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butterflies-dragons · 4 years

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Hey! I want to ask your opinion on Jon ygritte relationship and it's contrast with jonsa. I've seen jongritte wrt to jonerys but I want to know your opinions on jongritte wrt to jonsa as a foil n parallel.

Hello Anon,

Let’s talk about Ygritte then...

Ygritte:

Ygritte was a mixture of the Stark Sisters.

According to Jon: “she can kiss a man (Sansa’s romantic nature) or slit his throat (Arya’s killer abilities)”

“And maybe her eyes [...] but they were a pretty blue-grey color”. Blue (Sansa) & Grey (Arya).

Ygritte has skinny legs, was short for her age, and never brushed her hair, similar to Arya. But Ygritte was a redhead, described like ‘kissed by fire’, similar to the Tully auburn of Sansa’s hair that is also described by Arya like ‘fire’: “Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair.”

According to Jon, Ygritte is fierce, stubborn, and wild, similar to Arya with her touch of the wolf blood. But Ygritte also can sing like Sansa.

Ygritte is a spearwife, a fierce killer, a warrior woman, which reminds us of Arya’s Needle, her training to be a faceless man, and the list of people she wants to kill. But Ygritte also likes songs and stories and cries with sad and beautiful songs, like Sansa.

Who else was a mixture of the Stark Sisters? Lyanna Stark, Jon’s mother. But this is another subject.

Jon was not instantly attracted to Ygritte, but with time he started to have feeling for her, feelings that are linked with Ygritte’s similarities with Sansa:

The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky. Lucky it might be, and red it certainly was, but Ygritte's hair was such a tangle that Jon was tempted to ask her if she only brushed it at the changing of the seasons.

At a lord's court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart. Jon had noticed all that the first time he'd seen her, when his dirk had been at her throat. Lately, though, he was noticing some other things. When she grinned, the crooked teeth didn't seem to matter. And maybe her eyes were too far apart, but they were a pretty blue-grey color, and lively as any eyes he knew. Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling . . . well, that stirred some things as well.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon II

Ygritte’s singing and the shades of her red hair near the flames. Jon is such a romantic.

Ygritte’s hair “by the cookfire [...] with the flames waking echoes in her red hair”, reminds me of this passage about Sansa’s hair:

“She had auburn hair, […] the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.”

—A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VII

And guess what turns Jon off about Ygritte? That she is a cold blood killer:

"I see no free folk. I see a crow and a crow wife."

"I'm no crow wife!" Ygritte snatched her knife from its sheath. Three quick strides, and she yanked the old man's head back by the hair and opened his throat from ear to ear. Even in death, the man did not cry out. "You know nothing, Jon Snow!" she shouted at him, and flung the bloody blade at his feet.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

"Who is Ygritte?" Donal Noye asked pointedly.

"A woman of the free folk." How could he explain Ygritte to them? [. . .] she's young, only a girl, in truth, wild, but she . . ." She killed an old man for building a fire.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Ygritte was much in his thoughts as well. He remembered the smell of her hair, the warmth of her body . . . and the look on her face as she slit the old man's throat.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Very telling....

I usually call Ygritte, “Jon’s Joffrey”. Both Jon and Sansa accommodated Ygritte and Joffrey in their minds as a coping mechanism, because they both knew that their love interests liked killing too much, something that turn them off:

“Who is Ygritte?” Donal Noye asked pointedly.

“A woman of the free folk.” How could he explain Ygritte to them? She’s warm and smart and funny and she can kiss a man or slit his throat. “She’s with Styr, but she’s not … she’s young, only a girl, in truth, wild, but she …” She killed an old man for building a fire. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. The milk of the poppy was clouding his wits. “I broke my vows with her. I never meant to, but …” It was wrong. Wrong to love her, wrong to leave her … “I wasn’t strong enough. The Halfhand commanded me, ride with them, watch, I must not balk, I …” His head felt as if it were packed with wet wool.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Look how Jon is having a discussion with himself in his mind: Jon 1: Ygritte was warm, smart, funny, young, only a girl.... Jon 2: But she was a cold blood killer, man! She shot several arrows at us, she tried to kill us! And remember when she blackmailed us to have sex with her? WTF dude?

This is exactly what Sansa was doing here:

“I had a dream that Joffrey would be the one to take the white hart,” she said. It had been more of a wish, actually, but it sounded better to call it a dream. Everyone knew that dreams were prophetic. White harts were supposed to be very rare and magical, and in her heart she knew her gallant prince was worthier than his drunken father.

“A dream? Truly? Did Prince Joffrey just go up to it and touch it with his bare hand and do it no harm?”

“No,” Sansa said. “He shot it with a golden arrow and brought it back for me.” In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm, but she knew Joffrey liked hunting, especially the killing part. Only animals, though. Sansa was certain her prince had no part in murdering Jory and those other poor men; that had been his wicked uncle, the Kingslayer. She knew her father was still angry about that, but it wasn’t fair to blame Joff. That would be like blaming her for something that Arya had done.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

After a time living in Kings Landing and knowing her betrothed a bit better, Sansa knew that Joffrey was not true knight material; deep down she knew about his killing/harming tendencies, yet she tried to accommodate Joff as someone that, at least, would never harm/kill innocent people.

As I said before, Jon started having feelings for Ygritte, but she couldn’t wait to have him. She blackmailed him to have sex, and Jon being the horny teenager that he was, at the prospect to be killed by the wildling versus having sex with a girl that he started to like, he chose the sex, of course. Such a strong basis for romance...

Women & Jon Snow:

How many times have we all heard that Jon loves warrior women and dislikes or even hates ladies? This is not true tho...

These wrong assumptions are based in Jon’s interactions with the following women:

Ygritte, a spearwife, a warrior woman, his first and only lover.

Arya, his favorite and beloved sister, Jon himself gave her a sword, Needle. Needle was named because of Sansa tho... Ygritte reminded Jon of Arya.

Val, “the wildling princess”. Jon considers Val very physically attractive, he decided that she was a “warrior princess”. But sorry, let me tell you that GRRM himself has said that Val is not a warrior woman.

Lady Alys Karstark, because she reminds Jon of Arya and she flirted with him. She remembered them dancing in the past and invited him to dance again during her wedding. Dancing is something very ladylike tho, just saying...

Arya

Back in 2016, a person asked GRRM about the possibility of a romance between Jon and Arya, pointing out the similarities between Ygritte and Arya, this is what he said:

“My con friend asked about the Jon/Arya relationship again and brought her (impressive) Game book that had all of her references marked out with little flags. She brought up the Ygritte connections to Arya that Jon saw in her. George did not directly answer yes or no if there would be anything romantic between the two.”

“George did say, despite what readers see as clues to a romantic relationship between Jon/Arya in the books themselves, he did not confirm this so easily but inferred that what Jon saw in Ygritte was a comfort level of femininity. <<< She and I obviously discussed these comments after the meeting and this was the general feeling.”

“My con friend was referring to George explaining Jon’s perception: GRRM replied, “You know, I don’t think it’s a reference for that [for romance]. It’s a reference to a certain physical type, and a certain indication of what Jon finds admirable. It’s like someone who reminds you of, you know… Other people might be put off by this, you know, hair that looks like small rodents have been living in there. It doesn’t put him off because he is used to that.”

[Source 1] [Source 2] [Source 3]

So, as you can see, these links between Jon’s favorite sister and Jon’s first lover, according to the author himself, mean:

“Comfort level of femininity”,

“Jon is used to messy hair”

“Not reference for romance”.

Not reference for romance indeed...

Here you can read more about my opinion regarding the possibility of a romantic relationship between Jon and Arya: [x] [x] [x]

Val

Repeat after me: Val is not a warrior woman. Again: Val is not a warrior woman. One more time: Val is not a warrior woman. If you don’t believe me, then read this:

However, in my own defense, I should note that Dalla was not a “warrior woman” per se. She was from a warrior culture, yes; one that gave women the right, but not the obligation, to be fighters. Ygritte was a warrior woman, as was (most conspicuously) the fearsome Harma Dogshead. Dalla and Val were not.

[Source]

But you may say, ¿What about the “the warrior princess and the willowy creature that only brushes her hair” quote?

Well, as GRRM has stated many times, all his POVS are “Unreliable Narrators”. Being from a “warrior culture” doesn’t make you automatically a “warrior woman”. But here is Jon Snow “deciding” that Val was a “warrior princess”. Once again, the contrast, the dichotomy in one single person: ¿A warrior like Arya, a princess like Sansa? Not that Arya has ever fought in a war, but you get my point. And Sansa was created following the princess archetype.

I will show you one of my favorite Jon’s passages that will serve us to read “the warrior princess and the willowy creature that only brushes her hair” line with a better and more revealing light:

I call this passage the “Jon -It’s nothing special- Snow”. Or as we say in Spanish when we can’t get what we really want: “Al cabo que ni quería”, that can be translated as “I didn't even want it anyway”. Let’s see:

"Oh, I learn things everywhere I go." The little man gestured up at the Wall with a gnarled black walking stick. "As I was saying … why is it that when one man builds a wall, the next man immediately needs to know what's on the other side?" He cocked his head and looked at Jon with his curious mismatched eyes. "You do want to know what's on the other side, don't you?"

"It's nothing special," Jon said. He wanted to ride with Benjen Stark on his rangings, deep into the mysteries of the haunted forest, wanted to fight Mance Rayder's wildlings and ward the realm against the Others, but it was better not to speak of the things you wanted. "The rangers say it's just woods and mountains and frozen lakes, with lots of snow and ice."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

I mean... COME ON! This is one of the most telling passages to know, to really know Jon’s true nature, and it’s very, very similar to the quote about “the warrior princess and the willowy creature that only brushes her hair”:

They are all convinced she is a princess. Val looked the part and rode as if she had been born on horseback. A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

“Some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her.” Nah, it’s nothing special, I didn’t even want it anyway, not for me, no.

Do I have to say more???

Actually, yes, I have.

Jon Snow does really want a lady. Jon Snow does really want to be a knight and rescue a maiden. Jon Snow does really want a lady to love and be loved back by her. Here some evidence:

Jon Snow wished that his mother were a highborn lady: “Not my mother, Jon thought stubbornly. He knew nothing of his mother; Eddard Stark would not talk of her. Yet he dreamed of her at times, so often that he could almost see her face. In his dreams, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind.”

Jon Snow wanted to be a hero like the Prince Aemon Dragonknight. The same Prince Aemon that jousted in a tourney, won it, and crowned his sister and lady love “Queen of Love and Beauty”, something that is straight out from the courtly love book: “The Dragonknight once won a tourney as the Knight of Tears, so he could name his sister the queen of love and beauty in place of the king's mistress”.

Jon Snow tried to comfort Gilly with courtesy: "Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower." "That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her”.

Jon Snow put Ghost between Ygritte and him and remembers that knights put their swords between their ladies and themselves, something that is straight out from the courtly love book: “After that he had taken to using Ghost to keep her away. Old Nan used to tell stories about knights and their ladies who would sleep in a single bed with a blade between them for honor's sake, but he thought this must be the first time where a direwolf took the place of the sword”.

Jon Snow imagined romancing Ygritte as if she were a lady: “If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens, feast her in the Great Hall, and show her the stone kings on their thrones. We could bathe in the hot pools, and love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over us”.

Jon Snow wished for a domestic life in Winterfell, with his wife and children: I would need to steal her if I wanted her love, but she might give me children. I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. [...] I could name him Robb. Val would want to keep her sister's son, but we could foster him at Winterfell, and Gilly's boy as well. [...] Mance's son and Craster's would grow up brothers, as I once did with Robb. He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily”.

Jon is a romantic that called his mare “sweet lady”.

Jon Snow closer friends in the Night’s Watch are Samwell Tarly and satin, they are literally male!Sansas.

Jon remembers fondly Sansa’s more feminine and ladylike traits: her romantic nature, her courtesies, her singing.

It’s also worth to mention that, despite Val’s beauty and physical attractiveness, Jon Snow, once again, appreciates her being maternal and singing to Gilly’s son, but was turned off by Val saying she would kill Princess Shireen:

"I have heard you singing to him."

"I was singing to myself. Am I to blame if he listens?" A faint smile brushed her lips. "It makes him laugh. Oh, very well. He is a sweet little monster."

"Monster?"

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon VIII

Once outside and well away from the queen's men, Val gave vent to her wroth. "You lied about her beard. That one has more hair on her chin than I have between my legs. And the daughter … her face …"

"Greyscale."

"The grey death is what we call it."

"It is not always mortal in children."

"North of the Wall it is. Hemlock is a sure cure, but a pillow or a blade will work as well. If I had given birth to that poor child, I would have given her the gift of mercy long ago."

This was a Val that Jon had never seen before. "Princess Shireen is the queen's only child."

"I pity both of them. The child is not clean."

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

Wait a minute! Val was “singing to herself” like Jon’s memory of Sansa “singing to herself” while brushing out Lady’s coat???

Where did Jon get this idea of “some willowy creature that only brushes her hair” from??? It could be from his half sister Sansa, a literal princess, now trapped in a tower, that always brushed her hair and even brushed out her direwolf’s fur???

“She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone” —Sansa

“Her thick auburn hair had been brushed until it shone.” —Eddard

I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. —Catelyn

He thought [...] Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. —Jon

And I also suspect that when Jon said this about Val:

Then Ghost emerged from between two trees, with Val beside him.

They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

He was remembering another pretty girl, princess like, next to a direwolf, looking as though they belong together.

A young beautiful girl, that everyone considers a princess, next to a direwolf???

Val is a beautiful young woman, Sansa is a beautiful young maiden.

Val has long blonde hair the color of dark honey which she wears in a braid. Val actually take care of her hair, enough to braid it, like Sansa that always brushes it. And if you google “dark honey” hair color you will find a variety of reddish brown (auburn) and reddish blonde hair colors.

Val has high sharp cheekbones, like Sansa.

Val’s eyes are pale grey or blue. Again the grey/blue eyes pattern...

Val is slender with a full bosom, like Sansa.

So?

Then Ghost emerged from between two trees, with Val beside him. [...] It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself.

Think about it!

Alys

You may have heard about how Alys Karstark reminds Jon of Arya. She was the girl of Melissandre’s vision, right? No? Melissandre was wrong? Really?Anyway, this is another subject, for another time. The thing is that Jon was really hoping that the “Grey Girl” was Arya. He was desperate to have Arya safe and away from the Boltons. And once again, look at Alys Karstark’s description:

Alys is a tall, like Sansa, but skinny, like Arya.

Alys has brown hair, like Arya, but wears it into a braid, so she cares about her hair, like Sansa.

Alys has a long face, but blue-grey eyes. Blue like Sansa, and Grey like Arya. This pattern again? George, I need some explanations. What are you doing?

And also all these connections with Sansa:

Alys is a lady, a maiden, and she asked Jon his protection: “You are my only hope, Lord Snow. In your father's name, I beg you. Protect me”. She sounds like a willowy creature in need to be rescue by some knight, right?

Alys remembered dancing with a sullen Jon Snow when she visited Winterfell in the past. Alys invited Jon Snow to dance again during her wedding.

Alys’ wedding happened in a very similar way to Sansa’s dream wedding: ”It was not supposed to be this way. She had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp”. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa III & “The Magnar all but ripped the maiden’s cloak from Alys’s shoulders, but when he fastened her bride’s cloak about her he was almost tender. As he leaned down to kiss her cheek, their breath mingled”. —A Dance with Dragons - Jon X.

A northern maid and a wildling warrior, bound together by the Lord of Light. A northern maid like Sansa: “The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter”. A wildling warrior like Jon: “I see what you are, Snow. Half a wolf and half a wildling.”

There is much more to say about Women & Jon Snow, but I will stop here. There are more topics to explore for this answer.

This is too long already, so I need to make a cut.

Parallels & Contrasts:

As I said this post is already too long, so I will summarize with the help of my friends. Let’s see:

Some great findings by my friend @shieldofrohan in this post: JON X SANSA BOOK HINTS- IN ORDER:

Sansa is the blue flower that bloomed from the North

Ygritte tells about the song of Bael the Bard and the Winterfell’s Rose in ACOK; Jon VI

In the story the blue roses of Winterfell just bloom and they represent a love between King Beyond the Wall and Winterfell’s maiden heir

Next chapter is Sansa (ACOK; Sansa IV) and she flowers for the first time, next chapter is Jon again. (Jon-Sansa-Jon)

Bael the Bard and Winterfell’s Blue Rose

He meets with Ygritte

So after the introduction of his future love interest comes a Sansa chapter.

She tells him the story of a song about the love between King Beyond the Wall and Winterfell’s maiden lady heir.

Jon-Ygritte meeting // Sandor-Sansa last scene

Jon meets with Ygritte in ACOK; Jon VI

Sansa sees Sandor for the last time in ACOK; Sansa VII

Jon has grey eyes // Sandor has grey eyes

Ygritte has red hair // Sansa has red hair

Jon // Sandor puts a knife to her throat

Ygritte tells him a song // Sansa sings for him

Jon-Ygritte last scene // Sandor-Sansa last scene

Sansa-Sandor last scene ACOK; Sansa VII // Jon-Ygritte last scene ASOS; Jon VII

Ygritte cups Jon’s cheek // Sansa cups Sandor’s cheek

Ygritte // Sandor says her/his catchphrase:

You know nothing, Jon Snow // Littlebird one last time and dies // leaves.

The men didn’t touch redhead girls but girls say they did

Jon didn’t touch Ygritte but Ygritte lies that he did and Sansa believes that Sandor kissed her in ACOK; Sansa VII. But he didn’t

Sansa remembers UNKISS after a Jon chapter.

Jon-Ygritte // Tyrion-Sansa

Jon beds Ygritte and it kind of means they are married in Wildlings’ sense. Because they believe in stealing + bedding = marriage philosphy.

Meanwhile Sansa really marries Tyrion.

Two hearts that beat as one. Mance Rayder’s mocking words rang bitter in his head. [ASOS; Jon III] The septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell down upon them. “Here in the sight of gods and men,” he said, “I do solemnly proclaim Tyrion of House Lannister and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.” [ASOS; Sansa III]

Jon has sex with Ygritte because he needs to prove that he is loyal. But he feels guilty because he takes pleasure. So he stole her and bed her. They are basically married. He didn’t want to but he was forced to.

Sansa had to do it because she is surrounded by the enemy. And Tyrion believes he has to consummate the marriage because his father commanded him. He desires Sansa even though she is a child and he feels a slight shame because of it. But unlike Jon, Tyrion doesn’t bed Sansa.

Bed your sister

Ygritte asks some interesting questions… while someone was about to bed Jon’s sister. She punched him. “That’s vile. Would you bed your sister?” [ASOS; Jon III]

I didn’t steal you… I’m no thief

Ygritte says that Jon stole her like Bael the Bar and talks about the star called Thief. But Jon says he didn’t steal her.

In TWOW; Alayne I, Ser Roland also calls Sansa a thief for stealing his heart. But she says she is no thief.

Ygritte is a girl with Tully look with her red hair and blue-grey eyes whereas Ser Roland has Stark look with his brown hair and long face. Sansa even says he is horse faced, and Arya is called Horsaface too and she looks like Jon.

Ygritte // Sansa

Ygritte is a northern girl with Tully hair and she says she is a “half fish”

Sansa is a half Tully aka fish, redhead and northern… Ygritte punched his arm. “You know nothing, Jon Snow. I’m half a fish, I’ll have you know.” [ASOS; Jon V]

More from this post by my friend on reddit: Jon and Sansa's parallel journey/imagery/settings in Jon and Sansa CHAPTERS PLACED NEXT TO EACH OTHER

ACOK Chapters 51, 52 and 53 - Steal the girl Chapter 51 - Jon, Chapter 52 - Sansa and Chapter 53 - Jon

Jon meets Ygritte who bares her throat for him and Jon puts his Longsword at it, intending to kill her but frees her:

She pushed her hair aside to bare her neck, and knelt before him. “Strike hard and true, crow, or I’ll come back and haunt you.”

“Now,” he said, “before my wits return. Go.”

She went.

The Hound puts his longsword against Sansa's neck but also frees her:

He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel.

Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”

Wordless, she fled

Before this, Ygritte tells Jon the tale of Bael the bard and how he stole the "Fairest flower in Winterfell"

‘All I ask is a flower,’ Bael answered, ‘the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o’ Winterfell.’”

Next, we have Sansa recieve her first moonblood described as having "Flowered"

You’ve had your first flowering, no more.

Chapter ends with Cersei asking Sansa if she wants to be loved and have it followed by a Jon chapter.

Do you want to be loved, Sansa?”

“Everyone wants to be loved.”

“I see flowering hasn’t made you any brighter,” said Cersei. "Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”

Next chapter : Jon

ASOS Chapter 15, 16

These two chapters are a bit icky and deals with sexual maturity. Feels like a parallel journey.

The Jon chapter consists of Tormund talking about his sex life, Jon claiming he's too young for sex and Ygritte basically throwing herself at him.

