealed tears.

His heart skipped a beat.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

Sansa was shivering, but she was real in his arms. Her cheek was ice cold, but as she nuzzled against his face it seemed to spread warmth into his chilled bones. Her arms were trembling and her back was racked by soft sobs.

You are alive, her breath seemed to say, to chant, you are home. And his heart beat at the beat of one single word. Home.

——————————————————————————————————

You fell, I caught you. I'll never let you go like I did.

She's somehow grown more lovely too. He couldn't tell how that was possible. Sansa had always been, at the edge of his mind, someone far lovelier than any maiden in a song. She had been born to be a princess, though he had hated that they had betrothed her to Joffrey.

Daintily she ate the broth Jon had, had brought to them. Beautiful. That's not the right word either, his mind supplied, the right word sitting at the tip of his tongue.

Radiant.

Sansa had always been radiant, but all the more when she was happy. She had looked radiant as she had walked beside Joffrey inside the great hall of Winterfell, so many years past, as Jon bristled in the corner.

Now, she looked even more radiant.

He couldn't feel cold anymore, he realized. It was as if by returning Sansa had also returned some chunk of his own being back to him.

Home.

“Where will you go?” her tone had been even, but Jon could feel the concealed dread and fear in her.

As if Jon could ever let her go, now that they had found one another again.

“Where will we go,” he corrected her watching her slowly realizing the implication of his words as a soft beam opened, timidly, on her rosebud lips — had her lips always looked so pink? — his eyes unable to tear away from the soft peak of her pink tongue as she spoke, “if I don't watch over you Father's ghost will come back and murder me,” he jested.

That was safe.

He was her brother, and Sansa had suffered enough — she had not said but Jon could see it in the depth of her blue eyes — he wanted to be her safe space, from now on.

He smiled to her.

“Where will we go?” she asked again, then, her voice ever softer, as if Jon was being caressed by a cloud of warmth. She had always had the easy smile of the Tullys — they all did — and yet her smile had always been far more enchanting that Robb's or even Arya's.

“I don't know,” he admitted, looking down to his lap, “can't stay here, not after what happened,” he added, looking back to the hearth.

But I will keep you safe, he wanted to say. He didn’t.

“There's only one place we can go,” Sansa murmured, her eyes never leaving his face, “home,”.

He should've been surprised. He wasn't. Sansa was every inch as stubborn as any other of his siblings. His lord father used to say that he knew better than to fight with a Tully.

Jon knew better than think he'd be able to refuse Sansa anything.

“Should we tell the Boltons to pack up and leave?,” he asked, hoping his voice sounded teasing but conveyed the fact that Jon would never bring her back to the Bolton's clutches.

“We'll take it back,”

And there is was. The Tully's head-strongness. Sansa had been perhaps softer than their siblings, but ever as forthright and singleminded as all of them.

“Winterfell is our home,” she said passionately — and when had she learned to talk like that?, who was he joking...Sansa had always had a way with words, a way to get exactly what she wanted — “it's ours,”

I am not a Stark, he almost said. He had made shield of that knowledge since he left home.

“I see what you are, Snow. Half a wolf and half a wildling, baseborn get of a traitor and a whore. You would deliver a highborn maid to the bed of some stinking savage. Did you sample her yourself first? If you mean to kill me, do it and be damned for a kinslayer. Stark and Karstark are one blood."

"My name is Snow.”

“It's ours,” she had said, and how could Jon deny her?, how could Jon ever deny her “and Bran's, and Rickon's and Arya's. Wherever they are, it belongs to our family, we must fight for it!”

As if Jon had not fought, and fought and fought and lost.

“I want you to help me,” she said stepping closer, as if she had not heard him tell her he had fought and lost and he didn't want to fight anymore “but I'll do it myself if I have to,”

Jon would bid her goodnight, hope the sleep would bring her better counsel, but he knew that look in her eye. He knew it like he knew the summer snows and the walls of Winterfell and the names of every Stark king buried in the crypts.

You do not belong here, boy.

Winterfell is ours.

——————————————————————————————————

“Jon doesn't have the Stark name,” Davos pointed out. He was a good man, Jon granted, and he was sure he was willing to help them in any way, because for some reason he had chosen to follow him after Stannis had died.

I am not a Stark.

Winterfell is ours.

“No,” Sansa agreed and Jon felt it like a punch in his gut “but I do,” she added in the same very breath.

She couldn't be suggesting what Jon was thinking, could she?, had she spent enough time with the Lannister to have taken to some of their queer customs?

“Jon is every bit Ned Stark's child as I am,” Sansa decreed, her voice dispelling his doubts “the North will fight for Ned Stark's son,” she said.

———————————————————————————————————

Would you bed your sister, Jon Snow?

A beacon. Jon could not define Sansa in any other way as she walked down the very same steps Jon had descended to met her halfway when she first had reached Castle Black, a bundle in her arms, clad in a dark blue dress and a his old furlined cloak.

“New dress?” he almost cringed at how hopeful his voice sounded as he looked at her. Sansa smiled, sincerely touched by the fact that he had noticed, as if Jon had not noticed every detail about her. Always.

“Yes,” she said looking down at herself, as she would do when they were children and she wanted to show them her newest design with the pride that only a girl so young could feel “do you like it?”

Jon knew nothing of dresses. Say something, he beseeched his mouth, his mind, anything, make her smile, she's beautiful when she smiles.

“I—I like the wolf bit,” he said, going even as far as make an half-aborted gesture to her chest, where the beautiful design of glass pearls composed a beautiful snarling direwolf.

Anything but that, he wanted to slap himself back to death and let the earth swallow him.

Make her smile, you fool, he berated himself, not make her awkward and uncomfortable.

Sansa's smile was timid, but genuine and the blush on her cheeks was well worth the embarrassment, he decided, looking at how lovely she looked in his cloak and with her cheeks flushed so.

“Good,” she said, giving herself composure and smiling openly and truly at him “because,” she opened the bundle of fabric and presented it to him, “I made this for you,” she stated, her eyes sparkling.

It was a cloak. She had made him a cloak. Jon could scarcely breath.

You may now cloak the bride and take her under your protection.

“I made it like the one Father used to wear,” Sansa stated, clearly in an attempt to fill the silence that had suddenly stretched between them “or as far as I can remember,” she added, downplaying all the effort she had surely taken to remember the design and bringing it back to life.

There was the Stark direwolf branded into the leather of its fastenings.

Jon doesn't have the Stark name.

No, but I do.

He looked up at her, “Thank you, Sansa” he said, hoping it could convey how grateful and proud he was that she would wrap him in Stark blazons and name him a Stark by action.

He didn't care for Edd half disgruntled, half disgusted look or for the sappy smile on his lips, the smile he had no intention to fight; he didn't even care if he look a sappy idiot, or a giddy greenboy, nor for the cold as he shed his old cloak and wrapped himself in the one Sansa had made for him.

For him.

———————————————————————————————————

They had taken back Winterfell.

You think that's obvious?

Oh, I think that is a bit obvious!

If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive. Do you understand me?

I will never let him touch you again, I'll protect you. I promise.

“Jon,” her voice had never been so cold, he turned to look at her “where is he?”

He didn't ask, she didn't say. Jon knew better than to confront her about it, she had been far gentler than he'd be, after all. And she was far more beautiful that she had any business of being, but Jon knew well enough, by now, that that would not stop her from growing much more beautiful still.

