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I created an interactive graphic of every single name listed in the entire series*.Â
Itâs filterable by House, Region, Gender, First Initial, or you can sort by how common a name is in the series. Really useful for naming OCs or side characters.
You can access it here or here.Â
//I can also share the Google spreadsheet with the full list if thatâs preferable. DM me for the link.
*huuuuge shoutout to whoever runs the wiki bc hot damn
During the entire month of June, weâre going to highlight LGBTQIA+ ships across the fandom. We encourage you to do the same and create art, gifs, edits, fics, etc. for your favorites! Help us celebrate will style.
Weâll be accepting your posts every day thins month, using the tag #asoiafrarepride
He has not come as a black brother. No lord commander, no prince, nor even a knight. No, Jon has come as himself, a Snow, a bastard raised by Starks, to steal away his sister.Â
She is sad for him that he has found only Alayne Stone, but takes his hand anyway when he offers. Her father will be furious, but she is tired of the sickness here, Robinâs sickness, the sickness between her and Petyr. She wants to breathe free again.
You will breathe the icy air of the North, he promises. You will remember.
Show me, he asks a red god he doubts. Show me my sister, he begs the old gods of his father. Bright flames bloom in his vision, but no glimpse of Arya appears. One more disappointment that weighs him down into exhausted sleep and vivid dreams.
He sees snow, but not the deep snow of the North.
He sees stone, but not the walls of Winterfell.
And he sees a girl, but not the girl he sought. Her dark hair swirls as she turns to look at him with familiar blue eyesâŚ
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Jonsa Drabblefest Day 7: The Lady Bird and the Winged Wolf (Free)
Written for @jonsadrabbles Day 7: Free
South, south, south they went, until they reached the marches of Dorne. Any hint of the last chills of spring faded away, and here her hair grew flaxen, blondened by the sun.
Somewhere along the road to Dorne, when wine became cheaper than ale and more plentiful than water, they often paused their journey to indulge, stopping off at inns and taverns along the way. No one gave a second glance to the man in a simple tunic and breeches who could have been a knight or a farmhand, or the lady who accompanied him, her locks of shiny red plaited in braids or tied up with a ribbon to weather the sweltering days.
She wondered what those they encountered thought of them when she caught their knowing glances, when Jon dared to drape an arm around her, to whisper in her ear, to press a kiss to her cheek. Who would think to look for Sansa Stark here of all places, or for the former Lord Commander of the Nightâs Watch, freed by his own death? Here it was easy to pretend, to be someone else, anyone else they wanted, a blacksmith and his dairymaid in search of a new life away from the stench of the cities, newlyweds on a romantic honeymoon, lovers whoâd run south to escape their arranged marriages. No one asked, and nor did Sansa think anyone would care even if they told the truth of the matter.
Beyond the reaches of Littlefinger, far off in a land that would certainly melt the very hearts of the frozen dead that threatened the North, they slowed their pace, enjoying the views from mountaintops, watching the waves roll in atop the cliffs edging along the Sea of Dorne, riding through fields of wildflowers and lounging in the heat. Even after the sun set, its warmth still lingered, so Sansa wore little more than scraps of silk when they settled into their tent for the evening, with little to separate her from Jon, and most nights ended with her wearing even less.
Sometimes Jon spoke of where they could go, east in the hopes of finding Arya and following an inkling he could not explain, or maybe west to Oldtown and the Citadel in search of knowledge for things beyond their comprehension, or even south to the Summer Isles to see sights neither of them could imagine. In the end, though, they always concurred with one another that perhaps here they could rest for a while, until her skin became sun-kissed, calm settled in her bones, and her name felt like her own again.
One day, she knew they would have to return North, that it would be their duty to reclaim Winterfell, to defend it against the dead, but for now, there were wars for others to fight before the ones that mattered, wars of pride and petty feuds and paltry lands that would have little significance when that time came.
She was more than content enough to remain where the world could not touch them where they could do what they wished and be who they pleased. The abandoned keep they took up residence in was not a tower befitting of a prince or even a lady, with its decaying rafters and crumbling stone façade, but they found happiness there nonetheless.