The Sansa chapter consists of men staring at Sansa's body sexually, maids remarking about her matured bosom, Margaery playing kissing games with her cousins etc.

First love’s Resemblance:

And Sansa fell wildly in love with Ser Waymar, and Jon fell in love with a wildling girl kissed by fire:

Indeed, Sansa’s first crush was a brother of the Night’s Watch:

“Bronze Yohn knows me,” she reminded him. “He was a guest at Winterfell when his son rode north to take the black.” She had fallen wildly in love with Ser Waymar, she remembered dimly, but that was a lifetime ago, when she was a stupid little girl. “And that was not the only time. Lord Royce saw … he saw Sansa Stark again at King’s Landing, during the Hand’s tourney.”

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I

And Waymar Royce looked like a Stark. Waymar Royce was Jon’s lookalike. More about it here.

And Jon’s first love was Ygritte, a redhead, with blue-grey eyes, and to make the Tully look even more evident, Ygritte called herself half a fish:

“Ygritte punched his arm. "You know nothing, Jon Snow. I'm half a fish, I'll have you know.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

Sansa’s first crush having the Stark Look and Jon’s first lover having the Tully look, reminds me of Catelyn being first betrothed with Brandon Stark but marrying Eddard Stark instead. Brandon, died like Waymar. Ned said Jon’s is a younger version of himself. Ned never imagined marrying Catelyn, he had a young infatuation with Ashara Dayne, but he never acted on his feelings for her, and she died. Ned also killed Ashara’s brother Arthur.

Sansa fell wildly in love with Waymar, but she won’t marry him, he died. She will probably fall in love with Jon in a more mature and calmly way. Jon Snow, after a non-con beginning, ended loving Ygritte, not a lady, that offered him a “comfort level of femininity”, but he won’t marry her, she died. Jon will probably fell in love with Sansa, freely and willingly.

I think there is more to say and I could expand what was already said, but I think I covered the basics.

And to finish this post I will leave you with this picture. A friend helped me to colored the rose blue, the original was yellow. I call this picture: “Sansa with messy hair”. And I think this picture is the perfect way to end this long answer.

Good night.

#Sansa Stark #Jon Snow #Sansa x Jon #Jon x Sansa #jonsa #Ygritte #jon and ygritte #jon and arya #jon and val #jon and alys

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stilesssolo · 4 years

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Well that’s tragic

Lol this is perhaps the crackiest thing I’ve ever written but it’s distracting me from the never ending anxiety this election is causing so WHATEVER. Also this cannot possibly be quantified as a drabble it is firmly a one shot I’M SORRY it got away from me as always. Once again insta post is available on ao3; enjoy!

18. Well, that’s tragic.

“You ready to go?”

Jon looks up from his nearly-packed duffle bag just as Dany reenters the room, wet hair down her back and wrapped in a towel. “Almost,” he says, considering whether or not he can fit one more pullover in there. Although, well— does he really need it, if Dany won’t be there to steal the one he usually brings?

“When do you leave again? An hour or so?” Jon nods, Dany rifling through her own suitcase as she looks for clothes.

“That’s if Bran and Rickon have actually managed to pack, of course,” he says. Dany laughs, pulling a hair brush through her long waves. Robb had had the idea a few months back for them to reinstate their brother-camping-trip this summer when they all went back to Winterfell, like they used to back when they were younger and Ned would take them. Jon’s excited, but he also can’t help the feeling that the weekend can only end in disaster.

“You sure you’re going to be alright?” Jon asks, frowning at her. “I still feel bad, leavin’ you here all alone with my aunt this weekend.”

Dany rolls her eyes. “Please. I have Sansa and Arya and Talisa; I’ll be fine. And you know Catelyn will still be too distracted by Ben to hate me too much.”

Jon chuckles. “Aye, that’s true, I suppose.” He exhales, surveying the bag in front of him as Dany unwraps the towel around her to change. “Okay, I think I’m good—”

His sentence is cut off by the door banging open, Rickon standing there. “Jon, d’you have a—” he says, before his words die in his mouth, anything else he was about to say drowned out by the sound of Dany’s shocked yelp.

Jon whirls around, suddenly realizing that his little brother is staring, slack jawed, at his naked girlfriend.

“Rickon, what the fuck!” Jon says, his brother grabbing the door handle and yanking it closed again, leaving him and Dany alone. She’s scrambling for her towel, hastily wrapping it around herself as she blinks in confusion.

“Hold on,” Jon mutters, making sure Dany is covered again before opening the door, following the quickly retreating footsteps of his brother. “Rickon, get back here!”

“Help!” Rickon yelps, Jon gaining on him as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, tearing around the corner. “Robb, help me!”

“What in seven hells is happenin’?” Robb says as Jon bursts into the kitchen after Rickon, their youngest brother cowering behind Robb as he looks up from the cooler he was packing in bewildered confusion. “Rickon, knock it off, it’s too early in the morning for this.”

“You’re just saying that because you have an eight month old and you never sleep anymore,” Bran reasons, hauling dog food from the cupboard to the island. Robb glares at him, before his eyes turn back to their cowering brother.

“Jon’s going to kill me!” Rickon declares. “He’s going to drag me off into the woods and leave my body for the bears!”

“What bears, you idiot?” Bran snickers. Robb shakes his head, looking even more confused.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?” Jon demands, eyes narrowing at Rickon. “What the fuck is wrong with you, burstin’ into people’s rooms at seven in the morning?”

“I couldn’t find my hiking socks!” Rickon wails. “And I know you have loads from Tyrell so I wanted some! I didn’t know Dany was going to be fucking naked!”

Understanding dawns on Robb’s face at the same time that Bran bursts into laughter, doubling over. “So, let me just make sure I understand here,” Robb says, shaking his head. “You burst into Jon’s room, to which the door was closed, and saw his girlfriend naked,” Robb says. “Is that it?”

Rickon nods, still refusing to meet Jon’s eyes. His cheeks are still red as Sansa’s hair, gaze darting nervously around the room.

“Well, that’s tragic,” Robb says. “It’s been nice knowin’ you, Rickon. Maybe you should use the time before Jon murders you to learn how to fuckin’ knock on a door.”

“How was I supposed to know she’d be changing?!” Rickon yelps.

“You would have if you’d asked before comin’ in!” Jon huffs. “What the bloody hell were you thinkin’?”

“Hey,” Dany says, appearing behind them— mercifully, fully dressed this time, with Jon’s bag slung over her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Daenerys, I’m so sorry!” Rickon says, eyes wide, cheeks growing even redder. He’s still half hidden behind Robb, running a hand through his hair agitatedly. It makes his mop of curls even messier. “I didn’t know—”

“Mm, but you would have if you knocked,” she responds primly. Rickon gulps, but Jon can see that glimmer of light in her eyes that tells him she’s not really mad.

“Alright, enough,” Robb says. “We have to get on the road. Rickon, go get everyone’s things in the car. Try not to catch anyone without their clothes on in the process.”

He scrambles out of the kitchen, cheeks still burning furiously, Bran laughing as he follows behind with the dogs’ things. “Hey,” Jon murmurs, catching Dany by the waist. “Gods, I’m sorry about him. You alright?”

“Of course,” she says, trying to fight back a smile and failing. “Honestly, I think Rickon’s the one more emotionally scarred. You should have seen his face when he realized you realized what was happening.”

“Fuckin’ idiot,” Jon grumbles, but he leans down to kiss Dany goodbye anyways. Three days without her— is it bad he already wishes this weekend was over?

“Have fun on your trip,” Dany whispers. “And don’t actually murder your brother.”

“No promises,” Jon teases. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” she says, giving him one last kiss, a squeeze of the hand, before she hands over his duffle. “See you on Tuesday.”

The cars are mostly packed when Jon gets out to the drive, all four of the dogs circling them and barking their heads off as they finish loading the rest of their things into the car. “Alright,” Robb says, nodding. “I think we’re ready to go. Who wants to ride with who—”

“I’m with Robb!” Rickon says, practically leaping at the opportunity. “I call Robb!”

“Rickon,” Jon says with a roll of his eyes. “I’m not really goin’ to murder you.”

“That’s what you say!” Rickon exclaims. “And then next thing you know the police are findin’ a body bag at the bottom of the river with my name on it!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Robb grumbles. “Can we just get the dogs in the car and go?”

The drive is uneventful, with Bran next to him— Jon listens to his brother speak about all his classes, the two of them chatting amiably the whole way up. Jon almost forgets about the incident of this morning until they’re at the campsite, and Rickon still won’t make eye contact with him. The whole time they’re setting up camp, pitching tents, Robb getting a fire going as Bran watches the dogs race around, his youngest brother turns scarlet every time he catches sight of him, running in the other direction.

“Rickon,” Jon finally says as they all make dinner, the dogs gathered together in a pigpile as they nap, tired out from the afternoon hike they took. “Could we please just move past this? The weekend’s going to be insufferable if not.”

“How am I supposed to forget when you’re actively plannin’ to leave me in the woods for dead?” he demands. Jon sighs, scrubbing at his face with his hand.

“I think the real issue here,” Bran teases, “is that Rickon doesn’t want to forget what he saw, and it’s makin’ it hard to look at you in exchange.”

“Oh, does Rickon have a crush?” Robb teases, and their youngest brother’s cheeks turn even darker red as he’s left spluttering for words. “Tell us, was that the first time you ever saw a girl naked?”

“Fuck you, Robb, of course not!” he retorts, arms flailing wildly. “And I don’t have a crush on Jon’s girlfriend, even if she is really hot!” He seems to catch himself a moment too late, eyes going wide with dread. “Fuck! I didn’t mean that!”

“Mm, I think you did,” Bran says. Honestly, at this point, any aggravation Jon had had is pretty much gone— Dany is fine, which is what he really cares about, even if his brother has no fucking manners. He laughs, tipping his head back as Rickon looks like he’d rather die than be here any longer.

“Quit while you’re ahead, brother,” Robb says, slapping Rickon’s shoulder. “Not that you’re really ahead now, of course.”

“I didn’t mean it, Jon,” Rickon begs. “Please don’t drag me out to the woods and plot my death.”

Jon laughs, ruffling his brother’s hair. “I’m not going to murder you,” he promises, and Rickon sighs, seeming to relax a little bit. “But if you ever forget to knock and barge into our room again, I’m not responsible for Dany’s actions.”

Rickon nods, Robb cackling as he pokes the fire. “Trust me, she seems like the one you need to be more scared of anyways,” he says. Jon laughs, his youngest brother’s cheeks turning red again.

“Aye,” Jon says with a nod. “She certainly is.”

#jonerys #jonerys fic #drabble #where the wild things are #my writing #asks #answered #Anonymous

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littlerockerao3 · 3 years

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That's what you sent so far for Robb:

Hehe I see what you did there…

It’s always a good time to talk about my baby boy!

How I feel about this character:

In case someone didn’t understand it by my icon, my bio, my header and my posts, I FREAKING LOVE HIM.

All the people I ship romantically with this character:

Theon is Robb’s one and only, sorry.

My non-romantic OTP for this character:

Thanks for sending it back!!! I hate you tumblr. I had written it once again but then it suddenly got deleted so now I’m answering this for the THIRD TIME.

My non-romantic OTP for this character:

All his relationships with his siblings. Shoutout to the special bond he had with Bran since he basically had to raise him and Rickon for a while. Also, Sansa and Arya too obvs, and Jon definitely. Also, his mummy. His scenes with Jeyne were adorable but I think I would have thought of them in a more romantic way if Robb survived and they had the time to know each other better and eventually fall in love. And oh, honourable mention to his N.1 fan, Greatjon.

My unpopular opinion about this character:

I think I’ve made my point a thousand times by telling how he’s young and did not think with his dick and he actually was a better king than... anyone else? Better than Joffrey, better than Aerys and most of all, better than Robert. Also, mr Tywin Lannister, may I remind you that the only way you managed to kill him was attacking him when he was disarmed and at dinner? How brave of you! You made it soooo clear that you weren’t chicken shit of a teen.

But apart from this, I think his POV would have been one of the more interesting! I know grrm doesn’t write kings povs but I would have loved to see his thoughts about him being the oldest son of a lord and the oldest brother of too many kids, I would have loved to read his mind in his “I dont want to be king but I have to” situation, and his thoughts when Theon did what he did. Though, now that I think about it, it would have been too heartbreaking and it would have made my read way too much more painful :(

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon

That he lived???? That he got to reunite with his siblings???? Also, I would have loved him to meet Dany. It would have been so easy for them to come to an agreement, he would have helped her get on the Iron Throne and she would have let him be king in the north in return. That was the story we deserved. Martin, you should have gone by this way, if you did by now you would have ended asoiaf and you could be doing whatever the hell you wanted but noooo let’s choose the hard way.

#thanks for sending it becca #I love writing about robb but writing the same thing three times because tumblr is a dickhead is frustrating lmao #ask game #robb Stark #northernfieldsforever

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alinaastarkov · 4 years

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i am not an anti or a jonrya, i'm just trying to get a grasp on whether or not there's foreshadowing for it. I don't mean offense but I hope you'll humor me. Couldn't Jon thinking of Arya when he meets Ygritte just be him comparing her with his biggest female influence, Bran compares Meera to Arya! Jon saying "What do you know of my heart?" could just be Jon guarding the part of him that loves all of his siblings. Do you think there's any unambiguous evidence? No hate tho, you do you! x

Hey! No offence at all I’m happy to elaborate on asks like this x

There is merit to what you’re saying about the Ygritte comparison, but I am gonna have to disagree. Jon comparing Ygritte to Arya makes sense because they have similar personalities and it helps his admiration of her grow that they are so similar. Jon and Arya are close, naturally someone similar to Arya would be a huge plus in Jon’s eyes.

Jon could see fear and fire in her eyes. Blood ran down her white throat from where the point of his dirk had pricked her. One thrust and it's done, he told himself. He was so close he could smell onion on her breath. She is no older than I am. Something about her made him think of Arya, though they looked nothing at all alike. "Will you yield?" he asked, giving the dirk a half turn. And if she doesn't? - Jon VI, ACOK

"If you kill a man, and never mean t', he's just as dead," Ygritte said stubbornly. Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? He had never truly been a Stark, only Lord Eddard's motherless bastard, with no more place at Winterfell than Theon Greyjoy. And even that he'd lost. When a man of the Night's Watch said his words, he put aside his old family and joined a new one, but Jon Snow had lost those brothers too. - Jon III, ASOS

(I’m gonna come back to that second quote cause it’s important).

But these moments aren’t really what we mean when we talk about Jon comparing them meaning romance. It certainly adds up - the qualities he likes in his lover being the same as Arya can’t be ignored, but it’s these moments that are more overt for the romantic foreshadowing:

Ygritte watched and said nothing. She was older than he'd thought at first, Jon realized; maybe as old as twenty, but short for her age, bandy-legged, with a round face, small hands, and a pug nose. Her shaggy mop of red hair stuck out in all directions. She looked plump as she crouched there, but most of that was layers of fur and wool and leather. Underneath all that she could be as skinny as Arya. - Jon VI, ACOK

Ygritte trotted beside Jon as he slowed his garron to a walk. She claimed to be three years older than him, though she stood half a foot shorter; however old she might be, the girl was a tough little thing. Stonesnake had called her a "spearwife" when they'd captured her in the Skirling Pass. She wasn't wed and her weapon of choice was a short curved bow of horn and weirwood, but "spearwife" fit her all the same. She reminded him a little of his sister Arya, though Arya was younger and probably skinnier. It was hard to tell how plump or thin Ygritte might be, with all the furs and skins she wore. - Jon II, ASOS

This is what jumps out as being super inappropriate and definitely non-brotherly. What kind of brother thinks about his lover’s naked body and the compares it to his sister? Not mine, that’s for certain, and thank god. It’s so odd to have this kind of thought if they are supposed to have a pure, sibling bond. Compare that to Bran, whose thoughts are similar to Jon’s first impressions:

“He wouldn't hurt you. He knows I like you." All of the other lords and knights had departed within a day or two of the harvest feast, but the Reeds had stayed to become Bran's constant companions. Jojen was so solemn that Old Nan called him "little grandfather," but Meera reminded Bran of his sister Arya. She wasn't scared to get dirty, and she could run and fight and throw as good as a boy. She was older than Arya, though; almost sixteen, a woman grown. They were both older than Bran, even though his ninth name day had finally come and gone, but they never treated him like a child. - Bran IV, ACOK

Bran never has a moment of thinking about nakedness and Arya, he simply admires the qualities they share which are mostly playful, childhood fun. Bran is also much younger than Jon, and Meera never entered into a relationship with Bran like Ygritte did with Jon. Yes, they both admire Arya-like qualities they find in other women, but on top of that Jon thinks some overtly physical/ almost sexual things and connects them to Arya. I think there’s a clear difference here between Bran’s brotherly thoughts, and Jon’s rather inappropriate thoughts.

Going back to the passage from before, Jon thinks this:

Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? - Jon III, ASOS

Bran never has a moment of doubt like this. Arya always is and will always be his sister. Understandable. Jon, however, doubts it constantly. Because of his vows, his bastardy, but there’s something else too. He doubts his other siblings as well, but he doubts it with Arya the most, perhaps rationalising his less-than-brotherly thoughts about her.

There’s no doubt Jon loves all his siblings. He thinks of Bran and Robb constantly and so many quotes are about them, his whole family.

When Jon had been very young, too young to understand what it meant to be a bastard, he used to dream that one day Winterfell might be his. Later, when he was older, he had been ashamed of those dreams. Winterfell would go to Robb and then his sons, or to Bran or Rickon should Robb die childless. And after them came Sansa and Arya. Even to dream otherwise seemed disloyal, as if he were betraying them in his heart, wishing for their deaths. I never wanted this, he thought as he stood before the blue-eyed king and the red woman. I loved Robb, loved all of them . . . I never wanted any harm to come to any of them, but it did. And now there's only me. All he had to do was say the word, and he would be Jon Stark, and nevermore a Snow. All he had to do was pledge this king his fealty, and Winterfell was his. All he had to do . . . . . . was forswear his vows again. - Jon XI, ASOS

Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night's Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. 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. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … - Jon XIII, ADWD

“What do you know of my heart” is not one of these times. There are no two ways about it, whether you’re a shipper or not. That quote is about Arya, and Arya alone. Jon’s heart is Arya.

"The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you." "I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?" "Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly …" "… for you are bastard born. I had not forgotten. I have seen your sister in my fires, fleeing from this marriage they have made for her. Coming here, to you. A girl in grey on a dying horse, I have seen it plain as day. It has not happened yet, but it will." - Jon VI, ADWD

This passage makes it pretty clear. Arya is the one in his thoughts, pretty much exclusively, leading up to this, because of the news of her marriage and Jon’s several attempts to rescue her. Melisandre is the first one to connect Jon’s heart to Arya his sister, and Jon’s thoughts are so explicit here. Arya is his heart, the person who means the most to him. Shipper or not, that’s a fact, though to me, having a brother with the same age gap and both of us would find it very, very weird for him to call me his “heart”, it is extremely romantic. Calling someone your actual “heart” so earnestly is extremely romantic and meaningful. It makes sense seeing as Jon goes on to die for Arya later on.

To me, these are pretty unambiguous. There’s a clear difference between Jon’s thoughts about Arya to the rest of his siblings/ other Starks’ feelings towards each other. I’ve explored more quotes that are hard to be viewed through a sibling lens here too. I’ll just leave you with a quote from GRRM’s original outline because that thing is basically heaven to us Jonrya shippers.

Arya will be more forgiving ... until she realizes, with terror, that she has fallen in love with Jon, who is not only her half-brother but a man of the Night's Watch, sworn to celibacy. Their passion will continue to torment Jon and Arya throughout the trilogy, until the secret of Jon's true parentage is finally revealed in the last book.

#jonrya #asoiaf #my meta #asoiaf meta #jonrya meta #jon snow #arya stark #jon x arya #acok #asos #adwd #original outline #Anonymous #neve has mail

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yabakuboi · 3 years

Text

Chapter 12: awake with wolves teeth

“And you?” Bran asks. Jon thinks about Tormund waiting for him, of Ghost and the village. This new family of his, sitting on top of the world.

Jon gasps as a third finger enters him, arching his back as Tormund bites at his chest, his nipples, his other hand gripping Jon tight enough to bruise at his naked thigh. He pants, hips jerking and cock grinding against Tormund’s stomach as he stretches Jon wide, making him loose and slick.

“Tor, please,” Jon begs, shaking with each stroke against his walls. Tormund groans against his neck. “Please, please. C’mon, please.”

Tormund sits up, kneeling between Jon’s legs, and his eyes are blue fire as he looks down at him. “On your front,” he says, his voice a growling rasp.

He moves immediately, hissing as Tormund’s fingers leave him and he’s left empty. Jon’s dick hangs heavy as he gets on his knees, but what little shame Jon might have had with his ass in the air disappears when Tormund moans, fingertips digging into the flesh of his backside.

“Fuck aren’t you a sight,” Tormund breathes.