“Jon,” her voice was unsure, but soft and it left him wanting. The need cutting much deeper than the hunger he had always felt for Winterfell.

I am having the Lord's chambers prepared, he had told her. He had expected Sansa to take them, no question asked. They both knew who deserved them, by virtue of her birth, and by her actions — the Knights of the Vale had won the battle and they had rode North for her — but, in hindsight, he should've expected her to offer them to him instead.

“I am sorry I didn't tell you about the knights of the Vale, but—”

And in that moment Jon knew he loved her. He loved her with the kind of love that went beyond duty and honor and the bindings those imposed on any man, much more a bastard who had wanted nothing more than prove his worth.

“We need to trust each other,” he told her.

Trust me, he wanted to beg her, I kept you safe, didn't I?, have faith in me.

———————————————————————————————————

“You are my sister, but I am king now,” Jon protested.

He knew she had concerns, but she should not have voiced them before the lords, before the lords she ought to have kept her tongue at bay and then broached the subject in private.

Publicly they were to be an united front.

“So what?,” Sansa demanded walking past him “I can't question your decisions any more?” she asked “Joffrey never let anyone question his decisions, do you think he was a good king?”

Jon stopped in his tracks, suddenly as if slapped. He knew of some of the things she had suffered at Joffrey's hands. Not all, he was sure, but some things she had shared with him.

They had wanted to beat any kind of defiance out of her, they had failed, but Sansa had, had to learn to hold her tongue and lie to survive.

I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey, she told him to have affirmed more often than not, never letting her guard down, my one, true love.

She had learned to keep her opinions close to her heart and guarded and to never speak her mind least she wished to see her head removed.

If Jon thought over it, now, her protesting in open court made him feel both like an idiot and preening with pride. Because, she had felt safe enough to do that, to do what she had learned not to do at the Lannister court. She trusted him enough to speak her mind freely, because she knew he would never turn against her.

“Do you think I am Joffrey?” he spat, and if he sounded more pathetically in search for her validation, Jon didn't care. He needed her to tell him, tell him she trusted him. That she knew he was not Joffrey.

That with him she could protest before all the lords of the Realm and beyond and he'd thank her for her consideration — which he hadn't, but he had been blinded by arrogance and misplaced hurt pride before.

“I think you are as far from Joffrey as anyone I have ever met,” Sansa said, rising to his need and delivering her faith in him.

Jon exhaled. Thank the Gods.

“You're good at this, you know?” she asked, and it seemed she was not done complimenting him either. Part of Jon preened at her consideration, part of him filled with dread, knowing he was latching onto her “At what?,” he asked and her smile in reply was genuine.

“At ruling,”

“No,” he teased, looking out. Hoping she would protest.

She did.

“You are,” she said, “you are,” and Jon looked back at her, “but—”

And that made him smile. So she had faith in him, but less in his abilities. He chuckled.

“What?”

“What did Father used to say?,” he asked her “anything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit”

“He never said that, to me”

And how should I be smarter?, by listening to you?

Would it be so terrible?

Didn't she know he did nothing but listen to her?, could she really not see it?

——————————————————————————————————

Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal.

“You're abandoning your people!,” Sansa accused “you're abandoning your home!”

— you're abandoning me. She didn't say it and yet his treacherous heart skipped a beat as if she had.

And why, why did she have to look that beautiful?, he was sure it was some cruel joke of the Gods. The way for them to remind him he is nothing but a bastard, and bastards are born of lust and betrayal.

I am not a Targaryen, he chanted in his head, I am not a Targaryen. No matter the stirring deep in his soul for Sansa. The truth plain to see and yet hidden in the darkest of his mind and heart.

He was hers.

The North is a part of me, and I will never stop fighting for it. No matter the odds.

“I'm leaving both in good hands,” he assured her, watching as her beautiful eyes sparkled with barely concealed fear for him.

“Whose?!”

“Yours,” he was merely a murmur, but it echoed as if the hall had suddenly grown silent over the relentless chaos it had been before, and Jon wondered if the lords knew. They must've, because he could not tear his eyes off hers, “you are the only Stark in Winterfell,” he told her “until I return, the North is yours”

I am yours.

He nodded to her, and she gave him a so ever minute nod back.

———————————————————————————————————

It had been the hardest thing he had ever done. Falling in the dragon queen' bed. She was beautiful, if with a beauty so raw and dangerous that Jon felt suffocated.

You won't have to worry about the King in the North anymore, he had meant in jest, to cover how uncomfortable her purple gaze was making him feel, I've grown used to him.

She couldn't be as different from Sansa if she tried, and therein lied the crux of it all. Jon could never escape the truth about his unholy love for his sister, but he would never taint her soul with the stain of his sin.

The dragon queen could prove a distraction for however small, and she clearly was taken with him. He hated manipulating her that way, but he had felt like he had no choice.

When he had roused from his dreamless sleep, on her ship, Jon had not been alone. She had been there, perched onto the mattress and looking over him, as a dragon would lay over a hoard in the songs.

Am I your prisoner?, he had asked her, not yet. Her reply still echoed on his mind — she had taken his ships and had stripped him of his weapons, virtually he might have been a guest but he knew he was nothing short than an hostage — he had never been an hostage gambling with his life, the life of the woman he loved — for however unholy that was — and the life of his siblings.

But someone else had, and she had survived all of her abusers and found her way back home. To him.

The dragons had proved less mighty than Jon had hoped, but still they would've been useful. Daenerys had lost one — which meant that if they survived all of this, she had one less weapon to turn against the North — but she still had two, two who could be valuable assets if nothing, at the very least, to keep under control the numbers of weights that would fight against them.

It was a hard gamble, but one he had to make. No matter the odds.

I'm loyal to my beloved Joffrey, my one, true love.

“What about my queen?” he had seen how elated Daenerys had looked at that, and he had felt sorry for her, for the way he was using her, but he had soldiered on “I would— I would bend the knee, but—”

Everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit. If he never publicly bent the knee, but showed his loyalty in other ways, Daenerys would never demand the proper rites were observed and Sansa could use it, once this war was over, to free the North of her.

Her hand was too little in his, and its hold was almost suffocating in his lungs. It did not surprise him when, later that week, after they had departed by ship for the North, she summoned him to her cabin.

He had known what she wanted from him, and he had given it to her.

There was no one single thing he would not do, to keep the North and Sansa safe.

——————————————————————————————————

It was good to be back home.

You're a man now, he had told Bran feeling his heart burst at the sight for his little brother. Almost, Jon had looked at Sansa, he had done nothing but look at her since breaking through the gates of Winterfell, and her aloof demeanor had softened as a genuine smile had graced her pink lips.

Gods, had he missed her.

It was the most natural, easiest thing he ever do, fall back into her open arms, feeling her curl around him and his whole being unfolding and collapsing into her.

Gods he loved her.

“Trust me,” he wanted to tell her, he hoped she would hear it anyway in her bones, as his blood sang for her.

“— I made sure we survived winter,” Sansa stated “but I did not account to feed two armies and two dragons,” she pointed out and Jon almost flinched.

Daenerys had indeed reached Winterfell without provisions and even her men had been clothed rightly for the cold only once they had reached White Harbor.

She had taken the gold from the Battle of the Golden Road, but she had burned the grain, instead of taking a whole year of harvest to feed her people come winter.

Leave it to Sansa to point that out. His clever girl.