Sansa had always wanted a life worthy of the songs, and she could not think of any more fitting than this. Here she realized she was not to live as if in a song; no, she could be part of the song itself, that of the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms and a secret knight, and a bird freed from her cage at last, his wild wolf wife.
Sansa is working on getting Jon back home again but the actual waiting is a terrible thing. Missing someone is tough enough without having to see reminders of them around every corner.
So itâs about the longing, or dare I say, yearning?
Anyways, read it below the line or find it here on Ao3.
When she wakes one morning, it is to the sound of a lark singing itâs song somewhere in the distance.
For a moment, she thinks herself to be still yet asleep, dreaming a dream of springtime sun and singing birds. But as she blinks into the waking world, she realizes it is as she hears, the birdâs song is anything but a dream. Leaping from her bed, she dashes across the room to throw open the window, the morning sunlight spilling in through the curtains. âSpring,â she whispers as she breathes in the air, newly scented with sunlight and warmth. Though the snow still blankets the ground, she can feel the sun on her skin and she knows that soon it will begin to melt away.
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On their first night in Winterfell, Sansa finds herself standing upon the battlements.
It felt like a lifetime ago that she stood in this very same spot with Theon, prepared to leap from the height only so she might escape the place Jon had fought so hard to reclaim. Here, in these walls, she had grown from babe to child, leaving home under the guise that things out in the world were bigger and better than they ever could be in Winterfell. If only she could go back, if only she could tell herself differently. When she finally made her way back, Winterfell was a familiar place, yet full of strangers, full of faces she never would know. Faces that would turn from her bruises, from her frightened screams.
âSansa?â
@jonsadrabbles
She nearly leaps from her skin at the sound of his voice, but she softens at the sight of his apologetic smile. âYouâre supposed to be resting.â She had left him down in Robbâs old rooms under strict orders to remain abed for at least a day, just so he might gather back his strength from the battle. He grins, but his shoulders lift in a shrug as he approaches where she stands, peering out into the darkness of the forest that looms just behind where Winterfell stands. The same line of sight in which she had just been staring.
âAye and I have rested,â he replies, to which she rolls her eyes, but she canât help but to smile. âI could sleep no more⌠I was thinking aboutâŚâ He doesnât have to say it, she already knows. Instead, she leans into him, so easily falling into her place at his side that it feels as if sheâs always been meant to stand there beside him. âIâm sorry I couldnât save him.â Jonâs voice breaks and she grasps at his hand, closing her eyes against the pain that is the truth. Heâs turning into her then and she opens her arms to him, wrapping him in her embrace, hoping it will offer him the comfort that her words cannot.
They might stand there a minute or an entire lifetime, but finally Jon pulls himself from her arms so he might look her in the face, her blue eyes damp but clear. Above them, the moonlight peeks through the gray cloud cover, bathing them in itâs soft, white light. âYou did what you could,â she says with a nod, laying no blame for Rickonâs death upon him. How could she, after all that he had done? âYou saved me.â She speaks on, softer than before, her eyes shifting their gaze down to her feet. She hopes this is enough to calm him, to remind him that all is not lost, even without their lost little siblings. âYou saved the North.â She thinks of him, sword in hand, fighting for the only real home theyâve ever known. Fighting to keep her safe from a monster of a man, fighting for what always was theirs.
To her surprise, he reaches for her then, drawing her into an embrace of his own, as if this is the only thing that can keep him going, as if this is what keeps him anchored to the ground. She gives into his touch, sinking against his chest as her arms loop his waist, breathing him in, thankful that she still yet has this, that he is still yet there to hold. She might stay here forever, if only the world would let her.
@jonsadrabbles - Day 7 - Free choice - Lyanna lives AU
In which Lyanna, scared and rash and thinking she could not face her family, ran away to hide herself and her son from Robert, but finally returns to Westeros with her now 15-year-old son. 500 words on the nose.Â
The news of Robert Baratheonâs death is a relief. Itâs been so long, but a mother never stops worrying about potential threats against her sonâs life, especially when thereâs a man out there who would have cause to kill Jon and who wouldnât hesitate if the moment presented itself. Even if he never knew Jon existed, Lyanna could never quite put that fear away until now.