Jon can’t help but peek over his shoulder, watching as Tormund takes himself in hand, slicking the thick length of his cock in oil. As Tormund lines himself up, Jon has to bury his face in his arms, shaking with anticipation, and unable to meet Tormund’s eyes, soft and adoring and burning in his gaze. But when the head of Tormund’s cock slips past that ring of muscle, Jon’s back curves up, head thrown back as he gasps.

It’s almost too much, and almost not enough, in every sense. It burns, like fire up Jon’s spine, filling him to the brim, and yet, and yet. Jon gasps, gulping for air, and near shaking from his skin as Tormund slides into him slowly, gently, a warm hand in the center of his back. Jon wants it to stop. He wants it to never end.

When Tormund is fully sheathed to the base inside, he stills. “Relax, pup,” he says, his voice a rasp that drags across Jon’s senses. He wishes he were on his back, wishes Tormund were kissing him. Next time, next time, he promises himself, and tears gather in his eyes at the thought.

“Please,” Jon sobs, when it becomes all too much and not enough. “Tormund.”

“I have you, sweet thing,” Tormund says. He bows over him, pressing a scratchy kiss between Jon’s shoulder blades. “I’ll take care of you.”

Tormund fucks him in slow, shallow thrusts that have Jon gasping until the pain blurs to pleasure and he finds himself moving to meet Tormund in the middle. And then all at once, it feels too good, and he moans, low and long, a deep note below the quick beat of skin against skin.

“That’s it,” Tormund breathes against Jon’s neck. “That’s it, love. I told you I’d make it good.”

Jon throws his head back against Tormund’s shoulder, twisting until he can catch Tormund’s lips in a wet kiss. He feels aflame, burning from face to his cock, which swings untouched as Tormund fucks him deeper and faster. Tormund holds him tight against his front, an arm around his chest and a hand at Jon’s navel, holding him still.

“Please,” Jon cries into Tormund’s mouth.

“So polite, my little crow,” Tormund says, biting at Jon’s lips as he takes Jon back in hand. “C’mon, let me hear you.”

He swallows Jon’s wail as he fucks him through his orgasm, holding him up when he goes limp and and laying him flat against the bed as he thrusts into him longer, grinding his spent cock into the blankets until he’s coming across Jon’s back in thick ropes, hot against his already burning flesh.

“Tor,” he moans when Tormund collapses beside him, whimpering when Tormund immediately gathers him up in his arms despite the mess—sweat and seed coating him.

Tormund lifts Jon's face with a hand under Jon’s chin, and kisses him sweetly, slow and gentle. Jon sighs into it, basking in the pleasant ache in his body, Tormund’s calloused fingers wiping away the tears on his face.

“So good, Jon,” he whispers into Jon’s hair when Jon can’t hold himself up any longer. “So good for me.”

Twilight falls upon them slowly, the sky lightening from black on the promise of a distant sun. They watch the east as it brightens, and their days are a dim glow on the mountains.

One such morning finds Jon at the roots of the heart tree, still stained with his blood.

The gnarled face stares down at him as he kneels, taking a low breath, before he calls, “Bran”

When Jon opens his eyes, there is Bran sitting amongst the tree limbs, feet kicking back and forth, a grin on his round, boyish face. He is the brother Jon remembers from his childhood, happy and mischievous.

Beside him sits a crow, massive in size with three eyes that stare down at Jon.

“Jon,” Bran yells down, mirth in his eyes. “Did you finally figure it out?”

Jon’s chest clenches. Around them is the Godswood of Winterfell: the steam of the nearby spring dampening the air, the stone walls rising high around them, the distant sound of the village indistinguishable in the quiet. Cautiously, Jon looks around, as if any moment Robb or Theon could come around the corner, or Arya might dash past with Sansa on her heels. Catelyn with Rickon on her hip. If Jon walks around the heart tree, he might find Ned at its feet, polishing Ice. The temptation to see, the want, the hope is a kinfe in the chest.

Swallowing, Jon looks up again to the boy in the branches. “I thought I was dreaming that time. Dying.”

Bran’s lip curls and he scoffs. “You were,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”

“Of course,” Jon says, shoulders relaxing and rolling his eyes. “How’s ruling the seven kingdoms?”

“Dull,” Bran sighs. “And it’s six. Sansa is much better at it.”

“Of course, she is.” Jon smiles. “Are you well then? Both of you? And Arya?”

“We’re fine. Sansa’s writes often. She’s more like Father than I can believe.” Bran shifts, looking West, into the distance. “Arya’s sailed further than I can see. But I think she’s happy.”

Silence falls between them.

“And you?” Bran asks, looking down at him. “Are you happy?”

Jon thinks about Tormund waiting for him back in their home, of Ghost and the village. This new family of his, sitting on top of the world.

“Yes,” he says. The scars along his face pull tight when he smiles. “The beginnings of.”

“Good.” Bran says, his boyish grin making his face round, his cheeks flush with life. Jon finds himself missing this little brother who only exists still in the world of the gods. But as Jon watches, that childish joy fades into the man he had left at the Red Keep. “Jon.”

Jon straightens his shoulders, tensing.

“You’re being hunted.”

“The Night’s Watch, I thought,” Jon says, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “But I feel like you would have told me if Sansa was looking for my head.”

Bran turns his head like a compass, eyes to the North. “No, of course not. She’d prefer you in Winterfell.” He pauses. “I would have hoped he’d gone on to live a good life. Don’t you think he deserved it?”

Swallowing, Jon takes a moment, just to remember the hate like dragonfire burning against his back as his boat had left the harbor King’s Landing, the eyes of the Unsullied watching as he sailed away.

“More so than me.”

Again, Bran’s gaze falls down on him, all knowing, as if he sees right through Jon. “The Watch did have a half dozen turncoats. Sansa thought they had gone toward Hardhome, and wouldn’t survive the journey through the Forest in winter. They had help.”

A somber silence stretches between them, the distance between north and south never feeling so vast.

“Sansa will send you men,” Bran says suddenly, and he sounds once more like a boy, young and scared. “She’ll ride out herself if she must.”

“No, no,” Jon says, and he can’t keep the tired laugh out of his voice. “It’ll be far too late by then, Bran. You know this. Just…” He swallows. He wishes Tormund was beside him, his large hand against his back, steadying. “You have my love. All three of you. Remember that, just in case.”

Bran stares at him for a moment, and Jon feels as if he’s been stabbed when a tear slips down his face. But Bran blinks, suddenly passive again, and jumps down from the branches.

Jon gasps, reaching for him, but when he steps forward, he’s once again standing in the snow, alone in the Northern wilds with only the defaced Heart Tree and the faint light of a distant sun for company.

Jon goes home that day, and finds Tormund in their home, fire burning brightly and whittling away at a knot of maple. When Jon barges through the door in long strides, Tormund hides it away quickly, flustered, before Jon falls into him, curling into his lap.

“What’s wrong?” he asks when Jon hides his face against his neck. Tormund immediately wraps him in his arms, holding him tightly. “What happened, pup?”

Shaking his head because he can’t trust his voice, Jon says nothing.

Tormund scoffs at the thought of rangers or eastern warriors or even other wildlings in the forest. “You’d have to be dafter than daft to come all the way out here in the middle of fucking winter for someone’s neck,” he huffs. And he pinches Jon’s ass when adds, “Even for someone as pretty as you, Snow.”

Jon can’t help rolling his eyes, reaching up to tug on Tormund’s beard. He’s never been a vain man, but with the two thick scars cutting down from his cheekbone to his lip, Jon wouldn’t call himself very beautiful.

But Tormund likes to kiss along them, all the way to where they pull down the corner of Jon’s mouth, giving him a crooked scowl.

“I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously,” Jon sighs. Even still, he leans in when Tormund wraps an arm around his shoulders. “You saw them at Winterfell.”

“Aye, they’re fierce. But I don’t take them for fools.”

“Of course not.” Jon eyes the tree in front of them, the red cut bleeding sap. “That’s why I think that if he set his mind to it, he would be the one to manage it.”

Scowling, Tormund shakes his head. “Have to be a fucking fool,” he repeats. But he glares at the cross slashed through the bark. His arm around Jon tightens, pulling him snugly into his side. “And if they are fool enough, I’ll make sure they fucking regret it.”

Jon doesn’t reply except to slide arm around Tormund’s back, tugging him until they turn in tandem, heading for home in the circle of torch fires.

When Jon dreams now, he dreams as Ghost, long legs and heavy paws atop the snows as he runs through the slowly brightening wilds. He roams the edges of the forest, the tops of mountains, looking out into the dark waste that is the land of always winter. He dreams of hunting, of sinking his teeth into fresh meat. He dreams of following human trails through the village. He dreams of the unfamiliar scent, untraceable even to a direwolf’s nose.

Tormund slides his hand down Jon’s spine, dipping between his cheeks to press a fingertip to Jon’s wet, well-fucked hole. His laugh is a rumble through Jon’s chest when Jon grumbles. He pulls Jon closer, tilting his head down to press an open kiss to Jon’s mouth, his lips curved up in a satisfied smile.

“You’re a nuisance,” Jon says, his voice reedy and wrecked, as Tormund kisses across his jaw and down his neck.

“Mm,” Tormund hums, sucking a bruise below Jon’s ear. “You like it.”

Jon doesn’t answer, sighing as Tormund’s teeth drag across his skin, shuddering. Despite the interest stirring between his legs, Jon feels limp and tired, exhaustion settling deep into him.

Already, the winter is thawing, the distant glow on the horizon a promise of spring. They’d spent hours today chipping away at the lake, looking for fish for a fresh meal. The stew they’d had for dinner was a good reward for all their troubles. Jon can feel it sitting heavy in his belly.

“Tormund,” he groans when a hand slides between his thighs to cup his hardening cock. “I’m tired.”

“Then don’t move,” Tormund says with a wicked smile, and begins licking down Jon’s naked chest.

He fucks Jon gently, moving him just where he wants him, and swallowing Jon's whimpering with an unending kiss, chasing his own release to add to the mess already leaking around Tormund’s cock. Jon gasps when Tormund’s thrusts stutter, and Tormund groans against Jon’s neck as he comes. Trapped against Tormund’s belly, Jon’s cock twitches and aches, begging.

And Tormund, still gasping, slumps down Jon’s body to take him in his mouth, grinning lazily when Jon arches off their bedding, fingers tangled in the furs.

Mirma huffs a hot breath across the back of Jon’s head, arms tightly hugging his neck. “You can stop laughing, you know.” For a girl who is near a woman now, she’s still light as a feather, small on his back as he carries her home, their packs and bows hanging at his sides.

Jon, still chuckling, bounces her a little higher on his shoulders, careful of her twisted ankle. “I told you, you’re too big to be climbing trees.”

And she is. Jon met her when she was only ten years, and now she’s nearly a woman of sixteen. Winter has made her grow small, but she is still of the North folk, hardy and tough.

Even when she’s falling from trees.

“I wanted to see if the sun was hitting the Fangs yet,” she grumbles.

“It probably is,” Jon says, thinking of the distant rumblings they’ve heard east, the sounds of melting snow on the mountain side. Soon the valley will brighten and the snow will flood the lake, and spring will return, an end to the long night.

But Jon doesn't look forward to it. He feels eyes on his back even now.

“What’s that?” Mirma whispers, straightening from her perch on Jon’s back. Jon follows the line of her arm to a dark shadow deeper into the woods, standing amongst a grove of dead saplings. It stands tall, not quite a bear, but a man if the shape of it wasn’t wrong. Whatever it is, it hasn’t noticed them, covered by the thick hemlock firs that have managed to keep their greens all winter.

Quietly, Mirma reaches for her bow and an arrow. It doesn’t move when she aims, or when the arrow lands solidly in the branch above its head.

“Should we look?” Mirma breathes, leaning down close again.

Jon shakes his head, kneeling to set Mirma on her good leg. “Stay here, be quiet. I’ll be back.”

Mirma glares at him but nods, tucking herself into the safety of the hemlock’s branches. Jon sets their packs down, hand on his sword, and prays to the gods that he’ll go home to see Tormund tonight.

Slowly, he approaches, the shadow taking shape and Jon’s stomach turns. He doesn’t know the man, a half starved wildling not from his village. But Jon would recognize the flayed man sigil anywhere. There’s so much blood that if Jon had been a man of weaker constitution, he would have vomited.

He turns, ready to run as soon as he’s gotten a good look. The residual warmth on the corpse steams the frigid air, and Jon begins to pull Longclaw from its scabbard, wondering just how this man was flayed open without hearing any of his screams.

In the next moment, Jon’s on his knee, the back of his head screaming with pain, and then—

#jonmund #jonmund fic #got #asoiaf #WHEEEEZE it's been so long i am so sorry #also smut immediately following the cut LMAO #my fic #shush mal

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jackoshadows · 4 years

Text

So this is a write up on the Jon Snow - Sansa Stark relationship in the books with quotes and excerpts. For the folks who are interested in knowing where these two characters really stand with each other rather than the fanon version that’s often seen on the interwebs.

The relationship between Jon and Sansa can be best described as ‘Indifferent and distant siblings’ and they are the least close out of all the Starks.

The 5 times Jon mentions Sansa in his 42 POV chapters include thoughts on Sansa brushing lady and singing, Sansa being with Arya in KL and losing Lady, her being enchanted if she sees the magical wall, and her telling him how to talk to girls. Like Arya often does, Jon qualifies his description of Sansa with an ‘even’ to indicate how she is different to his other siblings.

He missed his true brothers: little Rickon, bright eyes shining as he begged for a sweet; Robb, his rival and best friend and constant companion; Bran, stubborn and curious, always wanting to follow and join in whatever Jon and Robb were doing. He missed the girls too, even Sansa, who never called him anything but "my half brother" since she was old enough to understand what bastard meant. And Arya . . . he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful.

Compare the descriptions he gives his other siblings to what he says about Sansa. I have often read that Sansa calling Jon ‘Half brother’ or bastard was not a big deal because all of Jon’s siblings did it. And this is true. But the difference is that Sansa ALWAYS made sure to treat Jon that way, when his other siblings interacted with Jon normally. Something that Jon noticed enough that this was the only thing that he highlights for her.

It’s clear from the text that Sansa treated Jon with condescending pity. I would argue that Sansa’s treatment of Arya was actually far worse than the way she treated Jon. For Sansa, Jon was just a low class bastard and his faults were only natural because he was ‘common’. Sansa even condescends to educate him on how to properly talk to girls. Arya on the other hand got bullied because she was a high class noble but committed the sin of being unsatisfactory in terms of looks and behavior.

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. And Jon's mother had been common, or so people whispered. Once, when she was littler, Sansa had even asked Mother if perhaps there hadn't been some mistake.

This is why it made no sense when the show had Sansa apologizing to Jon and completely bypassed Sansa’s treatment of Arya in the books, making it look like Arya was the mean sister. If Sansa had to apologize to anyone it would be to Arya and not Jon.

Sansa’s patronizing pity for Jon comes from the fact that he is of low birth. She attributes emotions like ‘jealousy’ to his birth and pities him for it

Sansa sighed as she stitched. "Poor Jon," she said. "He gets jealous because he's a bastard." - AGoT

If this was what the Night’s Watch was truly like, she felt sorry for her bastard half brother, Jon. - AGoT

She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. - AGoT

These are the only times Jon is mentioned in Sansa’s POV chapters till AFfC.

When we come to their emotional thoughts of connection and longing and love, let’s see what happens there. For Jon:

He remembered the day he had left Winterfell, all the bittersweet farewells; Bran lying broken, Robb with snow in his hair, Arya raining kisses on him after he’d given her Needle.

Even the thought made him feel foolish; he was a man grown now, a black brother of the Night’s Watch, not the boy who’d once sat at Old Nan’s feet with Bran and Robb and Arya.

That might mean Lord Eddard would return to Winterfell, and his sisters as well. He might even be allowed to visit them, with Lord Mormont’s permission. It would be good to see Arya’s grin again and to talk with his father.

Jon Snow straightened himself and took a long deep breath. Forgive me, Father. Robb, Arya, Bran . . . forgive me, I cannot help you. He has the truth of it. This is my place.

Playing, Jon thought in astonishment, grown men playing like children, throwing snowballs the way Bran and Arya once did, and Robb and me before them.

We know Sansa has played with Bran and Arya and snowballs. But she is not included in Jon’s nostalgic memories.

We see something similar in Sansa’s POV chapters about her family

Tommen was all of eight. He reminded her of her own little brother, Bran. They were of an age. Bran was back at Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe. Sansa would have given anything to be with him.

If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa's dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya.

Merry Crane always had an amusing story, and little Lady Bulwer reminded her of Arya, though not so fierce.

She had last seen snow the day she'd left Winterfell. That was a lighter fall than this, she remembered. Robb had melting flakes in his hair when he hugged me, and the snowball Arya tried to make kept coming apart in her hands.

I don't want any Lannister, she wanted to say. I want Willas, I want Highgarden and the puppies and the barge, and sons named Eddard and Bran and Rickon.

That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm and safe. If only dreaming could make it so . . .

If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are dead but me. She was alone in the world now.

She remembered a summer's snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They'd each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she'd had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless.

She had dreamt that she was little, still sharing a bedchamber with her sister Arya.

Jon is completely absent from her thoughts about her childhood in Winterfell and missing her family.

Let’s next look at how Jon treats Arya and Sansa’s respective marriages to Stark enemies. Upon being told by Stannis that Sansa is now lady Lannister, Jon’s immediate thoughts about all this is how Tyrion is faring as a kinslayer! He does not spare a single thought for a sister forcefully married off or her whereabouts and if she was doing okay. Contrast his complete indifference to Robb and Catelyn’s reaction to this news:

Robb took her hand. "They married her to Tyrion Lannister." Catelyn's fingers clutched at his. "The Imp." "He's the Kingslayer's brother. Oathbreaking runs in their blood." Robb's fingers brushed the pommel of his sword. "If I could I'd take his ugly head off. Sansa would be a widow then, and free. There's no other way that I can see. They made her speak the vows before a septon and don a crimson cloak." Catelyn remembered the twisted little man she had seized at the crossroads inn and carried all the way to the Eyrie. "I should have let Lysa push him out her Moon Door. My poor sweet Sansa . . . why would anyone do this to her?" - ASoS

Their rage here is exactly what Jon feels when he hears about Arya’s marriage

By now she’d be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. “I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you.” Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton’s throat as easily. - ADwD

Sansa is the same when it comes to her complete indifference to Jon. We hear all the time about how Sansa is the queen of compassion and that there’s no character in the whole of asoiaf who is kinder than Sansa Stark. But get this – Sansa has been masquerading as a bastard in the Vale this whole time and not once – not once – does she think of the bastard brother that she grew up with. There is no regret there for how she looked down on her bastard brother.

Catelyn for instance feels a twinge of guilt when she meets Mya Stone in the Vale

It did not please her; it was an effort for Catelyn to keep the smile on her face. Stone was a bastard's name in the Vale, as Snow was in the north, and Flowers in Highgarden; in each of the Seven Kingdoms, custom had fashioned a surname for children born with no names of their own. Catelyn had nothing against this girl, but suddenly she could not help but think of Ned's bastard on the Wall, and the thought made her angry and guilty, both at once. She struggled to find words for a reply.

Meanwhile after being reminded by Myranda Royce that Jon exists, Sansa:

She had not thought of Jon in ages. - AFfC

This is true. The last time she thought of Jon was the three times mentioned above in book one AGoT. Even in book 4 we see Sansa thinking of a way to get away from Littlefinger and never once remembers Jon at the wall.

Littlefinger and Lord Petyr looked so very much alike. She would have fled them both, perhaps, but there was nowhere for her to go. Winterfell was burned and desolate, Bran and Rickon dead and cold. Robb had been betrayed and murdered at the Twins, along with their lady mother. Tyrion had been put to death for killing Joffrey, and if she ever returned to King's Landing the queen would have her head as well. The aunt she'd hoped would keep her safe had tried to murder her instead. Her uncle Edmure was a captive of the Freys, while her great-uncle the Blackfish was under siege at Riverrun.

This is a contrast to Arya trying her best to get to the wall and Jon after leaving KL and sadly failing at every attempt. That’s why the show’s decision to reunite Jon and Sansa while leaving out Arya till the very end is a massive disservice to both relationships in the books. GRRM has invested everything in Jon and Arya’s relationship and nothing in Jon and Sansa’s. Arya trying for 3 books to get to Jon and failing and finally getting there? That’s actual payoff. Sansa thinking once of wanting to see the bastard brother that she forgot about? D&D – let’s unite Sansa with Jon!

Much is made of the ‘it would be sweet to see him again’ line, ignoring the couple of lines that comes before.

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.

Lines that demonstrate that Sansa STILL does not get it when it comes to class and relationships. Her attitude here is more – oh well, all my real brothers are dead and only Jon is left, so I will have to make do since I have been reduced to his level it’s ok now.