“— what do dragons eat, anyway?”

Gods, had he missed her snarky comments. Though they could without her antagonizing the dragon queen with an ill temper and two dragons to her disposal.

Daenerys' reply had been as cold and chilling as when she had told him he was not yet her prisoner “Whatever they want,” she said, her cold, purple eyes fixing dangerously on his sister.

Sansa didn't give a single inch, facing her rival head-on, her Tully blue eyes shining with defiance.

Jon needed to put a stop to it. To diverge Daenerys' attention from Sansa, he knew his sister could wear down what little control Daenerys had on her own temper just by pointing out the clear mistakes in her policy and making of her the laughing stock of the lords of the Realm.

“I don't need her to be my friend,” Daenerys stated coldly, her eyes never wavering. She was giving him a warning. Jon had no doubt she felt as she was showing him consideration by issuing such a warning before acting whereas elsewise Sansa would've already been dealt with “but if she can't respect me—”

He did his best to school his expression and keep a close reign to his fury. He had beaten to a pulp the last person who had dared threaten Sansa, and had almost strangled the last man who had showed his misplaced lust for his sister.

Thankfully he was saved when her attention was caught by the news her dothraki guard reported about the dragons.

He hadn't known. Had he known he could ride one, he would've done with all of this farse, taken the dragon and left Daenerys to her miserable war for the Iron throne.

But he hadn't known.

Still, this meant that, if Daenerys ever asked more than the North could concede, and she turned her fury North, Jon could defend the North.

“He said he would stand behind Jon Snow,” she pointed out at his fury against lord Glover “the King in the North”

Didn't she understand he was doing all of this for them?, for her?

“I told you we needed allies!” he beseeched her, watching her dance like a dark flame and enticing him with her dance.

“I wasn't aware you were abandoning your crown!” she accused, because therein lay the problem.

“— I brought two armies home, two dragons!”

“and a Targaryen queen!” she accused turning around to face him again, and all of her beauty hit him again, like a wave against his lungs.

I will drown in those eyes, Jon sighed “She'll be a good queen,” he needed her to believe it “she's not her father,”

“No,” Sansa agreed, her voice lower than a whisper, a breath against his lips, making him almost lean in “she's much prettier,”

Jon smiled up at her and wondered if she could see his smile was poorly-manufactured. If she could see how hard this was for him.

“Did you bend the knee because she'll be a good queen, or because you love her?”

Apparently no. He felt himself flinch “Don't you have any faith in me at all?,” he asked, and Sansa deflated at that, the scale-looking fabric of her dress shining in the candle-lit chamber.

“You know I do,” no buts, this time. It was an absolute statement. She trusted him.

———————————————————————————————————

He leaned to the side and felt his stomach churn, as his lungs burned.

I'm talking about the Seven bloody Kingdoms!

He looked to the statue of Lyanna Stark, his mother, and suddenly another wave of nausea hit him.

He had slept with his aunt, he had slept with his aunt and he didn't eve love her.

He loved his— apparently he was a Targaryen, after all, because the love he bore Sansa whilst believing her his sister came back to haunt him tenfold — she's not his sister.

Not his sister.

She's his.

———————————————————————————————————

“Tell them—” he asked of Bran. His cousin looked taken aback for a moment in that distant, aloof way of his.

The battle had been terrible, the war council even worse.

You are the queen, what you command we will obey. He hated how smugly Daenerys had looked at Sansa.

The Seven Kingdoms will know peace, under their rightful queen.

Then, he told them. He half expected Arya to throw a fit, but her schooled expression betrayed nothing. Sansa, instead, was more of an open book.

I am not a Stark.

“Jon,” she was the first to speak, Jon looked at her, halfway hoping she would point out he was not her brother and look relieved by it, and halfway hoping she'd not press the issue “I am so sorry,”

He had not expected that.

And suddenly she was in his arms, and Jon felt her warmth engulfing him and filling him.

“I am so sorry,” she chanted into his ear “you're still a Stark, you're still ours,”

Jon hid his face against her red hair and the fur of her cloak — his cloak, he realized, the one he had given her at Castle Black — “and I stil love you,”

His heart skipped a beat at that. It had sounded so unnecessary and yet it had filled Jon with acceptance.

———————————————————————————————————

“Don't go there,” Sansa whispered, in the darkness of the hour of the wolf, “I don’t want you to go there,” she added.

Jon smiled softly at her, “Sansa,” he murmured “You know I must go,”

“Men in our family don’t do well in the South,” she protested and Jon pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I am not a Stark,” he reminded her gently. Sansa huffed out.

“You are to me,” she proclaimed “Jon, she won’t stand for it,” she told him “you’re the strongest threat to her rule,” she pointed out “just like Ramsay would have never risked Rickon living, I beg of you, see reason”

“She loves me,” he said, that Sansa didn’t appreciate.

“Well then,” she stated coldly, disentangling from his hold, “I suppose you want to go with her South,” she said briskly.

It made Jon chuckle “Don’t be jealous, now,” he teased her, because now his whole heart rejoiced at her blatant jealousy.

“You really think that low of me?,” Sansa protested “that I mean to keep you caged here because I am jealous?” she demanded “by all means, go with her,” she said “I am only concerned for your welfare”

“I know, sweet one,” he murmured softly “but I will not have her stay in Winterfell any longer,”

The glass gardens looked beautiful and Jon was sure there was supposed to be a batch of winter roses somewhere, but he also knew that Sansa had devoted all land she could to parley and potatoes and rice.

She huffed “I still don’t like you going South, they will fight over your every limb until they rip you apart, and I will be forced to avenge you,” she said.

Jon chuckled, their shoulders brushing as both sat on the stony bench “My avenging wolf,” he teased her, “I promised you I would protect you, let me”

Sansa had stayed silent at that “You’ll return,” she stated with a surety that had him almost smile. Almost.

“I will,”

They both knew only his bones would return North if he set foot beyond the Neck. But it was a sacrifice Jon was willing to make, if it meant Sansa got to live safe and protected. Yet Sansa let him embrace and Jon fell into her.

__________________________________________________________________________

“— they don’t get to choose” Daenerys stated, with a coldness that was eery. A beautiful, dark conqueror, clad in her victory and without mercy.

She’s everyone’s queen now.

Try telling Sansa.

Why do you think Sansa told me the truth about you?, she doesn’t want Dany to be queen.

She doesn’t get to choose.

No, but you do!

“—be with me,” and he had done it. After all what was a curse more upon his name, but that of kinslayer?

“You are my queen,” he stated as he leaned close, his free hand curling around the hilt of his dagger.

I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey, my one, true love.

“Now,” he promised as their lips touched “and always” and then, he plunged his knife in her heart.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“I wish there had been another way,” the tears in her eyes almost broke his heart, i the same way knowing she had done what she believed right to defend him, even if it had broken him instead.

“The North is free thanks to you,” he said knowing it true, but not less tragic because of it.

“But they lost their king,” she said and he could see she was indeed heartbroken over it.

I was lost within the darkness until I found her,

I found you

“Ned Stark’s daughter will speak for them,” he stated, knowing it deep in the marrow of his bones. All this time, he had been waiting for her.

Even after Ygritte, when he had thought duty had won over any kind of love. He had known.

Sometimes duty must be the death of love.

He had known he had loved again, perhaps, down in the darkest pit of his heart he had always known he had loved her. He hadn’t realized it but it had not been Lyanna Stark’s voice to bring him back.