The news of Nedâs death is something else, something that stirs for the first time in fifteen years, that compels the young girl she once was who stowed away on a ship with a babe in her arms to be brave, to finally face the past she ran away from. The past that stares her in the face every time she looks at her son, so like the brother now gone, another Stark death that may be laid at her feet. Now more than ever, Lyanna wonders if itâs time, not just to return but to make amends. Nedâs daughters remain in Kingâs Landing, in the hands of the people who killed their father, and so Lyanna has a mission.
She has always been honest with Jon, if for no other reason to avoid him creating silly stories in his head about the father he will never know. He is young, but he understands. More than that Jon is eager to finally find out who he is, learn about the place he has only heard about in her stories: Winterfell.
ââ
Penetrating the Red Keep is risky, but in the end they donât have to. All of them leave the castle to see the Baratheon princess off. Lyanna thinks such a pretty thing could never have been sired by Robert, but she shakes the thought away. Itâs Jon who points out the slim red-haired girl among them, who is only recognizable to Lyanna as another Stark for the sad look in her eyes. Lyanna recognizes herself even if the girlâs features are not like her own. The crowd is primedâhot and hungryâso the melee almost takes no effort to start. Jon finds the girl in a crowd of men, smites them all in a matter of seconds.
âAre you Sansa Stark?â he asks breathlessly.
ââ
She nods at the boy in front of her, and before she can say anything else, he throws a dark cloak over her. Sansa canât see but she hears the boy and another voice, a woman talk as they hold her up. She doesnât know how long it is before they are away from the crowd, doesnât care who they are. What more horrid fate could await her than what she already faces at the hands of the Lannisters.
Finally, they pull into an alley and the three of them are standing face to face. The womanâs face is worn, but feels familiar, Northern. The boy is not a boy exactly, now that she can really see him. He looks like a memory, like her father, like home.
So, here is the second drabble, Saturday, free choice, one day late for the drabble even of @jonsadrabbles⌠Also on AO3.
Littlefinger had brought the knights of the Vale. His smile as Sansa acknowledged the army was almost too much for her.
She forced herself to smile in return and nod her head graciously. âI appreciate your effort to show me your loyalty, Lord Baelish.â
He bowed. âI hope that you will find me worthy of a reward.â
âThat depends entirely on the outcome of the battle, which is in full swing, if I understood correctly.â
âThat certainly will spur my fervour.â He rode closer to her.
âWhat would you prefer?â His voice was low. Nobody but her was supposed to hear, Sansa was sure. âCertainly, you want your half-brother to survive?â
He lifted his eyebrows as if to insinuate the exact opposite.
Her heart beat fast in her chest, but she forced herself to remember how angry she had been at Jon, letting that anger show on her face.
âHe might as well survive. He has his uses, and I doubt heâll ever reject my advice again, if I pull him out of this.â She had learned so well to hide behind truths.
Littlefinger laughed, hearing what he wanted to hear. âLetâs safe your brother then, the future commander of a queen.â
A queen, he would like to marry, his eyes told her. She bent over and took his hand.
âIf you earn my trust in this, Lord Baelish, you might be trusted with even more important things.â She let that sentence hang between them, a promise that should make Littlefinger give his best.
She rode with the knights, their banners streaming behind them, a magnificent look, that was lost on her. She would have prayed, if she had not lost her belief.
When they had earned the high ground above the battle field, she could see that the Boltons had laid a tight ring around the remaining Stark army, a ring that was quickly dissolved when the knights charged. Her eyes searched for the Stark banner that might indicate where Jon was, but all the banners were down.
He cannot be dead. He must not be dead!