Then there’s the other line – “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa". I have already discussed this in another post but this was more about Jon kicking down the position to the next in line rather than his overwhelming love for Sansa. At this point Jon had already decided not to accept the offer because of Stannis’ precondition that he burn down the Winterfell Godswood. It’s possible that Jon does accept the KITN/Lord of Winterfell position in the next book if Robb’s will comes into the picture.

And finally we have heard often of Jon’s sexist dislike of the ladies when it’s more Jon’s disdain for a type that embodies Catelyn and Sansa. Jon likes the ladies just fine – he has an appreciation for Alys Karstark and she is not running around waving a sword. It’s their personality - a personality that mirrors Arya’s - that he finds attractive.

A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her.

Here Jon demonstrates a weird contempt for ladies brushing their hair. Where does he get this from from I wonder?

Arya was a trial, it must be said. Half a boy and half a wolf pup. Forbid her anything and it became her heart's desire. She had Ned's long face, and brown hair that always looked as though a bird had been nesting in it. I despaired of ever making a lady of her. She collected scabs as other girls collect dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. - Catelyn VII, ACOK

He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest.

And Arya . . . he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful.

She had never cared if she was pretty…Only her father had ever called her that. Him, and Jon Snow, sometimes. Her mother used to say she could be pretty if she would wash and brush her hair…the way her sister did. To her sister and her sister’s friends and all the rest, she had just been Arya Horseface."

“…my hair’s messy and my nails are dirty and my feet are all hard.” Robb wouldn’t care about that, probably, but her mother would. Lady Catelyn always wanted her to be like Sansa, to sing and dance and sew and mind her courtesies. Just thinking of it made Arya try to comb her hair with her fingers, but it was all tangles and mats, and all she did was tear some out."

Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft . . . the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.

Poor Arya’s disdain for hair brushing is probably why Jon looks down on the ladies spending time on their hair. Jon has always considered Arya an outsider like him and sees the both of them as being unfairly treated by the likes of Catelyn and Sansa. Everything that Jon appreciates in a woman shows us glimpses of Arya and everything that Jon dislikes shows us glimpses of Cat and Sansa.

This is indicative of the fact that growing up Arya was pretty much the only positive female figure in his life and that is why he is looking for an ‘Arya’ in the women he loves and befriends. This is why he gives Needle to Arya, allows spearwives to take over an entire castle and defend it and is appreciative of ‘warrior princesses’.

For example, Alys is physically supposed to look like Arya and both Melisandre and Jon mistake her for Arya in her visions. But, it’s only after they interact and speak that Jon compares her to Arya – because it’s her bravery that reminds him of his little sister.

Jon turned to Alys Karstark. “My lady. Are you ready?” “Yes. Oh, yes.” “You’re not scared?” The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. “Let him be scared of me.” The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled. “Winter’s lady.” Jon squeezed her hand.

There’s also some nonsense being peddled around that Jon had a crush on Sansa because he described her as looking “radiant”. It’s more likely that this is GRRM just being descriptive using character POVs. I mean, we also have Ned gushing about how hot Bobby Baratheon was - thoughts that spawned a thousand NedRob shipping fans...

Fifteen years past, when they had ridden forth to win a throne, the Lord of Storm’s End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden’s fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he towered over lesser men, and when he donned his armor and the great antlered helmet of his House, he became a veritable giant. He’d had a giant’s strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume.

This does not imply that Ned had a crush on Robert Baratheon. Jon also calls Jaime and Cersei beautiful – does not mean he has a crush on them.

This is Jon’s description of Satin

The boy claimed to be eighteen, older than Jon, but he was green as summer grass for all that. Satin, they called him, even in the wool and mail and boiled leather of the Night’s Watch; the name he’d gotten in the brothel where he’d been born and raised. He was pretty as a girl with his dark eyes, soft skin, and raven’s ringlets.

Soft skin? Uh... But - no offense to the many valid Jon/Satin shippers out there - Jon/Satin is not a cannon romantic relationship unfortunately. Even though there is more interaction and an emotional connection between Jon and Satin in the books to justify shipping them romantically than there is for Jon and Sansa.

So in conclusion, Jon and Sansa have pretty much a non-existent relationship in the books and their plots do not in any way cross or connect with each other. I suspect that will not change in the near future considering Jon is most probably going to become enmeshed in the grand Northern conspiracy that includes Rickon and Arya and has to fight the Others beyond the wall where Bran is. If he does meet up with Sansa, it may well be at the very end as these are two characters who don’t have much of a plot purpose or relationship that requires meeting up.

#Jon Snow #Sansa Stark #Arya Stark #Catelyn Stark #Jon Snow and his relationships with the women in his family #ASoIaF #anti-D&D #anti-GOT #Sansa and Jon #anti Jonsa

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madamebaggio · 4 years

Photo

A Family Crisis

***

The Stark Family was great: they were caring, brave, kind... And nosy as hell.

Sansa has no idea of how this started... But she is happy Jon is there with her.

***

Jon Snow loved the Starks like they were his family, and they might was well be, since his real parents could never be bothered by his existence.

He had met Robb Stark in first grade. At the time, Jon was a quiet brooding kid, who kept most to himself and Robb was the exact opposite: he was the center of attention, a beautiful child, full of life, a little devil that could charm anyone.

Jon never truly understood how they had become friends. Robb just shoved himself in Jon’s life for whatever reason and declared they were going to become best friends, and so they had, because Robb always got what he wanted.

Robb brought home Jon to his house one day and he met the family. The Starks looked –to Jon –like a perfect family back then. He was welcomed to the house and he never felt warmer in his whole life.

Eventually Ned and Catelyn –Papa and Mama Stark, as Theon called them –figured out the problems Jon had at his own place: a father that came and went as he pleased and a mother consumed completely by thoughts of herself.

Jon didn’t like to think his parents were bad people. They were just… Bad parents. He didn’t want anyone’s pity, much less the Starks.

Eventually he learned that they didn’t pity him, they cared about him, and that was such a foreigner concept to him.

He became a part of the family. He was there when Catelyn had Bran and after Rickon, he taught Arya how to ride a bike, helped Sansa to study for her Math tests, because she hated them all. He was there when Bran suffered the accident and lost the movements of his legs.

When Ned brought the Malamutes for his kids, Jon was surprised to find that there was one for him as well. Ned said he knew his mother wouldn’t allow him to keep it at their place, but the puppy could stay there. Jon was in his junior year by then, and the Starks generosity kept surprising and humbling him.

Of course, as a big and united family, the Starks tended to be nosy as fuck. They felt a deep need to know what was going on in everybody’s lives all the time. Who the kids were dating, where were they going, what time they would be back.

It was impossible to keep a secret in that house and everybody felt entitled to know the details of the other’s lives, because, fuck it, they were a family!

Jon had never cared about it all, because it made him feel like he was part of the family. He felt like he was cared for.

Right now… He was rethinking that.

“Care to explain?”

Jon looked at Sansa, but she had her eyes fixed on Robb. “This is none of your business!” She snapped.

“None of my business?” Robb screeched. “Since when are you two dating?” He demanded.

Sansa and Jon traded looks. This was fucking ridiculous.

“Robb…” Jeyne, Robb’s fiancé, called gently. “They’re both adults. They can date, you know?”

Arya, who was sitting on top of the counter –Catelyn would die if she saw something like that –huffed. “Did you seriously call us here just ‘cause they’re fucking?”

“Oh God.” Sansa pressed the bridge of her nose, while Jeyne let out an “Arya!”, full of indignation.

“I’m sure the kids know what that means.” The other Stark girl shrugged, gesturing with her head to Bran and Rickon.

“Hey!” Rickon protested. “I’m not a child!”

The best part of this freak show was that –since it was the week of Christmas –the whole Stark clan was back home; so this spectacle was sold out.

“Can we focus?” Robb snapped.

“No!” Sansa got up, clearly tired of this whole circus. “You’re being ridiculous, Robb. We’re just dating, for fuck’s sake.”

“Wow…” Arya drawled, clearly not helping the whole situation. “So it’s official and all? I thought you guys were just…”

“Arya!” Jon threw the girl a look. She was like an annoying little sister to him, but right now she was being way too annoying.

She just grinned at him.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be here arguing over this.” Bran offered carefully. “It’s their business.”

Sansa turned immediately to the boy. “Thank you, Bran!” She threw her hands up. “It’s our business.” She pointed at Jon. “I have no idea why you got a family meeting and invited Theon along.”

“Are you kidding?” Theon asked from his position by the door. “This is better than a TV show.”

Jon gave him a look that made very clear that he should shut the fuck up.

“I’m your older brother and it’s my duty to make sure you’re okay.” Robb insisted, crossing his arms. “For all that I know you guys have secretly dating for years!”

Sansa wanted to hit her brother in the head with something heavy. Repeatedly.

“Robb, we haven’t.” Jon sighed, obviously getting weary of this conversation.

“I was never close to Jon, remember?” Sansa pointed out. “We just started getting closer in the last year, because of the whole Harry disaster.”

Arya made a face at the name and Bran gave a sympathetic smile to his older sister. Sansa walked back to where Jon was, sat by his side and picked his hand.

She was the one that had wanted to wait more to tell her family. She knew they were going to blow this out of proportion, it was their thing and it was freaking annoying.

“Nothing had ever happened until three weeks ago.” Jon assured Robb.

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. “Wait a second!” Robb narrowed his eyes at them. “I thought you said you guys have been together for two weeks.”

“Shit…” Jon murmured, realizing it had been a bad idea.

Sansa didn’t help at all by blushing. “Well, officially together, yeah. But…” She cleared her throat. “Stuff happened before that.”

Robb turned to Jon. “I’m going to kill you!” He declared.

“Robb!” Jeyne exclaimed.

“Robb, chill the fuck out.” Arya asked coming down from the counter. “Gods, stop the drama.” She rolled her eyes.

“You’re blowing this out of proportion.” Bran offered.

“I… I’m…” Robb sputtered.

Arya ignored him and turned to the couple. “So, when are you telling the parents?”

“We were going to tell everyone tomorrow at dinner.” Sansa sighed. “But Theon had to go and tell on us.”

“Hey!” The man in question put his hands up. “Not my fault you two decided to kiss in front of the house.”

“Dad and mom are going to be happy.” Rickon offered. “They like Jon.”

Jon smiled at the boy.

“You all like Jon.” Sansa remembered her family. “Robb is just being difficult.”

Seeing that he had no support, Robb sighed. He ran his hand through his hair and then gave Sansa a considering look. “Are you happy?” He asked.

“Ridiculously so.” She replied with a smile.

“Is he treating you well?” Robb insisted.

Sansa wanted to ask Robb if he had ever seen Jon treat anyone badly, but she kind of got his problem. He was her brother, he had always been protective. He was trying to conciliate the role of big brother with the fact that his best friend was the one dating his sister.

“He treats me like I’m precious, Robb.” She answered instead.

Jon picked her hand and kissed the back of it. “That’s ‘cause you are.” He spoke soflty.

Sansa turned to him, a sunny smile on her face.

“Gods, you two are gross.” Arya groaned. “Are you satisfied, Robb?”

Everybody turned to look at the eldest Stark. “Yeah.” He finally grumbled. “As long as he treats her well.”

“You know I will, Robb.” Jon spoke, his voice solemn.

“Yeah, I know.” Robb conceded.

There was a moment of silence, until Arya announced that she was done with the drama. She left the kitchen bickering with Theon; Bran and Rickon went after them. Jeyne kissed Robb’s cheek, whispered something to him and gave a smile to the new couple before going too.

Sansa gave Jon a relieved look, before getting up and walking to Robb.

“Robb.” She called gently. “It means a lot to us that you’re okay with this.”

Robb groaned before pulling her in a hug. “Sorry for being a prick at first. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am. Trust me.” She murmured against his chest.

He kissed her forehead, the looked at Jon, without letting her go. “Hey, Snow.”

“Yes?” Jon asked hesitantly.

“Take care of her or I kill you.” Then he grinned. “And welcome to the family. Again.”

Jon and Sansa traded smiles. He was glad to be here.

#madame baggio #crackship #modern au #game of thrones #Sansa Stark #jon snow #sansa stark x jon snow #jonsa #stark family #posted on ao3 #gifs not mine

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tacitwhisky · 4 years

Text

Southern Wolves, pt 2

Jon x Sansa - Jon leaves the Wall to save Sansa from Joffrey. Together they wander the war ravaged Riverlands to try and return home / AO3 Link

All day they ride, a swift trot interspersed with walking to keep their horse from collapsing, but even so by twilight the courser is exhausted. Jon jumps to the ground, trying not to stagger despite his sore legs. Smoke hangs over the faraway hill of Kingslanding, great billows of orange and red catching the light of the raging flame below. From so far away it seems almost beautiful. A bitter taste fills Jon’s mouth as he looks. A sight only a Targaryen could love.

“Jon?” Sansa says from atop the courser. She draws tighter around her the cloak he gave her to hide the silk of her dress, and glances up and down the road. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Jon gathers the courser’s reins in hand and leads them off the kingsroad. He forces himself not to look back. I’ll come back for you, Arya. I promise I will.

Night has already begun to fall, shadows seeping out from the trees, before Jon draws them to a halt in a glade. A small creek gurgles at the edge of it, and after Sansa has slid down Jon leads the courser to the water. He pats its flank and murmurs encouragement as it dips its head to drink. By the time he’s finished unsaddling it and tying its reins to a nearby branch and turns back the sun is all but gone. Sansa stands at the edge of the glade, hands clasping and reclasping before her, shoulders hunched as she gazes at the woods around them like a doe about to startle.

Jon pauses, at a loss as to what to do or say. He casts his mind back, tries to think what he would say if she was Arya, but all his life Jon has been painfully aware that Sansa is not Arya. Winterfell was a large castle and their days spent preparing for the roles they would one day have. Despite spending nearly every waking moment beside Robb and Theon, Jon might go a week without seeing Arya and Sansa outside of the occasional meal if it weren't for Arya seeking him out on her own.

But where Arya had sought him out, Sansa never had: her life sewing and songs and gossiping with Jeyne or little Beth Cassel, a distant and sweet summer girl whose hair shone copper in the sun. Our half brother, she’d called him since she was young enough to understand what he was. And since his earliest memory Jon had known what that meant, known that a bastard brother was not the same as a trueborn one.

She knew, a voice in Jon hisses and he looks down, shame sharp as bile rising in his throat. Just like her lady mother she knew you were no Stark even without the secret of your Targaryen blood. Did she ever see you like Robb or Bran or Rickon? Or were you the same as Theon, a boy raised beside Robb but not a brother, never a brother?

Jon pushes back the thought and kneels. He digs through the saddlebag and pulls out a hunk of bread and cheese he offers up to Sansa. He half expects the girl who loved lemon cakes so much to wrinkle her nose at it, but she accepts it silently and folds her legs under her. “Do you think they’ll think me dead?” She asks as she nibbles at the bread.

“They should. We’ll take care though, and I won’t light a fire.” He takes a seat on the ground opposite Sansa, keenly aware of how strange it is to sit here with this girl he once thought his sister. Even in a soiled cloak and after a day of riding she sits graceful as a lady, spine a gentle arch, and Jon has never felt more awkward or dirt stained. He pulls a water skin from the saddlebag and leans forward to offer her it, tries to smile like he would with Arya. “We’ll have to find you something else to wear.”

The words are awkward, clumsy, but all Sansa does is blink and look down at the silk and samite fit snug to her hips and waist. “I’ll be glad to be rid of it.” She says, and Jon is taken aback by the sudden heat in her voice. “Joffrey gave me it.”

There is a deep loathing in Sansa’s voice that Jon cannot remember ever hearing before, a loathing he’d never thought the distant and slender and sweet smiling sister he once thought his capable of. What happened in Kingslanding? An uneasy feeling fills Jon’s gut as he studies her, the way she keeps peering around the glade as though expecting Lannister men to burst from the trees at any moment.

“You’re out of his reach now,” he says firmly and meets her eyes when she glances up, gives her a steady smile and offers her the water skin again. “And you don’t ever have to go back.”

Sansa accepts the water skin, but doesn’t bring it to her lips, only stares down at it. “I was there when it happened,” she says in a subdued voice. “When they took father’s head. And after Joffrey made me look at father’s head- he wanted me to- but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.” Her gaze snaps upward, eyes flashing. “I hate him, Jon. I do. I hate him more than anything in this world. He’s vile and cruel and I hope he chokes and dies. I don’t know how I ever thought him handsome.”

A little shit, he’d told Arya Joffrey was what seems a lifetime ago, but even he would never think of him capable of something like that. A sick feeling fills Jon’s gut and he leans forward, touches Sansa’s arm. “Robb will make him pay. For father. For everything he’s done.”

Sansa blinks and looks down at his hand on her arm. She bites her lip. “I thought you had gone to the Wall.”

“I had. But when I heard Robb was mustering the northern lords and that father...” You were never his son, only ever some mad Targaryen’s dragonspawn. What right do you have to grieve him? Jon swallows. “I couldn’t stay.”

“I’m glad. I didn’t think I’d ever leave that awful place.” Sansa gives him a wan smile and finally takes a sip from the water skin. “Where will we go now?”

“Riverrun.” A pang fills Jon’s chest, but he shoves it down. He does not know how to find Arya, where to even start looking. “Robb and your lady mother are waiting there.”

Sansa nods and hands him back the water skin. They finish the bread in silence, crickets chirping in the distance and a pair of magpies squawking at each other loudly overhead. Jon stows the water skin back in the saddlebag and lies back on the prickly grass as a few feet away Sasna curls into a ball under his ragged cloak. Despite the throb of his muscles from a day of riding, sleep escapes Jon as he listens to the rustle of the leaves in the wind and stares up at the silver net of the stars in the black sky.

Though not the numb cold that seeped off the Wall and suffused muscle and bone and never left, it is still sharply chill without a cloak or blanket and Jon tucks his hands into his armpits to resist shivering. He finds without bidding his mind wandering to the Wall, to the black brothers he abandoned; he’d made Grenn and Pyp swear to protect Sam from Alliser Thorne before he left, but he knows in the pit of his gut he abandoned Sam. I had to. Jon tries to tell himself, but the words are thin consolation. Robb needed me. Arya needed me. And Sansa… Sansa...

“Jon?”

Jon turns his head. Sansa opens the cloak, pale bare arms pimpling in the cold as she does. “If you want,” she starts uncertainly, “we could share.”

Jon blinks. “I smell like horse,” he tells her bluntly, “horse and sweat.”

Sansa purses her lips, just as she used to when scolding Arya, the expression wiping the uncertainty from her face. “Don’t be silly. So do I.”

That I doubt. But it is cold, and so Jon rises from the grass, carefully takes a seat beside Sansa, her shoulder warm against his as he takes the edge of the blanket from her and wraps it around them. Just as he thought, though a day of riding has stripped much of it away, the faint scent of her perfume still clings to Sansa, something sweet and light and flowery. Had she always smelled this way? Idly, Jon realizes that he cannot remember a time when they’d ever touched or been so close even as children. There’d always been a space between the two of them, an empty thing that yawned wider with every passing year that Sansa grew into the highborn lady she was born to be and he stayed the bastard of Winterfell.

Sansa shifts beside him, her warm shoulder pressing against his. “I know I’m not-” she starts before her voice hitches. She swallows. “I’m sorry I’m not, Arya,” she says in a small voice. “I know you came for her.”

Jon shakes his head sharply. “I came for both of you,” he says, and tries to shove down the shame pooling in his gut. Had he, truly? If Arya were safe would you have been so quick to break your vows?

Sansa doesn’t answer at once, the only sound in the glade the rustle of the leaves and far off rasp of crickets. Her hair tickles his jaw she lays her head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Jon,” she says softly. “Thank you for coming for me.”

Jon nods, throat raw and aching. You’re my sister too, he wishes he could say, but he knows it a lie. She never was, a voice in him hisses, not then and not now. You were only ever some mad Targaryen’s dragonspawn hidden like a snake in the grass.

Sansa doesn’t move her head, and as the minutes pass her breathing evens and softens in sleep. Carefully, Jon lets his own head fall back to rest against the tree at their back, closes his eyes and lets the day’s exhaustion drag him into sleep beside her.

#my fic #jonsa #jonsafic #southern wolves #jon x sansa #actually jonsa #jonsa fic

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acourtofhopeanddreams · 4 years

Text

All I want...is you

This was originally written for day 7 of @jonsa-week based on the prompt: BASTARDS - ROYALTY - FREE CHOICE, but then my laptop drowned and I only got a new one now. But, better late than never, right? And MERRY CHRISTMAS MY LOVELY JONSA FAMILY!

Sansa agreed to marry prince Jon Targaryen, crown prince of Westeros. But now she's actually meeting him for the first time, doubts linger in her mind. What if the crown prince isn't as nice and brave and strong as he seems?

arranged marriage // the Targs still rule

This was what she wanted. This was what she had dreamed of all her life. This was why she had thanked her father, over and over again. But now she was here, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and a castle she didn’t know, she was not so sure anymore.

Only a few weeks ago she had left Winterfell, excited about all the adventures waiting for her in the south. She had been looking forward to the parties, the music, the dancing and all the girls her age she would meet. But a part of her heart longed for her own bedroom, where she had dreamed countless of nights away and had written passage after passage in her diary.