It had been the memory of Sansa singing to herself as she brushed Lady’s coat.

“She’s the best they could ask for,”

She embraced him then, and Jon would’ve rather died than let her go, and almost didn’t let go of her.

But the Gods were just and no kinslayer could’ve hold something so good in his arms.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Tormund watched him, side-eyeing him for all his worth.

So who it is that you have to convince?, this dragon queen or the one who fucks her brother?

“What?” he demanded.

“You love her,” it was not a question, it was a statement. Jon’ eyes fell naturally on Sansa. She had come to Castle Black when her summon had been ignored.

He had needed time.

“Aye,” he didn’t hide it, not from Tormund, not from anyone else. He had told himself, he would never fall in love after Ygritte, but it had been a lie.

The dead need no lovers, Lord Snow.

No, Jon had thought and even though he had not known it consciously yet, he had not been waiting for Ygritte to raise again and haunt him if he ever betrayed her.

No. He had known he could never give himself to anyone but her. He would never fall in love again, unless it was her, until he could’ve had her.

The lady in the silk dress, to whom he could bring flowers. The lady he had wanted Ygritte to try and be. She had always been Sansa. And he always been waiting for her.

He had always known he would only fall into her, and he had not yet stopped falling. He doubted he ever would.

Suddenly Sansa was before him, her cheeks were flushed and her lips parted, her hand proffered toward him “Would you not dance with me?”

She had, had some to drink, but Jon had never seen her so giddy before.

He had accepted her hand before he could think better of it and had let her guide him —who was he joking to say he was the one guiding her?, she had always taken the lead in their relationship — and he had twirled her around as the wildling raised songs of the First Men around them, drumming their fingers on their instruments or clapping their hands.

He had been lost all his life, stumbling in the darkness. And then she had come like a dark flame, pulling him in and loving him, letting him love.

HOLD YA — I WILL NEVER LET YOU GO AGAIN,

She looked ever so beautiful and lovely and Jon really wanted to kiss her, steal her breath away and never let go.

He looked at her softly “What are you doing here?” he asked, as he spun her around and twirled her, her beautiful gown dancing like rays of liquid silver and snow around her.

“Don’t you know?” she asked, and in her eyes Jon could see her true question. Do you really not know?

“The Lords will never accept it,” Jon told her softly “I am a kinslayer”

“You are a hero,” she countered, “besides, the lords would simply be grateful I have stopped ditching their efforts to have me married and give them an heir,” she teased him.

The mead she had drunk though, must’ve caught up with her because she stumbled her next step, falling into his chest — or perhaps, by the mirth in her eyes — she had done it on purpose.

“I’ve caught you,” he said stupidly.

Sansa smiled “So you did,” she smiled “I want it to be you,” she told him boldly “I do not want to force you”

Jon almost swore. She was born to make his will crumble, but really, hadn’t Jon always known?

How could he ever deny her anything?

“I know you loved Ygritte,” she said “and the dragon queen… but I thought—”

Jon silenced her by pressing a kiss against her lips, chasing the beautiful flames dancing on her skin and painting her face in a golden halo, her hair brimming like liquid copper

“Everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit,” he reminded her, “I found you,” he said “I’ve loved you,” he added “if you’ll want me,” he told her “If you’ll let me, I’ll love you more still, I’ll hold you more—” his voice broke off “why do you think I killed her?, she would’ve turned against you. And I could not let her” he told her “It had always been you, if you’ll want me”

This time she was the one pressing the kiss atop his lips “I want you”

Jon nodded “Then I’ll be yours,” he said “and you’ll be mine”

Sansa’ beam was something to be seen “Until the end of our days?”

heaven when i held you again,

how could we ever be friends?

i would rather die than let you go.

“Until the end of our days” he said.

#jonsa #Jonsa story #ask the hag #anon asks #jonxsansa #Jonsa fan #the hag’s prompts #Jonsa prompts #sansaxjon #Jonsa fam

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reginarubie · 2 years ago

Text

Jon and Sansa do end up together, but— actually Jon's POV

Because I've heard by mistake a song and I was inspired, so fight me, this is how it went.

This also features a bit of everyone, a little snippet of Joffrey and Cersei as well... and well really, everyone. With a side dish of Arya being blunt as always, Jon and Robb friendship begging, the first time Jon and Sansa met and several other things.

Also... if you were wondering what that “something like that” Jon had said to Podrick last installment of the story... here you learn what that something has been.

Inspired by Surrender by Natalie Taylor, and also, can be found in my ao3 archive of prompts and ficlets (here).

Can we surrender? [Whenever you are ready]

Jon ~

He gazes at the roof, her warm body nestled against his, her head resting against his shoulder, her arms and legs wrapped around him, milky white and pale against the sheets.

His hand drifts from her shoulder to her waist and up again. The caress so featherlike she doesn’t even wake. He’s grateful for it.

He knows she’s had trouble sleeping.

The fact that her sleep is undisturbed when she lays beside him fills him with both pride and boundless love.

He lays there, feeling her breath against his neck, and her lashes brush against his skin. Her hands are warm, they keep at bay the chilling cold of the night.

He remembers perfectly the first time he saw Sansa.

Robb had always been the kid everyone wanted to be friends with, intelligent, of good family with a brilliant future ahead of him, with the right connection to pursue any dream he might ever have. Even at five Jon had been very aware of all the differences between them.

He was the son of a single mother, no father to speak of — his mother would not even speak his name and frankly, after one night she had admitted to him that his father had basically groomed her when she was a teenager and that his father had already a wife and children — his mother had to work double hours to just ensure that Jon’s clothes were of good quality and that his homework did not slack due him feeling different.

Even back then Jon had known Robb Stark was and would have everything Jon ever wanted. Still, he could not bear the boy any ill, he was older than him by half a year and he was just so… kind, when he wasn’t impersonating his own father and bossing people around.

He was fun to be around too.

In the beginning they had antagonized each other, but the Starks relentless kindness is something that wins them the heart of all those around them.

Jon had been six and Robb had been six and half and Jon was a little shit, okay?, he disliked the way most kids in his school paraded around their daddy’s money and often they would bully him because he had no daddy. No dad to come to his soccer practice and to cheer him on when his mom was working.

Jon was alone.

He was an easy victim, not that he staid that way for long. He had started throwing punches long before his mother learned of it, halfway through the first year of school.

Still, it was october and the cold was so intense that it didn’t snow, it just frosted the snow that had fallen the week before when the temperature had been warmer.

A couple of kids had stolen his lunch money — which fine, he would scrape something at home — but then they had started their usual mantra of how he should go tell daddy, oh, no you don’t have a father.

Little shits.

Jon had thrown the first punch when they had called him bastard and his mother a whore. And the second. Maybe even the third before they had overpowered him, kicked him in the tummy and left out of the classroom in the icy wind.

Bastard, they had called him.

Now Jon is old enough to know they weren’t aware of half the words they were using, still it had stung.

Robb Stark had been the one to found him, he had lent him his jacket — warm and furlined — and shared with him his homemade meal. Jon had bitched about that too. Called him names, but Robb had just smiled and shared his lunch with him.

“Your name is Jon, nah?” he had asked.

Jon had grunted some reply that Robb had miraculously understood and they had eaten together.

Jon had called him stupid, told him that he didn’t want his pity.