Just in the middle of the crowd she thought she saw a man who fought to stood upright. He turned to face her, and she could only see small white spots on a face that was stained with mud. Her heart fluttered and she felt as if she were struck by lightning. It was too far away, she could not be sure it was Jon and yet, she felt his eyes on her, a pull that was inexplicable. A tight band that tightened between them. They had fought their way from despair and night to daylight and relief. They were both alive.
Someone had raised one of the Stark banners that had been trodden down on the field. And though the ice-white field was muddied, the wind blew into the cloth and the direwolf sprang to life, as if he were ready to run, run in the morning breeze.
This is for the jonsa drabble event, Saturdy, free choice and I am one day lateâŚ.. I split the story in two parts which are just under 500 word (yes, I know this is cheatingâŚ.) Also on AO3âŚ. @jonsadrabbles
âI am not going back there alive, do you hear me?â
Her own voice rang in her ears. He looked so hurt, so concerned, that she could not bear it any longer. She spun on her heels and left the tent. Nothing she said had swayed Jon. Stupid, heroic, stubborn Jon. One should think that having been stabbed to death by men who were supposed to be his brothers, he would have a better understanding of how the world was, of how politics went, how wars were won.
But, no, he still thought that they had a chance of getting Rickon back, he still thought that they should win, because right was on their side. He still thought that Ramsay could be duped into a trap. That they could win even though they had fewer men. Sansa was so angry at him.
She had played her last card, reminded him of his duty to her, reminded him of what she had suffered. If he insisted to fight, he should at least know what was at stake. If he failed, he should know the price.
Dark thoughts got hold of her. Thoughts of Jon dying on the battlefield, in despair, because he knew that his failure meant her death. She shuddered. She had not lied. She had long learned that the truth could be wielded as effectively as a lie. The truth would make him try his best, fight until his last breath.
Back in her own tent she took up her sewing kit. She would not sleep, not tonight. She had not heard from Littlefinger, although she had made many promises, promises she hoped she could wriggle out of once Winterfell was theirs. She violently stabbed her needle in the cloth on her lap. It was a symbol of the hope she had not yet lost. A Stark banner that could hang from the battlements once the accursed Boltons were gone. Her needle went straight through her finger and she cursed, sticking her finger in her mouth but not before droplets of blood had sprayed on the cloth, right where the direwolfâs mouth was.
She must have dozed off after all, because it was dawn when she looked up again. A servant stood at the entrance of her tent, a rider. He held a small piece of paper in his hands.
Sansa jumped from her seat, took the paper, and read what was written there.
âCome and meet me, sweetling.â
She let the piece of paper fall to the ground. âAre you to bring me to him?â
The rider just nodded.
âDid he bring an army?â The rider stayed silent. Littlefinger would not discard a winning hand.
She could stay here, let Jon fight this battle, she had not wanted, not at this time, let Littlefinger smolder. He might have brought an army though, not just the promise of one. His army might be enough to swing the scales, enough to save the brother she had pushed to fight.
Jonsa Drabblefest, Day 7, free Choice (late entry) @jonsadrabblesâ
*So, as Iâve been posting 2 drabbles per day of this event, I thought it would bve nice to top it off with 2 for the free choice day too. You may have seen my post of this manip on @jonsa-creativesâ before but I thought it begged for an accompanying drabble too!*
WWII US Soldier!Jon Snow and English Civilian!Sansa Stark
Jon stroked the photograph with the pad of this thumb. A sepia scene of when he was last with her. The war was done, he was a lucky son of a bitch to get out of Europe with his life. Many of his friends hadnât. The tones didnât do her justice; the copper of her hair, the cornflower blue of her eyes, the explosion of lightness he felt in his chest whenever he was with her. He can remember it like it was just yesterday; the way heâd reached British shores again and Sansa Stark had helped him forget all the mud and the blood and the shouts and gunfire.
He still thinks of her today, months on. Uses the memory of her as a kind of coping when the phantom sounds of a Luftwaffe mix with Spitfire mix with his rifle mix with the dying screams of Pyp mix with-
Breathe.
Heâs on American soil. Heâs back on his motherâs farm. And she needs him to be a man, not a blubbering, shaking mess.