A part of her heart missed her family terribly, her father, just but always right, her mother, strict but only because she loved her, her older brother Robb, who liked to tease her but also dried all her tears and her younger brothers Bran and Rickon, even though they were loud and didn’t understand a thing of the world yet. She even missed her sister Arya, who was so unlike her in every way possible and had irritated her daily.

“Are you ready, Princess Sansa?”

Sansa nodded.

Jon’s aunt was her age and absolutely beautiful. Her white hair was braided in a complicated pattern and her blue dress accentuated her curves and shape. For a long time Westeros had been certain that Jon and Daenerys would marry, just like so many Targaryens before them, to keep the blood of the dragon as pure as possible. But to everyone’s surprise, Jon’s father had reached out to Eddard Stark. And when Eddard Stark had asked his eldest daughter if she wanted to marry the future king of Westeros, she hadn’t had to think twice about it.

Right now her sudden answer seemed foolish, stupid and naive. Her father might have promised to find her a good man and he had assured Sansa that he wouldn’t have even asked her if she wanted to marry him if he had not seen for himself that Jon was such a good man. But looks and public behaviour could be deceiving. Who knew what happened behind closed doors? How Jon was towards his family and close friends? He could have been wearing a mask.

Daenerys nodded towards the guard and the giant wooden doors were opened.

The throne room was filled with people. Laughter and chatter thrummed in Sansa’s ears and it was only when a servant announced Princess Daenerys Targaryen and Princess Sansa Stark that a small path was cleared to let the two girls through.

Every pair of eyes followed the red haired beauty from the North and Sansa tried to smile even though her hands were shaking and her knees were trembling. With the tips of her fingers she lifted her skirt up to make sure she wouldn’t trip over the hem. And while everyone in the room tried to catch a glimpse of her, Sansa focussed on the young prince standing next to the throne of his father.

In a way he looked nothing like the princes she had always dreamed of. He wasn’t blond. He didn’t have blue eyes. He wasn’t tall and he didn’t look perfectly groomed. Stubbles covered his chin and cheeks and half of his long black curls was tied into a ponytail. The other half hung loosely around his face as if he hadn’t even attempted to tame them. He had his hands folded on his back and while their glances met she noticed the deep frown on his forehead.

Her heart raced in her chest and adrenaline rushed through her veins. What if Jon actually didn’t want her? What if this was his father’s idea and he was in love with someone else but just couldn’t protest? What if the frown on his forehead was because he didn’t think she was pretty or kind or worth his love and heart?

“Princess Sansa.” Jon stepped forward and he reached for her hand, lifting it up to his lips so he could kiss her knuckles. “I hope your journeys wasn’t too uncomfortable?” He looked up at her and his brown eyes met her blue ones. His hand was still holding hers and she could feel his palm sweating.

Sansa forced her smile to brighten. “How can a journey be unpleasant when it’s leading me to you?”

Jon’s lips curled up slightly. “Will you officially open this ball with me?”

Even if Sansa would have wanted to say no, that answer wasn’t an option, but she answered anyway. “Of course, my prince.”

They didn’t speak while they walked to the dance floor and Jon’s arm slid around her waist. His hold was strong, but not uncomfortable and as soon as the music started he lead her through the dance. His movements were slightly clumsy. A few times he forgot the correct steps and once the tip of his boot touched her ankle. When the music stopped again a relieved sigh escaped from his lips.

“Was it that horrible to dance with me?” Sansa bent her head while Jon lead her back to the throne where his father was seated.

He rapidly shook his head. “Of course not, my lady. I am simply not a good dancer. I am relieved we survived without too many problems. Did I hurt your ankle badly?” He looked at her and Sansa saw the sincere concern in his eyes.

She shook her head. “No, my ankle will be fine, thank you.”

There were a million more things she wanted to ask him. In a few weeks they would get officially married and yet they barely knew anything about the other.

Jon seemed polite and honest and handsome and still he was a total stranger.

“Is it possible to catch some fresh air or would the invited guests be very offended if I would leave for a short while?” Sansa almost mumbled, but Jon offered her his arm.

“I will show you the palace garden. I think all those people will understand that we would like some time apart from all of them.” He winked and Sansa felt her cheeks heating up while she fought the urge to laugh.

The wink didn’t look charming or sexy or invitingly. It looked a little clumsy and yet in a way also adorable.

Prince Jon nodded at every servant they passed. He nodded at the ones who opened doors. He nodded at the ones who stood guard. He nodded at the ones running around with trays filled with drinks or food. If this was a mask, he had mastered it perfectly and he wore it just as beautifully.

Eventually she felt the fresh air touching her cheeks and she let out a deep breath now the deafening silence was surrounding them. “I’m sorry…” She swallowed. “It’s all a little overwhelming. I’m really happy to be here, I promise.”

“I hope so.” Jon lead them to a small bench near some rose bushes. The roses were blooming, but in the moonlight their color wasn’t quite visible. “If you don’t want to marry me, I really don’t want to force you.” His shoulders dropped a little and he seemed to loosen up a little. “I know it’s hard to say no to a king, but I promise that if you do I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

Sansa looked at him. She truly looked at him and realized that the prince next to her was in a way just like her. Just a guy, with doubts and worries and wishes and dreams. “I’ve always wanted to marry a prince.”

“Did you just say yes because I’m a prince?” Jon furrowed his eyebrows. “Because I guess then I’ll end up being a disappointment. I know how to play the prince everyone wants to see, but it’s tiring. I just wanna be me. Especially around you. I hope it’s good enough.”

Sansa smiled. “Well, in the last couple of minutes I’ve seen a lot of prince like qualities in you.” She reached for his hand. His hand felt warm in hers and she bit her lip. “The way you noticed everyone, even those who were supposed to be invisible. You telling me that if I didn’t wanna marry you would make sure I didn’t have to.” She chuckled. “The fact that you really can’t wink and yet still look adorable while trying.”

“You’re the first one to call it adorable.” The hesitant smile grew a little brighter. “My sister says it looks stupid and Daenerys says I’ll never get a girl if I don’t learn how to wink properly.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “You’re Jon Targaryen, prince of Westeros, you don’t have to be afraid of never getting a girl.”

“There was only one I set my mind on.” Jon turned away from her. “I never talked to her, but I saw her long ago when we were just children. She was reading and trying to tell her little sister all about the story, even though said little sister hated everything about it, or pretended to hate it at least.” Jon paused for a moment. “And she was beautiful, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. And from what I heard, she was intelligent too, even though she tried to hide it.” He licked his lips and he locked his glance with hers again. “I’m glad she said yes when I asked her.”

“Me?” Sansa shook her head. “You’re talking about me? When did we meet?”

“You were only eight and I was visiting Winterfell.”

“I would have remembered that!” Sansa raised her voice. “How could I forget a visit from the king and a prince?”

Jon shrugged. “We didn’t visit as the king and a prince. We just visited as a husband and a son, wanting to see the grave of their wife and mother. We didn’t stay long, but Robb caught me staring at you. He told me everything about you.”

“And you didn’t fall out of love with me?” Sansa blinked a few times.

“On the contrary. He told a lot of good things about you, Sansa. If I hadn’t fallen for you already while watching you, I would have done so after hearing him talk about you.”

A warmth spread through her entire body. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”

“That’s okay.” Jon smiled and he shove a little closer towards her. “You said yes when it truly mattered. I know it’s a lot.” He sighed. “Court life isn’t always fun. Sometimes it’s hard and people are always looking and I know we’re still strangers.” He sighed. “But maybe this life won’t be that bad when I can share it with you.”

Sansa smiled and she softly and carefully pecked his stubbled cheek. “I can’t wait to get to know you better until you’re no longer a stranger.” Sansa leaned back. “And I hope that I won’t end up being a disappointment after all those years you must have dreamed of a far better version of me than I can ever be.”

Jon shook his head. “You might be different from the girl I imagined, but only better. I can’t wait to become your friend and much more.”

“Well, I think you’re well on your way already.”

#jonsaweek #jonsa #jon snow #Sansa Stark #game of thrones #got #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #sansa stark fanfiction #jon snow fanfiction #jonsa fanfiction #day 7: Royalty #better late than never

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years

Note

1 So, based on your latest posts, and because you take the time to explore things that have been on my mind lately: 1 Jon-Sansa reunion is foreshadowed in Jamie-Cersei meeting at the Sept over dead Tywin and Jamie's dream of his mother. 2. T-S wedding not annulled, T will press his claim. Horrible suspicion: Sansa forgot her bedding and her PoV is completely blurred. Her next PoV is when she escapes and she thinks she should tell T about her moodblood!

2 T never once denies that he bedded her. He thinks "I am not bedded" once but that's because he wants to be chosen and S doesn't want him. He did what Tywin wanted "bed her once". He'll probably press his claim to WF based on that. In Catelyn's chapter Robb says he'll take his head off for what he did. This foreshadow comes also in Ts chapters in ADWD. Please explore Ts chapters more! Nice catch the whore-wife thing!

Oh hi, anon!

OMG, you make an excellent point! I think that GRRM planned something quite like this with the 5-year-gap he ended up having to scrap. Now it makes sense! I’ll put in some quotes below that show the hints.

It might still happen now. Obviously, not involving the actual wedding night, but as a “completely blurred” experience that involves Sansa (and probably Tyrion) at a point in the future. A point where Tyrion doesn’t care about being nice anymore. But for now, let’s look at what might have been.

Here’s where the hints come in after their wedding in ASOS:

For their wedding night, they had been granted the use of an airy bedchamber high in the Tower of the Hand. Tyrion kicked the door shut behind them. “There is a flagon of good Arbor gold on the sideboard, Sansa. Will you be so kind as to pour me a cup?” “Is that wise, my lord?” “Nothing was ever wiser. I am not truly drunk, you see. But I mean to be.” Sansa filled a goblet for each of them. It will be easier if I am drunk as well. She sat on the edge of the great curtained bed and drained half her cup in three long swallows. No doubt it was very fine wine, but she was too nervous to taste it. It made her head swim.

They both drink a wine that Tyrion has provided for them. Arbor Gold, he says. A different chapter with Shae suggests something else.

“We should go back,” he said reluctantly. “It must be near dawn. Sansa will be waking.” “You should give her dreamwine,” Shae said, “like Lady Tanda does with Lollys. A cup before she goes to sleep, and we could fuck in bed beside her without her waking.” She giggled. “Maybe we should, some night. Would m’lord like that?” Her hand found his shoulder, and began to knead the muscles there. “Your neck is hard as stone. What troubles you?”

Tyrion could not see his fingers in front of his face, but he ticked his woes off on them all the same. “My wife. (…) He had come to his last finger. “The face that stares back out of the water when I wash.”(ASOS, Tyrion)

She mentions the dreamwine and he gets tense as a stone, the thought of his wife troubles him and he can’t stand the look of his own face. Hmmm… (That last one is also a Tysha hint, but I digress.)

The pivotal moment at the wedding night:

She climbed onto the featherbed, conscious of his stare. A scented beeswax candle burned on the bedside table and rose petals had been strewn between the sheets. She had started to pull up a blanket to cover herself when she heard him say, “No.”

The cold made her shiver, but she obeyed. Her eyes closed, and she waited. After a moment she heard the sound of her husband pulling off his boots, and the rustle of clothing as he undressed himself. When he hopped up on the bed and put his hand on her breast, Sansa could not help but shudder. She lay with her eyes closed, every muscle tense, dreading what might come next. Would he touch her again? Kiss her? Should she open her legs for him now? She did not know what was expected of her.

“Sansa.” The hand was gone. “Open your eyes.” She had promised to obey; she opened her eyes. He was sitting by her feet, naked. Where his legs joined, his man’s staff poked up stiff and hard from a thicket of coarse yellow hair, but it was the only thing about him that was straight. “My lady,” Tyrion said, “you are lovely, make no mistake, but … I cannot do this. My father be damned. We will wait. The turn of a moon, a year, a season, however long it takes. Until you have come to know me better, and perhaps to trust me a little.” His smile might have been meant to be reassuring, but without a nose it only made him look more grotesque and sinister. (ASOS, Sansa)

This feels rewritten, doesn’t it? The sudden break, the sudden reprieve. It could just be Tyrion’s creeping conscience making him change his mind. Or it could be Sansa’s mind rewriting the moment. As the series stands now, it can be both. But this issue between them is so heavily referenced that it will have to come up again in the future, one way or the other. It was always meant to be important.

This is at the end of the wedding night chapter:

“On my honor as a Lannister,” the Imp said, “I will not touch you until you want me to.” It took all the courage that was in her to look in those mismatched eyes and say, “And if I never want you to, my lord?” His mouth jerked as if she had slapped him. “Never?” Her neck was so tight she could scarcely nod. “Why,” he said, “that is why the gods made whores for imps like me.” He closed his short blunt fingers into a fist, and climbed down off the bed. (ASOS, Sansa)

That’s some violent imagery for a kindly refusal to rape her, isn’t it? We all know what Lannister honor is worth (a bucket of…) and we see that Tyrion does feel entitled to her, or he wouldn’t react with dismay at her suggestion that she may never want him.

The chapter is followed by an Arya chapter describing Stoney Sept, the Battle of the Bells, and this comes up quickly:

More recent battles had been fought here as well, Arya thought from the look of the place. The town gates were made of raw new wood; outside the walls a pile of charred planks remained to tell what had happened to the old ones.

(…)

“When the westermen came through they raped the Huntsman’s wife and sister, put his crops to the torch, ate half his sheep, and killed the other half for spite. Killed six dogs too, and threw the carcasses down his well. A chewed-up corpse would be plenty good enough for him, I’d say. Me as well.” (ASOS, Arya)

Tyrion used that ugly “smash your portcullis” metaphor just in the chapter before. That’s not subtle.

Let’s look at two angles at Sansa’s POV, keeping in mind the dreamwine. One of the biggest hints that something bad happened (or will happen) to Sansa is in a TWOW sample chapter, “Mercy”. Arya will be “raped” by a dwarf on stage, in a play that’s about the Purple Wedding. Mercy is likely to play Sansa’s character.

She had fastened the shutters back so the morning sun might wake her. But there was no sun outside the window of Mercy's little room, only a wall of shifting grey fog. The air had grown chilly... and a good thing, else she might have slept all day. It would be just like Mercy to sleep through her own rape. Gooseprickles covered her legs. Her coverlet had twisted around her like a snake. She unwound it, threw the blanket to the bare plank floor and padded naked to the window. Braavos was lost in fog. (TWOW, Mercy)

The Tyrion chapter with Shae and the dreamwine is followed directly by a Sansa chapter that opens thusly:

She threw back the coverlets. I must be brave. Her torments would soon be ended, one way or the other. If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are dead but me. She was alone in the world now.

Her lord husband was not beside her, but she was used to that. (ASOS, Sansa)

If only dreaming could make everyone safe and warm.

So, why would this have happened? Because Jesus-Jon Snow Needs a Virgin Mother Mary Magdalene.

Like many other female characters, Sansa is surrounded by biblical Mary imagery. “Lys”, in fact, is French for “lily”, the virginal flower that represents the Virgin Mary and, as a city name in Essos, the den of high-end prostitutes. Look for “lys”, it’s everywhere. Madonna-Whore is one of the biggest themes in the books, right next to the light and dark messiah represented by Dany and Jon. Sansa is currently still heavy on the “Maiden” aspect, but that was going to change. But with a twist. Mary is, after all, a virgin mother.

A woman who doesn’t remember having been raped is still a virgin, yes?

Starting in Sansa’s “sweet dream” chapter, we get a barrage of pregnancy and bastard allusions all through Sansa’s arrival at the Fingers, along with lots of food symbolism. She has a fluttery “tummy”, she can’t eat. After her Escape, she arrives by ship nauseated and is offered fruit by Littlefinger. She rejects the pomegranate, i.e. marriage to Hades, she rejects the blood orange, i.e. wrathful revenge, but she chooses the pear, i.e. the virgin Mary AND child.

So, Virgin Mary and the bastard child. Or, as the world would call her: the whore.

More hints with Lysa:

As Sansa stepped back, Lady Lysa caught her wrist. “Now tell me,” she said sharply. “Are you with child? The truth now, I will know if you lie.” “No,” she said, startled by the question. “You are a woman flowered, are you not?” “Yes.” Sansa knew the truth of her flowering could not be long hidden in the Eyrie. “Tyrion didn’t … he never …” She could feel the blush creeping up her cheeks. “I am still a maid.” “Was the dwarf incapable?” “No. He was only … he was …” Kind? She could not say that, not here, not to this aunt who hated him so. “He … he had whores, my lady. He told me so.”

So Tyrion “had” a whore. And Sansa has repressed the memory, making her a maiden in her own mind. But a maiden with child.

Littlefinger would have loved it, apparently.

I always anticipated that she would beggar the realm and destroy herself, but I never expected she would do it quite so fast. It is quite vexing. I had hoped to have four or five quiet years to plant some seeds and allow some fruits to ripen, but now … it is a good thing that I thrive on chaos. (AFFC, Alayne)

Thanks for the self-insert, GRRM.

There are plenty of allusions in all the chapters to rape, protective walls (around people’s hearts) and Jon, in particular, climbing walls, pregnancy, childbirth, Trauma, etc etc etc.

Tyrion’s first chapter after their wedding opens like this:

Nothing remained beyond the King’s Gate but mud and ashes and bits of burned bone, yet already there were people living in the shadow of the city walls, and others selling fish from barrows and barrels. (ASOS, Tyrion)

To make it short: “Wall” is a code for Sansa. There are people living in the shadow of the wall after a gate was destroyed. Hmm.

His marriage was a daily agony. Sansa Stark remained a maiden, and half the castle seemed to know it. When they had saddled up this morning, he’d heard two of the stableboys sniggering behind his back. He could almost imagine that the horses were sniggering as well. He’d risked his skin to avoid the bedding ritual, hoping to preserve the privacy of his bedchamber, but that hope had been dashed quick enough. Either Sansa had been stupid enough to confide in one of her bedmaids, every one of whom was a spy for Cersei, or Varys and his little birds were to blame. (ASOS, Tyrion)

This is the only snag in the theory. Tyrion corroborates Sansa’s version of events. Or so it seems. Maybe Tyrion also misremembers. Which fits with his Tysha repression. There not being a “bloody sheet” is a mystery, though, for another day. There’s a Tyrion scene with Shae in AGOT or ACOK where he, ahem, barely manages to “storm the castle” before he finishes. It may have played like that. If it did. We don’t know.

It doesn’t matter now. But anyway.

Another hint when Catelyn arrives at the Twins for the Red Wedding, describing Lord Walder Frey:

His chair was black oak, its back carved into the semblance of two stout towers joined by an arched bridge, so massive that its embrace turned the old man into a grotesque child. There was something of the vulture about Lord Walder, and rather more of the weasel. His bald head, spotted with age, thrust out from his scrawny shoulders on a long pink neck. Loose skin dangled beneath his receding chin, his eyes were runny and clouded, and his toothless mouth moved constantly, sucking at the empty air as a babe sucks at his mother’s breast. (ASOS, Catelyn)

My suspicion on what would have eventually happened to that bastard:

What does he want me to say? “That is good to know, my lord.” He wanted something from her, but Sansa did not know what it was. He looks like a starving child, but I have no food to give him. Why won’t he leave me be? Tyrion rubbed at his scarred, scabby nose yet again, an ugly habit that drew the eye to his ugly face. “You have never asked me how Robb died, or your lady mother.” “I … would sooner not know. It would give me bad dreams.” “Then I will say no more.” “That … that’s kind of you.” “Oh, yes,” said Tyrion. “I am the very soul of kindness. And I know about bad dreams.” (ASOS, Sansa)

Children starving in the winter is something we heard from Old Nan.

“The Others,” Old Nan agreed. “Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks.” Her voice and her needles fell silent, and she glanced up at Bran with pale, filmy eyes and asked, “So, child. This is the sort of story you like?”

I’m not sure if this would have happened, but there is plenty of precedence of decent young mothers suffering horribly: Helaena Targaryen, Elia Martell, countless unnamed civilians, even Gilly and her two rabbits that Ghost killed.

At this point, of course, it doesn’t matter because it happened differently. Since GRRM had to scrap the 5-year-gap for being unworkable, this plan had to change. Sansa has been in the Vale for way long enough to be certain that pregnancy, at least, is not a factor. This theoretical Lannister baby is a scrap in the bin.

Whether he will pick up this thread directly (by possibly even repeating it when the un-annulled marriage becomes a factor again) or transfer some of this onto Sansa’s storyline by another character, Sansa remains officially a maiden and will most probably become pregnant at some point in a way that recalls the Virgin Mary. It may straight up be Jon’s baby at this point, what with the time constraints. Not remembering is certaintly something that will come up between them. Or it may have either an uncertain or a more sinister “source”.

It’s going to be interesting!

Either way, thank you so much for the ask, it really inspired me!