But, when Jon had finally manage to overpower the leader of the bullies in april of that year, and the others had ganged up on him, Robb had been there. One of his teeth had been knocked out and Jon still remembered Robb standing tall — taller than him — with his mouth bloody, grinning with a missing tooth and giving him the thumbs up.

He had become his brother in all but blood then.

Still, when Robb had brought him to Winterfell Manor Jon had been cautious. It had been lord Eddard Stark who had come to the principal that day when his mother had discovered of his problems at school and his punching tendencies.

He had been quiet, and seemed the kind of man who never raised his voice, but the face of disappointment he had bestowed on them when he had been told they had been the ones to throw the first punch had almost made Jon shrink down a size.

Even when Ned and Lyanna had learned of the bullying they had been very displeased Jon and Robb had resorted to throw punches instead of involving the adults, though Jon had gained a pat on the shoulder and the head by Ned Stark.

“What do I tell you, always?,” Lyanna had been berating and Jon had been reciting her usual teachings “Walk a mile to avoid a fight—”

“My father used to say something very similar,” Ned Stark had interjected “though he used to say, do not fight—” he said “but if you have to fight, win.”

Lyanna had been exasperated at that “That’s not what I meant at all—”

“No, but the bullies would not have stopped unless he showed them they are weaker than him,” he said “I don’t approve of you throwing punches, boys, so next time avoid it” he had mussed Jon’s hair up and watching him and Robb walk away, Robb waving at him excitedly and Jon had never missed a father more in his life.

And whilst Ned Stark had proved amiable, still, the matriarch of the Stark family was without any doubt not very impressed with Jon having somehow managed to get her son involved in some punch fight.

She had grounded Robb for five weeks, and coach had put them both on the bench for five matches.

“Hello Mrs. Stark”

The woman had been feeding a toddler who seemed to have no intention of ever eat, and kept spitting out everything the mother tried to get her to eat.

“So, you’re Jon—” she had greeted him “my son tells me you’re a good sort, try not to involve him in another fistfight and we’ll be alright, understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am”

“You can call me Catelyn, darling— are you…ARYA!”

And Mrs Stark was growing increasingly more frustrated with her, the toddler had lusterless brown hair and the grey eyes of her father and a toothy grin that reminded Jon of Robb’s bloodied one.

At one point Mrs Stark got up from her seat to lean against the counter, Jon and Robb had been doing homework.

“Mommy have you seen my pink sweater—?” Jon had not paid much attention to the voice, though Mrs Stark had turned to her eldest daughter, all ready for ballet practice and had sighed.

“Robb,” she had called “Help your sister lace up her shoes” she had commanded and Robb had mimicked her.

“What do we say?”

“Please, son of mine,” Catelyn Stark had sounded impressively annoyed by her son’s antics “help your sister lace up her shoes”

“I can do it alone, mommy!” said sister had chirped and Robb had shrugged as if to say to his mother see?, but Catelyn Stark’s glare was impressive — it still is — and Robb had jumped down the chair to collect his sisters shoes, whilst said sister sat, bouncing her legs on the chair Robb had just vacated.

Toddler Arya had been playing with her food.

Jon had stood up then, awkward to share the kitchen with a girl he barely knew. Sansa Stark, was her name, was Robb’s little sister, she had red hair held in a braided bun held by a dragonfly pin, she was wearing a stupidly frilly skirt and no shoes.

Her eyes were big and blue.

Very blue.

They were impressively blue.

To busy himself in any way possible he had found his way to toddler Arya, still playing with his food, and more out of boredom than any other reason he had taken up the spoon and tried to feed her. Imagine his surprise when Arya had eaten willingly and demanding more with her dirty, chubby hands.

“Wow,” little Sansa had commented “look at how well she behaves! You’re so good with her!”

Jon had blushed at that, though he was too embarrassed to speak and had not looked at her, not as Robb helped her lace up her shoes, nor as she demanded he carried her backpack for her to the car.

Though he had watched her leave.

Toddler Arya had babbled incoherently and Jon had felt almost accused, though he did not know of what.

Jon had watched her go, and as she had skipped the way to the gates she had turned around and smiled at him, the greenery of the courtyard making her look like some kind of fairytale princess.

***

For years, after that, Sansa had been at the periphery of his life, but never truly a central character of it. They run in different circles and Jon was okay with that, what more, your best friend’s sister is virtually untouchable, so…better off this way.

Still, Jon was almost always at Winterfell Manor, and often times overnight, especially when they had found out Lyanna’s cancer. Ned Stark had pulled several strings and in the end Lyanna had been transferred to Harrenhal Hospital, one of the best for this kind of things, and Jon had moved permanently, until Lyanna had recovered that is, in the Stark home.

Life was different with so many people around, Jon was used to it being just him and his mother, and all the chaos the Stark siblings brought around did not lessen her absence.

At times he was severely overwhelmed by the Starklings running around like little wildlings in the courtyard and he would rather stay cooped up inside watching some TV. It had been that way that Jon had developed an interested for the naturalistic documentaries no one wanted to watch.

That was until one day Sansa had left her alcove in her room — her very pink and white room — a book of some fantasy story in hand and had sat on the couch beside him.

Jon had been an inch to try and made her scurry out of what had become his safe place, but he couldn’t literally haunt away from her own home Sansa, so he had sat tight hoping the documentary might bore her enough to send her back to her daydreaming in her pink room.

Ew pink, looking back at it made Jon shake his head, especially considering the woman he is holding is wearing a soft pink nightgown, thank you very much.

When, after half an hour it had been clear she would not move, Jon had started to relax. Her presence seemed to sooth a bit the ache of his mother’s absence and it didn’t overwhelm him like the others did upon time; plus the noise of her turning the pages and her soft breathes kind of relaxed him too.

They had come closer to loose Lyanna that year and Jon had spent his first Christmas without his mother — it had happened again, on occasion, but lately they both had worked out a way to spend it together since after he had returned from the Nights Watch operative squadron — he had been so downtrodden that not even Robb’s easy smile could help him feel better, nor the several gifts he received.

“This is for you,” he remembers an eleven year old Sansa tell him handing to him a badly wrapped gift.

His wife is good at many things, but wrapping gifts is not her forte.

He had been so surprised she had gotten him a gift — he had not gotten her any — but he had been especially touched when the gift had turned out to be an hand-knit scarf with his favorite colors. The knit wasn’t perfect, but for Jon, to this day, it’s the most beautiful scarf in the world.

Thus his childish crush on his best-friend’s sister was born, even if he would not realize it for years, yet.

Though he made sure to always have ready a gift for Christmas and her birthday, a thoughtful gift, because she had the capacity of making him feel less alone.

By the time he had been seventeen and Sansa fifteen Jon had been completely aware of his terribly improper crush on her, though he was determined to wait it out and do nothing about it.

Na-ah he would not act on it, not even remotely even if her new boyfriend was terribly annoying — to his great frustration taller than both him and Robb despite being younger — and the perfect picture of the kind of prince from the stories Sansa so much loved.

No.

He would wait out the year, walk away, enlist for the Nights Watch and one day he’d return and his crush on her would have disappeared without him even noticing.

It had been a good plan — Jon sneers at the sheer idiocity of it now.

That was, until that night. Jon could still recall every single minute of it, from the moment he had been in his car with Alys Karstark trying not to let the idea of Sansa with Joffrey disturb him too much to the moment he had grabbed Sansa’s hand and gotten her out of that house.