Jon looks over the photograph again. Keeps it safe in his bedside drawer. Can still hear the brass band that played that night, the cheers, the throaty way she laughed when he kissed just below her ear, how her skin beneath her dress felt softer than silk.
She has no idea - no idea as she goes about her days back in her English village that sheâs the only thing keeping him together.
If he wrote⌠if he asked⌠would she come to him? Would life with him be enough? Thatâs an awful big ask to pen in a letter.
Jon stuffed his cherished photograph hastily under his pillow when his mother, in her morning flurry hustled into the room. She offers him a tentative smile and then something even better. âTelegram for you, Jon,â she said, handing him the paper. âCame this morning.â
Jon looks at the printed words, not bothering to conceal the tremor in his hand.
Mr J Snow,
I miss you dearly.
Miss S Stark
It was her.
âMa?â he said, wetting his lips, âyou can spare me on the farm this morning to go to the telegraph office, right?â
With a kind hand cupping his face as he looked up at her, his mother smiled knowingly. âAnd I suppose youâll be fixinâ to borrow some money for this telegram you wanna send?â
âSheâs worth it, ma.â
âShe better be,â Lyanna chuckled.âThey charge by the word, you know. Make it brief.â
Jon swallowed. His stomach felt like he was out on the ocean. âIs âcome be my wifeâ short enough for you?â
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Jonsa Drabblefest Day 6: The Lady Bird and the Winged Wolf (Spring)
Written for @jonsadrabbles Day 6: Spring
His kiss hadnât frightened her. Not in the least.
She didnât know what she had expectedâfor it to be strange, shameful, a disappointment after all her musings about such, but she had certainly not anticipated it would feel this satisfying, this right.
Many a man may have desired her, yet Sansa had never been kissed quite like this, Jonâs kisses so much better than Petyrâs cool pecks, Harryâs demanding ones, or the reek of duty on those of Tyrion. This she wanted, and she wanted more than that, too. She could feel Jon wanting as well, brushing hard against her legs, and that prospect didnât scare her either. Â
She shifted beneath the water of the spring until she sat across his lap, her body pressing up against nearly all of him. Jon was somehow even hotter still, warmer than the water itself, as though the fire the Red Woman had used to bring him back continued to burn within, or maybe it was his dragon blood simmering beneath his skin, that part of him so unlike her. Â
The spring air was chilly, especially as she rose up out of the water, even as she wondered if they had received more than a sprinkling of snow this far south. This was nothing compared to the winter theyâd been assailed by further north over the past few years, but even in the harshest throes of that she thought she would have felt little at the moment, given the rising steam and the warmth of Jon wrapped around her.
It was pleasant though, the breeze cooling her feverish skin and contrasting with Jonâs scorching touch, and she arched her back as his hands slid from her hips to her ribs to her breasts. She explored him just the same, hands in his hair, fingertips trailing over the scar across his eye and down through his coarse beard, and lower still until she slipped them down the planes of his chest and then bracketed her arms around his broad shoulders. She moved slow and tentative now, gently tilting her hips until they bumped up against his, and he groaned.
The sound did things to her, things she never thought sheâd feel again, not after so many years of men seeking her solely for her name and her claim, for her beauty and her body, and desire washed over her, bubbling up inside of her like the flow of the spring. She moved again, with more intention behind her actions this time, and now she gasped as his length slid along that sweet spot between her legs.
She felt heat pool there, and something more beginning to build, and she guided his touch down to where she was hotter still.
He wore no smirk this time, only a look she could think to describe as awe, and instead of teasing, his words came out hoarse. âAre you certain?â
She nodded, and this time when she sank down just right, she felt Jon take her maidenhead. Â
Sheâs soft when she looks at him from across the room, her smile that was once so weary and wane is now radiant and true. He finds that the sight of her smile is more than enough to bring one to his own face, more than enough to send shivers down his spine, more than enough to spread warmth throughout his limbs. He longs to see her smile and to hear the twinkling of her laugh, he longs to only make her happy.