#asoiaf speculation #asoiaf #sansa stark #Tyrion Lannister #rape #asks #my posts

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orangeflavoryawp · 4 years

Text

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 4

Thanks for your patience, guys. Been dealing with Real Life Bullshit and it’s not been fun. But this piece has been my refuge. Hope you guys feel the same. :)

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Four: The Downfall

“Ours, she’d promised. But it’s getting harder and harder to see the Stark behind all that Targaryen. (And maybe this is her own fault. Maybe this is her thinking too well of people again. Maybe this is what all naïve, self-righteous girls get for their wanting hearts.)” - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

“And who will your brother be squiring for?” Aegon asks Sansa from across the table.

She sets her wine glass down, smiling gratefully at his interest. “My father has not yet found a position for him.”

“Not yet?” Daenerys asks coolly, cutting into her ham. “Your wedding is in a fortnight. Your family is to return North shortly after, yes?”

Sansa sags with the remembrance. “Yes.”

“Then arrangements should be made rather quickly, don’t you think?”

Sansa nods stiffly, looking down to her plate. “I’m sure my father is looking into it.”

She’s grown used to these dinners with her future husband and siblings. Sometimes King Rhaegar joins them. Sometimes her father or brothers. Sometimes she takes her dinners back in the guest wing, with just the Starks and Theon and Margaery. There’s much more laughter then. Her smiles come more freely. And she does not miss the way Robb and Margaery glance at each other across the table.

Sansa smiles to herself at the recollection. She cannot blame her brother. Margaery is wicked charming, after all, and even Theon has warmed up to her, grudgingly admitting to Sansa once during their stroll through the gardens that Robb could hardly find better and Sansa had swatted his arm good-naturedly for the low compliment before Theon was laughing at her, surrendering, granting his reluctant admiration for the lady. Sansa had beamed.

She wonders if it’s too soon to hope for a sister, rather than a friend, in Margaery.

The thought reminds her suddenly – “Lady Margaery recommended Bran squire for her brother Ser Loras. He is a rather renowned knight, after all. And Margaery’s word gives me hope that the Tyrells would be in favor of such an arrangement.”

Rhaenys scoffs softly across from her.

Sansa swings her gaze over to the princess, catching the way Jon reaches for his wine glass beside her. “Is there something strange about it, Lady Rhaenys?” She cannot help the soft bite that echoes after the words. She still remembers how the other woman had humbled her at tea several days past, the memory unpleasantly sharp and vibrant.

Sansa clenches her jaw.

Ice, she tells herself, breathing deep.

“That woman will sink her claws into anything once she gets a whiff of power,” Rhaenys says.

Sansa’s brows furrow. “Lady Margaery?”

Rhaenys takes a bite of her buttered turnips. “The very one.”

“I don’t see how – ”

“Tell me, Lady Sansa, does your brother Robb take kindly to her?” Rhaenys offers a close-lipped smile, chewing carefully.

Sansa bristles at the insinuation.

“Come, Rhaenys,” Aegon interrupts, “You’re being rude to our guest.”

“I’m only giving her fair warning,” Rhaenys says, spearing another vegetable with her fork. “Lady Margaery wanted you first, brother, and when she couldn’t have that, she went for Jon – ”

“Rhaenys,” Jon warns lowly, and it’s the first Sansa has heard him speak all night.

“ – and when that didn’t happen, she went for the next best thing: the heir to Winterfell.” She takes a vicious bite of her food.

Daenerys reaches for her wine glass, an amused smirk at her lips. “You’re simply mad that Mace Tyrell has offered his son Willas for your hand.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” she snaps. “Bunch of vultures, the whole lot of them.”

“Lady Margaery has been nothing but sweet and considerate towards my family and I, and I don’t think it right to besmirch a lady based on assumptions,” Sansa gets out breathlessly, hardly believing the words have left her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Jon’s fingers twitch over the stem of his wineglass, drawing it toward his perpetual frown.

Her cheeks heat instantly, fingers tightening over the cutlery in her hands.

“And you’re absolutely right, my lady,” Aegon agrees gently, sending a warm smile her way. He glances to Rhaenys then, a flicker of warning to his violet gaze.

The subtle shift is somewhat jarring, even if his agreement has tempered her bout of sudden vexation.

Rhaenys sends a baleful look toward her brother but doesn’t argue further.

Beside her, Jon shifts in his seat, setting his glass back to the table. Sansa feels acutely aware of every minute movement he makes, anxiety from this maddening silence of his rooting her to her seat.

She’s tried accompanying him in the library, sharing the quiet with him as they each devour their chosen books in turn, hoping to draw some sort of conversation out of him regarding his reading, and yet he offers little more than acknowledging grunts at her attempts. She’s tried sharing stories from home, enlightening him about the North, and Rickon and Arya back at Winterfell, the godswood, the crypts, the hot springs, but he hardly even meets her eyes let alone grants her any seeming interest in her tales. They’ve been riding, they’ve walked the gardens, they’ve shared a meal nearly every evening for the last fortnight she’s been in King’s Landing, and still, he is no more known to her than the first night he swung her about the dancefloor and slated her honest questions with quiet anger.

She’s never been spurned so. It smarts, she finds – when she’s brave enough to admit to it.

“Rhaenys is right though, you know,” Daenerys says over the rim of her wineglass. “In some respects,” she finishes.

Aegon gives a decidedly unprincely eye-roll and throws a smirk Daenerys’ way. “Seven, but you do love to disagree with me, don’t you, wife?” Even as an urge for caution, there’s a fondness to his words that startles Sansa somewhat, the quiet intimacy of it warming her with embarrassment at being present for the exchange.

Daenerys lifts a brow at Aegon, setting her wine glass down. “I’m not disagreeing either way. But you have to admit that the woman certainly isn’t letting the opportunity pass her by.”

Sansa frowns, eyes drifting down to her plate. She stares resolutely at her half-eaten ham, taking a deep, calming breath. Her eyes prick with a stinging wetness she hates.

She does not want to think that her time with Margaery has been disingenuous. It is too cruel a thing to consider.

Sansa curls her hands tightly along her fork and knife, hovering at the edge of her plate, blinking back the wetness.

Maybe she thinks too well of people. Arya’s berated her for it before. Robb’s consoled her because of it, as well. It hurts her more than it helps her, she finds.

But she’d rather think too well of people than too ill of them.

Sansa glances up fleetingly at Rhaenys.

(No, if thinking too ill of people likens her to Rhaenys Targaryen’s sort, then she doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want it at all.)

She can’t have imagined the hidden quirk of Margaery’s lip when Robb had kissed her hand for the first time in greeting, eyes alight on hers as he bent into a courteous bow, and she’d thought Sansa wasn’t looking. Or the unhindered laugh she’d let loose, hand clamped suddenly over her mouth, when Bran tried to tell the story of how he caught Theon kissing Jeyne Poole in the kitchen pantry before Theon nearly vaulted over the dinner table to stop him. Or the way her face had gone slack with tender disbelief when she’d taken the hand-sewn silk handkerchief Sansa had offered her just the other day, beaming proudly as Margaery fingered the edges with a fond reverence.

There are many shadows in the Red Keep, but some things Sansa still sees clearly.

She swallows thickly, straightening in her seat, missing the way Jon watches her with muted, grey eyes.

“And is this the norm in the capital? This rank suspicion? Is it not tiring to always assume a second layer of meaning to what people say and do?” she asks. It’s a barb, of course, a frank observation, but there is also a genuine need to the question. She clamps her mouth closed at the tail end of the words, feeling suddenly small and naïve and childish. But even still –

Surely it can’t be all shadows in such a sunlit place.

Daenerys and Rhaenys offer piqued brows at the question while Aegon graces her with a consolatory smile. Beside her, Jon smothers a rueful chuckle into his wine glass. Sansa nearly glares at him, but reins the instinct in, cutting into her ham instead, perhaps a touch too forcefully.

“You’ve a kind heart, Lady Sansa,” Aegon says, leaning back in his seat as he watches her. “Be careful with. It seems too beautiful a thing to break.” His violet gaze is steady, candle-lit and searing.

Sansa swallows thickly at the look, setting her cutlery to her plate. Daenerys takes a large swig of wine across from her, eyes averted. Jon sets his glass down loudly, a gruff exhale leaving him. Sansa nearly startles at the noise.

“Your brother would do well under Ser Loras,” he says to her suddenly, voice low and tight, a gravelly quality to the words – the most he’s said to her in days.

Sansa blinks at him, only to find him watching Aegon intensely.

Aegon hardly notices, having returned to his plate with a gingerly swipe of his knife into his meat.

Sansa opens her mouth, closes it, finds her voice finally. “Thank you, my lord.”

Jon grunts his acknowledgement, dragging his wine glass back to his mouth.

“What about Jaime Lannister?”

Sansa looks up at Daenerys’ question. “My lady?”

The Targaryen heiress settles back in her seat, her finished plate abandoned atop the table. “I daresay your brother wouldn’t find a better knight to squire for, and a Kingsguard at that. I’m certain Rhaegar would approve the arrangement.”

Sansa does not miss the way Jon stiffens beside her, but it’s Aegon who responds.

“Yes, that makes perfect sense,” he drawls dismissively. “Let the Stark boy squire for the man who killed their father’s dear friend and helped end his people’s uprising.”

Sansa startles at the blatant way Aegon says it, her mouth parting, her gaze fixing to him. Something brews in her chest – something Northern. Something winter-hewn.

Jon leans his weight to one armrest, scowling at his brother. “Robert Baratheon got what he deserved,” he snarls. “If only Stannis had shared such a fate.” The words are too full of bite to truly be called a lament.

That incessant winter, tugging at her veins – it batters around her chest now.

“And Ned Stark took a knee for it,” Daenerys muses, “So the North may live on.” She scowls softly at her husband. “I see no reason to dismiss the suggestion. Ser Jaime squired under Ser Arthur Dayne, after all. Any lord would be overcome to have their son squire for such a knight.”

Sansa watches as Rhaenys goes stiff with the mention of Arthur Dayne. Jon lets out a near growl into his slowly emptying wine glass. Sansa’s skin feels tight, uncomfortable, her eyes blinking furiously, lungs clenching in her chest.

To speak so casually about her people’s independence, their failed rebellion – Sansa finds the words tart and smarting along her tongue.

Robert Baratheon got what he deserved. And Ned Stark took a knee for it.

Sansa’s chest heaves, her cutlery clattering to her plate.

Jon glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry, but I…” She trails off, eyes fixed to her plate.

Aegon leans toward her, a concerned look on his face. “Lady Sansa?”

Jon takes a long gulp of wine.

Sansa steals a breath through her nose, hands going to her lap. “Robert Baratheon may be a traitor to the crown but he was – ” The words stall in her throat, thick with unspoken meaning.

He was her father’s brother, in truth, as much as Uncle Benjen ever was. As much as Uncle Brandon, too.

Her hands curl into fists atop her lap.

“You’re not about to defend him, are you?” Jon asks quietly beside her, still as the grave, eyes dark, even by candlelight.

Sansa glances up at him, mouth parted.

Daenerys trails a slender finger slowly up and down the stem of her wine glass as it rests atop the table. “Careful, Jon,” she says, eyes glinting, “Your soon-to-be wife seems to have wavering allegiances.”

The panic is instant, throat closing around spent air. “I’m not – ”

“The Baratheons are a gutless sort,” Jon sneers. “No honor amongst them.”

Rhaenys is uncharacteristically silent, dragging her fork across her plate almost disinterestedly. But Sansa hardly has a mind to notice. She’s too overcome with a new, threatening ire. “And thus my father, by association?” she asks on as ladylike a scoff as she can manage, teeth rattling behind her heated exhale.

Jon narrows his eyes at her. “That’s not what I said.”

“You may as well have,” she argues, chest heaving.

Jon rolls his eyes, but he’s turning in his seat, facing her now, the brunt of his attention fully trained on her. She shifts to face him in return.

“Lord Stark knelt to save his people, aye, but only when the rebellion was truly lost. That hardly fosters good faith, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say burning your lordships alive hardly fosters good faith,” she quips back instantly, brows furrowed sharply, tongue smarting with her indignation.

Daenerys smothers her amused laugh into the rim of her wine glass. Aegon intones his wife’s name warningly, stiff and unblinking. Sansa’s eyes prick with a heated wetness, frustrated and helpless. She keeps her gaze fixed to Jon.

He blinks at her, mouth curling into an aggravatingly familiar smirk. “Citing past grievances won’t help you now, my lady. This is a new era – a new dawn. Our father is a fair ruler, but you can be sure, he will not tolerate treason.”

Sansa smarts at the admonition. “’Past grievances’?” she asks incredulously. “The mad king murdered my grandfather and uncle in open court,” she hisses, voice rising. “Your grandfather and uncle,” she reminds him, the accusation as much a plead as it is a damnation. She blinks furiously at him, the anger rising easily.

Jon swallows tightly, eyeing her with a searing gaze.

“There is no excuse for what our grandfather did,” Aegon says suddenly, voice low and practiced. “No one denies that such an act was atrocious, and certainly un-kingly of him.”

Sansa does not even spare the prince a glance, her eyes still fixed to Jon. He stares resolutely back at her. Neither seems able to relent.

“But you’re looking for villains now where there are only men,” Aegon finishes, and this does draw Sansa’s attention finally. She stares at him, mouth a thin line, hands curling tightly together over her lap.

She hears Jon’s scoff beside her, catches him in the corner of her eye, dragging his wine glass back to his mouth. She swings her hardened gaze back to him instantly. “And I suppose ‘villains’ are all you see when you look at Starks and Baratheons, my lord?” she prompts, voice hard, lip curling into a sneer.

Jon does not wilt beneath her gaze. “I stand by what I said,” he says lowly.

“Am I to assume honor and brotherhood mean nothing to you?”

“Am I to assume fealty means nothing to you?”

Sansa huffs, an incredulous breath drawn through her rattling lungs. “My father is a good, faithful lord.”

“No one is denying it. I’m simply warning you, in hopes that it stays such.”

She feels her nails digging half-moons into her palms. That splinter is back – but oh, how it digs. A stinging reminder beneath her skin.

She wants to claw it out, now.

A seething cold settles over her. “Then tell me you would have done differently,” she gets out in a low voice.

Jon’s gaze shifts between her eyes, brows drawn down in a confused furrow.

Sansa licks her lips, breath raking from her. “If it had been your father and brother murdered so, tell me you would have done differently,” she challenges.

The silence is deafening – a sundering weight between them.

Sansa catches, just barely, the flicker that passes over Jon’s face when the words leave her, before it’s shuttered away, a dark look overtaking him. She watches as he leans back from her, arms going slowly to his armrests, never taking his gaze from hers.

It’s static between them, frenzied air, a heavy draw in her lungs.

She can feel the hammering of her own heartbeat at her ears and wonders – frantically – if he can hear it, too.

She drags her gaze away eventually, eyes fixed to her hands. It seems terribly unfair, this frustration he brews in her.

Because he is so agonizingly still, even now.

She wants to shake him for it, wants to rattle this silence clean out of him, bring back the disparaging remarks, the heated admonishment. But her pride still smarts. And she won’t admit to the hidden, spiteful part of her that revels in being able to reduce him to such silence. So, she sits, and she breathes, and she tries to steady her thunderous heart. She takes his quiet, searing stare as a notion of victory, even when it tastes like chalk on her tongue. Even when the triumph languishes beneath her wounded Northern pride.

Someone clears their throat across the table and Sansa finally glances up, catching Aegon’s violet gaze. It’s closed off, giving nothing away, his mouth a thin line, one slender, poised hand stilled over his wineglass. “Lady Sansa, I would advise you to abandon the topic.” His fingers glide around the rim, slow and measured, and the motion is startlingly lulling to watch. “I do not wish to ruin dinner any further.” He offers a light quirk of his lip. The expression lights a strange mix of comfort and forewarning, and Sansa’s gut clenches, remembering herself suddenly.

“Of course, my lord. I apologize,” she answers, shifting slightly in her seat, decidedly away from Jon, reaching for her own glass and taking a distracting gulp.

Daenerys chuckles ruefully. “All this because of a squire?”

At her side, Jon grunts his displeasure at his aunt’s remark.

Daenerys sighs dramatically, ignoring him. “I still say Jaime Lannister.”

“Gods, Daenerys,” Rhaenys snaps, “You have absolutely no tact, do you?” Sansa finds she is as eager for the princess’ silence as Rhaenys seems to be, though she finds the comment rather hypocritical herself.

But Daenerys only gives the other woman a piqued brow in response. “Training under Ser Arthur Dayne is no common feat, after all. You of all people know the value of that,” she intones meaningfully.

Rhaenys glares at her, jaw quivering.

Jon throws his napkin to the table.

“I beg pardon, but I think perhaps…perhaps it’s time I excused myself,” Sansa says suddenly, drawing her napkin from her lap as well and setting it primly atop the table.

Aegon notes her half-eaten plate with a raised brow. “You’ve barely finished, my lady.” The words are not unkind.

Sansa’s gut churns regardless. “I’ve no appetite tonight, it seems,” she says in apology, looking to him with almost pleading eyes.

Almost, but not quite.

(She will not plead for such a low thing – to be excused from the table like a child.)

“Of course,” Aegon says, nodding to her.

She stands swiftly, hands smoothing her skirts over as she offers her farewells, before she retreats from the room as quickly as she can.

She’s partly through the door when she hears the scrape of a chair behind her, and Rhaenys’ startled “Jon!” before her heart slams up into her ribcage and she’s stalking as fast as she can through the corridor without breaking into a dead run, her hands bunched in her skirts, her chest heaving, eyes stinging with humiliation and ire.

“Lady Sansa.”

She comes to a halt in the torchlit corridor, her back to Jon. “Please,” she says, hating the way the word falters, a quake of air past her lips.

He says nothing behind her at her heavy exhale, says nothing as her hands fist in her skirts. The line of her shoulders is a trembling, vulnerable thing. She swallows, tongue heavy, words rasping as they leave her. “Please, just…let me go, my lord.”

Still, he says nothing. And Sansa hasn’t the patience to turn to him, to humor whatever argument or censure he wishes to sling at her.

Ours, she’d promised. But it’s getting harder and harder to see the Stark behind all that Targaryen.

(And maybe this is her own fault. Maybe this is her thinking too well of people again.

Maybe this is what all naïve, self-righteous girls get for their wanting hearts.)

After many moments, she finds he still has no answer for her but silence. Not even the rustle of his leathers, or the familiar expel of his aggravated breath.

She doesn’t wait around for him to change his mind. She stalks from him, never looking back.

She feels the weight of his stare all the way down the corridor, even still.

* * *

“Come on, Stark, you’ve got better than that, don’t you?”

It’s the cocky way the words are spoken that catches Jon’s ear when he makes it to the end of the opening hallway, turning past a column where the courtyard opens out.

“Any better and you’ll be wiping that mouth off the ground,” Robb taunts back, barking a laugh. A clattering, steely sound follows. Jon rounds the bend into the training yard, looking out in time to see Theon parrying a blow from Robb.

Jon stops to watch the spar. Robb is clearly more disciplined in his training, but Theon is agile, swift. They’re a fair match for a time, but Jon can tell Robb’s endurance will win out. There’s no wasted energy, no move without purpose. Robb conserves himself, doesn’t move without purpose, no mind for theatrics or flashy tricks. There’s a single-minded determination to his motions, his face pensive even in the midst of the fight. He is thinking three moves ahead already, Jon can tell.

A smirk streaks across the Stark’s face.

It is not the pleasure of the spar itself, but the inevitable victory.

Jon watches as Robb delivers the final blow, bashing Theon into the ground, his back hitting the dirt, Robb’s sparring sword stopped just at Theon’s throat, a gleam in his eye when the Greyjoy curses his loss.

Robb steps back, smirk spreading into a full-on grin, reaching a hand out to help Theon up.

Jon blinks at the motion, at the way Theon grunts in reluctance as he takes his hand, even as his own grin is tugging surreptitiously at his lips. He thinks of his own spars with Aegon, the heated fervency of them, the deadlocked resolve. There are never laughs, never out-stretched hands in the wake of victory.

You pick your own self up out of the dirt, Jon reminds himself.

“You were saying?” Robb taunts him.

“Oh shut it, Stark. No one likes a boastful ass.”

Jon’s brows dart into his hairline with his surprise. The heir to Winterfell lets a Greyjoy speak to him thus?

Robb’s laugh fills the courtyard and Theon punches at his shoulder half-heartedly. Robb only laughs louder.

“I’d heed your own words if I were you, Theon,” someone says from across the yard, a feminine giggle lighting the end of the words, and Jon swings curious eyes to the other side of the courtyard, catching along Lady Sansa watching from beneath the veranda. She stands arm in arm with Margaery, the Tyrell lady smothering a laugh with her palm. Sansa arches a challenging brow to Theon, her lips quirked up into a fond smirk. The expression is unguarded, affectionate even in its taunting. Jon’s jaw clenches at the look, chest tightening without warning.

He’s never seen such an expression on her face before – certainly never directed at him.