It had been 9:27 PM, he remembers starkly and his phone had blared in his backpocket. Alys had been annoyed by him replying but seeing Sansa’ name flashing on the screen had put him on edge.

“Sansa?,” but no reply had come from the other side of the phone, only sobs. He still remembers the way Alys Karstark had redone the two upper buttons of her shirt and rolled her eyes.

When Sansa had not replied still he had added “Baby, speak to me, what it is?”

Alys had left in a huff then. But Sansa had not replied still, she had only said “Jon” and her voice had trembled the way it did when she contained the tears threatening to fall off her cheeks.

This is it, he remembers thinking, “Baby, I need you to tell me where you are. I’m coming to get you”

She had exhaled, Jon likes to think in relief then. She had not been able to tell him where she was, but his phone had pinged with her position.

Jon had just convinced his mother to lend him the car, and he was about to crash it in the attempt to get her fast enough.

The Lannister Villa had been a two hours drive from there, he didn’t even know why the Lannister had a fucking villa in the North, nor why they had transferred there with Ned Stark’s bestfriend last year, but he didn’t care. All he had cared about had been Sansa.

He had made it in twenty minutes, probably breaking every speed limit of the state, he didn’t care.

The Villa had been alight with noise and lights as Sansa had been invited to a party, he remembered watching her parade around in that stupid lilac dress all ready with her hair straightened and her lips plump and pink.

Fuck, and he had thought he had not paid attention to her.

Jon had parked the car with such a violence that the wheels had hissed against the cement, then he had hopped off it and slammed the door shut, some of the guests had noticed the broody teen, all black curls and stormy expression stride inside the backyard.

“Where is she?!” he had thundered to poor Myrcella, who to her credit is not as bad as the rest of her family.

But she had been scared, that much he remembers.

Her voice had been squeaky “Upstairs,” she had said “in my room, but Jon—” and Jon had not cared as to why she knew his name, the insipid girl had never spoke to him once “my mother is there with her, you don’t have to worry—”

That had been reason enough to worry.

Jon had taken the stairs two by two and in the end he had found Cersei Lannister trying to open the door to the bathroom directly connected to Myrcella’ room.

“Who are you?!” she had demanded “what are you doing in my home? Thief! I’ll have you arrested for this!”

Jon had shouldered past her and her yelling and had leaned against the door

“Sans?” he had called, but Sansa had been letting the water run, possibly to drain out all the noises Cersei Lannister kept making.

When Cersei Lannister made to grab him Jon had, had enough and simply… broke down the door?

Jon had been doing boxe, he knew he was strong, still up to today he believes it had been adrenaline more than strength that helped him slam the door open.

Sansa had been sitting on the tub, the water running and her face tear-striken, but that had not been what had sent him spiraling, no what did it, had been her bruising cheek and eye, her busted lip.

Jon wanted to kiss those lips.

Joffrey had no business even being close to them and he abused them that way? Abused her that way?, the girl Jon wanted? The girl Jon loved?

He had knelt before her and had put his hand on her thigh, she had shivered.

“You’re ice cold, baby—” and yeah, after he would have realized he had called her baby several times that evening, thankfully she was too out of it to connect the dots, he had wrapped her in his jeans jacket and had helped her up.

Though the moment he had seen Joffrey sneering at them and demanding he unhanded his girlfriend Jon had snapped.

To this day Jon cannot say how many times he punched him, the first moment of lucidity he had was when Sansa had called out, breathy and trembling his name.

That had stilled him.

He had turned in rage to look at her, and seeing her narrow shoulders wrapped in his jacket all fury had evaporated as if made of nothing but thin air.

Fuck, I’m in love with her.

He had stood up then, leaving Joffrey bloody on the carpet, before the eyes of everyone, Robert Baratheon included. He had taken Sansa’s hand then.

“You wanted to file a compliant, Mrs Baratheon,” he commented darkly “please do, I’ll happily meet your scumbag of a son in court for assault once he has faced the charges we will file against him” all in all, he thought that Catelyn Stark would be pretty proud of his speech.

Sansa had not let go of his hand, not even to let him drive and Jon had not let her go either, not until they had been inside Winterfell Manor and Sansa had fallen into her mother’s worried embrace.

Feel my white flag,

my love where are you—?

Jon had had another run in with Joffrey, at school. He and Robb had made sure he pressed no charges and that he knew that no one touched Sansa and walked away unscathed.

It had been the first time Sansa had tended to his bruised knuckles. It had not been the last.

He had toyed with the idea of asking her to be his date to prom, maybe that would put a smile to her beautiful face, but in the end he had chickened out of it. And in the end the time for his enlistment had come and Jon had been saying goodbye to the Starks and his mother.

“You’ll be careful?”

“Stop nagging him, Sans!” Robb complained “you’re worse than his mother is, no offense meant, Ms Snow!”

Jon had wanted to take her hand then. He had been too chicken to do that too.

“I promise, Sansa” he had told her gently “and you’ll keep doing the therapy like you promised?”

“I said I would, and I will” Sansa had nodded to him and Jon had known he had to walk away at one point.

To turn his back to her.

Foolish idiot he had been.

And, in the rear mirror he had seen his mother and Sansa watching him go, they had been his focal point, though Arya and Bran and Rickon and Robb had been there as well.

Stupid boy.

***

Surprisingly Sansa kept in touch during his first years at Castle Black and even came around, once or twice.

That was how she had met his comrade, Waymar Royce. The lucky bastard, who had the chance Jon had butchered in its crib when he had become Robb’ best friend, but at least Waymar treated her right.

For a time.

And Jon had found his own dimension with the brotherhood, and surprisingly with the wildlings as well.

Ygritte had been a lapse in judgment, he had known from the beginning that they wanted different things, that they looked at life differently, but then she had laughed so easy and then she had sung before the fire and Jon had been done for.

She had been a passionate lover, she is a passionate woman. Too harsh, and she made fun of every softness she ever saw in him.

I’d like to see you in a silk dress — no, she’d look more like Sansa despite not being half as beautiful.

The thought had comforted him in the beginning.

Like those frilly silk dresses you southerners wear?, no thank you. She had replied harshly, or you’d like too that I’d scream ‘Oh, a spider! Jon Snow, save me!’

Sansa was not afraid of spiders, and he disliked Ygritte generalization that all women who wore silks were somewhat fragiler than her.

It had been Sansa who had found Ned after his motorcycle accident, she had been the one to call the ambulance and ride with him to the hospital and offer the first help she could, she had seen her father almost being decapitated by the motorcycle he had been riding, and had seen him almost loose a leg.

There was nothing weak in Sansa.

So that I could tear if off ye, he had said, between gritted teeth, knowing he had imagined Sansa in her stupidly flawless dress at one of the many charities dinners and how she’d look if he tore it off her.

But Ygritte had not understood. Or perhaps she had understood way too well. She had followed Jon to Castle Black with her cousin Gilly and his sworn brother Sam, and Sansa and Arya had been there.

He had lost track of time during his stay beyond the Wall and when he had returned he had found out it was around Arya’s sixteenth birthday and with her new car she and Sansa had drove to Castle Black to surprise him.

Jon had been touched, Ygritte less so. Especially when she had noticed the wistful way Jon had looked at Sansa and Waymar. He had never considered Ygritte especially perceptive, but she had caught on, on his crush on Sansa pretty quick.

Their breakup had been explosive, she had even punched him in the face and had threatened him with Jon’s own service gun. Thankfully she didn’t fire, but Jon had no doubt that if lord Commander Mormont had not intervened when he did, she would have done something drastic for both of them.

He had only been thankful that word of exactly why they had broke up never got to Waymar or worse, Sansa. She’d never forgive herself, she’d probably trek to Ygritte’s hut only to convince her that she was wrong.

Waymar had seemed blissfully ignorant and that meant Sansa was too. Now, Arya…that was all another story, it had gotten to the point that when they had went out to properly celebrate her birthday and the boy she had a crush on had come with his new girlfriend Arya had moped and found him at the bar.

“Is this how you feel when you see her with beautiful-hair?” she had asked sitting on the stool beside his and frowning at that Gendry-fella.

Jon had almost spat all the beer he had in his mouth “I beg your pardon?”

“Look, you can fool Robb,” Arya had told him, mighty unimpressed, “you can fool her and Gods be good, you can fool even yourself, but you cannot fool me”

Jon had found no words to deny it then “Aye,” he had replied at her original question then and Arya had sighed “It bloody sucks doesn’t it?”

Jon had shrugged.

Silence had ensued as Sansa, social butterfly that she was managed to politely flip Gendry and his new girlfriend the bird.

“You know, I kinda hate her at times,” Arya had confided to him “but, not really. She’s annoying, like really annoying, but I kind of see where you come from”

It had been as close to a blessing he had gotten from the Starks about his crush on Sansa.

“Does it ever stop?” Arya had asked after a long while, and Jon had been already halfway his next pint.

“Don’t know what to tell you,” he had replied “It hasn’t stopped yet, for me”

“How do you manage not to punch him in the gut?,” Arya had demanded, when Waymar had swept Sansa in for the kiss of the century “I’m not even half in love with Gendry as you are with her, and I still want to tear all of Ly-lah stupidly pretty hair from her skull”

“He makes her happy,” he had mumbled, as if explained everything, no matter the way his heart kept breaking.

It had begun with Waymar stumbling over his words to ask Sansa out to dinner.

It had ended with their breakup.

Jon and Waymar had shared a silent pint over it, then Jon had walked away.

In a couple of years Jon had stepped down from his operative days and he had met Val.

His whole relationship with Val still broke his heart a little to think of. Val had not deserved to be the second choice and honestly Jon had believed to have outgrown, outlasted his crush on Sansa.

And on it had went, for almost a year and half. During one of his visits to Winter Town Sansa had basically dragged him away from the raucous Winterfell mason and had taken him with her to the elderly home she often visited.

There had been Podrick, the one she had confided to him, she had, had a crush on almost three months prior. Not even Robb had, had anything against him, which made hives rise upon his arms.

But seeing her so enamored by him? Jon could hardly take it, but it wasn’t easy telling Sansa Stark no. Usually his wife would anyway get her way and you’d end up feeling like shit because you had tried to deny her, her wish. It always backfires, in his experience. Never get her to use her puppy eyes on you, and never have her so much in a strife she’ll use that sharp tongue of hers to make so much sense you wonder why you are even trying to tell her no.

“Sansa I don’t know if that’s—”

“Hello everyone!,” her grip on his hand, had been like a tether, and Jon had followed it like he no choice and chance “Stop being so shy! — I hope you don’t mind, I brought a friend over!”

Jon had entered everyone’s field of vision then, and Podrick Payne had been there, in the first line, gazing at Sansa and then at their clasped hands. Jon had let got of her hand then, discreetly, even thought every fiber of his being had told him to hold on tight and face straight on this boy who thought he had any business trying to get his Sansa to fall in love with him.

“Stop manhandling me,” he had told her stiffly, but Sansa had just rolled her eyes.

“Then stop being so stubborn. Jon, this is my friend Podrick, the one I told you about. Pod this is Jon”

Jon had felt his whole world crumble to dust and re-settle itself as the boy, with a taurine neck and honest eyes suddenly looking quite uncertain, Jon had schooled his expression — conceal don’t feel — and had offered him his hand. Jon might never be Sansa’s other half, but he would vet anyone who thought of even coming close to her.

“Pleased to meet you,” he had said “I am sorry Sansa sprang me on you all” he had added politely looking pointedly at Brienne.

He thinks of Val for a moment, wondering how she’d like this place, she laments that the elderly of the Free Folk are not supported enough by the Realm which has recluded them in the reserve of Beyond the Wall.

Sansa had urged him to join her and he had followed suit, and he had discovered some unadulterated sense of peace in joining her and speaking to the old ladies and gentlemen, speaking to them about his time with the Free Folk.

“Oh,” a woman had asked “you’ve seen many wildlings?”

“I did ma’am, thought they prefer to be called Free Folk, they’re not so different from us, after all. They’re very loud” he had added thinking back on Ygritte. His face must’ve had shown his distress because Sansa’s hand had come atop his on his lap.

He had raised his gaze and smiled up at her, knowing she could read him so well at times it was a wonder she had never learned of his crush on her, but thankful nonetheless, and a beautiful shade of pink had colored her cheek making her look even more lovely as she beamed at him “Jon,” she had said “is considered a Free Folk friend,” she had told them “they trust him”

And for a moment Jon had felt the most special man in the wide world.

He had cornered Podrick some time after that, taking a brief breath from it all, and had confronted him about his crush on her, indirectly.

“I like her as well,” he had admitted and Jon had smiled at that.

“I know,” he had said twisting around and looking at her, smiling and listening to everyone, making them feel heard and understood, asking after their children and grandchildren. Remembering little nothings they must’ve told her another time as easy as she can recall the date of the War of Five Kings or declame the names of all princess and ladies and heroes and knights from the songs.

To everyone’ detriment.

“Dance with me!” it had not been the first time Sansa wrestled him in dancing with her, and despite being a terrible dancer Jon indulges her, though soon enough they’re just swaying at a tempo not that of the music and Jon had ended up hoisting her up his chest and twirling her around like he had done when she had been a girl with a frilly ballet skirt and lucid ballerinas at her feet.

And Sansa had laughed and Jon had let her kiss his cheek. He had went to sleep smiling that night, after they had video called, because Sansa was a fan of video calling above texting or calling.

Then for months Sansa had been a near permanent fixture near him beyond the Wall as they helped the Free Folk making their voice heard across the country and to the Senate and the king. Still he had walked around blessedly ignorant of how much beneath the surface his love for her had been brimming.

It had taken Sansa and Val being abducted for his instincts to kick in once again and prove to him that he was most certainly not over her.

Can we, can we surrender?

Jon could not recall being so scared, not even when she had called to him that one time with Joff. Jon knew he could take on Joff.

He had not slept, not eaten, the anxiousness eating at him at the very idea of Sansa and Val both in peril, and when finally he had found them…Sansa had, had blood on her face — someone had cut her cheek and she had turned her head to look away from the sheer violence of the fight that ensued to save them — and his entire body had deflated.

Can we, can we surrender?

Jon had kissed Val, feeling relief flooding his senses, as Sansa finally blinked up at him.

“Jon..?”

“It’s alright baby,” he had murmured against her forehead as he kissed her head reverently.

It had been his fault, Jon had been distracted by her presence again, by his duties and he had not seen the abduction coming “I’ve got you,” he had hoisted her up his chest and they had walked out of it.