He thinks back to the other night when they’d argued about Northern fealty and Baratheon treason. The remembrance brings a sourness to his tongue. If only she knew, if only she –

But she doesn’t know. And how could he expect her to?

Seven years ago, when Stannis had –

Jon stops that train of thought, burying the memory instantly, hands clenching into fists at his side.

“You wound me, Lady Sansa,” Theon says dramatically, drawing Jon’s attention back with a hand braced at his chest in mock offense. “You know I mean everything I say.”

“And that’s the problem,” she says back, laughing.

Theon offers her a roguish grin. Jon curls his lip at the sight. “You think I can’t beat your brother? Have you no faith in me?”

“A very little,” she says teasingly. Margaery shakes her head beside her, clearly entertained by the banter.

Theon hoists his sparring sword to rest along his shoulder, chest puffing out at the challenge, but when he turns to face Robb once more, he catches sight of Jon at the edge of the courtyard, their eyes meeting on a halted breath. His grin falls instantly, replaced by a tight-lipped frown, very near a sneer if Jon thinks too long about it. But the Greyjoy seems to have just enough deference not to keep the expression long, straightening, a short bow of his head accompanying his greeting. “My lord,” he says stiffly, all hint of his earlier amusement bled out from his voice.

Robb turns at the address, finding Jon easily, bowing himself with a similar greeting. When Jon finally drags his eyes back to Sansa, she purses her lips, curtseying politely, eyes falling to the floor. Margaery settles a hand along her arm at her side.

Her clear disinterest rankles him, nostrils flaring beneath his heavy breath. “Do continue,” he says to the men, turning back to them. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Robb seems about to say something, before he thinks better of it, tapping his sparring sword in the dirt in apparent contemplation. It’s Theon that speaks then.

“Join us, my lord.”

Sansa’s head snaps up at the words.

Jon raises a brow at the offer. Robb glances to Theon, a cautionary look to his features. But Theon ignores Robb, chin hitching high, lips settling into a self-satisfied smirk. “That is, if your lordship would deem to cross swords with a Stark.”

“You’re not a Stark,” he says without bite, only bluntness, but he sees the way the words strike him regardless.

Theon’s face goes dark, lips twitching, the hand at his sword tightening over the hilt.

It puzzles him, how Theon Greyjoy could take such offense. Is it such a grand thing, to be a Stark? Does it mean so much?

His chest constricts at the thought. It used to mean much. He can hardly recall the feeling now, though. But even still…

A Greyjoy.

Jon finds himself sneering at the other man.

“I’m sure Robb could accommodate that,” Margaery calls out from her place beside Sansa. The other woman turns to her, eyes wide, clutching at her arm.

She only shrugs a shoulder, an impish grin to her features. “Though I daresay it should be rather hard for our dear Lady Sansa to choose who to pledge her favor to,” she says slyly, grin turning devilish.

“Margaery,” Sansa hisses beneath her breath.

Jon is already stalking forward, unlacing his leather jerkin, possessed of something he hasn’t a name for. Sansa swings wide eyes back at him, catching the way he’s staring at her all the while, shrugging out of his jerkin to just his cotton tunic beneath. She swallows thickly, mouth parting as her breath hitches. He doesn’t admit to the rush that overtakes him then.

So she isn’t so unaffected by him, is she?

“I think a spar is an excellent idea, Lady Margaery,” Jon says. Margaery excitedly pats at Sansa’s arm linked through hers with the affirmation. “Assuming Lord Stark here is up to it.” He glances to the man finally, buttoning up his sleeves over his forearms and reaching for a sparring sword along the rack of blades beside them. Theon moves out of the way grudgingly when Jon circles round to the center of the yard with the Stark heir.

Robb nods, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “It would be an honor, my lord.”

“Don’t take it too hard when he knocks you flat on your ass, Targaryen,” Theon mutters off to the side.

Jon flashes him a condescending grin. “You and I are not the same, Greyjoy.”

Robb can’t seem to help the bark of laughter that breaks from his mouth at the words, though he smothers it quickly, offering an apologetic look to Theon as he stews angrily at the dismissal.

They get into a ready position quickly. Robb rolls his shoulders, eager and focused. “I do hope you will be entertained, Lady Margaery,” he calls out teasingly, “even if I should lose.”

She chuckles prettily, head cocked as she watches the men slowly start to circle. “Then I will cheer for you, my lord.”

A singled raised brow, a saucy smirk gracing his lips. “Will you now?”

“It only seems fair,” she muses, glancing at Sansa beside her. “I suppose it would be improper for your sister to grant her brother favor above her betrothed, so I shall have to do, my lord.”

Sansa gives a sidelong glance to Margaery, a barely discernible huff passing her lips. Margaery’s smile broadens at the tease.

“I think I can live with that, my lady,” Robb says, fingers flexing over the hilt of his sword.

The comfortable, playful teasing stirs something in Jon. It’s a strange sort of yearning, a coil in his gut. He glances to Sansa over his shoulder. Her smile wilts instantly.

It grips at him suddenly – a thunderous need.

That coy smirk she had graced Theon with. That flutter of a laugh. That easy, endearing crinkle at her eyes, shoulders shaking lightly in her mirth, red tendrils of hair brushed back with fine-boned fingers.

(A need he doesn’t recognize – not fully, not yet.)

She stares back at him, face a blank visage, a sheen of ice overtaking her.

She has no such smiles for him, especially not since he’d berated her so condescendingly at dinner the other night. No more walks in the garden or accompanying him in the library. He’d grown used to her presence, even when he’d kept a purposeful distance. He’s been too forceful with her, too familiar with his touch. She’s to be his wife, yes, and touch is inevitable, touch is…

Jon swallows, his skin tingling with the anticipation he won’t admit to.

Touch is the least of what will occur between them come the wedding night, but even still, until then, he will not take such liberties with her. She’s clearly not amenable to such intimacy, not yet at least, and Jon is loathe to think she considers him a brute.

But has he given her any reason to think otherwise?

And why should it matter in the first place?

Jon snarls, looking back at Robb. His opponent seems to recognize the shift, the signal, because his face hardens, all mirth leaving him, and then the game begins.

Jon is the first to strike, and Robb parries his swing easily, foot bracing back in the dirt. He pushes off, swinging low. Jon dances out of the way, circling round, eyes trained on Robb. They meet again, a stinging clash of their mock blades, and Jon shifts left, knocking Robb off balance with an elbow. Robb stumbles back, righting himself immediately, just in time to parry another swing from Jon, this one almost vicious in its intensity, and his arms buckle slightly, locking at the elbow. He grunts beneath the force of it. Jon hears the sharp intake of Sansa’s breath, the hushed murmur of her brother’s name issuing forth in concern.

The sound coils something hot and unrelenting in his gut. He shoves off of Robb, panting, circling round again.

Robb circles similarly, a weary smile gaining on his face. “Not a leisurely spar then?” he chuckles, already winded.

Jon scoffs, but it isn’t a scornful sound. A dark mirth fills him. He thinks he might have liked this Robb Stark, had he known him before.

(Before – when Jon had once yearned for his mother’s family like a stupid, lost little boy. Before – when he’d been a stupid, lost little boy.)

“You don’t fight for leisure, either,” Jon muses, breath raking from him. “You fight to win.”

Robb shakes his head, still chuckling. “Aye, but at least I’m not so dour about it.”

Jon raises a brow, smirk tugging at his lips, unbidden. Another clash of their blades, a parry, a missed swing, a shove to the shoulder, grunting, feet shuffling across the yard, a kicked-up cloud of dust when one stumbles back, chests heaving, tunics soaked through with sweat. A clang, metal ringing sharp in the courtyard. Again, and again, and again. Neither knows how to relent.

Yes, he’d have liked this Robb Stark. If he thinks too long about it, he likes him even now. But Jon knows well enough to be wary of wolves.

Sansa’s image floods his mind, for she is a wolf, too, even in all her silk dresses and pretty courtesies. There is a flash of teeth behind that primly, pursed mouth, Jon knows. A bite as cool and cut as winter.

And he wonders suddenly – wildly – what that bite might taste like, whether that cool ice of hers would persist against the hot press of his tongue, what sounds she might make when he’s spreading her milk-white thighs apart to sink inside her.

Would she howl for him, as wolves are wont to do?

Jon’s chest heaves, a maddening heat suffusing him, and he blinks the image back furiously, barely managing to avoid Robb’s incoming swing. The edge of his blade swipes close to his chin, and Jon stumbles back at the near miss, ears catching the sudden intake of breath from the watching ladies, as well as Theon’s whoop of satisfaction. Jon steadies himself, wiping a hand across his sweat-slicked brow, dark curls plastered to his skin. He growls lowly, shifting his sword into an overhold, advancing on Robb. He is waning, he knows, but he will not lose. Not here, with her watching. Something about the thought lights a flare of resolve in him.

Jon feints right, parrying Robb’s blow and swinging round, blade coming at his side, and Robb barely manages to swing his sword back in time, but the force of Jon’s strike, caught at an awkward angle, trips him up, and he’s stumbling back, hand going out instinctively to brace his fall before righting himself just in time.

Except, not just in time.

Jon swings hard, sweeping Robb’s legs out from under him, and Robb lands back along the dirt with a rough grunt, breath winded from him, looking up to find the tip of Jon’s sword at his throat, a mirror to his earlier victory against Theon.

They stay staring at each other, breathing heavily, Jon’s eyes dark and focused, his hand never lowering.

“Well,” Margaery says with a smack of her lips, “That was a riveting win, wouldn’t you say, Lady Sansa?”

Jon blinks away the heady battle haze, arm lowering, stepping back a pace. He glances to her, still panting, tunic stuck to his chest with his sweat.

Sansa lifts her chin. “Valiantly done, my lord,” she says tightly, a hint of a scowl gracing her features, “For a man with royal training against an opponent already flagging from previous spars.”

“Sansa,” Robb admonishes from his place on the ground, looking up at her aghast.

Theon smothers his laugh in his fist, but not enough for Jon to miss it.

Margaery raises both brows at her friend in surprise, her amused smirk still steadily put.

Jon lets out a rueful laugh, voice rough. “It seems not much impresses you, Lady Sansa.”

She doesn’t answer, keeping her chin high. Theon steps toward them, picking Robb’s fallen sword up off the ground. “I think it’s one of her many virtues, actually,” he says smugly.

Jon throws a disdainful look his way. “I’m not particularly interested in what you think about my betrothed,” he warns.

Theon opens his mouth but never gets the chance to retort.

“Alright, Targaryen, you’ve had your fun. Now, are you going to help me up or not?”

Jon looks down at Robb leaning back in the dirt with an expectant look and a hand held out. He catches the laugh that threatens to escape at the image. His throat tightens, an unfamiliar ache settling in his stomach. He reaches out and grabs his hand, hauling the man up. Robbs dusts himself off, groaning softly when he stills with a hand to his side.

“Are you wounded, my lord?” Margaery asks, voice lilting gently, though the subtle thrum of concern is apparent even to Jon.

Robb scoffs, straightening. “Aye, at my lady’s complete lack of appreciation for my battle prowess, even considering such a brutal defeat.” He flashes a grin at Jon.

The expression is jarring in its ease. An honest grin, goading and friendly. Jon’s frown deepens, that soft, unexplainable yearning battering around his chest.

These damn Starks.

“I was breathless for the whole affair, I assure you,” Margaery promises, a charming smile accompanying the words.

Robb glances back to her, brow raised. “Is that so?” His voice is breathy, labored.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Oh, go take a bath, Robb, you’re utterly filthy.”

Robb looks down at his muddied tunic and then narrows his eyes at Theon’s guffaw.

“You too, Theon Greyjoy. You’re worse than Robb.”

Theon’s laugh cuts off abruptly, glancing back at Sansa with a petulant frown.

Jon stares at her at the edge of the courtyard, eyes boring into hers. He doesn’t miss the way her gaze rakes quickly over his form, and he wonders if she will give him the same kind of fond tease, if she will remark on the way his tunic is fitted to his chest with sweat, or the way his curls are disheveled and damp from exertion. But she only purses her lips after her brief appraisal, turning fully to Margaery beside her. “Shall we go for a walk?”

Margaery links her arm more surely through Sansa’s, turning them already. “Yes, let’s,” she agrees.

With a duo of curtsies, Sansa and Margaery leave the courtyard, skirts swaying in their wake. Jon watches her go for long moments. When he looks back, he finds Theon staring at him, a deep furrow to his brow, not even bothering to hide his scowl.

Jon cocks his head at him, inviting whatever scathing comment is languishing on his tongue. But Theon only shakes his head, hefting both his and Robb’s swords over his shoulder, turning to the Northern heir. “I should go find Bran. Reckon he’s dodging his lessons with Ser Rodrik.”

Robb nods, clapping him on the shoulder in farewell, and Theon leaves without a backwards glance.

“You know,” Robb says, once they’re left alone in the training yard, “You don’t seem to be making much headway with my sister.”

Jon arches a brow at him, unsure whether to laugh or groan or sneer at the jab. A disbelieving scoff leaves him. That curl in his gut, it doesn’t seem to leave these days. Certainly not when he’s surrounded by maddening Starks.

“She can be…” He stops, considers, rolling the words along his tongue, “Difficult.”

Robb snorts a laugh. “And you haven’t even met Arya, yet,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

Jon gives him a questioning look.

He sobers up easily, gaze going to the space Sansa had occupied. “The thing is,” he says, tone disconcerting and inexplicably low, “Sansa generally gives people the benefit of the doubt. Looks for the good in them. And she’s never discourteous.” He looks to Jon sharply then, eyes probing. “Which makes me wonder what the hell it is you’ve done to make her so.”

Jon sucks a breath through his teeth, gaze never relenting on Robb.

Just a common brute, he imagines her thinking, remembering the heat of her glare when he’d dragged her into his arms.

(And why should it matter? The thought pesters at the edge of his mind, insistent.)

“I’ve not harmed her, if that’s what you’re implying,” he near growls.

Robb considers him a moment, cocking his head at him. “No,” he muses softly. “No, she wouldn’t allow that.”

You will unhand me, my lord.

It’s not a line he means to toe again.

“And I don’t believe you would,” Robb says finally, eyeing him still.

It shouldn’t make him feel like this – grateful and relieved and seen. Least of all, by a Stark. And yet here he is, greedily taking in his words, that recognition.

A tendril of copper hair just out of reach, a glance of frost-blue eyes, throat pale and slender and gulping beneath his calloused touch.

The searing impression of her earnestness, frail and genuine.

No, he would not hurt her.

The realization is startling in its sincerity.

“Forgive me, my lord, for my bluntness,” Robb begins, face grave, “But Sansa is a tender sort, too tender for her own good sometimes, and whatever it is that’s between you two, whatever it is that’s…hardened her, I do not care for it.”

Jon blinks at Robb’s sudden fervency, mouth parting, but no words coming forth.

“As a brother yourself, I think you can understand that,” Robb says.

The bile is ripe at the back of his throat, and Jon has to swallow back that slice of shame.

(Not how one is supposed to love.)

His head feels too foggy, his chest too tight. The words sink, weighted, along his tongue, until his throat is rife with them. “I’ve no intention of hurting your sister.”

No intention, it’s true, but he thinks he might have already, all the same. He grinds his jaw, hand curling over the hilt of the sword still in his grip. “She’s to be my wife, after all. And I take care of my own.”

I don’t want anything from you.

He pushes the words from his mind, the remembrance carving a place between his ribs to anchor there.

Because what could he possibly mean to her outside of duty?

“Then take care of her,” Robb says, the hint of a demand coloring his words, “Properly.”

Jon gives an incredulous chuckle, rueful and unexpected, hand tightening over the hilt of his sword. “From one brother to another?”

“Aye.”

“She’s not been an easy sort to live with, has she?”

Robb barks a laugh. “Aye, I’ll give you that.”

Jon flashes a knowing smile at Robb, the ease of it unfamiliar and jarring. It’s not an unwelcome feeling though, and perhaps this is where it begins.

The blur. The downfall.

Robb’s smile wavers somewhat, a hesitancy marring his charm. He takes a breath, his sudden frown thoughtful, his eyes a soft-hued blue. “Do right by her, my lord. I promise, she will always do right by you.”

It’s not said as a demand or a warning or a compromise. It’s said like a promise, knowing and comforting. Like an embrace.

Like a brother.

She’ll always do right by you.

Somehow, he believes it.

Jon glances to the spot Sansa had previously occupied, his recollection of her playing like shadow on his mind.

“Valiantly done, my lord.” A paltry concession.

And why should it matter? That thought – that plaguing, insistent thought. He thinks he understands now, loathe as he is to admit it.

It matters because suddenly, inexplicably, Jon finds he cares what she thinks of him.

It matters because her opinion of him means something now.

Jon swears beneath his breath.

Fucking Starks.

He’s going to regret this, he knows. He’s going to regret every bit of this.

#jonsa #from instep to heel #my writing #jon snow #sansa stark #jon x sansa #jon and sansa #jonsa fic #game of thrones #got fanfic

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butterflies-dragons · 4 years

Note

Loved your post on the similarities between Jon and Waymar Royce and Sansa's preference in men. I would like to add something else on the table. The Royces have Stark blood through the maternal line. Catelyn even suggested to name them as a possible heir to Robb. So Sansa really has a thing for the Stark look. This might be incestuous in nature. But isn't there a phrase that women tend to fall for men who remind them of their father? In Sansa's case it's more literal than usual lmao

Hello there!

Thank you very much ♡

You know, when I was writing my meta, I was suggested by @lostlittlesatellites, to write about the Royces with Stark blood, but I decided not to bring the subject up because we don’t really know who they are.

I know about what Catelyn said to Robb regarding the Stark relatives in the Vale:

“Young, and a king,” he said. “A king must have an heir. If I should die in my next battle, the kingdom must not die with me. By law Sansa is next in line of succession, so Winterfell and the north would pass to her.” His mouth tightened. “To her, and her lord husband. Tyrion Lannister. I cannot allow that. I will not allow that. That dwarf must never have the north.”

“No,” Catelyn agreed. “You must name another heir, until such time as Jeyne gives you a son.” She considered a moment. “Your father’s father had no siblings, but his father had a sister who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch. They had three daughters, all of whom wed Vale lordlings. A Waynwood and a Corbray, for certain. The youngest … it might have been a Templeton, but …”

“Mother.” There was a sharpness in Robb’s tone. “You forget. My father had four sons.”

She had not forgotten; she had not wanted to look at it, yet there it was. “A Snow is not a Stark.”

“Jon’s more a Stark than some lordlings from the Vale who have never so much as set eyes on Winterfell.”

“Jon is a brother of the Night’s Watch, sworn to take no wife and hold no lands. Those who take the black serve for life.”

“So do the knights of the Kingsguard. That did not stop the Lannisters from stripping the white cloaks from Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Boros Blount when they had no more use for them. If I send the Watch a hundred men in Jon’s place, I’ll wager they find some way to release him from his vows.”

He is set on this. Catelyn knew how stubborn her son could be. “A bastard cannot inherit.”

“Not unless he’s legitimized by a royal decree,” said Robb. “There is more precedent for that than for releasing a Sworn Brother from his oath.”

“Precedent,” she said bitterly. “Yes, Aegon the Fourth legitimized all his bastards on his deathbed. And how much pain, grief, war, and murder grew from that? I know you trust Jon. But can you trust his sons? Or their sons? The Blackfyre pretenders troubled the Targaryens for five generations, until Barristan the Bold slew the last of them on the Stepstones. If you make Jon legitimate, there is no way to turn him bastard again. Should he wed and breed, any sons you may have by Jeyne will never be safe.”

“Jon would never harm a son of mine.”

“No more than Theon Greyjoy would harm Bran or Rickon?”

Grey Wind leapt up atop King Tristifer’s crypt, his teeth bared. Robb’s own face was cold. “That is as cruel as it is unfair. Jon is no Theon.”

“So you pray. Have you considered your sisters? What of their rights? I agree that the north must not be permitted to pass to the Imp, but what of Arya? By law, she comes after Sansa … your own sister, trueborn …”

“… and dead. No one has seen or heard of Arya since they cut Father’s head off. Why do you lie to yourself? Arya’s gone, the same as Bran and Rickon, and they’ll kill Sansa too once the dwarf gets a child from her. Jon is the only brother that remains to me. Should I die without issue, I want him to succeed me as King in the North. I had hoped you would support my choice.”

“I cannot,” she said. “In all else, Robb. In everything. But not in this … this folly. Do not ask it.”

“I don’t have to. I’m the king.” Robb turned and walked off, Grey Wind bounding down from the tomb and loping after him.

—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V

This passage is very interesting because Robb said: By law Sansa is next in line of succession, so Winterfell and the north would pass to her. But since Sansa was married to Tyrion Lannister, Robb had to name another heir.

This is a contrast with Jon. Stannis use the same argument to convince Jon to accept his offer to be Lord of Winterfell, he called Sansa “Lady Lannister”, but no matter what, Jon didn’t accept it.

“But, instead of Tyrion, Willas or even Robert, who pursue Sansa’s claim over her, there is a man that has been offered Winterfell and choose her over it. Among all the high lords interested in becoming the Lord of Winterfell by marrying Sansa Stark, the bastard Jon Snow refused to despoil his sister Sansa of her rights, even if her claim is the one thing he has wanted as much as he had ever wanted anything.”

“By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon I

Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV

Robb and Catelyn were both pushing to prevent Sansa and Jon to get Winterfell, and ironically enough, I think that Sansa and Jon will be the Starks that will retake Winterfell.

Now, about who may be the Royces with Stark blood...

“Your father’s father had no siblings, but his father had a sister who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch. They had three daughters, all of whom wed Vale lordlings. A Waynwood and a Corbray, for certain. The youngest … it might have been a Templeton, but …”

This means: Ned Stark’s father Rickard had no siblings, but Rickard’s father Edwyle, had a sister Jocelyn who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch, Benedict Royce.

Jocelyn Stark and Benedict Royce had three daughters:

Daughter 1 married an Unknown Waynwood

Daughter 2 married an Unknown Corbray

Daughter 3 might have married an Unknown Templeton

See? we really don’t know who the Royces with Stark blood are. We don’t even know if they have the Stark features. We don’t even know if they are still alive…

Also take note that Jocelyn Stark married a Royce from the junior branch, called House Royce of the Gates of the Moon. While Waymar Royce was from House Royce of Runestone.

So I addressed the subject only with this line:

The resemblance between the Starks and the Royces [of Runestone] maybe has to be with both houses being descendants of the First Men.

Now back to House Royce of the Gates of the Moon.

At this point in the books, the known Royces of the cadet branch are: Nestor Royce and his children: Albar and Myranda. Imagine Myranda having a claim to Winterfell, Alayne will hate it…

Also imagine Lyn Corbray having a claim to Winterfell, Alayne will hate it even more…

About the Templetons, we don’t even know for sure if the third daughter of Jocelyn Stark and Benedict Royce married into House Templeton…

Now, about the Waynwoods, this is exactly why @lostlittlesatellites suggested me to write about the Royces with Stark blood, because at this point at the Books, Alayne is very linked with the Waynwoods. And even Harrold Hardyn’s mother was a Waynwood! Imagine Harry the Heir having not only a claim to the Vale but also to Winterfell! Alayne will like this scenario a bit more… This is unlikely, but it was funny to think about it…

Harry the Heir doesn’t have the Stark Look tho. But his Waynwood cousins do. So they could be the descendants of Jocelyn Stark and Benedict Royce. Let see:

In the first Alayne chapter of the Winds of Winter, Sansa meets the Waynwoods and Harry the Heir:

“Lady Myranda. Lady Alayne.” Anya Waynwood inclined her head to each of them in turn. “It is good of you to greet us. Allow me to present my grandson, Ser Roland Waynwood.” She nodded at the knight who had spoken. “And this is my youngest son, Ser Wallace Waynwood. And of course my ward, Ser Harrold Hardyng.”

(…)

Ser Roland was the oldest of the three, though no more than five-and-twenty. He was taller and more muscular than Ser Wallace, but both were long-faced and lantern-jawed, with stringy brown hair and pinched noses. Horsefaced and homely, Alayne thought.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

Ser Roland Waynwood and Ser Wallace Waynwood have three features that match the Stark Look:

Both long-faced

Both horsefaced

Both have [stringy] brown hair

Sansa/Alyane doesn’t find the Waynwoods attractive tho, not like she fancied Ser Waymar Royce. Maybe this have to be with their other features: lantern-jawed and pinched noses.

The lack of attraction to the Waynwoods was another reason why I didn’t bring this subject up in my meta.

In contrast, the Waynwoods seems pretty attracted to Sansa/Alayne:

“Had we known such beauty awaited us at the Gates, we would have flown,” Ser Roland said. Though his words were addressed to Myranda Royce, he smiled at Alayne as he said them.

“To fly you would need wings,” Randa replied, “and there are some knights here who might have a thing to say concerning that.”

“I look forward to a spirited discussion.” Ser Roland swung down from his horse, turned to Alayne, and smiled. ��I had heard that Lord Littlefinger’s daughter was fair of face and full of grace, but no one ever told me that she was a thief.”

“You wrong me, ser. I am no thief!”

Ser Roland placed his hand over his heart. “Then how do you explain this hole in my chest, from where you stole my heart?”

“He is only t-teasing you, my lady,” stammered Ser Wallace. “My n-n-nephew never had a h-h-heart.”

“The Waynwood wheel has a broken spoke, and we have my nuncle here.” Ser Roland gave Wallace a whap behind the ear. “Squires should be quiet when knights are speaking.”

Ser Wallace reddened. “I am no more a s-squire, my lady. My n-nephew knows full well that I was k-k-kni-k-k-kni –“

“Dubbed?” Alayne suggested gently.

“Dubbed,” said Wallace Waynwood, gratefully.

Robb would be his age, if he were still alive, she could not help but think, but Robb died a king, and this is just a boy.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

And about that phrase you mentioned: “women tend to fall for men who remind them of their father,” it is true that the Asoiaf Books have plenty of incestuous undertones with the Targaryens, Cersei and Jaime, Asha and Theon, Crater and his daughters, etc. But in the case of the Starks, GRRM uses the pseudo-incest trope. After all, Jon and Arya, that are lookalikes, were intended to be in love in the so called “original outline”.

We also have the issue of the First love’s Resemblance: Sansa fell wildly in love with Ser Waymar, and Jon fell in love with a wildling girl kissed by fire.

Waymar Royce looked like a Stark. Waymar Royce was Jon’s lookalike. And Jon is Ned lookalike:

Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon Snow’s face in front of him, so like a younger version of his own.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard IX

More about it here.

And Jon’s first love was Ygritte, a redhead, with blue-grey eyes, and to make the Tully look even more evident, Ygritte called herself half a fish:

“Ygritte punched his arm. “You know nothing, Jon Snow. I’m half a fish, I’ll have you know.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

Thanks for your message.

#anon ask #jonsa #alayne stone #harrold hardyng #harry the heir #roland waynwood #wallace waynwood

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writingthrones · 5 years

Text

the northern dragon- part 1.

PART 1: A SPARK.

TAGS: @psychosupernatural , @xleviiiix (feel free to shoot me a message if you’d also like to be tagged!)

DESCRIPTION: the world thought that just 2 dragons survived, that house targaryen was missing its third head. but there was another– the youngest, the final child of the mad king and queen rhaella. of course, she was almostpart of the near extermination of her house. but the honorable ned stark, unable to watch a babe be murdered for crimes she did not commit, rescued her from an awful fate. instead, she grew up amongst wolves within the walls of winterfell.

NOTES: this a rewrite of the original part 1 after an anon pointed out how i definitely rushed it. i hope this gives you all more insight into the reader’s personality and her relationships to the Starks (and Theon). there’s a few flashbacks in this which i thoroughly enjoyed writing, so expect more in the parts to come. as always, i’d love to hear any & all feedback. requests for what you’d like to see in the story are always nice to hear as well!

WARNINGS: violence (so there will be descriptions of attacks, wounds and blood).

Things had been stressful since Ned, Sansa and Arya all left for King’s Landing. There was a lot for you to do now that Lady Catelyn was spending day and night with Bran waiting for him to wake. Even when you did have time away, there wasn’t much to do. Robb was now acting Lord of Winterfell and Theon was constantly at his side– though it wasn’t like you’d spent too much time together anyway. Much to your dismay.

You found yourself wandering the courtyard or spending time at the Godswood whenever you weren’t tending to some sort of duty. Might as well enjoy the northern summer while it lasts. As the saying goes, Winter Is Coming and it is not something to be taken lightly in the North. It is one of those nights, just before you head off to your chambers when you hear… something going on. Your brow furrows with curiosity then fear as you watch Summer take off in a full sprint right into where Bran is being kept. Without a second thought, you take off after the wolf when you happen upon a scene that makes your blood run cold. Lady Catelyn is struggling against a man with a knife with only her bare hands when the direwolf comes to the rescue, tackling him and tearing his throat out.

Falling to your knees beside her, you grab hold of her hands. “Lady Catelyn, are you hurt?! What happened?” Without waiting for an answer, you turn her hands over to check, finding deep cuts to both. She still remains speechless, clearly in a daze and it is certainly no wonder considering what took place. “I’ll– I’ll get help.” You take a glance at the man on the floor, then an untouched Bran with Summer at his side before running out the door. “HELP– HELP!” you cry. Just then, Robb and Theon appear in the courtyard, rushing to answer your call. Again, you fall to your knees, the shaking so bad you couldn’t stand anymore. What if there was others? You left Lady Stark, what if something happened to her?

“Are you okay?” the boys ask, frantically scanning your body for an obvious signs of injury. “Lady Stark– you must go to Lady Stark! Someone tried to hurt her and Bran, GO!” Robb’s eyes go wide as he takes off, while Theon bends down and takes your blood covered hands. “Are you hurt, Y/N?” the concern in his voice is evident as his words come out rushed and nearly blended together. Panting, you shook your head. “I’m fine, you must go with Robb,” you insisted. He hesitates, but releases you then takes off after him. Even if your entire upbringing was spent bickering, there was an instinct to look out for one another. You were a pack– Stark or not.

The perimeter was searched in order to assure that there was no one around to finish the job and everyone was safe. Luckily, they found nothing. After checking in with Catelyn, you headed for your chambers. You needed the rest and yet sleep evaded you. Your mind raced with all the what if’s. What if they had succeeded, what if there was still someone out there.. so on and so forth.

So, you laid there for a while before you just couldn’t handle the stillness and silence anymore. You rose to your feet and peered out the window, allowing yourself that one moment before hurrying to tie up your head wrap. Everyone was supposed to be asleep, but you never know. This wasn’t just about you, Catelyn and Ned would certainly be punished if they were found harboring a Targaryen princess.

You sighed as you finished, wishing you could spend just a little bit of time with the nighttime winds blowing through your hair. Then, you pulled a fur robe over your night gown and started out down the hall until you reached the courtyard. It was so quiet out in the snow, save for the soft crunching of footsteps that could just barely be heard on the outside of the walls. Everyone was on high alert.

The cool air felt good on your warm skin— blood of the dragon and all that. You were making your way to a bench when you heard footsteps behind you, immediately causing you to turn around. Inhaling a sharp gasp, you were just about to scream when you found that it was Robb. You sighed heavily, placing your hand on your chest which your heart was nearly beating out of.

“You scared me!” you whisper-shouted. Robb’s face had been stoic, but then broke into a smirk. “Sorry, my lady.” That granted him the eye roll he was so clearly looking for. Though, it was usually Theon teasingly calling you the lady you were clearly not. “I just needed some air. It’s impossible to sleep after that whole mess.” You sighed, fingers rubbing at the bridge of your nose. “Well, you’re not alone in that, ” he murmured.

Having a quiet moment alone with Robb was.. a bit odd to say the least. The two of you hadn’t really shared moments like this since you were kids. He had responsibilities to tend to now and so did you. “I just don’t understand who would’ve done this. Why would anyone want to hurt Bran?” Robb stiffened before shaking his head, just as lost.

You turned to face him, indigo hues focused on his Tully blues. “I need to do something, Y/N. Someone tried to kill my brother-- twice. My mother thinks it was the Lannisters.. I’d believe it but saying anything will start a war. And everyone knows what Lord Tywin is capable of. I...” his words were rushed, the panic evident. This was all too much, resting heavy on the shoulders of a 17-year-old boy.

“We’re going to figure out who did this and we’re going to make them pay,” you replied, resting your hand gently on top of his. He looked confused. “We?” You nodded, “Yes, we. I love Bran too and I won’t stop until we discover the truth.” You were stronger than he knew, not a lady trained only to serve others. “My mother rides for King’s Landing tomorrow to find proof. We can’t act before she gets it.” You nodded, he was right. If he decided to start the conflict before knowing the truth, then this could lead to a terribly bloody conflict all for nothing. The two of you shared a long look before you removed your hand from atop his, not realizing how long it’d been there. You may have shared tender gestures like these as children but it was no longer appropriate when he was was the heir of Winterfell and you were nobody. So, you rose from your place next to him and hugged the furs closer to your body as you walked back towards your chambers.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Robb.”

That night, you dreamt of your childhood, a memory you thought of fondly. It was before Rickon, Bran was a newborn, Arya was just a babe and Sansa was a toddler. So, it was you and the boys-- Jon and Robb. Theon had yet to be taken on as a ward. The three of you ran around the woods as you did quite often. You had been looking back at them as the chased you, not paying attention to what was in front of you when you sent yourself flying forward after catching your foot on a rock. Bracing for impact, you placed your hands out in front so you wouldn’t damage your face. You yelped as your palms were torn up, feeling your eyes well up with tears. Sitting up, you began to cry looking at all the dirt and blood. Jon and Robb ran over, frantically assessing the damage. Robb moved before Jon could, taking your small hands in his own and examining them. “Are you okay?” he asked, turning his gaze up to meet your eyes. “No!” you huffed, tears still falling down your cheeks. Without another word, he wiped away the mixture of blood and dirt with his sleeve and placed a kiss on each one, mimicking what his mother did when he got hurt. “All better?” he asked, a hopeful smile on his lips. The tears subsided and you smiled, nodding your head. You remember it being the first time you ever felt butterflies.

When you awoke, you could feel the difference in the air. Things were tense now. No matter what Lady Stark discovered, something big was about to happen-- you could feel it in your bones. Whatever it was that happened to Bran sparked something. After dressing, you entered the courtyard and saw Catelyn, preparing for her trip with Ser Rodrik. You ran to see her off before the long journey down the Kingsroad, the last one to say your goodbyes. Your eyes were sad but you forced a smile, as did she. Taking your hands, she spoke, “Take care of them.. please.” She didn’t just mean Bran and Rickon but Robb, too. Sure, he was considered a man now but he was still her boy and she was trusting you keep him from caving under the pressures of his new duties. “I will, I promise,” you said with a nod, feeling tears prick at your eyes. You hated to see her go to such an unsafe place. She nodded, her own eyes looking watery despite the smile on her lips. Taking you into her arms, both of you hold each other tight. Backing away, Catelyn takes your face into her hands. “Don’t worry too much, child,” she said softly. This would be a lot for you to deal with as well, she knew that. It reminded you of when she had to calm you after revealing your identity. Nodding, you backed away and allowed her to get onto her horse and set off.

You intended to keep your promise. You tried spending some time with Bran but you never stayed for long, he was always asking for everyone to leave him alone. It broke your heart, seeing the boy who was once so full of life be completely defeated. You played with Rickon when you could, the young boy’s laugh always putting you in better spirits. Theon was practically attached to Robb and you hardly ever saw either of them. But Catelyn had asked you a promise and you intended to keep it. You tried to visit Robb in the Great Hall or catch him on the way to his chambers, but he always claimed to be too busy to speak with you.

But one night, you finally managed to do it. It was a chance encounter, you spotting him just as he was going to reach his room. You rushed forward, standing in the way to prevent him from leaving. Stopped dead in his tracks, he looks to you with an unreadable expression. “I know you’ve been busy but I just--” He cut you off, “I don’t have time for this. It’s been a long day and I just want some rest, Y/N.” Your brow furrowed with frustration. “Seven hells-- let me speak! I just want to know if you’re okay... this has all been so much, I wanted to check in on you,” your voice grew more soft as you continued to speak. He sighed heavily, “I’m fine, Y/N. You don’t need to worry about me, let’s just both get some rest, okay?” Your gaze was cast downwards before finally looking up, “Fine.” You moved and walked away in frustration. As you turned around a corner, you spotted Theon, who was giving you a questioning look. “What was that, Y/N?” he questioned. You knew what he was insinuating, causing you to only scoff as you pushed past him. He’d been teasing you since you were young about it but you dismissed it every time.

The next morning, you unknowingly walked in on a meeting between Robb and some lords from surrounding areas. Once he spotted you, though, he halted the conversation. So definitely something you weren’t supposed to be listening to– noted. “Robb,” you called, causing all heads to turn. The men stared at you in shock. “…Lord Stark, Lord Tyrion has returned from his trip to the wall. He wishes to speak to you.” Before you can get the door to let him in, he simply does it himself. You stole once last glance before slipping out, off to find something to do.

Weeks went on and Lady Catelyn was still gone on her mission to find the truth about what had happened to her son. Ned remained in the lion’s den down south and all that Robb could do was keep the peace in the North. But the people were growing antsy as word of growing tensions began to reach Winterfell, as were you. On sleepless nights, which was many of them, you ventured out into the courtyard where you practiced your sword work. Before Jon had left, you two practiced from time to time after quite a lot of begging. You may not have been a Lady but you were still a woman and he had said it wasn’t your place to be fighting. It wasn’t meant as an insult, either, he just didn’t want you to end up hurt because of it. You pushed and pushed until he caved, though. A true Northwoman you were; fierce and stubborn.

“Jon, please!” you whined. The pair of you were fourteen at the time. Jon had already been training for several years. He was talented and the only one you had even a chance in persuading to train you to fight. “Y/N, I told you, I can’t!” There was nothing else for you to say, but the look in your eyes was pleading. “Seven hells...” he huffed, an admission of defeat. You grinned and the two of you disappeared into the woods where he began to teach you all he knew. Grunts and sword clangs could be heard for some distance. Just then, Jon spotted something, his eyes going wide as he dropped his weapon. Confused, you whipped around to face whatever it was, hiding the sword behind your back as if it changed anything. It was Robb and Theon. “What do you two think you’re doing?” Theon spoke first. “I asked him to. I want to know how to defend myself!” you shouted back. He scoffed, “You’re a girl! You don’t need to know anything.” Taking the sword from behind your back, you pointed it in his direction. “Shut up!” you yelled. Theon gasped, surely ready to bark back some stupid insult. That’s when Robb stepped in between you two, pushing the end of your weapon down gently. “That’s enough,” he had decided. The three of you then ventured back to Winterfell, Robb trying to mediate the bickering between you and Theon while Jon hung his head. Surprisingly, you still managed to persuade him into continuing your training, this time during periods where no one would think to look for you both. Sometimes you’d meet late at night or early in the morning.

Everything finally boiled over when Ned was imprisoned and Sansa held captive while Arya’s whereabouts remained unknown. Robb quickly assembled the Great Lords whose allegiance was pledged to House Stark in the Great Hall of the castle and determined they would march South and retrieve his father and sisters. You just happened to hear the conversation echoing as you passed through the halls. I’m going with them, you thought to yourself. So you dashed off, hurrying to your room where you began packing away all you would need in a trunk. Even if you had to sneak yourself onto the trip, you were going one way or another. Hopefully it would be alongside Robb.

Not long after, you spotted him leaving Bran’s chambers. Exhaling a deep breath, you approached him with confidence. “I know what you’re doing and I’m going with you,” you said so matter-of-factly. His eyes narrowed. “You’re not,” his voice was resolute as he stepped aside and walked past. Turning quickly on your heels, you grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him backwards. “Yes I am! I will not stay here performing mindless chores while your– our family is under attack!” His jaw was clenching and he opened his mouth to speak again before you cut him off. You weren’t a Stark, you knew that, but Ned had saved you from certain death and it was about time you returned the favor.

“I won’t cause problems,” your voice becoming softer. “I can help…I-I know how to fight, you know I do. I’ll send myself into the front lines if it means you’ll let me come. Please, Robb.” His brow furrowed in thought as he sighed, “I can’t send you out there.” That was a given, though. A woman was not meant to be a solider. “You must-- Let me tend to the mens’ wounds then, anything! I just can’t sit here wondering what’s happening to you all-- I won’t.” You hated begging, you shouldn’t have to. If that’s what got you out there, though, then it would be worth it. It was a long silence between you two and his eyes felt like daggers, piercing through you as he looked down to meet yours. Your heart was nearly beating out of your chest when, finally, he spoke again. “Fine. We march in an hour, gather what you can.” A sigh of relief passed through your lips. “Thank you,” you said softly. Robb said nothing, instead giving a look with a meaning you couldn’t seem to figure out. Was it.. concern, maybe? It was nearly impossible to tell. You hurried back to your chambers, assessing the room one last time to see if there’s anything you’d forgotten. In a rush, you allowed yourself one last look at Rickon and Bran’s sleeping faces, swallowing the lump in your throat. You’d miss them. Who knows if you’d ever see them again. You had to believe that you would, though, that you’d return to them with Ned and their sisters, successfully reuniting them all. Probably far too idealistic for the harsh realities of the world, but you had to hold out hope.

Your belongings were loaded onto a cart as you jumped up on a horse. You may have been lowborn, but you were still allowed to march close to the front, much to the high lords’ confusion. None of them had time to question it, though. It was time for war; not just for justice of the Stark family but for the North as a whole. It was time to take their land back from the Southerners who cared so little for them. The North would be free again, now and always.

#robb stark imagine #robb stark x reader #daenerys targaryen imagine #jon snow imagine #game of thrones imagine #the northern dragon.

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