They had, had a fight too, the day before they got abducted. Sansa had wanted to remain even as winter was starting to snow the wildling villages in, with the danger she’d have to spend the entirety of the season beyond the Wall. And Jon had been half an inch from bending her over the fucking table and kiss her silly until she just fucking stopped talking.

He had hovered like a dark shadow around her as the paramedic had looked over her injury and Sansa had been none too impressed with it.

“Jon stop looking at me like your pet has died,” Sansa had muttered exasperated “I promise I am fine,”

“If you just had listened to me nothing of this would’ve happened,” he had recriminated and Sansa had smiled sweetly at the paramedic who had finished with her and had started to try and look over his own excoriations.

“I can take it from here,” Sansa had dismissed the paramedic.

“But his—” the man had started to point out, but Sansa had gingerly took his cotton and disinfectant from his hands.

“I’ve got this, it’s not the first time I tend to his bruised knuckles, I promise”

“It’s not the first time I bruise them to protect you either,” Jon had quipped unhelpfully. Sansa’ glare had shut him up real quick.

“You’re so stupid,” Sansa had accused him “I know you were scared and now you’re taking that frustration out on me”

Maybe I should kiss you stupid, may it be that it’d make you listen to me for once.

“Sorry” but then the words had died on his tongue when Sansa had leaned close studying his eyes. There had been nothing sexual about it, and yet Jon had felt himself stir at her vicinity.

“Stu-pid!” she had said then, breaking the spell and leaning back, whacking him behind the head “you look like you haven’t slept in days, go to Val, and sleep”

And only at that point Jon had been reminded of his own girlfriend, and he had felt like the worst scum at the bottom of the earth. He had went to her, but he had been so ashamed, so fearful… that he had wanted to hide from the entirety of the world, the world that had always hung to a shrivel of his will to stay away from Sansa.

The same world that collapsed and imploded on himself with four simple words.

“YOU SAID HER NAME!” Val had only murmured it, but it had been as strong as if she had screamed.

Sansa had been so close too, that his first instinct had been to turn to her, to see if she had noticed the commotion, but blessedly she had been busy with the interviewer to care. Beautiful, brave and lovely, she was shining so bright that for a moment he had been blind to anything but her.

How, how had he ever thought to be over her?

Val’s heart had broke at that, he knew, and to this day Jon knows that, that broken heart is his cross to bear. He caused that.

His wife stirs gently beside him “Honey,” she mumbles half asleep “what time it is?”

Jon doesn’t let her twist in his hold “It’s early,” he tells her “get back to sleep”

His wife, bless her soul, has never liked being bossed around “Are you alright?” she asks, settling back against his chest and snuggling closer.

“I am” he promises.

When he and Val had broken up Jon had promised himself. Enough was enough, he either worked himself out of his love for Sansa or merely surrendered to the inevitable truth that he was forever meant to be in love with her. No matter the odds.

It had been during one of his visits to the local school of Mole Town that everything had changed.

The motion for the independence of the North and the Freedom of the Free Folk was being spoken about in Senate, he and Sansa had videocalled the morning, before he had begun his speech to the first class, and she had prep-talked to him, made sure he felt confident.

Then, out of the blue, Jon had turned as he had been explaining how the Free Folk claimed descent from the First Men and how they viewed and treated the land they considered their own, and she had been there, looking down and smiling at a little girl who had noticed her — the only one who had thus far — her red hair falling across her shoulders and framing her lovely face.

And Jon had known it.

Surrender it is.

“And you, miss Stark,” he had called, bringing his hands behind his back and smiling at her looking at him as if he were her math teacher hell-bent on calling her to the slate for a surprise exam “what can you tell us of the Free Folk?”

And all the children had turned and awed. Sansa, as all the Starks had been well known even back then, the natural heir to her lord father and as beautiful and elegant as Jenny of Oldstones must’ve been — or so, some claimed. He thought no matter how beautiful Jenny might’ve been, Sansa was bound to be twice as beautiful, though he supposed Duncan prince of Dragonflies would possibly debate against it.

He had smirked at her good-naturedly and Sansa had seemed to consider something, she cocked her head to the side and then she had spoken, weaving tale after tale of how strong and beautiful and spiritual the people Beyond the Wall were.

The children had been enchanted by it. And Jon too to be honest, he had no doubt Sansa would gain whatever she wanted from the Senate if they only let her speak publicly about it.

By the time the doorbell rang for the lunch the children didn’t want to leave her behind “I’ll be right behind you,” she had told a girl who had been brave enough to take her hand and start to tug “I just have to ask mr Snow a thing” she had said pointing at him with a wave of hand. Her voice hiding mirth but outlined almost stiffly.

“Oh, mr Snow” the girl had exclaimed “you’re in trouble, you are!” before skipping out of class with her friend trailing behind her.

As soon as the door closed behind them Jon neared to her, suddenly preoccupied. Was there a reason why she had sought him out?, something with Ned? Or Aunt Catelyn?

“Everything okay, Sans?” he had asked, unable to help himself and Sansa had looked completely downtrodden, which had made him cage in one her, he had not even realized he had done it until she had grabbed him by his blue shirt, inclined her head and pressed her lips across his.

It had been nothing but the brush of her lips against his, but Jon had felt his entire world and being flare up as he had looked down on her surprise coloring his features.

“So,” Sansa had commented, walking around him — still gaping like an idiot, but his brain had not been working yet, thank you very much — and making her way almost to the door “for tonight at dinner, the Queensgate pub or—”

Only then had Jon’ brain started to compute again “Yes” he had breathed, almost stumbling around his suddenly very ungraceful limbs to reach her “Yes”

Amusement had sparked in Sansa’s eyes ��Yes to what..? You’ll have to be more specific—”

Jon had cupped her cheeks then and fucking kissed her, okay? He had smooched her silly like he had wanted for the better part of the last at least fifteen years, pressed his lips against her and finally tasted the heaven inside her lips.

Sansa had let him kiss her, but then she had wrapped her hands around his wrists and leaned back from his lips “I’m not joking,—” she had said “I’m deadly serious, which one do you..?—”

Jon had narrowed his eyes in fond annoyance then, pecking her lips “Baby,” he had drawled “I love you, I really do, but if you don’t shut up now I’ll really snog every coherent thought from this really pretty head of yours” and his hands had been across her waist and Sansa had arched a brow at him “until it’s all me and empty of all the rest”.

She had wrapped her arms around his shoulders, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck “You’re still talking? For sure you talk big for someone—”

Needless to say Jon had snogged her a good deal, also crumpling her beautiful skirt and shirt —oops, — before they had gone for lunch, and even then Jon had eaten more of her lunch than his, with all the kissing.

“You’re thinking something silly again” Sansa tells him, her eyes are closed, her smile distended and Jon kisses her lips.

“I am not”

“Yes, you are” she says, her voice sure “I know you.” she adds a for half a minute there's silence “Honey?”

“Yes, baby?”

“I know it’s difficult, since you’re silly,” she says “but your silliness is disrupting my beauty sleep”

“Oh,” Jon smirks as her hand starts to draw patterns across his lower abdomen “However will I make it up to you?”

Sansa’s beam is unrepentant then, and joyous, and what can Jon says? He loves this woman.

I surrender.

Fin

Here it is!, hope you enjoyed! As always sending all my love ~G.

#jonsa #jon/sansa #jon and sansa through each other exes' eyes #and their own #jonsa prompt #jonsa fanfiction #the hag's propmts

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